12/06/2011 lacking inspiration

Hi Guys! Guess what my fall semester classes are? Guess. You'll never guess.
They're an exciting bunch, overall, but a few are occasional party poopers.

The fantastico list with which I have each a final next week:

!Introduction to Microeconomics!: the chex mix, the salsa in a mexican fiesta, the maestro in an orchestra.

Introduction to Cultural Anthropology: To embrace my inner coffee-drinking, turtleneck-wearing self full of passions and ambitions to visit exotic places like the Gambia and the Amazon.

Introduction to Elementary Statistics: I didn't learn anything.

Fundamental Human Communications: I learned I am not an effective communicator.

Survey of English Literature: From Victorian to Modern: Semi-decent morning class. At least the windows faces the mountains. A little chilling though (and not just the classroom temperature).

So basically, this schedule looks like an introduction to nowhere in life. Can't wait for next semester.

Musee des Beaux Art

W. H. Auden

About suffering they were never wrong,
The old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position: how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.


In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

A Hundred Visions and Revisions.

It's interesting how intense our visceral reactions are to profound poetry. My morning English class consisted of only T.S. Eliot and his lazy, dreary voice clouding the classroom with The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. A hazy blanket hanged over the Shenandoah Valley as we analyzed speaker paralysis and life's continuous river.

The stream-of-consciousness  shown through his internal monologue evokes speaker empathy; we feel the trials and tribulations of a prudish, transfixed man caught in the daily routine of the mundane. Often, we can translate the literary into the literal and develop a higher sense of knowing, of enlightenment as we navigate through our own waters of life.

Certain times, however, we can interpret the literal into the figurative. Today, the valley welcomes rain, a ritual cleansing, a calm shower nurturing life.

It is difficult weaving through time recognizing all moments as a gift to be taken away so frivolously as it never ceases to amaze me the brilliance of the human mind and the fragility of the human body. As we all grieve in the death of another, try not to live everyday as if it is the last, only enveloped in personal aspirations, but aim to give kindness, joy, and comfort to others.

I look at my friends and I see an immense sense of friendship and dedication, a kindness that inspires me to continuously give this gift of warmth. I look back at the events of the last day and see a fusion of the community and wonder what life would be like if there was time for a hundred visions and revisions. Can we be more appreciative? More compassionate? How can we know, more than now, the hills where our lives rose and the sea where it goes?

The Thing about College.

There's something different about living with person or persons only known shortly. I'm not talking about the personal chore of changing and unchanging in some dark nook, or closing the door to the bathroom, but to exhibit the habitual aspect of yourself: the way in which you blow-dry your hair and wave your head upside down, or the way you arrange your roast beef sandwich or printing looseleaves.

There's an element of you in those everyday things, and I feel, in some way, you lose a part of your mystery, like some other force tearing into your embeddedness before Christmas.

I also think it's strange to sleep so close to someone, seeing one thousand sunrises and sunsets and waking up to only witness one. This most sacred and secretive time for dreams is shared. Perhaps I'm just a very private person in some respects, but I would reveal what I think about the most intimate topics before coming to terms with someone else seeing the most mundane, and that alone is what irritates me. 

Light flows our war of mocking words

 Today, we read Arnold in my English literature class. On this gray morning day, pouring rain, we choose to read Arnold, which heightens its melancholy nature. Hearing "The Buried Life" aloud gave me this distinctive physiological reaction, the way in which beauty makes you feel is indescribable. For me, it's not a tug or pull, but a gush of appreciation. Sometimes, I appear half-human, like in Microeconomics when we talk about the importance of capitalism and free trade, always, it's comforting to know that I am alive.


And there arrives a lull in the hot race
Wherein he doth for ever chase
That flying and elusive shadow, rest.
An air of coolness plays upon his face,
And an unwonted calm pervades his breast.
And then he thinks he knows
The hills where his life rose,
And the sea where it goes.

The language is gorgeous, and the theme is universal, the foundation of memorable poetry. Away from my parents, away from everything my world was, I have since taken time for myself. It is so so important to worship your needs and your desires. For me, what beauty arises from a coffee and a good book!

As I've finished all my assigned readings for this semester, there is room on the bookshelf for the art of pure enjoyment. I am perusing through Pablo Neruda, but am now faithful to Dorian Gray. If I feel depressingly enough, I'll start Wuthering Heights.

October Life.

So, now that I'm in college, I still don't feel anymore different.
I mean, I was expecting this drastic change, the comic cup to overflow with everything new and everything ingenious.
But so far, everything is mundane, beige.
Which, I really don't mind, but then I also don't mind not romanticizing anymore.
I like all my classes, and my professors are decent, and I enjoy the information I am learning.
But it's not anything earth shatteringly, deliciously good.
Sometimes, I still think I stand out on campus. Could it be my walk?

Well, anyways, I don't care. Nothing has changed, but oh, I do get very annoyed when my professors are late to class. I cut them some slack sometimes, but I am obviously paying them with time and money.

A Letter.

Dear boy in my Anthropology class,

I recognize that Anthropology is a lecture, meaning an endless sea of faces all facing away from one another. I recognize that you seem to have a friend in this class, because you try to sit by her everyday and you try to engage in conversation that seems to have more breadth than depth.

I don't know your name, or even  how tall you are. But I know that if I were a boy, I would want your hair.

The Comng of Autumn.

My darlings, time seems to fly so quickly when you're away from home! Just the other day, I felt a slight nip in the air and I know it won't be long before Autumn sweeps onto our doorsteps.

To be honest, I cannot wait for the thick bulk of my wool coats, the mountainous bulges my scarves create when tucked into my wool coats, the appearance of free flowing hair tucked into the streams of scarf fabric.

I cannot wait for boots the color of the leaves falling on the quad just outside my dorm room, and hot cider, and neatly lined pumpkins.

I could marvel about the subdued reds and oranges and yellows of the leaves gradually welcoming the changing of the seasons endlessly. But now, my only hope is to purchase another pumpkin spice latte from the library Starbucks where I will be calling home for the next week (hibernation for the exam week zombie).

The employees have already been acquainted with my name (sans correct spelling), so the hard part is out of the way.

My Favorites of FW of yet.

 

From Left- Clockwise: Prabal Gurung, Prabal Gurung, Prabal Gurung, Helmut Lang, Jill Stuart, Rag & Bone

Oh Hot Damn.

So, remember when I published this post?
Well, I couldn't control myself anymore.
I had to get another index card organizer.

I don't think of it as a replacement. I just think my previous organizer was too stuffed of supreme court cases and literary devices, that a clean slate is best for college, you know?

 I also bought Pablo Neruda, translator included. Then again, maybe I should just learn Spanish.

Cultural Communications in America

America, being a highly egocentric culture, emphasizes on individuality. Yet, sometimes, I question to what extent, to what degree our individuality exists. One fascinating aspect of socialization is its ability to permeate and mold us into our cultural standards; motivation to succeed comes from what our culture considers to be successful, and considers to be goals. So how original are our dreams? How original is our reality? Are our thoughts on everything around us shaped by the type of society we are introduced to?

Then, I pose the question of dystopias. Popularity of the works of Huxley, Zamyatin, and Orwell transcend mostly in Western culture because we are aghast at the notion of this death of originality and free thinking. But then, how free is our thinking now?

The best way I can explain it is that in order for social values to be standard and independent of any one individual, we must all accept these terms. Yes, social influence can sometimes be difficult to combat, however, in a moment of absolute loneliness, we recenter ourselves and become analytical of outside influences.

Our freedom lies in the ability to formulate social proposition, which, if popular with others, gradually become an integrated aspect of our culture; they could be similar or contrary to the social obligations we live by now.

 Today in Communications, we perused an excerpt from the May 1955 edition of Housekeeping Monthly, focusing on a little snippet called The good wife's guide. This serves as a prime example for "radically different" social standards. Of course, a change in social dogma relies heavily on not only the world of social thought, but also physical factors such as industrialization, and technological advancements, etc., but the general idea is present.

As you can guess, the uniform reaction in the classroom was not pleasant; we all nodded to the dramatic transformation of society, and we all wanted equality in the household; but is our society performing at full capacity to change this standard?

Open any page of Cosmopolitan, and we see the same standards translated into 21st century jargon. We provide a list of guidelines to please the opposite sex in sex. Well then, how much has our society changed? How respectful has it become?

This question can be answered in a college setting; I see girls become so dependent on boys, adjusting their appearance, running for second opinion, crafting perfect messages just so they can, too, be a key player in the game of infatuation and teenage angst. How ironic it is then for these same girls to be repulsed by The good wife's guide when they are checking off item-by-item what needs to be accomplished to lure in the opposite sex.

It is in the constant questioning of our beliefs and values that makes us understand ourselves, for nothing is steadfast. Simple reflection can make us realize that the society we live in may not be so unique after all; and simple reflection can make us realize that modern-day concerns are as antiquated and archaic as the existence of man.


Then again, I may be perfectly incorrect, but ,then, what is perfectly correct?

Man Repelling at Uni

As many of you may not know, I am a fan of The Man Repeller. I admire her extensive technique and methods to stay single and fashionable. So, like any rational person, I decided "Enough! Enough trashy clothing and bondage dresses!" I decided to be free.

This is example one of what I'm sure will be a collection of an amazing, amazing assortment of repelling dress:

 

This is me this morning, after my anthropology class. Notice the pensive face, the face of the ideal student. Notice how the underskirt speaks fuckable, only to be guarded by that conservative, grandmotherly lace. Doesn't that just dandy?

Not only am I a beginning repeller, I am a liar. All you Sarahs and Emilys out there, do you know the complications of an obscure name? The white man chinese girl's burden is immense. Cute barista from Baked & Wired, my name is NOT "Rosie?" So today, I changed my coffee shop name:

If you don't know Hamlet, you should not work in a coffee shop.

College

I could probably spend a great amount of time formulating an exciting title to this post, but "College" says it all, a new universe of thoughts and beliefs and experiences rush in and permeate your air starting the first day.

The structure, for one, is radically changed; no participation points (!), no hand-holding, no assignments, just tests and finals! Am I living in a dream? I am especially excited for my cultural anthropology class (it could be that my professor has a BRITISH ACCENT). 

In some ways, it seems college hasn't changed so far...the teenage angst becomes even more prominent when everyone's in close quarters. It appears rather juvenile, but perhaps the process is worthwhile for certain individuals from backgrounds unlike mine.

I'll see how everything flows through this month, but studying comes first, of course.

Something about a good book

There's something about a good book that makes me float above it all and sink in the deepest depths of the velvet seas of being, where I can feel happiness and sadness or compassion and anger in its organic form. Sentences leave me jubilant and glorious and glowing and beautiful and expressive- and I love writing about this feeling because my skin is gushing and overwhelmed and yearns to be entranced again!

Have you, too, felt this way?
Kindle and other electronic reading paraphernalia offend me; the feeling of a good book can never be substituted. 

Alone

So, I'm alone again and for the first time in quite a while, I feel at peace, but in a haunting, hollow kind of isolation. My family came down to visit for a couple of weeks, and for the allotted time, everything was more than tolerable, it was festive.

I'm not certain if this pale sadness arises from their departure or my future departure. There will be time for adjustment, but it's so real, not an imaginative time frame anymore as everyone is leaving home in the coming weeks. It's strange to grow up and feel your bones expand; it's gaining perspective, but will there be a loss, also? Can you feel whole at home when you return?

I have been sick for a few days and it never ceases to amaze me the capacity of work our bodies undergo to survive-structures so complex and intelligent exists in our flesh! But often, it is the body and the mind who are often at odds; one has an overflowing will to survive, while the other just collapses.

Foods of late.

 Homemade honey in Montreal; living near the water makes me very much want to become Thoreau.

Crepe with nutella/everything marvelous in life

Duck confit; was a bit dry and the salad a bit acidic.

French toast brunch at a little place on St. Laurent; respect for amaretto liquor. Not having air conditioning on a daily basis dissuades you from dining al-fresco, however.

The decor was a bit eighties Vegas, but the sugar container is completely minimalist and smashing.

Also, freshly-made jam! Do I have the ambition to do this at home?

 The shops in Old Montreal are adorable; an array of eclectic merchandise.

the salad with smoked salmon and goat cheese was very homey, like a reunion of produce from a country market.

After Montreal, I developed an addiction to grilled sandwiches and vegan granola bars, the latter probably the healthier. I think this phase passed, but for a while, it looked as if freshman 15 was starting earlier than anticipated.

This was a carb-filled day in Georgetown. I figured I would celebrate.

I would very much like to pass many afternoons dreamily at Baked & Wired, sipping deep coffee and being immersed in a delicious book.

And ice cream, gobs and gobs of ice cream.

So my mother has a mullet now.

I think there was a miscommunication with the hairdresser, or worse...

A Diversion.

Sometimes, when I feel frustrated and sad, I'd think about the new experiences and emotions that await me; then, I feel invigorated and hopeful and happy.

But beyond personal experiences, impersonal experiences also hold their gravity in the world. Have you ever talked to your parents? I mean, not really talked, but just held a mundane conversation about weekends plans or a current event, but in amidst of those words, there appears a vastly different prism where they inject anecdotes about their childhood or beliefs that are foreign to your ears?

I hear then I see every sentence that is dissipated into my environment; I used to love hearing about the time before I was born, about childhoods during the Cultural Revolution, when my maternal grandparents owned a small plot of land with which they planted infinite heads of cabbage or when my father used to save his allowance to buy street noodles.

I don't know if they know I am digesting this information to the extent of which I am telling you now; moreover, I think they like to just express themselves, but every memory and every story alters the world as it exists in your mind; stolid buildings collapse and morph into islands surrounded by salty seas; an earthquake shifts this distant land yet reaches the method in which you interact with those close to you; these sentences contain infinitude.

So, I didn't used to like the color green

but then, I read Atonement.

Pablo Neruda is my hero.

Ode to Salt

This salt
in the salt cellar
I once saw in the salt mines.
I know
you won't
believe me
but
it sings
salt sings, the skin
of the salt mines
sings
with a mouth smothered
by the earth.
I shivered in those
solitudes
when I heard
the voice
of
the salt
in the desert.
Near Antofagasta
the nitrous
pampa
resounds:
a
broken
voice,
a mournful
song.

In its caves
the salt moans, mountain
of buried light,
translucent cathedral,
crystal of the sea, oblivion
of the waves.
And then on every table
in the world,
salt,
we see your piquant
powder
sprinkling
vital light
upon
our food.
Preserver
of the ancient
holds of ships,
discoverer
on
the high seas,
earliest
sailor
of the unknown, shifting
byways of the foam.
Dust of the sea, in you
the tongue receives a kiss
from ocean night:
taste imparts to every seasoned
dish your ocean essence;
the smallest,
miniature
wave from the saltcellar
reveals to us
more than domestic whiteness;
in it, we taste finitude.

Baking Frenzy.

Like Picasso had his red and blue periods, Ruoxi is having her baking period (as her works can be considered masterpieces also, of course). I've downloaded two recipes from 17 and Baking: an orange meringue tart and checkerboard cookies. 

Orange Meringue Tart

(see recipe here)

For the crust:

 

For the filling:

For the meringue:

Checkerboard Cookies

(see recipe here)