Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Dare to Dream

Dare to Dream

Let nothing hold you back from exploring your wildest fantasies, wishes and aspirations.Don't be afraid to dream big and to follow your dreams wherever they may lead you.Open your eyes to their beauty; open your eyes to their magic;Open your heart to their possibilities.

Dare to Dream

Whether they are in color or in black and white,Whether they are big or small, easily attainable or almost impossible,Look to your dreams and make them become reality.Wishes and hopes are nothing until you take the first step towards making them something!

Dare to Dream

Because only by dreaming, will you ever discover who you are, what you want, and what you can do.Don't be afraid to take risks, to become involved, to make a commitment.Do whatever it takes to make your dreams come true.Always believe in miracles, and always believe in you!
~~Anonymous

Monday, December 10, 2007

Got Anesthesia?


Ever wondered what goes on once the surgery is over? What happens between the time you rolled out of the operating room and the hours later when the fuzzy cloud of drugs begin to fade? When realization hits that time has passed you by without even a friendly hello? Why your family members are looking at you, faces scrunched and red; tight lipped as though they are holding back cascades of emotion; while some have lost the battle and are even now snickering behind their hands. Others are hiding behind the faded, might-have-been-a-flower-print-at-some-time curtain and mysterious gales of laughter are floating from the slight, dull material, piercing your ears with each outburst.
The only one who may have had any answers is currently half-way out the door, their shoulders a suspicious hunch of blue fabric as they keep conspicuously faced away from you, bundling up the hideous hospital-green linens and pushing the gurney out of sight. You think you hear a chuckle, maybe even an explosion of giggles spiraling back down the corridor and through the open door, but you can’t be certain. Eyes narrowing, you pin down the nearest family member who is obviously still struggling to keep a straight face.
Then it hits you. Blood rushes to your face, burning its way up your back to the tips of your ears. Your eyes close in utter humiliation; as though shutting them makes it all just go away. If you could, you would pull the covers up tight over your head as you did when you were a child and the boogeyman would peek from the closet; knowing that if you just stayed under the blanket, whatever was out there couldn’t hurt you through the thin, worn-out piece of cotton.
You’d heard stories. How foolish anesthesia can make some people (but not you…certainly not you!); how it can bypass all the seemingly normal, sane reactions of nausea, dizziness, heartburn; and bring out your eccentric alter ego. Or worse: acting as a truth serum, making you lay bare your deepest, darkest, silliest fantasies; or reveal the deeply buried under beat up old tennis shoes and the reindeer sweater your grandmother gave you last Christmas, skeletons in your closet. And it’s never the good secrets. It’s always one that if gotten out will have you hearing about it for years at the annual family reunion. You squeeze your eyes tighter, wishing it were still just a anesthetic dream but when you finally open your eyes again; they expose the smirking, all-to-knowing eyes of your family; people you have to face day after day. You groan. As Reba McEntire would say: “Crap!”
Anesthesia is a glorious little cocktail of drugs that, if administered correctly, causes a patient to forget the pain and suffering that their surgery may have caused them while also losing a whole day, sometimes more, in memories. But it has bonus effects. Ones that are not readily advertised but are definitely and, yes, I admit it, sometimes gleefully remembered by any doctor, nurse, corpsman or family member that comes into contact with it. It is then dutifully reported to anybody willing to listen and some who aren’t….as long as that person isn’t your boss, of course.
Exhibitionism, Motor-mouth syndrome, Too-Much Information! Disorder, instantaneous feelings of love and adoration and proclaiming those feelings to anyone who deems it necessary to step inside the barely-curtained bay are just a few of a long list of actions and emotions patients arrive with as soon as that operating room nurse calls, bellows more like it, out the bay number and nurses and corpsman scatter like ants to their perspective bays, whimpers coming from those who realize their number has just come up. Still others dive behind curtains, or strategically and cheerfully clean their bays as they eye their peers, smirking at their misfortune; smirks that evaporate as the next number is called. It’s only 9am and the people of the Post Anesthesia Care Unit (PACU) are indeed “fortune’s fool.”
Imagine a game of musical chairs, but instead of Pop Goes the Weasel playing over and over again until you want to find that damned weasel and give it a good hard squeeze, the phone rings, mocking the PACU’s nursing staff with its high-pitched incessant whining and the monitors beep like every casino you’ve stepped into in Las Vegas and even some you haven’t. Each bay, from one to twenty-five is like a small, cramped kiddie chair that the anesthesiologists bite and claw their way onto by any means necessary, finagling the gurneys, cutting corners and sliding sideways into a bay as though they were NASCAR drivers in the final laps of the race until victory! They’ve snagged that diminutive chair. The losers are snarling and pouting from their spots on the cold hard linoleum while the winners put their thumbs in their cheeks and waggle their fingers singing “Neiner, neiner, neiner…”
Hands fly as wires are connected; adjusted. Anesthesiologists spout off a myriad of information then spin around quickly until poof! They’re gone as quickly as they came, leaving behind a restless, sometimes giddy, often terrified patient tangled in a strange array of off-colored sheets and sticky EKG pads. It didn’t take long to discover why they had disappeared so suddenly. It’s obvious as soon as the patient, a man the size of a football linebacker looks at you, blinking dilated, blood-red rimmed chocolate eyes; puffed, cracked lips curling into a loosely lopsided grin, a grin you easily recognize as you have seen it many times before.
“Are you an angel?” The same lips opened to whisper, to murmur to me. With a purple gloved hand, I pat his shoulder, assuring him that I am very much human. I turn to the paper of numbers and graphs that made up his paperwork. I feel a large, cold hand grip my wrist and I turn, a polite smile painted on my face as I dropped the paperwork to firmly grasp the hand that held mine; hoping he is not one of those rowdy, ‘get-me-out-of-this-bed-now!’ types that are somehow deaf as drunks and just as prickly. Brown eyes were wide, glazed and that goofy smile still played along his lips.
“It’s okay.” The man giggled; a small delicate tinkle from a man bigger than the gurney. Squeezing my wrist, he lay back; eyes fixed on the indented Styrofoam ceiling and tinkled again. “That you’re not an angel…I still love you.” His flickering gaze turned once more toward me. “We should get married.” Stunned into silence, I shifted as another patient slid into its slot at my back and was locked down like a plane parking at the gate.
“It’s like a magic carpet ride…” I heard breathed from behind me. I closed my eyes, disbelieving as a rich male baritone, scratchy and creaking from the concoction of drugs still gurgling its way through the bloodstream, broke out in his own rendition of Aladdin’s “A Whole New World.” It rang though the unit, slipping through open curtain flaps and bouncing off the sunken popcorn ceiling tiles. Heads popped out of bays like gophers, scenting the oddities that were spewing from my little corner of the PACU universe.
Cringing, my own pale skin turning an unusual shade of pink, and I scurry around my bays, flicking the curtains closed with decisive snaps and shielding my customers from the curious eyes of spectators, trying to catch just a peek of the circus I was currently hosting in bays twenty-four and twenty-five. The singing continued, growing louder with each twitch of the sheets to straighten them and closing of gowns where metal closures impulsively snapped apart as soon as you had them closed and tucked up around the patient. Settling one, I turned back to the other as giddy laughter and a chorus of ‘ah has!” sounded from next door. Before I could stop them, my eyes were rolling and my lips were trembling uncontrollably as I toiled futilely to keep my own amusement at bay.
Biting my bottom lip, I stepped inside, closing the curtain at my back and attempted to return the thrown off sheets to their owner and pulled the gown down to hide the dragon tattoo splayed across his stomach and twined around other unmentionables. The back of my neck was on fire as I tucked him firmly back in, sliding the sheets under the cracker of a foam pad to keep them from being removed so easily the next time; though I knew if a patient was determined, and the way he was now looking at me; mischievous and full of tricks, it wouldn’t be long before he was exposed and on show for anyone who happened to peek inside the circus tent.
I picked up the neglected paperwork as the station changed to another Disney song, and from what I could tell, one he didn’t know the words to so he made up his own. Sighing, giving up on having any sort of normal day, if you could call hanging out with a mass variety of drugged and drunken strangers who never failed to surprise you normal. I marked on the paper, pen flying over entries before I glanced up at the trilling, exasperating monitor… and let out a silent moan.
It was only 9:15.
So was life in the Post Anesthesia Care Unit; a game of musical chairs played repeatedly with no real winner. Each day is like stepping from the everyday, somewhat normal occurrences of traffic and conversation, through Alice’s Looking Glass where colors shatter and shimmer all around you and people are never what they appear to be. It is a violent yet fragile blend of the conscious and unconscious, and a maddeningly fanatical battle of wills with an oddly satisfying indulgence of the mind. And it is an eclectic merging of life and death as you never know what will happen next.
One thing for certain, though; it was, and never will be, boring.

Friday, December 7, 2007

The Glass Box


Trapped within a small glass box
Alone inside while outside he gawks

Like he has no idea why I'm there

Thinks it's made from my own despair

Well, he may be half right

As I seem to have lost the will to fight

Each day, each hour, each moment is harder

And his grip on me grows slowly tauter

Invisible yes, but clearly there

Like the box, stealing my air

No room to cry, to scream, to breathe

Smaller each day with no reprieve

Oblivious to all or so he seems

Then why polish the glass until it gleams?

So he can critique all that I am

Until I am meek like the little lamb?

What I want he has no clue

And could care less what I do

Unless it means going outside the box

Then he teases, insults and mocks

I wither away with each word he speaks

As days fall slowly into weeks

On an on, no end in sight

My soul grows dark, no guiding light

The knot inside me grows in mass

As I find myself always behind the glass.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Novel?


Beginnings of a, well, I guess you could call it a novel, that I am working on for National Novel Writing Month...here's a link... http://www.nanowrimo.org/
(Oh and it's not about Spike...I just liked the picture!)


Prologue

The thick, nauseating scent of blood and torturous death hung heavily in the stale morning air; burning the nostrils with its sharp, dizzying perfume.
Dismal light barely permeated the suffocating blackness, and left the sharp corners of the room, if you could deem to call it that, untouched. Charcoal shadows draped the walls, hiding all secrets. The low ceiling caved in, threatening to fall at the slightest encouragement.
Light faded in and out through the small window-like opening in the steel door. Like the soft whisperings of a ghost, oxygen hissed through a vent. It bounced off the walls sending bits of dust and grime pinging along the harsh metal floor. The sounds of the un-oiled hinges and metal scraping against metal broke the almost silence and a yellowish white light was thrown over that same floor, revealing the deep undeterminable scratches and brownish black smudges that decorated it. Three shadows appeared in the doorway, one standing tall above the other two melded together, holding each other as they were shoved into the room without ceremony and the door clanked closed behind them.
They fell to their knees huddled together in the never-ending night, clutching to each other and to hope. The woman shivered violently, body convulsing in pain. She curled herself into the man’s lap, moaning as slight movement shot lightning bolts through her worn to the bone body, trying to find some warmth in the bitter, unforgiving cold around them. He wrapped his arms tighter around her, gently tucking her head into the strong curve of his shoulder, ignoring the discomfort that exploded up his back as he leaned against the cold bare wall. Their eyes closed as he struggled to keep control of his breathing and she slipped into a fitful sleep, too worn out to fight; to think of some way out of this miserable resemblance to hell. Both tried to escape the inevitable weight that bore down on them, a mocking reminder of what horrid possibilities awaited them once day slipped into night….

Chapter One

Three months earlier…

It never failed.
As soon as Detective Malcolm Cole decided to take a much needed and deserved break from the chaotic job that was his life, his cell would ring. If he turned it off, his pager would beep, smirking at him. It was as if everyone else decided to disappear and he was the only one who could possibly solve this case or that one. True, he was good at his job, damn good. No point working at something if you weren’t going to put some effort into it. But sometimes a man needed peace. Needed quiet. Even a man who thrived on action like he did.
This time, though, he was sure he had himself covered. He was in a place where there was no phone, no pager and no way to connect to the internet. All he had, and wanted, was the sun on his skin, the warm sand as his bed, the soothing music of the waves against the shore, and ice cold beer within reach.
Perfection.
Or so he thought.
“Detective Cole?”
The strong curve of his jaw tightened visibly. “Go away.”
“I’m sorry sir, but there’s a message for you?”
Mal cracked one eye open and, even with just one eye; the evil glare the dark sapphire color shot at the intruder packed one hell of a punch. “Tell them I am on vacation.”
The nervous wisp of a man winced noticeably and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “They insisted. They said it was urgent.” Hesitating, he held the folded paper out.
Muttering curses under his breath, Mal snatched the paper from the man’s trembling fingers. As the little man scurried his way back down the beach, he scanned the contents and sighed; crumpling the paper between calloused, well-worked hands.
It never failed.

* * * *

The woman stood stiffly at attention, dark amber eyes staring straight ahead of her, full bare lips, pressed firmly together. Russet locks of hair escaped from the pins keeping her chin length bob off the triangle angles of her face. Her fists were softly clenched at her sides, as though holding a roll of quarters, in perfect alignment with the thin red stripes running down the sides of the black jumpsuit.
On the outside, she was the meek follower; the willing disciple; the loyal angle to Lord Damien’s great, worthy cause.
On the inside, undercover detective Bailey Sloane was paralyzed with fear. It caught in her throat and threatened to escape each time she opened her mouth to call out with the rest:
“Yes, Lord Damien!”
What the hell had she gotten herself into?

* * * *

Mal stormed into Captain Julia Caine’s office a little over twenty-four hours later, after an over crowded red-eye flight and a five-hour layover in storm-ridden, windy Newark where he then took a plane, more like a bus with wings really, that flung him and fellow passengers from sided to side the whole flight. Then there was the lovely tradition of locating a cab and fighting to the front for it.
To put it nicely, he wasn’t in the best of moods.
Ignoring her indication to sit, he placed his hands on her desk and leaned forward, anger steaming from his pores and glowered at her.
She barely glanced up from her paperwork.
“You’re going.”
Mal straightened, crossing his arms, eyes blazing. “Give me one good reason.”
Her head rose, gray eyes flashing back, but her voice was cool. “For one, you’re the best and this case demands it. For two,” she leaned back in her chair, and clasped her hands together. “And I’m quoting my mother on this, ‘because I said so.’”
He quirked a dark eyebrow. “‘Because I said so?’”
She smiled. “Best I got.”
His lip twitched in an attempt to hide a grin as he settled into one of the chairs in front of her desk. “You need better writers.”
She chuckled and rose, moving around the desk and leaned back against it. “I am sorry I had to call you back, but I need you for this case.”
Mal leaned forward slightly, eyes grim. “Is it that serious?” She nodded, picked up the case file that was on her desk and handed it to him. “Do you know a detective by the name of Bailey Sloane?”
“The new girl? We’ve talked a few times…” he trailed off as his gaze caught on a name. “Harold Cruller. Son of a bitch.” He looked back up at his boss, blue eyes going black. “You sent Sloane?”
“She’s one of the few one who wouldn’t have set off red flags. Just about all of us have had run-ins with him and would have been recognized right off the bat.”
“But such a tiny little thing? She’s going to get eaten alive.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it. From what I have read up on her, she is well trained in several types of martial arts and her previous captain’s got nothing but praise for her. He says she is quick-minded, thorough and,” she smirked, “stubborn as hell. Sound like anyone we know?”
“Not at all.” He closed the file. “If she’s as good as you say, then why do you need me?”
“I received some disturbing and, let’s say, unusual news from the Houston Police Department. They had heard that we were investigating Cruller and thought we might like to know.”
“Know what?”
“Cruller’s parents were found stabbed to death in their home over a week ago.”
“From what I know, that sounds like Cruller’s M.O. What was so unusual about that?”
“According to the coroner’s report, the knife wounds were made postmortem.”
His brow wrinkled in confusion. “Postmortem? Then what killed them?”
She paused, unsure quite how to say it. “It seems their bodies were drained of blood.”
Mal arched an eyebrow. “Drained of blood? Wait,” he looked at her credulously. “Are you saying a vampire did this?”
She threw up her hands. “I’m not saying anything. You know my thoughts about that kind of thing…but they did find Cruller’s DNA at the site so he is the one who stabbed them, and that means this case just got a hell of a lot more serious.”
“And Cruller’s got a partner who is possibly more dangerous than he is.” He leaned forward. “I repeat: Sloane’s going to be eaten alive.”
“Not if I can help it.” The captain stood, crossing to the window that looked out over her department. Hers; every last one of them. And she was going to be damned if she was going to lose any one of them. “That’s why I am sending you in as backup.” She turned her head to look at him. “I know with that damn stubbornness of yours that you will do everything within your power to bring her home alive.”
“And it’s also a plus that he’s never seen me either.” Her brow furrowed.
“Why is that exactly? How is it that my top detective has never come in contact with him?”
He shrugged. “He got lucky.”
She turned back to the squad room.
“I’d say his luck just ran out.”

Friday, November 9, 2007

The Scottish Play


“Double, double, toil and trouble…”
Trouble: That is William Shakespeare’s Macbeth with a capital “T”. Since it’s creation in the early 1600s, the play, more specifically, the people involved in the play itself, have been plagued with bad luck, accidents, disasters and on some occasions… death. The play itself is overflowing with deception, witchcraft, murder and betrayal. Spell-casting is followed soon after by sword fights, murderous plots and a slow spiral into madness. For some, just the mere utterance of its name can send the most devoted theater curse dweller, and even the not so devoted, into a panicked frenzy until just the right ritual is performed. Even then one must be wary. And if care is not taken, you just might feel the wicked lash of the curse’s tail yourself.
It is said that Shakespeare first created the play to get in the good graces of King James I. One of the king’s pet projects was demonology and he had recently published a book on how to identify witches. So Shakespeare, thinking he was being quite clever, incorporated three women (witches) into the play and gave them incantations to recite and had them perform black magic rituals in which they dance around a black cauldron casting spells and cooking up potions. True practitioners of the art were not amused by this very public and slanderous exposure of their sacred craft. As punishment, they placed an everlasting curse on the play before it had even been put on.
The first performance was just the beginning. On August 7, 1606, before the show, the boy who was to play Lady Macbeth, Hal Berridge, became feverish and died backstage. Shakespeare himself had to step into the role and it is told that he did a poor job of it. King James was not thrilled with the performance or with the deliberate display of witchcraft, and he banned Macbeth for five years, severely angering Shakespeare who refused to have the name of the play said in his presence for a long time after. Thus, Macbeth’s curse was born and over the years it has left a trail of fear and demise in its wake.
“Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill…”
In 1672, during a production in Amsterdam, the actor who was playing Macbeth substituted a real dagger for the stage prop and killed the actor playing Duncan in full view of the audience. On opening day in London 1703, England was hit with one of the most violent storms ever recorded. During a 1721 performance, a nobleman decided to get up out of the audience and walk across the stage to talk with a friend. Furious, the actors drew their swords and chased the nobleman and his friend from the premises. Unfortunately, the nobleman returned with the militia and they burned the theater to the ground. In 1775, the woman playing Lady Macbeth, Sarah Siddons, was nearly attacked by an audience disapproving of a woman on stage.
British actor William Charles Macready and American actor Edwin Forrest were putting on competing performances of Macbeth in New York, 1849. Ten thousand New Yorkers gathered to protest Macready’s Macbeth and threw fruit and chairs at him during his performance at the Astor Place Opera House. A riot ensued and the militia was called. They shot into the crowd where more than twenty people were killed and over thirty were wounded. On April 9, 1865, Abraham Lincoln chose to take Macbeth onto the River Queen. While on board, he read passages aloud to a party of his friends, passages that just happened to follow the scene where Duncan was assassinated. Within the week, Lincoln was himself assassinated. And in 1882, on closing night, actor J.H. Barnes was engaged in a swordfight with an actor named William Rignold when Barnes accidentally thrust his sword into Rignold’s chest. The wound was thought to be fairly serious.
The curse raged on during the twentieth century. In 1926, Sybil Thorndike, who was playing Lady Macbeth, was nearly strangled by a fellow actor. Two years later, during the first modern-dress production at the Royal Court Theatre in London, a large set collapsed, injuring a few of the cast members…and a fire broke out in the dress circle. Lillian Boylis took on the role of Lady Macbeth in the early thirties but died the day of final dress rehearsal. A portrait of her was hung in the theater and during opening night of the production, the portrait fell from the wall.
While onstage during a performance in 1934, actor Malcolm Keen became mute and his replacement, Alistair Sim, like Hal Berridge before him, became feverish backstage and had to be hospitalized. Three years later, Laurence Olivier, playing Macbeth, was rehearsing onstage when a heavy counterweight crashed only inches away from him. During that same show, the director and the actress playing Lady Macduff, were involved in a car accident on the way to the theater. The proprietor of that theater died of a heart attack during final dress rehearsal.
In 1942, a show starring John Gielgud had three actors die (Duncan and two of the witches). The set designer of that show committed suicide. During a performance at the Coliseum Theatre in Oldham in 1947, actor Harold Norman was stabbed during the final swordfight and succumbed to his wounds. It is said that his ghost haunts the theater to this day. Just a year later, the woman playing Lady Macbeth at Stratford, Diana Wynard, chose to play the sleepwalking scene with her eyes closed and walked right off the stage and fell fifteen feet. In the grand tradition of “the show must go on”, she got back up on stage and finished the show.
Charlton Heston starred in an open-air production in Bermuda in 1953. On opening night, when the soldiers storming Macbeth’s castle were to burn it to the ground onstage, a gust of wind came up and blew smoke and flames into the audience. Heston suffered severe burns to his groin and legs because his tights had been accidentally soaked in kerosene. Two years after, Olivier was once again starring in Macbeth, this time in Stratford and during the final fight with Macduff, nearly blinded his fellow actor. That same year, during a production in St. Paul, Minnesota, the actor playing Macbeth suffered a heart attack and died during the first scene of Act III.
Rip Torn’s production in 1970 was hindered by an actors’ strike. David Leary’s run in 1971 had two fires and seven robberies. Later that year, Roman Polanski made a film version of Macbeth during which a camera operator was almost killed by an accident occurring on the very first day of shooting. The Broadway production starring Glenda Jackson and Christopher Plummer in 1988 went through three directors, five Macduffs, six cast changes, six stage managers, two set designers, two lighting designers, twenty-six cases of the flu, torn ligaments and groin injuries. During an Off-Broadway production, Alec Baldwin, playing Macbeth, somehow sliced open the hand of his Macduff in 1998.
And finally, in 2001, during a production by the Cambridge Shakespeare Company, Macduff injured his back, Lady Macbeth hit her head, Ross broke a toe, and two cedar trees from Burnham Wood toppled over destroying the set.
These are by no means the only stories. Many more have their own personal reasons that Macbeth is hexed. I myself have had several occurrences having seen it performed several times and been a part of the production a few times as well. While watching the show, I have seen actors fall off the stage, fall off the stairs or the set, lose their voice, trip, drop furniture and break props. And that was just what I saw on-stage. Who knows what was going on back stage.
One of the extras in Santa Rita High School’s production of Macbeth was helping carry a heavy table off the stage, (I was holding the curtain), and had his hand slammed into the stair railing, breaking his thumb and forefinger. My younger brother, who was playing Macduff’s son, fell off the set a few times, luckily gaining nothing more than bruises. The student playing Lady Macduff suffered a sprained ankle during a rehearsal and was almost replaced. I was learning stage combat from an actor in the play during lunch break and I slipped and slammed my head onto the stage floor, knocking myself unconscious for a few moments but left with nothing more than a mild concussion.
There are many ways to cleanse yourself or the theater of this curse, mainly after someone has said Macbeth, or has directly quoted from the play when the production was not being put on. Each theater is different, but runs along similar lines. You must leave the theater and turn in a circle, clockwise, three times or circle the building three times clockwise; spit over your left shoulder; say the foulest curse word you can think of; then knock on the stage door three times and ask for permission to reenter. A quick solution if you can’t do any of these things is to say one of the following three times, thereby asking Shakespeare himself for help:
“Thrice around the circle bound, evil sink into the ground.”
The most known quote is from Hamlet:
“Angels and Ministers of Grace defend us!
Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn’d…”

If you don’t do something to remedy the curse, you forget, or refuse, you could be banished from the theater until you do, depending on how superstitious your director and fellow cast mates are. A theater in and of itself has its own curses and hauntings already from years of performances. Adding the Macbeth curse to the picture is just asking for bad luck and evil doings to strike. Do you want to be the one who caused disaster?
“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty face from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more; it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”

Monday, October 1, 2007

Sex Sells...

Dolce and Gabbana
Or
Why I Will Never Buy From Dolce and Gabbana…

I have never been more put off by a company than by Dolce and Gabbana. I do not care if they are the “it” thing to have. If you have to depict derogatory things in your ads in order to sell, than you shouldn’t be selling anything at all. And it is not just one ad; it is a whole campaign. Not a new one either. They repeatedly show men and women being allegedly abused, raped, tortured, or even raped. Naked women are surrounded by clothed men and vice versa. What I would like to know is how they justify using these images? And how are they getting away with it?
It’s not like I am completely innocent. I buy Vogue and Vanity Fair specifically for the ads and photos of the models posed in various stages of undress. I admit, I use a lot of these images because they are beautiful, and I still think they are, just in a different way now. I use the pictures to practice drawing the human form, especially for fantasy images because, let’s face it; the models they use have bodies that are not typical. If we’re not careful, they may be some day. I have even used some of the older Dolce and Gabbana ads as templates. I found that out after going through my portfolio. I wish I still had the original ads for comparison. I guess these ads that I have will have to do.
When we started this subject, and I began seriously looking at the way things are sold, this was one of the first ads that caught my eye. I was horror stricken. My first though was, “Oh my God, gang-rape.” I showed it to the classmates sitting next to me and they both thought the same thing. The ad may be eye-catching and memorable, but is this really the way you want to be remembered?
You see one woman, barely dressed and in what I can only call stripper heels, surrounded by fully dressed to half-naked men, one of which who is holding her down. He is looking mean and deathly serious as he looks down at her. The sunglasses make it impossible to read his eyes, but his body language sure sends off shockingly forceful signals. The other men have eyes only for her as well. The man with his hands on his hip is looking like he could eat her alive. The man on the left has a blank expression on his face, like he doesn’t care, which could be considered bad as well. He is going to watch someone get gang-raped and not do anything about it? What’s worse? Is it the person committing the crime or the person who sits back and does nothing?
Then I looked at the woman. Her hands are by her head, pinned down at the wrists by the man straddling her, curled slightly like she can’t do anything else. Her head is turned towards the audience and her eyes are slightly closed. Depending on who you asked, it could be in rapture or in fear. Her lips are parted either in a cry for help, or a cry of bliss. Her hips are up. She could be considered struggling but I had one opinion saying that because her hips are forced upward, it means she is inviting it and enjoying it. Her hips are up because she wants more. That it is a gang-bang and not a gang-rape. How is that better? Either way the woman is the focus, she is being held down, against her will or not and men are surrounding her either waiting there turn or watching. Your eyes are not on the clothing they are trying to sell at all. In fact, there are probably some people out there who would have preferred no clothes at all in this picture.
I looked at the background and my first thought was that they are in heaven. With the white walls and the blue sky and white puffy clouds, what else was I supposed to think? Does this mean that they think that a woman or man’s idea of heaven is to participate in a gang-rape or gang-bang? And it’s not only women who are victimized in these ads.

This ad isn’t even an attempt to be subtle. In the other photo at least everyone had clothes and pants were done up…but who knows what was under the dress. In this one, the man is laid out in all his naked glory and the men are looking at him. Let me rephrase that; blatantly ogling him and his…man parts. One guy is even pointing! That isn’t clothing he is pointing out. As my friend joked, he could be saying “Look, his penis is bigger than yours!” Okay, the man may have underwear on but we are led to believe that he is naked. One man is undoing his tie like he is slowly getting ready for his turn, while the guy standing up, though you don’t see his face, is obviously undoing his pants. His shoes and socks are even off in the anticipation of taking his clothes off. Yes, maybe he is just changing his clothes, but then why is the man spread out before him with no clothes on? Is he changing his clothes while asleep? Or lying down? I doubt it.
Also, everyone is in white which is supposedly a symbol of purity. This is not a depiction of purity. The complete opposite in fact. Maybe that is why there is one guy in black to let you know that this is anything but innocent.
The man lying down is arched suggestively. Like the other, it could be he wants this, or it could mean the men in the ad placed him that way for better access. His leg is bent upward giving a prime view. His eyes are closed. He may be enjoying or anticipating what the men are planning, or he could be unconscious. His face is relaxed.
The colors are dark in the background, making the white clothing and the naked skin stand out to you. There are plenty of shadows revealing snatches of what looks like expensive furniture. Maybe they are in an office or a studio? Maybe even some kind of apartment. But then you see the bale of hay in the background. Who puts hay in an office or apartment unless it’s Thanksgiving or Halloween? And then usually isn’t it outside? Is that another “roll in the hay” symbol? What’s with all the hay in these ads? Do they think everyone wants to have sex in hay? It seems awfully scratchy to me.
In both these ads, the main concept is sex, or more specifically a gang-bang or gang-rape. They may be all dressed up in fancy rich clothes, or richly colored and beautifully posed. They may appear flawless in form with clear skin, rippled abs, perky breast and long sexy legs, but it is still dirty sex or rape. You can wrap it up with a pretty shiny bow but you can’t change what they are implying. They are saying, at least I feel, that if you buy these clothes, or wear these clothes, that someone is going to want to take them off of you. It could be forcefully or willingly but the result is the same. It also let’s you believe that the only people who do this are sexy, well-toned, manly men when we all know that it could be the fat slob around the corner, or your clean-cut neighbor.
Even if I ever had the money, I would never by these clothes or support this company. Any organization that uses pornographic or victimized human beings in their images to sell their clothes is not worth my time or money. If I do it is like saying that I approve of what they are implying and am encouraging them to do it more! I don’t mind the concept of sex sells but at least do it tastefully.

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

Hinduism


“Truth alone triumphs.”
~
In the stunning, vibrant country of India, you are a guest in a friend’s home. Awakened before dawn to the sound of deep, resonant chanting, you follow the sound to what appears to be a shrine with wooden figures resting in what you assume is a specific place. Your host is performing some kind of ritual involving water and incense. You hang back, not wanting to intrude, yet too intrigued to walk away. When your host completes his ritual, he stands and turns towards you, his face serene and alight with fulfillment. He sees you watching and instead of being angry, invites you to breakfast with him so that he can maybe explain what you have just seen. You are bursting at the seams with questions but he holds up a calloused palm as each of you settle onto a pillow at a low table and tells you, like all things, you must start at the beginning.
Hinduism is the oldest existing religion and is unique because it did not evolve from any one founder. It originated in India but has now spread out so that it is the third largest religion today with over a billion followers. But how did he come about? You say, leaning forward eagerly. When did it begin?
Over 4000 years ago around 2000 BC. And because of its age, its history is still unclear as to how it originally came about. As India began to grow and evolve, so did Hinduism, though it began as Brahmanism, the religion of the priest who performed the Vedic sacrifices which gave them the power to establish proper relations with the cosmos and their God Brahman. It is a henotheistic religion that means you are devoted to a single God, Brahman (One without a Second), while also accepting the existence of other deities, with each deity representing one of the many aspects of Brahman. A person’s soul, the atman, is eternal and is indistinguishable from Brahman. The Vedas, he adds were sacred scriptures that told early Hindus about the gods, how to worship them and what was considered right or wrong. Kind of like your God’s Bible and his Ten Commandments, your host tells you and you signal your understanding.
Hinduism is more a way of life more than a religion, he continues, and is a mixture of ideas and practices; of philosophical and cultural beliefs, and a diverse coordination of thought. It instills itself into the life of every Hindu from the moment of their birth. It stays with them through their lifetime, whether they are a believer or not, and it does not matter if you are educated or not.
What about reincarnation? You ask. And Karma? What’s that all about? Reincarnation and Karma go hand in hand he states. You can not have one without the other. Karma is the moral law of cause and effect. What goes around comes around, you interject. He nods. An individual develops vibes from the actions they show in life, whether their actions are mental or physical. A body more subtle than the physical one, called linga sharira and less subtle than the soul (atman) then carries these impressions into the next life. Your next life is a direct result of those impressions. If your actions are good, you move forward in the evolutionary circle, if not, you move back.
But what do you do to insure you move forward and not back? You wonder. Rituals like you saw this morning, he says, here or at the temple. These rituals help us seek an awareness of God, and bring him into our everyday life. Home worship, or pūjā, involves getting up before sunrise each morning and cleansing ourselves of yesterday’s impurities. Each individual is considered impure or defiled to some degree, and this impurity must be overcome before the ritual or during it. One common way we do that is with water or purification.
What were you singing? Mantras, or prayers, as you know them by. Through sounds, chants and certain meanings, they can help the believer focus on holy thoughts and express their devotion clearly. The shrine and the doll? What were they for? We use the shrine and icons as tangible links to our chosen deity. The icon image is usually thought of as a manifestation of God as He is infinite. Why don’t you use a temple? It is a personal choice. Temples are usually dedicated to primary deities with smaller shrines inside dedicated to the lesser ones. Temple worship is not mandatory and is now mostly done during Hindu festivals and ceremonies. Our greatest freedom, he says, is worship for each of us is guided by our own spiritual experience.
So what are the rules? you ask, tucking your feet beneath you. Your host appears comfortable, but you are unused to sitting on the floor for long periods of time. As it is your fault, you don’t mention it.
There are few “do’s and don’ts.” As everyone, with their difference in intellectual maturity, cannot always understand, an individual will not follow the same path as another, but their goal will be the same. Goals? There are four Goals of Life that a Hindu can aspire to. There is kama... Kama? You interrupt, forgetting your sore knees. Like the Kama Sutra? You mean sex? Your host chuckles. Yes and no. Kama is our God of love and it does mean sensual pleasure and enjoyment. But it is more than that. It is about the enjoyment and the fulfillment of ones pleasure with not only another human being but in life itself. It is considered last in the line of significance.
Before kama, there is dharma and artha. Dharma is virtuous living and should be considered above all else. Artha is material prosperity and success. In youth, you are allowed pleasure before the others, but once the glow of youth has settled, you are to begin earning a living as long as you’re doing so does not contradict living morally. Neither should pleasure be gotten with out regards to dharma. These three goals are the purposes of everyday life. And the fourth? Moshka. It is the liberation from the cycle of death and of rebirth. It is what every Hindu aims for.
Above all, the ultimate goal in life is the realization of your eternal union with Brahman and the unity of all existence. You need to have perfect unselfishness and utter knowledge of oneself. You must be released from the shackles of ignorance. And, he pauses like a great storyteller pausing for dramatic effect; You must attain perfect mental peace. If you do all these things: the rituals, the understanding of oneself, and follow the goals of life, you free yourself from the cycle of reincarnation. You are considered one with God.
Wow, you murmur, awed by your hosts knowledge and obvious faith. I used to think India was all pretty scarves, belly dancing, and blue-faced beings with multiples arms. We are, he nods, but we are much more as well.
Come, he says, rising to his feet. I will tell you of these “blue-faced beings” as you call them, another time. For now, let me show you my India. You follow him, seeing your host and this country, in a new light. You remember a quote, “simple in its complexities” and think it fits India, and your host, perfectly.

From Delight we came into existence.
In Delight we grow.
At the end of our journey’s close,
Into Delight we retire.