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?