my take on singer's solution to world poverty. what are our moral obligations

update:  Happy belated Halloween!! this was my first Halloween as a freshman in college and I have to say this is the loneliest time of my life, more lonely than the pandemic! but I did have fun with my bsf last night, we went to a vampire-themed party hosted by the secular student society at a neighboring University. hope everyone reading is enjoying fall!

Peter Singer is considered to be a radical activist, and especially for the time in the 70’s when he published his essay “Solution to World Hunger” he’s also written philosophical interpretations supporting animal rights, veganism and wrote, “The Expanding Circle” (1981), which is one of my top 10 favorite novels. I agree with the overall point that we should use our extra money to refrain from Overconsumption of unnecessary goods and use it to help those in need, though I was left with the question; What is our absolute fair share? I believe it depends on how much we already have and whether or not we are in a position to give. We need to know to decide whether we’ve already given enough and how much more we owe to those in need. “When Bob first grasped the dilemma that faced him as he stood by that railway switch, he must have thought how extraordinarily unlucky he was to be placed in a situation in which he must choose between the life of an innocent child and the sacrifice of most of his savings. But he was not unlucky at all. We are all in that situation.” (Singer, pg.5) In Conversations like these I believe that people are quick to blame the government, for example; why should I donate to these organizations when the government should have the finances and resources to help them in the first place? Once you do donate, how do you determine which organizations are more in need than the countless others? Everyone deserves a roof over their head, Everyone deserves a warm meal, Everyone deserves clean air and fresh clothes, and medical treatment to accommodate their needs. But not everyone gets these basic needs met, maybe not a single one of these needs mentioned. Where do we draw the line from needs, worthy of donations to meaningless desires? You could go as far as to justly say that everyone deserves to treat themselves, Everyone deserves to express their gender and sexuality comfortably, and Everyone deserves supportive peer groups but these are not often considered as Immediate and dire necessities as the ones mentioned previously. Why is that? And above all, what are the ethics that support those classifications we’ve situated them in?

"her castle ahead" poem- 11/11 jabberwocky submission

 Her Castle Ahead

Up ahead, you'll follow a northern star

She settles her Morning gleam, not too far

pink and tender, calm and congenial.

You seek shade from the blizzard, a place peaceful

You’ll fall famished, fingertips burned by the malicious cold

Still, she soothes the fawns and cossets, the fragile nature beholds

With a familiar song, hushing them to cozy slumber

Up ahead where the crystal rain sheds,

delicately decorating her mountain peaks rising and falling. 

You climb these prominences, rewarded with the sight of her Castle Ahead

The one belonging to all, the house for the restless, 

the unfortunate and the injured are treated so gently

Up ahead, you will watch a new sunrise, abundant, she’s fruitful

She provides it there, encourages all to sink deeper into their pillows,

soaking the woody, welcoming musks, beneath the thick linens, 

guilts tossed in valerian and lavender. When you reach the Castle ahead, you will be home for once in forever, time stirs you in and out, tidings like distant legends, 

where she rocks you back to sleep, while the fireplace cracks and crinkles.

Her Castle ahead, you’re welcomed in the Kingdom of familiarity,

Wide array, nursing the weak, the broken with many hues of candlelight

And brewing pekoe. All are relieved, she casts out their pain

You will finally find solace atop the Snowy swarms of an unforgiving reality

All prejudices are forgotten, suffering is pacified and all innocence is guarded, 

In her Castle Ahead.

the guest house} AHHS jabberwocky literary magazine publication

 Thursday night the weather flatlines and again the clouds drip, lighting penetrating the sky, the pause and then the booming cry. The Power blinks off and on before failing, abandoning my apartment to the illusive depth, leaving me with the only source of light; the vast window that stretches beyond the human eye can see throughout my broad place of occupance that is still far from what I would name a home. I sit on the sofa parallel to this window view and cozy myself  Here, 15 Central Park West Condo, between 61st and 62nd Streets adjacent to America's lush Garden, above me houses Denzel Washington and beneath me; Sting. I don't work at all or move a muscle; I have nothing more to learn and nothing else to do. 

Now all that is left to do is admire what I will never have but across from my place is a sight more valuable than any period piece framed in the hall of the Louvre museum, nor any worldly treasure could impress me as much as The Guest House ahead of me run by the many inhibitors over the years, identical to mine. The fascinating Guest house is a home belonging to nobody and everybody. It's warm in there, I can tell because the snow falls and I can see a thin steam emit from ahead of me. The first family had come for a wedding, they decorated the table before the window with Turkish delights, finger pies and thick strawberries dipped in bright white chocolate all laid about a lacey cloth on a silver platter, the flowers in the bright white vase. 

The sweets stayed still for days and days, a car accident on the way home from the wedding, drunk driver, mangled and there I foolishly watched for a week where the strawberries began to rot and the delights oozed and the flowers withered. Again, Rain catapults and shatters the ground beneath me, rattling the lights on and back on. I focus ahead the lights are still off but the candlelight flickers I see my picture looking back at me. Every window is a reflection, a reflection of thee, many of them the cleaners come, wash away before and incomes the next, keeping my entertainment fresh yet fangled while springs hope above the fence. They string together a bare thin wire. 

The Guests will evolve into the next and the family leave the traces of another fine story, The Missionary trip, harbouring their stolen youth of Christ and then a mafia boss father with his paranoid wives, nothing else left to flee on the run for the rest of their lives, or the high school friends from decades ago, who play poker and reminisce on before that language can show. Do they realize we are all on display, no ghost thin outline, no creature can ever disobey?  We are both wooden caricatures along the totem pole, that such sciences and rhythms could control. But the piercing bone of the glassy frame was my loneliness, masked by empty frames. Wealth amassed, but happiness became elusive games. As these guests departed, one by one, day by day. And in their fleeting presence, I found a semblance of a whole. I wish deep within, another would complete me, end my story No longer lonely, he cherishes each day, For I've already learned that true riches lie not in wealth's display. But instead, I keep watching, I keep Imagining but there is no Guest House, there is, no traveller or visitor of any foreign company but my cold reflection across from me and my filthy, stinking gluttony.

untitled poem inspired by Sylvia Plath

 The following poem is inspired by the engaging confessional poetry of Sylvia Plath. She participated in the growing spread of Surrealism as a philosophy and form of art.  Although Plath was a pioneer beyond her living time, she suffered from clinical depression. In 1956 she married the English poet Ted Hughes; they had two children together. The couple separated in 1962. In 1963, Slvia passed away from suicide by the gas oven in the Home, the children were physically unharmed but the devastation still plagued the family for decades later. As writers, I believe it’s more than important to understand and honor the eminent power of those before us, that Inspire us now. 

It is before me, the silky marbelized inking,

Moving like a stone among a waterfall; drips

Its word travels through the air, a scorched syllable

It is quiet, but still a harmony it is singing,

Liked the tongue of a stranger inside bruised lips,

So quaint it must be invisible

It is devolving now, stars that are shrinking,

Dismembering at the sight of its own reflection; fits

Its form is so potent now, inhaled volatilizable

It is behind me, but still, it is seething,

Like unstained by the earth, milky bones, honestly: it sits

So particular that way, it is non-refillable

It is motionless now, wet from the sea, still wringing

Splashing at the sight of its own depiction; resists

Its existence is so futile now, so frail it is not even fixable

{"white is a woman"- assertive perspective poetry practice}

 POV journal entry:

Your friend is blind (since birth) so I describe what white looks like

White is a woman usually worn by Brides on their wedding day,

 the flowers. 

She's a clean sheet waiting to be decorated,

 darkened and sometimes destroyed. 

Anything wrong would have stained her dress,

 mistakes, lies and blame. 

White is a lonely colorShe has no friends. 

A recipe made without a single ingredient,

 a routine without a step.

 Some may even say she's not a color at all. 

You’d feel sorry for her. 

White is  a virgin and she can usually be found

 hidden in the light of the Morning window view. 

She admires the Hues of scenery, 

the rebellious pigments, on land and sea. 

She's not really jealous, just transfixed on what it's like. 

She only wants what she can't have. 

You don't know Black, she's invisible even for you. 

But you would know Black, the king’s son. 

Unlike white, Black is dense with feeling,

 a stormy Cloud, a creepy night, he's a closed-casket funeral,

 and does his deepest thinking in private.

 In every fancy party oh, he stares at White,

 seeing the purest Beauty he's ever known. 

He told himself he can't have her,

He would spoil that overwhelming glow she shines with. 

A vulnerable Beacon of Innocence. 

she'll be the angel to capture every beginning

 while he'll be the bad guy that slash has an end. 

to admire each other but they stay far apart. 

White is always worn by Brides on their wedding day because 

it's a chime of Reckless harm and act of Revelation and surrender. 

White will forever be the opposite of black.

 Nothing can stop them from the comparison.

 Yin and Yang. 

silky and feminine white is a woman.

journal entry {3-1-22} cento speak by laurie halse anderson

 My tears dissolved the last block of ice in my throat

Words float up.

Me: “let me tell you about it.”

I’m a boiling teapot, I’m spouting with the truth.

Even when he stands taller than me, I’m still a rolling ball of hot steam

My tree is definitely breathing, little shallow breaths like it

 just shot up through the ground this morning.

When people don’t express themselves, they die one piece at a time.

Because after the beast comes, I’m ready.

My last straw has been broken, chewed up and spit out right in front of my eyes

My tree needs something. Water drips on the paper and the birds bloom

In their light, their feathers expand promise.

If you knew, would I be different?

I’m scared of being looked at but I need attention

Was I raped? Of course I was, but I want validation.

Oprah: Let's explore that. You said no. He covered your mouth with his hand

You were thirteen years old, it doesn't matter if you were drunk. Honey, you were raped

I want to kill him. I’m sorry but I do. I’m not sorry, that he deserves death.

“Now you're getting somewhere.” She gives me a thumbs-up.

I was accostumed  to forgive, like I should be forgiven for not forgiving. I’m a tree

Not everyone deserves my shade. I provide too much.

I’ve painted an earth. Shattering piece of a fat white seed, sleeps in the sky. 

My tree is hopeless

It isn't art, I’m wide awake. 

I’m an artist but I'm infertile. You don't feel right when your 

best qualities are stolen and locked away

And when you finally find the key, everyone is surprised. 

His words fall like nails on the floor, hard, pointed. 

I try to walk around him but he blocks the door.

He wants to see me raw, he wants to eat me clean off the planet

My raw form is too scary for his eyes.

He pins me against the door. Maya Angelou looks at me. I open my mouth gasping.

I held the glass against his throat. I push it hard enough to raise a drop of blood

His lips are paralyzed. He cannot speak. That's good enough.

{i regret everything}- a short story for the school newspaper contest

     I regret absolutely nothing. No not nothing, maybe but probably -ABSOLUTELY- nothing. Lana thinks to herself as she apathetically folds the stained sheets from last night and carries them to the laundry room. It’s not like it’s my first time and the first times always end in regret. Lana continues to ponder, she’s a wise heartbreaker, she knows how to manipulate, lie and cheat and then clean up when the act is over. But after all, is done, she still never knows if she regrets a single thing. No, I don't regret it! Not at all, it just confused me when he looked at me that way...his eyes watching me, his eyes, when he knew what I had done. Lana wonders as she dips the sheets into a bowl of bleaches and disinfectants, watching sadly as the stains dissolved into a fading yesterday. It’s over. It’s done. It’s already forgotten, maybe it simply never happened. Lana tries to convince herself as she pulls her bra off over her head and holds her breath to avoid the wretched. dry. smell. I’ve gotten attached to it all’ here alone in this quiet London apartment, I’ll get used to it, I know I will.  Lana disdainfully drops her bra in the bucket and dumps the concoction into the washing machine, standing back to watch as it tosses around her ugly messes. And once I get used to it, I won't ever regret a thing, I shall only be proud. satisfied, Lana leaves the laundry room, topless and bold, climbing up the stairs and into the washroom, she pushes her hip against the washroom cabinet, she must keep it closed. I don’t know why I should regret a thing, If anything, I’m doing him a favor, cleaning the world of its impurities, I do my job in style. Lana sits by the tub and turns the faucets, she sits back and stretches her back, like a cat awoken from a nap; she yawns.  This world is full of mistakes, perhaps it’s god plan that I discard those mistakes- in his honor! Yes yes. Lana checks if the water is warm enough and pulls off her panties, untying her hair, and looks down her toned legs as her blond hair sweeps down like a curtain. Stupid boys. The dark early morning washroom contrasts to a glowing bath, the pale water blanketed by a creamy layer of bubbles, Lana sinks in, her beautiful body cleansed. What if he came back? What if he haunts me now? The other ones didn't see it coming but him…Oh, I should have known he was brighter than the rest. The washroom cabinet breaks open with a jarring swing and out he comes, his body grey and bloody and with a knife still deep in his neck and his eyes…Oh god, his eyes..are wide open and surprised. Lana turns her head to look, annoyed at the inconvenience. She slowly gets out of the bath, wrapping a towel around herself and tucking it closed. She kneeled beside him, barefoot. That does it. I regret everything. Lana decides as she lays on his chest, spouting more brown blood with her weight, she looks into his wide eyes casually. I wish I could take it back, sew his neck shut and give him a new life. I’m sorry David. Lana kisses him on his cheek, cold and dead.

{I once built a wall of shame}- a flash fiction (8-14-20)

 In my late teenage years, I built a wall of shame. It was agonizing at first but after a while, loneliness becomes an addiction. Like most addictions, it was easily deniable but then when I noticed its consequences it became a reason to change. I built my wall of shame with superglue and bricks of steel. It hurt each time I bounded myself against it and pounded savagely, trying to take it down.

 Some walls just have to stay up and sometimes we are expected to wait to see if any force of nature would be strong enough to tear my wall down. I graduated High School In May of 1967 and there I would have the potential of the best, with my incredible intellect,  but I would waste it away on the carpeted floor of my one-bedroom apartment. , stoned and catapulted into a world of hallucinations, it would be there I would finally learn to break my wall. 

Not exactly break but more like strategically climb the wall and plop onto untouched territory. One night in that same summer of 1967; I woke up under the immortal moon, my body pumped with delusions and chemically intensive drugs, I stole some cash from my roommate and took a bus down to London, with only a few pounds in my jeans, an empty box of cigarettes and a pen I used to write a hasty goodbye letter to my mother. Once I boarded the early morning bus I had completely forgotten what I had even done to get there. I simply sat down stupidly and patiently rode the way to London City. Once you cross the wall that stole years of pain from you, the end result is the epiphany of freedom. However,  I won’t lie to you; I didn't use my freedom wisely. I squatted in an old British warehouse and licked crack-off candy wrappers. Thankfully,  It didn't last long. 

I made a phone call one cold morning to my Mother essentially begging her to take me back to Oxford, and with a swallow of pride; she did. There I would attend the University of Oxford and quiet down into tamed college life. After I made the choice to leave my wall of shame, I never dared to go back behind it, and away I kept on at a steady pace, leaving the wall farther and farther. That’s the happiest place I’ve ever had the luxury to be. I’ve learned not to expect much, that way all pleasure was mine and dread couldn’t surprise me.