Ethos vs. Pathos vs. Logos

Since a very young age, I have known that speech is not only a cure, but also a poison.  

Growing up listening to political panels and intellectual debates, I find myself tremendously fascinated by the champions of debates, and the eloquences of the peace makers. I am engulfed by people's power to use the tip of their tongues so lavishly. 

Solving problems has been my deepest obsession,  as I find myself drawing correlations and patterns in the ways people handle each other. Vividly I still remember as a child, I would come up with creative solutions to escape a room, to fix electronics, and to make someone feel better. But what turns out to be the most difficult to fix of all, is that of a broken heart.

It is always difficult to tell the mother of a dying son that everything is going to be okay.

It is always difficult to reject a friend who desperately need your help financially.

It is always difficult to come to terms with your imperfections and limitations. 

It is always difficult to let go of what matters so much to you.

Although it might be useless speeches, I will always try, gently. 

We have such social circles we call friends. Whom might not be able to solve all our problems, but can be there to offer some levels of comfort. Just to let you feel for the micro of a second, that you are not alone. That everything is going to past. That tough times don't last, tough people do. 

May we use Ethos, Pathos, or Logos in our speeches, hopefully the mind is always clear that what you're trying to achieve is healing. And not destruction.

May your heart always be filled with love. Gentle and pure. Kind and gracious. 

May you speak words truthfully, but with sensitivity and genuine care.

May you have no regrets in the way you live, authentically who you are.

Always bear in mind, that reality is far more complicated then we could ever imagine.

Character of the Day: Martin Luther King, Jr. 

A Salute to Assimilation

It has never been my nature to convey my thoughts and ideas in public, for I have feared of the none-existing judgement from imaginary enemies. 

That is until couple of days ago, when I have finally come to my senses that I am most impotently aging. If there is one thing society has taught me, is that unlike the youths, aging people don't matter. Ever.

I am good to go. (pun intended) 

Old is perhaps not the right word. Forever a merciless optimist, I do not see myself being anywhere close to death. Neither have I experienced extenuating hardships so legendary to qualify myself as an "old soul".

Mature probably does not apply to me either, for I am still the trouble making, loud mouth, and inappropriately smiley person that my colleagues find so annoying (or so adorable). 

The best way to put it, is that I am turning "assimilated". I have come to realise that in order to truly identify with my species, the homo sapiens, I must socialise ordinarily. I must keep my posture aligned with others of varying cultural backgrounds, social economical standings, dietary habits, and sleeping patterns. By meeting them half way, my cognitive world expends through these interactions, and from there I humbled. Life is teaching me a lesson, and that's a great course to take.

So here's a salute to a new beginning. 
One that I take my sneakers off, and place myself into the shoes of others. 
I solemnly pray that I've brought enough bandaids. 

I'm not mean, I'm just sarcastic

I can almost feel Joel Brouwer echo my title if I were to speak to him about his poem. Exceptionally brillant, Brouwer wrote the ultra unorganized Lines from the Reports of the Investigative Committees with such a tongue-in-cheek- sarcastic tone towards a serious issue, almost make you feel like you've been slapped in the face, then given a lollipop: So bittersweet it's addictive.

Don't get me wrong, Brouwer's tone is extremely professional, especially in his skills to keep his frustrated undertone hidden while delivering his narratives. However, it is the fact that I'm old enough to up pick up sarcasm, and also the stupendous nature of BP's fake attempt to try up clean up the ocean that gives me not choice BUT to laugh. It just feels good to see them as foolish and incompetent, it just feels good to demonize their lack of foresight and ignorance.

But when the sky turns from gray to black, and while you sit back and enjoy whatever you tend to enjoy while sitting,  and seriously consider the truth of the matter, you become fully aware of the "wholly black" of the ocean, the "snort of air" that rams and seabirds will never survive to take while trapped in that pit of tar, and the continuous incapability for us to do anything, but just tell Brouwer how useless you feel after reading his poem.

Awww... Cool.

If you are having a hard time finding some romantic/mushy love poems to read to your loved ones during Valentines Day/Father's Day/Mother's Day/I-love-my-bros-Day. Go and take a look at Jimmy Santiago Baca's I am Offering this poem. Recite it, and I guarantee you that your receiver will have one of the following responses: "Awww..." and "Cool."

Essentially that's what it is, a heartwarming,  son-of-a-gun-I-need-to-punch-a-wall-to-gain-my-manliness-back type of deal. And you don't need to be ashamed. But since I was reading this for literary analysis purpose; I withheld my femininity and analyzed the crap out of it.

What surprised me the most after reading his writing, is to find a small biography on his upbringing. A man of his past is shockingly capable of such emotional words and passionate lyrics. If anyone is interested in understanding more about this man, feel free to read the biography on his website (below). Chances are, you'll learn to appreciate what you have as a youth.

http://www.jimmysantiagobaca.com/biography.html 

The Who & The What

It's really nothing personal in terms of why "Somebody blew up America". No, it really isn't. Because we already know. It's just created so that the selected few of "us" can make our millions, we can gain our homeland security, and we can make you panic while sipping hot cocoa during 9/11. In a world of the highest technological advancement, it seems puzzling to Amiri Baraka that the Government would not have obtained firsthand information on the status of 9/11 prior to the happening. What he is concerned with, is the who/what, that messed up America.

Conspiracy Theory? Maybe. Understandable doubt? I think so. With a man as free as a poet, a investigative nature comparable to Sherlock, why can't a man question？ Instead he must be regarded as a man who criticize the Jew, the Super Rich, the whitey almighty. Try finishing his poem perhaps you will understand, man, this dude's got a point.

If one day you find the time away from your financial/marital/sibling/family/boyfriend/girlfriend/menstruation/masturbation/ AKA "ME" problems. Take a second and consider, who is the true terrorist that messed up America? What is the true terroristic events of America? Your answer would probably be something better, more historical than 9/11 itself.

Explosion not Deferred

I for one, am a huge fan of Jazz poetry. Therefore you can only imagine how estatic I am when I see Langston Hughes on the syllabus... 

 One of the earliest innovators of the then-new literary art form jazz poetry. Hughes is best known for his work during the Harlem Renaissance. He famously wrote about the period that the experiences of negro culture. The oppression and subpression towards African Americans during the Great Migration is most evident in Hughes poem Harlem and The Negro Speaks of Rivers.

What I love about Hughes is not only his academic achievements (He went to Columbia which for a minority, that's very impressive.) But what is even more impressive is his quality of empathy:

I am a Negro:
    Black as night is black,
    Black like the depths of my Africa.

Hughes is no like some others who disregards his ancestry. He empathies with his heritage, speaks for them, and celebrates them. He might not take action as radically as MLK, but his "explosion" of frustration, certainly does not wait...

People forgetting their shoes

When you continue to compose

           you start to forget the structure one should

                  start writing a piece of poem.

Writing in ways dissimilar to the norm

              in hope that others follow your pattern instead of the

                                    others expecting familiarity from you. 

Speaking the truth to what is truth to you.

Ferlinghetti in his poem "People getting divorce" is one such literal inventer

that re-envisions the flow of words. From his poetry I see not only the brilliancy of

story-telling (how he could assimilate the emotions of divorce in comparison to the lost

of a pair of shoes) to the ingenious of his structure. Just by looking at his poem we know that his story is different. His story is not going to be boring. 

He extends poetry to as much a visual experience as it is an auditory one. As his words engulfs me with fascinating delights.