Seriously, people, do we need to be setting legal age limits on trick or treaters? Of all the asinine things people could be wasting government time on, this is right up there with changing the name to "freedom fries."
Call me crazy, but I never realized there was any sort of social norm on this one. Yes, it's mostly for little kids -- but when did it become a big bad evil thing for a teenager to do it? Isn't trick or treating a pretty benign thing for a teen to do? Shouldn't we be applauding a teen for doing something so wholesome and not worrying what his peers think? Hell, maybe they are all roaming in a pack. I don't know about you, but I'd rather be giving them candy than scrubbing their tags off my fence.
To make matters worse, the article that brought this very important national issue to my attention was couched in terms of fear. "Have you ever looked out your peephole and been scared of a trick or treater?" First of all, isn't the idea of Halloween to be scared? And second, who the hell uses their peephole on Halloween?
In my day, teens were too "cool" to trick or treat. I took it up again in college, when I learned how to not care what others thought. Sure, I got a few odd looks when I rang some bells, but mostly people appreciated my motto: "You're never too old for Halloween!"
Look, if you have a beef with giving teens candy, then don't give them any. But like so many other personal beliefs, this has no place in the halls of lawmaking. Maybe if local governments weren't focusing on such drivel they might, oh I don't know.....have money for schools to buy copy paper or something.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Friction of the Soul, continued: Wanderlust
For the last few years I have been experiencing what I would call a wanderlust of the soul. I thought at first that it was a "seven year itch" kind of thing -- an "untamable creature living a domesticated life" scenario. And while I can't deny that these are elements of my psyche, I have come to realize that they are not the true issue at hand.
The longing I feel is not for something that I wish existed. It is for something that was, or maybe could have been. For who I used to be, who I wish I were, who I could have been. For some part of me that for a brief time flowered but only lasted a season. For blooms that could not sprout today, for though the roots still live, the plant they sustain has changed. What I was, before life beat me down. What I could have been, had I the strength and support and love to be true to that Self. Strength and courage I eventually found but too late to do anything with.
I mourn the parts of me that will be forever broken. Thge little girl who will never know her parents' love. The young woman unable to value herself and demand that others do the same. The woman I am today, doomed to play with fire because it is the only way to remember she is still alive. Who misses the torment that threateneed to rend her soul.
The angst I carry now merely incites a melancholic discontent. Nothing of use will come of it.
I send my words, my cry, to the Universe, but who hears? One or two souls may hear, may even be inspired to reply -- but for the most part I shout to the wind. And so again, still, I am alone. It has always been so; thinking I was not was only an illusion.
So if this is my natural state, why can I not embrace it? Maybe what I perceive as longing against solitude is really a longing to be fully myself -- who I was, who I could have been, who I shall be.
The longing I feel is not for something that I wish existed. It is for something that was, or maybe could have been. For who I used to be, who I wish I were, who I could have been. For some part of me that for a brief time flowered but only lasted a season. For blooms that could not sprout today, for though the roots still live, the plant they sustain has changed. What I was, before life beat me down. What I could have been, had I the strength and support and love to be true to that Self. Strength and courage I eventually found but too late to do anything with.
I mourn the parts of me that will be forever broken. Thge little girl who will never know her parents' love. The young woman unable to value herself and demand that others do the same. The woman I am today, doomed to play with fire because it is the only way to remember she is still alive. Who misses the torment that threateneed to rend her soul.
The angst I carry now merely incites a melancholic discontent. Nothing of use will come of it.
I send my words, my cry, to the Universe, but who hears? One or two souls may hear, may even be inspired to reply -- but for the most part I shout to the wind. And so again, still, I am alone. It has always been so; thinking I was not was only an illusion.
So if this is my natural state, why can I not embrace it? Maybe what I perceive as longing against solitude is really a longing to be fully myself -- who I was, who I could have been, who I shall be.
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