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.