I just got home from work. It is almost 1AM.
OK, so I didn't work all day. I actually came in at 11AM, left at 5PM, went to a play, and returned to the office at 8:30PMish to review it. I finished around midnight, and my editor usually works nights, so he went over the piece with me. This is my schedule. But not every day.
Because I'm treated like an actual journalist, I'm starting to see what the life of a journalist is like. And what is it like? Random. Especially in features.
I spent Monday-day at work and Monday-night watching a show for a person I have to do a profile on.
I spent Tuesday-day at work and Tuesday-night interviewing the same person.
I took off this morning and worked most of the night.
Since I'm supposed to only work 40 hours a week (grant money details), I only have a few hours left to work this week. That's supposed to involve another interview and another play and another play review, but there's not enough time for that--so I may only do the interview. And take tomorrow morning off. And take all of Friday off.
It's very, very independent, this job. Since most all music & theater & arts events happen at night, I end up working a lot of my nights out, and then with too many hours, so I can/should take mornings off. It's kind of awesome, actually. The best part of this job? Getting paid to be entertained. The not best but still good part? Getting paid to reflect on it.
I could do this for a living. Even if the pay sucks, you have the essential part--a living.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
South Bent
I have been here, in South Bend, a couple of nights. I am living in an eerily empty Bed and Breakfast with last-century's moth-eaten baby clothes and black and white photos of serious mustachioed men displayed in the halls. Notes:
1) I still have not met the owner of the bed and breakfast. My key was in an envelope in a bureau--I was told it would be there before I came. I walk through the house several times a day; there is almost never anyone around. It is silent. Silent and full of baby clothes. That said, it's really nice. The architecture is lovely--the furniture is antique. And it smells floral. This contributes a bit to the eeriness.
2) Tomorrow I am going to a theatrical production of "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie"
3) Sometime in the next week I may or may not be going to a theatrical production of "High School Musical"
4) Toward the end of my internship I have to go... wait for it... to a "professional" wrestling match.
5) My hours are going to be weird--I have tomorrow morning off (sleeping in = YES), but I have to go in to work straight after the play to write up an immediate review for the web. My editor said to budget about four hours for reviews which means I won't get home until midnight.
6) I am to Part II of The Brothers Karamazov.
1) I still have not met the owner of the bed and breakfast. My key was in an envelope in a bureau--I was told it would be there before I came. I walk through the house several times a day; there is almost never anyone around. It is silent. Silent and full of baby clothes. That said, it's really nice. The architecture is lovely--the furniture is antique. And it smells floral. This contributes a bit to the eeriness.
2) Tomorrow I am going to a theatrical production of "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie"
3) Sometime in the next week I may or may not be going to a theatrical production of "High School Musical"
4) Toward the end of my internship I have to go... wait for it... to a "professional" wrestling match.
5) My hours are going to be weird--I have tomorrow morning off (sleeping in = YES), but I have to go in to work straight after the play to write up an immediate review for the web. My editor said to budget about four hours for reviews which means I won't get home until midnight.
6) I am to Part II of The Brothers Karamazov.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
moment of reflection.
I am feeling empty. I am empty of:
1) creativity
2) sense of self
3) concentration
4) plans
5) companionship
My grades have been on a slight decline. I am now capable of a B-, even when I try. This is not happening to anyone else.
My heart feels less protected, more vulnerable. The achievements, joys, and progress of others register as both threatening and painful. It reinforces my own inability to find the right niche. I seem to be experiencing my dip even as everyone else is somehow finding their place. I am running out of time to be doubtful of myself. I am running out of time to be disconnected in this bourgeois way. Even my inspiration seems erratic and unhelpful. Something needs to shake back into place soon.
Quiet now, at home, novels in a box in my car, but even they don't point in a direction.
1) creativity
2) sense of self
3) concentration
4) plans
5) companionship
My grades have been on a slight decline. I am now capable of a B-, even when I try. This is not happening to anyone else.
My heart feels less protected, more vulnerable. The achievements, joys, and progress of others register as both threatening and painful. It reinforces my own inability to find the right niche. I seem to be experiencing my dip even as everyone else is somehow finding their place. I am running out of time to be doubtful of myself. I am running out of time to be disconnected in this bourgeois way. Even my inspiration seems erratic and unhelpful. Something needs to shake back into place soon.
Quiet now, at home, novels in a box in my car, but even they don't point in a direction.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
things that await
Schedule Update:
Tomorrow--breakfast with Kay, packing everything into boxes, driving lessons with A.
Monday--moving everything into new apartment, meeting with new subletter (a German grad student, who will also be living with me in the new place for a week before I leave, which will be probably Thursday/Friday [in my new old Saturn, the stick shift I have yet to drive, holy Jesus])
I said goodbye to T. today. He is leaving in the early AM of tomorrow for D.C., and it makes me very sad. I have grown even closer to the boy over the past several months, and being apart for him for another whole summer is not a prospect I like. I feel that as I grow older, somehow, my ability to miss people--my vulnerability--strengthens greatly. I miss people more than I used to.
We had a conversation last night that had an interesting impact. It was divided into a reflection on our parents and impacts of where we came from, a sad and scary surveillance of the uncomfortable fact that we are now fourth years (and everything that attends that, from the identity crises that have slowly been building this year to the fact that soon we'll be freed from the nest), and finally a reflection on what we know we want. I talked a bit about something I've been experiencing a lot lately, and not at all reflecting on, which is, briefly, the fact that I've felt my identity confused and wrenched between the (capital-A) Academic and the creative. It always seems that only one or the other is possible and I choose the academy to the detriment of the creative--or really, my personality in general. Without having my creative outlets--in constantly pushing them away--my confidence takes a serious hit. Recently, even my academic performance has suffered and as a result my self-esteem is shot.
ANYWAY, we had a conversation musing on this, and I talked about needing to embrace what I always force to the background (creative writing, reading novels) in order to better get a grip on myself, to the point where a bad grade won't be shattering to my sense of identity, as it is now. I talked about needing a serious summer reading list, and wanting to maintain self-discipline, and wanting to re-inspire creativity (with thoughts toward high school, when I wrote all the time, and while 90% of it was crap, some of it was actually decent, and more than that it was creative).
I have been trying to think of a way to emulate that art/life project I've been inspired and fascinated by (mentioned some posts earlier), and T. recommended new ways of writing based on medium. Writing by pen on lined paper, pencil on lined paper, pen on blank paper, pencil on blank paper, in paint, on walls, etc. In this way I'd better understand what medium feels most natural to me and how different mediums effect my style and thinking process. I was attracted to the idea, and I think I will soon put it into effect. As of now, things are chaotic and yet not so. I have time. Today T. and I lay on my bed in a pile of shirts and newspapers (vestiges of packing) and worked our way through my Teach Yourself German book for three chapters. I tried it out on my mom on the phone tonight: "Ich komme aus Michigan!"
So this is what my summer may hold: less internet, more cooking, more novels, more writing, more writing mediums, and who knows what else. Oh, probably high-quality lemonade. I believe the Bed & Breakfast at which I will be living will have a wrap-around porch, and there's simply no way I will not be sitting on that porch, reading novels until the fireflies start to light up, with a glass of homemade lemonade in my hand.
Tomorrow--breakfast with Kay, packing everything into boxes, driving lessons with A.
Monday--moving everything into new apartment, meeting with new subletter (a German grad student, who will also be living with me in the new place for a week before I leave, which will be probably Thursday/Friday [in my new old Saturn, the stick shift I have yet to drive, holy Jesus])
I said goodbye to T. today. He is leaving in the early AM of tomorrow for D.C., and it makes me very sad. I have grown even closer to the boy over the past several months, and being apart for him for another whole summer is not a prospect I like. I feel that as I grow older, somehow, my ability to miss people--my vulnerability--strengthens greatly. I miss people more than I used to.
We had a conversation last night that had an interesting impact. It was divided into a reflection on our parents and impacts of where we came from, a sad and scary surveillance of the uncomfortable fact that we are now fourth years (and everything that attends that, from the identity crises that have slowly been building this year to the fact that soon we'll be freed from the nest), and finally a reflection on what we know we want. I talked a bit about something I've been experiencing a lot lately, and not at all reflecting on, which is, briefly, the fact that I've felt my identity confused and wrenched between the (capital-A) Academic and the creative. It always seems that only one or the other is possible and I choose the academy to the detriment of the creative--or really, my personality in general. Without having my creative outlets--in constantly pushing them away--my confidence takes a serious hit. Recently, even my academic performance has suffered and as a result my self-esteem is shot.
ANYWAY, we had a conversation musing on this, and I talked about needing to embrace what I always force to the background (creative writing, reading novels) in order to better get a grip on myself, to the point where a bad grade won't be shattering to my sense of identity, as it is now. I talked about needing a serious summer reading list, and wanting to maintain self-discipline, and wanting to re-inspire creativity (with thoughts toward high school, when I wrote all the time, and while 90% of it was crap, some of it was actually decent, and more than that it was creative).
I have been trying to think of a way to emulate that art/life project I've been inspired and fascinated by (mentioned some posts earlier), and T. recommended new ways of writing based on medium. Writing by pen on lined paper, pencil on lined paper, pen on blank paper, pencil on blank paper, in paint, on walls, etc. In this way I'd better understand what medium feels most natural to me and how different mediums effect my style and thinking process. I was attracted to the idea, and I think I will soon put it into effect. As of now, things are chaotic and yet not so. I have time. Today T. and I lay on my bed in a pile of shirts and newspapers (vestiges of packing) and worked our way through my Teach Yourself German book for three chapters. I tried it out on my mom on the phone tonight: "Ich komme aus Michigan!"
So this is what my summer may hold: less internet, more cooking, more novels, more writing, more writing mediums, and who knows what else. Oh, probably high-quality lemonade. I believe the Bed & Breakfast at which I will be living will have a wrap-around porch, and there's simply no way I will not be sitting on that porch, reading novels until the fireflies start to light up, with a glass of homemade lemonade in my hand.
Monday, June 08, 2009
500-1000 words on life, please.
Apparently I see fit to procrastinate writing a reflective article by writing a reflective blog post.
Last week I voluntarily signed up to write a 500-1000 word article on my "experiences in Pune" for some South Asian publication that I think gets distributed from our campus. They were looking for someone to write something, sent an email to everyone in the program, and I--being all idealistically go-get-'em on the topic of journalism--responded. The return email includes the words "any angle" and requests a description of the program and any long-term impact it had on me.
I now see that I am in a bind, given that:
(a) I don't know whether what I want to say will be acceptable--not that I feel negatively about my experience with India, but what I would have to say would be much more realistic and less of the "such pretty temples!" variety. The guy with whom I have exchanged emails is clearly Indian and has "South Asia Outreach" as part of his contact information in his signature; something tells me this is supposed to be a positive and heartwarming piece about how India is such a warm and spiritual place, I have now learned life lessons, etc.
(b) Only 500-1000 words on my "experience in Pune"? That's enough to talk in-depth about maybe one thing, and even that would have to be semi-superficial.
Should I tell the story of the guy who fixed my shoes, and thereafter explore the dangers of objectifying just as you are objectified? Should I talk about the guys, and the way they provided a personal scope into the culture and politics? Should I talk about all the different kinds of foreigners and how obnoxious tourists are?
There is literally so much I could talk about, and it would be hard to cut it down. I think I'm leaning toward the second option now, as it's something I can relate back to the program most easily--but this just opens more doors.
Onward.
Last week I voluntarily signed up to write a 500-1000 word article on my "experiences in Pune" for some South Asian publication that I think gets distributed from our campus. They were looking for someone to write something, sent an email to everyone in the program, and I--being all idealistically go-get-'em on the topic of journalism--responded. The return email includes the words "any angle" and requests a description of the program and any long-term impact it had on me.
I now see that I am in a bind, given that:
(a) I don't know whether what I want to say will be acceptable--not that I feel negatively about my experience with India, but what I would have to say would be much more realistic and less of the "such pretty temples!" variety. The guy with whom I have exchanged emails is clearly Indian and has "South Asia Outreach" as part of his contact information in his signature; something tells me this is supposed to be a positive and heartwarming piece about how India is such a warm and spiritual place, I have now learned life lessons, etc.
(b) Only 500-1000 words on my "experience in Pune"? That's enough to talk in-depth about maybe one thing, and even that would have to be semi-superficial.
Should I tell the story of the guy who fixed my shoes, and thereafter explore the dangers of objectifying just as you are objectified? Should I talk about the guys, and the way they provided a personal scope into the culture and politics? Should I talk about all the different kinds of foreigners and how obnoxious tourists are?
There is literally so much I could talk about, and it would be hard to cut it down. I think I'm leaning toward the second option now, as it's something I can relate back to the program most easily--but this just opens more doors.
Onward.
Sunday, June 07, 2009
Deletion.
Last night when T. and I made ourselves tea and Korean Ramen noodles and sat down in anticipation to watch John Adams, we were disappointed to find that it wouldn't play. It would get stuck over and over in different places. We were not to learn of John Adams' illustrious accomplishments.
When I closed the program and checked my disc space, I found, to my horror, that my C drive had almost no free space. My computer is overloaded with crap. I deleted fully 4 GB out of my Recycle Bin (ridiculous, I know) and cleared my Temporary Internet Files, etc. Still, as it stands, my computer has only 8.16 GB of free space, out of a total of 73 GB. I have a billion photos and a billion songs, and I need to clear some things.
The casualties:
1. Antony and the Johnsons.
2. Beth Orton.
3. British Sea Power. (But only The Decline of British Sea Power; I'm keeping Open Season until further notice.)
4. Carla Bruni.
5. Desmond Dekker.
6. Justin Timberlake. (Actually I didn't know I had Justin Timberlake.)
7. Mariza.
8. Pavement. (Another thing I don't listen to but must have assumed I would, at some point.)
9. TV on the Radio. (It just hasn't taken.)
10. Manu Chao. (Clandestino filled a niche first year. But I never want to listen to it again.)
And with that, I still have less than 10 GB free. I am perplexed.
At least my life is a little less cluttered now?
When I closed the program and checked my disc space, I found, to my horror, that my C drive had almost no free space. My computer is overloaded with crap. I deleted fully 4 GB out of my Recycle Bin (ridiculous, I know) and cleared my Temporary Internet Files, etc. Still, as it stands, my computer has only 8.16 GB of free space, out of a total of 73 GB. I have a billion photos and a billion songs, and I need to clear some things.
The casualties:
1. Antony and the Johnsons.
2. Beth Orton.
3. British Sea Power. (But only The Decline of British Sea Power; I'm keeping Open Season until further notice.)
4. Carla Bruni.
5. Desmond Dekker.
6. Justin Timberlake. (Actually I didn't know I had Justin Timberlake.)
7. Mariza.
8. Pavement. (Another thing I don't listen to but must have assumed I would, at some point.)
9. TV on the Radio. (It just hasn't taken.)
10. Manu Chao. (Clandestino filled a niche first year. But I never want to listen to it again.)
And with that, I still have less than 10 GB free. I am perplexed.
At least my life is a little less cluttered now?
My favorite minimalist is...
I love being able to say I have a favorite musical minimalist--it sounds so sophisticated. Although it doesn't really seem fair to categorize Yann Tiersen as a minimalist, given that his music feels so gorgeously full and nuanced; I tend to associate minimalism with the ultimate of the genre, Philip Glass, who, despite being a U of C alum (have to mention these things when possible), hasn't grabbed me musically. I suppose that's because my one brush with his work was through Koyaanisqatsi, which, while a fascinating movie, hardly provided the kind of music I'd want to listen to outside of the context of collapsing buildings and mass produced plastic items. Of course, just now I'm discovering some of his piano work through Youtube and finding it to be rather beautiful...
Anyway, back to Yann Tiersen. I discovered Yann like most people: through the Amelie soundtrack, which I bought several years ago to accompany my copy of the movie. I don't often buy soundtracks (or CDs in general) but the Amelie soundtrack is so soaring and emotional that I felt I would need to have it available. Eventually I stopped thinking of it as just the Amelie soundtrack, and started thinking of it as Yann Tiersen's music, which led me to the rest of his corpus. This was sometime during first year, and at some point there was a click and I realized that writing papers to the music of Yann Tiersen was both an uplifting and inspiring experience. It was wordless (with the exception of a few songs) but not boring--it wasn't so much that it blended into the background as that it worked somehow in concert with my thoughts. I wrote probably half of the essays I wrote first year to a set of his albums.
This is an improvised version of my favorite of his--Rue des Cascades. I have mentioned it before, two years ago, but I'm so routinely blown away by it.
Perhaps I should begin to explore minimalism more in depth...
Anyway, back to Yann Tiersen. I discovered Yann like most people: through the Amelie soundtrack, which I bought several years ago to accompany my copy of the movie. I don't often buy soundtracks (or CDs in general) but the Amelie soundtrack is so soaring and emotional that I felt I would need to have it available. Eventually I stopped thinking of it as just the Amelie soundtrack, and started thinking of it as Yann Tiersen's music, which led me to the rest of his corpus. This was sometime during first year, and at some point there was a click and I realized that writing papers to the music of Yann Tiersen was both an uplifting and inspiring experience. It was wordless (with the exception of a few songs) but not boring--it wasn't so much that it blended into the background as that it worked somehow in concert with my thoughts. I wrote probably half of the essays I wrote first year to a set of his albums.
This is an improvised version of my favorite of his--Rue des Cascades. I have mentioned it before, two years ago, but I'm so routinely blown away by it.
Perhaps I should begin to explore minimalism more in depth...
Saturday, June 06, 2009
I hafta.
Ouch. Making yourself blog everyday is not ideal on Friday nights, when white wine saturates. So only one thought: contexts are changing without me and I may need to create new contexts within which to build a home. I wouldn't say I'm homeless now, but the project of self-location is suffering with respect to the way I feel pulled and prodded into spaces, rather than in a position of direction. I have lost direction.
It is perhaps time for a change.
It is perhaps time for a change.
Friday, June 05, 2009
not comfortable.
12:49am, starving, and my options? Oatmeal & brown sugar, "Oriental" Ramen noodles, portabello mushroom gnocchi. Looks like it's door number three.
We spent today in Evanston, working, as projected. Evanston is weird. It's weird precisely because it's so clean, so white, so rich. So suburban, so Stepfordy. After three years, I'm used to the South Side--we're a little grittier, a little more varied down here. Hyde Park has some beautiful little town houses covered in ivy, but we also have, you know, minorities. I've come to imagine Hyde Park as a sort of normal environment--all kinds of people, all kinds of nationalities and races, all kinds of beliefs. We have the Adam Smith-totin' U of C econ department; we also have Barack Obama. We mix it up, at least a little bit.
It's going elsewhere that reminds me, disturbingly, how strictly divided most places actually are. On the north side, so many places (exception: Devon) are almost completely white; south and west of here, it's all African Americans. Hyde Park is one of those in-between neighborhoods that manages to blend things. I'm not ignorant enough to believe that there is no segregation, but I think Hyde Park's better-than-average diversity insulates me from seeing how obvious it is elsewhere. It also makes it more apparent when I do leave the neighborhood. And it kinda creeps me out.
So here's the news that almost everyone ignores--or forgets:
America is still enormously segregated, for many sinister reasons.
Just take a minute and think about it. And with that I go to bed.
We spent today in Evanston, working, as projected. Evanston is weird. It's weird precisely because it's so clean, so white, so rich. So suburban, so Stepfordy. After three years, I'm used to the South Side--we're a little grittier, a little more varied down here. Hyde Park has some beautiful little town houses covered in ivy, but we also have, you know, minorities. I've come to imagine Hyde Park as a sort of normal environment--all kinds of people, all kinds of nationalities and races, all kinds of beliefs. We have the Adam Smith-totin' U of C econ department; we also have Barack Obama. We mix it up, at least a little bit.
It's going elsewhere that reminds me, disturbingly, how strictly divided most places actually are. On the north side, so many places (exception: Devon) are almost completely white; south and west of here, it's all African Americans. Hyde Park is one of those in-between neighborhoods that manages to blend things. I'm not ignorant enough to believe that there is no segregation, but I think Hyde Park's better-than-average diversity insulates me from seeing how obvious it is elsewhere. It also makes it more apparent when I do leave the neighborhood. And it kinda creeps me out.
So here's the news that almost everyone ignores--or forgets:
America is still enormously segregated, for many sinister reasons.
Just take a minute and think about it. And with that I go to bed.
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
Victorian sexy magical realism (!)
Tomorrow I have to write a paper. It is a paper that has been haunting me for a week, one I spent an entire day writing the outline for, one I need to do well on because my last paper in this class? Not good. Not good at all.
The grade I got on this paper put me in the kind of mindset that offers revelations. I thought about ducking into a bathroom, locking myself in a stall, and crying. But I didn't do that, instead I decided to forgo the crying and imagine what usually comes after: deciding to be re-motivated, deciding to be inspired to seek greatness, etc.
My TA for this class, I imagine, has a very hard time giving people positive comments. I imagine this not only because he shredded my paper, but because he seemed to have no problems with my outline for my new paper and still managed to suffer in delivering any positive feedback. Instead of "Good!" he writes "Ok, good." As though everything I had developed until that point was really unimportant and uninspired--the crappy appetizer, really, to the insufficient meal I am providing. One can see him furrow his brows as he allows himself to acknowledge that perhaps I have finally made a valid argument. And the thing is, this guy? He's like 25. He's devastatingly, painfully young in his tweed suit vests and patent leather shoes. I don't like being thrown to the wolves by a guy I could flirt with at a frat party.
Anyway, tomorrow is going to require focus, so I can make this the best damned English paper he's ever seen--or at least, not the most shitty. It needs to glisten and provoke him to angrily etch, with clenched teeth, if needbe, an exclamation point behind the "Good" acknowledgement. It tears a hole in my self-esteem that it's the English paper I run into problems with, but we can't always excel, I suppose, at what we assumed.
So A. and I are going to Evanston, to bury ourselves in a coffee shop and not emerge into the June sunlight until we've produced pages of shining inky beauty. This is a strategy I've adopted before--pick an undervisited part of the city, find a coffee shop, hunker down--and it usually bears results. Hyde Park is too distracting, what with everybody here. Coffee shop oases in other parts of town offer the dual benefits of (a) not being as depressing as the library in mid-day and (b) not providing insta-procrastination opportunities.
I have been two things especially recently, and they are (1) inspired, and (2) unfocused. Take for example the books I am currently reading:
1--Northanger Abbey, by Jane Austen (a Victorian satire; oh, Jane!)
2--Midnight's Children, by Salman Rushdie (magical realism and Indian history!)
3--The Rules of Attraction, by Bret Easton Ellis (an 80's tale of amoral, sexed-up college students)
Yeah. Inspired and unfocused.
The grade I got on this paper put me in the kind of mindset that offers revelations. I thought about ducking into a bathroom, locking myself in a stall, and crying. But I didn't do that, instead I decided to forgo the crying and imagine what usually comes after: deciding to be re-motivated, deciding to be inspired to seek greatness, etc.
My TA for this class, I imagine, has a very hard time giving people positive comments. I imagine this not only because he shredded my paper, but because he seemed to have no problems with my outline for my new paper and still managed to suffer in delivering any positive feedback. Instead of "Good!" he writes "Ok, good." As though everything I had developed until that point was really unimportant and uninspired--the crappy appetizer, really, to the insufficient meal I am providing. One can see him furrow his brows as he allows himself to acknowledge that perhaps I have finally made a valid argument. And the thing is, this guy? He's like 25. He's devastatingly, painfully young in his tweed suit vests and patent leather shoes. I don't like being thrown to the wolves by a guy I could flirt with at a frat party.
Anyway, tomorrow is going to require focus, so I can make this the best damned English paper he's ever seen--or at least, not the most shitty. It needs to glisten and provoke him to angrily etch, with clenched teeth, if needbe, an exclamation point behind the "Good" acknowledgement. It tears a hole in my self-esteem that it's the English paper I run into problems with, but we can't always excel, I suppose, at what we assumed.
So A. and I are going to Evanston, to bury ourselves in a coffee shop and not emerge into the June sunlight until we've produced pages of shining inky beauty. This is a strategy I've adopted before--pick an undervisited part of the city, find a coffee shop, hunker down--and it usually bears results. Hyde Park is too distracting, what with everybody here. Coffee shop oases in other parts of town offer the dual benefits of (a) not being as depressing as the library in mid-day and (b) not providing insta-procrastination opportunities.
I have been two things especially recently, and they are (1) inspired, and (2) unfocused. Take for example the books I am currently reading:
1--Northanger Abbey, by Jane Austen (a Victorian satire; oh, Jane!)
2--Midnight's Children, by Salman Rushdie (magical realism and Indian history!)
3--The Rules of Attraction, by Bret Easton Ellis (an 80's tale of amoral, sexed-up college students)
Yeah. Inspired and unfocused.
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
Back in the Saddle.
Guess what? I'm writing again. Every day.
The day before yesterday T. was here, doing work, and I was rereading my blog(s). He asked what I was doing and I told him. He made a face that perfectly mimicked the face I might have made if someone told me they just started "really getting into" Blink-182.
"Why do you do that?" he asked.
"So I can remember what I thought."
"But isn't it like a diary? Isn't it awkward?"
And the thing is, no, it isn't awkward. And it isn't like a diary. Because when I talk about uncomfortable personal things on here, they're always safely disguised--anonymous shadowy figures pervade my social life, and all you know if how I sometimes feel about it. My actual journal, on the other hand, is an unchecked drama involving the kind of things you might say on a therapist's couch. Things like loneliness, however, I have no problem talking about on here; it doesn't require my outing any other characters, and it seems like a pretty relate-able human emotion. There is the human condition, and there is emo blogging, I hope most things I write identify more strongly with the first than the second.
I had felt, when I came back to this after my halfhearted attempts in India, that it was not awkward or diary-like but somehow selfish or narcissistic--vomiting your tiny, meager life into the void of the internet for the satisfaction of one or two people looking at it. I don't agree with any of these descriptions anymore; now I just think it's useful. It's useful to know what I thought a year ago, to know what happened to me a year ago, and to practice my writing. Writing for an audience, even an invisible one, requires more effort than a personal journal (although I wish I treated my journal with more thoughtfulness and respect, as I'll be looking back on that too). It begs for slightly more focus and hopefully for a point.
If my foray into journalism ends up being more than a foray, I will need both focus and a point. My thoughts seem so disorganized and deeply unfocused that sometimes I think writing is when I figure out what I think at all.
So I'm nourishing my blog again, day by day. This summer will not be neglected.
There you go, invisible audience.
The day before yesterday T. was here, doing work, and I was rereading my blog(s). He asked what I was doing and I told him. He made a face that perfectly mimicked the face I might have made if someone told me they just started "really getting into" Blink-182.
"Why do you do that?" he asked.
"So I can remember what I thought."
"But isn't it like a diary? Isn't it awkward?"
And the thing is, no, it isn't awkward. And it isn't like a diary. Because when I talk about uncomfortable personal things on here, they're always safely disguised--anonymous shadowy figures pervade my social life, and all you know if how I sometimes feel about it. My actual journal, on the other hand, is an unchecked drama involving the kind of things you might say on a therapist's couch. Things like loneliness, however, I have no problem talking about on here; it doesn't require my outing any other characters, and it seems like a pretty relate-able human emotion. There is the human condition, and there is emo blogging, I hope most things I write identify more strongly with the first than the second.
I had felt, when I came back to this after my halfhearted attempts in India, that it was not awkward or diary-like but somehow selfish or narcissistic--vomiting your tiny, meager life into the void of the internet for the satisfaction of one or two people looking at it. I don't agree with any of these descriptions anymore; now I just think it's useful. It's useful to know what I thought a year ago, to know what happened to me a year ago, and to practice my writing. Writing for an audience, even an invisible one, requires more effort than a personal journal (although I wish I treated my journal with more thoughtfulness and respect, as I'll be looking back on that too). It begs for slightly more focus and hopefully for a point.
If my foray into journalism ends up being more than a foray, I will need both focus and a point. My thoughts seem so disorganized and deeply unfocused that sometimes I think writing is when I figure out what I think at all.
So I'm nourishing my blog again, day by day. This summer will not be neglected.
There you go, invisible audience.
Monday, June 01, 2009
Kajra re, kajra re...
And my self-discipline dissipates horribly.
I spent too much of today exploring Bollywood music--a strange desire to hear exclusively Indian music entered my head and I courted it. My Hindi final is tomorrow, so there's nothing like pseudo-immersion to help my studying (false). Jordan and I watched almost the entirety of Kuch Kuch Hota Hai on the quad Friday night and I found myself approaching the movie in a weirdly nonchalant and understanding attitude. I couldn't stand it, when I watched it the first time--sugary summer camp moments, Polo Sport & Nike product placement--but somehow this time I accepted it. Makes me wonder if I've entered a crawlspace in my mind where suddenly Bollywood movies make sense and provoke the correct emotions. Of course, KKHH is still rubbish in comparison to films that actually provoke pathos, like Devdas (another, but far more serious, Shah Rukh flick.)
Devdas uses the Indian experience for a social commentary and (slightly) less melodramatic Romeo and Juliet tale--Devdas and his childhood friend Paro fall in love upon his return from being educated in England, but despite their love, his family won't accept hers (caste differences, family past of shame, etc.) and a feud develops. Paro's mother vows to marry her off to an even richer man, so Paro sneaks off in the middle of the night to ask Devdas to marry her, but he's a coward and by the time he catches himself it's too late, and she's getting married off to a wealthy widower twice her age, and he descends into alcoholism, and it gets a lot more interesting from there. Devdas includes the Bollywoodesque song-and-dance numbers but it retains a lot of merit from how realistic and adult and ultimately wrenching the story is. The last scene, in particular, is almost overwhelmingly powerful. If you want a Bollywood movie you can take seriously, this is the one I'd recommend.
Anyway, to lighten things up: a better than average song with some distracting English subtitles.
I spent too much of today exploring Bollywood music--a strange desire to hear exclusively Indian music entered my head and I courted it. My Hindi final is tomorrow, so there's nothing like pseudo-immersion to help my studying (false). Jordan and I watched almost the entirety of Kuch Kuch Hota Hai on the quad Friday night and I found myself approaching the movie in a weirdly nonchalant and understanding attitude. I couldn't stand it, when I watched it the first time--sugary summer camp moments, Polo Sport & Nike product placement--but somehow this time I accepted it. Makes me wonder if I've entered a crawlspace in my mind where suddenly Bollywood movies make sense and provoke the correct emotions. Of course, KKHH is still rubbish in comparison to films that actually provoke pathos, like Devdas (another, but far more serious, Shah Rukh flick.)
Devdas uses the Indian experience for a social commentary and (slightly) less melodramatic Romeo and Juliet tale--Devdas and his childhood friend Paro fall in love upon his return from being educated in England, but despite their love, his family won't accept hers (caste differences, family past of shame, etc.) and a feud develops. Paro's mother vows to marry her off to an even richer man, so Paro sneaks off in the middle of the night to ask Devdas to marry her, but he's a coward and by the time he catches himself it's too late, and she's getting married off to a wealthy widower twice her age, and he descends into alcoholism, and it gets a lot more interesting from there. Devdas includes the Bollywoodesque song-and-dance numbers but it retains a lot of merit from how realistic and adult and ultimately wrenching the story is. The last scene, in particular, is almost overwhelmingly powerful. If you want a Bollywood movie you can take seriously, this is the one I'd recommend.
Anyway, to lighten things up: a better than average song with some distracting English subtitles.
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