Things That Cross My Mind As the Sun Sets on My Last Day of Being 21 and I Procrastinate My Final Project of College

- What's Haley Joel Osment up to these days?

- I wonder where I can find the new Doctor Who episode legally...

- Tumblr is calling my name.

- Am I going to go on a vacation with two old friends this summer?

- Do I have enough money?

- I'm going to miss the food in Oberlin.

- No, I'm not.

- Yes, I am! But for all the wrong reasons.

- The internet is the crack cocaine of my generation.

- No Rapture.

- Raptor Jesus?

- Rapture PRANKS!

- I should clean my room.

- I should pack.

- Maybe it's too early to pack.

- 22 is really old.

Doctor Who and the Seductiveness of Peter Pans

This year, I've begun to involve myself in the cultural spectacular that is the 2005-present BBC serial, Doctor Who. I saw my first episode, The Girl in the Fireplace, in the late fall, and this semester I've been catching up on all things Eccleston, Tennant, and Smith.

Perhaps more important than the actors who play the Doctor are the men (because it does appear to be almost exclusively men, albeit genius ones) who write him. I came to the series --after many years of friends suggesting I'd like it-- finally because of two fellows named Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss, staff writers for Who but also the joint creators of a little piece of glory called Sherlock, which I adored.

And Neil Gaiman, an author any fantasy fan worth her salt knows from his novels, penned his first episode this season, and it was the most satisfying hour of TV I've ever watched. The things these people are writing are incomprehensibly beautiful and astonishingly addictive. But why? What is it about a science fiction show for children that appeals so much to so many?

It's hard to explain to people who've never sat through endless hours of Whovian wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey storytelling. I've heard many an enlightened adult complain that the stories are just too convoluted, the effects just too crummy, the characters undeniably silly. Hell, I was one of them.

Here's my short list of what makes Doctor Who compelling:

1. The Peter Pan Appeal

There will always be something sublime about the Peter Pan story: a boyish misfit with a touch of supernatural charm who whisks away a girl (and they are usually women) away from her everyday normalcy to travel through the night sky. Under his guidance, she becomes her own heroine in fantastical adventures she could barely have dreamed up had she stayed home. The allure of travel with the Doctor alleviates the agony and boredom which plague "conventional" lives for these companions, in much the same way Peter rescued Wendy from "having to grow up." In fact, most of the Doctor's companions have to eventually return to a permutation of their old lives once the adventures are over. The most excruciating example, if you've seen the fourth series, is Donna Noble, whose very memories of time spent with the Doctor must literally be sacrificed to save her life. In order to return to normalcy, Donna has to forget everything she saw and experienced in the vast reaches of the universe. It's painfully reminiscent of the final scene in Peter Pan when Wendy is too old to go back to Never Never Land.

All of the Freudian baggage of J.M. Barrie's original children's story is encoded in Doctor Who's DNA. The Doctor, like Peter, can never "grow up" -- that is, by virtue of his nature (and design of the show), he can never stop traveling space and time, can never settle down, and most certainly can never reciprocate the love and occasional lust of nearly every companion who spends time in the TARDIS. Most entertainment relies, either in part or in whole, on some potent unresolved sexual tension, and with the Doctor, it's part and parcel of his makeup. He will always be charming, his companions (and the audience) will always fall in love with him, and that element will always be frustrated. It keeps people coming back for more, but beyond that, it makes him untouchable in a very God-like way...

2. The Doctor is God for the Godless

The Dalai Lama said, "Some people automatically associate morality and altruism with a religious vision of the world. But I believe it is a mistake to think that morality is an attribute only of religion. We can imagine two types of spirituality: one tied to religion, while the other arises spontaneously in the human heart as an expression of love for our neighbors and a desire to do them good."

At its core, Doctor Who is about secular humanism. The Doctor saves worlds, aliens, and-- most often-- humans, again and again from torture and annihilation and fates dubbed "worse than death." Why does he do it? There's no man in the sky telling him what to do: he IS the man in the sky, and it's HIS mercy the villains must rely upon. The Doctor decides who lives and who dies, but he usually tries to save everyone. He tries his best not to prioritize. The people who stand with him are nearly as important as the people who don't. He inexplicably loves all life forms and reacts to them with a wonder not uncommon to children but totally without any of their human cruelty. He eschews violence, but violence is sometimes necessary when violent folks have brought it upon themselves.

Most importantly, the show is a recklessly optimistic bastion of hope in a time when we human race are seemingly lacking in innate goodwill. The Doctor trusts, saves, spares, and inspires. His adventures in time and space, not only into the past but often many hundreds of years into the future, connote a belief that the world is not ending and the universe is not finite. Alongside this miraculous conception of our contemporary world, which in reality seems so often to be at the brink itself, human death becomes what it was always meant to be: a small but important part of the greater, exquisite whole.

Because people do die in Doctor Who. Adults, children, aliens-- no one is immune. This isn't some fantasy whereby the ailments of reality are discarded in favor of blissful delusion; it's the great kind of science fiction wherein our very real problems and concerns are elevated to poetry, opera, and art. The great and trivial struggles of being alive are cast into sharp relief when an entire species, planet, solar system, or the entire history of time are threatened. We see, through the Doctor's eyes, what becomes important. Love isn't the ultimate savior, although it takes a healthy dose of kindness and caring-- industriousness and creativity are just as vital when it comes to saving the universe(s). Doctor Who shows us the qualities it takes to survive and thrive in an unkind world, and some surprising trends emerge. Generosity is prized, as is remorse. (Someone more fluent in history could write a damn fine thesis on how this relates to the history of Britain-as-imperial-power and her subsequent politics.) But most often, the Doctor acts out of a place of intelligence and warmth. As Amy Pond says, "You never interfere in the affairs of other peoples or planets unless there's children crying."

3. Nothing Is Ever Irrevocable... And the Things that Are Have Good Reasons

In Doctor Who, the things that are really, really bad (the Holocaust, slavery) are either glossed over or, if alluded to, the Doctor is able to explain why he can't interfere with some vague monologue about how some things are so big and so key to time that he can't mess with them. There are things even the Doctor can't change-- not actually because he can't, but because he won't. There is some greater purpose that, while never totally explained, we accept as viewers because it's comforting to be told by a 900-year-old that our problems are small but not insignificant in the grand scheme.

Meanwhile, at least half of the Doctor Who episodes I've seen involve him landing somewhere in the past and rectifying some minor wrong or explaining a quirk of history in a cockamamie way-- delightful or twee, depending usually on the writing. (There's one episode involving Shakespeare that includes one of my favorite lines. After being flirted with by the Bard himself, the Tenth Doctor mutters, "Fifty-two academics just punched the air." Yes, we did.)

Watch Doctor Who long enough, and you start to believe your own mistakes and regrets are mere casualties of time. My boyfriend told me with complete sincerity that he occasionally believes he can go back and correct past wrongs if he's been watching Doctor Who too much, and I can't say it's irrational. The conceit appeals to that little part of all of us that secretly believes there's something fantastical out there whose sole purpose is to fix our lives for us. It's the part of us that wants to surrender control.

Doctor Who is a show for children, an age that every adult alive has lived through, for better or worse. Sometimes, watching the show sends the same shiver of delight down your spine that picking up a good book did when you were nine years old-- but the reading recommendations you get as an adult are usually for novels and nonfiction bestsellers, not fantasy serials. We speak of the Star Wars novelizations in ashamed, hushed voices, or joke about the camp quality of vampire stories written for adult audiences. There just aren't that many quality book series for adults the way there are for kids; we don't get to return to our favorite characters the way we used to, and the fictional world is less a stable home than a series of nice hotels (or conceptual art-themed motels, Mr. Eggers).

The greatest series is arguably now televised, because with Doctor Who, there's no compromise. You're accepting the desire to be entertained at face value, and getting more. The ability to return to that universe week after week is something special. I don't think the community fostered by Doctor Who is frivolous or superficial. I think it's an opportunity to connect in an age of cultural fragmentation. I don't think any artistic output is frivolous or superficial if we engage with it in the same spirit as we engage with history or the news. It's just as telling.

more good poetry not written by me

Peanut Butter

BY EILEEN MYLES

I am always hungry

& wanting to have

sex. This is a fact.

If you get right

down to it the new

unprocessed peanut

butter is no damn

good & you should

buy it in a jar as

always in the

largest supermarket

you know. And

I am an enemy

of change, as

you know. All

the things I

embrace as new

are in

fact old things,

re-released: swimming,

the sensation of

being dirty in

body and mind

summer as a

time to do

nothing and make

no money. Prayer

as a last re-

sort. Pleasure

as a means,

and then a

means again

with no ends

in sight. I am

absolutely in opposition

to all kinds of

goals. I have

no desire to know

where this, anything

is getting me.

When the water

boils I get

a cup of tea.

Accidentally I

read all the

works of Proust.

It was summer

I was there

so was he. I

write because

I would like

to be used for

years after

my death. Not

only my body

will be compost

but the thoughts

I left during

my life. During

my life I was

a woman with

hazel eyes. Out

the window

is a crooked

silo. Parts

of your

body I think

of as stripes

which I have

learned to

love along. We

swim naked

in ponds &

I write be-

hind your

back. My thoughts

about you are

not exactly

forbidden, but

exalted because

they are useless,

not intended

to get you

because I have

you & you love

me. It’s more

like a playground

where I play

with my reflection

of you until

you come back

and into the

real you I

get to sink

my teeth. With

you I know how

to relax. &

so I work

behind your

back. Which

is lovely.

Nature

is out of control

you tell me &

that’s what’s so

good about

it. I’m immoderately

in love with you,

knocked out by

all your new

white hair

why shouldn’t

something

I have always

known be the

very best there

is. I love

you from my

childhood,

starting back

there when

one day was

just like the

rest, random

growth and

breezes, constant

love, a sand-

wich in the

middle of

day,

a tiny step

in the vastly

conventional

path of

the Sun. I

squint. I

wink. I

take the

ride.

a great poem

‎The Best of It

However carved up
or pared down we get,
we keep on making
the best of it as though
it doesn’t matter that
our acre’s down to
a square foot. As
though our garden
could be one bean
and we’d rejoice if
it flourishes, as
though one bean
could nourish us.

- Kay Ryan

Jesus was a Commie and Other Easter Thoughts

I may be a godless heathen who was converted to the practice of witchcraft due to early childhood exposure to Harry Potter, but Easter still means a lot to me and I still have a lot of annoying opinions about Jesus & Co. My father is the kind of Catholic that hates the Pope and eschews parochial school labor practices, then claims he's a Buddhist and doesn't hate anyone because Jesus didn't hate anyone.

My mother is Jewish and we celebrated both Passover and Easter in the house growing up. This year, due to Oberlin's academic calendar, I was unable to celebrate the former and unwilling to observe the latter, except in my own special way. I'm not a spiritual person and I'm not claiming that my "special way" was in any religious sense observant, but I spent a couple hours trying to watch "Jesus Christ, Superstar" on the internet and settling for clips on YouTube.

The truth is, as unobservant and unreligious as I am and work hard to be, I think there is value in the stories handed down through the generations. The Bible is not the only short story collection I think humanity can benefit from, but it is one of the most widely-read, and it seems the adult thing to do to come to terms with it.

Here's a short list of the things I gleaned from my parents, the HarperCollins Children's Bible I spent some time reading (and rereading) as a child, watching "Jesus Christ, Superstar" in its entirety every couple of years:

1. Jesus was a communist. Well, if not a communist, a radical anti-capitalist. And if not that, exactly, at least a supporter of unions, communal living, and a believer in fair pay for hard work. I am positive he would support welfare and living wage reform, and then cry into his hemp pillow that the rest of the world was so harsh these things are needed. The man was a carpenter (a manual laborer), and he lived in what was basically a prototype of a co-op with twelve other dudes and a hooker. Which leads me to

2. Jesus loved everyone, including sex workers. It's not some strange coincidence that Mary Magdalene is a prostitute.* I'm pretty sure she has her cameos in the Bible to make a certain few points, many of which Dan Brown can probably obscure for you. At the most basic and unassuming level, Jesus has love for sex workers. Whether or not that love extended to the physical and earthly desires is up for debate, much like whether or not Sam and Frodo of Lord of the Rings fame were getting it on in the Shire. But Jesus would probably have supported the rights of sex workers to health care, legal recognition, safety, and respect.

3. Jesus pushed aside the boulder to his resting-cave, popped out into the sun, and said something like, "Everyone can eat cheeseburgers." Thus is my understanding of the observance of Lent. Although

4. Jesus was probably vegan (excluding the honeyed locusts or whatever). Because he loved everyone, including goats and cows and chickens, and would have wept for humanity over global warming.

As we can see, my understanding of Jesus and the Bible pretty much precludes an understanding of the conservatives and fundamentalists who hijack this great work of human literature for their own nefarious gains. Have some Martin Luther King, Jr. for more persuasive intellectualizing on this point:

And have a happy Easter. WWJD? He'd probably laugh at the Peeps, pop a Cadbury egg, then cast his spell to make food multiply forever. And then give it to the children, of course.

* As a Christian friend of mine who I respect deeply pointed out to me on the Facebook, the Catholic Church made up that Mary M. was a prostitute. I had no idea. My understanding of her is predominantly informed by Dan Brown novels. My sincere apologies. Still makes the Church look hella bad to point it out, though, so I'm happy to.

What the Hell It Is I Think I'm Doing

I'm a writer. It's not a pretense, it's not a lifestyle choice. It's certainly not a career (yet-- a girl of 21 can still hope).

I'm a writer because I write. Constantly and compulsively, in a bunch of genres; so far without tangible success-- if success is determined by economics and renown. But I've gotten encouraged, and at the end of the day that's really what we need to keep dreams alive, don't we? To keep working towards our goals? And some people seem to manage just fine without any encouragement, so there's a life mystery for you.

I've written stand up, sketch comedy, criticism, straight plays, poetry, postcards, speeches, travel journalism, personal nonfiction, blogs, emails, love letters, political essays, petitions, syllabi, in a diary for five consecutive years and a few scattered others. I can't help it. It's what I do, who I am, and how I live. It's not my place to say what's utter garbage and what's not. That's for others to judge. All I can do is keep doing it. I virtually hemorrhage prose. Hey, no one promised it would be pretty. I'm admitting it's often not.

Years and years ago, as a silly fifteen-year-old keeping a Xanga (for those not in high school in the early 2000s: an old-school blog template we frequented in the days before Facebook) for middle school friends that partially and tragically revolved around my obsession with Harry Potter, I wrote a mock-Oscar acceptance speech for when I win the award for best original screenplay. (Hubris, thou art a fickle bedfellow.)

It was great. Great to think that big. Great to have that confidence. How many dozens of times a day can we be told our dreams outstrip our means? How often is an adolescent girl discouraged from pursuing jobs in the arts? The best part is that it was never an award for acting or modeling or fashion or teaching or journalism that I wanted. It wasn't what I was constantly told-- by well-meaning folks surrounding me, the media, my friends-- to want. Pretty girls act. Smart girls teach. Girls who want to write compete for magazine internships. Honey, get yourself a nice job where no one will hassle you for being a woman in a man's world. Work in a place where you do what you do well, and so what if you never leave your comfort zone?

The truth is, where I want to be isn't the friendliest place for a lady. Comedy? Writing? The sort of shows I want to work for-- The Daily Show, Community, Saturday Night Live-- are not run by women. Letterman is constantly mistreating his female staffers. Well-known and regarded journalists loudly and repeatedly claim women aren't funny. So what does an (over?) educated young women in her earliest twenties do upon leaving school?

She turns to other interests: traveling. Working in academia. She finds a fantastic job in another country for the year after graduation. She won't be paid well, but she'll tread the line between safe and adventurous. A little stability, a little security, new life experience. She fills out a work permit application. Gets passport photos. Applies for temporary residence. Searches desperately and so far unsuccessfully for an apartment in Copenhagen to lease for 13 months.

See, I get the next year and a half to hit pause. Maybe that's why I'm uncomfortable when my mother tells me she's proud of me: I feel a little like I've cheated. I'm sure I haven't. I'm sure everything is great. It's just a feeling that's a little hard to shake when you clarify for yourself what it is you want to do, and it has little to do with your actual plans.

The only solution I can think of is to write like a maniac. Write this lengthy blog post. Think on cyber paper for a little while. Ask friends, by way of posting this very entry, to weigh in.

And when the time comes-- because, after all, thirteen months is significant but not an eternity (less than celebrities usually spend in jail and rehab combined, let's be honest-- and working in another country is a huge privilege and stroke of immense luck)-- I can try harder. Take a risk. Move to Los Angeles or New York. Stop hiding behind other (admittedly fantastic) opportunities. Take myself someplace I'm scared to go, and chase the damned rainbow for as long as it doesn't depress the hell out of me to run.

You can't go home again, but you can go back.

(Picture taken by me during the COP15 demonstrations in Dec. '09)

In about four and a half months, I'll set off for thirteen months of living abroad. It's a little odd to think that my first "adult experience"-- by which I mean, post-graduate job-- won't be in New York or L.A. or Chicago or any of the other cities I grew up thinking I would immediately move to upon graduation. But you know what? The political landscape isn't the one I grew up thinking I'd inherit, either.

Working abroad will be different than studying abroad-- I can't just pick up and leave whenever I want, and I'll be working 8am-5pm Mondays through Fridays instead of going to class sporadically four days a week. But I think I'll find the time to explore more of Europe. There's so much I didn't do the first time around, so many places I didn't visit. After working at National Geographic Traveler, I have even more ideas than when I went the first time of what to do. Most importantly, I want to try some of these.

THINGS I AM LOOKING MOST FORWARD TO ABOUT RETURNING TO KOBENHAVN:

- weinerbrod

- cafes that stay open through the cold weather and supply customers with blankets and heat lamps

- sophisticated transportation