"You like to commit heavily to things... but it's often for the sake of a commital. So you transfer the commital to something else, in hopes it'll work out better. So you have dramatic transitions. It may seem flighty to some, but that's not the most accurate term to describe your behavior"
thoughts on chut, by john strand.
right on target. ouch. should i take it with a grain of salt? it is me...i guess i just have to accept that. i wonder if will ever change...be committed to something that i truly LOVE. or someone.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
advice
thank you carolyn.
thank you colleen.
thank you galen.
you all said the same thing:
I need to lighten up.
I need to not be so hard on myself.
I need to take risks.
thank you colleen.
thank you galen.
you all said the same thing:
I need to lighten up.
I need to not be so hard on myself.
I need to take risks.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
consciousness
At the University of Chicago you can major in the History of Consciousness.
Carolyn showed me this pretty interesting article about Consciousness today. That act was in no way connected to the aforementioned statement. one of those weird coincidences, i suppose.
Though parts of it teetered more toward New Age religion, it brought up many interesting, thought-provoking points. I suppose i should reexamine my biases against psychology.
i was pretty conflicted, though. actually, at first i was entranced, then argumentative, then tried to reach a compromise. true consciousness, it argued, entails "letting go." letting go of all analyzing, thinking....just letting your mind wander...ignoring the inner voice. The sense of self is merely a compilation of abstractions and concepts. We conceptualize the world too much instead of seeing it for what it truly is...crises, therefore, ensue when we manipulate our surroundings b whatever preconceived notions or "concepts" we try to apply. technology only escalates this problem. I did like the idea of "letting go." especially with regards to nature...going outside and simply absorbing...what? i don't know. it's so hard not to think, not to analyze. i am entranced by the idea of just sitting and being. connecting with nature.
yes, i suppose that is a bit "new-agish," but doesn't it sound appealing? letting go of all selfishness, all conceptions of self! the world is not about you, so stop thinking about thinking about something profound. or thinking about thinking about thinking about something profound.
over and over and over again.
cessation.
but then i tried to reconcile that with my beliefs. and i don't think the purging of all thoughts is the key to "nirvana." heck, i don't even believe in nirvana. That was what bothered me the most about this article...it's claims that to live "fully" one must cast aside all thinking.
i don't think that the emotional sphere is completely detached from the mental sphere or the psychological sphere. this article was founded upon the assumption that they are. love cannot be separated from thinking. compassion cannot be separated from understanding.
i kept thinking of romans twelve, which says,
Therefore, I urge you, brothers, in view of God's mercy, to offer your bodies as living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to God—this is your spiritual act of worship. Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is—his good, pleasing and perfect will.
...be transformed by the renewing of your mind. thinking, analyzing, understanding...all of these have a role to play in life. yet in and of themselves...it's not enough. a transformation must take place. most religions acknowledge this...that's why nirvana exists, that's why escapism exists, that's why people do yoga. something needs to be done to the mind.
and as attractive as "letting go" of life while in the woods may be, i think it's more attractive to yield your mind to God. granted, i'm not really sure what this looks like in every-day life. i'm still working on that. and even though i don't really understand it, even though it's still really abstract...i have faith in what i believe.
i just feel as though the self is important. all of my abstractions, all of my conceptualizations, all of my predispositions...are not for naught. I have a mind for a purpose, and only through its cultivation and transformation (by a higher source) will I be able to employ it in the way God designed. i don't like nirvana because even though it's about "letting go," it's ultimately about that "feeling" of euphoria...which is pretty self-centered. nirvana is, paradoxically, self-serving.
who really cares if i have a moment of utter peace in the middle of a field? i guess it has its place in life, but it's not the end-all-be-all. wouldn't it be better to use my mind and make some sort of difference in the world...even if it's so much as making someone laugh after looking at a weird picture that i photographed?
the chief end of man is to glorify God and enjoy him forever. again, i don't entirely understand what this looks like, but I'm pretty sure it isn't nirvana.
maybe i'm wrong. i'm still working on that.
granted, it was fun to wrestle with this concept.
Carolyn showed me this pretty interesting article about Consciousness today. That act was in no way connected to the aforementioned statement. one of those weird coincidences, i suppose.
Though parts of it teetered more toward New Age religion, it brought up many interesting, thought-provoking points. I suppose i should reexamine my biases against psychology.
i was pretty conflicted, though. actually, at first i was entranced, then argumentative, then tried to reach a compromise. true consciousness, it argued, entails "letting go." letting go of all analyzing, thinking....just letting your mind wander...ignoring the inner voice. The sense of self is merely a compilation of abstractions and concepts. We conceptualize the world too much instead of seeing it for what it truly is...crises, therefore, ensue when we manipulate our surroundings b whatever preconceived notions or "concepts" we try to apply. technology only escalates this problem. I did like the idea of "letting go." especially with regards to nature...going outside and simply absorbing...what? i don't know. it's so hard not to think, not to analyze. i am entranced by the idea of just sitting and being. connecting with nature.
yes, i suppose that is a bit "new-agish," but doesn't it sound appealing? letting go of all selfishness, all conceptions of self! the world is not about you, so stop thinking about thinking about something profound. or thinking about thinking about thinking about something profound.
over and over and over again.
cessation.
but then i tried to reconcile that with my beliefs. and i don't think the purging of all thoughts is the key to "nirvana." heck, i don't even believe in nirvana. That was what bothered me the most about this article...it's claims that to live "fully" one must cast aside all thinking.
i don't think that the emotional sphere is completely detached from the mental sphere or the psychological sphere. this article was founded upon the assumption that they are. love cannot be separated from thinking. compassion cannot be separated from understanding.
i kept thinking of romans twelve, which says,
Therefore, I urge you, brothers, in view of God's mercy, to offer your bodies as living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to God—this is your spiritual act of worship. Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is—his good, pleasing and perfect will.
...be transformed by the renewing of your mind. thinking, analyzing, understanding...all of these have a role to play in life. yet in and of themselves...it's not enough. a transformation must take place. most religions acknowledge this...that's why nirvana exists, that's why escapism exists, that's why people do yoga. something needs to be done to the mind.
and as attractive as "letting go" of life while in the woods may be, i think it's more attractive to yield your mind to God. granted, i'm not really sure what this looks like in every-day life. i'm still working on that. and even though i don't really understand it, even though it's still really abstract...i have faith in what i believe.
i just feel as though the self is important. all of my abstractions, all of my conceptualizations, all of my predispositions...are not for naught. I have a mind for a purpose, and only through its cultivation and transformation (by a higher source) will I be able to employ it in the way God designed. i don't like nirvana because even though it's about "letting go," it's ultimately about that "feeling" of euphoria...which is pretty self-centered. nirvana is, paradoxically, self-serving.
who really cares if i have a moment of utter peace in the middle of a field? i guess it has its place in life, but it's not the end-all-be-all. wouldn't it be better to use my mind and make some sort of difference in the world...even if it's so much as making someone laugh after looking at a weird picture that i photographed?
the chief end of man is to glorify God and enjoy him forever. again, i don't entirely understand what this looks like, but I'm pretty sure it isn't nirvana.
maybe i'm wrong. i'm still working on that.
granted, it was fun to wrestle with this concept.
At the University of Chicago you can major in the History of Consciousness.
Carolyn showed me this pretty interesting article about Consciousness today. That act was in no way connected to the aforementioned statement. one of those weird coincidences, i suppose.
Though parts of it teetered more toward New Age religion, it brought up many interesting, thought-provoking points. I suppose i should reexamine my biases against psychology.
i was pretty conflicted, though. actually, at first i was entranced, then argumentative, then tried to reach a compromise. true consciousness, it argued, entails "letting go." letting go of all analyzing, thinking....just letting your mind wander...ignoring the inner voice. The sense of self is merely a compilation of abstractions and concepts. We conceptualize the world too much instead of seeing it for what it truly is...crises, therefore, ensue when we manipulate our surroundings b whatever preconceived notions or "concepts" we try to apply. technology only escalates this problem. I did like the idea of "letting go." especially with regards to nature...going outside and simply absorbing...what? i don't know. it's so hard not to think, not to analyze. i am entranced by the idea of just sitting and being. connecting with nature.
yes, i suppose that is a bit "new-agish," but doesn't it sound appealing? letting go of all selfishness, all conceptions of self! the world is not about you, so stop thinking about thinking about something profound. or thinking about thinking about thinking about something profound.
over and over and over again.
cessation.
but then i tried to reconcile that with my beliefs. and i don't think the purging of all thoughts is the key to "nirvana." heck, i don't even believe in nirvana. That was what bothered me the most about this article...it's claims that to live "fully" one must cast aside all thinking.
i don't think that the emotional sphere is completely detached from the mental sphere or the psychological sphere. this article was founded upon the assumption that they are. love cannot be separated from thinking. compassion cannot be separated from understanding.
i kept thinking of romans twelve, which says,
Therefore, I urge you, brothers, in view of God's mercy, to offer your bodies as living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to God—this is your spiritual act of worship. Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is—his good, pleasing and perfect will.
...be transformed by the renewing of your mind. thinking, analyzing, understanding...all of these have a role to play in life. yet in and of themselves...it's not enough. a transformation must take place. most religions acknowledge this...that's why nirvana exists, that's why escapism exists, that's why people do yoga. something needs to be done to the mind.
and as attractive as "letting go" of life while in the woods may be, i think it's more attractive to yield your mind to God. granted, i'm not really sure what this looks like in every-day life. i'm still working on that. and even though i don't really understand it, even though it's still really abstract...i have faith in what i believe.
i just feel as though the self
Carolyn showed me this pretty interesting article about Consciousness today. That act was in no way connected to the aforementioned statement. one of those weird coincidences, i suppose.
Though parts of it teetered more toward New Age religion, it brought up many interesting, thought-provoking points. I suppose i should reexamine my biases against psychology.
i was pretty conflicted, though. actually, at first i was entranced, then argumentative, then tried to reach a compromise. true consciousness, it argued, entails "letting go." letting go of all analyzing, thinking....just letting your mind wander...ignoring the inner voice. The sense of self is merely a compilation of abstractions and concepts. We conceptualize the world too much instead of seeing it for what it truly is...crises, therefore, ensue when we manipulate our surroundings b whatever preconceived notions or "concepts" we try to apply. technology only escalates this problem. I did like the idea of "letting go." especially with regards to nature...going outside and simply absorbing...what? i don't know. it's so hard not to think, not to analyze. i am entranced by the idea of just sitting and being. connecting with nature.
yes, i suppose that is a bit "new-agish," but doesn't it sound appealing? letting go of all selfishness, all conceptions of self! the world is not about you, so stop thinking about thinking about something profound. or thinking about thinking about thinking about something profound.
over and over and over again.
cessation.
but then i tried to reconcile that with my beliefs. and i don't think the purging of all thoughts is the key to "nirvana." heck, i don't even believe in nirvana. That was what bothered me the most about this article...it's claims that to live "fully" one must cast aside all thinking.
i don't think that the emotional sphere is completely detached from the mental sphere or the psychological sphere. this article was founded upon the assumption that they are. love cannot be separated from thinking. compassion cannot be separated from understanding.
i kept thinking of romans twelve, which says,
Therefore, I urge you, brothers, in view of God's mercy, to offer your bodies as living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to God—this is your spiritual act of worship. Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is—his good, pleasing and perfect will.
...be transformed by the renewing of your mind. thinking, analyzing, understanding...all of these have a role to play in life. yet in and of themselves...it's not enough. a transformation must take place. most religions acknowledge this...that's why nirvana exists, that's why escapism exists, that's why people do yoga. something needs to be done to the mind.
and as attractive as "letting go" of life while in the woods may be, i think it's more attractive to yield your mind to God. granted, i'm not really sure what this looks like in every-day life. i'm still working on that. and even though i don't really understand it, even though it's still really abstract...i have faith in what i believe.
i just feel as though the self
Monday, April 17, 2006
Sunday, April 16, 2006
experience
"I went to e woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartanlike as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and to be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion. For most men, it appears to me, are in a strange uncertainty about it, whether it is of the devil or of God, and have somewhat hastily concluded that it is the chief end of man here to “glorify God and enjoy him forever.” -from Where I Lived, and What I Lived For. Thoreau.
These are my thoughts. Not verbatim, for I am not Thoreau and I am not perfectly at ease while in nature. Yet I have been contemplating something akin to this...chewing over words like "experience" and "life."
I wish I were Thoreau. I wish I knew what I lived for and sought after it whole-heartedly.
I romanticize, but do not live in the present. I dream about the future...what i can one day do, what i can one day be, what i can one day understand. But what about now? What do I live for? To be quite honest, I'm not sure. What drives me? What are my passions? I have those answers that I spit off instinctively, reflexively, when a stranger nonchalantly asks. Photography. Learning. Movies. Thinking. Running. But those...those are just activities. What about Photography drives me? It's not just the act of taking pictures...can it really be that simple?
I do not know because I do not try. I do not know my passions because I do not explore. I do not know because I fit myself into a box...what I think Courtney SHOULD be, SHOULD like, SHOULD strive for.
I feel as though I've been spending this past semester casting aside eighteen years' worth of presuppositions. i was told who to be, how to act, what to value. and a lot of advice was good advice...i have built a foundation upon good principles, worthy principles...yet i'm not satisfied. b/c i never wrestled with them...challenged them...made SURE they were worth living for. I never made them MY principles. and so now i am conflicted...half of Courtney believes in all of these things in her head, but the other half has problems connecting them to, well, the rest of the world. And assumption is a dangerous thing. Living life blindly is a dangerous thing.
I hate that I was so sheltered as a child. grateful on one level...but I think it does more harm than one may think.
I'm trying to crash my plan. I am destroying the auto-pilot and switching over to manual mode. I hate having the answers (or what I think the answers are) but not really living by it. or challenging them. Why do I believe what I believe? Why do I like what I like? Why don't I know what I like? Why why why why why?
It's okay to question. In fact, people don't question enough.
I spent this weekend in the woods...with a friend who is overwhelming at ease. eerily at ease. beautifully at ease. with himself, with nature, with his passions and his beliefs. he's not just a list of hobbies and clubs...and he doesn't really rattle off his academic pursuits when asked what he does for fun. there's a deeper root. nature....but not just nature...a union with nature. somewhere in between quiet observation and active participation. no need for words. silence is acceptable.
It is beautiful.
I'd like to spend more time outdoors. i'm not sure why. maybe because i feel i'll find myself...or maybe i feel like i'll forget myself completely and become entranced by something larger than myself. maybe because it scares me shitless, for lack of better terminology. i am stripped naked, fully conscious of myself yet paradoxically oblivious to myself...lost to my surroundings.
I don't want to die without having lived. failed. soared. tried.
I want to live sturdily. I'm not sure how to suck the marrow out of life. i just hope I'll die trying.
These are my thoughts. Not verbatim, for I am not Thoreau and I am not perfectly at ease while in nature. Yet I have been contemplating something akin to this...chewing over words like "experience" and "life."
I wish I were Thoreau. I wish I knew what I lived for and sought after it whole-heartedly.
I romanticize, but do not live in the present. I dream about the future...what i can one day do, what i can one day be, what i can one day understand. But what about now? What do I live for? To be quite honest, I'm not sure. What drives me? What are my passions? I have those answers that I spit off instinctively, reflexively, when a stranger nonchalantly asks. Photography. Learning. Movies. Thinking. Running. But those...those are just activities. What about Photography drives me? It's not just the act of taking pictures...can it really be that simple?
I do not know because I do not try. I do not know my passions because I do not explore. I do not know because I fit myself into a box...what I think Courtney SHOULD be, SHOULD like, SHOULD strive for.
I feel as though I've been spending this past semester casting aside eighteen years' worth of presuppositions. i was told who to be, how to act, what to value. and a lot of advice was good advice...i have built a foundation upon good principles, worthy principles...yet i'm not satisfied. b/c i never wrestled with them...challenged them...made SURE they were worth living for. I never made them MY principles. and so now i am conflicted...half of Courtney believes in all of these things in her head, but the other half has problems connecting them to, well, the rest of the world. And assumption is a dangerous thing. Living life blindly is a dangerous thing.
I hate that I was so sheltered as a child. grateful on one level...but I think it does more harm than one may think.
I'm trying to crash my plan. I am destroying the auto-pilot and switching over to manual mode. I hate having the answers (or what I think the answers are) but not really living by it. or challenging them. Why do I believe what I believe? Why do I like what I like? Why don't I know what I like? Why why why why why?
It's okay to question. In fact, people don't question enough.
I spent this weekend in the woods...with a friend who is overwhelming at ease. eerily at ease. beautifully at ease. with himself, with nature, with his passions and his beliefs. he's not just a list of hobbies and clubs...and he doesn't really rattle off his academic pursuits when asked what he does for fun. there's a deeper root. nature....but not just nature...a union with nature. somewhere in between quiet observation and active participation. no need for words. silence is acceptable.
It is beautiful.
I'd like to spend more time outdoors. i'm not sure why. maybe because i feel i'll find myself...or maybe i feel like i'll forget myself completely and become entranced by something larger than myself. maybe because it scares me shitless, for lack of better terminology. i am stripped naked, fully conscious of myself yet paradoxically oblivious to myself...lost to my surroundings.
I don't want to die without having lived. failed. soared. tried.
I want to live sturdily. I'm not sure how to suck the marrow out of life. i just hope I'll die trying.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
indeed.
indeed. paradoxically unbearable and freeing. adrenaline.
and....
oh jules, i miss you terribly right now. remember our skirts? and our einstein's runs? and starbucks? and we even worked together at panera. oh jules, i miss you so. can we go back to high school for a day?
my song.
i hate that people claim artists' lyrics as their own lifestories...but i guess i'll have to be a hypocrite. i really like these lyrics...i can relate. even though i don't interpret the emptiness literally...its supposed to be a lover. but it fits. and i'm glad that june is coming. and i'm glad that december is over. dig deeper.
If I am lost for a day try to find me
But if I don't come back, then I won't look behind me
All of the things, that I thought were so easy
Just got harder and harder each day
December is darkest, in June there's the light
But this empty bedroom won't make anything right
But out on the landing a friend I forgot to send home
Who waits up for me all through the night
Calendar Girl, who's in love with the world, stay alive!
Calendar Girl, who's in love with the world, stay alive!
I dreamed I was dying, as I so often do
And when I awoke I was sure it was true
I ran to the window and threw my head to the sky
And said whoever is up there, please don't let me die
But I can't live forever, I can't always be
One day I'll be sand on the beach by the sea
The pages keep turning, I'll mark off each day with a cross
And I'll laugh about all that we've lost
Calendar Girl, who is lost to the world, stay alive!
Calendar Girl, who is lost to the world, stay alive!
January, Febuary, March, April, May
I'm alive
June, July, August, September, October
I'm alive
November, December, yeah all through the winter
I'm alive
I'm alive!
(stars- calendar girl).
If I am lost for a day try to find me
But if I don't come back, then I won't look behind me
All of the things, that I thought were so easy
Just got harder and harder each day
December is darkest, in June there's the light
But this empty bedroom won't make anything right
But out on the landing a friend I forgot to send home
Who waits up for me all through the night
Calendar Girl, who's in love with the world, stay alive!
Calendar Girl, who's in love with the world, stay alive!
I dreamed I was dying, as I so often do
And when I awoke I was sure it was true
I ran to the window and threw my head to the sky
And said whoever is up there, please don't let me die
But I can't live forever, I can't always be
One day I'll be sand on the beach by the sea
The pages keep turning, I'll mark off each day with a cross
And I'll laugh about all that we've lost
Calendar Girl, who is lost to the world, stay alive!
Calendar Girl, who is lost to the world, stay alive!
January, Febuary, March, April, May
I'm alive
June, July, August, September, October
I'm alive
November, December, yeah all through the winter
I'm alive
I'm alive!
(stars- calendar girl).
a bit of nostalgia
at the end of the day I like that I have writing. there will always be work. school is work. photography work. bible-study is work. all of these activities become obsolete after so much time...they are all just "things" and meaning begins to fade. I think writing is one of the only things I have that is truly for me and me alone---which is why I could never major in creative writing, because then it wouldn't be what it is. therapeutic. comforting. a way of reminiscing or dreaming or blabbering. if you major in it you can't blabber, that's a rule.
I once wore a writing hat, like Jo from Little Women, while writing. P.S. it really helps.
the coming of spring has brought a flood of memories and longings back. all so tangible. Here are the most tangible (diversions and passions that I had tucked away for the winter, albeit subconsciously, in order to "work"):
1. eisley. well, eisley really is a microcosm of all good, pleasant music. Elbow and Smashing Pumpkins are for winter, but now winter is over and I can emerge from the darkness.
This is my state of being, where the "you"=not a person, but life in general.
Its happening all the time
When I open my eyes
I'm still taken by suprise
I hold sunlight and swallow fireflies
And it makes me want to cry
I love you
I shall never grow up
Make believe is much to fun
Can we go far away to the humming meadow
We were walking there
I had tangles in my hair
But you make me feel so pretty
You have shinning eyes
Yes like those forest lights
And it makes me want to cry
I love music. And listening to Eisley with the windows down in my car on my way back from class...i felt complete again. I really do love music, and i hate that i've slacked on listening to it for pleasure just because ju isn't here to burn me her latest preferences. i'm listening to rufus wainwright right now, and it's lovely. it makes me think of europe and johnny depp. "all the sights of paris swirl inside your iris." so here is my spring selection; that is, here are the artists that i automatically associate with spring, primarily b/c i first heard their music in spring.: It's time for...eisley, rufus wainwright, david gray, radiohead (let down), lapush, lydia's wonderful birthday mix from sophomore year.
2. I love driving. the best experience i had this week: driving in seventy degree weather to nowhere. i just drove. i had no EARTHLY idea where i was, but somehow meandered back to 15-501 and found manning drive. windows down. shoes off. one leg up on the seat. eisley lauding the trolly woods. my hair blowing. it's a little hot.
3. lacrosse. spring=lacrosse season. yet there is no mr. knerr, no frolicking in the westminster fields, no scavenging for yellow balls, no skirts, no goggles, no bagel packs. i mostly miss tossing the ball back in forth, analagous to playing a mere game of catch with a mitt. it's mindless and gives you such a sense of control and satisfaction. and then...you let go. and just talk for hours. and throw the ball around. the yellow ball. against the blue sky. So i played lacrosse for the first time since fall tonight at Relay For Life, with three random Chapel Hill High students. but it was so comforting. so familiar.
4. cross-country. so this isn't spring, but i miss RUNNING. and not just the ACT of running...b/c if i do that by myself i run myself into a rut and get dreadfully lonely. I miss cross-country. the thrill of running with fellow quirky masochists. who find a quiet joy in running through the woods, isolated, away from the buzz of campus. in tune only with the beating of the heart and the rhythm of the feet and the sweating of the brow. you are so utterly exposed yet so utterly free. i miss that...i miss that group of people and that activity.
5. acapella singing. the lord bless you and keep you, enough said.
6. sevilla. espanol. kim y rosario y tortilla de patatas. varias palabras muy distintas como "grua"...la primera palabra que aprendi. david bisbal y mis clases y calle bendis y las palmas y aun el calor insoportable. y decir la palabra insoportable.
lydia, john, jules, emily, karah...i miss you all the most. especially right now, at this very second. i ache because i'm not with you. i'm not really complete. and i'm retreating into this dark little haven right now...of westminster. not the institution, but the memories of it, which are just memories of you all. i thought of each of you today at various points. and it wasn't just a fleeting thought...it was more of feeling or even a pain inside. i guess that's what you call nostalgia. or homesickness. anyways, i love you all...i really do.
I once wore a writing hat, like Jo from Little Women, while writing. P.S. it really helps.
the coming of spring has brought a flood of memories and longings back. all so tangible. Here are the most tangible (diversions and passions that I had tucked away for the winter, albeit subconsciously, in order to "work"):
1. eisley. well, eisley really is a microcosm of all good, pleasant music. Elbow and Smashing Pumpkins are for winter, but now winter is over and I can emerge from the darkness.
This is my state of being, where the "you"=not a person, but life in general.
Its happening all the time
When I open my eyes
I'm still taken by suprise
I hold sunlight and swallow fireflies
And it makes me want to cry
I love you
I shall never grow up
Make believe is much to fun
Can we go far away to the humming meadow
We were walking there
I had tangles in my hair
But you make me feel so pretty
You have shinning eyes
Yes like those forest lights
And it makes me want to cry
I love music. And listening to Eisley with the windows down in my car on my way back from class...i felt complete again. I really do love music, and i hate that i've slacked on listening to it for pleasure just because ju isn't here to burn me her latest preferences. i'm listening to rufus wainwright right now, and it's lovely. it makes me think of europe and johnny depp. "all the sights of paris swirl inside your iris." so here is my spring selection; that is, here are the artists that i automatically associate with spring, primarily b/c i first heard their music in spring.: It's time for...eisley, rufus wainwright, david gray, radiohead (let down), lapush, lydia's wonderful birthday mix from sophomore year.
2. I love driving. the best experience i had this week: driving in seventy degree weather to nowhere. i just drove. i had no EARTHLY idea where i was, but somehow meandered back to 15-501 and found manning drive. windows down. shoes off. one leg up on the seat. eisley lauding the trolly woods. my hair blowing. it's a little hot.
3. lacrosse. spring=lacrosse season. yet there is no mr. knerr, no frolicking in the westminster fields, no scavenging for yellow balls, no skirts, no goggles, no bagel packs. i mostly miss tossing the ball back in forth, analagous to playing a mere game of catch with a mitt. it's mindless and gives you such a sense of control and satisfaction. and then...you let go. and just talk for hours. and throw the ball around. the yellow ball. against the blue sky. So i played lacrosse for the first time since fall tonight at Relay For Life, with three random Chapel Hill High students. but it was so comforting. so familiar.
4. cross-country. so this isn't spring, but i miss RUNNING. and not just the ACT of running...b/c if i do that by myself i run myself into a rut and get dreadfully lonely. I miss cross-country. the thrill of running with fellow quirky masochists. who find a quiet joy in running through the woods, isolated, away from the buzz of campus. in tune only with the beating of the heart and the rhythm of the feet and the sweating of the brow. you are so utterly exposed yet so utterly free. i miss that...i miss that group of people and that activity.
5. acapella singing. the lord bless you and keep you, enough said.
6. sevilla. espanol. kim y rosario y tortilla de patatas. varias palabras muy distintas como "grua"...la primera palabra que aprendi. david bisbal y mis clases y calle bendis y las palmas y aun el calor insoportable. y decir la palabra insoportable.
lydia, john, jules, emily, karah...i miss you all the most. especially right now, at this very second. i ache because i'm not with you. i'm not really complete. and i'm retreating into this dark little haven right now...of westminster. not the institution, but the memories of it, which are just memories of you all. i thought of each of you today at various points. and it wasn't just a fleeting thought...it was more of feeling or even a pain inside. i guess that's what you call nostalgia. or homesickness. anyways, i love you all...i really do.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Friday, March 24, 2006
noche brillante.
tengo ganas de reflejar. y por algun razon tengo ganas de escribir en espanol. aglunas veces cosas me vienen en maneras diferentes. he descubierto que cuando ya no se de lo que escribere, escribo en espanol. me ayuda separar, organizar, y generar mis pensamientos. pues...esta semana ha sido inolvidable.
el lunes rogue a dios que me mande las leciones de "la vida." queria sentirme, queria sentir lo que una humana vivaz sentiria. pues, cosas acontencieron. dios era bueno.
el lunes carolyn y yo halbabamos sobre la vida. viajar, hablar otras lenguas, encontrar nuestras pasiones. era la vida.
el martes beth y yo hablaboms por telefono. tenia realizaciones sobre mi hermana y un amigo y su relacion y mi relacion con los dos. y era bueno.
el miercoles regrese a los anos de colegio medio...viaje a otro tiempo, un tiempo cuando tenia solamente 14 anos y experiencia el amor por la primera vez. corazonitos dibujados en el papelito. si, tenia un "crush" enorme en un muchacho. un muchacho guapo y inteligente y con muchos talentos. lo conoci un dia en mi trabajo, y era muy espontaneo...un dia lleno de coincidencias extranas que me ponia como un moto. emociones que no se podian controlar. halbamos sobre la fotografia. caminabamos por una senda hacia un campo de beisbol. y no me he sentido como eso hace desde...pues, un ano a lo menos...cuatro a lo mas.
el jueves solidificaba un amistad con meagan...y hablamaos sobre...la problemas de la vida. me sentia como Nicole Kidman en una pelicula muy tonta sobre una maga quien queria ser "normal" y halbar sobre las problems ordinarias en un cafe con sus amigas. y eso es lo que hice.
el jueves algo increible occurio: alcance la confianza. te preguntare ese chico si podiamos tomar un cafe el sabado. nunca hablo con los muchachos.
el jueves hablaba con ben sobre el tema de salir con el sexo opuesto. y...me sentia como si ben fuera mi padre. o mi pastor. (pues, es mi pastor, claro que si). el punto es que aprendia sobre una relacion que es agradable en los ojos de dios. hablamaos sobre mis sentimientos...lo que es malo, lo que es pecadoso, lo que es bueno, lo que es recto.
el viernes...lo mejor. lo mejor lo mejor lo mejor. aparte de una nota mala en mi examen de "midterm" en mi clase del economia, tome un cafe con eso chico...y era natural. soprendentemente natural. no glorioso, pero comodo. y no quiero comerlo, pero quier ser su amiga. pues...admito que quiero ser mas de una amiga, pero puedo esparar.
y entonces tenia una pasion otra vez por la fotografia. la fotografia del journalism...no solo por mi propio entretenemiento. me encantaba mi trabajo. y tomaba muchas fotos. de todo y todo. y queria estar en mi trabajo todos los dias. y queria hacer la fotografia. y queria hacer nada mas...sin viajar y hablar espanol.
(tambien me estilice mi cabello y me ponia alegre).
y ahora estoy con carolyn, ah mi amiga buenisma. gracias adios por bendecerme con las riquezas de la vida . gracias, mil gracias. y espero que no va a durar; ya lo se que no va a durar, pero por ahora...me sigue contenta.
adios. y buenas noches.
el lunes rogue a dios que me mande las leciones de "la vida." queria sentirme, queria sentir lo que una humana vivaz sentiria. pues, cosas acontencieron. dios era bueno.
el lunes carolyn y yo halbabamos sobre la vida. viajar, hablar otras lenguas, encontrar nuestras pasiones. era la vida.
el martes beth y yo hablaboms por telefono. tenia realizaciones sobre mi hermana y un amigo y su relacion y mi relacion con los dos. y era bueno.
el miercoles regrese a los anos de colegio medio...viaje a otro tiempo, un tiempo cuando tenia solamente 14 anos y experiencia el amor por la primera vez. corazonitos dibujados en el papelito. si, tenia un "crush" enorme en un muchacho. un muchacho guapo y inteligente y con muchos talentos. lo conoci un dia en mi trabajo, y era muy espontaneo...un dia lleno de coincidencias extranas que me ponia como un moto. emociones que no se podian controlar. halbamos sobre la fotografia. caminabamos por una senda hacia un campo de beisbol. y no me he sentido como eso hace desde...pues, un ano a lo menos...cuatro a lo mas.
el jueves solidificaba un amistad con meagan...y hablamaos sobre...la problemas de la vida. me sentia como Nicole Kidman en una pelicula muy tonta sobre una maga quien queria ser "normal" y halbar sobre las problems ordinarias en un cafe con sus amigas. y eso es lo que hice.
el jueves algo increible occurio: alcance la confianza. te preguntare ese chico si podiamos tomar un cafe el sabado. nunca hablo con los muchachos.
el jueves hablaba con ben sobre el tema de salir con el sexo opuesto. y...me sentia como si ben fuera mi padre. o mi pastor. (pues, es mi pastor, claro que si). el punto es que aprendia sobre una relacion que es agradable en los ojos de dios. hablamaos sobre mis sentimientos...lo que es malo, lo que es pecadoso, lo que es bueno, lo que es recto.
el viernes...lo mejor. lo mejor lo mejor lo mejor. aparte de una nota mala en mi examen de "midterm" en mi clase del economia, tome un cafe con eso chico...y era natural. soprendentemente natural. no glorioso, pero comodo. y no quiero comerlo, pero quier ser su amiga. pues...admito que quiero ser mas de una amiga, pero puedo esparar.
y entonces tenia una pasion otra vez por la fotografia. la fotografia del journalism...no solo por mi propio entretenemiento. me encantaba mi trabajo. y tomaba muchas fotos. de todo y todo. y queria estar en mi trabajo todos los dias. y queria hacer la fotografia. y queria hacer nada mas...sin viajar y hablar espanol.
(tambien me estilice mi cabello y me ponia alegre).
y ahora estoy con carolyn, ah mi amiga buenisma. gracias adios por bendecerme con las riquezas de la vida . gracias, mil gracias. y espero que no va a durar; ya lo se que no va a durar, pero por ahora...me sigue contenta.
adios. y buenas noches.
chicago.
isn't chicago nice?
isn't distortion nice?
isn't art nice?
even if it is a giant bean.
p.s. did you know that me cago means "i defecate" in spanish. i wonder why any city would be name chi-CAGO. that's gross. but i still like the city.
Monday, March 20, 2006
carajo
Whenever I read a new book I claim that it is my new favorite book. It usually is, too.
But this book really IS my new favorite book, and it stands apart from all of those other new favorite books.
Carlos Eire, am I myopic and naive to want to be you, or something like you...to see the world the way you see it? To live in Havana, or shall i say Habana, in 1959...even with Castro?
Yes, perhaps it is a bit twisted of me to wish that upon myself. But I am envious. I really am. And I compare my life to yours...my ordinary, white, suburban, middle-class life. Even the phrase "white, surbuban, middle-class life" is a white, suburban, middle-class phrase. Why can't I transcend my upbringing? Why can't I change my roots? That's the wrong question...why can't I absorb my roots, my childhood, my homeland? Why don't I feel comfortable calling America my homeland? And I supposedly have more: more education, more Christian principles, more this, more that. Why do I eschew it? Why do i want less? Or is it more??
It's not just the superficial. Sure, one can make the blaringly obvious comparison: I grew up in the Midwest in an age of PBS and backyard fences. You grew up in a tropical paradise in an age of paradoxical unbridled liberty...despite Castro. You had the ocean, that dark abyss that you write about, and recklessness and firecrackers and iguanas. Tangerine sunsets, lo exotico, and ciruela, furtabomba, and guanabana icecream. Your father was Louis the Fifteenth reincarnated, and your mother was Marie Antoinette.
So before looking past the superficial, I must confess that I long for that. Long isn't a good enough word. Anhelo para todo que es tuyo. I I yearn for all that is yours. #%$ARGH%#!&*$%# Culo, cono, hijo de puta, carajo. Culo, culo, culo feo. spanish explitives emitted by a tropical parrot... I want to be that parrot. because it gets to speak the language...it gets to KNOW the language, the culture. and it's a FREAKING BIRD! I really do think in Spanish at times...not to the extent that I did in Spain. Reading this book has been a trip back to Sevilla, but I am struck by so much MORE anhelo and longing and pain...I had something...I had Spain, todo que es espanol, for two glorious months, and now I have lost it. I don't wish to merely regain it though; I wish to be defined by it. and that's why I'm sad...because it can never be my native tongue. I love Spanish...the vowels, the accents, the smooth cadence of the lengauje cuando se habla como se canta. I wish I had that culture shaping my identiy; I wish that from birth I could have soaked all that is Spanish in my skin. The paella, the palms, the history, the beauty, even the tragedy. No, all I have is...America. new. democracy. the best country in the world. (sighs).
I want to say that I don't believe that wholeheartedly. I don't. But i feel obliged to say it. But i really don't. Yes, there are so many good and comfortable things about America, but that is just the problem. Where are the risks, the brushes with death, with life, the dramatic hues of experience? Where is the rich history and the culture and beautiful language? America is nice, but America is not beautiful. America is good, but America is not enthralling. America is all right, but it is not embued with that rich complexity. Rica. Hermosa. Llena de Pasion. Exotica. America no es eso.
And that's where i get stuck, lost in my own emotion...my own lack of emotion, rather. Carlos Eire, you had all that I want in Cuba. And you KNEW you had it...you are Cuban, you are shaped to the core by your country, your language, your history. The spirit of Cuba is the Cuba in you...it IS you. Hahaha, Courtney is being so dramatic and poetic you all think...but for Jesus. H. Christ de los culos I'm not! I read about beauty and tragedy and history and culture and life and death and sadness and lenguage y tristeza y el mundo de experienca rica. I read about it...it's so real or else all creative authors are just fucked up and deceiving us all. Why do i face criticism for wanting that richness? even the sadness? yes, i want the tragedy...because it's more interesting than my own life.
Show yourself to me
and let your gaze and your beauty kill me;
for the wound
of love,it can't be healed
save by your being here"
--Saint Thomas Aquinas, quoted by Carlos Eire in Waiting for Snow in Havana.
oh, there is so much more. Carlos Eire, I both admire you and envy you with endless celos for your thoughts. your perception, your understanding, your wrestling with the hardships of life itself and then the way you work out your salvation on paper with pen and spanish memories. you can write because you can feel. i want to feel. i want to experience such attachment to my homeland or my first love or my last love or my grandmother or my backyard. and i cry for you...i hurt for you because you have lost Cuba. you had paradise...and then it was seized from you in the name of "equality" by that tiny speck that squashed your home, your estate, your parents, your relatives, your homeland, your soul with his big fat muddy boot. fuck castro.
again, i repeat, culo culo culo feo. cono cojones carajo hijo de puta.
Is it stupid of me to want that unnumbered chapter? that vault of oblivion ? Those memories that are ugly as hell itself? argh why do i have to romanticize everything? you feel...you feel so much and it shows in your writing. you write, "Some chapters just can't be numbered. Not at all. I'm sure you have chapters like that in your life. ...You can't assign numbers to these chapters. Not even zero. Not even a zero ringed with thorns. You can't write them the same way as all the others. They can't look the same either. No. If you were to write them, you could only begin to do it at 2:30 a.m. after a horrible day."
Maybe i just need to dig deeper. Maybe i really am capable of unlocking the vault of emotion buried within my calloused heart. maybe i really am capable of feeling life so richly, albeit painfully. so real-ly. unadulterated.
It's just that the life that Carlos Eire writes of is so...paradoxical. At times I don't believe him...it's just a magical pardise and he writes with magical realism. Other times i think he's writing about hell itself. ANd then he's funny...so satirical. he paints pictures of incongruity and hilarity...juxtaposed with his seven proofs for the existence of God...all written with the urgency of a confession. It's not one thing or another, but many things and all things. Like those crazy holograms. Life is a hologram.
And that's what I liked...he showed everything, expressed every emotion, invoked every emotion in his readers...and it wasn't cheezy or unbelievable, even though it was unbelievable.
you won't understand unless you read it. so read it, and tell me if i'm crazy.
Estas despierto, hijo. Mas despierto que nunca.
But this book really IS my new favorite book, and it stands apart from all of those other new favorite books.
Carlos Eire, am I myopic and naive to want to be you, or something like you...to see the world the way you see it? To live in Havana, or shall i say Habana, in 1959...even with Castro?
Yes, perhaps it is a bit twisted of me to wish that upon myself. But I am envious. I really am. And I compare my life to yours...my ordinary, white, suburban, middle-class life. Even the phrase "white, surbuban, middle-class life" is a white, suburban, middle-class phrase. Why can't I transcend my upbringing? Why can't I change my roots? That's the wrong question...why can't I absorb my roots, my childhood, my homeland? Why don't I feel comfortable calling America my homeland? And I supposedly have more: more education, more Christian principles, more this, more that. Why do I eschew it? Why do i want less? Or is it more??
It's not just the superficial. Sure, one can make the blaringly obvious comparison: I grew up in the Midwest in an age of PBS and backyard fences. You grew up in a tropical paradise in an age of paradoxical unbridled liberty...despite Castro. You had the ocean, that dark abyss that you write about, and recklessness and firecrackers and iguanas. Tangerine sunsets, lo exotico, and ciruela, furtabomba, and guanabana icecream. Your father was Louis the Fifteenth reincarnated, and your mother was Marie Antoinette.
So before looking past the superficial, I must confess that I long for that. Long isn't a good enough word. Anhelo para todo que es tuyo. I I yearn for all that is yours. #%$ARGH%#!&*$%# Culo, cono, hijo de puta, carajo. Culo, culo, culo feo. spanish explitives emitted by a tropical parrot... I want to be that parrot. because it gets to speak the language...it gets to KNOW the language, the culture. and it's a FREAKING BIRD! I really do think in Spanish at times...not to the extent that I did in Spain. Reading this book has been a trip back to Sevilla, but I am struck by so much MORE anhelo and longing and pain...I had something...I had Spain, todo que es espanol, for two glorious months, and now I have lost it. I don't wish to merely regain it though; I wish to be defined by it. and that's why I'm sad...because it can never be my native tongue. I love Spanish...the vowels, the accents, the smooth cadence of the lengauje cuando se habla como se canta. I wish I had that culture shaping my identiy; I wish that from birth I could have soaked all that is Spanish in my skin. The paella, the palms, the history, the beauty, even the tragedy. No, all I have is...America. new. democracy. the best country in the world. (sighs).
I want to say that I don't believe that wholeheartedly. I don't. But i feel obliged to say it. But i really don't. Yes, there are so many good and comfortable things about America, but that is just the problem. Where are the risks, the brushes with death, with life, the dramatic hues of experience? Where is the rich history and the culture and beautiful language? America is nice, but America is not beautiful. America is good, but America is not enthralling. America is all right, but it is not embued with that rich complexity. Rica. Hermosa. Llena de Pasion. Exotica. America no es eso.
And that's where i get stuck, lost in my own emotion...my own lack of emotion, rather. Carlos Eire, you had all that I want in Cuba. And you KNEW you had it...you are Cuban, you are shaped to the core by your country, your language, your history. The spirit of Cuba is the Cuba in you...it IS you. Hahaha, Courtney is being so dramatic and poetic you all think...but for Jesus. H. Christ de los culos I'm not! I read about beauty and tragedy and history and culture and life and death and sadness and lenguage y tristeza y el mundo de experienca rica. I read about it...it's so real or else all creative authors are just fucked up and deceiving us all. Why do i face criticism for wanting that richness? even the sadness? yes, i want the tragedy...because it's more interesting than my own life.
Show yourself to me
and let your gaze and your beauty kill me;
for the wound
of love,it can't be healed
save by your being here"
--Saint Thomas Aquinas, quoted by Carlos Eire in Waiting for Snow in Havana.
oh, there is so much more. Carlos Eire, I both admire you and envy you with endless celos for your thoughts. your perception, your understanding, your wrestling with the hardships of life itself and then the way you work out your salvation on paper with pen and spanish memories. you can write because you can feel. i want to feel. i want to experience such attachment to my homeland or my first love or my last love or my grandmother or my backyard. and i cry for you...i hurt for you because you have lost Cuba. you had paradise...and then it was seized from you in the name of "equality" by that tiny speck that squashed your home, your estate, your parents, your relatives, your homeland, your soul with his big fat muddy boot. fuck castro.
again, i repeat, culo culo culo feo. cono cojones carajo hijo de puta.
Is it stupid of me to want that unnumbered chapter? that vault of oblivion ? Those memories that are ugly as hell itself? argh why do i have to romanticize everything? you feel...you feel so much and it shows in your writing. you write, "Some chapters just can't be numbered. Not at all. I'm sure you have chapters like that in your life. ...You can't assign numbers to these chapters. Not even zero. Not even a zero ringed with thorns. You can't write them the same way as all the others. They can't look the same either. No. If you were to write them, you could only begin to do it at 2:30 a.m. after a horrible day."
Maybe i just need to dig deeper. Maybe i really am capable of unlocking the vault of emotion buried within my calloused heart. maybe i really am capable of feeling life so richly, albeit painfully. so real-ly. unadulterated.
It's just that the life that Carlos Eire writes of is so...paradoxical. At times I don't believe him...it's just a magical pardise and he writes with magical realism. Other times i think he's writing about hell itself. ANd then he's funny...so satirical. he paints pictures of incongruity and hilarity...juxtaposed with his seven proofs for the existence of God...all written with the urgency of a confession. It's not one thing or another, but many things and all things. Like those crazy holograms. Life is a hologram.
And that's what I liked...he showed everything, expressed every emotion, invoked every emotion in his readers...and it wasn't cheezy or unbelievable, even though it was unbelievable.
you won't understand unless you read it. so read it, and tell me if i'm crazy.
Estas despierto, hijo. Mas despierto que nunca.
all of human experience.
"I was the first to lay eyes on the woman with the big butt. Her rear end was monumental, large enough to contain all of the world, and all of human experience.
Thinly, very thinly veiled by red fabric, it spoke of many things without speaking. Fertile fields, sunlight, water, earthworms, hard labor, sweat, roots, greens, fruit, udders, milk, flies, muddy hooves, feathers, trucks full of produce, market stalls, blood, meat, money, canvas shopping backs bursting at the seams, kitchens with banged-up pots, rusty kerosene stoves, lard wrapped in wax paper, dripping tins of olive oil from Spain, diced onions hissing in black pans, garlic fumes, knives that gave off sparks when sharpened on pedal-driven wheels lined with flint, sparks that flew like planets being born, Band-Aids, iodine, aprons stained with memories, ladles, sptaulas, spoons, forks, dishes, glasses stained with lipstick, cups, napkins, table-cloths folded by grandmothers, dishes steaming on the table, thinkly sliced avocados, fried plantains, malanga, yucca, carne asada, arroz con pollo, picadillo, ropa vieja, tasajo, papas rellenas, tons of rice, blakc beans, garbanzos, red beans, paella, beer, wine, rum, coffee, flan made in old chorizo tins, custard with vanilla wafers stuck inside, guaba paste and cream cheese on crackers, lots of sugar, sunsets, endless talk, whispers, shouts, gossip, songs, music on the radio, dancing in place, hands around the waist, hands on the back, familiar bones felt under the flesh, new ones discovered, heat within, heat in the air, kisses, joy, disappointment, betrayal, sorrow, arguments, prayer, sex, birth, ration cards, firing squads, illness, and death.
And egglplants, of course.
And oh, yeah, love too. I'm sure love had a lot to do with making that butt so big."
--Carlos Eire, in Waiting for Snow in Havana
that's humanity for you.
Thinly, very thinly veiled by red fabric, it spoke of many things without speaking. Fertile fields, sunlight, water, earthworms, hard labor, sweat, roots, greens, fruit, udders, milk, flies, muddy hooves, feathers, trucks full of produce, market stalls, blood, meat, money, canvas shopping backs bursting at the seams, kitchens with banged-up pots, rusty kerosene stoves, lard wrapped in wax paper, dripping tins of olive oil from Spain, diced onions hissing in black pans, garlic fumes, knives that gave off sparks when sharpened on pedal-driven wheels lined with flint, sparks that flew like planets being born, Band-Aids, iodine, aprons stained with memories, ladles, sptaulas, spoons, forks, dishes, glasses stained with lipstick, cups, napkins, table-cloths folded by grandmothers, dishes steaming on the table, thinkly sliced avocados, fried plantains, malanga, yucca, carne asada, arroz con pollo, picadillo, ropa vieja, tasajo, papas rellenas, tons of rice, blakc beans, garbanzos, red beans, paella, beer, wine, rum, coffee, flan made in old chorizo tins, custard with vanilla wafers stuck inside, guaba paste and cream cheese on crackers, lots of sugar, sunsets, endless talk, whispers, shouts, gossip, songs, music on the radio, dancing in place, hands around the waist, hands on the back, familiar bones felt under the flesh, new ones discovered, heat within, heat in the air, kisses, joy, disappointment, betrayal, sorrow, arguments, prayer, sex, birth, ration cards, firing squads, illness, and death.
And egglplants, of course.
And oh, yeah, love too. I'm sure love had a lot to do with making that butt so big."
--Carlos Eire, in Waiting for Snow in Havana
that's humanity for you.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
old albums
something special happened tonight. not everyone would find it special; in fact, I feel as only beth and I felt the moment for what it was. my family members wouldn’t appreciate it for what it was. nor would my RUF friends. nor would john. not even joe.
I’m not bashing them for that; it’s not a negative trait, just a mere observation.
I think that art does that to you. When you look at art and someone else sees it the same way you do…and you both make discoveries about it with each other, building off of each other’s unique observations and comments…you sort of create art and create an experience in itself.
I really do have goosebumps right now.
I looked at beth jaxon’s photo albums with her. a casual browsing through her digital albums led me to second and third base…and blossomed into an erotic love affair with art, photography, childhood, emotion, and humanity itself. I’m not joking. nor am I striving to be “poetic,” whatever that is. photography can capture so much; no words can adequately describe what I’m feeling right now. it’s not really an excitement or a euphoria...just a calmness and peace and warm happiness emanating from my core that warms even the tips of my fingers. like stepping inside of a warm house after making snow-angels. rosy cheeks and an ice-cold nose. wet clothing forsaken, and you are naked…embracing the warmth of the fireplace and indigo wool blankets.
composition, light, and moment. these aren’t core elements, after all.
I’ve never had such and intense picture-viewing session…especially with someone else’s childhood photos. yes, at first I saw japan, paris, Dublin, pretty mountains, cool shadows, some fog, and lots of buildings. but it was so much more than that…it was like with each picture I fell more in love with photography: with the places IN the photos, the way the composition captured the subject matter in a fresh way…and then the whole thought process…the whole visual experience. I really can’t explain it.
Beth has such an inventive spirit with unbridled curiosity. It comes out in her photographs, and I really admire that. My pictures are quite uptight in comparison...not necessarily the final product, but the thinking behind each photo. I don’t let myself loose; it’s like when I was in cross-country and I would slow down at the end of the 5ks when everyone else was speeding up, numb to the pain and heat…succumbing ethereally into the adrenaline and the endorphins. Climaxing. I want my pictures to do that…yet I am confined by photojournalism and DTH assignments. Rarely do I venture outside on a rainy day to play with shadows, explore the campus, climb the trees and just sit. my outlook on life is stale. photography is a free ticket to a life of exploration, devoid of boredom and stagnancy. I have not yet tapped into that…I am holding back, scared to express myself. MYSELF. not beth jaxon, not joe madden, not pat Davison or sam abell or ansel adams. I wonder what Courtney Ann Potter’s photographs can be. And I wonder how much fun I can have taking them. I wonder what places I can see, what moments I can freeze, what emotion I can feel.
Raw.
I am going to take pictures of my children. I am going to take loads of pictures of my children.
If I never get anything published and remain a starving artist the rest of my life, then so be it. I will have pictures of my children.
beth’s childhood photo albums…oh my goodness. it wasn’t just the composition (which was stellar). It wasn’t just good lighting. It wasn’t even moment…though there was plenty of that. It was…I dunno, I can’t really put my finger on just a single term that describes what it was. it was so many things…beth’s expressions in the pictures. so emotive…so intense and then so carefree. swirls of motion blur, soft blinking eyes, wiggling toes. all sorts of creating…she was so artful in her demeanor. it seemed like in each picture she was exploring.
Exploring nature.
her backyard.
Exploring intimacy.
her family
Exploring common everyday objects.
plasticware
Exploring basic human emotions.
laughter, rage, curiosity, love, ecstasy.
Exploring her own sense of exploration.
with intensity.
how did her parents capture that in the pictures? I don’t think it’s just good photography…or is it good photograpy? good photography transcends the rulebook and gives you a powerful, unadulterated glimpse into Soul. you forget all about the photography and focus on the emotion, the moment. You understand it with your whole being. You feel it. You are it.
(I swear I’m not some New Age guru).
I’ve never looked at pictures in this way. I’ve never looked at photography in this way. I’ve never looked at people in this way, human life in this way.
I want to take pictures of my kids. I don’t want to just record the superficial obvious things…the birthday party…the crying face, the sleepy face, the happy face. I want to capture so much more…and I want to create. beth jaxon, three years old, sitting on a yellow fire hydrant clad in a yellow dress with yellow shoes. creation.
I’ve figured it out. This is the answer to the question I’ve asked for the past few years, posed by Thoreau. It’s how you suck the marrow out of life. You let loose, you explore, you create, you partake, you share.
I vow never to be too busy for taking pictures of my own children. I want to let loose…to constantly explore these real humans under my own roof. I want to discover their essence and capture that on film…record it for generations and generations and generations. Discovery, Exploration, Creativity, Curiosity…all bound together by Love.
This is my joie de vivre.
I’m not bashing them for that; it’s not a negative trait, just a mere observation.
I think that art does that to you. When you look at art and someone else sees it the same way you do…and you both make discoveries about it with each other, building off of each other’s unique observations and comments…you sort of create art and create an experience in itself.
I really do have goosebumps right now.
I looked at beth jaxon’s photo albums with her. a casual browsing through her digital albums led me to second and third base…and blossomed into an erotic love affair with art, photography, childhood, emotion, and humanity itself. I’m not joking. nor am I striving to be “poetic,” whatever that is. photography can capture so much; no words can adequately describe what I’m feeling right now. it’s not really an excitement or a euphoria...just a calmness and peace and warm happiness emanating from my core that warms even the tips of my fingers. like stepping inside of a warm house after making snow-angels. rosy cheeks and an ice-cold nose. wet clothing forsaken, and you are naked…embracing the warmth of the fireplace and indigo wool blankets.
composition, light, and moment. these aren’t core elements, after all.
I’ve never had such and intense picture-viewing session…especially with someone else’s childhood photos. yes, at first I saw japan, paris, Dublin, pretty mountains, cool shadows, some fog, and lots of buildings. but it was so much more than that…it was like with each picture I fell more in love with photography: with the places IN the photos, the way the composition captured the subject matter in a fresh way…and then the whole thought process…the whole visual experience. I really can’t explain it.
Beth has such an inventive spirit with unbridled curiosity. It comes out in her photographs, and I really admire that. My pictures are quite uptight in comparison...not necessarily the final product, but the thinking behind each photo. I don’t let myself loose; it’s like when I was in cross-country and I would slow down at the end of the 5ks when everyone else was speeding up, numb to the pain and heat…succumbing ethereally into the adrenaline and the endorphins. Climaxing. I want my pictures to do that…yet I am confined by photojournalism and DTH assignments. Rarely do I venture outside on a rainy day to play with shadows, explore the campus, climb the trees and just sit. my outlook on life is stale. photography is a free ticket to a life of exploration, devoid of boredom and stagnancy. I have not yet tapped into that…I am holding back, scared to express myself. MYSELF. not beth jaxon, not joe madden, not pat Davison or sam abell or ansel adams. I wonder what Courtney Ann Potter’s photographs can be. And I wonder how much fun I can have taking them. I wonder what places I can see, what moments I can freeze, what emotion I can feel.
Raw.
I am going to take pictures of my children. I am going to take loads of pictures of my children.
If I never get anything published and remain a starving artist the rest of my life, then so be it. I will have pictures of my children.
beth’s childhood photo albums…oh my goodness. it wasn’t just the composition (which was stellar). It wasn’t just good lighting. It wasn’t even moment…though there was plenty of that. It was…I dunno, I can’t really put my finger on just a single term that describes what it was. it was so many things…beth’s expressions in the pictures. so emotive…so intense and then so carefree. swirls of motion blur, soft blinking eyes, wiggling toes. all sorts of creating…she was so artful in her demeanor. it seemed like in each picture she was exploring.
Exploring nature.
her backyard.
Exploring intimacy.
her family
Exploring common everyday objects.
plasticware
Exploring basic human emotions.
laughter, rage, curiosity, love, ecstasy.
Exploring her own sense of exploration.
with intensity.
how did her parents capture that in the pictures? I don’t think it’s just good photography…or is it good photograpy? good photography transcends the rulebook and gives you a powerful, unadulterated glimpse into Soul. you forget all about the photography and focus on the emotion, the moment. You understand it with your whole being. You feel it. You are it.
(I swear I’m not some New Age guru).
I’ve never looked at pictures in this way. I’ve never looked at photography in this way. I’ve never looked at people in this way, human life in this way.
I want to take pictures of my kids. I don’t want to just record the superficial obvious things…the birthday party…the crying face, the sleepy face, the happy face. I want to capture so much more…and I want to create. beth jaxon, three years old, sitting on a yellow fire hydrant clad in a yellow dress with yellow shoes. creation.
I’ve figured it out. This is the answer to the question I’ve asked for the past few years, posed by Thoreau. It’s how you suck the marrow out of life. You let loose, you explore, you create, you partake, you share.
I vow never to be too busy for taking pictures of my own children. I want to let loose…to constantly explore these real humans under my own roof. I want to discover their essence and capture that on film…record it for generations and generations and generations. Discovery, Exploration, Creativity, Curiosity…all bound together by Love.
This is my joie de vivre.
Monday, March 13, 2006
sparks.
Such a perfect way of thinking about those fuses, and also life. You begin at one end, and as you make your way forward, point by infinitesimal point, you give off sparks. And what you leave behind is charred, consumed, transformed. But that glorious voyage towards the end: poets never grow weary of trying to describe it. The end, or telos, as Aristotle or Aquinas would tell you, is the very reason for existence, the purpose of anything that exists. Our telos as humans, yours and mine, is to abide with God for eternity. The sparks on our way there, large and small, call them love. The telos of a fuse on a firecracker is a nice explosion. The sparks on the way there, call them love too.
Friday, March 10, 2006
happy list.
I once made "Happy List" when i was a naive yet happy-go-lucky fourteen year-old. Though still naive and slightly more straitlaced (darn), I feel like creating a new list.
Things That Make Me Happy
staring at artwork for a long period of time
christianity
ben inman
Bosch
Sam Abell
photography
creativity
spontaneity
late-night swimming in the moonlight
summer
grass under my toes
the way spring smells
cloves
endorphines
running, ellipticalizing, biking, and frolicking
fields full of sunflowers
finger-painting
rainy days
dark, moody skies
lightning and thunder
tornados
tomatos
blueberry bushes
soap bubbles in the sink
the word 'bicho'
japan
chopsticks
existential movies
woody allen
love movies
love
passion
beauty
abstract ideals
screaming at the top of my lungs
crying
doing laundry
letting my room get really messy and then cleaning it up in one gigantic undertaking
downy detergent
lavenders
bumblebees
british music
indie rock
learning
discovery
college
knowing someone really well
deep conversations
mindless conversations
sleeping
foreign men
tin lunchboxes
window shopping
craft-fairs
chicago, st. louis, new york, and valencia.
south america
travel
dreams
my roommate
living primitively (relatively speaking)
friendship.
okay, so i'm going to stop here. there's so much more. i'll add to it later.
Things That Make Me Happy
staring at artwork for a long period of time
christianity
ben inman
Bosch
Sam Abell
photography
creativity
spontaneity
late-night swimming in the moonlight
summer
grass under my toes
the way spring smells
cloves
endorphines
running, ellipticalizing, biking, and frolicking
fields full of sunflowers
finger-painting
rainy days
dark, moody skies
lightning and thunder
tornados
tomatos
blueberry bushes
soap bubbles in the sink
the word 'bicho'
japan
chopsticks
existential movies
woody allen
love movies
love
passion
beauty
abstract ideals
screaming at the top of my lungs
crying
doing laundry
letting my room get really messy and then cleaning it up in one gigantic undertaking
downy detergent
lavenders
bumblebees
british music
indie rock
learning
discovery
college
knowing someone really well
deep conversations
mindless conversations
sleeping
foreign men
tin lunchboxes
window shopping
craft-fairs
chicago, st. louis, new york, and valencia.
south america
travel
dreams
my roommate
living primitively (relatively speaking)
friendship.
okay, so i'm going to stop here. there's so much more. i'll add to it later.
pit hit
taken fifteen minutes after the Pit Run last friday. six students were injured when a crazed alumnus drove through the Pit at 35 miles per hour, avenging "muslim deaths around the world" and injuring students in the name of Allah. two students react, stunned, at the Nubian Queen Luncheon after it was rudely and tragically disrupted by the Pit Run. i stopped shooting the Luncheon to go to the Pit...it was chaotic and quite disturbing.
Once upon a time.
The Aventuras Extraordinarias de Courtney.
As of today to forevermore.
By Courtney A. Potter.
Once upon a time there lived a girl named Courtney Ann Potter. She was neither a beauty nor a goddess; neither a genius nor an inventor. And though these realities bothered her, she tried hard to ignore them and be herself.
Courtney had an affair with Photography. In fact, she cheated on Writing in order to flirt with a dark, mysterious, and handsome Canon Digital Rebel XT. He took her on romantic dates: they dined at Caruburritos over a juicy black bean burrito, they built a house together at Habitat for Humanity, and they watched the sunset streak the Carolina blue sky with pale orange and rose strokes.
Courtney discovered new knacks and personal characteristics as she batted eyes with Photography. He helped her meet her cohort in crime in co-conspirator in sleep: Drea Krutulis. The two roommates slept, ate popcorn, and facebooked quite often.
Courtney went to Chicago over Spring Break and had a smashing time with her best friend Julianne. Together they wreaked havoc upon the Windy City, and Rebel Xt was there the whole time (but this story is no longer about him). Then Josef picked Courtney up and they traversed the frigid Illinois plains to Chambana. At the foot of the rainbow there was a chessboard, cinematic productions, classical music, and good red wine.
Courtney went back to UNC and made lots of new friends and played with a super-long telephoto lens. During the summer she got an internship with the Duke Center of Documentary Studies and got to speak spanish a lot. and play with cameras. and children.
then her family moved to North Carolina and she was happy. tuition went down like a billion dollars and she could do laundry for free. and spring started in february.
the next year courtney roomed with carolyn gray in the beautiful north campus dormitories. never again was she late to class on account of sheer laziness and dread of walking uphill for fifteen laborious, tedious, endless minutes. ccourtney and carolyn watched lots of grey's anatomy and foreign films. and they dined on popcorn and played with playdough.
in the spring courtney went on a big boat around the whole world for a semester. she went to brazil and south africa and india and taiwan. she learned about oceanography and black and white photography and world art. and she saw the great wall of china.
in the summer courtney came home and got an internship with a reknowned newspaper. she took lots of pictures and feel more deeply in love with Photography.
in the fall Courtney decided to be like the protaganist in the Motorcycle Diaries and went to Chile. she spoke lots of spanish and ate good tamales. and petted llamas. and she really liked south america and didn't want to return to UNC.
but she did.
many photographs, blogs, deep conversations, and frolicking passed. and courtney graduated. and then she fell in love with a south american beauty and they got married and traveled the world together. they evaded the white suburban dream and made a difference, telling compelling stories through poetry, writing, and photography.
courtney had lots of babies and lots of grandchildren. she died in africa at the ripe old age of 87. she was trampled by a giraffe.
the end.
well, i don't know about the ending, but those are my dreams for now.
i actually want more than that...and those sounded horribly self-centered. i want what everyone wants, really: love, passion, relationships, spontaneity, vitality, invigoration, innovation. i want to suck the marrow out of life.
Thank you, and goodnight.
As of today to forevermore.
By Courtney A. Potter.
Once upon a time there lived a girl named Courtney Ann Potter. She was neither a beauty nor a goddess; neither a genius nor an inventor. And though these realities bothered her, she tried hard to ignore them and be herself.
Courtney had an affair with Photography. In fact, she cheated on Writing in order to flirt with a dark, mysterious, and handsome Canon Digital Rebel XT. He took her on romantic dates: they dined at Caruburritos over a juicy black bean burrito, they built a house together at Habitat for Humanity, and they watched the sunset streak the Carolina blue sky with pale orange and rose strokes.
Courtney discovered new knacks and personal characteristics as she batted eyes with Photography. He helped her meet her cohort in crime in co-conspirator in sleep: Drea Krutulis. The two roommates slept, ate popcorn, and facebooked quite often.
Courtney went to Chicago over Spring Break and had a smashing time with her best friend Julianne. Together they wreaked havoc upon the Windy City, and Rebel Xt was there the whole time (but this story is no longer about him). Then Josef picked Courtney up and they traversed the frigid Illinois plains to Chambana. At the foot of the rainbow there was a chessboard, cinematic productions, classical music, and good red wine.
Courtney went back to UNC and made lots of new friends and played with a super-long telephoto lens. During the summer she got an internship with the Duke Center of Documentary Studies and got to speak spanish a lot. and play with cameras. and children.
then her family moved to North Carolina and she was happy. tuition went down like a billion dollars and she could do laundry for free. and spring started in february.
the next year courtney roomed with carolyn gray in the beautiful north campus dormitories. never again was she late to class on account of sheer laziness and dread of walking uphill for fifteen laborious, tedious, endless minutes. ccourtney and carolyn watched lots of grey's anatomy and foreign films. and they dined on popcorn and played with playdough.
in the spring courtney went on a big boat around the whole world for a semester. she went to brazil and south africa and india and taiwan. she learned about oceanography and black and white photography and world art. and she saw the great wall of china.
in the summer courtney came home and got an internship with a reknowned newspaper. she took lots of pictures and feel more deeply in love with Photography.
in the fall Courtney decided to be like the protaganist in the Motorcycle Diaries and went to Chile. she spoke lots of spanish and ate good tamales. and petted llamas. and she really liked south america and didn't want to return to UNC.
but she did.
many photographs, blogs, deep conversations, and frolicking passed. and courtney graduated. and then she fell in love with a south american beauty and they got married and traveled the world together. they evaded the white suburban dream and made a difference, telling compelling stories through poetry, writing, and photography.
courtney had lots of babies and lots of grandchildren. she died in africa at the ripe old age of 87. she was trampled by a giraffe.
the end.
well, i don't know about the ending, but those are my dreams for now.
i actually want more than that...and those sounded horribly self-centered. i want what everyone wants, really: love, passion, relationships, spontaneity, vitality, invigoration, innovation. i want to suck the marrow out of life.
Thank you, and goodnight.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
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