Showing posts with label Fraya. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fraya. Show all posts

Thursday, February 6, 2014

A Love Letter to Assigning Things

Dear assigning things,

Oh, do I love to assign stuff to things! And of course the antipode: things to stuff. It's something I do automatically, usually, and well. It's probably because I have a meager morsel of synesthesia. When I say "meager" I mean it. My synesthesia - chromesthesia - is a dinky shrimp of a concept that sounds a lot cooler than it is, and I don't like to talk about it. For the uninitiated: sometimes I see colors when I hear sounds. Or hear colors. It is not nearly as extreme as you are imagining it right now. A symphony is not rainbow of light.  It's not constant, it only happens during speaking, and again...I don't like to talk about it.

It's a problem because some people sound like they are the most sluggish, defeated fluorescent yellow they could muster, and I automatically hate them.  They could be a perfectly nice person, but I will refuse to give them a chance to prove it.  It's terrible.  If you've been reading this blog for awhile (all four of you lovelies), you would know that I ardently judge people based on the sound of their voice. Sometimes a person has an offensive timbre and they can probably do nothing about it without the help of Henry Higgins, so I graciously forgive them for shrilling like a human theremin, but that doesn't mean I like them.

So I will assign that person to the list in my brain headed "people who sound like drabby yellow grass." Of course, colors ebb and vary depending on the types of vocalization, the modality, etc., but in general, some people have lovely voices that flutter from pale blue to the night sky and others sing in a papal purple and speak in scarlet, but not everyone, just some. There is no mapping logic to it all. But once you've spoken a color to me I will remember it.

And although some people sound like colors, most people don't. Which means I need to find something else to assign to them.

The act of assigning, the deliberate synthesis of one thing and another, whether that thing is a trait or a phrase or a responsibility or a smell...it's different than something as omnipotent as naming. Naming asserts control over a thing. It involves taking into account history and future and the summation of the assigned parts.

When something is named the audience places immediate judgement. Compare Avatar to Ferngully, two terrible movies with the exact same plot.  Regardless of their similarities, the titles insinuate that the focus of each is different: one word is the manifestation of a god on a lesser plane of existence, while the other is a ravine fully of shaded plants.

So naming is power.

But assigning...assigning is mine. It's my personal association. Assigning could be interpreted as a claim to ownership, but to me it's more like a claim to relationship. Yes, this thing, this person, this place, it means something to me and I to it. We are relevant to each other. 

Maybe when I assign things to stuff or stuff to things, it's a plea to my personal vanity. Or is it a way to organize impressions, or memories?  Is it a way imbue immortality? Or is it my own personal confusion of the two concepts?

I've assigned sentences to the stars and certain behaviors to the trees on my street, smiles to people with a tendency to frown, friends to flashbacks and flashbacks to friends, degrees of douchiness to flavors (what is going to be the kale or cauliflower of 2014? I need to make a list), gravity to versions of nostalgia, lovability to myself, unfair judgement to drug addicts, giggles to puppies, personalities to letters, stamps of approval to restaurants that sell cream of chicken and rice soup on days outside of Sunday, activities to days and emotions to weeks.

The following is a non-exhaustive list of things I've assigned to humans with or without their knowledge:

Speaking of animal personalities, I'm a bear. 
Which means, I'm sure, that I would be a cinnamon bear.
  • animal personality (but only from this particular quiz, and I don't so much as assign animals as take the quiz for everyone I meet always)
  • toys
  • Hogwarts Houses (one time I assigned a Hogwarts house to every US President)
  • Myers-Briggs personalities
  • colors
  • actors and actresses
  • biography authors
  • walk songs
  • weather
  • nicknames
  • type of circus performer

Sure, all of these are the makings for a fine Buzzfeed quiz, but not really.  Because it's not like I assign things to everyone, and I don't assign the same things across the board. I assign colors and feelings and objects to humans. Durrr.

Still there's a problem: this turns humans into characters, and explaining away behavior by saying, "well, she runs from confrontation because she's a cottontail rabbit who speaks in peach." It's always unhealthy to turn a fleshy, living person into a character. That's objectification, not a relationship.

I used to objectify myself completely. I thought, "I want people to think I'm this way" and so I would live up to what I thought other people's expectations would be of the person I wanted to be. Then I placed judgement on myself based on how I assumed other people perceived me and tried to anticipate and thwart those assumptions by berating who I thought they thought I was. Like in the mirror.

Honestly? I still do that. Sometimes. But now I realize what I'm doing, and I'm correcting it. Do not objectify everyone. We are people, and therefore unique and unknowable. Stop sucking.  

But assignments help. They reinforce knowledge...I don't think Emi is a gently carved bolt of affable lightning, I know she is. I know Fraya is a bouncy ball with an orange sunset singing inside, Xtine is a crown of perfectly roasted marshmallow stilettos. These are things I know. I have assigned things to them that will last forever.

So thank you, assigning things, for being a thing I love to do.

Love,
Rassles

...

 So I guess I have a Love Letters series now.  I mean, I do. Click here for the list so far.

Sunday, July 22, 2007

I am red as all get-out.

First of all, I decided to check my ‘space before picking up Harry Potter, because once that book is in my hands I'm fucking reading until it's done.

Second of all: Fantastic bachelorette party.

1. Rooftop cubs game. Rules. Excellent food and lots of booze. Love.

2. Everyone made friends with this kinda hot guy on the rooftop who was wearing white pants (haha, lame).

3. At the game we decided we were going to go to Rossi's (the bar) and hang out for awhile once the game was over. My phone runs out of batteries.

4. Left the cubs game and I got separated from everyone. So I hopped on the red line and went to Rossi's alone, ordered a PBR, lit a cigarette, asked Lynn Meyers (bartender) if I could charge my phone behind the bar, and opened up Harry Potter. Yes, it came with me to the bachelorette party.

5. Everyone at the bar wanted to talk to me about the goddamn book. "Is it good? How far are you? How many pages is it?" etc. etc. etc. I'm trying to read, here, people. But eventually I just put the book away and made friends. There's Gary, and old guy wearing a t-shirt for The Color Purple, who talked to me about what it was like being the only black kid in a Catholic school. And Jim, who was also at the Cubs game, the kind of guy who wears sunglasses with a string attached, and who booked it over to Rossi's to avoid his wife, who kept on calling him.

6. After about an hour of talking, I check my phone to see if it's charged. It is. I call people, and they're all like, "where are you?" and I'm just like, "duh, Rossi's."

7. I stay at the bar for like forty more minutes and then leave and walk over to the hotel. I am pleasantly hammered and it's six thirty. Before I can even get inside, Fraya snags me and is all like, "lets get beer and cigarettes." Ok. We go on a mile hike to find a Jewel or White Hen (the only ones I knew about were far, so we walked over there all stumbley-like down Michigan Avenue.)

8. Bought booze and began the trek back to the hotel. I'm sunburned as all fuck, and we watch some tap dancing street guys and give them like six bucks because they were awesome and I was drunk. Me and Fraya just stood there for like fifteen minutes clapping and cheering, and eventually a crowd formed around us and started giving the tap kids more money. Our work there was done. So then we leave.

9. We get back to the hotel with our sixpack and head over to room 1216 or something, and when we get there we hear serious cheering. Pound on the door, Schmee opens it a crack and is like, "Prepare yourself." So then we go inside and there's hardcore porn on the television, everyone is hammered, cheering, and watching the guy with the white pants from the rooftop take off his white pants (thank god, because white pants are LAME). I was thinking, "way to go Schmee, secret stripper. Excellent." But he was just a random dude that they convinced to leave his friends and come back to the hotel and strip for them. Amazing.

10. Everyone leaves to go to dinner except me and Fraya, and we hang out with The Amateur Stripper for awhile and finish off our beers. We make fun of his pants for about an hour.

11. Powell gets back to the hotel and we decide to head over to Rossi's again. Walk the couple of blocks over there and stop at 7-11 for cheap dinner sandwiches and go into Rossi's. People remember me from earlier, and they're all like, "How was Harry Potter? You find your bachelorette party?" and I'm like, "yeah, they convinced a guy to strip for us for free at the hotel and now they're eating tapas and drinking sangria, but we came here for 7-11 sandwiches and PBR." I am all class, I swear to god.

12. Fraya is hammered and goes back to the hotel and passes out for the night. This is at like ten.

13. Me and Powell make friends with a guy named Donny and he leaves his friends and follows us around for the rest of the night. He followed us to Mothers, where we met up with the rest of the party and kidnapped Muffy and sang some quick karaoke, and then to Estelle’s even though we never went inside, and then back to my apartment and slept on the LayZBoy.

14. Just before Mothers I take sixty bucks out of the ATM.

15. While we were hanging outside of Estelle’s they decided they wanted food (Powell, Muffy, and random guy Donny) so they went into Flash Taco to get burritos, and I started talking to a hip hop performer named Calloway who was selling his CD's on the sidewalk. I give him two dollars for one and realize that my sixty dollars is missing. I'm fucking hammered and don't really care. I probably put my card in the ATM and left the money there. I suck.

16. Calloway keeps me company for awhile and does some freestyling for me, which I think was impressive, but I really can't recall. Everyone comes out of flash taco with their burritos and I give Calloway a hug before he hands me a slip of paper with his Myspace page on it, and we head over to Estelle’s. The Compatriots want to eat outside so they sit down on a cement wall under a viaduct. Two guys are there with two dogs named Leopold and Belle. These dogs RULE. Leopold is a smallish American Bulldog (I mean, he was still huge, but he didn't look like beefsteak like some bulldogs) and he becomes my newest bestest friend while everyone is eating.

17. They decide they don't want to go to the bar. Fine. Lame. We have no cash so we walk home. Donny gives Powell a piggy back ride half the way.

18. Get home, turn on Venture Brothers, and hang out before it's pass out o'clock.

19. Wake up this morning and head over to IHOP, where I find my sixty dollars in my wallet.

20. And here I am. Sunburn. It's about time for some serious Harry Potter 7.
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