Today I visited teenvogue.com because even though I'm a grown up now, I still appreciate its fun fashion sense. In the Girl of the Week section, I discovered almost every girl chosen has just started her own fashion blog. I checked out one of them. Each post consisted either of of-the-moment fashion preferences or the girl herself modeling in rather expensive new clothing. For some posts, she had even employed a friend to take model shots of her.
I reacted in two ways to the blog. My first thought was of mild disgust at the narcissism of it all. Sure, the girl has a gift for styling outfits. But the amount of time consumed with perfecting her image, buying clothing, and taking pictures of herself seems excessive.
On the other hand, the idea of starting a fashion blog appeals to my own interest in fashion and modeling. I wondered if I should utilize its concepts to some degree. For instance, my friends and I could continue our fashion shoots and I could post them on a blog! Or I could bring pieces I like together, although doing publicly what I've been doing on powerpoints for years seems scary because I don't want to be perceived as superficial.
And now I delve into our need to create an image for ourselves. For fashion bloggers, it's style. And although I'm interested in fashion, I've tried to create an image of verbal creativity and insight or of my intelligence or nonconformity.
None of it really matters in the end. I was talking to Daniel and Mary about this yesterday. By defining ourselves by a "thing," something by which we attain relevance to ourselves or others, we set ourselves up for failure and inadequacy. Because when we inevitably fail, we lose our identity. But it's just a created identity, it isn't who we are. People are people, defined by too many things to count. If we could appreciate that, maybe our image would improve without our own exhaustive, superficial aid. Its easier said than done.
I'm still considering starting a fashion blog.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
An update (finally)
I finally eeked out a few more poems; they just haven't come as easily this semester. However, I've realized that I tend to think poetically or imagine situations just for their poetic value. That's made me feel a bit better about my lack of artistic creation. I wrote these a couple weeks ago. Do enjoy them:
Long Grass
The cedar tree forest
ants forage within
is green with Spring's
new blossom
Bruising its bark and boughs
under giant's limbs
I sit on it
and eat my lunch
The long grass grew (and grows)
under monsoon and sun alike
and no one comes
to cut it down.
The Cemetary Wedding
After a proposal by that
bench, under the tree
in the Pearson plot, I will
make a dress of grass
and fallen leaves,
Litter the aisle with
borrowed silk flowers and
march; the witch girl Eliza and
confederate soldiers
bow as my fresh,
watering gaze meets theirs,
where they lie at rest, dirt mattresses
and grassy quilts.
When I meet the groom, the
buzz of silence and whispers
memories, unfulfillments
Flutters, lifts my veil
New life intermingled
with old, and
the cycle has circled
marking its bounds
in vines and wrought iron.
Long Grass
The cedar tree forest
ants forage within
is green with Spring's
new blossom
Bruising its bark and boughs
under giant's limbs
I sit on it
and eat my lunch
The long grass grew (and grows)
under monsoon and sun alike
and no one comes
to cut it down.
The Cemetary Wedding
After a proposal by that
bench, under the tree
in the Pearson plot, I will
make a dress of grass
and fallen leaves,
Litter the aisle with
borrowed silk flowers and
march; the witch girl Eliza and
confederate soldiers
bow as my fresh,
watering gaze meets theirs,
where they lie at rest, dirt mattresses
and grassy quilts.
When I meet the groom, the
buzz of silence and whispers
memories, unfulfillments
Flutters, lifts my veil
New life intermingled
with old, and
the cycle has circled
marking its bounds
in vines and wrought iron.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Can humans handle globalization?
I've been very stressed out this semester. I'm sure there are a variety of causes for this, but I've been thinking lately about global awareness as it pertains to consumerism and social justice issues. I'm taking a Religious Ethics of Food class so we're often discussing slave labor, the destruction of the Everglades due to the sugar industry, subsidies, starvation in other parts of the world, etc. This paired with the stress on activism on a college campus in school politics, state education budget cuts, feeding the hungry, donating to organizations, cleaning up parks, buying organic and locally grown produce, spending wisely, and hundreds of other causes is a lot to deal with and a lot to live up to. I don't know if everyone approaches these issues the same way I do, but I have become completely overwhelmed, wanting to be a conscious consumer, wanting to buy Tom's shoes because they're trendy and for a good cause, wanting to understand how my choices hurt or help people who are making the products I buy in destitute countries. But I CAN'T DO IT ALL.
Global consciousness and I don't mix well. And I don't think they have to or even necessarily should go together. Individuals can only stretch themselves so far. I can only befriend and truly love so many people. Sure, I can demonstrate compassion in a sense for every cause and everyone. But I have to focus. And we might all be a little more effective if we could find our passion or passions, at most a handful of them, and work to make these things better. I've always felt the need to be good at everything, to succeed at everything I do, to impress everyone with my ability to juggle a million things with ease. But I am slowly becoming convinced that the point of the Church as a community is to build trust and love and accountability in groups we can manage, not in megachurches. And this applies to general socialization as well. We're useless if we're overwhelmed. And we're not really helping very much if what we're doing leaves us deeply unsatisfied.
I went to an Ash wednesday service this past week and was particularly struck by one phrase the pastor said: "If you have faith in Christ and you've been baptized, that's it. You're forgiven." I needed that, "that's it" - I'm free, plain and simple. Knowing that I won't be considered less by God if I don't donate to every charity, shop at New Leaf, feed every starving child is so important. I will do what I do because that's where my heart is, because those things provide clarity and joy and work with my talents and desires and goals and convictions. I am forgiven, I am loved, I am doing fine. That's it.
Global consciousness and I don't mix well. And I don't think they have to or even necessarily should go together. Individuals can only stretch themselves so far. I can only befriend and truly love so many people. Sure, I can demonstrate compassion in a sense for every cause and everyone. But I have to focus. And we might all be a little more effective if we could find our passion or passions, at most a handful of them, and work to make these things better. I've always felt the need to be good at everything, to succeed at everything I do, to impress everyone with my ability to juggle a million things with ease. But I am slowly becoming convinced that the point of the Church as a community is to build trust and love and accountability in groups we can manage, not in megachurches. And this applies to general socialization as well. We're useless if we're overwhelmed. And we're not really helping very much if what we're doing leaves us deeply unsatisfied.
I went to an Ash wednesday service this past week and was particularly struck by one phrase the pastor said: "If you have faith in Christ and you've been baptized, that's it. You're forgiven." I needed that, "that's it" - I'm free, plain and simple. Knowing that I won't be considered less by God if I don't donate to every charity, shop at New Leaf, feed every starving child is so important. I will do what I do because that's where my heart is, because those things provide clarity and joy and work with my talents and desires and goals and convictions. I am forgiven, I am loved, I am doing fine. That's it.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Walt Whitman and I share an appreciation for grass.
A child said, What is the grass?
A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full
hands;
How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it
is any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful
green stuff woven.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we
may see and remark, and say Whose?
Or I guess the grass is itself a child. . . .the produced babe
of the vegetation.
Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow
zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the
same, I receive them the same.
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people and from women, and
from offspring taken soon out of their mother's laps,
And here you are the mother's laps.
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old
mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.
O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths
for nothing.
I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men
and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring
taken soon out of their laps.
What do you think has become of the young and old men?
What do you think has become of the women and
children?
They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprouts show there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait
at the end to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.
All goes onward and outward. . . .and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and
luckier.
A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full
hands;
How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it
is any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful
green stuff woven.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we
may see and remark, and say Whose?
Or I guess the grass is itself a child. . . .the produced babe
of the vegetation.
Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow
zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the
same, I receive them the same.
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people and from women, and
from offspring taken soon out of their mother's laps,
And here you are the mother's laps.
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old
mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.
O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths
for nothing.
I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men
and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring
taken soon out of their laps.
What do you think has become of the young and old men?
What do you think has become of the women and
children?
They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprouts show there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait
at the end to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.
All goes onward and outward. . . .and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and
luckier.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
A Poem by Mary Oliver
The Summer Day
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean--
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down--
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean--
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down--
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Poetry on a Lovely Day
Dry leaves whisper
rain drop rhythms
tossed once by wind's approach
they rest now
a cat nap
under spring's
cold light.
Shadows and
a need to think in
the concrete
the poet's gaze muffled
by What?
cigarette butts and
small mountains of
brown-orange dirt
in the shade the
shadows bring.
Metropolis
Slow migration of
pedestrians striding,
striving in the city
Bright warmth
and bird song cadences
honk and buzz, neon
shocking your
optic nerves.
rain drop rhythms
tossed once by wind's approach
they rest now
a cat nap
under spring's
cold light.
Shadows and
a need to think in
the concrete
the poet's gaze muffled
by What?
cigarette butts and
small mountains of
brown-orange dirt
in the shade the
shadows bring.
Metropolis
Slow migration of
pedestrians striding,
striving in the city
Bright warmth
and bird song cadences
honk and buzz, neon
shocking your
optic nerves.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Stuff I like.
I was just now suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to share with you the things that have made my life more joyous lately:
I am currently drinking Peach Ginger Black Tea with a spoonful of sugar; it is delicious. Coffee is so rich and overwhelming after awhile and I feel that it makes me either too hyper or angsty as I come off the caffeine high. Black tea is a good alternative.
Today I sat on Landis Green for an hour, enjoying tea and a piece of Lindt chocolate in the breezy, sunny, 60 degree weather. I overheard interesting conversations and managed to get all of my Hebrew homework done. I felt very accomplished and very refreshed.
I bought Yael Naim's "New Soul" CD about a week and half ago and its all I've listened to since. She sings in Hebrew, French, and English and her musical style is very soothing, calm, and understated. Also, I understand a bit of what she says in Hebrew, which makes me terribly excited.
We're reading Feuerbach in my Critics of Religion class. Man, that guy is intriguing. Everything he critiques about nineteenth century protestant Christianity forces me to really think and reconsider what I believe. There are definitely some loopholes in his arguments, but I've really enjoyed analyzing his concepts within his book, "Essence of Christianity."
I love naps, starting this week. Falling asleep midmorning when the sun gently peaks through dorm windows and drifting off for a few minutes is wonderfully refreshing.
My yellow keds literally go with everything.
Homework efficiency relieves a lot of stress. I am ahead of schedule this week, getting in the groove of things.
I am currently drinking Peach Ginger Black Tea with a spoonful of sugar; it is delicious. Coffee is so rich and overwhelming after awhile and I feel that it makes me either too hyper or angsty as I come off the caffeine high. Black tea is a good alternative.
Today I sat on Landis Green for an hour, enjoying tea and a piece of Lindt chocolate in the breezy, sunny, 60 degree weather. I overheard interesting conversations and managed to get all of my Hebrew homework done. I felt very accomplished and very refreshed.
I bought Yael Naim's "New Soul" CD about a week and half ago and its all I've listened to since. She sings in Hebrew, French, and English and her musical style is very soothing, calm, and understated. Also, I understand a bit of what she says in Hebrew, which makes me terribly excited.
We're reading Feuerbach in my Critics of Religion class. Man, that guy is intriguing. Everything he critiques about nineteenth century protestant Christianity forces me to really think and reconsider what I believe. There are definitely some loopholes in his arguments, but I've really enjoyed analyzing his concepts within his book, "Essence of Christianity."
I love naps, starting this week. Falling asleep midmorning when the sun gently peaks through dorm windows and drifting off for a few minutes is wonderfully refreshing.
My yellow keds literally go with everything.
Homework efficiency relieves a lot of stress. I am ahead of schedule this week, getting in the groove of things.
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