So, I kind of like Cher.

This big city of ours.

Sometimes, I just want to break free, like a loose screw that just happened to roll off this repetitious bicycle of a lifestyle. I want to go to a place where the sky is big, the stars hang in mid-air, never quite in reach, like suspended animation. The air would be fluffy, stuffed with white clouds that seem to blanket the land, if it not for thin strips of bright, sapphire blue. We could drink frothy milk from bowls with big lips, and lie on our stomachs, hair caressing the soft of our necks. A slight summer breeze could sweep our skins, then droplets of pink rain could drizzle, clinging on to anything with purpose. Then life would be perfect.

The Black Ivy.

 (via unabashedlyprep)

How unique and cool!

There's been a death in the opposite house.

 (via arthermitage)

By Emily Dickinson.

There's been a death in the opposite house
As lately as today.
I know it by the numb look
Such houses have alway.

The neighbours rustle in and out,
The doctor drives away.
A window opens like a pod,
Abrupt, mechanically;

Somebody flings a mattress out, -
The children hurry by;
They wonder if It died on that, -
I used to when a boy.

The minister goes stiffly in
As if the house were his,
And he owned all the mourners now,
And little boys besides;

And then the milliner, and the man
Of the appalling trade,
To take the measure of the house.
There'll be that dark parade

Of tassels and of coaches soon;
It's easy as a sign, -
The intuition of the news
In just a country town.

I've noticed that discover the most amazing poetry through AP Language and AP Literature. Right now, I am reading A Passage to India by E.M. Forester. It's so inspirational and I am really glad I selected it. One of Forester's main themes is the struggle between the social classes. This novel is set in a fictional town enveloped by magnificent caves. Next quarter, I will be reading Howard's End, which is set primarily in England, like A Room with A View. 

I've got the sniffles. But, it's not the end of the world.

I'm sick. Well...a little bit. It's so sad how I managed to survive the last winter cold-free and how this year, I got a cold in mid-September. Oh the irony.

Anyways, my dad is making me drink really yucky medicine. I had to down liquid Tylenol. I mean, who buys that stuff anymore? It's just an ancient way to torture children.

But otherwise, I'm feeling somewhat good.
Can't say when I'll be completely free again. The earliest is probably early November. For now, I'll try and not sulk over the fact that the last vacation I went on was 1.75 YEARS AGO. I'm imagine the red Italian sun on my back as I endure another year of high school. Stay in the positive. Think Italy.

Back to studying for the Calculus test! I'm pumped now.

Ey yo.

 (via hur)

Ey yo, I'mma 'bout to write my college essays, yo.

And no, I ain't gonna type like a fool.

Because I'm really excited and jammed pack with ideas,

That's gonna make me stand out from my peers.

HAY.
Dat's whats up.

Lil Ruoxi-izzle signing off.

I'm addicted to balancing chemical equations, doing SAT sentence completions, and speaking bad french.

Someone should really stop me before this condition becomes serious.

Welcome to the Modern Age.

(.)

(more)

The Many Faces of Tomoko Sawada

(more)

(more)

Rosalyn Drexler

(more)

Oreet Ashery

Marina Abramovic's Rhythm 10

this sounds so great right now.

1. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock	(B)
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero, Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.     LET us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherised upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats         5 Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question …         10 Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” Let us go and make our visit.   In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.   The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,         15 The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,         20 And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.   And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;         25 There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate;         30 Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea.   In the room the women come and go         35 Talking of Michelangelo.   And indeed there will be time To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—         40 [They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”] My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin— [They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”] Do I dare         45 Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.   For I have known them all already, known them all:— Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,         50 I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room.   So how should I presume?   And I have known the eyes already, known them all—         55 The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?         60   And how should I presume?   And I have known the arms already, known them all— Arms that are braceleted and white and bare [But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!] It is perfume from a dress         65 That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.   And should I then presume?   And how should I begin?       .      .      .      .      . Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets         70 And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…   I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.       .      .      .      .      . And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!         75 Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep … tired … or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?         80 But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,         85 And in short, I was afraid.   And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while,         90 To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it toward some overwhelming question, To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—         95 If one, settling a pillow by her head,   Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.   That is not it, at all.”   And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while,         100 After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor— And this, and so much more?— It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:         105 Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say:   “That is not it at all,   That is not what I meant, at all.”       .      .      .      .      .         110 No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use,         115 Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, the Fool.   I grow old … I grow old …         120 I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.   Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.   I do not think that they will sing to me.         125   I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black.   We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown         130 Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

To the high school kids

It seems like high school is a amalgam of grades, SAT scores and extracurricular activities. And maybe that's the way it should be. It keeps us on our toes, and makes us less vulnerable to the counterproductive activities. But what really irks me are certain individuals who would "slay" to beat above the rest. I feel as if they're observing their competition with a stealthy glance, digging into the nitty gritty just to get 1/2 a foot above the rest.

Why would someone degrade himself to that position? What is so marvelous in doing underground research? It is shocking to observe such activities going around, unbelievable to a certain extent. Is there a lack of morality? Why don't we all try our genuine best? Bring it on, give it your best shot.

Young Money.

 (via wiki)

So I was listening to this song today...and it talked a lot about "young money" (note my non-ghetto fabulous self). I'm no psychologist or anthropologist, but what's all this talk about having lots of dough being "young", and why is it so glamorous to be popular in many urban songs?

To understand this phenomenon, several questions come to mind. One being the true definition of "young money". Is it that come a certain age, one, preferably considered youthful, is inherited a vast sum of money from one's lineage? Or that the money is nouveau-riche/self-made? My guess is the latter, as many hip hop songs talk about the struggles of the artist during childhood or before they "made it big".

Which begs the question: when did nouveau riche become esteemed? I'm not one to judge on this condition, but for centuries, the aristocrats would always look down upon the nouveau riche, as if they were completely alien to the life of lavishness and luxury. Is that still the case today? After all, old habits die hard.

So consider this and apply it to your list of observations, if you'd like. I will certainly keep a look-out for any betraying signs. Later on, we could compare notes.

Let's skip the general awkward introductions, shall we?

Heading back to school is not fun. Really, even the bookworm in me is protesting the rigorous school bell. But it's Senior year, thus, it's supposed to be amazing. I must enjoy this time because once I'm in college, I'm going to be a lowly freshman again...boo. Normally when I receive the school calendar, I scroll down rapidly to discover (either to surprise or dismay) when the last day of school is. This time around, I realized...wait, it's my graduation date that actually matters! Oh, the feeling I got after this discovery could be only described as sheer happiness.

But I'm still in school now, so here goes:

Backtrack to your earliest memories of The First Day of School. Were you still glowing with your summer tan? Did your backpack still smell new? Did your mom actually lead you into the classroom instead of dumping you in front of the school yard? And finally, but most importantly, did you have to scour your mind to find a "fun fact" about yourself as required by the teacher to have in your general introduction to the new kiddies?

Now, wasn't that harder than that arithmetic test you put off because the new episode of Dragontales was on? You had to say something cool, not that you secretly love reading or that you have PB&J for lunch. No, it had to be something...exotic, something that makes your classmates ooh and aah and declare you the king of the playground. Oh yes, I, like you, dreaded those moments.

Alright, let's be honest here. Did you fib? Tell a little white lie? Say that you have an entire stack of Pokemon cards or that you can recite the alphabet backwards, but you really can't? Don't worry, we've all been there. Consider this AA, just say to yourself "My name is _______ and I lied on the first day of school." Feel better? Maybe not, but for sake of this blog, lie to yourself, again.

And this being my blog, I decided that any of you readers out there who have been in the same class as me, seen me around school, or just know my last name can get an opportunity to know some facts about me. Now, this is NOT stalking if I'm the one giving the information. You can secretly learn about me without actually talking to me (thrilling, isn't it?).

1. I have a mole on my lower lip. I'm not going to insist that it's a "beauty mark", because it's probably not. It's not really noticeable anyway. But if you did notice prior to me telling you, it could border on stalkery.

2. If you've talked to me less than five times in high school, I'm usually quiet, though that's totally not me. I prefer to remain elusive.Ooo.

3. My favorite thing in my entire house is my bedroom light-switch. I have a decorative image of Michelangelo's David screwed on to an otherwise dull, white plaque. Let's just say, it gets very "excited" every time I flick on the lights.

4. No, people who take an interest in fashion are not all snobby. Just like some people who don't even bother to change from bedroom attire are.

5. I love food. It may be even my downfall. So if you see me eating what looks like three courses for lunch (as noted by some people), well...maybe I am. But if I am, I must be in heaven.

6. Talk to me about food. I worship the food network and travel channel (Anthony Bourdain, anyone?), and it would be so thrilling to find another foodie.

7. I have an eraser from 1st grade that is still alive. It erases like magic, like Harry Potter magic! I'm too terrified to bring it to school because I'm scared of losing it. But this year, I'm taking a risk. If you ever steal this eraser...

8. I appreciate everyone who comes into my life. And I like most people. In fact, I wouldn't run out of one hand if I could list the people I do not like...or even half of a hand for that matter. I try not to associate with the people I generally dislike instead of hatin'. That's my only clue. 

9. I'm usually always happy, but everyone would be, too, if they have the life I have. I'm so grateful for I have everything I could ever want. Amazing amazing family, morals, faith, education, strength, and vision. I'm such a lucky kid.

10. I have the privilege to travel around the world, and I love it. My parents and I are like little explorers in foreign places. Numerous sights take my breath away. My top destination goals? India, Morocco, Argentina, Mongolia, Sweden, and the Maldives. 

That's it, kids. I'm not going to reveal my social security number or anything. Relax! Enjoy the rest of the day before school beckons.

Ruoxi's Hypothetical Summer 2010 Reading List Review

The number of books I've actually digested this summer is not too shabby, I must be proud to say. Here are my favorites:

1. Annie Dillard's Pilgrim at Tinker Creek
Her writing is so soothing, like rubbing aloe on sunburnt skin. It's even better at night, after a hectic day of running to and fro places. This book kind of makes me want to be a neo-hippie (minus the "experimentation") with long tresses, flowy dresses and a backyard with a view.

2. A collection of poems by Langston Hughes
All of a sudden, I became a fan of poetry (I know!). Langston Hughes inspires me so much, almost as much as Maya Angelou. He mostly discusses African American culture in the most lyrical way, as if conducting his own personal sweet melody. It's amazing to read, but even better to read aloud. Here is his Daybreak in Alabama.

When I get to be a composer

I'm gonna write me some music about

Daybreak in Alabama

And I'm gonna put the purtiest songs in it

Rising out of the ground like a swamp mist

And falling out of heaven like soft dew.

I'm gonna put some tall tall trees in it

And the scent of pine needles

And the smell of red clay after rain

And long red necks

And poppy colored faces

And big brown arms

And the field daisy eyes

Of black and white black white black people

And I'm gonna put white hands

And black hands and brown and yellow hands

And red clay earth hands in it

Touching everybody with kind fingers

And touching each other natural as dew

In that dawn of music when I

Get to be a composer

And write about daybreak

In Alabama.

3. Kate Chopin's The Awakening

So it was required reading. So what? Is there some ultimate toll I must pay just because it was thrown at me, instead of plucked by me? I think sexual provocation is the big ticket here. The main character is scouring for her soul, the very element that makes her tick. No, it's not as dramatic as Lifetime movies (like Sex & the Single Mom and More Sex & the Single Mom), but I appreciate it that much more.

4. Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass

I would recommend Walt Whitman on a breezy, late summer day with the air permeated with the scent of fresh-cut grass (probably because there's grass in the title and my book is green). Here's the type of poetry that really excites me (too nerdy, per say?) for it contains this riveting effect, too robust to be contained in the tranquility of nighttime. And I like his beard, too. You know, they ought to charge extra for that beard.

We Two—How Long We were Fool’d

WE two—how long we were fool’d!
Now transmuted, we swiftly escape, as Nature escapes;
We are Nature—long have we been absent, but now we return;
We become plants, leaves, foliage, roots, bark;
We are bedded in the ground—we are rocks;	5
We are oaks—we grow in the openings side by side;
We browse—we are two among the wild herds, spontaneous as any;
We are two fishes swimming in the sea together;
We are what the locust blossoms are—we drop scent around the lanes, mornings and evenings;
We are also the coarse smut of beasts, vegetables, minerals;	10
We are two predatory hawks—we soar above, and look down;
We are two resplendent suns—we it is who balance ourselves, orbic and stellar—we are as two comets;
We prowl fang’d and four-footed in the woods—we spring on prey;
We are two clouds, forenoons and afternoons, driving overhead;
We are seas mingling—we are two of those cheerful waves, rolling over each other, and interwetting each other;	15
We are what the atmosphere is, transparent, receptive, pervious, impervious:
We are snow, rain, cold, darkness—we are each product and influence of the globe;
We have circled and circled till we have arrived home again—we two have;
We have voided all but freedom, and all but our own joy.

I Have a Mole on My Lip.

Art which inspires me: National Gallery

 

Rug.

 

Make of it what you will, but I literally stared at this for ten minutes. The graduation is memorizing.

Mark Rothko- the latter years of his life.

 

A taste for the exotic

 

Van Gogh- what's art without him?

 

Reminds me of Van Gogh's The Potato Eaters, but in a less grotesque sense

 

Favorite still-life- the silver quality of the meat is impeccable.

 

Judith Leyster. The presumptuous show of a Baroque woman painter.

From Baroque to Fauvism to Futurism to Modernism, these take my breath away.

Oh Jeez.

                    here.

                    I'm so not used to hair this short.
Here's to the days of summer...what's left of it.