Musings of one Lady Jane

noreply@blogger.com (Debbie) — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 13:21:00 +0000

First, my older brothers and older friends starting pairing off, getting married. And that was weird, because...you know, we're all the same generation and whatnot. Then it became the norm for my peers to date, find a significant other, etc. Weirder. The methods of some I respect more than others, surely, and I must say all in all I have never envied their position. It's a lot of work and a lot of drama.

Oh, but now...now it's the little kids. Now it's the kids who, in all reality are very close to my own age, but feel like the "next batch down" - if you will. Coupling, dating, planning their weddings....whatever. It's weird.

But the thing is- I could have a boyfriend if I really wanted to. I've had guys interested in me. But that's not what it's about, that's not enough. (and trust me, most of them have been people who have barely known me as a person) I want to enter into a relationship when I can give as much as I take, when it's at a time in my life I can devote to working at it...when it's for more than "well isn't that cute."

I'm pretty sure I'm a real person (though always growing, always learning, of course). So I'm ready. But I keep forgetting about having a boyfriend. This is a good sign, I think.

noreply@blogger.com (Debbie) — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 05:13:00 +0000

I Dislike:
Being relegated to the frontseat.
Feeling helpless in a science class.
Laptops and earphones on roadtrips.
Pride (especially in myself).
Trying, and trying, and nothing ever happening.
When life isn't fair to people I admire.
When children are expected to behave as adults after being treated like infants.
Not fitting comfortably in places where I used to fit.
Uncertainty.

[I am]

noreply@blogger.com (Debbie) — Tue, 15 Sep 2009 03:09:00 +0000

I am pensive, and a talker. I am a Handmaid. I am student of dance. I am a teacher of dance. I am a student of theatre. I am a director. I am a student of French. I am a teacher of French. I am one of the boys. I am the big sister. I am the motherly influence. I am the one with the mischievous plot. I watch animes, cartoons, war films, romances, epics, zombie movies. I read "Lord of the Rings" "Eragon" "Twilight" and "Shakespeare". I know the basics of knitting a scarf and playing the bass guitar. I listen to NPR, U2, Mozart, Muse, Coldplay, Mutemath. I like rap music and Celtic Woman. I forget about shoes, but then become excited over a good pair of boots. I am everyone's friend and no one's lover. I am everything.

[and, consequently, nothing.]

...

.....at least I know that I am His.

[are you my mother?]

noreply@blogger.com (Debbie) — Wed, 19 Aug 2009 04:02:00 +0000

I am sitting in the little glass room where the boys prep for callbacks. They're singing along with a cd player and prompting me to listen to them sing "Now I Have Everything" - since it's unfamiliar. Unfortunately, I am also unfamiliar with it, so I can't sing Hodel's bit along with them. It is a short and comfortable snippet out of the day.

I am sitting at a round table surrounded by Nazis and poker chips. It is nice to have the free time. It is nice to play Texas Hold-em after a long personal poker lull. It is nice to drink from my huge water bottle and make shifty eyes at the boys. I'm the Revered Mother, and my bluffs are very subtle. Not the kind of mother, though, who fusses at her boys for playing cards.

I am at the host stand in the restaurant, snatching up a few menus before leading a small party to their table. Before I start walking off, I catch the eye of the tallest in a group of boys in the far end of the foyer. I grin and wave at them, then remember to seat the first customers. After seating my personal boys, I happily go about busing and cleaning with a new spring in my step. I smile at Ben when I go into the kitchen, because he's straight in my line of vision. I come up and share Patrick's seat when I get bored and no customers come in. And they, like angels, let my starving self sample their steak and shrimp.

I am a Wendy; I am a Jo. I start to wither away when I don't get enough time with my fellows. I think I would even learn to darn socks someday...if I had a dozen boys to get holes in them.

simplicity

noreply@blogger.com (Debbie) — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 19:21:00 +0000

This afternoon one of my friends proclaimed:

"Dr. Phil is a crock! He doesn't even have a degree in psychology. He just sits there telling people common sense."

And I thought...wow...and how is that a bad thing?

It's amazing to me, that mindset. Common sense isn't exactly what we go for nowadays. It's Freud's theories- didn't you know? How dare anyone excel at something without a degree to back it up.

It's like attained education versus achieved education. The one is the number of years under your belt. The degrees you have. The other is what you actually know. Your knowledge and wisdom. Of course, it makes sense for the two to go hand in hand. So often I find that they don't.

crucify him...

noreply@blogger.com (Debbie) — Tue, 19 May 2009 16:58:00 +0000

The first few times I watched Godspell, before I really got it, the crucifixion bothered me a little bit. Not a lot...just, like the tag of a shirt. Because, yes, there was some "electric fence" theme going on. But not really. There were no soldiers, no nails, no spears. Jesus just had his wrists tied down with ribbons and then proceeded to experience agony and death. It didn't really click. WHY was he dying? HOW was he dying?

And then I was ok with it. The whole thing is metaphorical anyway, right? But just a few days ago I thought of that scene in a way I've never thought before.

Being crucified didn't kill Jesus. Nails didn't drain his life. Soldiers didn't murder him. We did. I did. The weight of the world was on his shoulders, crushing his life. He was drowning in sin, not blood. And then Godspell made his death seem more real than it ever had, to me. Because our sin was enough to make him cry out in agony. And his love was great enough to keep him there; he was only held by scraps of fabric.

His life was not taken from him- he gave it.

[lightbulb]

noreply@blogger.com (Debbie) — Fri, 24 Apr 2009 05:02:00 +0000

I've had it with grown-ups, I think. God, what is it about ourselves that we lose the older we get? I pray to never become as ridiculous as the grown-ups I know.

tumbling thoughts

noreply@blogger.com (Debbie) — Wed, 15 Apr 2009 19:25:00 +0000

I have concluded -through a series of unrelated thoughts stemming over several years- many things about friendships. This is, of course, from how it related to my own experiences. May I never be so presumptuous as to speak for more than myself or my surroundings in absolutes.

I have found that two people cannot be "best friends" (perhaps we'll say "closest friends") when one is in a romantic relationship with somebody else- a third party. I'd venture to say it's the same when both are romantically involved with someone other than the friend in question. Because I think one's mate/spouse/romantic-whatever sort of automatically gets the top slot. If not in all ways (which I think they ought to, if it's the right sort of relationship) at least in many.

Because you tell your best friend everything, right? Or you could. But when there is an awkward thought of third party looming in the back of the mind, that doesn't work. There's a reservation. The other best friend (without the romantic partner) knows that they're in the second slot.

It works. It can still be the closest friendship of its kind. But it doesn't trump.

Ah, and then the matter of boys and girl. How blissful it is when they are young enough to be best friends. Of course, there's the adage "a guy and a girl can't be best friends unless one is actually interested in the other" (I've heard this advocated by men and refuted by men. surprise). Which is actually rubbish in my personal experience. I've seen many examples of best friendships popping up between members of the opposite sex without romantic interest. Of course, these don't last. They can't last. Generally it only works while the parties are young. Children, teenagers, unattached to a romantic partner.

But then...that's how all best friendships are, gender aside. I think one's spouse is the eventual best friend. All other "closest" friendships leading up to that are temporary. But oh...so sweet. Like the whiff of a flower in springtime.

I do love a good best friend, in theory. I've had vague friendships that might fit the category. I've had some, but then they added the romantic variable to their lives. I've had some, but people squinted at the boys and told me it's not proper. But nothing proclaimed. None of the "my best friend is (fill in the blank)." I'm NOT starry eyed and a'waitin' on a husband. But best friendship is an enticing thought. I should like to try it someday.

[]

noreply@blogger.com (Debbie) — Sat, 04 Apr 2009 03:40:00 +0000

I am commencing an undertaking, hitherto
without precedent and which will never find
an imitator. I desire to set before my fellows
the likeness of a man in all the truth of nature,
and that man myself. Myself alone! I know
the feelings of my heart, and I know men. I
am not made like any of those I have seen. I
venture to believe that I am not made like any
of those who are in existence. If I am not
better, at least I am different.

"The Confessions"
J. J. R.

it's so simple

noreply@blogger.com (Debbie) — Mon, 23 Mar 2009 02:28:00 +0000

The debate.

Man is basically good.
vs.
Man is basically evil.

It's so simple. Just watch a toddler. They KNOW what "no" means. Everyone has shown them and told them the proper way to behave. But they still choose to disobey. They still choose to lick the shoe, to knock over the trash can, to hit their little brother.

No one has to teach a toddler how to be bad. We have to teach them how to be good.

Therein lies the rub. We are not basically good. But we KNOW goodness.

I wonder if that provokes in all the image it provokes in me. Somehow, though we are evil, we instinctively know goodness....and choose to disregard it.
(not to blatantly rip off a man named Clive, but...)
Sounds like we have something of our Creator in us. And we ignore it. And are in need of saving...
.....good thing He took care of that.

Self-esteem?

noreply@blogger.com (Debbie) — Tue, 03 Mar 2009 21:32:00 +0000

(with slight revisions, originally posted to myspace 1/17/07)

self-esteem.
1.to regard highly or favorably; regard with respect or admiration:

~

So....what's the deal with "self-esteem"? Frankly, I'm getting tired of hearing that phrase. I'm sure, as this is a personal belief, most of you will disagree with this....but I don't esteem myself. I don't admire myself that much, or regard myself very highly. As a human being, (though I usually steer clear of this terminology) I kind of suck.

I think we need to drop the self-esteem and pick up the God-esteem again. You see all the time where people get depressed, or hurt themselves, or their social life goes to the dogs, "because of low self-esteem." I think it's because we don't realize how precious we are. You say, well, that's the same thing!

Not quite. Each and every one of our bodies, minds, and souls was made amazingly by God. We possess them (ourselves, in effect) because he loves us. Why would you disrespect something like that? I don't think we need to be telling our children "You raise that self-esteem. You're beautiful, you're talented, and don't you forget it. you, you, you, you."

Here's my alternative.

"Remember that your body is God's temple. He loves you, and chose you to be His child. Isn't that amazing? God made you a beautiful creation, He gave you unique gifts. He made you special to glorify Him in everything that you do. Remember to respect that- for that's an awesome responsibility."

God-esteem.

when i cried

noreply@blogger.com (Debbie) — Thu, 05 Feb 2009 17:34:00 +0000

I have been a part of Reflections for the better part of my seven years living in Richmond, and I have never truly cried in drama. But there have been tears. Once was during “The Secret Garden” term (’04 edition), during one of our all-day workshops which occurred, annually, close to show-time. We, an intimate group of twenty or so, sat in the dark as Aunt Jean had us listen to “You Raise Me Up” - sung by Josh Groban. First she said, “Listen to this as a song you would sing to each other.” Then we listened to it again, prefaced by: “Now, this is us, singing to God.” By the time the lights were back on, I think tears had welled in nearly every eye. It remains one of my favourite drama memories.

Also occurring within “The Secret Garden” bubble of time, I actually became teary-eyed during one or two of the performances, during the finale “You Can Do It.” True, my character would most certainly have been tearing up, but it’s never been easy for me to cry on command unless my heart is in it. And yes, though those songs are, I suppose, corny… and some can get…old…that song is so powerful and emotional in my memory. It is as applicable to students as it is to Colin and Archie.

“Fiddler on the Roof” was an emotionally charged camp in a lot of ways- even besides the heart-wrenching emotion that went into the show itself. The culmination of it for me, as I remember it very precisely, was just before the final curtain call, tearing up slightly and kissing my dear Tzeitel. Some always cry during and right after curtain call- but that’s about as close as I ever got.
Until this year. Until we finally did the story of care-free childhood, with the most grown-up sentiments being homesickness, affection, and loyalty. Ironic, isn’t it?

This camp, though bringing all the pleasures of being involved in my beloved “Peter Pan” was not without its stressful moments. I was suspended between the children and the leaders- more than once asked, “Are you a camper?” In fact, I was the oldest camper. Something I (thankfully) only realized after the production. A first, for me. And though I struggled in balancing Pan with my looming directorial commitment, The Glass Menagerie, it was a marvelous and fun experience.

Unbelievably enough, the cast performed perhaps closest to perfection as we ever have. Nearly all of our glitches during shows came from music cues or lighting which was a bit off. Nobody forgot crucial cues or dances (although Peter never could quite get the “I Gotta Crow” lyrics perfect. *wink*) - even though we all agreed that certain ensemble numbers could have used an extra week of rehearsing! After thirty-six hours of personal distraction and stress (mostly due to then-unresolved situations which affected me, but were out of my hands)… come show-time, I was pretty perfectly at peace.

The shows felt very relaxed, because we had our parts down so well. Just before the last show I must have had a wonderful kick of something- for I was literally bouncing and dancing with my pre-set children just before the musicians started up (Wendy laughed at me). Everyone had marvelous energy during that final performance, and lights and music went oh, so smooth. As we lined up in the green room for bows, I glanced once at my Wendy and tears almost came. I was so proud of her. She had come so naturally into this part, she who had not yet even had a speaking role in previous plays. She simply beamed with joy and post-show excitement; I felt the way she looked. I think instead of crying I ran up, hugged, and kissed her. Then the moment passed. And I thought, there’s my “Peter Pan” emotion, come and gone.

And then the oddest thing happened. I glowed and bounced during curtain call, applause, and post-show hugs. I bear-hugged every cast mate I could get my hands on. Then I was in the back, having had more laid back conversations with a few different audience members, and I saw Rachel. I imprisoned her presently in my hug, and thought (and, I think, told her something of) how I never expected her to meet my Pan standard. And she had met it. And, oh, I’ve watched her grow and mature, and face disappointment after disappointment when it comes to plays- and all in good season. I remember jumping up and down when I read on my email that she had been cast as Anne Shirley. I remembered her captivating Pan audition that totally took me by surprise. I thought of how, by the last show especially, her movements, face and tone were so like a little boy. And I was so relieved we had pulled it off, that I cried. I hugged her, and I laughed, and I inexplicably cried, (all at the same time) burying my face in her shoulder. And I looked up, and she was crying and laughing with me. And we both laughed some more, because we never cry after shows.

I suppose it was fitting, although humorous for me, still, in retrospect. My happiness was overflowing. My heart was as full as it could have been with pleasure and pride in seeing the growth and accomplishments of the people I love most in the world. I suppose that was it. I just didn’t have room for anything else- so I had to let something out.

(Well, the run on the lawn we had afterward helped with that, too.)

egypt

noreply@blogger.com (Debbie) — Tue, 27 Jan 2009 04:38:00 +0000

[a resurrected story from the dinosaur computer w/a few minor edits]

An original story based on Exodus chapters 7-11 of the Holy Bible

The hot summer sun beat down on the stone jar that sat atop Menena's head, warming her russet hair. Her light brown skin tingled with sunburn as she walked back to her little house of white stone. Her sandaled feet shuffled in the dirt, creating tiny clouds of dust which rose up to her ankles. Humming softly to herself, she looked ahead to see if she could spot her mother washing clothes in front of their home. Sure enough, the young woman who was Menena's mother was bending over a washtub scrubbing garments in the cool spring water, though most of it had spilled onto the dry, sandy grass. She could see their small donkey penned up in the fence beside the house, being tended to by a little servant girl.

"Ah, Menena," her mother said, smiling as she saw her daughter approaching. She stood up and arched her back, wincing slightly. "You've got the water?" she asked.

Menena nodded, slowly and carefully emptying the jar's contents into the washing bucket. "Yes Mama, I've brought it."

"Good girl," the woman replied, kissing the top of Menena's head. "I'll be done in a little while, then; go inside and see your brother."

Menena nodded and ran to pass through the river-reed door of their house. "Aren!" she cried, running across the floor and flinging off her sandals. The cool stone felt good compared the hot sand of outdoors. "Aren, where are you?" she repeated.

"Right here, stop your shouting," a boy replied, walking into the room. He came over to Menena and ruffled her already tousled hair. Menena only came up to her brother's chest, for Aren was already three when she was born, and now she was ten years of age. He smiled playfully at her as she wrapped her arms around his coarse grey shirt. "How have you been today? Helping Mama?" Aren asked her, his dark hair falling into his eyes.

"Yes, and now you're to watch over me while she finishes washing clothes," Menena said, her eyes twinkling.

"You can take care of yourself perfectly well."

"Won't you play with me?" she asked pitifully.

"All right, fine," he said, kissing her forehead and taking her small hand.

*

Menena rolled Aren over, with considerable trouble, until he lay flat on his back. Then, with a grin, she stood on the chair and jumped onto his stomach. With a groan Aren clutched his stomach then grabbed her and began to tickle her. Upon hearing shrieks of laughter from Menena, their mother rushed into the room.

"What is going on?" she asked, exasperated, and looked around to verify that all the furniture was still intact.

"Let me go- Aren!" Menena cried breathlessly, still unable to quiet her laughing. Aren gave a wry smile and released her, and their mother shook her head with a soft laugh. Her mother turned to leave, but stopped abruptly as she faced the window.

"What...?" she said suddenly, turning around. Menena followed her mother's gaze to the window, its only adornment two pale curtains blowing about in the cool evening air. The bucket of water was still on the ground outside the house, visible through the window. But the water was different, the color was red and thick, so you could not see the bottom of the bucket. It looked like blood.

*

The sky was utterly black, so black that Menena felt as if she were going to be swallowed by it. In the dead of night it was always black, but this was much more. It had been dark all that day, and the day before it. For so long had it been so wholly dark and black that days seemed to run together throughout all Egypt. The little stone house was quiet; Aren, Menena and their mother were all huddled together in one bed. Menena's mother and brother were asleep, but she could not rest. Her open eyes darted this way and that, dreading the sound of humming flies, croak of frogs, or horrid click of a locust wing. The light of the wall-mounted torch cast weak, flickering orange shadows across the small room, but outside of the window all was black.

Even if there had been light outside, Menena would not have wanted to look. Their small donkey had died of a strange plague, its carcass later to be beaten down by hail and rain. Menena whimpered, still able to feel the hideous boils on her skin. But the servant girl they kept had not been affected by the boils; she only seemed very troubled and sorrowful about what had happened to them. There were rumors of a strange man in Egypt, stirring up trouble for no good reason. But the serving girl was always silent, though she prayed often, always silently to her unseen god.

Menena crept out of bed slowly, hearing the servant girl shutting the door. Every day, after the sun set, the little Jewess would walk to her home. Now Menena could see she was going about this evening routine, bearing a small torch. She silently followed the serving girl until she was out of the house and could see the light of the torch. She followed her for a long while, the silence eerie and terrifying. The girl looked around once she reached the street where she lived, amidst several other houses belonging to Hebrew slaves. Menena looked around in wonder as she saw that all of the houses, including that of the servant girl, had been smeared with blood around the doorposts. The door of the girl's house opened and a voice speaking in Hebrew said something urgent. The girl said nothing, but ran inside quickly.

Menena started as a single noise was heard, like a muffled crack of thunder. Looking up to the black sky, she could see neither stars nor moon. Then, slowly from the inky heavens came a slender, sneaky trail of fog. It was pale, almost white, but there were subtle glistens running through it, like sunlight on a babbling brook. It coiled slowly down, weaving in between far away slave houses. Crying out, her voice breaking the thick silence, Menena swerved around in terror and ran as fast as she could back to her house, her bare feet thumping the ground. By the time she reached her home, the smoke was nearly upon her. She raced in the door and through the house until she finally collapsed onto the bed where her family was sleeping. Darting under the covers, she snuggled up against Aren, fixing her thoughts on the slow heaving of his chest to keep her distracted from frightening thoughts. Just as she had finally stilled her own frantic breathing, a chill ran through her body. A freezing wind rushed throughout the house, nearly stopping her breath, filling her very bones with cold. Then the next instant it was gone. Aren stirred briefly, and a frightened tear ran down her face.

"Aren, what was that?" she whispered, putting her hand on his shoulder. The rhythmic heaving of his chest abruptly stopped. She shook his shoulder frantically, gasping. Placing her head against his chest, something inside her wondered if he, perhaps, was no longer sleeping. "Aren!" she whispered again, not even noticing the twinkle of a star that came from the sky. His pale and deathly face was still, and her eyes opened wider, filling with tears.

"Aren?"

"if I had a million dollars"

noreply@blogger.com (Debbie) — Wed, 14 Jan 2009 21:52:00 +0000

I think if I had wealth beyond imagination, I know what I would do.

Aside from practical concerns which would be taken care of, and the beautiful task of feeding the poor and dressing the naked and furthering God's work. [so, I'm talking, REALLY unimaginable wealth]

I would love to patron the arts. Films, specifically. Because films are no longer [if they ever were] made for the sake of art and beauty. It's all money, money, money. Filmmakers make films because they think people will spend their money to see the films. And film producers only back films if they think it will acrue monetary gain. That is, mostly. There are always exceptions.

But doesn't that seem like a shame to anyone else? Doesn't it seem like a shame that only mindless or erotic films get made- because people will most certainly watch them? Or perhaps the excellent film that gets an unrelated, explicit love scene spliced into it, because sex sells.

Art is broad. But films are very rarely art. I know there are filmmakers who would love to be patronized- if anyone wanted to spend money on art instead of chick flicks.

That's what I would do. Get good films made.

[[who are you following?]]

noreply@blogger.com (Debbie) — Tue, 13 Jan 2009 19:01:00 +0000

Then some Pharisees and teachers of the law came to Jesus from Jerusalem and asked, "Why do your disciples break the tradition of the elders? They don't wash their hands before they eat."

Jesus replied, "And why do you break the command of God for the sake of your tradition?"

church

noreply@blogger.com (Debbie) — Tue, 06 Jan 2009 00:26:00 +0000

from the things I have learned from scripture...and in my own life...church is many things. church is also not many things, which I think I realize more every day. church, to me, is not hearing a wise sermon once a week. church, to me, is not singing along with a praise band to our Lord. those are good, and I believe necessary things. in fact, worshiping my saviour through song is often the only activity which gives me true peace, because God is allowing me to praise Him in the way He best designed me to.

but it's not church. not really. church is looking around me and seeing my family. is looking around me and seeing Christ in the faces. church is who I am sitting next to, and across from, and that our hearts desire to bring glory and honor to Christ.

perhaps this clears my confusion a little bit. I am not attending my church, I am simply attending what IS church to many people. I am compelled to wait for a season before I can seek out church for myself, but I think this time of waiting is bringing more clarity to me every day.

this definition of church explains why church to me has not often been found in a church-building. I have found church in a half dozen church-buildings, but in a back room, praying, with paint on my face and funny clothes on. I have found church on a website with a handful of girls. I have found church in a chat room, or in letters passed between sisters in Christ. I have found church in my own living room, and in the living rooms of friends. I don't think an evening of watching "A Muppet Christmas Carol" and a time of church have to be mutually exclusive.

and so, I am alone. I pass from church to church, never knowing when the next opportunity will arise. I long to find a real church in a real building where I can go once a week. I know that others have found it. I have seen it, most often in a gathering of young people in a big building on the south side of the river. tears coursed down my face and I felt the freedom and closeness to lift my hands and my voice. I found church in that place. but it cannot be every week, for me. I have found church in a family room, after giving thanks for the Lord's supper, with friends who need no church building.
[I am inclined to think that they have it most right of all.]

and I sigh, and I sing songs and listen to a sermon every week. and I get a real church fix every now and then, but not hardly often enough.
and I wait

Wait for the LORD; be strong and take heart and wait for the LORD.
[psalm 27:14]

Truth [the first blog]

noreply@blogger.com (Debbie) — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 21:22:00 +0000

(Stolen from my own facebook. Published 9/19/08)

-

This particular paragraph of this note has nothing to do with political figures I do or do not support, or a war I do or do not support. But I would like to tell you a bit about what I think. I prefer a smaller government- a government which enables people to care for themselves. I believe it is the responsibility of the government to protect its citizens from outside threats. I believe that, because an unborn baby is a living individual, it ought to have the same rights as any other citizen of this country: life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I believe that, if you wish to live in this country, you must follow our laws for becoming a citizen. I believe that people living here who have broken these laws should not be recognized as citizens, or given the benefits of citizens. There are a lot of things that confuse me, or that I don't have a strong stance on- such as particulars regarding health care.

And the reason I tend to like or dislike the policies of a political figure results from if they believe the same things I believe. It's very simple, really.

-[-QUESTION: If Barack Obama and John McCain were to switch bodies--- would all of their supporters stick with the policies....or stick with their bodies?-]-

-

I just wish people would t h i n k. I just wish politicians would explain to laymen. I just wish the reporters would report.

How simple is truth? Sometimes it's not. Sometimes it really is. I'm inclined to think that MOST of the time is really is.

PROBLEM: Abortion. Murder? Woman's choice?

ANSWER: Yes- currently it is both.

TRUTH: Everyone who is not a blind fool knows that an unborn baby is a real baby. Yes, it feeds off its mother, but it is a separate entity. You can easily find out when brainwaves begin, when the heart starts beating, when fingernails grow. People have no excuse to be uneducated about it. People KNOW. Several of my friends were significantly premature when they were born. Chances are, you know someone who was, also. The ISSUE really is not "is it a baby?" anymore- which is desperately sad. The issue is now,

"Should women have reproductive freedom?"

How sad that we use such nice-sounding terms. How sad that we reduce a growing, dependent life to a matter of convenience.

You know what's reproductive freedom?

Girls- keep your pants on. THAT's reproductive freedom. THAT is choice. Abortion is simply cowardice and an abandonment of responsibility.

But we teach this irresponsibility as an inalienable right. We treat this delicate matter as a matter of personal privacy. Privacy! Ironically enough, if a woman intentionally smashes in the skull of her newly born baby, she's going to be behind bars- and face the outrage of millions.

A late term abortion, taking place at, say 24 weeks, aborts a baby which has a fully developed inner ear, and listens to its surroundings. Skin translucency is fading away, and it looks like a "mini" version of what it will look like at birth. It has developed fingers- it sucks its thumb. It has hair, tastebuds. If the baby is a girl- HER uterus is already fully formed.

That's what 1.4 percent of abortions destroy in the US.

(stolen from Wikipedia)

"In support of the Partial-Birth Abortion Ban Act, a nurse who witnessed three IDX[Intact dilation and extraction] procedures found them deeply disturbing, and described one performed on a 26½-week fetus with Down Syndrome in testimony before a Judiciary subcommittee of the US House of Representatives, where she states "[t]he baby’s little fingers were clasping and unclasping, and his little feet were kicking," right before the procedure.[37]"

26 weeks means the baby has fully developed eyes, and can recognize its mother's voice.

-[-QUESTION: How can any politician say that they believe abortion is wrong, but they support a woman's right to choose?-]-

The last bit for today is taxes.
I
am
so
tired
of listening to "Bush's tax cuts for the rich."

GIVE ME A BREAK. Let's go back to basics, shall we? I'll try to type slowly, so you all can understand. If someone earns more money, they are going to pay more taxes. If someone pays more taxes, they are going to get more tax cuts. Simple, right? Easy to understand, right? What? No?

Let's try a second example. There is a certain presidential candidate who wants to increase taxes "only" for companies and individuals who make over $250,000 I believe (I could have the numbers off, forgive me). Now, for wealthy individual HERMITS - that's a great idea. What do they need with the money anyway? Let's look at a realistic example. Say, a business (oh no, not the Big-Bad-Business). A business sells things to good ol, middle-to-lower class folk, right? And if that business gets taxed even more, its prices will go UP even more. Causing consumers to PAY MORE MONEY.

It trickles. You can't charge businesses without charging everyone. Sorry to bust that bubble.

The problem is, I don't know who I'm more fed up with.
-The politicians who believe or pretend to believe that their logic is great- and preach it to the people
-The politicians who KNOW that the logic is bad, but can't seem to talk straight policy that's understandable to the common man
-All the people who aren't smart enough to figure out the bad logic.

That last one might be the worst.

But maybe that comes from living every day in school trying to match up to every other school, standard, and student in the country- instead of thinking individually and questioning popular, fluffy ideas.