(I wrote an article for my campus’ satire paper and was going to spam a link to it but because our URL was bought by a spam site builder in China, I’m postin’ it here. This article is the last copy I have before it was finalized by the editors, but it's....close enough to the end result. ENJOY, comment, like, share, reblog, dig, smoke signal, etc.)
According to eyewitness reports, freshman Gregory Chen was stunned to discover that people he had once considered budding acquaintances had suddenly turned into douchebags during Rush Week.
“Frankly, I’m just speechless,” Chen stated, “This guy, Daniel [Miyata], from my math class, he was so nice to me on my first day, but then I saw him standing on Library Walk behind a booth with greek letters on it, smirking and fistbumping, and my heart just broke.”
Miyata was not the only potential friend that Chen lost to Rush Week. Statisticians have confirmed that almost 50% of the people Chen had begun to befriend during his first few weeks were in fact already “huge douches,” while another 32% were reportedly considering or already in the process of rushing frats.
Nationally renowned Douche Specialist Dr. Rusty Bayers says that this phenomenon is not uncommon at all. Bayers reported that during the first few weeks of college, freshmen around the country meet a fraternity member every 15 minutes on average. In addition, around 84% of freshmen start to build relationships with fraternity members before discovering their true douchey nature during Rush Week.
“Many freshmen come out of Rush Week just absolute emotional wrecks,” says Bayers, “Their excitement to make new friends is often ripped out of their beings the moment they see a former acquaintance in a fraternity tank top.”
Bayers says that learning to recognize the common subtleties of douchebags are key to avoiding such heartbreak. According to him, cheap plastic sunglasses, pastel-colored tank tops, cargo shorts, Ryan Gosling-esque hair swoops and intricate knowledge of Jack Johnson’s discography are all common signs of douchebaggery.
Library Walk is not the only place that Chen has discovered the true identities of people he once considered to be potential friends.
“A lot of my suitemates who used to just stay in their rooms and play Starcraft are rushing and now all they do is talk about hosting huge ‘ragers’ in the suite with their ‘bros’” said Chen, “I think I’m going to have to move to another suite if this continues.”
But for Chen, it just doesn’t seem like just going anywhere would be a permanent solution. Earlier this week, Chen had attempted to spend more time away from his suitemates by attending a meeting for the RC Club, but left after seeing that most members greeted each other with head nods, fist bumps and loud shouting. Chen also recalls going to Geisel Library to study as him suite had become a 24-hour hub for a beer pong tournament, but was equally distracted by a group of loud bros cavorting about ‘getting out on a raft,’ getting their ‘bronze’ on and drinking a couple of ‘brewskies.’
“I just don’t know where to turn or who to trust anymore,” Chen said, holding back tears. “They could be anyone, anywhere, anytime.”
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Unadulterated Loathing
Four years ago, I was attending the Nippon Jamboree, an international scout gathering held in Japan every couple of years, and I was touring with my host troop. While walking around, we were wearing our scout uniforms, which had the American flag patched on our right sleeves. And while we were walking around, I heard someone behind me sneer with deep contempt and loathing:
“Americans? I hate Americans.”
I turned around to see an older Japanese boy leering at my friend and me. I met his eyes, but looked away the moment I saw the malicious look he had in them. His hatred shocked me and I was, for the first time on the trip, scared and confused. I spent the rest of the trip wondering, Why does that boy hate us? Why does that boy hate me?
At the time, I had already learned about Pearl Harbor and the bombings of Nagasaki and Hiroshima. I knew what damage USA and Japan had done to each other, but I didn’t see that as any reason to hate us.
A few years later, I attended a memorial for the victims of the bombings in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I listened to a man speak about his experience in the blast. I listened to him talk about having to take his friend who was so burnt his skin was peeling off to pool so he could cool off for his final moments. And through this I heard that boy’s voice in my head
Americans? I hate Americans.
But I still couldn’t see why. Maybe he had a family member die in that or one that was affected by it. But I still didn’t understand. Of course I felt sorry for what happened to the victims of the bombings and those who lost loved ones or were injured and/or diseased by the radiation, but I just didn’t see why the Japanese could hate Americans.
Then, two nights ago, an 8.9 magnitude earthquake shook off the shore of Japan, causing a tsunami that engulfed everything in its path, trapping and killing hundreds, maybe even thousands. I watched from my computer into the wee hours of the morning as news stations frantically called correspondents for insights and information. I saw people jumping at the chance to donate, retweeting, reblogging about the disaster and willingly extending relief. And I thought to myself, “How could that boy hate us now?”
And then I see things like this. I see people hold dreadful grudges and make racist, xenophobic remarks. I see people refusing to help because they bombed us 70 years ago. I see people calling karma on the Japanese like nature keeps tabs on who bombed who. I see people forgetting what we did to them.
And I remember what that boy said and as we meet again in my mind I greet him, scowling:
You know what? Sometimes I hate Americans too.
“Americans? I hate Americans.”
I turned around to see an older Japanese boy leering at my friend and me. I met his eyes, but looked away the moment I saw the malicious look he had in them. His hatred shocked me and I was, for the first time on the trip, scared and confused. I spent the rest of the trip wondering, Why does that boy hate us? Why does that boy hate me?
At the time, I had already learned about Pearl Harbor and the bombings of Nagasaki and Hiroshima. I knew what damage USA and Japan had done to each other, but I didn’t see that as any reason to hate us.
A few years later, I attended a memorial for the victims of the bombings in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I listened to a man speak about his experience in the blast. I listened to him talk about having to take his friend who was so burnt his skin was peeling off to pool so he could cool off for his final moments. And through this I heard that boy’s voice in my head
Americans? I hate Americans.
But I still couldn’t see why. Maybe he had a family member die in that or one that was affected by it. But I still didn’t understand. Of course I felt sorry for what happened to the victims of the bombings and those who lost loved ones or were injured and/or diseased by the radiation, but I just didn’t see why the Japanese could hate Americans.
Then, two nights ago, an 8.9 magnitude earthquake shook off the shore of Japan, causing a tsunami that engulfed everything in its path, trapping and killing hundreds, maybe even thousands. I watched from my computer into the wee hours of the morning as news stations frantically called correspondents for insights and information. I saw people jumping at the chance to donate, retweeting, reblogging about the disaster and willingly extending relief. And I thought to myself, “How could that boy hate us now?”
And then I see things like this. I see people hold dreadful grudges and make racist, xenophobic remarks. I see people refusing to help because they bombed us 70 years ago. I see people calling karma on the Japanese like nature keeps tabs on who bombed who. I see people forgetting what we did to them.
And I remember what that boy said and as we meet again in my mind I greet him, scowling:
You know what? Sometimes I hate Americans too.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Sunday, September 19, 2010
I am a packrat.
My room is a cove of items from my childhood- toys still collect dust in boxes in the bottom shelf of my bookshelf, still home to many picture books that I enjoyed in my early years and pictures that have faded in color, next to certificates yellowing behind more recent accolades. My closet holds unfinished Lego projects, old Shonen Jump magazines from my 2 year subscription in middle school and both my Boy Scout and Cub Scout uniforms. My drawers are an archive of classtime doodles, binders will bursting with schoolwork from whatever grade they were used in and my forgotten Yu-Gi-Oh! cards and handheld gaming systems.
Items that should have been cast away as soon as I outgrew them instead got stashed in every available space. I hold a connection to each and every item I possessed. Rather, I forge some arbitrary attachment to every item that I own, regardless of their actual importance in my life.
All through my life, I have worn out shoes and backpacks and papers and when the time had finally come to throw them out, I would kick and scream and cry. I always felt so connected to the items, even though I had no significant memories with them. I still vividly remember being forced to throw away one of my backpacks, my eyes watering as I lifted the trashcan lid, holding my backpack in my other hand for as long as I could. I suddenly tossed it into the trashcan, letting the lid fall as I ran back into the house and cried, cried, cried.
So last week, I surprised myself when I told my little cousin he could take some of my toys home with him. The “yes” had come out with almost a tone of carelessness, and I quickly reevaluated what I had just said. These toys were different from anything I had been forced to part from before. They WERE my childhood, items that were prevalent in almost every childhood memory I had.
One of the toys he asked for I remember receiving. It was a Power Rangers Megazord, one of my favorites. I remembered the first day I received it, how my hands shook as I held the shiny new figure from the weight of the toy and my excitement. I remembered the afternoons I had spent in the backyard with it, battling invisible enemies and finding new configurations for it. So why would I be so willing to give something I was so attached to away?
Then I remembered my cousin’s face all the times he came over just to play with it. He battled with his own imaginary enemies, he fiddled with its “instructed” formation and created his own combinations, same as me. If I had any time to give it away, there would be no better time than now, when I would be going to college. If I had any person to hand it to, there would be no better child than he, the boy who would care for it as I did, as I have forgotten to. The first step to becoming an adult would start with throwing away the chains of my childish antics.
So I didn’t cry as I watched him walk out of my house with a box full of my old toys. I knew what he would do with those pieces from my childhood. I knew that I might never see them in the same condition I left them. But I was relieved because I knew that they would not be unused because I left. I knew I would not have to face another trash can.
My room is still filled with childhood pieces left to be taken away by more deserving children. But in the spaces left by the pieces I gave today, I can hoard pieces from the beginning of my adult life. I am still a packrat. But I am no longer attached.
Items that should have been cast away as soon as I outgrew them instead got stashed in every available space. I hold a connection to each and every item I possessed. Rather, I forge some arbitrary attachment to every item that I own, regardless of their actual importance in my life.
All through my life, I have worn out shoes and backpacks and papers and when the time had finally come to throw them out, I would kick and scream and cry. I always felt so connected to the items, even though I had no significant memories with them. I still vividly remember being forced to throw away one of my backpacks, my eyes watering as I lifted the trashcan lid, holding my backpack in my other hand for as long as I could. I suddenly tossed it into the trashcan, letting the lid fall as I ran back into the house and cried, cried, cried.
So last week, I surprised myself when I told my little cousin he could take some of my toys home with him. The “yes” had come out with almost a tone of carelessness, and I quickly reevaluated what I had just said. These toys were different from anything I had been forced to part from before. They WERE my childhood, items that were prevalent in almost every childhood memory I had.
One of the toys he asked for I remember receiving. It was a Power Rangers Megazord, one of my favorites. I remembered the first day I received it, how my hands shook as I held the shiny new figure from the weight of the toy and my excitement. I remembered the afternoons I had spent in the backyard with it, battling invisible enemies and finding new configurations for it. So why would I be so willing to give something I was so attached to away?
Then I remembered my cousin’s face all the times he came over just to play with it. He battled with his own imaginary enemies, he fiddled with its “instructed” formation and created his own combinations, same as me. If I had any time to give it away, there would be no better time than now, when I would be going to college. If I had any person to hand it to, there would be no better child than he, the boy who would care for it as I did, as I have forgotten to. The first step to becoming an adult would start with throwing away the chains of my childish antics.
So I didn’t cry as I watched him walk out of my house with a box full of my old toys. I knew what he would do with those pieces from my childhood. I knew that I might never see them in the same condition I left them. But I was relieved because I knew that they would not be unused because I left. I knew I would not have to face another trash can.
My room is still filled with childhood pieces left to be taken away by more deserving children. But in the spaces left by the pieces I gave today, I can hoard pieces from the beginning of my adult life. I am still a packrat. But I am no longer attached.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Season 5 of Dexter
HOLYYYYYYYYYY SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT IT’S ABOUT TO GET REAL ASDKFLDSJFLDSKFJDLKSJFKLDJFLKDJFJK
I hope that clarifies how excited I am for this upcoming season of Dexter. I mean, last season blew my mind with the (trying to avoid a pun-type adjective so I’ll go with some buzz words) sharp writing and stellar performances all around. Everything seemed to have come to a head last season, but it all wrapped up quite nicely, as Dexter finally feels at home with himself, his family and his “dark passenger”; Rita got closure with her daddy issues, Quinn just blossomed so beautifully as a character and really melded into the ongoing storylines; Masuka was Masuka; Arthur Mitchell found his right path and all seemed well. I was happy and wondering what the writers could do to amp the show up more when Dexter went into the bathroom to find Rita dead in a tub and Harrison crying in a pool of blood.
This trailer shows me a couple of things I’m really ecstatic about:
* They’re continuing major water cooler story lines from season 4 (besides Rita’s murder), including the Kyle Butler one, the Rita-Elliot (God that guy is such as sleaze) affair and the growing tensions between Quinn and Dexter.
* The changing dynamics in Dexter’s life- he now has no one to depend on to take care of the kids when he’s out killing, but apparently he still can so I want to see how they explain that.
* QUINN+DEXTER. I know I already said it but GOD THESE TWO NEED MORE SCENES TOGETHER AND THIS SEASON WILL BE FULL OF THEM.
* MORE CHARACTER GROWTH FROM DEXTER OH GOD. I mean, I thought Dexter was DONE, a fully fleshed out character, but here it seems like they’re showing Dexter crack under all of the pressure he is now under.
Anyway, that was me fanboying all over your dash. But seriously, get caught up on Dexter now, because this season will be killer (sorry but I HAD to stick one in).
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Paul Conrad, in memoriam
“The important thing is that we continue to fight for these things [freedom, democracy], so that we have a country that is enviable because we, as a democracy, are the makers of our own destiny, the destiny of our generation, and for many more generations to come.” - Paul Conrad, ‘I, Con’
“Paul Conrad died.”
My mom informed me (rather bluntly) of his death a few days ago. At the moment, I took it in slowly, mumbling, “Oh,” and proceeding to walk off without so much as a second thought.
Today, my dad was organizing and found a book, which he gave me. It was “I, Con,” Mr. Conrad’s autobiography and the book that had introduced me to him. And as I held the book in my hand, I remembered him. I opened the book and saw poignant and detailed political messages arranged with skill and precision; words and images juxtaposed to call politicians out on their blunders. I remembered receiving the book my sophomore year and reading in awe all the Presidential terms he lived through, the 21st century he saw and wanted to correct.
This, I now remember, was the man who inspired me, who I modeled my own cartooning style after. I credit this man to helping me win various cartooning awards at write-off competitions at the local, state and national level and for giving me the brief dream of becoming an editorial cartoonist. Without him, I probably would have struggled as an editorial cartoonist on the Spartan Scroll; I would have lacked not only the skill and the passion required for the job. He does for my cartoons what Geoff Boucher and Bill Plaschke did for my personality features, and I regret not being able to meet him while he was still with us to tell him this.
But thank you, Mr. Conrad, for your contribution to modern cartooning and for showing me that we can all have voices that resonate far and wide, we just need a pen and a good idea.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Day 6: Beauty
Every weekday, I step off the bus after work and find myself surrounded in the screeching tires, revving engines and steel-and concrete high rises. The air smells of smog and dirt and the sidewalk I stand on is hard and unforgiving. And all the while, people push by me, regarding nothing but their destination and their own well-being. It must be Los Angeles.
And I continue forward, up a set of cobbled steps into a beige marble-lined square. Suddenly, everything has changed- the high rises take no presence over my location, and the ground is suddenly smooth. I walk forward towards a large square of grass, where dogs romp and play with each other as their owners smile and chat, looking as if they had been there forever. And I tread over the soft, wet soil, past the giant purple tower rising to my right. People sit at tables underneath large green umbrellas, business suits and ragged jackets interacting without much regard to the appearance of the other. A tall wooden tower rises immediately in front of me, host to a shabby wooden birdhouse and a million colorful scribbles all over its unfurnished walls. And soon the square opens up again, falling into a circle of stones that cusp the end of a yellow waterfall off the end of a purple arch. The arch connects to a long wall adorned with giant soda can mosaics of the King of Pop and a colossal painting of Salma Hayek. People skirt the edges underneath the shade, coming in on 6-foot tall bicycles for a weekly gathering. I pass a group of students admiring the City of Angels visible from the square, chattering loudly and snapping shots of the brick high rises.
But I cannot stop but notice the activity around me still, the rhythm of the heart of Los Angeles pulsating in vibrant color and remarkable harmony. Here, in Pershing Square, L.A. is at its essence and people from all parts gather to contribute to the vibe.
And as I step out along the large inset crack and back into the busier part of LA, I always find myself smiling, still giddy from seeing this side of LA. It truly is a thing of beauty.
And I continue forward, up a set of cobbled steps into a beige marble-lined square. Suddenly, everything has changed- the high rises take no presence over my location, and the ground is suddenly smooth. I walk forward towards a large square of grass, where dogs romp and play with each other as their owners smile and chat, looking as if they had been there forever. And I tread over the soft, wet soil, past the giant purple tower rising to my right. People sit at tables underneath large green umbrellas, business suits and ragged jackets interacting without much regard to the appearance of the other. A tall wooden tower rises immediately in front of me, host to a shabby wooden birdhouse and a million colorful scribbles all over its unfurnished walls. And soon the square opens up again, falling into a circle of stones that cusp the end of a yellow waterfall off the end of a purple arch. The arch connects to a long wall adorned with giant soda can mosaics of the King of Pop and a colossal painting of Salma Hayek. People skirt the edges underneath the shade, coming in on 6-foot tall bicycles for a weekly gathering. I pass a group of students admiring the City of Angels visible from the square, chattering loudly and snapping shots of the brick high rises.
But I cannot stop but notice the activity around me still, the rhythm of the heart of Los Angeles pulsating in vibrant color and remarkable harmony. Here, in Pershing Square, L.A. is at its essence and people from all parts gather to contribute to the vibe.
And as I step out along the large inset crack and back into the busier part of LA, I always find myself smiling, still giddy from seeing this side of LA. It truly is a thing of beauty.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
I strode onto the bus, Keane drifting from my earbuds and a peculiar scene caught my eye. As I strode to the back of the bus, I couldn’t help but continue to turn around to glance at a man that was sitting in the front of the bus. He was tall and lanky, a beige fedora hiding the top of his jet black hair and a pair of aviators hiding his eyes, and around his neck he had a pair of arms from the little boy sitting in his lap. And as I stood towards the back of the bus, I couldn’t help but look at the man interact with the child. Every movement the child made, every string of babbled words that came out of the child’s mouth, every shift in position the child made- the man sat captivated, listening, interacting, adapting.
Maybe it was the difference in hair color, but for some reason I could not relate the two people. To me, they were a random pairing of child and adult- a pair that was brought together to ride the bus together, hand in hand. This was part of their mystique- I wanted so badly to be the man, to be able to love a child, to be able to engage with him, to be able to love the child even though it might not be his own. I was compelled sit across from the man and introduce myself- maybe start a conversation, just to ask him how he did what he was doing.
And as the bus rolled to another one of many stops, the man and the child got up, and I suddenly hoped to see the man get off the bus and let the child go, that as soon as the child was off his lap, he would stop caring because he wasn’t weighed down. But then I saw the man walk onto the sidewalk, child dangling from his arm and I immediately regretted my hope. The bus drove away and I watched the father and his child romp playfully on the sidewalk.
I hope to be able to love like that someday. Even if the child I get in the family I start isn’t mine by blood, I want to love him or her like the man loved his child.
Today, I felt a twinge of paternity.
Maybe it was the difference in hair color, but for some reason I could not relate the two people. To me, they were a random pairing of child and adult- a pair that was brought together to ride the bus together, hand in hand. This was part of their mystique- I wanted so badly to be the man, to be able to love a child, to be able to engage with him, to be able to love the child even though it might not be his own. I was compelled sit across from the man and introduce myself- maybe start a conversation, just to ask him how he did what he was doing.
And as the bus rolled to another one of many stops, the man and the child got up, and I suddenly hoped to see the man get off the bus and let the child go, that as soon as the child was off his lap, he would stop caring because he wasn’t weighed down. But then I saw the man walk onto the sidewalk, child dangling from his arm and I immediately regretted my hope. The bus drove away and I watched the father and his child romp playfully on the sidewalk.
I hope to be able to love like that someday. Even if the child I get in the family I start isn’t mine by blood, I want to love him or her like the man loved his child.
Today, I felt a twinge of paternity.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Untitled (wanted it to be Day6, but it sounds terrible.)
Tom waited underneath the stone arch, glancing back occasionally to check the time on the copper clock tower behind him. He clutched the purple orchids he had wrapped clumsily in magenta tissue paper. He exhaled mist and shifted side to side, waiting anxiously for the bell to chime 8 times and for Line 14 to pull up and open its doors.
The steam collected in heavy, thick masses around him, obscuring the tracks and the platform across the way. The hills, tinted with purple, rose to cover the orange-yellow sun that was settling behind them for its daily slumber.
And soon the 14 rolled around the bend as the sun threw its last golden rays into Tom's eyes, blinding him momentarily. When he opened his eyes again, the train was pulling into the station, the front car and many others sliding past him in stripes of blue and silver.
And the engine quieted and the wheels skid to a stop as the blurs cleared into a single set of double doors. The tall glass hinges folded in two and Ann stepped out of the shadows behind the doors.
Her eyes met Tom's, and for a minute they stood still, staring at each other as people blurred past them, hurrying to get on and off the train. And then Ann ran to Tom, prompting him to drop the orchids so he could cup his hands around her face and stroke her sunken cheeks, kiss her slightly crooked nose, wipe the grime from her forehead and brush her frizzy hair away from her muddy eyes.
And after four years she was still the divine creature he had fallen in love with.
The steam collected in heavy, thick masses around him, obscuring the tracks and the platform across the way. The hills, tinted with purple, rose to cover the orange-yellow sun that was settling behind them for its daily slumber.
And soon the 14 rolled around the bend as the sun threw its last golden rays into Tom's eyes, blinding him momentarily. When he opened his eyes again, the train was pulling into the station, the front car and many others sliding past him in stripes of blue and silver.
And the engine quieted and the wheels skid to a stop as the blurs cleared into a single set of double doors. The tall glass hinges folded in two and Ann stepped out of the shadows behind the doors.
Her eyes met Tom's, and for a minute they stood still, staring at each other as people blurred past them, hurrying to get on and off the train. And then Ann ran to Tom, prompting him to drop the orchids so he could cup his hands around her face and stroke her sunken cheeks, kiss her slightly crooked nose, wipe the grime from her forehead and brush her frizzy hair away from her muddy eyes.
And after four years she was still the divine creature he had fallen in love with.
Voice
I hate my voice. Of all the qualities I possess, it’s the quality I despise the most. It makes me sound stupid and childish, and I flinch every time I hear myself anywhere.
I don’t understand the drastic changes; in my head, my voice sounds fine to me, not too young and yet not too mature. When I talk, this voice disguises my actual lispy talk and lets me get on with life without me wanting to kill myself for saying “Yeth thir,” an insult my fellow scouts would bombard me with whenever I addressed a superior. And while I tried to keep face, it always hurt so much.
I always feel like when I talk, no one takes me seriously at all. Everything I say to them is some sort of joke, every observation a childish point of view, every analysis tossed aside with a laugh and a shaking of the head.
I remember distinctly in the third grade when my teacher asked the class to write about our favorite places. So write I did- like the true blue nerd I was, I storied for 3 pages all the reasons I loved the public library in the twenty minute time slot we were allotted.
And the next day, she told us she had something special to read to us. It was one of our stories. She professed that she thought it was very well written, and began to read it to the class. And as she read, I felt myself suddenly becoming aware that the story she was reading was mine.
I never heard myself once while she was reading. All I heard was the pen on the paper, singing out eloquently what I could barely putter about the library. The words were still mine, but the voice was completely different.
And I loved it.
Since then, I have always had a passion for writing. Although it took a backseat to my drawing obsession in my early years, I still found the satisfaction of hearing a new voice every time I wrote.
Today, I still love putting a pen(cil) to piece of lined paper and/or placing my fingers to keys and staring at a blank document. Today, I still love closing my eyes and listening for the perfect voice; the voice I want to speak with today. Today, I still love crafting that story in my mind and letting it flow to the paper or onto the screen, using the voice to guide my hand, writing and erasing and writing and erasing. Today, I still love opening my eyes and reading the story in my chosen voice.
But even more, I love sharing those stories, those voices with all of you. Thank you for reading.
I don’t understand the drastic changes; in my head, my voice sounds fine to me, not too young and yet not too mature. When I talk, this voice disguises my actual lispy talk and lets me get on with life without me wanting to kill myself for saying “Yeth thir,” an insult my fellow scouts would bombard me with whenever I addressed a superior. And while I tried to keep face, it always hurt so much.
I always feel like when I talk, no one takes me seriously at all. Everything I say to them is some sort of joke, every observation a childish point of view, every analysis tossed aside with a laugh and a shaking of the head.
I remember distinctly in the third grade when my teacher asked the class to write about our favorite places. So write I did- like the true blue nerd I was, I storied for 3 pages all the reasons I loved the public library in the twenty minute time slot we were allotted.
And the next day, she told us she had something special to read to us. It was one of our stories. She professed that she thought it was very well written, and began to read it to the class. And as she read, I felt myself suddenly becoming aware that the story she was reading was mine.
I never heard myself once while she was reading. All I heard was the pen on the paper, singing out eloquently what I could barely putter about the library. The words were still mine, but the voice was completely different.
And I loved it.
Since then, I have always had a passion for writing. Although it took a backseat to my drawing obsession in my early years, I still found the satisfaction of hearing a new voice every time I wrote.
Today, I still love putting a pen(cil) to piece of lined paper and/or placing my fingers to keys and staring at a blank document. Today, I still love closing my eyes and listening for the perfect voice; the voice I want to speak with today. Today, I still love crafting that story in my mind and letting it flow to the paper or onto the screen, using the voice to guide my hand, writing and erasing and writing and erasing. Today, I still love opening my eyes and reading the story in my chosen voice.
But even more, I love sharing those stories, those voices with all of you. Thank you for reading.
Vicious cycles
I’d love to blame you for all the bad that has happened in the three years I’ve known you. For leading me on and crushing my dreams, for ridding me of my future hopes and aspirations, for all the nervous breakdowns you caused me to have, for all the sleepless nights that you’ve forces me to endure, for all the loneliness, the heartache and mostly for changing my outlook on love completely; showing me that I had to be cautious not to fall too quickly or too deep. I really would, because that would help me get up and move on with my life. And so I would for awhile, getting up and striding confidently forward. But then I remember all the smiles, all the laughter, the comfort I felt in your arms, and of course, how you changed my outlook on love; the fact that you showed me what love was and what kind of person I really wanted to be and what kind of person I wanted to love. And I would see your smile and fall right back, only to realize where I had sunk and want to blame you all over again.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Day 5: Innocence
"Where are we going?" quipped the young girl clasping his ring and middle fingers as she attempted to navigate through the tall grass that obscured most of the empty landscape that was around her. She walked at a brisk pace, sometimes breaking into a quick walk to keep up with the man dragging her along. She made sure to hop over puddles and walk without dragging her feet to avoid sullying her brand new paper white dress.
"Where are we going?" she asked again, this time more loudly as she saw the bright lights of the party grow smaller and less distinct behind her.
"Almost there," the man assured softly, his breathing growing heavier and deeper as he moved forward with abandon, scanning the field around him as he tiptoed through the wide field.
"Here we are," he said, arriving at the doorstep of a rotted cabin, its formerly white painted walls now black and dark blue in the moonlight and peeling from age. The house howled as the heavy storm winds blew through, swaying the abode dangerously to either side. A single rusted windchime hung from the porch roof, tinkering endlessly.
"This place is scary," the girl spouted, moving closer to the man and clasping his fingers even more tightly. The man inhaled sharply at the girl's movements, staring through the glassless windows and imagining to himself what would soon be taking place in the room he was looking into. His pupils dilated, his forehead began dropping with sweat
"Let's go in"
and he moved suddenly towards the door, nearly taking the little girl off her feet
"No, mister, let's go home; this place is really scary!"
and he suddenly became furious, snarling at the little girl
"Oh no, you're coming with me!"
and proceeding to snatch her up as she screamed
No no no no
up the stairs and through the threshold
No no no no
biting and kicking and screaming until the man finally set her down in the room he had been staring into. The moonlight shone through the window and the stars seemed to twinkle in time with the windchime. Breezes slipped through cracks in the walls.
Please mister I just want to go home
the girl cries, her eyes searching desperately for some sort of comfort in the shadows around her; instead, hands reach out and begin stroking her softly, the man's voice crooning
There there it will all be alright now
as she continued to cry, rooted to the spot, powerless to stop the appendages now unbuttoning her dress as the wind roars more loudly than ever, moving the clouds over the moon. And with one last whoosh of air
the windchime falls and shatters
"Where are we going?" she asked again, this time more loudly as she saw the bright lights of the party grow smaller and less distinct behind her.
"Almost there," the man assured softly, his breathing growing heavier and deeper as he moved forward with abandon, scanning the field around him as he tiptoed through the wide field.
"Here we are," he said, arriving at the doorstep of a rotted cabin, its formerly white painted walls now black and dark blue in the moonlight and peeling from age. The house howled as the heavy storm winds blew through, swaying the abode dangerously to either side. A single rusted windchime hung from the porch roof, tinkering endlessly.
"This place is scary," the girl spouted, moving closer to the man and clasping his fingers even more tightly. The man inhaled sharply at the girl's movements, staring through the glassless windows and imagining to himself what would soon be taking place in the room he was looking into. His pupils dilated, his forehead began dropping with sweat
"Let's go in"
and he moved suddenly towards the door, nearly taking the little girl off her feet
"No, mister, let's go home; this place is really scary!"
and he suddenly became furious, snarling at the little girl
"Oh no, you're coming with me!"
and proceeding to snatch her up as she screamed
No no no no
up the stairs and through the threshold
No no no no
biting and kicking and screaming until the man finally set her down in the room he had been staring into. The moonlight shone through the window and the stars seemed to twinkle in time with the windchime. Breezes slipped through cracks in the walls.
Please mister I just want to go home
the girl cries, her eyes searching desperately for some sort of comfort in the shadows around her; instead, hands reach out and begin stroking her softly, the man's voice crooning
There there it will all be alright now
as she continued to cry, rooted to the spot, powerless to stop the appendages now unbuttoning her dress as the wind roars more loudly than ever, moving the clouds over the moon. And with one last whoosh of air
the windchime falls and shatters
Monday, June 28, 2010
Combination post- Days 2, 3, 4: Love, Light and Dark
Your high beams flooded the street suddenly, clunking to life and leaving me blinded by the light for a split second.
Your silhouette slowly cut into the white screen, and soon the darkness followed, framing the high beams in two intersecting rings of light. Your shadow split into multiple figures on the pavement, each frozen in the same stance, with arms hung down their sides like the silhouette that cast them.
And as I came to recognize your frame, my heart began to pound and my eyes began to water; my stomach began to flutter and my mouth turned dry. You jogged over to where I lay on the road, out of breath
"I-I ca-"
scrambling, grabbing blindly at the pavement around me, unsure of what to do,
"I can't-"
wiping some of my blood onto your fingers
"I can't see you" I gasped, my voice distorted by the dryness in my throat and the blood that was gushing out my mouth
And you picked me up, cradling me in your arms, whispering Please don't go, please don't leave me alone, please don't let me be alone
"I can't see-"
Please. I want you to stay. Please. Please. Please
My eyelids fluttered
Stay awake. Stay with me. Stay
I took a large breath
"I'm going to die"
It was barely audible, a whisper under the loud roar of the motor and the screaming white of the headlights, but he was taken aback; his eyes wild with anger and
Don't say that
soaked with grief
Please just stay
And he held me closer, holding my head to his chest, smearing blood on his jacket
And I closed my eyes, taking in his scent, the safety and comfort I was feeling in his arms, his tears dropping on my head, his heart throbbing a bit too quickly, his voice sobbing
I love you
over and over and over and over until
I slumped in his grip, my head landing on his arm. And he was squeezing me tightly, his tears ceasing as I dove into darkness, falling through the dark abyss as I approached the shining beacon at the end of the tunnel
I'll always love you
Your silhouette slowly cut into the white screen, and soon the darkness followed, framing the high beams in two intersecting rings of light. Your shadow split into multiple figures on the pavement, each frozen in the same stance, with arms hung down their sides like the silhouette that cast them.
And as I came to recognize your frame, my heart began to pound and my eyes began to water; my stomach began to flutter and my mouth turned dry. You jogged over to where I lay on the road, out of breath
"I-I ca-"
scrambling, grabbing blindly at the pavement around me, unsure of what to do,
"I can't-"
wiping some of my blood onto your fingers
"I can't see you" I gasped, my voice distorted by the dryness in my throat and the blood that was gushing out my mouth
And you picked me up, cradling me in your arms, whispering Please don't go, please don't leave me alone, please don't let me be alone
"I can't see-"
Please. I want you to stay. Please. Please. Please
My eyelids fluttered
Stay awake. Stay with me. Stay
I took a large breath
"I'm going to die"
It was barely audible, a whisper under the loud roar of the motor and the screaming white of the headlights, but he was taken aback; his eyes wild with anger and
Don't say that
soaked with grief
Please just stay
And he held me closer, holding my head to his chest, smearing blood on his jacket
And I closed my eyes, taking in his scent, the safety and comfort I was feeling in his arms, his tears dropping on my head, his heart throbbing a bit too quickly, his voice sobbing
I love you
over and over and over and over until
I slumped in his grip, my head landing on his arm. And he was squeezing me tightly, his tears ceasing as I dove into darkness, falling through the dark abyss as I approached the shining beacon at the end of the tunnel
I'll always love you
Day 1- Introduction
I reach up to the fogged double-glass, my hand placing itself on its cold, wet surface.
It moves in a sideways motion, revealing only a square jaw and a half-open mouth, gaping stupidly in surprise at the part of the mirror now clear.
The mouth closes with a snap. It droops at the edges a bit as the top part of the neck tenses and an Adam's apple scales the front of the neck. The mouth still frowns, but the lips unstick and the mouth opens slightly.
Then, the corners move back and up, opening the mouth and revealing two rows of slightly yellowed teeth barricading a pink cave, glistening with water.
A giant pink amoeba suddenly pokes from the space between the two aged, dirty walls. It quickly takes a peek into the sky before it darts back into its hiding place, as the lips mouth to me:
"Hello."
as my mouth utters the same.
It moves in a sideways motion, revealing only a square jaw and a half-open mouth, gaping stupidly in surprise at the part of the mirror now clear.
The mouth closes with a snap. It droops at the edges a bit as the top part of the neck tenses and an Adam's apple scales the front of the neck. The mouth still frowns, but the lips unstick and the mouth opens slightly.
Then, the corners move back and up, opening the mouth and revealing two rows of slightly yellowed teeth barricading a pink cave, glistening with water.
A giant pink amoeba suddenly pokes from the space between the two aged, dirty walls. It quickly takes a peek into the sky before it darts back into its hiding place, as the lips mouth to me:
"Hello."
as my mouth utters the same.
Starting now!
(100) Themes writing challenge
Here’s the deal: I’m going to attempt to write anything I want about 100 different themes. I might write one a day, might write two. I’m mainly deciding to start this (after hearing about it from a few friends) because I’ve been very bored lately. I figure this’ll be a great way to keep me occupied during the summer. Out of two different variations of this challenge, I’ve switched it up a bit and decided to use some themes from each version.
THE CHALLENGE STARTS NOW! -cue catchy theme music-
1. Introduction
2. Love
3. Light
4. Dark
5. Innocence
6. Beauty
7. Breathe
8. Innocence
9. Drive
10. Free
11. Memory
12. Insanity
13. Misfortune
14. Smile
15. Silence
16. Questioning
17. Blood
18. Rainbow
19. Gray
20. Illusion
21. Vacation
22. Mother Nature
23. Midnight
24. No Time
25. Trouble Lurking
26. Tears
27. Footprints
28. Sorrow
29. Happiness
30. Under the Rain
31. Flowers
32. Night
33. Expectations
34. Stars
35. Hold My Hand
36. Dreams
37. Eyes
38. Abandoned
39. Dreams
40. Rated
41. Teamwork
42. Standing Still
43. Dying
44. Two Roads
45. Illusion
46. Family
47. Creation
48. Childhood
49. Stripes
50. Breaking the Rules
51. Twisted
52. Deep in Thought
53. Keeping a Secret
54. Tower
55. Waiting
56. Danger Ahead
57. Sacrifice
58. Kick in the Head
59. No Way Out
60. Rejection
61. Fairy Tale
62. Magic
63. Do Not Disturb
64. Multitasking
65. Horror
66. Traps
67. Playing the Melody
68. Hero
69. Annoyance
70. 67%
71. Obsession
72. Mischief Managed
73. I Can’t
74. Are You Challenging Me?
75. Mirror
76. Broken Pieces
77. Test
78. Drink
79. Starvation
80. Words
81. Pen and Paper
82. Can You Hear Me?
83. Heal
84. Out Cold
85. Spiral
86. Seeing Red
87. Food
88. Pain
89. Through the Fire
90. Triangle
91. Drowning
92. All That I Have
93. Give Up
94. Last Hope
95. Lightning
96. In the Storm
97. Safety First
98. Puzzle
99. Curiosity
100. Relaxation
Here’s the deal: I’m going to attempt to write anything I want about 100 different themes. I might write one a day, might write two. I’m mainly deciding to start this (after hearing about it from a few friends) because I’ve been very bored lately. I figure this’ll be a great way to keep me occupied during the summer. Out of two different variations of this challenge, I’ve switched it up a bit and decided to use some themes from each version.
THE CHALLENGE STARTS NOW! -cue catchy theme music-
1. Introduction
2. Love
3. Light
4. Dark
5. Innocence
6. Beauty
7. Breathe
8. Innocence
9. Drive
10. Free
11. Memory
12. Insanity
13. Misfortune
14. Smile
15. Silence
16. Questioning
17. Blood
18. Rainbow
19. Gray
20. Illusion
21. Vacation
22. Mother Nature
23. Midnight
24. No Time
25. Trouble Lurking
26. Tears
27. Footprints
28. Sorrow
29. Happiness
30. Under the Rain
31. Flowers
32. Night
33. Expectations
34. Stars
35. Hold My Hand
36. Dreams
37. Eyes
38. Abandoned
39. Dreams
40. Rated
41. Teamwork
42. Standing Still
43. Dying
44. Two Roads
45. Illusion
46. Family
47. Creation
48. Childhood
49. Stripes
50. Breaking the Rules
51. Twisted
52. Deep in Thought
53. Keeping a Secret
54. Tower
55. Waiting
56. Danger Ahead
57. Sacrifice
58. Kick in the Head
59. No Way Out
60. Rejection
61. Fairy Tale
62. Magic
63. Do Not Disturb
64. Multitasking
65. Horror
66. Traps
67. Playing the Melody
68. Hero
69. Annoyance
70. 67%
71. Obsession
72. Mischief Managed
73. I Can’t
74. Are You Challenging Me?
75. Mirror
76. Broken Pieces
77. Test
78. Drink
79. Starvation
80. Words
81. Pen and Paper
82. Can You Hear Me?
83. Heal
84. Out Cold
85. Spiral
86. Seeing Red
87. Food
88. Pain
89. Through the Fire
90. Triangle
91. Drowning
92. All That I Have
93. Give Up
94. Last Hope
95. Lightning
96. In the Storm
97. Safety First
98. Puzzle
99. Curiosity
100. Relaxation
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Change [feat. Addiction]
"Here's the thing about change. Sometimes you think you've changed, but you've just traded one addiction for another. And sometimes that's the best you can hope for."
-Jack Bourdain, "Kitchen Confidential"
Coming back from college orientation, I was honestly really excited to go to Thurgood Marshall at UCSD. After all of the bickering and the moping I had done about not being able to go to the University of Puget Sound, I found the environment, philosophy and energy to be a perfect fit for me. The campus and the Orientation Leaders just completely swept me off my feet and changed my feelings about attending UCSD.
As I cleaned up my room after wrapping up the campus tour and so many fun presentations and icebreaker activities, I found that almost all past regrets, feelings of anger and bitchings about going to school there were all moot. Everything I had seen, all the people I had met- they all contributed in large part to the entire experience at TMC. This was the community I would be enveloping myself in, one of fierce school spirit and rigorous scholastic work, I affirmed.
All of my negative feelings had suddenly been replaced with pure positivity and I loved it. Then, and even now, I cannot bring myself to feel negatively about going to college (well, except for being nervous).
In short, my feelings had changed.
In an earlier post, I talked about change being unexpected and this experience only convinced me further of the tide-like nature of change. The above quote (from a wonderful sitcom that you all should watch) also reflects my feels about the change; how the negative feelings I clung to so were all "replaced" by excitement and energy. I couldn't have said it better.
Change is here. The water is only lapping at my ankles but I can feel the roar of the ocean, ready to lash out and drag me in, washing me in my new freedom, my new schedule, my new atmosphere, my new room/suitemates, my new everything, and I am definitely still nervous.
Good thing I dressed in trunks.
Friday, June 18, 2010
To dream
When I was young, I remember standing outside with my friends at night staring up at the sky and watching it glitter like studded satin.
And every once in a while, one light, a bit brighter than the others, would tear across the black sky and one of my friends would proclaim, “Look! It’s a shooting star!” And I would stare up at the light, my eyes following it as it traveled across the sky. The light would fill my heart with joy and wishes and put a smile on my face as some snot-nosed brat popped my wonder with, “Nah, it’s just an airplane.”
In the episode “Dream On” of “Glee”, Jesse St. James (played by the amazingly talented Jonathan Groff) defined a dream as “something that fills up the emptiness inside, the one thing that you know if it came true, all the hurt would go away.” Those airplanes I saw were what I thought were dreams that could fill my life with happiness and push out all worries and problems I had and would face.
I was, and still am, a fervent dreamer- for as long as I can remember, I would never really recall some of the things happening in classes and the events around me because I was imagining another life: one where all my troubles were nonexistent and life went my merry way.
However, whenever the question of what I wanted to do with my life came up this year, I was stumped. In all the dreaming- the fantasies of being a doctor, an artist, a superhero and a Broadway actor, all which faded as my attention shifted to something else I caught interest in- I realized that all my dreams were just airplanes in the night sky, fake wishes that were substituted for passions that I would fervently pursue.
Suddenly, I was jerked from my dream life into reality, where the airplanes that I had misidentified as dreams suddenly disappeared. I found no passion, no drive and sadly, no will to dream any longer among the lights that dotted the sky. I no longer knew what a true dream was after chasing airplanes for so long. I became lost, cautiously observing everything that I could perceive as a dream.
Amidst all the wandering this year, I met and got the chance to interview three amazingly passionate and interesting people. As I talked to them about their lives, dreams and goals, I found myself asserting the reason why I had no dreams: I had no passion. I had met two people who were in their dream careers, spreading their love for what they did and another who worked day and night to break into his dream job and I finally realized that passion is something one is willing to work at, to sacrifice all one’s time to practice, spread and love what they do.
My dream now is to find my dream, my true passion in life. As I head off to the University of California- San Diego next year, I will keep this foundation for my dream safely tucked away in my back pocket so that when the opportunity arrives, I can catapult myself into the sky, soaring past the airplanes and the star clusters to reach that shooting star, the true dream that I had yearned so long for.
And every once in a while, one light, a bit brighter than the others, would tear across the black sky and one of my friends would proclaim, “Look! It’s a shooting star!” And I would stare up at the light, my eyes following it as it traveled across the sky. The light would fill my heart with joy and wishes and put a smile on my face as some snot-nosed brat popped my wonder with, “Nah, it’s just an airplane.”
In the episode “Dream On” of “Glee”, Jesse St. James (played by the amazingly talented Jonathan Groff) defined a dream as “something that fills up the emptiness inside, the one thing that you know if it came true, all the hurt would go away.” Those airplanes I saw were what I thought were dreams that could fill my life with happiness and push out all worries and problems I had and would face.
I was, and still am, a fervent dreamer- for as long as I can remember, I would never really recall some of the things happening in classes and the events around me because I was imagining another life: one where all my troubles were nonexistent and life went my merry way.
However, whenever the question of what I wanted to do with my life came up this year, I was stumped. In all the dreaming- the fantasies of being a doctor, an artist, a superhero and a Broadway actor, all which faded as my attention shifted to something else I caught interest in- I realized that all my dreams were just airplanes in the night sky, fake wishes that were substituted for passions that I would fervently pursue.
Suddenly, I was jerked from my dream life into reality, where the airplanes that I had misidentified as dreams suddenly disappeared. I found no passion, no drive and sadly, no will to dream any longer among the lights that dotted the sky. I no longer knew what a true dream was after chasing airplanes for so long. I became lost, cautiously observing everything that I could perceive as a dream.
Amidst all the wandering this year, I met and got the chance to interview three amazingly passionate and interesting people. As I talked to them about their lives, dreams and goals, I found myself asserting the reason why I had no dreams: I had no passion. I had met two people who were in their dream careers, spreading their love for what they did and another who worked day and night to break into his dream job and I finally realized that passion is something one is willing to work at, to sacrifice all one’s time to practice, spread and love what they do.
My dream now is to find my dream, my true passion in life. As I head off to the University of California- San Diego next year, I will keep this foundation for my dream safely tucked away in my back pocket so that when the opportunity arrives, I can catapult myself into the sky, soaring past the airplanes and the star clusters to reach that shooting star, the true dream that I had yearned so long for.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
I fell hard for you. When you slowly wrapped your fingers around my hand, I felt my legs liquefy as I slid face down onto a cold, concrete floor. And all I could do was lie there and wait for you to pick me up, brush me off and laugh, so that we could move on with our lives together.
And you did, a bright light shining from behind you, encircling your head and blinding me. And I drifted with you-clasping onto your hand so tightly that I was scared I might crush it. In our palms was hope and realization; hope that we could last, that I could love and be loved in return; the realization that I was in love. I told a few of my closer friends about us, how you made me feel, how we sat next to each other and used each other's shoulders as pillows, how we could talk for hours and hours about the most random things, how you made me feel, how I thought that my first relationship could be my only relationship. I was truly, unconditionally in love with you.
I went over my feelings for you every day in my head, smiling and whistling tunes as I strut down the hallways. Especially on this particular day, as I sat in class idly looking out the door. And then I saw you with her.
Suddenly, the alarm went off and I found myself still lying on the floor, groggy from my long sleep. I looked up again, only to see your lips on hers, standing almost unobstructed from view. I was across campus but I could see your hands clasping hers, your smile as you lay your lips on hers again. I could only watch from the floor.
I went home trying to rationalize what had happened. Maybe it was a trick of the light, a mirage! Maybe it was someone else! Maybe she leaped on you! Each excuse only became more feeble and more flimsy, leaving me in tears in my room, tears dropping onto the hard floor that I lay on.
Every muscle in my body seemed non-functional. I could not get up and was forced to watch you and her over and over in my head, even though your shadows were long gone. I could remember nothing of the fever dream I had, only the nightmares that had crept into it. When you told me you weren't into me like that, but I just told myself that you weren't comfortable with it; when you didn't return my texts; when you left me waiting for you to come.
I remember now. Every time you write sweet nothings to her, every time you tell me how she makes you feel. Every time I talk to her, every time I read what she has to say about you. I see how much you care for her, how happy she makes you, and although I'm disappointed that I can't be the one who makes happy, I'm happy for you.
So why haven't I gotten up?
And you did, a bright light shining from behind you, encircling your head and blinding me. And I drifted with you-clasping onto your hand so tightly that I was scared I might crush it. In our palms was hope and realization; hope that we could last, that I could love and be loved in return; the realization that I was in love. I told a few of my closer friends about us, how you made me feel, how we sat next to each other and used each other's shoulders as pillows, how we could talk for hours and hours about the most random things, how you made me feel, how I thought that my first relationship could be my only relationship. I was truly, unconditionally in love with you.
I went over my feelings for you every day in my head, smiling and whistling tunes as I strut down the hallways. Especially on this particular day, as I sat in class idly looking out the door. And then I saw you with her.
Suddenly, the alarm went off and I found myself still lying on the floor, groggy from my long sleep. I looked up again, only to see your lips on hers, standing almost unobstructed from view. I was across campus but I could see your hands clasping hers, your smile as you lay your lips on hers again. I could only watch from the floor.
I went home trying to rationalize what had happened. Maybe it was a trick of the light, a mirage! Maybe it was someone else! Maybe she leaped on you! Each excuse only became more feeble and more flimsy, leaving me in tears in my room, tears dropping onto the hard floor that I lay on.
Every muscle in my body seemed non-functional. I could not get up and was forced to watch you and her over and over in my head, even though your shadows were long gone. I could remember nothing of the fever dream I had, only the nightmares that had crept into it. When you told me you weren't into me like that, but I just told myself that you weren't comfortable with it; when you didn't return my texts; when you left me waiting for you to come.
I remember now. Every time you write sweet nothings to her, every time you tell me how she makes you feel. Every time I talk to her, every time I read what she has to say about you. I see how much you care for her, how happy she makes you, and although I'm disappointed that I can't be the one who makes happy, I'm happy for you.
So why haven't I gotten up?
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Art as ideas.
What is art?
Recently, I was forced to endure through a frustratingly close-minded discussion in my usually enjoyable AP Art History class.
We were discussing the Dada movement, a movement that was supposed to be a slap in the face of Classical art conventions. So my teacher brought up Marcel Duchamp's "Fountain"
and proceeded to ask us, "Is this art?"
Almost immediately, I came to the conclusion it was. However, I was rather surprised that my Art History teacher disagreed, bringing up a slide of Michaelangelo's David:
protesting "How can you compare it to this? 'The Fountain' is not art."
I was stunned. IMO, art is not about the effort put into making the piece a reality. Art is an idea, manifested into a physical, tangible form. So to me, he was saying that the "Fountain" was less of an idea than "David."
Then, my teacher pulled up a desk and said, "So, if I put this in a gallery and say that it's 'art,' is it really art?"
Absurd. Of course it is. You have an idea, a premise for the world to see and deconstruct. You have a point to prove and you created a way of expressing your point and getting it across. Congratulations, you have made art.
And of course the ignorance continued. When we were reviewing Pop Art, some idiot classmate had the balls to quip that none of what we were currently reviewing was art because they all "did it for money."
Are you fucking serious? Were you even paying attention in the entire year you dumbfuck? Most of the "Classical" art that we went through, the ones that you said were done because they wanted to do art, were paid for by patrons. Yes, idiot, people paid artists to make art, and yet, because they got paid to make them, that makes them more "artistic" than modern art. Fuck off.
Then, another one of my more annoyingly idiotic classmates said that she would never listen to music that artists made "for the money," to which I had to look at her and ask, "Are you fucking stupid, or just acting?"
Everyone makes art for the money at first. No one becomes a full-time artist saying, "You know what I want to do when I grow up? Starve myself and make absolutely no money!" I think people who say that one of their goals in art is to make money are just honest, and although it makes them seem a bit pretentious, I respect that they are forthright about their true intentions. Anyone in the business who says they're making art for art's sake at first is failing to mention the money they want to make.
I just hope my classmates revert back to their quiet and more amusing dumbassedness as the year finishes.
Recently, I was forced to endure through a frustratingly close-minded discussion in my usually enjoyable AP Art History class.
We were discussing the Dada movement, a movement that was supposed to be a slap in the face of Classical art conventions. So my teacher brought up Marcel Duchamp's "Fountain"
and proceeded to ask us, "Is this art?"
Almost immediately, I came to the conclusion it was. However, I was rather surprised that my Art History teacher disagreed, bringing up a slide of Michaelangelo's David:
protesting "How can you compare it to this? 'The Fountain' is not art."
I was stunned. IMO, art is not about the effort put into making the piece a reality. Art is an idea, manifested into a physical, tangible form. So to me, he was saying that the "Fountain" was less of an idea than "David."
Then, my teacher pulled up a desk and said, "So, if I put this in a gallery and say that it's 'art,' is it really art?"
Absurd. Of course it is. You have an idea, a premise for the world to see and deconstruct. You have a point to prove and you created a way of expressing your point and getting it across. Congratulations, you have made art.
And of course the ignorance continued. When we were reviewing Pop Art, some idiot classmate had the balls to quip that none of what we were currently reviewing was art because they all "did it for money."
Are you fucking serious? Were you even paying attention in the entire year you dumbfuck? Most of the "Classical" art that we went through, the ones that you said were done because they wanted to do art, were paid for by patrons. Yes, idiot, people paid artists to make art, and yet, because they got paid to make them, that makes them more "artistic" than modern art. Fuck off.
Then, another one of my more annoyingly idiotic classmates said that she would never listen to music that artists made "for the money," to which I had to look at her and ask, "Are you fucking stupid, or just acting?"
Everyone makes art for the money at first. No one becomes a full-time artist saying, "You know what I want to do when I grow up? Starve myself and make absolutely no money!" I think people who say that one of their goals in art is to make money are just honest, and although it makes them seem a bit pretentious, I respect that they are forthright about their true intentions. Anyone in the business who says they're making art for art's sake at first is failing to mention the money they want to make.
I just hope my classmates revert back to their quiet and more amusing dumbassedness as the year finishes.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
AP Exam break!
Breaching security at school is fun. I should be in band right now, but I'm in the journalism room with Annie and Lindsey and Sallacious. Fun stuff.
Two AP Exams left! Lit. tomorrow then Art History next week then I'm DONE WITH AP EXAMS FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
Awesome.
Kind of sad.
Two AP Exams left! Lit. tomorrow then Art History next week then I'm DONE WITH AP EXAMS FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
Awesome.
Kind of sad.
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