Death of a Senior

The appearance of a Mysterious Pumpkin Pie was about the only exciting thing that has happened this week. I have no way of expressing my gratitude to the random customer who found the Regal employees so joyful as to offer us a token of her appreciation. All I know is that everyone thinks she's "a crazy woman" and that a few months ago she dropped off a chocolate cake for one of our managers. I don't care if she's nuts-O, I really just enjoyed the pie (in fact, she looked exactly like the female version of Willem Dafoe).

So I really enjoyed Death of a Salesman. Mostly because dysfunctional families tickle me (wait, The Squid and the Whale? Nah), but more so because I am constantly wary of waking up one morning and finding myself still dreaming. It's always been the eternal struggle for me-- trying to dream but also staying realistic. It may have something to do with how my parents perceive me, that I am some high-achieving individual when really I am just a "dime a dozen." Physics makes me feel this way, especially since I have no idea how to take a cross product, how to find angular momentum, or even take an integral. But I am digressing, I really just hate WebAssign and need an audience to vent to (no one reads this anyways, except maybe you Ms. Marcy).

Life these days is mostly depressing, probably because the bulk of them is spent perusing a useless site by the name of "College Confidential." The only reason I find myself reading that dumb site is because every once and awhile I find some lone straggler who thinks he has a chance at Harvard. And once he discovers he has no chance after all, he blames the colleges for propagating "unduly allotted" self-esteem. Never once does he believe himself to be a phony. That's what gets me. I fear that one day I will wake up and be oblivious to my own phoniness.

Yesterday I spent my free Sunday playing along with the Sufjan Stevens Christmas album. Surprisingly easy. Two chords is all you really need to write a song, or even one chord, really. So then I started playing the musical saw and remembered times back in the summer when I was still learning how to play, and how it used to dig imprints in my hands until I fastened a handle out of a screwdriver and learned to arc it in such a way that it didn't have to pierce through my pant leg. And so I traveled back to an old hobby and remembered how much it meant to exist apart from an acceptance letter.

And this is what I have been trying to convince myself my entire life.


The title of this blog is in no way hinting at secret intents to take my own life. Please do not think me such a martyr for senior-kind-- that would be too much to handle.

On Decision Making

Last week at Regal two customers walked up to me and bought 15 dollars worth of trans fat. I assumed they were dating, as attractive girls and guys are apt to do, but I suppose that decision had not been made yet. The boy held out a twenty dollar bill; the girl slapped it away and held out a debit card, “He already paid for dinner, please take my card.”

Oh the choices.

So now I’m responsible for the status of this relationship? What’s more, I have to challenge every belief I have been brought up on—as a woman, my mother taught me to never accept anything from men that would somehow undermine a woman’s equality (wait, was this the feminist talking or the liberal, Catholic hater talking?)

I did what any romance-minded “princess locked in a tower” would do and took the boy’s money. Well, at least I settled that question.

I used to think that I never really made any decisions. That I was sort of born with a brain and chained to a computer. But let me list all of the decisions I have made as recently as I can remember:

1) Took a weekend off work to play music, write a story, and read a book

2) Rejected all of the time I should have been using for physics to jump ahead on Death of a Salesman—and read all of it.

3) Pulled a funny prank on a friend, which might not have been so nice…

4) Turned off a really awful movie about post-modernism. What a bore.

5) Ate samosas for breakfast, lunch, and dinner

6) “lost” my wallet so that I would not have money to make a run to the grocery store on my way home

7) Played “The Age of Adz” for the past two weeks

8) Took all linen off of my bed in favor of a sleeping bag. More time efficient.

9) Ordered balloons online so that I can get a head start on my favorite holiday activity—balloon animals

10) Picked up my mandolin for the first time in I don’t know how long

But what this post is really about is the aching wait until college decisions come out. I am 3/3, so what do I have to worry about? Well, failure, but as someone so truthfully pointed out in a deep psycho-analysis, I am used to “failure.” So the problem is…

…that Tulane sent me a birthday card before my grandmother did!

The day I receive some sort of real decision, I will cut my hair, go for a run, and clean my room. But until then “The Age of Adz” will be on replay.

P.S. Ms. Marcy, I still have no idea what to do for my thesis statement. But I think that is perfectly okay. Truth is I am super, super excited for this research paper and ready to challenge myself.

I am a "Slow Roller"

I feel the days growing more sluggish; I fear if you throw salt on me I will unzip myself and flip my insides out. But that's just me.

I have done exactly what I shouldn't have--procrastinated on my outside reading book. Before you jump to conclusions and accuse me of complete laziness, I will defend myself by saying I did not catch one break over Thanksgiving holiday (but here I am complaining again). It's not that I don't enjoy Song of Solomon. I do, it's great. Before I started reading it I expected some black pride book, something like Glory Field (shiver) or maybe Their Eyes Were Watching God. Thankfully, I was pleasantly surprised when the opening scene started with a man jumping from a building and the story of the origin of Not Doctor Street. This book is so great I nearly died laughing more than a few times, especially when Milkman, the main character, remembers how he earned the name Milkman (I'll give you a hint and say that his mother didn't give him milk out of a glass even though he was five).

It's very strange when I think about history in this book. Like Invisible Man it exists within a time period of social upheaval, but there is no direct mention of big names (MLK, Malcolm X). Specifically, there is a scene where Milkman enters a barbershop and overhears the barber talking about "Till." It took me a few moments to place importance to the name, but then I remembered an Emmett Till, who was murdered by white men for flirting with a white woman. And I thought how clever, now I understand that Toni Morrison is not just another writer speaking out for social injustice; she is simply telling it like it is. But if that's so, why include the history at all? Well, I'm not sure, but I think it has something to do with the personal discovery of Milkman and his life in context, especially since he is from an affluent family sheltered from reality. I am really excited to revisit this story.

Today some random kid asked me if I was satisfied with my life. My only response was, "mostly," but I can tell you now that this slow rolling is really starting to take a toll on my mental health. Three more weeks...

Artificial Harmonics

This week has been hell. I cannot reiterate this enough. The only way I could possibly sum up this week is by recounting Tuesday in directed study when a friend asked, "Rachel, why is your hair wet? It's not even raining today." That morning I had a project due, and I overslept. The shower lost priority to brushing my teeth (I hope this is understandable). Of course I admitted that, yes, I did not shower and I was indeed wearing my brother's sweatshirt. Not one of my finer moments. The next day I went shopping, in hopes that new clothes would make me want to get up in the morning. Only thing is, spending money makes me want to vomit.

For those of you who don't know, I slave away about 15 hours a week in a crappy job at Regal--all in an effort to save enough money and get myself to France. Thursday night was the premier of Harry Potter, and although I was excited at first, I realized they would make me work that night. I dressed up as Filch, with a fake shoulder cat to match (customers appreciated it). Unfortunately, I returned home around 2:30 that night and slept through all of my morning classes. Priorities, priorities.

The weekend didn't promise much relaxation either. On Friday I had a three hour rehearsal. Then another on Saturday, and then a three hour concert. Some of our music was a repeat from last concert. The only difference is that one of Mr. Ludwig's friends had died the week before this concert, so the entire show was dedicated to her. I guess it was fitting that he invited an A Capella group to sing Ding Dong the Witch is Dead (I hope she had a sense of humor). For dinner I ate squid with an old friend and caught up on the horrors of our high school orchestra. And then the concert started with the death of Mozart's father in Don Giovanni. After that a ten year old prodigy played violin, and I thought about how he was exactly like the Invisible Man. Really, his mother has him on a leash; I see him drinking and doing drugs by 17.

After that we had to fight through a battle with Serbian kings and Arabian knights. Malek Jandali, the most pompous performer I have ever encountered, insisted that we play 5 of his pieces. Emessa, Caravan, Nour, Soul b, Yafa. I can't keep track. The worst part was that every one of them ends on an E. After the performance I was cross-eyed and ready for a nap, so I went home and watched Perfume: The Story of a Murderer and rooted for the tortured protagonist on his murderous hunt to capture pheromones in a bottle. I also received a pretty merit scholarship from Tulane. Maybe...

Well, my brothers are home. Only issue is, I have to go to school and then work about 50 hours this week. When will I ever get to live? sigh

A Break from the Norm

I feel exhausted. At the beginning of the year when I thought of blog posts, the expression "how cool!" came to mind. Now, as I sit down  to write another analysis on Invisible Man my soul begins to wilt a little. I would honestly rather talk about movies--and I stand by what I say, that movies can reflect intellectual movements just as effectively as books can. I have probably stated that French class is basically a rehash of existentialism, and I have to say that after re-watching some critical scenes in The Reader, I am much more excited to write an essay about how convoluted the nature of Anna Schmitz is than I am about writing on literature. And to think the only reason I have to write that essay is because I neglected to do any of my homework.

This past weekend was insane. First I went to work, where I was informed that I would, in fact, be working the midnight shift on the night of the Harry Potter premier. And I was honestly frightened when a person of ambiguous gender walked up to my register. A friend insists it was a man, I insist it was a woman, though she might have been correct in saying that the person looked exactly like Johnny Bravo, and therefore must have been a man. That night I stayed up until four. The next day would be a new kind of feat.

I threw a dinner concert for over 120 people. I had been arranging it since September, deciding how to cut costs and get the word out. 120 is twice as many as what I had anticipated, and if I am correct in saying, the largest number of people the concert has ever pulled in. This could not have happened without the help of my mother, who cooked for weeks in replacement of an expensive caterer and taught me the lesson of head counts and organization. Mr. Fisher, our orchestra director, provided me with no guidance and was not a lick of help in any of the arrangements. I would like to think I did it on my own, but really, it could not have happened without the help of my family and friends.

Right now my toes are numb because I decided to wear ridiculous heels on Saturday. I do regret this, but I cannot forget the feeling those heels gave me. That of a strong woman. Some would call me strong willed; when my mother cussed in front of a friend, my friend's look of surprise was genuinely amusing. Yes, we are liberal, yes my mother curses like a truck driver, and yes, I do too. But I guess cursing is like a good pair of heels because nothing can really make me feel so empowered.

I am trying to remember the last piece of creative writing I hammered out. It was A (man's) Guide to Eatin' Good Sammiches. Let's just say that it is something that could only be found funny if a woman wrote it. I've always thought I would go into medicine or some high-stress job, but now I am thinking if not a writer, a wedding planner.

The Doll House Experiment

This week I did the unthinkable--transformed myself into a housewife. It's not what you are thinking, really. (Okay maybe it is). For those of you who do not know me, I hold a liberal political viewpoint, but most of my friends are conservative (it's okay, I like it that way). Most of the time I play along with the funny jokes, "Hey woman, make me a sammich!" But this week I conducted an experiment of my own. Donning flowered skirt and towering heels, I pulled on an apron and scraped pb&j on to slices of bread. Let us make this clear: It ain't a sammich until a woman makes it (this is not a joke).

The sammiches were welcomed by my man friends with open arms and fits of laughter, except for the one reasonable character who just thought I was crazy (you know who you are). Prior to any experiments, many people believed me to be a feminist, and they probably still do. I don't know why. It is not as if I parade the superiority of womanhood (it is quite the opposite, actually, even though inwardly I believe in equality). If there was one thing I learned from this day, it is if a man is given a sammich, he expects more sammiches in the future.

This could be leading into our bigger problem with "society" (as it seems if we have no answer to why some things occur we can always blame society). These problems develop when we are young. However, we can't really blame mothers for feeding their sons sammiches. If we could, then there is something inherently wrong with our society. But moving on, this problem comes from both sides. A mother expects her daughter to play "like a girl," and for these purposes, a father generally spoils his daughter. I can't say there is anything wrong here either. I am just generally confused. Probably because this whole blog entry is about boys.

Everything really comes down to communication I suppose. Everyone knows that the sexes really do not speak the same language. I am sure everyone here has had some experience or another that made them doubt the ability to really "connect." I cannot really blame Torvald because he acts the way he has been taught to act by his sammich feeding mother; similarly, I cannot really blame Nora. HOWEVER. Let me make this clear. I do not advocate the idea that Torvald does NOT have the capability of changing. I do believe he could if he tried. Granted, tried very hard. This also comes down to something really different between the sexes.

You have probably heard of it. Passive aggression. I like to believe that women hold so much angst through passive aggression that getting a clear read out of any woman is very difficult. My interpretation of the play is that, when Nora hopes for the wonderful, she knows that it won't happen. I also think that she does not want it to happen. As people in class have said, she does NOT give Torvald a chance to really change. Between the time that he receives the letter and the time that she leaves he probably had enough time to eat only five sammiches (and this is inadequate for any male). For these reasons, I have to revert back to what I know. I know that when my mother and I get into squabbles, we play down what is really bothering us and hope the other person guesses at it. While doing that, neither of us really plan on resolving the issue (women just like a reason to stay angry). Nora really needed something that gave her the eyes to see and a reason to leave.

Of course, I really am playing into sexism too much. Ibsen did not believe that Nora's being a woman mattered. I like to agree with this, but for some reason, I just enjoy believing that Nora's problems would not exist if it weren't for those dang sammiches!

Separate Spheres

I loved A Doll's House. Really, really loved. Probably because deep down I am a feminist (shhhh!). However, there are parts that I don't necessarily agree with. Mostly I think it had to do with characters. For one, I was confused about Ms. Linde. Why does she return? I understand her husband died, but does that mean she needs to come back for a visit? Surely she needs a job, but by the looks of it, she and Nora are not very close friends anymore. In their first exchange, Nora acts with little sensitivity (probably due to her sheltered life). First it is talk of Ms. Linde's dead husband, and then Nora launches into a display of her glamorous lifestyle. Very tactless indeed. Why does Ms. Linde expect something from Nora? And isn't this Victorian times, why is Ms. Linde, a woman, able to take Krogstad's job? What happened to separate spheres? Does that just go out the window once your husband dies?

This is sort of feeding into something I had felt from the beginning of the play. I seriously thought this could have taken place in the 1920's. Or 40's and 50's. So upon reading the background information, 1879 seemed crazy old to me. When I envisioned her costume and the tarantella, I pictured a flapper girl prancing around in a barely there metallic get-up (this was before we learned the tarantella is death, which I should have known). And even after I read the play, I thought about how it could have been a Revolutionary Road type, and I can imagine Elizabeth Taylor playing Nora (okay, maybe she is a little too crazy to play Nora). But then again, I love how the play could transcend time. Unlike, you know, a Jane Austen novel. Nora probably looks something like this --->

Now on to the controversial: I fully support Nora's decision to leave her life. Do I think it was necessarily right for her? Probably not. I don't know where she could go, and I do think she would end up in the same situation with a different man. She knows how to work men, and that, I think is too vital for her to give up. You know why Rank is there; she needs a backup at all times--I'm not sure she is capable of living on her own. The death of Rank signifies the death of her old life. Whether or not she really changes, well...

Do I think she should leave her children? Yes. They are her little dolls too. It is worth noting that the time frame of this play is Christmas. The first action is the Porter coming to the door with a Christmas tree. What could be more significant than that? Christmas is the holiday that you are spoiled to death--when you trip on toy fire engines and spinning tops--and yes, when you play with your new doll house. It is also interesting what Nora says to the maid, "Be sure to hide the Christmas tree, Helene. The children mustn't see it before tonight when we've trimmed it." It is very telling of the play as a whole. She does not want to expose her children to the real world, and she herself holds unrealistic views of life. Everything needs to be manufactured and perfect.

Towards the end of Act 1, Nora is seen playing with her children but not really communicating with them. It is right after this that her problem arises, and her world comes crashing down. At the beginning of Act 2 the Christmas tree is "in the corner by the piano, stripped shabby-looking, with burnt-down candles." Of course the Christmas tree has born its gifts, but instead of the picture of a glowing mother, it is the picture of emptiness. This symbolism is very subtle, and I really love how it fits into the play. After all, the first thing I picture when I think of A Doll's House is that one Christmas morning I unwrapped my first American Girl Doll.

Hermes and Argus

I'm not sure who reads my mythology blog, but yes, today is the day my two blogs merge. As I am leaving for Massachusetts this weekend and will not have access to a computer, I suppose the time is now.

Brief note: The story behind Hermes and Argus begns with Zeus, who (big surprise) cheats on Hera with a woman named Io. Hera becomes furious, so Zeus, in an effort to protect his lover, turns Io into a cow. Hera then sends Argus (the beast with 100 eyes) to keep Io enslaved. Hermes is sent by Zeus to slay Argus--he bores Argus to death with a pointless story--and it goes as follows:

"Why, greetings my gentle beast, may I chance hold your interest for a moment?
That is a pretty sow you have tied up there, plan to breed her soon?
...I am sorry, that was an inconsiderate question, the Mrs.
Would have me whipped me for it. I do apologize
But wait, creature, perhaps you could aid a gentleman in need.
You see, fair beast, it is my wife who does drone endlessly on,
'These nymphs' and 'those graces'--what is a man to do?
Is it pertinent that a husband not stray far from the barn? I think not.
For it not she, my Mrs., who brought me the greatest gift,
but another who took the pleasure. Oh sure,
Pan is not the greatest looker around, and what with his horns and hooves
He did chase nymphs into the water, but you must know--
His attempts at affection did not go unrewarded, for now
Pan is the greatest piper around! Why it makes me faint, not openly
For the muses, you see, might find it uncooth.
It was while listening to his musical reeds that I thought,
'Such a wondrous son!'
But, ho, you do have a very plump sow
Now how do you keep her cheeks flushed?
Throw a bale of hay at her feet every time you spot
an imp taking up quarters in the woods nearby?
I do believe you clever, beast, for with a hundred eyes
I suppose you could spy every muse from here to Thebes
But still keep a faithful watch over your dear sow!
(Oh I do humor myself)
Why, beast, what be your fair maiden's name?
She, so tame and so sweet, must have a timid name
Phoebe, perhaps? No? Artema? ...Io?
Ho, not Bessie, what an outrageous name for a sow!
Oh, now, you do seem quite at ease,
What with all but five eyes closed, so lend me them here
As my troubles with the Mrs. do seem to multiply,
So I shall breathe myself a sigh of relief. Now this merits a swig
--Cheers! It is quite often that dear Dionysus provide such drink.
The Mrs. agitates at the sight of my indulgences. I do say,
'Now lovely, do not be envious of a man's freedom
to drink. He has spent an exhausting day on his flying feet,
inventing fire and bribing the dead to cross the River,
while you sit here preparing the ambrosia and nectar.
You look after the little 'uns, I earn my place with Zeus.'
She did not take too kindly to that. You care for a swig?
Oh? No matter, you seem quite all right,
Yes quite asleep after all.
Yes, I say it so, your last eye just drooped close.
Now to make the Mrs. proud."

Yes, I am eating my words

So I love Invisible Man, and hope has been restored to me! :D

My first thought when reading the first couple of chapters was, I have read this before, but where? and it bothered me for quite awhile, until I read through chapter 3 and finally figured it out. It was in an SAT subject practice test I took. It was the passage on his grandfather, and I guess I must have understood it pretty well because I answered all of the questions correctly.

"I was considered an example of desirable conduct--just as my grand father had been. And what puzzled me was that the old man had defined it as treachery. When I was praised for my conduct I felt a guilt that in some way I was doing something that was really against the wishes of the white folks, that if they had understood they would have desired me to act just the opposite, that I should have been sulky and mean, and that that really would have been what they wanted, even though they were fooled and thought they wanted me to act as I did" (Ellison 17).

I thought this passage was beautiful, and I think it is a real driving point for the book. All his life the narrator has been giving them smiles, working his way up in the world, and then what happens? I guess he halfway understands his grandfather's treachery when he meets the vet--a man who makes it his plan to do good in the world, only to find his efforts to be pure vanity at best. So Ellison has really set up the book in the first chapter, and I am excited to see the narrator change his tune as the novel progresses.

42) It can be inferred from the passage that the grandfather regarded what he called treachery as
a) an affirmative act, because the deception allows you to prevail
b) a useless act, because those who are betrayed are too obtuse to notice
c) an innocent act, because no one is misled by it
d) an honorable act, because the behavior exhibited is friendly and agreeable
e) an unintentional act, because no one would knowingly engage in such dangerous behavior

I suppose if the narrator's grandfather hadn't been a quiet man who silently rebelled, he would be something like the vet. The vet says, "Already he's learned to repress not only his emotions but his humanity. He's invisible, a walking personification of the Negative, the most perfect achievement of your dreams, sir! The mechanical man!" (Ellison 94).

And still, I am confused. There is something here I don't really understand, and I guess it would make sense to me if I knew why Mr. Norton felt his destiny was with the school. His daughter died and everything, but what does that have to do with the narrator? I do love it when the vet screams at them, "Now the two of you descend the stairs into chaos." There is something here I cannot quite grasp, something bigger. Sure, civil rights, but that might be an overstatement. In my opinion, it is sort of like a counter-culture because the narrator is not interested in taking action. He is not a radical, and given the time frame of the novel, I would guess it could be about the Harlem Renaissance. Seems more like an identity crisis than Civil Rights.

Still, I am rather annoyed with Mr. Norton's character. He is just like those men throwing a scholarship at the narrator--it feels as though it is a cruel game to test the potential of someone and then shoot them down again. As though they are some charity case (and I have to wonder at the parallel between the vet and Mr. Norton, as they both want(ed) something for the dignity of it). And why did he give money to Trueblood for doing something awful? The significance of Trueblood is really irking me. I cannot tell if it is a horror story or just another thing that happened. Is Trueblood simply the other end of the spectrum, those who were so affected by slavery that they could never possibly progress in society? But then Trueblood says it is the "white folks" who stick up for him, as though the people up at the college are ashamed of how he represents what the blacks are trying to leave behind. It seems as though Ellison is just pointing out the condescension of whites in their efforts to help blacks. But wait, he paints both sides and implies the blacks' desertion of pride.

Wow, I just don't know where this book is going, but I will just let it take me there.

Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo

This week I used the SAT subject test as a way to avoid yet another epic battle with the Regal Popper. Sans popcorn grease burns, the weekend came and went with a crash of Indian music and spicy food--I danced and laughed until the next morning when Maestro Ludwig buckled under pre-concert pressure and nearly threw the Soprano at us (he is a very small man). Now I'm sitting here wondering how I can possibly connect my thoughts to Shakespeare.

I have been slightly disappointed so far in lit class. I feel little to no connection with our reading material, Madame Bovary aside. Shakespeare can't be to blame. But maybe that is the problem--Shakespeare is Shakespeare. I feel as though I have been conditioned to accept it. The only vestige of intrigue I find in the works of Shakespeare is the subtle-or-not-so-subtle touch of sexual humor. And I can't really expound on that either. Othello is dead, Desdemona is dead, Cassio is dead, Rodrigo is dead, Emilia is dead, and Iago gets away. What can I say about that? What themes can I find? Sure, trust, faith, look before you leap, yadda yadda yadda. It's all very didactic.

Connection, for me at least, comes rarely and sporadically. Which feeds into another annoyance with lit class--I believe pop-culture has just as much literary value as Shakespeare. Wasn't Shakespeare considered pop-culture back in the day? I just think that film and music is so much a part of us that I can't help but talk about it. This weekend I watched Blue Velvet, both versions of Clash of the Titans, and The Triplets of Belville. Blue Velvet honestly reminds me Of Mice and Men combined with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I actually dissected Clash of the Titans for those "literary allusions" that we seem to endlessly search for. What I found is that Medusa could easily be related to Harry Potter's basilisk. The Triplets of Belville was this amazing pseudo-silent film with that old-school animation we all miss. It was reminiscent of the '20s and was so clever I couldn't help but laugh. Where does that leave me for literary connections?

So I do declare that this week's lit blog is about absurdist literature. We are reading Albert Camus's The Stranger in French class. According to Wiki, "The Absurd" refers to the conflict between the human tendency to seek inherent meaning in life and the human inability to find any. For example, in The Stranger, the main character's mother dies. He feels nothing, not sorrow or even relief (haha). He floats around complaining about the price of train tickets to his mother's funeral and wondering what his boss will think about his leave of absence. He watches a neighbor kick his dog daily and doesn't think it a slightly bit odd. I have a feeling that by the end of this novel nothing will have happened and that I will go on my merry way thinking how useless the world is. At least that will leave me some connection, unlike Shakespeare, which leaves me no thoughts at all.

Guessing I'm just tired and hoping writer's block will go away so that I can write about Madame Bovary--hopefully Invisible Man will speak to me this week.

Dali's Mustache

Yesterday was free Fulton County day at the High Museum of Art. And for those who have not seen the Dali exhibit, I seriously recommend that you do--I think this is the most engaging exhibit they have ever had. Not another, "This was the basin Marie Antoinette washed her feet in" or "Here's my naked wife on a beach, in the woods, and under a tree." There was development and absurdity. What's more, after I saw the exhibit I attended a lecture where friends of Dali remarked on their experiences. It was the strangest thing I have ever heard.

"Since I don't smoke, I decided to grow a mustache - it is better for the health.
However, I always carried a jewel-studded cigarette case in which, instead of tobacco, were carefully placed several mustaches, Adolphe Menjou style. I offered them politely to my friends: "Mustache? Mustache? Mustache?"
Nobody dared to touch them. This was my test regarding the sacred aspect of mustaches."--Salvador Dali

 I learned so much this weekend I cannot even begin to wrap my head around it all. You know when those college essays ask you for some fictional character or artist that has influenced you the most? Well I think I have found that artist. Maybe in college I will get the chance to study him further. 

Anyways, Dali's favorite thing to do was draw rhinoceros horns. When Dali sat down to make his own version of Vermeer's Lacemaker he worked for a few hours. The only thing he had drawn was a few rhino horns. He was fascinated by them--the shape and the texture. Mostly I guess he was drawn to natural patterns, you've heard of the golden ratio I'm sure, as was he drawn to logarithmic functions. Thus the rhinoceros horns.

What is great about Dali is how you can look at a piece of his work for hours and still never decipher every detail. His work is so...daedalean. The High did a fantastic job at really showcasing his development. In this painting to the left is a picture of The Virgin Mary and Jesus in her womb. Taking time period into account, this was done around 1945 after the atomic bombs. You see Dali taking his lack of faith (he is a fallen Catholic, like myself) and trying to rebuild it. Except he is torn between science and religion. And he also has a fascination with babies in the womb, even saying that he could remember his own first 9 months. He was also fascinated with the idea that some birds hatch from an egg with no help from their mothers. So you see an egg at the top of the painting. You also see a floating ball, which is, I presume, a representation of an atom. In this he is generally confused. In his later paintings (I wish I could find them online) The Virgin Mary is no longer cracked. The baby has the ball in his right hand and The Bible in his left. Various other things also, including a rhino, a cracked atom, and a blade of wheat (he really liked wheat also).

The lecture was incredibly interesting. When I walked in, I sat down among artists, one with a shoe for a hat. It was surprising when the first presenter walked to the stage--he was wearing a molecule structure that covered his face. Actually, I really wasn't that surprised. Anyways, he talked about how he worked with Dali as his unofficial apprentice. He began telling us a story. "One day I found this remote-control car and thought, 'wow, we can turn this into an egg.' Well, I went to the Ritz and presented my idea to Dali, who looked at me and said, 'One egg? We can turn this into thirty eggs!' So Dali approached the first woman who walked by. She was holding a white plastic bag. He seized her bag, and she protested. They fought for a second or two; he just looked at her and screamed, 'I can make this bag into a masterpiece and you can't! So the bag's mine.' He ripped it from her hands and lipsticks and brushes flew on to the floor and rolled around. We went back to the hotel room and began cutting ovals out of the bag and pasted yellow cores on to them and then attached a wire to it. We went back downstairs and into the conference room. They were shooting some television show with some young actress. I feel bad for her because it was her debut, and we jumped on stage and paraded our new invention. After that we left and walked down fifth avenue. Crowds of people followed us, walking their dogs. Dali said, 'Some people walk their dogs. Well, I walk my eggs.'"

The second presenter was a woman who Dali had relations with. She must have been sixty or so, but she was certainly stuck in the past, retelling stories of how she modeled for Dali and how he had a taste for the erotic. It was a weird presentation. Just plain strange. The third presenter was a fellow artist who had worked with Dali, and her artwork was a reaction to some of his stuff. What I remember most, well next to the Pistol-Phallus (which I will find a better time and place aside from a lit blog to retell) is the Mickey-Angelo. She was a feminist at the time of the work (the above is just a sketch of it), and she discussed how it was an accurate representation of man. How Mickey Mouse was sort of the first launch into a new era (or consumerism, atomic bombs, pop-culture) just as Adam was. Furthermore, as you can recall, the painting done of Adam has a leaf over his...uh parts. When the Pope had seen the original, he told Michelangelo to make it smaller, and smaller, and then even smaller. The presenter remarked, "Well, it certainly isn't the size of a peanut. So I found the dollar sign quite fitting--as the mark of man is defined by money in our culture." It was all very funny.

She also said she had a lobster phone just like this one. She was willing to pull it out if it rang.

The Salvador Dali exhibit was extremely engaging. What a fun weekend. Just one last quote, "I often wonder where Dali would be if he hadn't met his wife. And his watch hadn't melted." --Andy Warhol

Good Dogs Always Eat

            Yes, everyone has the ability to donate their blood. The only requirements are that you must carry a reasonable weight, or even better, carry twice as much weight as any normal person should; cannot have AIDs or test HIV-positive; cannot have traveled to any third-world countries in the last six months; cannot have or have had any cancer of the blood; and finally, have at least a hemoglobin rating of 12.5.

            The donors sat in the gym, clumped onto a group of bleachers.  One boy in back held a white box up to his chin. He was spooning beef into his mouth. Surely he must have been hungry, but I knew what was really on his mind: beef is very high in iron. Reminds me of that calculus test I crammed for.

            One girl decided to give me her life’s rant, “I just hope my iron level is okay. They didn’t let me donate last time. I’ve been eating red meat and beans every day. Vitamins twice a day. I hope it’s okay. Do you think it’s okay? Yeah it will be okay. I’m sure.” Pill popper…

            Another girl, “I drank eight glasses of water last night! I am so ready for this. No way am I going to faint.”

I flashed back to my night—it included a carton of cookie dough and Marlon Brando, “I coulda’ been a contenda’!”

           

“Number 22!”

That was me. I was transported to another line. Why must everything be accompanied by a countdown? This was some sick game of musical chairs. One down, 4 to go. I was getting closer.

            I looked to my left. One guy, who looked strikingly like a leprechaun version of Leonardo DiCaprio, teased a girl, “What if the needle rips open your arm and sends all of your blood flailing through the air? What if you pass out and never wake up? You know I heard they sometimes keep stabbing you until your arm turns blue.” What if the needle cracks in half, one part stuck in my vein, keeping the blood fresh and pulsating across the floor?

3 to go.

There are those who can handle large amounts of stress, and there are those who buckle under pressure. Sure we like to think of ourselves as soldiers, as warriors in an abysmal world, but the reality is that we are no stronger than the person sitting at our elbows. People seek differences on full moons—whether or not there are more babies born, more accidents, more Bigfoot sightings. I, personally, would like to know the statistics on April Fool’s Day. That one day people are allowed to be jerks and get away with it—and the people who are not jerks are the victims of jerks. Moreover, they are Victims of a Social Order. Yes, April 1^st is the date young adults receive verdicts from colleges. I would like to see the suicide rate for the month of April.

“Someone watch her!” A girl slumped over in a chair at the other side of the room, where the donors went after their blood-drawing. Her body slid down and she lay sprawled on her back.

2 to go.

            The girl who sat to the right of me hated the sight of blood. “Is that wire over there filled with  blood, or is it just red?” The wire was connected to an anaphorisis machine, the one responsible for separating blood platelets and recycling the leftovers back to the donor. It was bright orange.

I recalled meeting this girl at a recent party – the only reason I remembered her name was because it was the same as the feral child who was notorious for being locked in a closet for 14 years. The only difference was that the girl who sat next to me knew more than just the words, “stop” and “no.”

It was my turn. A nurse took me to an isolated cubicle for the typical donor questions.

 Her voice was practiced and casual on the border of condescending.

“Do you exercise and eat plenty of red meats?”

Let me think--Extra-curricular Activities:

Cross country, orchestra, Jr. Civitan, Jr. Beta, National Honors Society, Chamber for Charities, summer internship, Save the Whales Club

 Oh wait. That’s not what she means. Red meats? “Yeah, I ate a hamburger last week.”

“Okay, I’m going to test your hemoglobin level now. This will just be a prick.”

That uncomfortable splinter feeling spread through the tip of my finger.

“Wait here while I take this to the lab.”

I sat still and waited. The girl I talked to on the bleachers walked by, the pill popper.

“My iron levels were too low…”

I don’t stand a chance.

The nurse apparated with a form in her hands. “You see here, you need at least a 12.1 to be considered within the normal hemoglobin range, a 12.5 to be accepted into the program.”

 Wait, do you want that weighted or non-weighted?

 “If we try another finger there is a chance that the score might go up. Care to play again?”

“Okay. Try this finger. It’s the only one that I don’t use to play the violin.”

“All right now, let me see that hand. Don’t be nervous. You play violin? I used to play violin ages ago. What was it--A—G--D--?”

 “GDAE”

Good Dogs Always Eat

“Oh that’s right. Yeah. Good times.” 

Great times.

“Let me just take this to the lab. Be right back, don’t go anywhere.”

 So when taking the derivative of e^2x, you first take the derivative of 2x, being 2, and multiply it by e^2x. 2e^2x. When taking the integral by the udu method, u=2xdx, du=2, therefore you get ½ the integral e^u,which gives you…

 “Sorry, your results didn't quite qualify you as a donor. Close but no cigar. Let me just print out this deferral sheet...have you thought about community college?”

So this is what it has come to.

“So why didn’t you get into UPenn?”

            -“Oh, I’m anemic. I didn’t even try.”

            -“They told me my veins were too small.”

I read my deferral sheet. Iron deficiency.

Maybe this disability will make it easier for me to get into Tech. I have a friend who is deaf in one ear…

            I looked around. Bodies sat perched in dentist chairs, feet in the air, blood rushing to their heads. They sat with smug smiles and lofty wires streaming from their arms, the nurses inspecting their pale, arrogant faces. Afterwards they would proudly display the remaining of their broken capillaries and brag about the nurse’s inability to locate a vein. They were the chosen ones.

Taking Conciseness a Step Back

I guess other blogs have inspired me speak tell more of my history of poetry (just goes to show that I am a follower shhh). I always remember writing--mostly about my cats and dogs (they're just so darn cuddly!). My earliest documented poem was probably in the third grade when I still wore socks up to my knees. It went something like this:

What if the world turned upside down
Then all of the trees will fall out of the ground.

What if the color of our world turned black and white
Then all the penguins would fit in just right.

What if all the music disappeared
The we will all turn into mimes or live without ears

What if kids ruled
Now that would be cool

(I must admit, I did edit this a little, just a tiny bit! Ha I can't let nonsense stand) After that I explored in middle school, mostly writing grotesque poems about botulism and violins (which just sounded like sex, not surprisingly--Foster is right, we are all obsessed). My poems tended towards free-verse, as they still do. Until one day in Mr. Blackwell's class when I wrote this masterpiece:

Gary the Canary was a small flightless bird
Gary the Canary was a miner-superb

Okay so maybe that isn't all my poetry has come to (Hint: check the litmag from a couple of years ago). Since then I have dropped poetry all together in favor of prose. Maybe David Sedaris convinced me. (Hint: check the litmag site, wait does that still exist?)

So now I mostly write satires and loop music over the sounds of my washing machine. It's a beautiful thing.

On Conciseness

Writing college application essays is a pain in the...neck. Not only do I have to sum up some important aspect of my life, but I also have to do so in under 800 words (or so is the higher end of college essay length). Might as well submit an epic poem; it would make life easier. Actually, I will just steal lines from The Iliad. I'm sure they won't notice.

Today Madame Rollot mentioned mushroom clouds in connection with Sisyphus (not to be confused with syphilis, got ya!) and the nature of man. The conversation was going the way of Le Petit Prince who insists that the Baobobs represent an undercurrent of evil (the illustration resembling a mushroom cloud). For those of you who don't know, a Baobob is a really ugly tree:

The Little Prince makes it his job to dig up the seeds before they grow, so we must pay attention or else--KaBoom! And so Madame Rollot tied in the discussion of Sisyphus (yay mythology!) who constantly tries to roll a rock up a hill, only to have it roll back down and hit him in the head. So we see this through wars over and over again. And why? Well, this is the introduction to a poem I found that I rather liked. Since we are beginning our sejourn with poetry, might as well start posting about it. Anyways, that was my personal connection with the poem. See if you can find one.

In trust we steal

That innocuous pleasure

When given, only received

By a half-wit

Who recognizes

That none are looking

And seizes only little

Of the lot

Could risk further

But is yet only

Half-gutsy

And half-banal

And upon returning

Eyes find only

What they remember

And rest left forgotten

So the half-wit

Is trust with

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