this year's top underrate blogs. check it
Friday, December 17
Thursday, December 16
FASHION!
So there's this REAAALLLYYY cool site: polyvore.com
and not only is it a fun procrastination tool from studying for finals, but it lets you pair clothing and accessories together to create outfits. love it!
and not only is it a fun procrastination tool from studying for finals, but it lets you pair clothing and accessories together to create outfits. love it!
Womens's NEW ARRIVALS - accessories - Wool and the Gang™ Zion Lion Hat...
$115 - madewell.com
Madewell hats »
$115 - madewell.com
Madewell hats »
Women's - rail straight - Rail Straight Jeans in Coyote Wash -...
$95 - madewell.com
Straight leg blue jeans »
$95 - madewell.com
Straight leg blue jeans »
New Arrivals - Women's Clothes, Jeans & Denim, Skirts, Jackets & More...
$33 - madewell.com
Madewell »
$33 - madewell.com
Madewell »
New Arrivals - Women's Clothes, Jeans & Denim, Skirts, Jackets & More...
$22 - madewell.com
Madewell »
$22 - madewell.com
Madewell »
I'M BACK!!
soo it's winter break... well, almost. at 6pm tommorrow after i'm done with work and two exams it will be. and thats why im restarting this blog- as a bit of a journal of my winter break experiences.
GOAL: have the most epic winter break EVER!! :)
So far, my epic plans entail: Christmas at the Coleys, hanging out with old friends, playing scrabble with my Grandma--and beating her--, Christmas itself, roadtripping to Montreal for New Years, roadtripping to Colombus Ohio, camping in the snow, and the Polar Bear Plunge.
And yes- scrabble is epic. don't judge.
GOAL: have the most epic winter break EVER!! :)
So far, my epic plans entail: Christmas at the Coleys, hanging out with old friends, playing scrabble with my Grandma--and beating her--, Christmas itself, roadtripping to Montreal for New Years, roadtripping to Colombus Ohio, camping in the snow, and the Polar Bear Plunge.
And yes- scrabble is epic. don't judge.
Thursday, September 2
The blood in my veins is beginning to sneak
and seep away from my body.
It wants to slip through the day
and walk away from my mistakes and folly’s.
My blood, in black and blue and purple and red
drips onto a crinkled and torn, faded and forlorn
map of the world.
It follows roads to the gravestones of the living and beds of the dead.
It trickles into rivers,
into cracks in the earth’s crust.
It follows my footsteps back home.
It turns my past into dust.
I’ve tattooed my back with an American flag,
the colors running together in a black hole of pride.
I’ve tattooed my mind with dreams this nation:
the coastlines, the cities, the mountains, the countryside.
and seep away from my body.
It wants to slip through the day
and walk away from my mistakes and folly’s.
My blood, in black and blue and purple and red
drips onto a crinkled and torn, faded and forlorn
map of the world.
It follows roads to the gravestones of the living and beds of the dead.
It trickles into rivers,
into cracks in the earth’s crust.
It follows my footsteps back home.
It turns my past into dust.
I’ve tattooed my back with an American flag,
the colors running together in a black hole of pride.
I’ve tattooed my mind with dreams this nation:
the coastlines, the cities, the mountains, the countryside.
Monday, August 30
Tumble in
Tumble into this new fragment of life with your arms flailing wildly and your feet moving faster than you can run. Sprint, but not so fast that you will trip and fall and stumble on absurdities and obstructions that try to fog up your day. Focus on the sunshine, letting it stream through the curtains to awaken you early ever morning, letting it dress you with clothes of light so throughout the day you can shine...
Tuesday, August 10
August 9th poem:
In silence we patiently wait,
for the snow to sprinkle coldness down upon the last brisk days of fall,
for the newborn flower to spread open its fragile petals to let the moon shine in,
for life to turn to darkness as the last sweet breathe shuts the final door of our days.
In stillness we patiently wait,
as the fire crackles more softly while flames fade from white to blue and dimmer still,
as the luminescent street lights shine and bounce off beautifully engineered machines,
as legs and shoes, when movement they choose, flash briskly by the windows of our eyes.
In solitude we patiently wait,
with the silent wind moving unseen as it dances upon the scattered population,
with the still sunshine in all its golden, burning, sustaining brilliance,
with our head bent and our hands folded, a deluge of ourselves in hope of receiving some grace.
Once the snow has fallen,
the flowers have bloomed
and the coffin has been placed in the ground,
there is nothing left to see.
After the coals have fallen cold and gray,
the colors have been turned off and blackness blankets both man and beast,
and the movement grows slower as soles are worn thin and blisters form,
there is nothing left to feel.
When the wind dies down and dust no longer gathers in storms,
the sun slips away from the day and beckons darkness upon the world,
and the floor next to the bed is indented from kneeling in desperate prayer,
there is nothing left to be
We patiently waited our years away for nothing
as the silence, stillness and solitude created a barrier between us and our lives.
A thin cobweb that was torn apart by a raging bull.
Let the silence break with claps of thunder and crashing cymbols.
Let the stillness dissolve into a frenzy of a wild metropolitan crowd.
Let the solitude vanish as the world comes together, all held in one great hand.
Let us stop waiting,
and live.
for the snow to sprinkle coldness down upon the last brisk days of fall,
for the newborn flower to spread open its fragile petals to let the moon shine in,
for life to turn to darkness as the last sweet breathe shuts the final door of our days.
In stillness we patiently wait,
as the fire crackles more softly while flames fade from white to blue and dimmer still,
as the luminescent street lights shine and bounce off beautifully engineered machines,
as legs and shoes, when movement they choose, flash briskly by the windows of our eyes.
In solitude we patiently wait,
with the silent wind moving unseen as it dances upon the scattered population,
with the still sunshine in all its golden, burning, sustaining brilliance,
with our head bent and our hands folded, a deluge of ourselves in hope of receiving some grace.
Once the snow has fallen,
the flowers have bloomed
and the coffin has been placed in the ground,
there is nothing left to see.
After the coals have fallen cold and gray,
the colors have been turned off and blackness blankets both man and beast,
and the movement grows slower as soles are worn thin and blisters form,
there is nothing left to feel.
When the wind dies down and dust no longer gathers in storms,
the sun slips away from the day and beckons darkness upon the world,
and the floor next to the bed is indented from kneeling in desperate prayer,
there is nothing left to be
We patiently waited our years away for nothing
as the silence, stillness and solitude created a barrier between us and our lives.
A thin cobweb that was torn apart by a raging bull.
Let the silence break with claps of thunder and crashing cymbols.
Let the stillness dissolve into a frenzy of a wild metropolitan crowd.
Let the solitude vanish as the world comes together, all held in one great hand.
Let us stop waiting,
and live.
Saturday, July 31
Whisper in the wind
My office is the world and in it I sleep and wake, I watch and wonder. Perched on my small desk chair-- often a splintered park bench, a sagging coffee shop sofa, or a sticky metro seat-- I dream.
I dream of flying over infinitely lush meadows sprinkled with dandelions that glow light baby suns and of sailing in between gigantic clouds that tower over me like a tidal wave.
All I want in life is to be a writer, but I am so afraid, because I always feel I have noting to write. I have nothing to say. My simple words and mediocre thoughts are meaningless in the great span of things. What could I contribute to a world that exists perfectly without the neutrons and protons that huddle together to form the nucleus that makes the atom that clings to other atoms to make the beautifully tragic cells that have grown my body.
Even I do not belong to myself, but to the earth. To the systems that created where we live, that caused Pangea to evolve so that landmasses would spread to the ends of the planet, bold-bellied oceans would form, and caustic mountains would rise. I belong to some God that I have never intimately known. I am a product of nature, a child of the twilight sky and the twinkling stars and the twirling raindrops that dance across my face.
Without air I could not breathe. Without the sun I could not see. Without love I could not be.
A weathered farmer with wrinkles as deep as canyons plant corn seed expecting it to grow into a field of maze, and if it does not, he blames the earth, the natural inclination of passing space and time. He blames Nature herself.
But when I fail to produce the fruits of my labor, when I fall short and I am on my knees in front of my shadow I cannot blame the way the moon rises and drifts across the sky and falls into the horizon as dawn nears. It is my own doing. My own selfish accomplishment, or lack thereof.
Am I a writer if I have no good words. In order to write I must have something important to say. What do I have to say that has not been said before. What words can I whisper that have not already been caught up in the wind, to be scattered among the languages of the people of the earth. I cannot keep seeking and relying on others for inspiration. Fake words and incomplete actions do not produce greatness. I need natural inspiration.
Trees tall enough to reach to heaven so I can climb up and touch my maker's lips with the tips of my fingers. Oceans longer that the horizon is wide so I can feel all that the world experiences float past me with the pulling and dragging of the twice daily tide. I must leave this closet of suppression and allow myself to really lie. I must break out of the confines of my cubicle, as grand as my office may be with its clear glass walls and high lofty ceilings, the boundaries are still here. It must be just me and the world.
I dream of flying over infinitely lush meadows sprinkled with dandelions that glow light baby suns and of sailing in between gigantic clouds that tower over me like a tidal wave.
All I want in life is to be a writer, but I am so afraid, because I always feel I have noting to write. I have nothing to say. My simple words and mediocre thoughts are meaningless in the great span of things. What could I contribute to a world that exists perfectly without the neutrons and protons that huddle together to form the nucleus that makes the atom that clings to other atoms to make the beautifully tragic cells that have grown my body.
Even I do not belong to myself, but to the earth. To the systems that created where we live, that caused Pangea to evolve so that landmasses would spread to the ends of the planet, bold-bellied oceans would form, and caustic mountains would rise. I belong to some God that I have never intimately known. I am a product of nature, a child of the twilight sky and the twinkling stars and the twirling raindrops that dance across my face.
Without air I could not breathe. Without the sun I could not see. Without love I could not be.
A weathered farmer with wrinkles as deep as canyons plant corn seed expecting it to grow into a field of maze, and if it does not, he blames the earth, the natural inclination of passing space and time. He blames Nature herself.
But when I fail to produce the fruits of my labor, when I fall short and I am on my knees in front of my shadow I cannot blame the way the moon rises and drifts across the sky and falls into the horizon as dawn nears. It is my own doing. My own selfish accomplishment, or lack thereof.
Am I a writer if I have no good words. In order to write I must have something important to say. What do I have to say that has not been said before. What words can I whisper that have not already been caught up in the wind, to be scattered among the languages of the people of the earth. I cannot keep seeking and relying on others for inspiration. Fake words and incomplete actions do not produce greatness. I need natural inspiration.
Trees tall enough to reach to heaven so I can climb up and touch my maker's lips with the tips of my fingers. Oceans longer that the horizon is wide so I can feel all that the world experiences float past me with the pulling and dragging of the twice daily tide. I must leave this closet of suppression and allow myself to really lie. I must break out of the confines of my cubicle, as grand as my office may be with its clear glass walls and high lofty ceilings, the boundaries are still here. It must be just me and the world.
Wednesday, July 7
"I get a kick out of you"
What a shame that so few in our generation still hold on to an appreciation of and a fascination with those things that our grandparents and greatgrandparents held so dear in their lives. The classic books, the great romantic films, the extremely talented singers, the flashy classic clothes: to most now-a-days it seems so ancient, but in fact these vintage ideas, talents and dreams are what shaped and created the culture that we love so much today.
I'm re-reading The Great Gatsby, one of my all-time favorites. The way F.S. Fitzgerald created a classic jazz-age world for readers is amazing. And I just love holding his words in my hands and pretending like I'm sitting there in Gatsby's glowing, heat-stricken parlor on Long Island in the middle of the summer during the Roaring Twenties, drinking with Daisy and Jordan, and just passing the summer by, until the season changes and "life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall" (ch VII).
And I've been listening to Frank Sinatra and some of his peers recently. The way Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald can make you want to get up and boogy is completely beyond me. The sound of that type of music is so rich, so bold, so CLASSIC. It almost takes me back in time. Check out this tune by Frank for a good 'ol classic:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vRi7gKTNpEY
So I'm raising my plastic wine glass of Merlot (one of these days I'll buy some real wine glasses...) to those of you who still do take part in the vintage, the wisened, the cultured features left for us to enjoy by past generations. Here's to Gatsby and Nick Carraway, to Sinatra and Bill Holiday, and to the old, lone souls that are still holding out today to tell their charming and classy stories of their times during the Twenties.
I'm re-reading The Great Gatsby, one of my all-time favorites. The way F.S. Fitzgerald created a classic jazz-age world for readers is amazing. And I just love holding his words in my hands and pretending like I'm sitting there in Gatsby's glowing, heat-stricken parlor on Long Island in the middle of the summer during the Roaring Twenties, drinking with Daisy and Jordan, and just passing the summer by, until the season changes and "life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall" (ch VII).
And I've been listening to Frank Sinatra and some of his peers recently. The way Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald can make you want to get up and boogy is completely beyond me. The sound of that type of music is so rich, so bold, so CLASSIC. It almost takes me back in time. Check out this tune by Frank for a good 'ol classic:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vRi7gKTNpEY
So I'm raising my plastic wine glass of Merlot (one of these days I'll buy some real wine glasses...) to those of you who still do take part in the vintage, the wisened, the cultured features left for us to enjoy by past generations. Here's to Gatsby and Nick Carraway, to Sinatra and Bill Holiday, and to the old, lone souls that are still holding out today to tell their charming and classy stories of their times during the Twenties.
Tuesday, June 29
Untitled Poem
With a few miles behind my tires
we tread on.
We’ve many more highways and bi-ways to travel.
The flashing lights signal me to slow down;
the speed limit signs entice me to go faster.
I watch the needle on the dash edge toward the red,
and I close my eyes and clasp my hands
and pray to avoid disaster.
The road signs teach me that these are the days
to make mistakes;
that these are the ways
to keep my soul awake;
that I am young and have the luxury of time.
But what is time when it’s wasted inside lonely cubicles
or with your nose hidden inside dusty books,
while your real desires gather dust in your mind’s crannies and nooks.
I drink cup after cup of coffee,
draining my veins of blood and injecting them with syringes of caffeine,
but that only works for the body,
and only until we become immune to the sleeplessness of in between.
So how do I keep my life from drifting off into a deep sleep?
We try to smile often; we rarely weep.
We figure that just one more heavy paycheck could get us through this week.
But our bodies grow restless and our minds become bleak,
windswept expanses of shadowy dreams.
we tread on.
We’ve many more highways and bi-ways to travel.
The flashing lights signal me to slow down;
the speed limit signs entice me to go faster.
I watch the needle on the dash edge toward the red,
and I close my eyes and clasp my hands
and pray to avoid disaster.
The road signs teach me that these are the days
to make mistakes;
that these are the ways
to keep my soul awake;
that I am young and have the luxury of time.
But what is time when it’s wasted inside lonely cubicles
or with your nose hidden inside dusty books,
while your real desires gather dust in your mind’s crannies and nooks.
I drink cup after cup of coffee,
draining my veins of blood and injecting them with syringes of caffeine,
but that only works for the body,
and only until we become immune to the sleeplessness of in between.
So how do I keep my life from drifting off into a deep sleep?
We try to smile often; we rarely weep.
We figure that just one more heavy paycheck could get us through this week.
But our bodies grow restless and our minds become bleak,
windswept expanses of shadowy dreams.
Monday, June 21
In heaven
I hope heaven is something like the Jersey Shore.
The Jersey Shore that’s like Long Beach Island
with the surfboards and the seagulls
and with the little curly-haired kids in their tiny swimsuits running with excited fear from the shore break;
but not the Jersey Shore that is like Seaside with the greasy fries and drunken parties.
I have nothing against Seaside though, don't think that.
Watching Ferris wheels and half naked girls and guys stroll down the boardwalk is hilarious.
I hope heaven is like a cool breeze on a hot summer’s day
that sends chills down your spine when you’ve been sweating for the past three hours.
And I hope there will be soft-serve chocolate ice cream in heaven. And I better be able to get extra chocolate sprinkles
every
single
time.
I hope Jesus likes me in heaven,
that all my selfish desires and pride can finally disappear when I am standing my his side
so close
that I can see the wrinkles in his forehead from years of worrying about me
and the crows feet at the corners of his eyes from years of laughing at all the stupid things I’ve done.
I hope that when I stand in front of Jesus I can
for the first time
be confident that he loves me
all of me.
I can see in the reflection of his wide pupils that he cares more for me than I can imagine.
And that it’s real.
That it’s always been real.
And he will just smile
and listen
when I tell him how sorry I am for having doubted so often and for so long.
I hope in heaven I get to have dance parties with Jesus.
I’ll do the Twist and he’ll do the Macarena and we’ll laugh for hours at how horribly our dance moves are.
And we’ll have tears in our eyes that glisten in the golden sun
for all eternity.
The Jersey Shore that’s like Long Beach Island
with the surfboards and the seagulls
and with the little curly-haired kids in their tiny swimsuits running with excited fear from the shore break;
but not the Jersey Shore that is like Seaside with the greasy fries and drunken parties.
I have nothing against Seaside though, don't think that.
Watching Ferris wheels and half naked girls and guys stroll down the boardwalk is hilarious.
I hope heaven is like a cool breeze on a hot summer’s day
that sends chills down your spine when you’ve been sweating for the past three hours.
And I hope there will be soft-serve chocolate ice cream in heaven. And I better be able to get extra chocolate sprinkles
every
single
time.
I hope Jesus likes me in heaven,
that all my selfish desires and pride can finally disappear when I am standing my his side
so close
that I can see the wrinkles in his forehead from years of worrying about me
and the crows feet at the corners of his eyes from years of laughing at all the stupid things I’ve done.
I hope that when I stand in front of Jesus I can
for the first time
be confident that he loves me
all of me.
I can see in the reflection of his wide pupils that he cares more for me than I can imagine.
And that it’s real.
That it’s always been real.
And he will just smile
and listen
when I tell him how sorry I am for having doubted so often and for so long.
I hope in heaven I get to have dance parties with Jesus.
I’ll do the Twist and he’ll do the Macarena and we’ll laugh for hours at how horribly our dance moves are.
And we’ll have tears in our eyes that glisten in the golden sun
for all eternity.
Wednesday, June 16
"With the wild wolves around you, in the morning I'll call you" (Bon Iver)
Bon Iver's music video for The Wolves (Act I and II)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z9lrVZdaluk
Definitely worth taking the few minutes to watch.
Makes me miss winter, bonfires, and the playing for hours in the woods.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z9lrVZdaluk
Definitely worth taking the few minutes to watch.
Makes me miss winter, bonfires, and the playing for hours in the woods.
Monday, June 14
A Panoramic life
Sometimes the world just needs to be seen through completely open eyes. Why does society insist on its members to wink and squint, to distort and enlarge, to cover one or both eyes with a blindfold, when the world seems to have been created to be seen fully and wholly. Our eyes were created with peripheral vision, with the ability to see near and far. We can turn our necks to span from left to right and up and down, creating the widest possible panoramic view we can. And we can even twist our hips and step in circles to get a completely 360 degree view of our surroundings.
We are meant to see every detail the world and the fabric of life can offer us.
Therefore I refuse to give in to the whims of society and be restricted in my world views. I will not be wronged by pressures of my peers and tradition. The world we live in deserves to be absorbed by our minds in an all-encompassing fashion.
What I'm getting at is this: why allow myself to be consumed by society's iron cage, to say "This is what I'm going to do with my life" or "That is the job I am going to get when I graduate" when there are SO many paths that my life could take and so many directions I could turn. I don't want to live encumbered by a fixed mindset, but rather keep my options open wide to let the universe breathe into my breath and gently guide me in the direction of my fate, bobbing up and down with the rising tides of today and tomorrow.
We are meant to see every detail the world and the fabric of life can offer us.
Therefore I refuse to give in to the whims of society and be restricted in my world views. I will not be wronged by pressures of my peers and tradition. The world we live in deserves to be absorbed by our minds in an all-encompassing fashion.
What I'm getting at is this: why allow myself to be consumed by society's iron cage, to say "This is what I'm going to do with my life" or "That is the job I am going to get when I graduate" when there are SO many paths that my life could take and so many directions I could turn. I don't want to live encumbered by a fixed mindset, but rather keep my options open wide to let the universe breathe into my breath and gently guide me in the direction of my fate, bobbing up and down with the rising tides of today and tomorrow.
Tuesday, May 25
"Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" (by Rob Pirsig)
I began reading this book about a week ago, and so far so good. It's actually very ironic that I picked it up and started reading it at this time in my life, just because I lot of the broad issues it touches on, such as technology, rationality, and beauty (as in romanticism), are also issues that I have recently studied in classes, discussed with friends, or have simply come to think about a lot in the sense of how I fit in with that particular school of thought and how that thought fits in with the world.
Here's a very interesting excerpt from the book:
"When analytic thought, the knife, is applied to experience, something is always killed in the process. That is fairly well understood, at least in the arts. Mark Twain's experience comes to mind, in which after he had mastered the analytic knowledge needed to pilot the Mississippi River, he discovered the river had lost its beauty. Something IS always killed. But what is less noticed in the arts-- something is always created too. And instead of just dwelling on what is killed it's important also to see what's created and to see the process as a kind of death-birth continuity that is neither good nor bad, but just IS."
This passage may seem very random and out of place and you probably are very confused reading it since you don't know the context it came out of, but no worries. Even with the book's context applied, the passage still is out of place and makes very little sense. Whenever the author deviates from his narrative or reality and goes into tangents on rationality and ghosts and what is real and what is not, you basically have no idea what he's talking about. That's not always a bad thing, though, because sometimes you have to have no idea what someone is talking about in order to discover some new bit of knowledge.
But back to the excerpt, I agree and can relate to his first claim, then when you fully understand the analytic knowledge of something it DOES lose its beauty. I have always loved writing, so when I had to start thinking back in high school about what I wanted to be when I grew up (funny isn't it, how we're never fully "grown up", how we are always still aspiring to that thing which we want to be, "when we grow up") and I made the obvious decision to follow my passion for writing and become a journalist. But after three years of clumsily shodding my way through the school newspaper in high school and then diving into rigorous and terribly difficult journalism writing classes in college and spending months and months trying to land a position at the college newspaper, and then when I did, realizing how I am in no way cut out for the ugliness and crassness of the newsroom, I quit. I had too. Writing had become gray, black, and ugly. It was no longer a beautiful blue sky or a bright orange sun shine. Analytically understanding and dissecting writing killed the natural art of writing for me. (Although the book talks about killing something off always creates something new, well I have yet to really discover what that is, but when I do, I'll let you know).
One more thing relating to the aforementioned excerpt, I do NOT agree with the author's claim that something can be seen as "neither good nor bad, but just is." Here he is referring the a life-like cycle of death and rebirth that are the effect of analytic thought, but that is not important. What is crucial is how WRONG he is. EVERYTHING is either good or bad. Nothing is NOTHING. Similarly to how the fact of gravity existed way before the scientific discovery of gravitational force was made (got that from the book too!), nothing can exist with out being good or bad. What's in the middle? There is no middle. There is no "OK" in life. Because where does something fit into OK if it is not good or bad? OK is a socially conceptualized expression of laziness. Sunshine is good. Vampires are bad. Tofu is..... well, i say it's good, but most of society would yell at me that it is disgusting and nasty and bad. So yes, some truth are subjective, many are actually. The point is, how even though I fully believe that everything has a good or a bad truth to it, it is still SO hard to distinguish this absolute truth in my daily life. So often I cannot tell if an action or decision is good or bad, or it just never crosses my mind as to if what I do is bad then I shouldn't do it, or if what I do is good then I should do it more often.
So my challenge to you after this lengthy tirade is this: Think about what you consider to be absolute truth in your life, whether it has to deal with abortion, gay rights, family issues, broken friendships, love. Why are they absolutely Good or Bad to you, but completely opposite to someone else. What is your role in figuring out what they mean to you and backing that up with conviction? And most importantly, how do you deal with the gray areas, the things in your life that you can't figure out if they are wholly good or wholly bad?
Here's a very interesting excerpt from the book:
"When analytic thought, the knife, is applied to experience, something is always killed in the process. That is fairly well understood, at least in the arts. Mark Twain's experience comes to mind, in which after he had mastered the analytic knowledge needed to pilot the Mississippi River, he discovered the river had lost its beauty. Something IS always killed. But what is less noticed in the arts-- something is always created too. And instead of just dwelling on what is killed it's important also to see what's created and to see the process as a kind of death-birth continuity that is neither good nor bad, but just IS."
This passage may seem very random and out of place and you probably are very confused reading it since you don't know the context it came out of, but no worries. Even with the book's context applied, the passage still is out of place and makes very little sense. Whenever the author deviates from his narrative or reality and goes into tangents on rationality and ghosts and what is real and what is not, you basically have no idea what he's talking about. That's not always a bad thing, though, because sometimes you have to have no idea what someone is talking about in order to discover some new bit of knowledge.
But back to the excerpt, I agree and can relate to his first claim, then when you fully understand the analytic knowledge of something it DOES lose its beauty. I have always loved writing, so when I had to start thinking back in high school about what I wanted to be when I grew up (funny isn't it, how we're never fully "grown up", how we are always still aspiring to that thing which we want to be, "when we grow up") and I made the obvious decision to follow my passion for writing and become a journalist. But after three years of clumsily shodding my way through the school newspaper in high school and then diving into rigorous and terribly difficult journalism writing classes in college and spending months and months trying to land a position at the college newspaper, and then when I did, realizing how I am in no way cut out for the ugliness and crassness of the newsroom, I quit. I had too. Writing had become gray, black, and ugly. It was no longer a beautiful blue sky or a bright orange sun shine. Analytically understanding and dissecting writing killed the natural art of writing for me. (Although the book talks about killing something off always creates something new, well I have yet to really discover what that is, but when I do, I'll let you know).
One more thing relating to the aforementioned excerpt, I do NOT agree with the author's claim that something can be seen as "neither good nor bad, but just is." Here he is referring the a life-like cycle of death and rebirth that are the effect of analytic thought, but that is not important. What is crucial is how WRONG he is. EVERYTHING is either good or bad. Nothing is NOTHING. Similarly to how the fact of gravity existed way before the scientific discovery of gravitational force was made (got that from the book too!), nothing can exist with out being good or bad. What's in the middle? There is no middle. There is no "OK" in life. Because where does something fit into OK if it is not good or bad? OK is a socially conceptualized expression of laziness. Sunshine is good. Vampires are bad. Tofu is..... well, i say it's good, but most of society would yell at me that it is disgusting and nasty and bad. So yes, some truth are subjective, many are actually. The point is, how even though I fully believe that everything has a good or a bad truth to it, it is still SO hard to distinguish this absolute truth in my daily life. So often I cannot tell if an action or decision is good or bad, or it just never crosses my mind as to if what I do is bad then I shouldn't do it, or if what I do is good then I should do it more often.
So my challenge to you after this lengthy tirade is this: Think about what you consider to be absolute truth in your life, whether it has to deal with abortion, gay rights, family issues, broken friendships, love. Why are they absolutely Good or Bad to you, but completely opposite to someone else. What is your role in figuring out what they mean to you and backing that up with conviction? And most importantly, how do you deal with the gray areas, the things in your life that you can't figure out if they are wholly good or wholly bad?
Friday, May 21
"Details in the fabric"
There are many intricate details in life that we miss. We fail to notice them because we do not think about the details in the fabric. Have you ever actually, literally stopped to smell a bush of roses? If you haven't, why not?
I feel very gracious that I am blessed with so many simple things in life to be thankful for. Sunshine. Laughter. Knowledge. Friends. The list is literally endless.
But I realized something awesome today at work. I was sorting through and processing documents from the national capitol park service from 30 or 40 some odd years ago and I came across a remarkable architectural sketch of a bridge. It was a plain overpass located somewhere in the DC metro area over an arbitrary expressway, but the drawing was simply beautiful. It hit me that so often we drive under those things, thinking in our minds how ugly and unwelcoming they are. But this drawing was magnificent.
Why can't we see an overpasses the way the architect does, as a support structure bridging two places together an and making something that was previously impossible, now possible? When looking at a city garden square downtown, why don't we see each individual tree as an oak, a maple, or a red cedar, reaching its branches towards the heavens? Or when thinking about an area of land, why don't we divide up each little land use intricacy to ponder why the land is used and how its used and for what purpose?
So instead of just looking up at the sunshine and smiling because it's sunny out, I am going to be humbled by the gift of warmth and light and think of the able ways the sun benefits us, not only for those reasons but many more, including solar power! :)
Here is a lovely Jason Mraz song called Details in the Fabric. Give it a listen!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XdIw6tEjyEg
I feel very gracious that I am blessed with so many simple things in life to be thankful for. Sunshine. Laughter. Knowledge. Friends. The list is literally endless.
But I realized something awesome today at work. I was sorting through and processing documents from the national capitol park service from 30 or 40 some odd years ago and I came across a remarkable architectural sketch of a bridge. It was a plain overpass located somewhere in the DC metro area over an arbitrary expressway, but the drawing was simply beautiful. It hit me that so often we drive under those things, thinking in our minds how ugly and unwelcoming they are. But this drawing was magnificent.
Why can't we see an overpasses the way the architect does, as a support structure bridging two places together an and making something that was previously impossible, now possible? When looking at a city garden square downtown, why don't we see each individual tree as an oak, a maple, or a red cedar, reaching its branches towards the heavens? Or when thinking about an area of land, why don't we divide up each little land use intricacy to ponder why the land is used and how its used and for what purpose?
So instead of just looking up at the sunshine and smiling because it's sunny out, I am going to be humbled by the gift of warmth and light and think of the able ways the sun benefits us, not only for those reasons but many more, including solar power! :)
Here is a lovely Jason Mraz song called Details in the Fabric. Give it a listen!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XdIw6tEjyEg
Sunday, May 16
"Love the earth and sun and the animals"
I'm a hypocrite. I really am. I always encourage others to follow their dreams, to do great things, to accomplish all that they can. But I don't do any of that. I am lazy and afraid and unmotivated at times. I'd rather be complacent and take the easy way out than risk failure or embarrassment.
I need to change.
I talk and think so much about what I want out of life, what I can contribute to this earth, but I don't start anything and I don't take action. I need to stop lying to myself.
I need to take action.
This isn't meant to be a completely discouraging post, but rather it is a wake up call to myself. I need to figure out a way to encourage myself and to follow through with my desires and my dreams. I need to figure out how to pick up my feet and begin moving forward. I need to stop dwelling on my shortcomings, figure out what it is I really want to do or at least figure out what it is I can work towards accomplishing, and begin. And along the way I need to cherish the journey and the moments, to appreciate the little things, and to remember the good and grow from the bad.
Here's an awesome Walt Whitman qoute:
"This is what you shall do: love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning god, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body..."
So how do you need to change? How should you take action? How do you want to live your life to the fullest?
I need to change.
I talk and think so much about what I want out of life, what I can contribute to this earth, but I don't start anything and I don't take action. I need to stop lying to myself.
I need to take action.
This isn't meant to be a completely discouraging post, but rather it is a wake up call to myself. I need to figure out a way to encourage myself and to follow through with my desires and my dreams. I need to figure out how to pick up my feet and begin moving forward. I need to stop dwelling on my shortcomings, figure out what it is I really want to do or at least figure out what it is I can work towards accomplishing, and begin. And along the way I need to cherish the journey and the moments, to appreciate the little things, and to remember the good and grow from the bad.
Here's an awesome Walt Whitman qoute:
"This is what you shall do: love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning god, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body..."
So how do you need to change? How should you take action? How do you want to live your life to the fullest?
Saturday, May 15
Begin it.
Original photo: by Susannah Tucker (http://www.etsy.com/shop/susannahtucker)
And check out the song Mango Tree by Angus and Julia Stone.
Actually, just check out Angus and Julia Stone. They rock. In a folksy, mellow, beautiful way, but still, they rock none the less. :) I think I may have stumbled upon my new favorite band!
Friday, May 14
"Mindful of you the sodden earth in spring"
"Mindful of you the sodden earth in spring"
by Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)
Mindful of you the sodden earth in spring,
And all the flowers that in the springtime grow,
And dusty roads, and thistles, and the slow
Rising of the round moon, all throats that sing
The summer through, and each departing wing,
And all the nests that the bared branches show,
And all winds that in any weather blow,
And all the storms that the four seasons bring.
You go no more on your exultant feet
Up paths that only mist and morning knew,
Or watch the wind, or listen to the beat
Of a bird's wings too high in air to view,--
But you were something more than young and sweet
And fair,--and the long year remembers you.
by Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)
Mindful of you the sodden earth in spring,
And all the flowers that in the springtime grow,
And dusty roads, and thistles, and the slow
Rising of the round moon, all throats that sing
The summer through, and each departing wing,
And all the nests that the bared branches show,
And all winds that in any weather blow,
And all the storms that the four seasons bring.
You go no more on your exultant feet
Up paths that only mist and morning knew,
Or watch the wind, or listen to the beat
Of a bird's wings too high in air to view,--
But you were something more than young and sweet
And fair,--and the long year remembers you.
It's days like today, a warm sunshine laden earth after too much rain and cold and clouds, that reminds me of how grateful I am just to be alive. Though I'm exhausted and worn out from school and everything, I so much appreciate the wonderful gift that nature is. I hope to always remember how it feels to sit outside in the springtime and in the sunshine and just be. Not do anything but apprecaite the warmth of the sun on my skin and the birds singing in the trees and the happy bugs flying about.
This poem is about just that too. It's about being grateful for the little things in life, not even things that we have been outright given by others nor the things we have acquired for ourselves, but the simplicities of each day, storms, and seasons, and nature, and dust. It all combines and works together in an intricate, delicate way to form the lives that we live, the beautiful lives that we live, so we ought to be appreciative and praiseful. We have no reason not to be. The earth IS "young and sweet and fair" and we can get great joy from celebrating that.
This morning on my way walking from the parking lot to the gym, I happened to see on my right side a tiny little dandelion, smaller than any I had ever seen before in my life. It was only maybe an eigth of the size of a normal dandelion, but still was fully grown, with all those littly wispy white things placed perfectly in a circle. I picked it and took a breath and exhaled and set those petals free, whirling like in a tornado around me. It was incredibly beautiful and one of those things that just can't be described in words. But it did put a wide smile on my face out of sheer delight for nature's pleasures.
Photo: "Under a country sky we grow" by Susannah Tucker
(for more of her work check out: http://www.etsy.com/shop/susannahtucker)
Monday, May 10
Nothing left to hide.
"You cannot do a kindness too soon, for you never know how soon it will be too late."
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
When it comes down to it, I hope and pray that I can be a light to the world. That through my actions, my words, my demeanor, my smile, my ideals, I can leave the world a bit brighter than it would have been without me. Isn't that what we all want? If so, that why don't we act like it? I know I sure don't always smile, say kind words, give hugs when I should. But why not? What's stopping us? Fear? Denial? Judgement? But what's more powerful than all of those? Harmony. Peace. Kindness. Understanding. LOVE.
Here's a link for a beautiful song. A bit depressing and somber, but this is true feelings. It hits your heart for sure.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FUzDMDmHOoQ
Hope you have a happy, blessed evening. :)
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
When it comes down to it, I hope and pray that I can be a light to the world. That through my actions, my words, my demeanor, my smile, my ideals, I can leave the world a bit brighter than it would have been without me. Isn't that what we all want? If so, that why don't we act like it? I know I sure don't always smile, say kind words, give hugs when I should. But why not? What's stopping us? Fear? Denial? Judgement? But what's more powerful than all of those? Harmony. Peace. Kindness. Understanding. LOVE.
Here's a link for a beautiful song. A bit depressing and somber, but this is true feelings. It hits your heart for sure.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FUzDMDmHOoQ
Hope you have a happy, blessed evening. :)
We can
My words themselves have no power, but through my actions I believe the ideals that they stand for can change the world. I hope that the people I meet throughout my life will be touched by something in me, whether it's warmth and kindness, love, gratitude, peace, or grace, I want to stand for what I beleive in: that the world is made up of currents of goodness and righteousness, breaths of God himself, and that our actions naturally are swayed by these winds, these motions of harmony.
We cannot do it alone,
but together,
brothers,
sisters,
friends,
we CAN affect positive social change.
We CAN remind the world of gratitude and compassion.
We CAN, through our actions,
every
single
day,
change this cold, dormant planet
into a lush and beautiful
heaven of joy.
We cannot do it alone,
but together,
brothers,
sisters,
friends,
we CAN affect positive social change.
We CAN remind the world of gratitude and compassion.
We CAN, through our actions,
every
single
day,
change this cold, dormant planet
into a lush and beautiful
heaven of joy.
Tuesday, May 4
Freedom
Life seems bound
by regulations, judgements and expectations,
shackled by interpretations
so that when dusk falls like a rock
it shatters each day into a million fragmentations.
The only color an artist would use when painting
a still life of my present
is gray.
But I please and I curse,
I beg and I bleed;
I try to argue
time is more interesting spent living at the fray.
Need to add a palate of color to my day:
a splash of orange,
a touch of a brighter shade.
Beautifully misplaced
are the weeds,
serving no purpose, filling no needs.
Dandelions
a yellow spot lost in a green sea
have no hesitations,
they just grow free.
My life seems bound,
by the clouds,
by the bricks,
by your stones and your sticks.
Beautifully misplaced,
like a cold glass of sweet tea
in the middle of December,
like dreams shot by a rocket away into space,
searching for understanding,
in need of heavenly grace.
by regulations, judgements and expectations,
shackled by interpretations
so that when dusk falls like a rock
it shatters each day into a million fragmentations.
The only color an artist would use when painting
a still life of my present
is gray.
But I please and I curse,
I beg and I bleed;
I try to argue
time is more interesting spent living at the fray.
Need to add a palate of color to my day:
a splash of orange,
a touch of a brighter shade.
Beautifully misplaced
are the weeds,
serving no purpose, filling no needs.
Dandelions
a yellow spot lost in a green sea
have no hesitations,
they just grow free.
My life seems bound,
by the clouds,
by the bricks,
by your stones and your sticks.
Beautifully misplaced,
like a cold glass of sweet tea
in the middle of December,
like dreams shot by a rocket away into space,
searching for understanding,
in need of heavenly grace.
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