Sunday, December 16, 2007

The Sound of Crickets

2 am. Another sleepless night. Tossing and turning in my bed with no prevail of sleep. I look up at the ceiling, nothing but blank white tiles dimmed by the darkness of night. I then move to look out my foggy window. The streets outside are laden with a dense haze with only the fuzzy lights from street lamps and houses cutting through the mist. Its criminally silent, not even the occasional sound of a car driving by.

In this irritating silence, I think of my home in North Carolina. I remember the relaxing sound of crickets that would help me sleep at night. When I think about it, the cool night air would be fluttered with the soothing orchestra of nocturnal creatures. And now I sit here in this bed with only the mechanical sound of my refrigerator running to keep me company while I sleep.

I use to scorn North Carolina. I found it to quiet and dull for my taste. Hardly anything was mentally stimulating was going on and I always saw the same people and places. It was a place of perpetual boredom. Tired of seeing the same scenery in North Carolina, I wanted a change in my life. So when I got here, in DC, I was delighted t be here. I was happy to see new faces, new areas that I thought that could never find myself in. But a few months later, I got accustomed to my surroundings. I had grown used to seeing the same faces and the same areas very quickly, and found myself pondering about what it would be like to go back to North Carolina.

Now when I reflect it, it was not the quietness of North Carolina that irritated me, the thing that got me most was my feeling of routine during my time there. Everyday was almost exactly the same for me. I would get up, go to school, then watch TV after school, then do homework, eat, watch TV again, the sleep. The cycle would continue even into the weekend, the only thing that was different was that I had no school.

I think that one of the things I fear most is a sense of normalcy. I need a sense of change in my life. Washington DC gives me that change. I may be getting a little used to the area, but there is a lot that I have yet to discover. And as the days go by during my time in DC, I am having a growing appreciation for my former home. As cliché as it may sound, there will always be a piece of North Carolina that I will carry with me.

Thursday, December 13, 2007

Haiku

Leaves dance in the wind,
then slowly descend to ground
under blossom tree.

Two bees on the move,
jump from flower to flower.
busy workers, bees.

Small little blue jay
flies on stop sign, lands on ground.
What's it looking for?

Roaring thunder strikes!
Lightning flashes. Slashes through
sky! A fearsome storm!

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

The Political Yin-Yang


Today my roommate completed his first step of decorating his side of our room, grabbing pictures from a Ronald Reagan ranch calendar and plastering them on his wall. While my side of the wall is completely vacant, his is plastered with the face of his favorite president. I forgot how the question started but while he was doing so he asked me if I was a Democrat because of my ideas on social change in America. I told him that I was not a Democrat and nor will I ever will be. I also told him that I was skeptical of the constant Bush bashing that is almost constant in the media. It seems more meaningless posturing and band-wagon jumping than anything else.

In fact, I am tired of the constant debate that goes on between “members” of both political groups. There is no intelligent exchange of ideas that is being discussed, it is merely babbling in which no one listens to the other side and nothing seems to get done. In this empty dialogue, are we really that different from one another? We are not any closer to the America that both political parties claim to be aiming for. I feel that we should not wear our political ideology on or sleeves and constantly bash others for their beliefs. We should try to focus more on our . once we do that, we will soon find our that the people on the other side are really human beings and not just heartless beasts that are trying to destroy America. And hopefully we can progress and find ways to make the changes in our society that really need to be done.

Surely both sides have something in common, even if it starts by members of each side asking what the other person’s favorite flavor ice cream is (which will be a good start) and working from there.

Saturday, December 1, 2007

Art and the Incompetence of Oscar Wilde

Last week, my art professor made us read the preface of The Portrait of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. In the preface, Wilde says that the artist is a creator of beautiful things yet claims that all art is useless; meaning that (according to my professor) something that is used outside of its original function, like a broken teapot, to create some form of art, like a still life, is itself art.

I did not agree with the professor’s assertion of what is to be considered art. The object itself is not art, it is the artist’s rendering of the object that is art.

The artwork is the expressive medium of a certain object between the artist and viewer. When Van Gogh painted Sunflowers in 1888, the sunflowers in the vase are not themselves art, but it is Van Gogh’s perception of the sunflowers in his painting. When one goes to an art gallery and looks at a planting or a statue, they are not looking at the model that the statue was derived from or the landscape that was painted. The audience is only looking at the artist’s rendering of the model, not the model itself.

Art itself is an interpretation, a symbol, of the human experience. It can display happiness, fear, or anger and can influence the viewer with these emotions. An artist’s work is the artist’s biography. One can tell a lot about an artist by the way in which the artist displays the object in his or her work. When you are looking at a painting in an art gallery, you are not just looking at paint on a canvas. You are looking at a person’s observation of the world around him.

Monday, November 26, 2007

Celestial Night


Calm celestial Night,
graciously wearing the moon as your gem,
intrigues me with all your genteel essence.

Radiant celestial Night,
children sleep under your star-clustered blanket.
Lovers brazenly kiss under your indigo sky
as if a ritual to give thanks
to the soothing hours of your twilight.

Only in your refined silence
do I enjoy my reflective solitude.

It is not the sun that moves me,
with its mocking nature,
flailing its blistering light,
blinding whoever looks at it.

But it is you, humble Night
with your musing spirit
that I write this ode to.
You: calm, radiant, celestial Night…

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Writing Teacher: Okay, did any of you go to the Mike Tidwell speech yesterday?

(a couple of students raised their hands)

Writing Teacher: Good, what did you think about it?

Student: I think he made a valid argument about global warming.

Writing Teacher: Nice, I remember when someone asked Tidwell about him writing his book, and he described writing as a mysterious art form where only a few in the general population can tap into. What you think about what he said?

Student: I think that he discussed how writing can has a sort of aesthetic value to it.

(long pause)

Writing Teacher: You know what I think about what he said?

Student: What?

Writing Teacher: I think that he's full of shit.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

Zen Calander

Today I was reading Zen 24/7 by Phillip Toshio Sudo, a deeply philosophical book that helps the reader incorporate basic Zen practices and meditative thoughts into modern life. I came across this one section called “Zen Calendar.” In this chapter, Sudo discusses the futility of measuring time and pleas for simplicity. “We rely on concepts such as ‘Monday’ and ‘February’ to organize our complex schedules and mark the passage of time. But we should remember the monk in the monastery, who regards the past and future as an illusion. To the monk, there is no yesterday or tomorrow; there is only the moment.”

When I read this passage, I think about the notion of the moment. The moment itself, as Sudo describes it, is the time we spend in this existence. This moment, in itself, is formed by a series of moments: the moments we wake up in the morning, the moments we eat breakfast, the moments we decide not to go to work and go back to bed. One may ask how we will organize ourselves in time without measuring it. Sudo says, “In the same ways as the ancients: Through the rise and fall of the sun each day, the cycle of the moon each month, the cycle of the seasons each year. The more we attune ourselves with that timeless rhythm, the closer we live to nature.”

This timeless rhythm is the primordial cycle that all natural things abide by. The human body itself is dependant on the sequence of cycles: the breathing in of air and the breathing out of air, the phases of the body as it wakes and sleeps, blood pumping in to the heart and blood pumping out. In each cycle, the first action is the catalyst for the next action. Hence, with every action there is an equal reaction.

This explains the Buddhist idea of rebirth. The physical body dies and, as part of the chain of causation, the mind-body is reborn in a new form. It is like the passing of a flame from one candle to the unlit wick of another in a long row of candles (the flame being the mind-body and the candle being the physical body); and the attainment of nirvana can be seen as the blowing out of the flame, as it is no longer part of the series of action/reaction in this existence, also known as the cycle of suffering of Samsara.

To appreciate fully the richness of life, I try not to let the man-made observance of time dominate my life. Oftentimes I see people constantly stressing and rushing to save time, constantly trying to complete as much as they can with little time that they can. I admit that I sometimes let it get to me as well, especially when deadlines are close, or when I forget to post a blog at a certain time. Even though this entity is deep-rooted in modern human society, I try not to make it apart of me. Besides, I never took time seriously in the first place.

Saturday, November 10, 2007

The Poet


Blessed with the company of the night,
illuminated by the moon’s eerie light,
the mute bard plays his song
to any who listen.

The guitar of cheap wood and nylon string,
is simply the medium between the poet
and the external world,
allowing him to tell his story.

Each warm pluck, each sombre note
is derived from his passion and torment;
passion for love,
torment of life,
until the notes begin to illustrate
the poem that is his life.


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