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Take a Picture By Kelly Hung QuailBellMagazine.com Ten years ago, I woke to the sound of a woman weeping. That night, I had elected to sleep in my mother’s room; Dad was away on a business trip, and Mom didn’t like sleeping alone.
I remember the moon shining in through the windows, the trees from the streets below casting shadows upon the bedroom wall. The room, thus, was strangely illuminated; the night had become a stranger version of day. When my hand twitched to the left, I noticed that the water bed felt strangely empty. Vacated. I guess Mom got up for water, I thought. That’s when I noticed the crying. It didn’t sound like anything I’d ever heard before—there was a strange sadness to the heavy breathing; the anguish was almost tangible. As I sat up in bed, the sounds subsided, and I was met with silence. I remember sliding off the bed and peering around the corner and feeling startled when I saw my mom kneeling on the ground, her arms clasped together in front of her, as if beseeching someone. She was facing the open bathroom door, where the small window in the corner of the bathroom let in a sliver of light, casting her face into eerie shadow. I could hear her softly whispering to the gods above, imploring somebody, anybody, to listen to her, to help her endure motherhood. She never noticed me standing there, never realized that her youngest was standing three feet away, an unwelcome intruder in an oddly private, intimate moment. She never let her eyes waver; she never let her head tilt to the side; she never noticed my presence at all. I remember marveling at her exposed fragility; she never revealed any weaknesses when Dad was there. Maybe it had to do with pride; maybe she just didn’t want to cause more stress for him. But really, it was all because she knew that Dad didn’t like hearing about her frustrations with child-rearing—Tim’s temper problems coupled with my inability to be more amicable resulted in many sleepless nights for my mother, but that was all it was: sleepless nights. She didn’t reveal her frustrations during the day; only under the cover of darkness did she let herself slip into a darker frame of mind. I remember the cold white tiles beneath my feet; I remember, falsely, a breeze in the room—falsely, because my mother never sleeps with open windows: she doesn’t trust the world enough. I remember feeling, for the first time in my life, scared—scared because somehow, I felt that this moment, this snapshot would be a turning point in my life. A point of no return. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Sappho, the Lesbian Priestess Let’s do the time warp back to ancient Greece. But first, we’ll make a pitstop in Greenport, New York, where I first heard the term “lesbian.” It was the 90’s, I believe, and Lilith Fair was broadcasting live. I was very young and visiting loved ones (Pollocks, to be precise). Adults were the ones watching Lilith Fair, although MTV was my favorite as a kid because it didn’t suck back then. As two women sung on the screen, some dropped the “L”-bomb. If I remember correctly, I asked what a lesbian was and after eventually, someone told me that lesbians were “really good friends.”
Now, let’s do the timewarp again back to Greece in between 630 and 612 BC and visit our lady Sappho, the poetess whose life and words inspired the etymology of “lesbianism” as we know it today. Sappho’s affluence allowed her to be a full-time hedonist She spent her days on the isle of Lesbos, showcasing her renowned Lyre skills and sensational lyric poetry. Apparently, Lesbos was a hip place to be back then, as Sappho.com describes the island as “a cultural leader” and accredits thine Lesbian queen with “[innovating] lyric poetry both in technique and style, becoming part of a new wave of Greek lyrists who moved from writing poetry from the point of view of gods and muses to the personal vantage point of the individual.” Power to the people! Praise the gods! The very first of her manuscripts that excavative efforts unearthed were wrapped in strips of papyrus, the same ones that Egyptians used for mummification and stuffing sacrificial animals. Other excerpts came to light once researchers discovered them in papier-mâché tombs. There’s actually a good chance that Sappho might have been a priestess of Aphrodite in a circle of fellow Aphrodisian priestesses. Her extensive art studies helped her amass a reputation as a noteworthy and celebrated artist. Known for her skills, younger women took to Lesbos to learn from her at a school that was blessed in the name of Aphrodite as well as Eros. Scholars suspect that Lesbos had multiple female-exclusive circles. When I first heard about Lesbos, I pictured a lesbian utopia on an ancient Greek island that was probably where Aphrodite partied before she emerged from the ocean’s foam of Cypress. With that said, it give further context the homoerotic content which has long been celebrated by Sappho’s cult following, including the government back in the day. When she and her family were dispelled from Greece because of political proclivities, she sought refuge in Sicily where citizens rejoiced upon her arrival and even erected a statue in her honor The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Struggles of the Biased and Unimpartial The past month has been among the most hectic of my life. Not that I’m complaining; I like being busy. Between my new job, writing and sewing projects, a band that’s finally accomplishing something, and a million parties both work-related and not, I have maybe thirty minutes of goof-off on the internet time a day. I’ve seen very few pictures of cats this month. I don’t know what famous people are up to anymore.
But that momentum all came to an abrupt, screeching halt this week. I have jury duty. I tried very hard to maintain a positive attitude about it. The judicial process is interesting, and at one time I entertained the idea of law school, and here was a change to see the whole thing firsthand. And hey, maybe I would decide to set an innocent person free and send a bad guy to jail. I could do some good. Indeed I was reassured of all of these things by the government workers doing jury intake. Me and my fellow jurors were told how important we were and how totally not a waste of time this process was over and over and over again. While we sat. And sat some more. As I sat there, I thought about small things, both bad and good. I forgot the charger to my work computer and I was afraid it was going to die before I finished everything up. Not that it mattered, since the few power sources available were being jealously guarded by outlet trolls, and I’m sure that if I went for one it would start a war. I had my book, but I’m almost done with it, and I didn’t plan ahead enough to get another one. I’m at serious risk of becoming bored. It was not all bad. We got a two hour lunch break on day one, and the courthouse is right next to the mall, so I got my Christmas shopping done without having to deal with any crowds. I learned that P. Diddy punched Drake for flirting with Cassie, and that Chris Brown is also mad at Drake for taking Karrueche Tran out on some dates, and I’m a better person for knowing that. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Catty Girl Nation “I saw her wedding pictures on Facebook. She looked really bad,” I opined to my friend, Kara. The comment was targeted at our former childhood friend, Nora—who recently blocked Kara on Facebook for unknown reasons.
It wasn't the first time I got, in a word, bitchy when talking about a girlfriend—in fact, you might call me something of a mean girl. Or at least a former mean girl. Here's another example, and please, don't judge too harshly: Brandon was a hot guy from California whose father worked with mine. He was in Manhattan for the summer, so I invited him out with my friends so I could get drunk and hook up with him. Looking back, it was completely inappropriate, but I wanted what I wanted. The problem? One of my closest friends from high school, Paige, wanted him, too. At that point, I had sort of been sick of Paige for a while, who was encroaching on my territory as the drama queen bee. Paige subsequently hooked up with Brandon, and I got jealous. I ended our friendship a few weeks later by having her thrown out of a bar and convincing my circle of friends, who she had become a part of, to abandon her. Oh, and did I mention her father was dying of ALS? And then there was that time I broke a cardinal rule—I slept with my best friend’s ex-boyfriend. The entire time Adrienne dated Leo, he had a huge crush on me. In high school, he would come over and we would hang out just the two of us . . . unbeknownst to Adrienne. But nothing ever happened between us—and besides, I had a boyfriend. Freshman year I was studying abroad in London, and Leo was going to school in Monaco. He invited me to visit him (who wouldn’t want to visit Monaco?) and . . . you can fill in the blanks. In retrospect, I'm not proud of the way I acted. But I also know I'm not alone. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Misunderstood, Psychotic Bad Guy By Garrett Riggs QuailBellMagazine.com Filmmaker Paul Sampson is “that guy”—each of us has one in our lives—the guy who leaps into the swimming hole without checking the depth and temperature of the water, the guy who does crazy things, but somehow comes out unscathed and grinning and ready to cajole the rest of the group into joining the fun. That impulsiveness drove Sampson’s film, Night of the Templar, from its writing to the casting and filming. Night of the Templar is a genre-blending mix of action, suspense, horror, mystery, and dark comedy starring Sampson and David Carradine (Kung-Fu and the Kill Bill series) as well as Norman Reedus (The Walking Dead), Billy Drago (Untouchables), and Udo Kier (Blade). Sampson wrote, directed, and starred in the film which, at its core, is a revenge story. Sampson got the idea for a time-shifting vengeance story featuring the Knights Templar after doing research on Jack the Ripper and the Whitechapel Murders of London. Sampson was reading up on the unsolved murders and was intrigued by all the conspiracy theories about the true identity of Jack the Ripper. One theory—that the murder’s identity was covered up by the Masons—caught Sampson’s imagination. As he read more about the Free Masons, Sampson says, he kept running across discussions of the Knights Templar and their rise and fall and possible connection to the secret society. “Those guys [Knights Templar] had power... incredible power! I wrote this detailed historical documentation—almost a docudrama and I said, ‘I don’t want to shoot this, it’s a history lesson!’” He thought about other ways to approach the story and came up with the plot for Night of the Templar. “I thought ‘I’ll bring a medieval knight to the modern day. But for what purpose? Revenge! Best served chilled.’” After continuing his research of the Knights Templar he developed the fictitious character of Lord Gregoire, a knight who fights corruption in the order and pays with his life. When I asked Sampson if wearing all those hats made filming stressful for him, he responded, “Only the money part of it was stressful; everything creative—last second re-writes, directing, acting, on the spot changes and decisions—was all easy for me. I felt no pressure or stress with any of that. But dealing with the money was a pain.” Once Sampson was ready to start filming, he called David Carradine’s manager and asked that he give Carradine the script. “He said, ‘We’ll get back to you in two weeks.’ I told him, ‘I need to know tomorrow.’” And the legend (Carradine) was on board. Sampson had worked with Carradine on Final Move (2006) and the two actors built a friendship that contributed to their mutual respect on the set—an attitude he carried onto the set every day. “I respect the extras as much as I respect David. You treat everybody like you want to be treated. You should always respect people, whether it’s a lawyer or the guy who cuts meat at the deli. Life really is that simple. Treat everyone like you want to be treated—unless you’re into S&M—then you better ask permission first.” The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Mayor By Terry Barr QuailBellMagazine.com I’m sitting in my mother’s den watching my daughters take turns brushing Pepper, my mother’s Maine Coon. Mom is watching “Dateline,” another grisly episode about a husband murdering his wife. Two former Baptist missionaries, the voiceover tells us.
“Hhhmph,” Mom says. “Baptist missionaries my foot!” I love her righteous indignation, maybe because it’s her most familiar default, reminding me of front porch chats or her end of neighborly phone calls. The “Dateline” narrative continues, and I turn back to reading Alabama football message boards. We’re in town for tomorrow’s game, Alabama versus Southern Mississippi. Not a great matchup, but all I could manage given costs and my daughters’ availability from work and school. As I read about the ongoing quarterback controversy—an old story between champions of either the Black or a white quarterback—I realize that my mother is in mid-sentence, addressing me: “…that time when Frank Sinatra, Jr. sang at the Knights of Columbus Hall in Bessemer?” “When I was in high school? Yeah, I remember. I double-dated that night with Jimmy Walker. Sarah Monte asked him to go, and Pat Pace asked me. I’ll never forget it. Pat’s father was a detective on the Bessemer force. When he opened the door and got a look at me with my long red hair, I felt like I was the most likely suspect ready for a police lineup. He never said a word to me, and that was the only date I had with Pat Pace.” “OK, but do you remember what a fool Jess Lanier made of himself that night?” Jess Lanier was Bessemer’s longtime mayor. I’m guessing that the year of that show was 1973, so by then Lanier had been mayor for at least twelve years, which would seem to confirm a status of “beloved,” for His Honor. I remember having my picture made with him in his office when I was a Cub Scout. He was officially recognizing Scout Week, and there were two older scouts in the office too. In the photograph, the Mayor leans over his desk from his leather-backed swivel chair to sign the official proclamation. He looks up at the camera as he signs, and smiles. Flanking him, the three of us smile too like I’m sure we’ve been asked to. I have no more idea now why I was selected for this honor than I did then. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
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How Do I Tell My Best Friend That Her Ex/My Brother Has a New Girlfriend? "Hey Lucy,
I would love some advice if you have any for me. My brother's ex girlfriend is my best friend and he now has a new girlfriend.. I don't know if she will but what if my friend asks if he has a new girlfriend?? Lying is very bad and I literally can not lie but I feel like if I tell her the truth it will be betraying my brother. So what's worse lying to your best friend or betraying family?? Please if you can help me with this I'll love you forever... Yours Truly Ex-is-Tense" If there's one thing I can't stand, it's when there is clearly an enormous elephant in the room that no one's picking up after. If you want to house pet elephants, that's cool; I just refuse to take part in their maintenance. Elephants are wise creatures who deserve better than being cooked up in some stupid cage/apartment all day. This is one of those times. I don't have to shovel someone else's elephant crap and neither do you! Yet, all too often, the custodianship of other people's crap falls on us. We are not the Ringling Brothers, nor do we work for them. That is when you stop in the name of love and heed the wise words of the Spice Girls: "Stop right now. Thank you very much." The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Most Dangerous Game Crossword puzzles. Even when you go hardcore by doing them in ink instead of pencil, they’re not exactly the stuff of high-stakes situations. The only kind of killing generally associated with them is killing time on the john or in airport terminals.
Not killing, say, Nazis. In The Imitation Game, directed by Morten Tyldum and released on November 28th, a newspaper crossword is exactly how the British government wrestles up recruits during World War II for a top-secret project. The resulting team of code-breakers, headed by the mathematically brilliant but socially isolated Alan Turing (Benedict Cumberbatch), is assembled with one goal in mind: to crack the German forces’ daunting Enigma machine and intercept their messages. This means cracking a new impossibly convoluted code every twenty-four hours, with bombs hovering in the balance. Thousands of lives are at stake. Three died while you were reading the previous paragraph. It's as if your inability to recall some obscure South American mountain range for 34 Down resulted in your entire extended family being shoved off of it. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Problems Posed by "Cultural Appropriation" By Gypsy Mack QuailBellMagazine.com Cultural appropriation, a term that almost always comes with negative connotations, usually means the appropriation or adoption of "cultural property," usually!the property of a cultural minority. Cultural appropriation is using the art, religion, behavior, or traditional dress from a culture that is not one's own, using it for things it was not originally intended. Cultural appropriation seems to be most easily found in fashion, style, and aesthetics. Cultural appropriation, in its most clear-cut form, is offensive and disrespectful.
But now, with the Internet, the search for cultural appropriation and the act of appropriating other cultures itself, has been raised to a whole new level. Last year I went to India for nine weeks, and that was when my cultural appropriation problems began. I got super interested in Hinduism, I started wearing bindi, and I loved everything Indian. For me, none of it was superficial, or just for style and fashion, or without deeper understanding. I wore the bindi to signify my third eye, for a focus point in meditation, for an affirmation that I too could be Hindu despite the fact that I was American. I still wear it now, and have been for over a year. I sometimes feel like people view this as cultural appropriation, as disrespectful to the Hindu faith. I sometimes feel like everything I ever do is "cultural appropriation." But in truth, it is not. I respect Indian culture and Hinduism, I learn the significance of something before I "appropriate" it, and I don't love Indian things for superficial reasons. I view my love of Indian food, religion, and dress as a form of multiculturalism in an individual. I only do what wouldn't be offensive and disrespectful. If someone starts getting on me about wearing bindi, I can whip out my knowledge of Hinduism and the religious significance of the bindi. In India, "cultural appropriation" was, to a certain extent, practical. It was respectful to adopt forms of Indian dress, to be modest, to act a certain way around the temples and shrines. It was essential to adopt many social customs such as taking off your shoes, being modest, eating only with your right hand, and not pointing your feet at anybody. I found that I had an easier time because I was with a family who respected the local culture and adhered to certain cultural customs. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
This is How You Ruin Things By Sam Carrigan QuailBellMagazine.com Man versus society. Man versus self. Man versus nature. Man versus room. These are the great conflicts that give shape to the stories that shape us.
The last of those may not be as formally recognized as the others, but it occupies a place in the pantheon of events in movies we’ve all seen, even if we can’t put our finger right on an example at a given time. You get the idea right away: someone in the film gets some bad news, and alone in a room full of valuables, they start smashing everything that isn’t bolted down. Tables are upended, fine china is shattered, and mementos are unceremoniously destroyed in a whirlwind of kinetic, gotta-get-it-all-in-one-shot fury. While seeing action fill the frame is entertaining in its own right, perhaps part of the thrill is seeing society’s standard relationship of people to commodities—“accumulate as many as possible”—go, along with the television set, out the window. What does it mean to trash a room? Is it really a simple love of destruction, or is there some joy in defying the burden of holding onto material things? How does it change a scene to depict a character smashing their own possessions, rather than the possessions of others? Above all else, what separates a good room trashing scene from a bad one? The following examples may serve as a lesson: when it comes to being a human wrecking ball, originality counts. Orson Welles gave us one of the most influential examples of this scene in Citizen Kane. The superrich Charles Kane had to this point proven as hell-bent on success as he was capable of achieving it. His second wife, Susan, has finally chosen to leave him after she could no longer stand being in a painful, manipulative relationship with Kane. As she bids him a final farewell, Kane is left alone in his stately pleasure palace, Xanadu, and immediately turns his wrath on his possessions. The destruction is thorough and convincingly the work of an enraged old man, stumbling from table to table, clearing shelves, struggling to tear fixtures from walls. It seems as though nothing will stop Kane until he finds the famous snowglobe from the opening sequence—the one that evokes in him the elusive ideal of “Rosebud.” Welles accomplishes two things: first, he shows that this pathological hoarder of wealth has realized the emptiness of his position, and second, that whatever “Rosebud” is, it’s important enough to be the one thing he’ll spare. Given what the audience eventually learns of its meaning, it makes sense that he would destroy his tainted “adult” possessions and save only the thing that reminded him of his lost, innocent childhood. Concisely showing what does and doesn’t matter to a mysterious, dynamic character makes this depiction of room-trashing the textbook example. |
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