More More More

Getting is better than keeping. It's plain and simple. I agree with it wholeheartedly. Getting rich is invariably more exciting than keeping riches. When you begin to get rich, you have that unshakeable hope of potential. You have all of the potential. How rich will you get? How will you get it? When will you get it? What will you do with it? When do you start--no, when do you stop?
See, that's the thing. You don't stop. No one ever says, "Well, gosh darn it. I'm a millionaire already? Sweet, I'm done now." In fact, getting is so much better than keeping, that no one ever wants to stop getting. We live in a very more more more society. Even the Victoria Secret advertisement is literally, "More More More Bling." You can never get enough. You can never keep enough so, by default, you always have to get more. And what's more fun than that?
On the one hand, getting is very destructive, maybe right up there with keeping. When Walter's mother gives him the 6,500 dollars to put some in the bank for his sister and some for him to do with what he will, he uses it all to do with what he will. He takes more more more. He destroyed his sister's dream and also his own, because he wanted to get more. Also, on the other one hand, keeping is volatile as well. In The Diamond as Big as the Ritz, the need to keep their wealth a secret--to keep their way of life--the entire family literally became serial killers. Even if only the father and the slaves did the killing and kidnapping, the daughters invited people and the son didn't stop it. Guilty by association.
So now you know getting is dangerous; it's addictive because potential is addictive, but keeping turns people into murderers (pretty much 99% of the time). But away from all the heinous talk, people will always want more, so they'll always be getting or trying to get. People will always want to keep what they have so they'll always be keeping. Nonetheless, getting is infinitely better than keeping. If you don't agree with me, would you rather get more food or just keep what you have? Don't be modest, we all want more. It's only natural. So in this way, I completely agree with How It Feels to be Colored Me by Zora Neale Hurston. The African-Americans/Negroes/Blacks/whatever is politcally correct had it better than white people. They were given an opportunity to go crazy with "gettingness" while the white people had to maintain their way of life in all of their "keepingness."

I'm Not a Robot

Before we get started, I'd like to write a letter to Google.
     Dear Google,
        It has come to my attention that every time I comment, I must enter in a code that proves I am not a robot. Well, if you read through my thoughtfully constructed and deep comment, you would see that no robot would be capable of such fine craftsmanship! But alas, you cannot comprehend the deeper meaning of my words because, yes, you, are a robot, Google. Because you, Google, will not be able to decipher the meaning of this message unless I literally state it: I am not a robot. Please stop asking me to prove myself.

Now that we got that out of the way, I guess it's true, as most of you have probably guessed by now, I am not a robot. In fact, without actually looking it up, I'd say 99.6% of people aren't robots. But just because they aren't atomically robotic, doesn't mean they don't share some of the traits.
From the three pieces from F. Scott Fitzgerald that I've read, I've noticed a common theme is how people with wealth are often extremely  disillusioned from reality. Robots are also often disillusioned from reality. Coincidence? I think not. Daisy and Tom couldn't see how many lives they were destroying as something of consequence. Gatsby didn't understand just how volatile his relationship with Daisy was. Kismine pretty much single handedly condemned John and her sister to a life of poverty because she couldn't understand the direness of the situation. Judy Jones treated men as if they were objects and not people. They couldn't understand how the world worked apart from their 0.4% (the robots). Wealth enabled them to be surrounded my material things which enabled them to enjoy those things and when they got bored, they moved on to the next one or sacrificed their friends, etc. In their world, everything is made to bring them pleasure, even if that's not how the real world works. In a robot's world, they don't even understand how the real world works...so...basically the same thing (I'm allowed to make a stretch or two).
I'm going to finish with an anecdote.
Last (Friday) night, (no Katy Perry reference intended) I went to my friend's house. This particular friend's family is well off. They have a nice house and nice cars and nice things in general. Don't get me wrong, I don't have a problem with that, and I'm not faulting them for being in a position to buy nice things, but I did get to see firsthand what that does to the children. We went Christmas shopping. At one of the stores, a single (fake) leather belt with studs was 35$. My friend said, "Oh wow, that's so inexpensive!" She was genuine about it too. Later that evening, her younger sister got a few things from Pink. She got a sweatshirt for about 45$. I know, because I checked the price. They, however, did not. They spent the rest of the evening splurging, prices didn't seem to matter. They talked about benefits and business meeting and country clubs and cars and countries. This is their reality. They flipped through the T.V. channels, barely even seeing one; they moved from one pasttime to another; they changed and bought many clothes that were virtually the same; they went shopping just to get something new and when they were bored they watched a movie, then texted, then Instagram, then Vine, then something or another thing or anything to bring them instant gratification. And when they had exhausted themselves, they slept, probably experiencing fitful dreams of unhappiness because they couldn't just switch around. Or maybe not. I'm just saying, these girls are young, and they're already more restless than most people I know. Everything they've grown up with has been provided to make them happy, but everyone always has something better, so they never are happy.
If possible to stick to Fitzgerald's viewpoint anymore too, they were all really bad drivers.

(One of) The Greatest Thing(s) I can Imagine

I *hope* you all had a great Thanksgiving! I *dream* that next year you'll be able to fly and explode things with your mind. A girl can dream, right? Speaking of which, what does dream even mean? How does it differ from hope? Well, I'm glad you asked!
Dream--an involuntary vision occurring to a person when awake. (As a verb) To see or imagine in a vision. Also, a vision voluntary indulged in while awake. Key word here being awake.
Hope--(as the verb) to look forward to with desire and reasonable confidence; to place trust, rely; to feel that something desired may happen. (As a noun) The feeling that what is wanted can be had.
I didn't just make this up either; I found this in the dictionary. "So why, Paityn," you're asking yourself, "are you telling us the denotative meanings of dream and hope? Don't you know what break is? How about you look that up?" And then you begin laughing to yourself at that wonderful joke you just made because you're so clever.
Well, I told you this so I can explain why I love Gatsby so much. It takes a lot of courage to hope for something and hardly any at all to dream. I'm scared to tell people of my hopes because what if they don't happen? What if I can't reach them? It's terrifying, but we all know how to "dream big." Anyone can want something they'll never have, but not everyone is brave enough to live their entire life in the *hope* that something will happen. One of my biggest hopes is that I won't get stuck here. In America. There are a thousand places to go and see, and I will not allow myself to be anchored. I believe with a reasonable confidence this will happen. I can't think it won't. I just can't. One of my biggest dreams is to go to space. I understand that it will probably never happen, but I still want to. If I was on a space engineering team, maybe I would hope to go to space, but until then, it's just a dream. You see the difference?
Gatsby hoped so much. He hoped in an unabashed, innocent way. The way a child hopes for Christmas; the way an army brat hopes their parent will come home; the way a lost child hopes they'll be found. It's an all consuming hope, so much that you can't imagine it won't happen. There is no way. You have to be extremely brave to hope and work and strive for something so out of your control. You have to be insane to base your life on something that you can only hope for. Gatsby may have done a lot of shady things, he may have had a good deal of secrets, but he was brave, in it, he hoped for more. I understand why a lot of people may not like Gatsby, but he was my favorite character. He was hope itself in every definition of it. What's your biggest hope? You don't have to tell me, just think about it. Don't think about how absurd or scary or unlikely it may seem, just what is it? Now, think about you never being able to do it; you never being able to succeed. Scary, right? You have to be brave to embrace it anyway and go for it. I'm not asking you to become a bootlegger to make all your dreams come true, but imagine how Gatsby felt, faced with seemingly insurmountable obstacles and all he could do was hope for the best. So he did. And maybe that's the most important part.


Okay, just so no one says, "Well look where that got him. Did you even finish the book?"
I understand that "...he must have felt that he had lost the warm world, paid a high price for living too long with a single dream" (pg 161). Also notice how he said "dream." I'm not going to analyze when Daisy switched from a hope to a dream, but it's not that he died, or how he died or why he died or anything. It's that he hoped so much with so little of a chance for return, but he did so anyway. And that's one of the bravest things I can imagine.

The Team

Man is inhumane towards man. Okay, I can go with that. The Savannah is vanishing; sanctuary is receding. Okay, I guess that's true too. Man kills and hurts innocent people that are unfortunate enough to be less than them, sort of like a skewed survival of the fittest if half the world was never given a chance to survie. Yes, that too, is sadly true. There is no hope and no where to turn; we will only survive is someone is willing to sacrifice themself. Well...

If any of y'all hadn't noticed, I'm on a swim team. Team being the key word. When I have a rough day, I have my team to fall back on. If I have a rough swim, my team has "got me." And same goes for them. My team and I, well, we're a team. (I don't care how awful that pun was.) Being on a team is a sanctuary within a sanctuary. It's a beautiful mob mentality of acceptance. It's a beautiful sense of conformity; even though we are all different, we are the same as a team.

When I'm having a bad meet, I don't race for myself, I race for my team. If I can't do well for me, I can do well for them. When I count (laps) for my friends, I get just as caught up in the race as them. There's that wonderful sense of comradery which has no equal. You see them coming into the wall, racing, breathing hard, pulling...pushing...fighting for air and position and then they're at the flags. And then you're shaking the counter up...down...side to side. You hold your breath and wait. They wait to hold their breath. You're pushing for them to win and they're pushing for them to win and everyone is cheering; your heart races and you can't breathe and they are just so close. Keep going! You scream. GO GO GO GO GO, even though they are going. They are going so fast and in this moment they--you--have to decide, "Do I want to win?" "Am I willing to push myself to win; am I willing to experience this pain?" And they--you--have to. There isn't a choice to try when you're on a team. And when they touch the wall, regardless of how they do, it's...everything. Voila! It's done and over. From the practice to the block, from the workouts and the training to the pool and the race, from everyone one and everything to one single, defining race; it's done.

That's how I felt counting for, and swimming, my 500 free. How I did isn't important (but I did do pretty awesome), what's important is why I did it. For my team and they did what they did for the team. Man may be pretty inhumane towards man, our sanctuary from harm may be receding. This struggle is real, but it's nice to lose yourself in the team. In the team, we don't have to be exposed to that inhumanity. As for sacrifice, I sacrifice and they sacrifice for the team. If this is sounding a little 1984, so be it. In the team (I promise I'll stop saying team), I am protected from it all and I protect them and we protect each other. It's exhilarating to be with each other and part of each other and in this way we escape that inhumanity.

FISH and NOT A FISH: Which Category are You?

There two categories for everything. My brother and I sat down one day to hammer this out. The first category is FISH. The second category is NOT A FISH. I know for a fact which category everything fits into (I'll wait while you race to the comments to point out something so confusing that I wouldn't know which category it belongs to....okay...all right....I assume you're done). Now obviously, there are subcategories. Lion and berry both fall under NOT A FISH, but they're not the same thing. Just like there are two categories for everything, they're are usually two types of people for everything.
     "Introducing in corner one: THE MORBIDLY CURIOUS!!!!" (One exclamation mark just didn't cut it.)
     "Introducing in corner two: THE NOT MORBIDLY CURIOUS!!!!!"

The morbidly curious are the people that think about death; the people that personify death; the people that don't let it be a passing thought, but ruminate about death. When death comes up, they think about their death, other people's deaths, what it means, how will it feel, where do I go, what does any of this mean then. They're not necessarily depressed or fangirls for death, but they can't help but think about it. Also, it's not just a passing thought. I'd say to fall under this category, you would have to think about death about 6 or 7 times a day for 3-5 minutes at a time. Or maybe for 35 minutes one time. Just more than a passing thought.

The not morbidly curious category is for everyone else; it's a much less exclusive group. It's the Members Only jacket of groups. These are the people that, when the topic of death comes up, think about it for a second, and then move on. They may push the thought away, but they don't genuinely think about it. They acknowledge it, then it's gone. Death is just a part of life. Why think about something so...definite? It's not like the 200 fly where you can scratch once you realize how painful it is. Some not morbidly curious people think it's stupid to think about something so out of our control.

So, before I connect this to literature, which category do you fit in? No, do not say somewhere in between. Either you think about it or you push it away and move on. Don't take my time parameters too seriously. Go ahead, you can tell me. I won't judge.

If you hadn't figured out where I was going with this, you're in the same boat as me, because I just did. Emily Dickinson and Walt Whitman represent both boxers in the ring. Dickinson is in corner one. Whitman: in two (Where would you put them?). Maybe it's because I haven't read much of Whitman, but just from the homework, I saw that when he thought of death, he said it doesn't really exist and moved on. Dickinson had an entire poem about her carriage ride with Death. But just because I put Whitman in the not morbidly curious category, doesn't mean he isn't. Maybe I'll see him change over. And just because you're in the morbidly curious, doesn't mean you don't think about life. They're not mutually exclusive. In fact, there are two categories for people and life...but that's a blog for a different time.

"They're A Bunch of Weirdos"

True or false: There are a thousand other people just like you.
Well, maybe not exactly just like you, but they share similar interests, dislikes, personality quirks, tendencies, etc.
So, true or false: There are a hundred people just like you. No, you're saying, I'm original; I'm unique. There's just me, no one else like me, one in a million, a beautiful snowflake, and so on.
Last time. True or false: There are ten people just like you. If you're still saying false, for whatever reason, you may want to reconsider. I believe that there are at least 10 people more or less just like me. I may not be able to tell who exactly, but I could name a few off the top of my head.

"So why, Paityn" (No, Google, my name is not spelled wrong), "are you telling us this? You must want us to not feel special." Not in the least, you beautiful, special snowflakes. Let's do this first:

You wake up one morning, and everyone that is more or less like you now has a glowing dot above their head. And now they know you're more or less like them. Now, all of a sudden, you can relate with them, right? You'll be best friends forever! Maybe. Perhaps some of them also share your love of pretending to be a slug at 3am, but maybe the others are like you for a more sinister reason. What if you could tell- would you still want to be with them, or would they want to be with you? You're the same, after all.
What I'm trying to say is that Hester was surrounded by people more or less the same as her. They all knew what she had done, but for some, and only some, she could tell what they had done. She wasn't alone--lonely, yes, but not alone. So, and I am legitimately asking, why didn't they approach Hester? My guess is because then the others would know what they'd all done, respectively.
So, this leads me to wonder: if everyone could relate to some sin that at least one other person had done, wouldn't that mean they all knew they were all sinners? And if they all knew, why were they all so judgmental? Besides the obvious, "everyone loves a scapegoat," I'm seriously asking. Let me know what you think.
To answer your question, I'm telling you this, my opinion, because next time you do something awful or wonderful or kick yourself for telling the waitress "you too" when she tells you to enjoy your meal, or you mirror the person's trying to pass you movements or you false start or get a best time or eat all of the food or barely touch dinner because it's just one of those days, but you're "fine," I think you should remember to take a deep breath, and look around at everyone near you and realize they're not so different after all.  

"But I Didn't Do Anything Wrong!"

"Are you sorry for what you did or are you sorry you got caught?" My teacher/father/mother/coach/whoever stares at me and waits.
I'm sorry I got caught, obviously. Instead, I say, "I'm sorry for what I did." My teacher/father/etc continues to look at me, studying my face; he tries to discern if I'm telling the truth or not. He wants me to feel that I am sorry, the sorriness that I claim I feel. He is appeased with my omission...for now. With one last stern look, he walks away, leaving me with my shame of the crime I committed. Wait, not for what I did, but for getting caught. When I arrive home, my mother has obviously by now heard the news of her disobedient child, she reiterates the same question: what am I sorry for? Despite my height on her, I can feel her looking down on me. My brother, however he found out, joins in the shaming. I retreat to my room to escape their damning gazes. Around 7, I tentatively venture out, eyes peering around the corning, hoping to be alerted their presence before they take notice of mine. It doesn't work. They see me and immediately stop what they are doing. They do not stare, but the silence in the room is deafening; their stolen glances are painful. I am not sorry for what I did, I do not see how it is wrong, but nonetheless, I wither under their judging eyes. I cannot retreat to my room, not yet, I have too much pride, and life must still go on, yet each passing second urges me to get what I've come for and leave just as quickly. I grab a small plate of dinner with the hopes my appetite will soon return. As I leave, eyes averted, my father walks down the hallway. I pause at the beginning of it and wait for him to pass, the hallway being too narrow for the both of us. He does not say excuse me or offer any apology, the look he tosses at me proves that I am not worthy of that respect. Whilst feeling the betrayal and rejection of my humanity, I cast a longing gaze toward the rest of the family. They do not meet my eyes. With no words spoken, but everything being said, I rush to my room and close the door to suffer in silence. If I hadn't gotten caught..., I think, what did I do to warrant this?

Woah, that escalated quickly. This was my best take on how Hester feels, please let me know if I missed anything. Now, I understand in The Scarlet Letter, we know that Hester committed adultery, but I chose to leave out my crime so that my didactic story contained as few fallacies as possible (What up vocab. reference?) I also understand that to fully convey the emotions she felt, the story would need a lot more development. If any of you thought this actually happened, no worries, it didn't; my family is not that cold, and I love food wayyyy too much to lose my appetite and only take a small plate. I just wanted to try out a different introduction.

To get to the main point, I was thinking about how Hester and Dimmesdale are different. However, we're not going to talk about Dimmesdale for the sake of space. Any ways, Hester has her sin out in the open. She's suffering, each time someone looks at her, it hurts. I'm under the impression that she understands adultery is wrong (just like I, in my little story understood that what I did was wrong), but she feel she has done nothing to warrant this pain and suffering it--people--bring(s) her. So I asked myself (what is that beautiful house, Talking Heads anyone?) is she sorry she did it or is she sorry she got caught? I don't think she suffering only because she was caught, but I feel that if this love affair were to go on uninterrupted, she would not be phased, because like I said, I don't think she thinks what she's doing should be punished. She knows adultery is wrong, but I don't believe she feels that what she is doing is wrong. I don't think she can or wants to or is trying to make that connect. This all seems quite confusing, but Dimmesdale has not been found out, and differing from Hester, he feels immense pain. Maybe it's because she's in pain, maybe it's because he knows it's wrong. Regardless, I personally believe that Hester is completely unapologetic for what she did and cannot understand why the Puritans are being so unforgiving for something she feels is not wrong. Maybe my example will provide a better exposition that my explanation can give.