Took the train into the city today to meet up with college friends Meg & Jeremy, and so glad I did because it's just nice to talk to some people and have a great sophisticated conversation with those I haven't seen in awhile. This is what I observed on my trip:
The clouds are so low today as my train endlessly glides into them, which permeate the atmosphere around me and feed into the sun, like giant marshmallows being prod into a great big campfire, with billions of Earth's people all sitting around.
I know the people in this city. These people are me: anxious and aggressive but kind and affable. They will look you in the eye despite the color that surrounds that eye--and it is not a look of disgust or dislike; it's a shared look of strength, acceptance; it is in this New York Look that you can tell in some way we are all alike: even if it is in our innate nature of running to the Long Island Railroad track the second the track number is released on the switchboard in Penn Station, all appendages flying by with little regard for anyone else around, except the lady next to you on the escalator whom you share a smile with over the man with the bicycle who is holding up all the traffic going down to the train that will take you home. Yes this is my city that I do recognize so well.
The ending to the day: Sigur Ros "Heim" (which means "Home" in German).
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Quite Disgruntled...
"THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US; LATE AND SOON"
THE world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; 10
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
1806.
Wm. Wordsworth
THE world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; 10
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
1806.
Wm. Wordsworth
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Longing for Somesing
My mind is harassing me tonight. I have been enveloped lately in thinking about my upcoming cross country trip. What this trip means for me. I have had this longing recently, this pining for something or someone, a comfort of some sort with which I can share my innermost thoughts. I'm hoping this trip will be a venue for me to do this.
Reading John Steinbeck's memoir about driving cross-country, I realize that this longing for something unknown, out of the ordinary afflicts many people in America. Steinbeck explores this concept in himself and in the characters he meets scattered across this great country. And I find myself in a sense through his travels, but I'm hoping to find myself through my own travels as well.
Why is loneliness and longing so tangible? Every time I get these pangs, I can feel them coming from a mile off and they linger for days, weeks, even months, like the satisfaction of eating a rich piece of chocolate cake, or the persistence of being overcome with the flu.
However persistent and tangible these pangs of loneliness/longing are, they are so incomplete and unfulfilled. They are begging to be filled up, to be rife with joy and satisfaction, happiness and laughter. The lack of these elements, I believe, causes the longing to grow and grow, until it envelopes my entire being, so my heart, mind, and soul are all craving something as tangible as the longing itself, something that will fulfill all desire and want.
I am reminded of my youth. When I was 2, 3 years old and I would get hungry, I would go into the kitchen, open up all the cabinets, stare at all the boxes of food, and boldly declare, "I want some-sing...I want some-SING!" (my "th" sounds weren't greatly developed at this time period). What I wanted wasn't necessarily a sweet piece of candy, or a salty pretzel, it was the feeling of fulfillment. The feeling of filling in a void, the void occupied inside of me by want, by longing, by desire.
I need some-sing now to fill up this void of want, longing, and desire that's inside of me.
Reading John Steinbeck's memoir about driving cross-country, I realize that this longing for something unknown, out of the ordinary afflicts many people in America. Steinbeck explores this concept in himself and in the characters he meets scattered across this great country. And I find myself in a sense through his travels, but I'm hoping to find myself through my own travels as well.
Why is loneliness and longing so tangible? Every time I get these pangs, I can feel them coming from a mile off and they linger for days, weeks, even months, like the satisfaction of eating a rich piece of chocolate cake, or the persistence of being overcome with the flu.
However persistent and tangible these pangs of loneliness/longing are, they are so incomplete and unfulfilled. They are begging to be filled up, to be rife with joy and satisfaction, happiness and laughter. The lack of these elements, I believe, causes the longing to grow and grow, until it envelopes my entire being, so my heart, mind, and soul are all craving something as tangible as the longing itself, something that will fulfill all desire and want.
I am reminded of my youth. When I was 2, 3 years old and I would get hungry, I would go into the kitchen, open up all the cabinets, stare at all the boxes of food, and boldly declare, "I want some-sing...I want some-SING!" (my "th" sounds weren't greatly developed at this time period). What I wanted wasn't necessarily a sweet piece of candy, or a salty pretzel, it was the feeling of fulfillment. The feeling of filling in a void, the void occupied inside of me by want, by longing, by desire.
I need some-sing now to fill up this void of want, longing, and desire that's inside of me.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Taxi Driver
As I tend to do when in a city and taking a taxi ride, I embarked on a lovely conversation on Friday night in Philadelphia with our driver named Said. Now, I know that looks like the word "said," but it is actually pronounced "Sayid." We actually discussed the pronunciation and phonetics of his name in our conversation.
Getting in the car, Said seemed skeptical to talk to me. Even when I asked his name, he kind of smirked shyly, clearly taken off-guard by my openness and immediate friendliness. But he divulged anyway. As arduous as that proved to be, so was the next question I asked him. "Where are you from?" "Philadelphia." "No, where are you from originally?" (Said was clearly African, with a strong accent). "Africa." "Where in Africa?" "West Africa." "That's not a country...what country are you from?" "Ivory Coast." What a circuitous way of finding out where someone is from.
This openness led to much talk on Ivory Coast, our conversation ranging from west Africa's leaders--tyrannical, corrupt, and aggressive--to the people in Ivory Coast--extremely poor. When I asked, that since Ivory Coast is a democratic nation, how come the people don't elect a leader who would do better for them? Said's response was that the leaders go around and pressure, almost bribe, the townspeople with food or money in order to get their vote. In my heart, I wanted the townspeople to be strong and elect someone who could actually implement a positive change for them. But, when I thought about it, I realized if I were in that economic situation, I would probably be the same way as they.
Said, who has been in this country for about ten years, expressed a certain sense of joy and accomplishment at Barack Obama's historic nomination as the first African-American major party presidential candidate. We talked about the people in Kenya, a country near to Ivory Coast, who were rejoicing at this victory, as Said seemed to have done in his own indistinct sense as well. We had both known, through news reports, that Barack had an uncle from Kenya whose name was Said Obama, which is how I knew how to spell my driver's name correctly, as opposed to the more Muslim (I suppose) way of spelling Sayid.
Driving through Manayunk at this point (our destination was Roxborough, the next town over, at my friend Kim's apartment), it occurred to me that I stumbled upon an extremely bright, well-informed African-American taxi driver from Ivory Coast. I decided to ask Said how he got so educated. Apparently, he dropped out of school many years ago, not progressing past elementary school, it seemed, and got his information primarily from the news. I was dually impressed. But, I was a little disappointed, and I feel like the scholarly world was losing out on this bright mind, so I implored him to in some way go to school, whether it was community college or GED, some kind of schooling. I told him it was the teacher in me that wanted his bright mind educated. I don't know if I was being pretentious at this point--I really was sincere the whole time--but I really felt like the world would be a better place, especially with his opinions on politics and what is wrong in Africa, if Said contributed to the greater well-being through his academics as opposed to his motor vehicle skills. I left the cab feeling accomplished, whether Said takes my advice or not, that I at least put the thought into his head, and had a wonderfully intelligent conversation with a complete stranger and a completely opposite person to myself.
Getting in the car, Said seemed skeptical to talk to me. Even when I asked his name, he kind of smirked shyly, clearly taken off-guard by my openness and immediate friendliness. But he divulged anyway. As arduous as that proved to be, so was the next question I asked him. "Where are you from?" "Philadelphia." "No, where are you from originally?" (Said was clearly African, with a strong accent). "Africa." "Where in Africa?" "West Africa." "That's not a country...what country are you from?" "Ivory Coast." What a circuitous way of finding out where someone is from.
This openness led to much talk on Ivory Coast, our conversation ranging from west Africa's leaders--tyrannical, corrupt, and aggressive--to the people in Ivory Coast--extremely poor. When I asked, that since Ivory Coast is a democratic nation, how come the people don't elect a leader who would do better for them? Said's response was that the leaders go around and pressure, almost bribe, the townspeople with food or money in order to get their vote. In my heart, I wanted the townspeople to be strong and elect someone who could actually implement a positive change for them. But, when I thought about it, I realized if I were in that economic situation, I would probably be the same way as they.
Said, who has been in this country for about ten years, expressed a certain sense of joy and accomplishment at Barack Obama's historic nomination as the first African-American major party presidential candidate. We talked about the people in Kenya, a country near to Ivory Coast, who were rejoicing at this victory, as Said seemed to have done in his own indistinct sense as well. We had both known, through news reports, that Barack had an uncle from Kenya whose name was Said Obama, which is how I knew how to spell my driver's name correctly, as opposed to the more Muslim (I suppose) way of spelling Sayid.
Driving through Manayunk at this point (our destination was Roxborough, the next town over, at my friend Kim's apartment), it occurred to me that I stumbled upon an extremely bright, well-informed African-American taxi driver from Ivory Coast. I decided to ask Said how he got so educated. Apparently, he dropped out of school many years ago, not progressing past elementary school, it seemed, and got his information primarily from the news. I was dually impressed. But, I was a little disappointed, and I feel like the scholarly world was losing out on this bright mind, so I implored him to in some way go to school, whether it was community college or GED, some kind of schooling. I told him it was the teacher in me that wanted his bright mind educated. I don't know if I was being pretentious at this point--I really was sincere the whole time--but I really felt like the world would be a better place, especially with his opinions on politics and what is wrong in Africa, if Said contributed to the greater well-being through his academics as opposed to his motor vehicle skills. I left the cab feeling accomplished, whether Said takes my advice or not, that I at least put the thought into his head, and had a wonderfully intelligent conversation with a complete stranger and a completely opposite person to myself.
Grizzly Man
Just watched the documentary Grizzly Man about crazed grizzly bear enthusiast Timothy Treadwell. He studied grizzly bears in their natural Alaskan habitat for 13 years. Ironically, but not surprisingly, he was mauled and killed by a grizzly in 2001.
The director and narrator said something extremely profound at the end of the film, about Timothy's death, but also about nature and human nature in general, something that I hope to discover this summer on my own foray into nature:
Treadwell is gone.
The argument how wrong
or how right he was
disappears into a distance
into a fog.
What remains is his footage.
And while we watch the animals
in their joys of being,
in their grace
and ferociousness,
a thought becomes
more and more clear.
That it is not so much
a look at wild nature
as it is an insight
into ourselves, our nature.
And that, for me,
beyond his mission,
gives meaning to his life
and to his death.
The director and narrator said something extremely profound at the end of the film, about Timothy's death, but also about nature and human nature in general, something that I hope to discover this summer on my own foray into nature:
Treadwell is gone.
The argument how wrong
or how right he was
disappears into a distance
into a fog.
What remains is his footage.
And while we watch the animals
in their joys of being,
in their grace
and ferociousness,
a thought becomes
more and more clear.
That it is not so much
a look at wild nature
as it is an insight
into ourselves, our nature.
And that, for me,
beyond his mission,
gives meaning to his life
and to his death.
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