Musings of a new Quarter-Centennial

I am turning twenty-five today. It is a weird age, and I feel like I’m prime for a mid-life crisis. I had an idea of where I wanted to be in life, and I am not there. I smoke, drink, don’t have my degree finished, but have debt to show for it, have never had a boyfriend – but quite a few boys I can call exes – and I feel exponentially lonely. I have done some good things in life, however, and I think I should take this birthday to reflect on my past and my future.

I have gone to school. I spent four years at an academically challenging liberal arts college. I forged a few wonderful friendships that I hope to have throughout my life. These friendships started with awkward conversations about wedgies out on the track, half-attempted cart-wheels on the common lawn, and last names forcing us to sit next to each other on a six hour flight to Manchester and to find out that our personalities mesh quite well.

I met so many animated and opinionated professors – people who are passionate about life and about teaching heathen students the complexities, lyricism, and hilarity of the English language. I took a drawing class. It helped me to realize that to draw what you see and what is really there are two completely different things. My perception colors the world so vividly and this was the first time I was able to focus on the world without it being tainted by that perception. That class helped to connect me to my mother who was unable to finish her own art degree. I do have wonderful people around me. There is no need to feel lonely, and I am an intelligent person with higher education under my belt.

Never-the-less I forget these attributes. I think it is because they are not me at my core. My friends help define me, help me to see different aspects of myself in a different light. My education allows me to better self-reflect and gives me more options to better myself. These do not fully define me and are not at the core of who I am. I was raised in America when education was a must. School was a release for me, and I did it well. I had friends, not many, but great ones. These attributes – education and friends – ruled my youth. I am needing to move on. And, there! I have found my core. Moving on is at my core. I have always moved forward, onward in my life. I moved past my contorted and unreliable childhood with my mother. I adopted and love my foster family. I chose to go to school out-of-state because no one in either family had been to that city yet. I jump into the unknown.

How do I do that now? How do I honor these things that have defined me for so long, and also open up a new chapter to my life? I haven’t made a positive and constructive life changing decision in so long. Goals are a good first step. I am currently single, and I would like that to change. I am in debt; I would like that to change. I do not know Russian, and I would like to. I’d like to visit friends abroad and revisit some old sights and venture forth to new. I’d like to have a plan to have children and to buy a house. And of course, drinking less and no more smoking will be the hardest.

These goals are scary too. Starting a life with someone else, or having children and moving on feels that much closer to death. My mother died at forty-five years old. That puts me already past the half way mark to death on her timeline. The funny thing is that death could come at any moment. I have known this my whole life. Death has been a close friend. Everyone has had someone die that they love, and if you haven’t, brace yourself. Putting off growing up won’t make death come any slower. It just makes your life that less full-filled when it rears its cloaked head. That death-rattle I heard at my mother’s bedside has a date marked for me. I just have to make its wait for my last breath worth it.

A Third Update to the Into the Pale Novel

A couple months after the international banquet, we had solidified a tradition of weekly drinks and story swapping. We sat on her parents’ veranda, under mosquito netting, chatting like old friends. “Have you ever read Blake’s poem, ‘Tyger, Tyger?’” Ana asked. She didn’t wait for an answer, but began reciting as her hands danced in front of her face.

“TIGER, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,”

It was as though she were beckoning her muse to come closer. Her fingers brushed the netting, making the shadows dance.

“What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?”

Ana’s eyes were focused on the black ring of jungle beyond the back porch. A dull moon lit the shiny leaves.

On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?”

Her hand lingered over the candles whose light danced on the netting. Her irises were golden rings around her wide pupil. I wasn’t breathing. The adrenaline was making me antsy as I tried to follow Ana’s eyes.
With a flick of her hand, she extinguished the few tiny flames. I instinctively reached towards my right hip, and that’s when it happened. Something in the brush off to the right rustled. Two beady eyes peered at us, and I choked back a scream. Fuck, I thought, Fuck civvies…no gun. Ana just started laughing, as I pulled the netting down on top of us.
“What in the hell’s so funny?” I snapped. She caught her breath and pointed. In the moonlight silver fur flashed as a little monkey darted back into the forest.
“I thought you were more collected, Private J—–,” she mocked, “But if you’re in the mood, I have a story that will really get your heart pumping—a feline story to rival Blake’s poetry, if you will.”

The Narrator of Into the Pale

Narrator:

Full name—Jensen (God is gracious) Bryne (Fire) Burkrist

Peculiar Traits –
Jensen Bryne smokes (not picky)
Black coffee drinker
Both only as a side-dish to chill time

Keeps a military issued switch blade in her right boot at all times

When nervous, she gets quiet and presses her hands to her sides
Enjoys travel—architecture-and-if you could make a band that incorporated Enya, Dido, Imogen Heap, and Edward Maya, she'd listen to that band.

Date of Birth/Age—born 1980. January 9th

More of Into the Pale...

Ana Flynn grew up to be an extremely combative and confrontational woman. She spent her childhood dodging insults, rumors, and slurs because of her appearance. The only retort she could bring against the taunts and laughter was an excuse that, “One day, our race will be pure, and no child will have to worry about eyes that are not black. Until then, this is me, and I am one of you.” Hot weekend excursions usually led to some sort of skirmish between Ana and most of the local boys. Monkey hunting turned into Mwakadi hunting.

I first met Ana at an international banquet celebrating the fall of Portugal to North African troops. Her straight and confident posture hid the tension in her features as she methodically chewed her food.


Her eyes were surveying the room as she listened in on conversations around the table, and as she lingered on the figure of her mother across the table, we both reached for the glass water pitcher. Her startling eyes snapped towards me.

“I-I-I’m…excuse me Madame Flynn,” I stammered out, “Let me pour a glass for you.” My hands were shaking.

“Thank you, Miss…”

“Private B—–.”

Ana relaxed as I set the glass near her bread plate.

“Private, it is not often that one dares to speak to a member of my rank so freely,” I tensed, unable to read her smirk, but—

“I enjoy the change.” Ana’s mouth let a thin smile escape her lips, and she winked, ever so slightly.

Her mother, Getty Mwakadi, rose at that moment to thunderous applause. Thousands of hands were honoring Ana’s mother, when within a few years, they would be murdering them both. General and Mr. Mwakadi held hands as the microphone was handed to them. Ana’s posture regained its inflexibility as the cameras panned to our table.

“My husband, Marshall Flynn, and I, General Getty Mwakadi, are honored to be here
tonight in celebration of this great victory. Though this is only one small country from which to tie the first millstone—it is a great millstone which we tie. Though this victory is over a small country, our forces are enough to flood the oppressors, blot out their lives as they have done to us.” General Mwakadi paused to cheers and passed the microphone to her husband. Taking a bow, she sat again, with a smug glance to her daughter. Ana’s façade did not change."

...blot out their lives

as they have done to us...

The Culmination of an Education

Over the next few days I will be working on a story which I will submit as a final project for my college capstone English class. The parts that I am willing and wanting to share will be in the next few posts, so sit back and enjoy.

Into the Pale
Christina Richards

“What If I told you about Ana Flynn? They would kill me for telling you, and they would torture you for knowing. She was the only thing they were afraid of, and she’s gone now. And that is why, no matter the consequences, I must tell you about Ana.

“Ana was the only daughter of Getty Mwakadi, general of Zimbabwean martial forces. Many believed that her mother’s marriage to foreign politico, Marshal Flynn, was crucial to her role as general. Through her African-American husband, Getty Mwakadi had sway within the U.S. military forces. With such visibility, such power, and such an important marriage to hold together, it would be suicide for a daughter of Africa to sleep with a white man. However, Ana had “dark hazel eyes,” they said, not “African black,” and her hair was less unruly than either her father’s or her mother’s.

“The propaganda started half a century before you were born. Could you even imagine a time before broadcasts and advertisements were branding hate slogans against the Pales into our subconscious? The world was more balanced then. There was hatred, but tolerance and love to overcome it. Today, there is no love that hate does not snuff out. You may not believe me, but, despite the broadcasted lies, the Pales are the same as you and me. Ana was the last proof of that. She looked like us, but she was also a Pale.”

Voracious, but A Vegan No More

Following is a link to the post "A Vegan No More" by Tasha, "food loving, feminist, and globetrotting political scientist." In this blog post, Tasha eloquently describes her painful, introspective journey from dedicated vegan to conscientious omnivore. Plagued by the symptoms of a deficient diet, she spoke with doctors and researchers who encouraged an immediate change of her diet that affected her life, her choices, and her views on the sustainability of veganism. She passionately stood by her vegan beliefs until the truth hit home: "that while there are people who can be quite healthy on a vegan, or predominantly vegan, diet, there were many people who simply could not."

For more information about Tasha follow this link to her "About Me" page at VoraciousEats.com.

To read the article "A Vegan No More" please follow this link.


Tasha not only deals with her personal struggle with veganism, but she also seamlessly ties in her feministic beliefs. She dialogues with the conflict of having a Capitalistic and Patriarchal society in light of world-wide poverty and 21-Century women's rights. My own views on this subject are not necessarily the same as Tasha's. But I am in awe of the stamina, passion, and conscientiousness with which she comes to these issues. I encourage you to take the time to think of your impact on the world, and more importantly of your impact on your local community and friends.

The Egg - by Andy Weir

You were on your way home when you died.

It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail. Your body was so utterly shattered you were better off, trust me.

And that’s when you met me.

“What… what happened?” You asked. “Where am I?”

“You died,” I said, matter-of-factly. No point in mincing words.

“There was a… a truck and it was skidding…”

“Yup,” I said.

“I… I died?”

“Yup. But don’t feel bad about it. Everyone dies,” I said.

You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me. “What is this place?” You asked. “Is this the afterlife?”

“More or less,” I said.

“Are you god?” You asked.

“Yup,” I replied. “I’m God.”

“My kids… my wife,” you said.

“What about them?”

“Will they be all right?”

“That’s what I like to see,” I said. “You just died and your main concern is for your family. That’s good stuff right there.”

You looked at me with fascination. To you, I didn’t look like God. I just looked like some man. Or possibly a woman. Some vague authority figure, maybe. More of a grammar school teacher than the almighty.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “They’ll be fine. Your kids will remember you as perfect in every way. They didn’t have time to grow contempt for you. Your wife will cry on the outside, but will be secretly relieved. To be fair, your marriage was falling apart. If it’s any consolation, she’ll feel very guilty for feeling relieved.”

“Oh,” you said. “So what happens now? Do I go to heaven or hell or something?”

“Neither,” I said. “You’ll be reincarnated.”

“Ah,” you said. “So the Hindus were right,”

“All religions are right in their own way,” I said. “Walk with me.”

You followed along as we strode through the void. “Where are we going?”

“Nowhere in particular,” I said. “It’s just nice to walk while we talk.”

“So what’s the point, then?” You asked. “When I get reborn, I’ll just be a blank slate, right? A baby. So all my experiences and everything I did in this life won’t matter.”

“Not so!” I said. “You have within you all the knowledge and experiences of all your past lives. You just don’t remember them right now.”

I stopped walking and took you by the shoulders. “Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful, and gigantic than you can possibly imagine. A human mind can only contain a tiny fraction of what you are. It’s like sticking your finger in a glass of water to see if it’s hot or cold. You put a tiny part of yourself into the vessel, and when you bring it back out, you’ve gained all the experiences it had.

"Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful, and gigantic than you can possibly imagine."

“You’ve been in a human for the last 48 years, so you haven’t stretched out yet and felt the rest of your immense consciousness. If we hung out here for long enough, you’d start remembering everything. But there’s no point to doing that between each life.”

“How many times have I been reincarnated, then?”

“Oh lots. Lots and lots. An in to lots of different lives.” I said. “This time around, you’ll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 AD.”

“Wait, what?” You stammered. “You’re sending me back in time?”

“Well, I guess technically. Time, as you know it, only exists in your universe. Things are different where I come from.”

“Where you come from?” You said.

“Oh sure,” I explained “I come from somewhere. Somewhere else. And there are others like me. I know you’ll want to know what it’s like there, but honestly you wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh,” you said, a little let down. “But wait. If I get reincarnated to other places in time, I could have interacted with myself at some point.”

“Sure. Happens all the time. And with both lives only aware of their own lifespan you don’t even know it’s happening.”

“So what’s the point of it all?”

“Seriously?” I asked. “Seriously? You’re asking me for the meaning of life? Isn’t that a little stereotypical?”

“Well it’s a reasonable question,” you persisted.

I looked you in the eye. “The meaning of life, the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to mature.”

“You mean mankind? You want us to mature?”

“No, just you. I made this whole universe for you. With each new life you grow and mature and become a larger and greater intellect.”

“Just me? What about everyone else?”

“There is no one else,” I said. “In this universe, there’s just you and me.”

You stared blankly at me. “But all the people on earth…”

“All you. Different incarnations of you.”

“Wait. I’m everyone!?”

“Now you’re getting it,” I said, with a congratulatory slap on the back.

“I’m every human being who ever lived?”

“Or who will ever live, yes.”

“I’m Abraham Lincoln?”

“And you’re John Wilkes Booth, too,” I added.

“I’m Hitler?” You said, appalled.

“And you’re the millions he killed.”

“I’m Jesus?”

“And you’re everyone who followed him.”

You fell silent.

“Every time you victimized someone,” I said, “you were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you’ve done, you’ve done to yourself. Every happy and sad moment ever experienced by any human was, or will be, experienced by you.”

You thought for a long time.

“Why?” You asked me. “Why do all this?”

“Because someday, you will become like me. Because that’s what you are. You’re one of my kind. You’re my child.”

“Whoa,” you said, incredulous. “You mean I’m a god?”

"You’re still growing."

“No. Not yet. You’re a fetus. You’re still growing. Once you’ve lived every human life throughout all time, you will have grown enough to be born.”

“So the whole universe,” you said, “it’s just…”

“An egg.” I answered. “Now it’s time for you to move on to your next life.”

And I sent you on your way.


"Author’s Note: (Andy Weir) wrote this some time ago and posted it here. Later on, someone posted the entirety of the text to 4chan without (his) name, and then reddit posted an image of that page. Somewhere along the way the authorship got lost in the shuffle. So to be clear: Yes, (he) wrote this. No, it’s not a repost from somewhere else. This page is the original source."