I wish I could say something original and profound. But I can't think of anything that hasn't been said already to describe the warmth I felt sitting on my couch, watching snow fall out my window, listening to Barack Obama become president.
I'm hopeful for tomorrow. I feel proud. I feel excited.
As I looked at the sea of heads on television that stretched for miles, I was overcome. I watched as millions of people, like me, welled up with tears in their eyes at the enormity and beauty of the history unfolding in front of our eyes. The thought that I couldn't shake: Only in America.
So yeah, wow. Just wow.
That's all for now.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Thursday, January 8, 2009
circles
I really like circles.
I can't explain why, but I just really like them. I like the fluidity and the motion of their shape, and I like the symbolism of the never-ending form. I really like circles.
Since I'm a writer and an artist, I find myself thinking about things like circles. It sounds really strange, but I can't help it.
I've been taking yoga classes, which are helping me ground myself in my thoughts and my feelings -- discovering and understanding the way that my body moves and the way that we often think: in circles. An idea will pop into your head, you think on it, then move on to the next thing, then to the next thing, and then to the next thing. But then it dawns on you -- I've forgotten where I started. And you go back. You complete the circle, using the the things that you've thought in the interim as a prompt, a way to more fully understand the first thing.
When you learn to draw a person, most of us learned the circle method. We are, according to elementary art principles, just a bunch of circles. Sometimes ovals, but circles stacked and connected to create our form.
My grandfather has been very ill recently. He has congestive heart failure and was placed in a hospice facility about a week ago. I was telling someone about it and they said to me, not indignantly, but actually rather surprised, that I seem really very OK with it all. I'm not, actually, OK with everything, but the more I've thought about this, the more I'm beginning to accept that this is all just part of the circle. I hate the cliche -- the circle of life -- but I think, like all cliches, it exists because there is something of a fragment of truth to its meaning: You're born, you live, you die. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. We're not meant to stick around forever, and I find something strangely comforting knowing that we live and die because we are meant to, not as some universal vengeance being taken on the living. Death is hard on the living, I've said that before, but mostly because it forces us to confront our own mortality, which I'm not going to lie, is absolutely terrifying. But why? Why is it so scary for us if that's what we're meant to do eventually? Maybe because living is the only thing we know how to do. These are all still thoughts in process... I'd like to know what you all think too.
But circles. Layers upon layers of circles. Life is about circles, days, weeks, months, years. The organization appeals to me and comforts my sensibilities. Such big ideas for a Thursday morning...
I can't explain why, but I just really like them. I like the fluidity and the motion of their shape, and I like the symbolism of the never-ending form. I really like circles.
Since I'm a writer and an artist, I find myself thinking about things like circles. It sounds really strange, but I can't help it.
I've been taking yoga classes, which are helping me ground myself in my thoughts and my feelings -- discovering and understanding the way that my body moves and the way that we often think: in circles. An idea will pop into your head, you think on it, then move on to the next thing, then to the next thing, and then to the next thing. But then it dawns on you -- I've forgotten where I started. And you go back. You complete the circle, using the the things that you've thought in the interim as a prompt, a way to more fully understand the first thing.
When you learn to draw a person, most of us learned the circle method. We are, according to elementary art principles, just a bunch of circles. Sometimes ovals, but circles stacked and connected to create our form.
My grandfather has been very ill recently. He has congestive heart failure and was placed in a hospice facility about a week ago. I was telling someone about it and they said to me, not indignantly, but actually rather surprised, that I seem really very OK with it all. I'm not, actually, OK with everything, but the more I've thought about this, the more I'm beginning to accept that this is all just part of the circle. I hate the cliche -- the circle of life -- but I think, like all cliches, it exists because there is something of a fragment of truth to its meaning: You're born, you live, you die. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. We're not meant to stick around forever, and I find something strangely comforting knowing that we live and die because we are meant to, not as some universal vengeance being taken on the living. Death is hard on the living, I've said that before, but mostly because it forces us to confront our own mortality, which I'm not going to lie, is absolutely terrifying. But why? Why is it so scary for us if that's what we're meant to do eventually? Maybe because living is the only thing we know how to do. These are all still thoughts in process... I'd like to know what you all think too.
But circles. Layers upon layers of circles. Life is about circles, days, weeks, months, years. The organization appeals to me and comforts my sensibilities. Such big ideas for a Thursday morning...
Sunday, December 14, 2008
addiction
I've been called one before, but I did not, until today, realize just how big of an email-addict I am.
I discovered this little thing on bottom right corner of the Elon email page that, if you click on it, allows you to observe the number of times you've visited the Web site in the past. On my computer, which I've had since the spring of my freshman year, I have visited the Elon email web page 2,549 times.
Yes. And that's only on my computer. Can you imagine the countless number of times I've visited on the myriad of other computers I work with on a day to day basis? The numbers are staggering.
Hello, my name is Bethany...
I discovered this little thing on bottom right corner of the Elon email page that, if you click on it, allows you to observe the number of times you've visited the Web site in the past. On my computer, which I've had since the spring of my freshman year, I have visited the Elon email web page 2,549 times.
Yes. And that's only on my computer. Can you imagine the countless number of times I've visited on the myriad of other computers I work with on a day to day basis? The numbers are staggering.
Hello, my name is Bethany...
Sunday, December 7, 2008
paper towels
Last night I was reminded of this story, and I just wanted to share:
We roadtripped for 10 days. We drove for more than 3,000 miles, from North Carolina, to Tennessee, Arkansas, Texas, Louisiana, Alabama, Florida, Georgia, South Carolina and back. Ten days in the car, just the two of us. We did a lot of talking, even more singing and we developed a case of kleptomania.
I've always been one to take the soaps and shampoo, pens and lotions from hotel rooms. I would never take towels or things of real value, but for some reason, I've forever felt entitled to the things that they would replace anyway if I hadn't taken them -- might as well put it to good use, I say. Waste not, want not, I say. He made fun of me a little that first morning in the hotel when I stuffed the lotion into my purse.
But then we went to the Peabody Hotel in Memphis, just to take a look at the ducks. The hotel is gorgeous, mission style furniture, stained glass, dark wood, marble floors and white flower arrangements. We each went to the bathroom. They're beautiful. Granite countertops, gold fixtures and these glorious luxury paper towels. We each walked out with three. They went promptly into the glove box. Only to be used in emergencies. These things are way too nice for just runny noses and random McDonald's spills. These are our special towels. And so begins our obsession.
Further into our trip, we're in Charleston. We stop to pee in a hotel after a day wandering around what has become one of our favorite cities. We come out of the bathroom, and walk out of the hotel. He takes my hand as we cross the street, walking his fingers up my right arm to my purse. Finding the zipper, he opens the bag and slyly shoves luxury hotel bathroom towels into my purse. "Who are you?" I ask. I've turned him into a towel snatcher.
Our trip ended and we'd filled the glove box with towels. Memorabilia from the multiplicity of nice hotels we'd peed in, but never slept at.
Two months later, we're in Boston saying goodbye. We had walked all day, through the public gardens and the common, lunch in Fanuiel Hall, dinner on Newbury Street and now it was time to pee. We stopped at a hotel a few blocks from Fenway. It was beautiful.
Marble. Dark-stained hardwood. Flower arrangements larger than the wingback chairs in my parents' house. The kind of place with nice paper towels.
I smile to the doorman as we walk by. He knows our purpose, but doesn't hesitate. We're two good looking 20-somethings, harmless and handsome. Holding hands as we walk in. We're blending. We're fitting in. We belong here. Hell, we go to Elon, half of my 9:25 a.m. Media History class has probably stayed here, so who's to say we couldn't be guests?
The bathroom is spectacular as I expected. I pee, walk to the beautiful Corian countertop to wash my hands. And there they are. The lux towels. They're perfect, thick paper towels that are so nice they feel like cloth. They're Peabody towels, but from Boston. I should grab some. No. No. I shouldn't do it. I can't, we've moved passed our spring break kleptomania.
After some mental sommersaults, I walk out of the bathroom empty handed. He takes my hand and we walk back out, fitting in as before, past the doorman and on to the street.
"Did you take the towels?" I asked once we were about half a block down the street.
"What? Of course not," he turns, his smile lighting up as he reaches to the big pocket on his khaki cargo shorts, which now, I notice, is bulging with four paper towels.
We roadtripped for 10 days. We drove for more than 3,000 miles, from North Carolina, to Tennessee, Arkansas, Texas, Louisiana, Alabama, Florida, Georgia, South Carolina and back. Ten days in the car, just the two of us. We did a lot of talking, even more singing and we developed a case of kleptomania.
I've always been one to take the soaps and shampoo, pens and lotions from hotel rooms. I would never take towels or things of real value, but for some reason, I've forever felt entitled to the things that they would replace anyway if I hadn't taken them -- might as well put it to good use, I say. Waste not, want not, I say. He made fun of me a little that first morning in the hotel when I stuffed the lotion into my purse.
But then we went to the Peabody Hotel in Memphis, just to take a look at the ducks. The hotel is gorgeous, mission style furniture, stained glass, dark wood, marble floors and white flower arrangements. We each went to the bathroom. They're beautiful. Granite countertops, gold fixtures and these glorious luxury paper towels. We each walked out with three. They went promptly into the glove box. Only to be used in emergencies. These things are way too nice for just runny noses and random McDonald's spills. These are our special towels. And so begins our obsession.
Further into our trip, we're in Charleston. We stop to pee in a hotel after a day wandering around what has become one of our favorite cities. We come out of the bathroom, and walk out of the hotel. He takes my hand as we cross the street, walking his fingers up my right arm to my purse. Finding the zipper, he opens the bag and slyly shoves luxury hotel bathroom towels into my purse. "Who are you?" I ask. I've turned him into a towel snatcher.
Our trip ended and we'd filled the glove box with towels. Memorabilia from the multiplicity of nice hotels we'd peed in, but never slept at.
Two months later, we're in Boston saying goodbye. We had walked all day, through the public gardens and the common, lunch in Fanuiel Hall, dinner on Newbury Street and now it was time to pee. We stopped at a hotel a few blocks from Fenway. It was beautiful.
Marble. Dark-stained hardwood. Flower arrangements larger than the wingback chairs in my parents' house. The kind of place with nice paper towels.
I smile to the doorman as we walk by. He knows our purpose, but doesn't hesitate. We're two good looking 20-somethings, harmless and handsome. Holding hands as we walk in. We're blending. We're fitting in. We belong here. Hell, we go to Elon, half of my 9:25 a.m. Media History class has probably stayed here, so who's to say we couldn't be guests?
The bathroom is spectacular as I expected. I pee, walk to the beautiful Corian countertop to wash my hands. And there they are. The lux towels. They're perfect, thick paper towels that are so nice they feel like cloth. They're Peabody towels, but from Boston. I should grab some. No. No. I shouldn't do it. I can't, we've moved passed our spring break kleptomania.
After some mental sommersaults, I walk out of the bathroom empty handed. He takes my hand and we walk back out, fitting in as before, past the doorman and on to the street.
"Did you take the towels?" I asked once we were about half a block down the street.
"What? Of course not," he turns, his smile lighting up as he reaches to the big pocket on his khaki cargo shorts, which now, I notice, is bulging with four paper towels.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
in the end it was the twinkies
I've been reading some pretty heavy philosophy for my methodologies in art history class. This week we're focusing on Martin Heidegger's The Origin of the Work of Art. Basically, Heidegger claims that the essence of a thing, especially and specifically a thing that works or produces some sort of good for the communal being (he was a Marxist...), lies in its ability to do that work. It is its true self when it is performing the function it was meant to perform. His example: a pair of peasant's (again, Marxist) shoes.
There are problems with his interpretation, the biggest according to one critic, being that the shoes he was inspired by, a painting by Van Gogh, are actually not peasant's shoes, they were Van Gogh's own shoes. To this one critic, the essence of the shoe lies in the fact that they aren't anyone else's shoes but Van Gogh and that is precisely why he chose to paint them. They were his and they represented him.
So I started thinking about my shoes. Bare with me here, there is a point, I promise. I started thinking about my shoes and what they say about me. I have lots of shoes, as do a lot of women, and some men, I suppose. And they all serve different purposes. Some are play shoes, the ones that I wear when we go out dancing or to the bar. I have dressy shoes, ones that I wear when I have to look all grown up and professional. I have comfy shoes, athletic shoes, and practical shoes. Slippers, pumps, flats, peep toes, red, brown, black (lots of black), blue, pink (yes, my sneakers are pink)... etc., etc., and the list goes on. One hundred years from now, when an archeologist uncovers my shoes, how in the world will they know who I am?
To Van Gogh, the shoes made the man, so to speak. He had probably only one or two pair, and they, like the lines on his face, bore the imprints of the miles he'd walked, the mud he'd schlepped through and the doormats he'd crossed. They probably had splats of paint, and maybe drops of blood from when he cut off his ear... only kidding, sort of. But Van Gogh truly believed that we could read a pair of shoes like a book -- the shoes maybe didn't make the man, but they were inexorable. You cannot have the pair of shoes be that pair of shoes without that man, and a man can't get very far (without lots of glass and prickly things in his feet) without the shoes.
Again, I swear I have a point. So I started thinking about my shoes again and my legacy. I've done this before, when I was holed up in the British Library about two years ago. Our consumerism has left us with dozens of pairs of shoes, tons of clothing, jewelry, CDs, DVDs. You name it, we have it in droves. What will archaeologists say about us? Because we're so forward-looking (heh, sure), theorists have already started predicting what will kill us all in the end and historians have already started anticipating how some of us will be remembered. But what about the every day people? What about you and me? How will what we leave behind shape how we're remembered?
There certainly isn't an answer, and I suppose there really wasn't a point other than to ask these questions. I would hope that some of the legacy will be good -- we managed to create a society where equality and justice, honesty and truth (hey, I can dream) were key doctrines. It'll probably be something along the lines of the indestructibility of Twinkies.
I can see it now, 150 years post-Armageddon...
Archaeologist 1: "Floyd, I just found something."
Archaeologist 2: "What is it, Vanessa?"
A1: "It's a strange yellow cylinder wrapped in plastic; it seems to have once been edible?"
A2 unwraps said shrink wrap and pops said yellow cylinder into his mouth: "Still is!"
There are problems with his interpretation, the biggest according to one critic, being that the shoes he was inspired by, a painting by Van Gogh, are actually not peasant's shoes, they were Van Gogh's own shoes. To this one critic, the essence of the shoe lies in the fact that they aren't anyone else's shoes but Van Gogh and that is precisely why he chose to paint them. They were his and they represented him.
So I started thinking about my shoes. Bare with me here, there is a point, I promise. I started thinking about my shoes and what they say about me. I have lots of shoes, as do a lot of women, and some men, I suppose. And they all serve different purposes. Some are play shoes, the ones that I wear when we go out dancing or to the bar. I have dressy shoes, ones that I wear when I have to look all grown up and professional. I have comfy shoes, athletic shoes, and practical shoes. Slippers, pumps, flats, peep toes, red, brown, black (lots of black), blue, pink (yes, my sneakers are pink)... etc., etc., and the list goes on. One hundred years from now, when an archeologist uncovers my shoes, how in the world will they know who I am?
To Van Gogh, the shoes made the man, so to speak. He had probably only one or two pair, and they, like the lines on his face, bore the imprints of the miles he'd walked, the mud he'd schlepped through and the doormats he'd crossed. They probably had splats of paint, and maybe drops of blood from when he cut off his ear... only kidding, sort of. But Van Gogh truly believed that we could read a pair of shoes like a book -- the shoes maybe didn't make the man, but they were inexorable. You cannot have the pair of shoes be that pair of shoes without that man, and a man can't get very far (without lots of glass and prickly things in his feet) without the shoes.
Again, I swear I have a point. So I started thinking about my shoes again and my legacy. I've done this before, when I was holed up in the British Library about two years ago. Our consumerism has left us with dozens of pairs of shoes, tons of clothing, jewelry, CDs, DVDs. You name it, we have it in droves. What will archaeologists say about us? Because we're so forward-looking (heh, sure), theorists have already started predicting what will kill us all in the end and historians have already started anticipating how some of us will be remembered. But what about the every day people? What about you and me? How will what we leave behind shape how we're remembered?
There certainly isn't an answer, and I suppose there really wasn't a point other than to ask these questions. I would hope that some of the legacy will be good -- we managed to create a society where equality and justice, honesty and truth (hey, I can dream) were key doctrines. It'll probably be something along the lines of the indestructibility of Twinkies.
I can see it now, 150 years post-Armageddon...
Archaeologist 1: "Floyd, I just found something."
Archaeologist 2: "What is it, Vanessa?"
A1: "It's a strange yellow cylinder wrapped in plastic; it seems to have once been edible?"
A2 unwraps said shrink wrap and pops said yellow cylinder into his mouth: "Still is!"
Thursday, November 20, 2008
hovering
Lately I've had this very odd sensation that I'm sort of floating, in a way, hovering around something big, but I can't quite get there. I know it has to do with the time of year, and the fact that I'm going to be seriously looking for jobs soon. But I have a sense of dullness that I can't quite shake. I feel like I should be more nervous about finding a job, more anxious about the fact that I have no clue where I'll be in six months, but over the last few weeks, I've been so focused on my life in the present, that the future hasn't really caught up with me yet.
That's good, right? I've been saying forever that my goal was to live more in the now, and not worry about what's coming and where I'm going. I've always been a strident planner, and incredible organizer, yet right now I feel like there's so much on my plate that needs to be organized and planned in addition to all the other stuff going on in my life, something had to give, and it was the future.
There have been multiple instances in the last few days where this Future has been poking my shoulder, creeping into my daily life as a reminder of its imminence. I delivered a package yesterday for one of the women at University Relations, it was a set of proofs for the program for the Spring Honors Convocation. That's the thing they hold in April to honor all the students who've performed well -- seniors wear their caps and gowns. Holy crap. And yet, it seems so unreal right now, so completely foreign and far away. Denial? Maybe. Survivalist instinct? Probably more likely.
I think my mind is compartmentalizing because I know that if I start worrying about it now, I'll fall apart. I have no plan. I have no job, not a lot of money and at this point no clue as to where I'll be living in six months. But saying that doesn't freak me out as much as it should right now because it's still six months away. A lot happens in a week for me, six months is a lifetime at this point.
That being said, check back with me after Christmas. It'll be a different story I'm sure.
That's good, right? I've been saying forever that my goal was to live more in the now, and not worry about what's coming and where I'm going. I've always been a strident planner, and incredible organizer, yet right now I feel like there's so much on my plate that needs to be organized and planned in addition to all the other stuff going on in my life, something had to give, and it was the future.
There have been multiple instances in the last few days where this Future has been poking my shoulder, creeping into my daily life as a reminder of its imminence. I delivered a package yesterday for one of the women at University Relations, it was a set of proofs for the program for the Spring Honors Convocation. That's the thing they hold in April to honor all the students who've performed well -- seniors wear their caps and gowns. Holy crap. And yet, it seems so unreal right now, so completely foreign and far away. Denial? Maybe. Survivalist instinct? Probably more likely.
I think my mind is compartmentalizing because I know that if I start worrying about it now, I'll fall apart. I have no plan. I have no job, not a lot of money and at this point no clue as to where I'll be living in six months. But saying that doesn't freak me out as much as it should right now because it's still six months away. A lot happens in a week for me, six months is a lifetime at this point.
That being said, check back with me after Christmas. It'll be a different story I'm sure.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
panorama ding dong
A life update will come soon, but as I'm in the middle of some reading and still have about 50 pages to go tonight, that can't happen now.
But, as I was doing this reading for my Methodologies in Art History class, I stumbled upon this really cool website when I looked up a piece of contemporary art that was being described.
It's called gigapan. It takes high resolution images, especially panoramas, and allows you to zoom in, zoom out and view different sections of the image in seriously high definition. Totally cool.
This easily distracted me for 15 minutes.
But, as I was doing this reading for my Methodologies in Art History class, I stumbled upon this really cool website when I looked up a piece of contemporary art that was being described.
It's called gigapan. It takes high resolution images, especially panoramas, and allows you to zoom in, zoom out and view different sections of the image in seriously high definition. Totally cool.
This easily distracted me for 15 minutes.
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