Shattered pieces in the mirror
I promised myself to write this. Identity politics have a strangle-hold on this university. The question remains, why?
Students huddle together within informal third world lounges banded by collective aspects of a set of characteristics by which a thing is definitively recognizable. Isn't it just face value?
High fives, side kicks, bust a move with Mezcla and there you are the set of behavioral or personal characteristics by which an individual is recognizable as a member of a group. Nevermind the physical or tangible, you are the sum of your attitude, social choreography. Yet, can action prove sincerity?
Your birthday suit cannot lie and your skin is the perfect chronological text. Birth certificates are the excess of government but flesh is the remnant of personal history. That is when the words come in, Black, Sister, Latino, Chinese, Asian all marching to the quality or condition of being the same as something else. How can you lie to your tendons, to tell it that you are not connected by ligaments, tendons the humanity of your origin? Yet, what origin is inheritantly a point of attachment of a person that remains relatively fixed during the movement of the world? Blacks are not Africans. Latinos are American and can follow suit with any religion.
For consistencies sake, we are but parts in the greater machine of society. Call us the individual tones and tunes in a glorious and harsh melody. Gays, militants, lesbians, scientists, queers, atheists, Christians, Neo-anti-vegan Christians, Pansexuals and all those confusing permutations boast the universal bebop of unique heart beats. Thump, thump to he distinct personality of an individual regarded as a persisting entity; individuality. Conservitive my reform shabbat and I'll lose my community. Shock me once, shame on you; shock me twice and I'm alone, shame on me.
There are sets and values, rights and wrongs. Call it the horizon where the sun sets on tangible territory, trespassers needs not come. You got to have the right eye-lid shape, the right genitals, the right idea on where your genitals go, or as religion would have it where they shouldn't. Spilling the seed is as much of a sin as denying where you are supposed to be. Stand in line to become one with the mosaic melting pot of communal equations that are satisfied by any number that replaces the letter for which the equation is defined. What then, to become the palatable sidedish for the other? It is easy to take in when you box yourself and deliver the predefined here I am in all my glory.
I am a Soviet, Russian, Ukrainian, white, male human. The Soviet Union is dead, I despise Russians, Ukrainian is a culture lost to the young, color is just a ladder, and the last breeds no community. Connection is what you can make of it only when the plugs, outlets, and ports have a current - the bebop pulse of individuality and hospitable atmosphere. Keep spinning, round and round, until you realize that you are spinning around your finger who you are; Tibetan prayer ring, rosary, devotional beeds, necklaces, dance, fox trot, hip-hop.
I long to belong to something with everything where culture, community, letter, character, 'tude collapse into a violent sea of twisters. Nature's got a way with words; it leaves you speechless. The owe of the new of the primal of the old of the oral tradition of the written and of the true creates a cycle of life where children learn to walk in a world before they say their first words. Science isn't the end and be all; it is the tool to become all.
I am lost here when we say this is it, point and show. There is more to this world than what meets the eyes; so don't claim you are the eyes.
Students huddle together within informal third world lounges banded by collective aspects of a set of characteristics by which a thing is definitively recognizable. Isn't it just face value?
High fives, side kicks, bust a move with Mezcla and there you are the set of behavioral or personal characteristics by which an individual is recognizable as a member of a group. Nevermind the physical or tangible, you are the sum of your attitude, social choreography. Yet, can action prove sincerity?
Your birthday suit cannot lie and your skin is the perfect chronological text. Birth certificates are the excess of government but flesh is the remnant of personal history. That is when the words come in, Black, Sister, Latino, Chinese, Asian all marching to the quality or condition of being the same as something else. How can you lie to your tendons, to tell it that you are not connected by ligaments, tendons the humanity of your origin? Yet, what origin is inheritantly a point of attachment of a person that remains relatively fixed during the movement of the world? Blacks are not Africans. Latinos are American and can follow suit with any religion.
For consistencies sake, we are but parts in the greater machine of society. Call us the individual tones and tunes in a glorious and harsh melody. Gays, militants, lesbians, scientists, queers, atheists, Christians, Neo-anti-vegan Christians, Pansexuals and all those confusing permutations boast the universal bebop of unique heart beats. Thump, thump to he distinct personality of an individual regarded as a persisting entity; individuality. Conservitive my reform shabbat and I'll lose my community. Shock me once, shame on you; shock me twice and I'm alone, shame on me.
There are sets and values, rights and wrongs. Call it the horizon where the sun sets on tangible territory, trespassers needs not come. You got to have the right eye-lid shape, the right genitals, the right idea on where your genitals go, or as religion would have it where they shouldn't. Spilling the seed is as much of a sin as denying where you are supposed to be. Stand in line to become one with the mosaic melting pot of communal equations that are satisfied by any number that replaces the letter for which the equation is defined. What then, to become the palatable sidedish for the other? It is easy to take in when you box yourself and deliver the predefined here I am in all my glory.
I am a Soviet, Russian, Ukrainian, white, male human. The Soviet Union is dead, I despise Russians, Ukrainian is a culture lost to the young, color is just a ladder, and the last breeds no community. Connection is what you can make of it only when the plugs, outlets, and ports have a current - the bebop pulse of individuality and hospitable atmosphere. Keep spinning, round and round, until you realize that you are spinning around your finger who you are; Tibetan prayer ring, rosary, devotional beeds, necklaces, dance, fox trot, hip-hop.
I long to belong to something with everything where culture, community, letter, character, 'tude collapse into a violent sea of twisters. Nature's got a way with words; it leaves you speechless. The owe of the new of the primal of the old of the oral tradition of the written and of the true creates a cycle of life where children learn to walk in a world before they say their first words. Science isn't the end and be all; it is the tool to become all.
I am lost here when we say this is it, point and show. There is more to this world than what meets the eyes; so don't claim you are the eyes.