Has pedophilia become a non-issue in the art community?
I keep hearing things like, "Well, you can't un-rape a child..." or "If I hear one more story of sexual child abuse..." It is so disheartening to know that people feel they cannot and will not care about this issue.
I have read many blogs regarding celebrities who are involved in cases of child exploitation, and what was shocking to me were the overwhelming support to the abusers, mainly because of the artistic contributions these celebrities give to their fans.
I had a friend who would constantly poke fun at people who had written about their own experiences of child abuse. She had it all figured out that most people "love" to talk about their abuse from childhood, and she thought that such experiences are not as bad as one would think. I always wondered if everyone pretty much thinks this way.
In past cases of the pedophile priests, it was strange to hear so many supporters for the Church hurling insults to the victims that were portrayed as attention whores. I wanted to puke everytime someone said, "oh, those poor priests..."
Is there anyone out there who feels the same as I do?
Hemingway was once challenged to write a story in only six words. His response? “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” He is believed to have called it his greatest literary work ever.Can you write a story in six words?
Today, I continue to listen to the artists of the past and find it hard to move on to the stuff called "new" music.
The little kid in Buffy's first season really bugged me for some reason - there was no reason for him to be in it. He wasn't convincing as Buffy's evil nemesis. I get that Joss Whedon was trying for the little creepy kid angle, but it just didn't work for me.
We met in the summer of '87 while we were both only 15. The both of us lived in Los Angeles but never went to the same schools - it was a code we lived by (never crap in your own backyard). Strange thing is we were so different in everthing we loved: music, books, and even clothes. I loved listening to The Cure and Edie Brickell, and he loved Black Sabbath, AC/DC, and Black Flag. The wildest day was when my brother brought him home and introduced him to me - the guy was beautiful with his long wavy "metal" hair, leather motorcycle jacket with no shirt underneath, faded levi's, and worn-out Doc Martens. He was different than the usual rebel wannabe - such a quiet intelligence. My father worked the night shift, so my guy slept over, and we talked pretty much all night about anything from religion to where we wanted to be in five years. The second night he had confessed that he could see us getting married. This was the beginning of a long-ass rollercoster ride.
I must admit I loved him and still do - more so than ever before, but I was not a perfect angel, and I desperately needed validation from any boy who was happy to give it. I regretfully sought validation twice and found that my guy still loved me - a smidgen less than he used to. I cried each time he knew, not only because it was a bad thing to do, but also because I knew he would never see me as the girl he met that summer.
He was and still is the most loyal human being, the most caring and giving person that anyone could ever meet. We actually did get married in our mid 20's and got divorced a year later due to my stupidity. Keep in mind that, all through the years of knowing each other, we have never lived apart, never breathed apart - even after divorcing. He recently remarked that the worst year he has ever endured was the year we were married. Crazy thing is immediately after we divorced, everything went back to the way it was before we got married - I can even remember the music that played in my head the day we devoted ourselves to one another: Last Chance on the Stairway by Duran Duran.
Today, the both of us are well into our 30's - we still live and breathe as if we did when were in our 20's (minus the disloyalty). My guy is a classic rags to riches story - long-haired rebel turned six-figured executive. Growing up we were both poor and always hoped to achieve our goals so that we can add wealth to our happiness. He did it - pushed himself through school as soon as he could afford it while working horrible jobs and graduated class Valedictorian. One of his favorite quotes is "chance favors the prepared mind." All of his professors continue to email him to come back to make inspiring speeches to potential graduates. His professors, even the ones with which he butted heads, talked about his philosophical convictions and absolute intelligence, and I know this because my brother is now taking classes from these same professors. To this day, me and my guy continually remind each other of when we were only 15, obsessing about getting our own place so that we can make out all night without my brother walking in on us.
A few years ago, we were in Vegas - it was a fun time as usual, but that was cut severely short when my guy decided to tell me something that, to this day, makes me feel like dying. He never knew his father but found out that his father died of Huntington's Disease. He explained to me that Hungtington's Disease is fatal, and it is a genetic neurological disorder that progressively gets worse in a short amount of time with a 50/50 chance of being inherited by either parent. I just sat there thinking of his brilliant mind and how this world would be half empty without his contribution. I just sat there thinking of the few times we fought while we could have spent that time being happy. I am guilty of hating his mother for sleeping with his father who has bestowed him the chance at death. I have read that the onset of this disease may start in the age range of a person's early 40's or 50's. We are now in our 30's, so it kills me that, with every twitch he makes or everytime his memory is a little off, I have that uncomfortable lump in my throat but smile and hug and squeeze him as hard as I can and all I keep hearing, playing over and over in my head is Last Chance on the Stairway by Duran Duran.