Comedy Tonight

In recent years, I've dreamed of being a theater and opera critic. Even if the salary is small, the perks (free tickets!) more than compensate. But there's one flaw in my critical apparaisal of shows: I cannot stand comedy. It's inexplicable. Charles Isherwood recently wrote a New York Times article about feeling like the only one in the theater who's not laughing. It's happened to me--at just about every comedy I've ever attended.

I try to enjoy myself, I really do. I'll walk into A Behanding in Spokane after reading a rave review, expecting the best. I'll even force a little chuckle near the beginning to warm up. But at some point, dousing teenagers with oil and threatening to light them on fire fails to be funny (even though the rest of the audience is in hysterics).

Truth (a poetical essay)

Stop for a moment. Think. Where are you going? Why are you walking?

You think there's an end, don't you? Maybe you're right. There is a limit to endurance, a furthest point to which anyone can travel. Well, I've been there. I've reached the end.

I know what's there. I know that--

They lied. They tricked us.

They told us we could rest at the end of this journey. Life is over, heaven awaits. Bliss, calm, nirvana--simple rest.

They lied. They tricked us.

Do you know what's there, at the end? We finish the journey and find--

Nothing.

Inspired by a quote from an article by Larra, who was really just being cynical about Romanticism in general and Dumas' brilliant drama Antony in particular.

El carrusel

A gothic short story from my junior year of high school, notable for its use of apostrophe.

Tengo treinta años, y todavía no me he casado. Mi madre – que descanse en paz – me dijo que el matrimonio es sólo una desilusión. Melva, después de conocerte, yo sé que de verdad me decepcionaría cualquier otra. Entonces me quedo soltero. Te espero cada agosto en el sitio del carrusel viejo. Te espero aunque sé que nunca vendrás.

Te conocí hace trece años. Cada verano, mi familia iba a la playa para que descansáramos y esperásemos el comienzo de la escuela. En la última semana de nuestras cuartas vacaciones así, vinieron los camiones. Trajeron muebles y ropa y ollas a la casa vacía al lado de la nuestra. ¡Me emocioné tanto! Sin decirle a nadie adónde iba, corrí hacia el camión. Y te vi por primera vez.

Antígona

A Spanish-style sonnet (different rhyme and rhythm scheme than the Shakespearean style most of us are accustomed to) from my junior year of high school. Inspired by Griselda Gambaro's play Antígona Furiosa. The third sonnet I wrote. The first two have never been seen by anyone, because they're even darker and probably not a good reflection on the mental health of my fourteen-year-old self.

Me llevan a la cueva, al fin brutal,
A mi sepulcro de piedra tallada.
Soy terca; mi muerte es adelantada,
Y esa prisa ha llegado a ser fatal.

Ya me dejan—moriré, soy mortal;
Me dan de vivir un día, una nada.
Sin ni agua ni comida sobrada,
Sedienta y hambrienta espero el final.

Rechazo el suplicio que sufriré;
Rechazo ser botada, ser desecho.
¡No! Con orgullo a mi muerte iré.

Del vestido soga hago, la ato al techo.
Con mi mano, la vida extinguiré,
Atrevida y orgullosa de lo que he hecho.

The Temptation of the Impossible

Mario Vargas Llosa's book of commentary on Les Misérables is titled The Temptation of the Impossible. Llosa's title refers to the improbability of Hugo's world, where coincidental meetings are the crux of climactic scenes and characters are superhuman. These days, though, the impossibility for many teens seems to lie in the length of the novel.

A typical conversation with someone asking me for a book suggestion might go like this:
“Ilana, what’s your favorite book?”
“Les Misérables.”
“OK, maybe I’ll read it. Do you know where I can get it?”
“I think Powell’s has it unabridged. Be careful; don’t get an abridged version.”
“Abridged? How long is this book anyway?”
“Oh, two thousand pages…”
“Do you have any shorter books to recommend?”
At that point I sigh and recommend another Hugo book, usually Ninety-Three.

Atheism

This is an unpolished essay I dug up from a high-school debate. The question: Is man the creation of God, or is God the creation of man? It assumes some prior philosophical knowledge, but nothing Google won't quickly provide.

Descartes wrote in his famous Meditations, “There are only two ways of proving the existence of God, one by means of his effects, and the other by means of his nature or essence.” While I can’t prove this premise, I’m going to work from it. After all, the best atheists can do is refute traditional arguments for the existence of God. As many failed attempts (most notably and convincingly, the argument from evil) have proved, it’s hard—if not impossible—to demonstrate absence. I cannot prove to you that no unicorns exist, though I can demonstrate that there is no logical necessity for the existence of unicorns and no evidence of their existence. Similarly, I will try here to prove the lack of logical necessity for the existence of God and refute the two ways Descartes provides “evidence” of his existence.