To put it how many “critics,” “researchers,” and “scientists” do. Every evening I “ignore my responsibilities” and settle in front of a “brainwashing machine” pumping “disastrous blue light” directly into my eyeballs. I enter a “state of complete laziness” as my “attention span diminishes” and I am “trained to commit violence” when I eventually “return to reality” and come face to face with a “ruined life, no friends, and no real job.”
To be fair, I am generalizing. Perhaps there is research that genuinely states (with sufficient evidence) that videogames are bad for young people. And perhaps they are right. However, I am willing to bet there’s research that genuinely claims (with sufficient evidence) the opposite. Yet every time a news station or scientific journal publishes new findings, they villainize not only videogames but the people who play them. We are reduced to lazy, dumb, male young adults who live in their parent’s basement playing their games all day.
I won’t deny that there aren’t people like that out there, but they are not the only people who come home to a good video game. Your doctor, financial advisor, professor, or your best friend could all be playing these games in their free time. However, I don’t blame you for your immediate suspicion of video game players. It’s not your fault.
So today, I am going to put it how I do.
Every evening when I’m done with my work, I settle in front of a window shining a new world on my weary eyes. I enter a state of contentment, excitement as I focus on tasks far detached from the struggles and fear of everyday life. I become practiced in puzzle solving and teamwork as I connect with others who live across the globe from me. And when I log off, I smile and pat my cat’s head and text my friends about meeting up after work tomorrow.
And I go to bed happier than I was before I sat down.
I am there to see art made by people like me. Kinetic Light is a dance company composed of just three people – Alice, Laurel, and Michael. On the credits for DESCENT? Venus, Andromeda, and the RAMP.
Andromeda’s hair curls into space. She has the sort of face that, if tilted, would frighten you. I think about Peter Pan, maybe it’s the glittering leaves sewn across the costumes. There’s mischief, and deeper, danger. She looks at unearthly peace. Above everything. She has otherworldly knowledge, and she knows it. She is powerful, and she is beautiful. There is no other way to put it.
Venus, goddess of love & the most beautiful woman in the universe, is a round-bodied, earthbound woman with a short, blunt haircut and the same eyes. Her face a little stiller, deeper underwater. It is benevolent and godly. She does look like she’s in control of the universe, or at least this part.
Venus & Andromeda both use wheelchairs. If things can be beautiful, their chairs are. Silver like water, barely but decidedly there. They do look like something that would carry the divine, a godly chariot from an old Greek myth, water. Up close, I know they are uncomfortable. They have no cushion, no back. They are purpose built to let these dancers fly through the air, crash into each other, and do it again, and again. It is all straps, buckles, scratches. But most magic dissolves up-close. And what’s real can still be beautiful.
They move and dance across the RAMP. It comes apart in pieces, is cloaked in rubber, but when they move across it, under lights & music that have been perfectly designed – they really do look like they’re in space. It is a world unto itself. Venus & Andromeda are, for a moment, the only thing in the universe, and they are giants. I find rehearsal footage, and even in its loud, rough phases, even in the daylight, it is beautiful.
Over them, the music, the lights, is poetry – or a sort of poetry. Visual descriptions, designed to help people who are blind or who have limited vision. They have somehow captured the poetry of the pair’s movements in words. Over this, sign language interpretation, more movements, more poetry, to capture the dance, the lights, the music, the words. I have always liked sign language because I think, like dance, there are parts of it you understand implicitly, without knowing the language.
The story they tell is based on Rodin’s Venus & Andromeda, and it is inspired by itself. They have reinvented, rediscovered it all. They tell us that, early in development, they were inspired by the pain of the two figures in the sculpture. I cannot see it any other way now. A woman crumpled on the floor; another clutching her neck. But at the same time, they said, it was beautiful. It was sensual, and most importantly, they had no story together, and they needed one. So the dance was born.
Dance so rarely has a story to me. When I used to dance, as a child, I was too much of a perfectionist to enjoy it myself, but I loved to watch it. My favorite part of the annual recitals was watching the shadows of the dancers flicker while I waited in the wings. Now that I don’t dance in any sort of professional or competitive setting, I know that dance, for me, is about feeling; about touch, connection, interaction. It’s all about a heartbeat. This dance has this, and a story. There was a rhythm, a sense of symmetry to it all. A sense of trust, and slowness. It moved like the ocean, or a dream.
This show dissolved several ideas – that disabled people are unnatural, or less than human; that access is ugly, more. The truth is, we exist in nature, and in the world Kinetic Light created, we exist in the stars, and in the heavens. The god of this place is one that looks like so many of us. It spun inhumanity on its head – from animals to the divine. This dance is about a million things, but it was also about the beauty of access – of the RAMP, the poetry of visual description, of sign interpretation. It often feels like there’s not a place in the world – and especially the art world – for people like us. This company proves that there is, and that those places can be transcendent.
I am not happy with this review – but I knew going into this that I would be. The feeling of seeing DESCENT is incommunicable, and I knew this even watching it. Please imagine the unimaginable.
A girl looks back at me with eyes big and full of hope. An intense shade of black with depth and a yearning expression in her eyes. Her full red puckered lips align parallel with mine enticing me to get a closer look. In a wall full of women who appear similar but with different variations, she stares back at me captivating me with her gaze. The simple beauty of this painting with a girl looking back with two sunflowers in front of her differs from the rest. While other women were standing far back with different expressions or holding different objects, her sunflowers are her beauty; they are not flawless but rather vivid, delicate, and intricate. Art has always interested me. Learning the painter’s story behind their pieces has always been my joy in discovering art, but with this piece, I did not think about the painter, I thought of myself. So, when the seller came over to me and asked why I was drawn to this specific piece, I said “Porque se parece a mi”. The girl in this painting does not scream her frustrations or sadness, she hides behind her soft smile and sunflowers. I got this painting because it reminds me of myself.
I sat at the end of the long kitchen table at my grandparents house in sarasota florida, recently having changed out of my travel outfit that was somehow suited for neither the chill of massachusetts or mugginess of florida. My grandfather leaned against the counter asking me to guess where he went yesterday. His life isn’t too exciting so I know it’s probably bridge, the grocery store, or maybe he took Mémé, my grandmother, to the orchestra. I didn’t offer an answer, instead asking “where?!” matching his enthusiastic tone. He would go on to tell me all the things he got at Publix and what deals he found, making sure to emphasize the hagen daz coffee ice cream that he got special for me. In a few moments my Mémé would come in and jump at the opportunity to bring out the tiny silver tea spoons that I loved to use, and my grandfather would sit across from my grinning as I scooped out the ice cream. I’d sit there for a while, slowly turning the scoops over with my tiny silver spoon so I could scrape the melted part off the bottom. It was my favorite part, the kind of soft serve texture it had; my grandpa would always belt out a kind of half shout half laugh, amused by my particular eating habits. They loved making me happy. Beaming at the chance to put a smile on my face.
Bless us O Lord, for the bright red longaniza sausage, scrambled eggs, fried rice, warm pot of arroz caldo, sweet bibinka, lechon, spaghetti, champurrado, puto, boba, and donuts which we are about to receive, from thy bounty through Christ our Lord. Amen.
That is what everyone is really thinking at 6:30 AM, as the congregation speeds through the prayer before meals while simultaneously swiftly escaping the brown wooden pews to get to the first cut of lechon. The poor nine pigs that had to be slaughtered for the nine days of devotion. Coats, beanies, gloves, and boots are on, as the congregation braves the 50-degree pilgrimage across the parking lot from the church to the community center for a post-mass breakfast. A simbang gabi breakfast is unlike anything you have ever seen. Aunties save seats at the circle foldable tables with their gaudy Louis Vuitton bags and uncles stand in line gathering styrofoam plates, plastic forks, spoons, and knives for the family. Most adults are there before they have to go to work most kids are there before school, aching for their final days to be over before Christmas break. There is no need to crave more sleep since there is an array of food presented on long white foldable tables to crave instead. The room is filled with spirit and life, as 6:30 am is the perfect time for anticipation, feasting, and sharing. Christmas music is playing from big black speakers and parols are hanging from the ceiling. You stand in line, scoop your rice first, then hold your plate out for aunties to fill it up until your rice is falling over the edge. The other hand is reserved for a bowl of arroz caldo or soup. Another plate is needed for the white, orange, and purple deserts, all a different form of rice and sugar, all very crucial to the meal. Everything is too salty or too sweet, just how it should be. No one is tired because the meal is a reminder that Christmas is approaching. This breakfast reminds you of home. It reminds you of a home that you have and a home that you don’t have whether or not you are a devout Filipino Catholic Christian. The meal is the gathering and sitting and chaos and excitement. It’s the anticipation and chatter and December chill. It makes you want to go home, full from breakfast, and set an alarm for the next morning, at 4:45 am.
In the summer I wear a dress to feel the breeze on my bare legs and lay around letting the cool fabric pool around my thighs. I feel like a girl. In my tween years, I never wore dresses. These days I wear them often. I like to quickly turn around and feel the dress spin with me. My favorite dresses fall above my knees but not too short that I won’t be comfortable going about my day. A dress is perfect for a day at the beach or lake. I would wear a loose dress over my swimsuit and when I’m still wet it’s easy to put on. In the spring I wear dresses with flowers on them, and in the fall I wear black leggings. In the winter I wear dresses and jeans. I imagine that the love of my life will see me in my favorite dress and know that I am beautiful and the one. I imagine that I turn to meet their eyes and my dress moves in the wind and they are mesmerized by the new stretch of skin revealed. Dresses are romantic. Flirt at a party in a dress, go on a date in a dress, get married in a dress all because I want to. I am building a collection, looking for the perfect dress forever and always.
Topic of interest – Inner monologues and self-conversing
I read in an article that around 50% of people don’t have inner monologues. That article went viral recently and sparked a lot of discourse online, prompting many people to talk about their experiences with (or without) internal monologues. As far as I know, I have some form of inner voice, but is it an inner monologue? What exactly does that mean for me, and how is it different from other people’s?
For some people, their “inner monologue” is apparently like narration in a book. Many of these people compare it to narration in young adult novels. I have to wonder if that includes describing to yourself things that you are doing in real time. The common thread I have been able to spot in people’s descriptions of their inner voices, however, has been the trait of simply talking to oneself. Some articles say that inner monologues and talking to oneself are two completely different things. In any case, it is a more accurate description of what I do.
I treat my inner voice like a good friend, and I tend to strike up silent conversations with it when the place I am in gets too quiet. My inner voice is the one who reminds me to look after myself, asks me how I am feeling, and quite possibly the only one I know who will listen to me ramble about my favorite pieces of media for hours on end. Every time I go on a walk around campus, the voice is there to help me sort through my feelings and make sense out of my busy life. Sometimes, I’ll catch myself whispering too loudly at the voice in a public space and get confused glances from nearby people, which is ironic considering so many of them look like they are also talking to themselves when they are using wireless earbuds to make phone calls.
Last year, I took a Video Production course where the final project was to make a short movie. My movie, “Alone With My Thoughts,” was inspired by my inner voice, and is about a girl whose inner voice is its own character, in the form of a sort of imaginary friend. I thought it would be interesting and funny if the inner voice somehow had a mind of its own. Since my own inner voice helps motivate me to do things, I thought: what if it went too far and acted hostile towards the girl in an attempt to mold her into her ideal self? I ended up having a lot of fun making the film and I am very proud of the final result.
I like treating my inner voice as if it is its own person, and I wonder what proportion of people out there do the same thing. It may sound silly, but I’ve found it to be a very healthy way of working through my thoughts and emotions. Plus, it gives me someone to talk to when there’s no one else around. It’s very easy to talk with someone who knows you extremely well, and I can’t think of anyone who knows me better than myself.
It feels like I have hit peak exhaustion every time I walk into the center. I sit in the same plush chair every time — away from everyone else because I feel too tired to talk. I pull out my computer and check the scheduling website. There’s a sort of peace to sitting there but it only lasts for a minute. Then I’m restless again. There’s nothing to do but get up and grab some candy.
Right now, it’s lifesavers. There are running low so all the good flavors — green and yellow — are gone. I grab a purple one because it’s on top and I feel like digging around in the container is weird. I go back to my chair knowing that I will get up again in 20 minutes to grab another piece.
The grape candy tastes like mint. It’s a product of sitting with the mint lifesavers for months on end. I hate mint. I keep eating it anyway. Day after day, shift after shift, I always eat the minty fruit lifesavers. What else is there to do? The candy has a sort of pull to it — magnetic and sharp. I hate the mint but it’s still candy. If you wait a minute the mint goes away and it’s back to regularly scheduled programming. The brief cooling fresh taste is a small price to pay for special candy that makes me feel just that little bit more awake.
We used to have Jolly Ranchers in the container. I loved those the best. Before that, before I worked at the center, we had small little candies with fruit pictures on them. They seemed cheap and they looked like cough drops. The blue one tasted like a cough drop too. The yellow and green — the same colors that disappear quickest from the lifesaver stock — were hardly ever present. The trick was to avoid the blue ones at any cost. If you ate a blue one it scared you off from trying any of the others, and the red one really wasn’t too bad.
I would never buy any of these candies for myself, but I ate them — I eat them — every time I work. There’s something especially sweet about free candy when you feel trapped in a building. Despite this, I do love my job. I will talk up the center whenever possible and I would choose this job over all other jobs here. The best part of the job isn’t even the candies, it’s the feeling I get when I know that I was helpful. It’s the candy that the student offers me in thanks after we worked through a difficult part of her essay, she had slowly given up hope on. The candies entertain me during a slow shift and spark a bit more life in me, but they aren’t really anything special. When you leave the center, you remember how it feels to see someone leave with a smile, not the taste of mint where there is meant to be fruit.
When I think of my childhood home, it is filtered. The physical image of it has a sepia hue. My memory is aged. Adrienne Lenker explores the rust of childhood in “half return” off of her 2020 album “songs”. An acoustic, upbeat strumming greets the listener, leading them to Lenker’s gentle crow of a voice, unique and jagged. Her voice is gentle and almost childlike, as Lenker muses on returning to a place she once knew.
“Shadow, shadow, what a show
Every other step, there’s a crosseyed crow”,
opens Lenker, reflecting on shadows of the past and creating a scene of omens— a show of shadows: dark, looming, brooding. And the unsettling crosseyed crow.
Lenker, perhaps, is returning “half” to what is her hometown, and paints an image of a snow-filled town, on a journey crossing the bridge. We then read the chorus, where Lenker gently hums,
“Half return, half return
Standing in the yard, dressed like a kid
The house is white and the lawn is dead”
This chorus always puts the image on my first home in my mind. I was born there. It was a white shuttered box— an island in a sea of grassy yard, probably a bit dead. Or, I think it’s dead because I’m no longer the one playing there. Someone else lives there now; we moved out when I was eight. But sometimes I feel the ghost of my child self lingers. I too see myself in the yard, dressed in flower-embroidered jeans, chunky and clunky sneakers, caked in dirt. In some zip-up hoodie, probably pink, with some flower or butterfly or something to signify I was a girl as I combed through dirt and ran until my lungs ached. My house was white, the lawn was dead, and my memory is sepia of the place. I was born there, and I will never return.
That house is parallel to a highway, meaning if you’re really going somewhere, from Salem to McMinnville, or even to Eugene, you’ll see that house. You’ll pass the bridge into my hometown, and see my birthplace. I’ve driven past it a lot since I moved. My mom always points it out, like I would forget. I shyly peak when we drive by, not to look too eager. I drove past it once with my friends on a bus to a band competition. I pointed my old house out like my mom, noting it was the house I was born in. That memory is sepia now too.
When we go place to place, lose memories and faces, we can only “half return”, as Lenker puts it. This song paints images of childhood and old homes and feelings, coming back to an old place as a new you. Lenker concludes the song with an emphasis on how “the lawn is dead”. The lawn is sepia, and our old versions of us are sepia. Those memories are old pictures, faded and worn.
Pasta. The pinnacle of my joy. The variety, complexity, and simplicity. You’re hungry, that’s alright, I’ll go and grab by pasta pot. Yes, my pasta pot. Small yet large enough for two portions but justifies one portion easily. Round like a cauldron, that perfectly distributes heat for a nice boil and reduces cook time. With an insulated handle, sturdy and not too far or too close to the pot. Set the water to a boil. Rigatoni, Penne, Linguine, Farfalle, Macaroni, Orecchiette, Shells, no Vegetable Rotini. My house is always stocked with Penne, ricotta, tomato sauce, parmesan, and red pepper flakes.
Macaroni and cheese was my main source of food when I was younger. Sick? Mac and Cheese. Healthy? Mac and cheese. Sad? Mac and cheese. Happy? Mac and cheese! When we host or aid in hosting family gatherings, no mac and cheese means there is no meal.
Although, I have an unconditional love for pasta dishes I am not easily pleased. Not everyone knows how to make a good pasta dish. Blanch for example, even though plain pasta is “plain” it should not taste plain! Where is the salt, at least, that accentuates the “plain” pasta taste, good pasta can be flavorful without sauce or meat and I will stand by that! Not many options for me so plain pasta, okay I’ll manage, sauce, nothing notable. Even their parmesan cheese and red pepper flakes have a weird texture and taste, chalky.
At home pasta is a highly rated cuisine, at school pasta is my last resort. Involuntary betrayal *sigh*. It hurts to betray what has held me down for decades when I turn in my Southern card every 5 months. Not by choice but by force. When home, I apologize with several pots of pasta, showing my gratitude and appreciation. I go out to eat, “what are your pasta entrees? Any specials?”.
I would never deny her, we go together.
Portrait of a Young Girl Staring at a Portrait of God
There were no seats in the museum. At least, no seats where I wanted to sit. There were plenty in the halls, for people-watching or admiring the marble busts, but none there, in that room. I’m not sure what it was about it. I’m not a religious person. I don’t believe in God. I’m also not very tall, and the painting kissed the ceiling, hung unfortunately high like something from an old Paris salon. I had to crane my neck to see it properly, squinting past the glare of the window and bouncing on my heels.
I don’t know how to describe it. Though I could tell you about the pastels, the lush green meadow with spotted flowers, could wax lyrical about the wisteria blossoms and the figures lying languidly in the grass, twisted almost inhumanly around one another. Skin mapped like mountain ranges — they were beautiful. Eyes tilted upwards towards him and his translucent robes, white like the morning sky, hand lifted like Raphael’s Plato. He’s telling stories of the heavens.
I could describe this — but could never properly retell the feeling of looking at it, standing in that room for ten and then twenty minutes, thirty and then forty, only half aware of the ache in my feet. There was something beautiful about it, it’s make but mostly its nature, like you were staring at something familiar but too perfect to ever reach. In the grass, there’s an empty space for you to sit. It beckons you, taunts you. Dares you to join. I am not a religious person. I don’t believe in God. The closest I will ever come is worshipping that piece of art.
I’m sitting in a chair. Hands hovering over the keyboard, and eyes glued onto the screen. I’m thinking and thinking. “How do I start this assignment? I’m so confused about what this means. I have a test the next day.” My eyes glide over to the top right corner of the screen. 5:00 pm it reads. “That’s it” I finally say. “I’m going for a walk.”
I quickly organize everything in my backpack. My headphones are in my headphone case which lies in the front pocket of my backpack. My iPad charger was wrapped tightly around the outlet and placed on the other front pocket in my backpack. My iPad, was turned off and placed in the back pocket of my backpack. And finally, my laptop, closed shut and placed right next to my iPad. I then zip up my backpack, grab my coat, and place my black bag over my shoulder. I pulled out my phone and checked the time. 5:05. ‘I wanna see Jorge” I said. I rushed to the elevator. I pressed the blue button and waited. Techniquely it only took a minute for the elevator door to open, but that minute felt like hours. I couldn’t miss Jorge. Not when it was still light out. I quickly dialed my mom as I was walking to the two mahogany wooden doors. “What are you doing?” my mom asked. “I’m looking for Jorge, and I’m sending you a million pictures.” I zoomed out of the doors down the path. It was a slightly downhill path that led me under the hall of 2 buildings connected. “My god,” my mom said. “Please don’t send me a million pictures, I’m tired.” “Well, that’s too bad,” I said, staring at the stone steps in front of me. Those stones were about to lead to something so magical. I ran down them and zoomed around a dirty frozen pond. I ran past the road down the bridge. There he was. With his friends and his wives. “Mom!” I screamed. “He’s walking on ice! Jorge is walking on ice! Isn’t that amazing?”
“Don’t yell!” she said. “People are going to think you’re crazy.”
“Mom. People know I’m crazy.”
Beaded jewelry was my first hobby ever. This sounds so mundane and unexciting but it was for me because this was my first hobby and I was a sophomore in college. In high school I did activities. I played tennis, I was part of a French club, and I loved discussing and debating politics but I never considered any of those hobbies. I did academics, a sport, sometimes, and watched TV. I do not know why, but I never did anything creative really, academics were my life and my “hobby”. But once COVID hit I realized how much that couldn’t be it for me. High school had made me a shell of a person and I wanted to be more. It took a while to find out what it is I really wanted to do but making beaded jewelry became my first hobby. Every week, a couple of days a week, I would go to Fimbel lab and make little beaded earrings – little cows, flowers, bees, and other things, then I would give them to my friends and other people. I even sold some. I still enjoyed learning and academics but it was not all-consuming. I was learning to balance my time. I started other hobbies too – crocheting, knitting, drawing. Sometimes I do not have a lot of time for these things but I can always go back to it if I ever need to.
Topic of interest: Classics (Latin and Ancient Greek)
School has always come easy to me. I rarely studied, and although I was not a straight A student, it didn’t bother me that much. I was a straight A and B student, all without putting in any effort; I say this not to brag or show off, but to emphasize just how difficult learning Latin was. For the first time in my school career, I struggled. I failed tests, I failed take-home exams, and I failed in-class presentations. Latin challenged me from the time I began in 6th grade until my senior year, and I am sure, should I take a Latin class now, I would struggle just as much. Despite my struggles, I took Latin for seven consecutive years, adding on Ancient Greek in my last two years of high school. Why? Maybe it was my overpowering crush on one of my teachers, or the friends I had in my classes, but I like to say it was because I loved the language. I did love the language, and I still do. I loved the challenges it presented, and the excitement I would feel when getting something right. I loved the history we learned and the famous stories we read. I loved the bragging rights that came with saying I’ve read the Aeneid or The Odyssey in their original form.
I cannot accurately express what was so challenging to me about Latin, because I still do not fully understand. Perhaps the first year I did not put in enough effort, and hence I fell behind, unable to ever catch up. But I do know my main struggle was with vocabulary. I could easily recite sum, es, est, summus, estes, sunt, but I could not tell you the translation of veni, vidi, vici.
When I came to Mount Holyoke, I had planned to major in Classics, but after sitting in on one Latin class, I changed my mind. I was tired of struggling and putting in effort, only to never see the results I wanted. I still love Latin and Ancient Greek, and taking them taught me healthier study habits and perseverance.
I squish the light brown dough where one side twists with the other. The knot – the heart of the food that is in front of me.
“Are you happy now?” My friend asks somewhat annoyed.
No, I want to say.
“Yes,” I answer instead and plaster a very fake smile on my face. It goes unnoticed and she continues picking at her salad. Tomato, cucumber, bell pepper, and feta cheese. Cut up into tiny pieces for a better “sensory experience” – her words, not mine.
I rip off a piece of the pretzel in front of me. Its color is a perfect light brown. It looks fake like those fast-food chains’ hamburger commercials. I dip the piece into grape jelly.
When I was younger I always shared pretzels with my mom and dad. Every weekend we would set up breakfast on my tiny, pink plastic table and my dad would crouch on one of the matching plastic chairs. My mom would feed the teddy bear next to her a pretzel dipped in strawberry jam.
It is nothing like that now. The dough is too doughy. The jam is too sweet. The taste lacks the feeling of home.
I guess I am a bit homesick. I look forward to eating a German pretzel again with my parents.
Possibly in Michigan is a 1983 short film directed by Cecelia Condit. The film is often described as a ‘musical horror story.’ It follows two young women who are shopping for perfume while a masked cannibal follows them through the mall. When he follows them home, the tables turn quickly, and the victims become the assailants–the women kill and eat him instead.
The film was shot using rudimentary video technology giving it a dreamlike quality. The colors are grainy, and there are lens flares and light leaks; giving it an eerie glow resembling analog photography.
The film covers themes of violence against women, monotonous midwestern life, and consumerism. The mall is big and empty, a result of mass production and overconsumption, it has been left behind as new ways of spending come along to replace it.
I think that Possibly in Michigan is a great piece of art. Its visual aesthetic is unlike any other film I’ve seen. It perfectly captures the feeling of a strange hazy nightmare or a distant unsettling memory. The music is creepy but also extremely catchy. While it’s creepy, it’s also pretty silly, which makes it fun to watch. The editing is also great, the film quickly cuts to seemingly random scenes that eventually all connect, it’s a skillful editing method. It’s not a surprise that this film has come out of obscurity recently and become beloved by so many young people. In the past many films made by women have been overshadowed, but as the current generation explores film, these works are rediscovered.
As I look at the pink ‘H’ key chain in front of me, I don’t just see a color or an object. It is much more. It’s all the laughter that I shared with my sister, the tears that we shed together, and the tears that we wiped off of each other. It’s the fights that we fought and the times that we pretended we never got into a fight in the first place. It’s the letters my sister would hide under my desk every time I was away for too long. It’s the books that we read out to each other and the ones we never stop ranting about. It encapsulates the time when I told my sister about my first crush, her watching me fall in love for the first time, and getting my heart broken for the first time. It captures the times she stayed up with me all night, holding me tight as I broke apart in her arms. It’s the moment she realized the world was not all sunshine and rainbows. It’s that time I had to break it to her that real monsters don’t hide under the bed but real monsters are humans in disguise. It’s us growing together. It is a reminder of all our firsts and sadly, all our lasts.
It’s our last hug in the airport, the last tears we shed together, and our last goodbye. Now, as I hold the key chain in my hand and a decade full of memories in my heart, I can only wonder what she is up to on the other side of the world. It’s the only thing I can hold close when I think about her. So, no, it is not just a key chain. It is our girlhood engraved in this key chain. With this pink ‘H’ key chain in my hand, somehow, being 12,456km apart does not seem so bad.
The most perfect woman sits on a rusty park bench. She humbles her surroundings and you can’t look away. Her straight blonde hair, twinkling blue eyes, and hot pink cowgirl hat are unavoidable. Her face, expressionless. Her lips, slightly parted. Her blue eyes, wide. She is illuminated in the park’s sunlight.
Suddenly, a single raindrop rolls down her cheek. Her face refuses to change. You can’t help but wonder why?
The sound of children screaming and crying are in the distance. You can hear a man shout, “what is wrong with you!” You hear leaves rustling from the breeze. Overwhelmed with the roaring sounds, you have to look away from her. Obligated to look at the surroundings.
You scan the gloomy park unavoidable encounters. A man yells at a woman, parents try to calm their wailing child, and a couple holding hands.
You need to look back at the flawless woman to escape the darkness. The drop, still rolling down her face, has made its way to her jaw, falling off of her face. The sun has set, but in its replacement is her.
Workshop Essay
What comes first? The emotion or the feeling? Most think the emotion presents itself, followed by its correlating physical reaction.; but I would think it is the other way around. When my chest begins to hurt and I can’t breathe, I know that I am feeling anxious about something; when my eyes tear up and I feel a knot in my throat, I can confidently say I am sad; when my legs refuse to move and I feel as if I am rooted in place, I can deduce something is triggering me. I was born with a brain that cannot communicate between its left and right side. I have emotions, but I don’t always perceive or process them. My only option is to listen to my body, to rely on its infinite wisdom and patience while I try to decipher why my heart aches. I know to listen to my flesh, heart, and tears, because if I don’t no one else will hear their song of sorrow.
My ancestry comes from the darkest parts of Spain, two grandfathers born and raised during a war. One of them grew to be a decorated general for the dictatorship, the other shook off the stench of the coal mines and clung to education to avoid dying of lung cancer. Both never learn to process their emotions, both of them abused my parents respectively. My Dad learnt what not to do, Mother took it as a handbook. Sometimes I am disgusted at the dirt I carry in my blood, smudged by colonizers, dictators, and psychopaths. Sometimes I glow in pride at the honor passed in my genetics, the title wrought through past heroics. My body carries these stories in the DNA that created it, all the opportunities for creating pain and suffering as well as the ability to improve the world around me. I trust it to follow the path I have chosen for us since it knows better than anyone else how horrible the other one would be.
I grew up surrounded by nature, climbing mountains and reading the stars. I could pitch down a tent at the age of three, carry 20 pound backpacks by four, and find my way out of a darkened forest by five. During young years mostly forgotten, my tiny body faced the realness of death–dangling from cliffs, picking up black widows, getting struck by lightning, nearly drowning in an enraged sea– and adapted accordingly. It cultivated a set of crucial reflexes, agility, and strength. Despite my reckless disposition and complete lack of impulse control, I endured crazy travels in every corner of the world, each trip amassing more and more knowledge in my veins, muscles, and heart.
Whether it be by trauma, brain injuries, or undiagnosed ADHD, my memory of events is hazy, shaky, and often non-existent. However, my hippocampus does not need to work for my muscles to tense up at the sight of an oncoming thunderstorm, nor does my heart need to remember pain in order to know it. I have a complete, unwavering faith in my body, in its wisdom and instincts as it pulls 21 years of trials and tribulations into a fantastic natural algorithm to keep me safe every day.
Depths of Sapphire
Within that stare, a crystalline sea,
Reflecting galaxies, dancing free,
Stars alight in their ethereal glow,
Guiding me through the cosmic flow.
With every blink, a new world forms,
A mosaic of dreams, where love transforms,
I’m lost in the beauty, lost in the maze,
Of her eyes, where eternity plays.
Oh, how her gaze, like a fractal’s grace,
Unfolds the mysteries of time and space,
In those beautiful blue eyes, I find,
The universe, and all that’s intertwined.
Each glance, a journey, an endless flight,
Into depths of sapphire, pure and bright.
“I drop the gun to my chest. I’m so sad and I can’t really see a way out of what I’m feeling but I’m leaning on memory for help.”
This sentence I think really encapsulates the parts of this piece that hit me the most. The way the author portrays his struggle with mental health, simplifying such dark, overwhelming, and complicated emotions into “i’m so sad”–especially in a moment so gut wrenching as attempting suicide. This sort of matter of fact writing style perpetuates the piece and makes it a fascinating read, since it allows for the reader to make their own conclusions and insert their own emotions onto the writing; personally I think this makes it a very powerful story. Lastly, the “I’m leaning on memory for help” segment really hit me as a unique but extremely successful way to depict trying to find happiness in a moment outside of the present. I think the simplified language also works very well here, since the imagery is so well crafted that we can visualize exactly what coping mechanism the author used; but without taking away from the atmosphere of trudging and suffering through the swamp of life.
Mathematics, often regarded as the language of the universe, holds within its elegant formulas and intricate theorems the keys to unlocking the secrets of cosmic power that lie hidden beneath the surface of our reality. From the tiniest subatomic particles to the vast expanses of space, math serves as a bridge between the tangible and the abstract, allowing us to grasp the underlying order and beauty that governs the cosmos.
At its core, mathematics is not just a tool for calculation, but a profound exploration of patterns, relationships, and structures that shape the fabric of our existence. It provides a framework for understanding the natural world, revealing the hidden symmetries and harmonies that underpin everything from the motion of celestial bodies to the growth patterns of plants.
One of the most mesmerizing aspects of math is its ability to unveil the hidden laws that govern the universe. Through mathematical equations, physicists have been able to predict the behavior of particles at the quantum level and describe the curvature of spacetime in Einstein’s theory of relativity. These equations serve as a testament to the power of human intellect to uncover the underlying principles that dictate the workings of the cosmos.
Moreover, math possesses a timeless beauty that transcends cultural boundaries and historical epochs. The elegance of a geometric proof or the simplicity of an algebraic equation can evoke a sense of wonder and awe, akin to beholding a work of art or listening to a symphony. The beauty of math lies not only in its utility but also in its intrinsic aesthetic appeal, drawing us into a world of pure abstraction and intellectual exploration.
Furthermore, mathematics has the remarkable ability to inspire creativity and innovation across diverse fields of human endeavor. Whether in music, architecture, or technology, the principles of mathematics serve as a source of inspiration, guiding the design of intricate structures, algorithms, and artistic compositions. The fusion of creativity and mathematical rigor gives rise to groundbreaking discoveries and inventions that shape the course of history.
The beauty of math lies in its ability to unveil the secret rules that lay beneath the surface of our reality. Through its elegant formulas and profound insights, mathematics offers us a glimpse into the underlying order and harmony that pervades the universe. It shows chaos as an order to it, an endless oxymoron we cannot navigate without this logical guide. As we delve deeper into the mysteries of mathematics, we come to appreciate the timeless beauty and profound significance of this ancient discipline in illuminating the secrets of the cosmos.
After my parents divorced and before my father took his own life, he got an apartment on the top floor of an old building. It wasn’t the worst part of town, but it was far from the best. The kitchen was simple and outdated, still this kitchen is where he got to be his best self. He worked with machines by day, but he was a talented cook. In this kitchen, he made spinach fettuccine alfredo from scratch, hanging the green strands of pasta anywhere and everywhere to dry. Before buffalo wings were a thing, he fried split chicken wings in his countertop wok and served them lightly smothered in buttered hot sauce, but on this day, he came home from work, opened a can of Progresso lentil soup and heated it up in a pan on top of the oven. “MMMmmmmm”, he said out loud after taking the first warm bite and thought to himself, “Maybe, I can do this.” His marriage was dead, but he wasn’t – not yet anyway.
In this apartment, I saw a glimpse of my father I never got to see before. He kept the apartment spotless. He had a hip fashion sense and meticulously cared for his clothing. He had good taste in TV shows, movies, and music which he recorded onto blank tapes, neatly labeled and shelved in alphabetical order. He had beautiful handwriting. He kept cans of lentil soup in a neat row on the top shelf of the open kitchen hutch. What I remember the most is the food. He was fancy. He drank Corona beer with a slice of lime pushed through the opening. He drank Dr. Pepper heated up and garnished with an orange slice. He made beautiful spinach salads with the tangiest homemade mustard dressing.
Only visiting on weekends, my brothers and I shared a room in this apartment, in which we kept a Nintendo, our He-man and She-ra toy collection, and a set of youth encyclopedias. We spent our time playing Nintendo, playing He-man and She-ra, or playing school with the encyclopedias. I was always the teacher and I always started the lesson with Aardvarks.
I remember sitting on the couch in that apartment watching “The Simpsons” and “Tour of Duty,” holding hands with my dad after he served us a thoughtful and delicious meal. It was neat and tidy all around us. I felt safe, loved, and cared for in this apartment.
I found out my mom eloped while in this apartment. We got a call from her late one Saturday night, “Do you remember Eddie?”, a man that had given us a ride home from the grocery store the previous week. Eddie was a drummer she met two weeks prior at the bar where she worked. My home with my mother never felt safe after that. One day, she called my Dad to inform him that I was going to move in with him. He ended his life a couple of days later in a park downtown.
Years later, a dear friend of mine rented this same still-outdated apartment after her own bad breakup. The opposite of my father, she was very messy, a bit of a collector, and certainly not a cook. Also stylish, she would hang her clothes anywhere and everywhere. One of her doll collections decorated the shelves of the open hutch in the kitchen. She is one of those people who uses her oven as a place to store her sweaters. When visiting her, I noticed how small the apartment was and how very low the ceilings were. It hadn’t changed a bit, and honestly, I found it barely livable. Yet, here she was, living here and working on her new life. She has a family of her own now, and a house, and is an avid artist and activist in our community. She did it.
The elevator door opens to reveal a solitary figure, standing in front of you like your own reflection. You glance at their face for a moment. They are a familiar stranger. Perhaps you’ve seen them before, or perhaps their features are so commonplace you are just imagining you have. As you look at them your eyes meet and an agreement is made without words. You will remain strangers, at least for now. As you stand waiting for the elevator to reach your floor, you become aware of the way they stand with their shoulders slouched forward and their hands protectively clasped in front of their body. They are gently rocking from side to side, like a baby’s cradle. They exhale once loudly through their nose. You can feel anxiety radiating from underneath a layer of frustration. All of this learned without a word spoken. A strange intimacy, created and lost within the same minute.
The hallway to your dorm room looks like any other hallway but you feel relief immediately upon entering it. It tells your brain that you are about to be safe. You are aware that the person from the elevator is behind you, however, so you don’t feel totally relaxed. They follow you all the way down the hall. You stop at your room and they keep walking, eventually stopping in front of a room a few doors down. You feel vaguely uncomfortable knowing that they live on your floor and you don’t even know their name. You realize how many familiar strangers there are, existing in your periphery – getting into elevators, running late to class, trying to find something to eat at Blanch, avoiding eye contact in the dorm bathrooms.
Food. Oh god do I love food. The taste, the smell, the look, it’s just heaven on a plate made just for me and my pleasure. Food used to be made to survive. It used to be bland food that was purely made to stop the rumbling in your stomach. Then, the good and flavorful food was made for the rich and the mighty. Now, not everyone has access to delicious food, but a lot more people do.
People can be so creative when it comes to different meals, combining different cultural cuisines or making completely new and innovative dishes. There are so many different combinations that may not sound good, but they just hit all of the regions of taste just so well. For instance, my family owns a pizza restaurant. Now this isn’t your average pizza restaurant. No, my dad decided that he wanted to create a bunch of different crazy combinations on pizza and see what goes the best together. For instance, over the summer our valley is famous for our peaches. People travel from all over the world to try our peaches and wine, but more specifically our peaches and everything we make out of it. One of my favorite pizzas and one of the best pizzas we make, is our Peach Season kick off pizza. This pizza has garlic olive oil sauce, mozzarella cheese, then peaches, basil, bacon, creme fraiche, and jalapenos. Now Peaches on pizza might sound strange to most people, but trust me if it is done right it is one of the most delicious mouth watering combination dishes you will ever try.
Pizza is by far my favorite food. There is so much you can do with it, and clearly I have a lot of free access to it which is amazing. I grew up on good pizza, just overall really flavorful and bright pizza. Therefore, I know I am spoiled when it comes to good food. However, growing up with good food has made me love food even more and has spurred a fun passionate side hobby of cooking for myself and others in my free time.
I just absolutely love and always will love food.
The “thumb piano” is some colonial bullshit. Thank you so much, Hugh Tracey, for taking what is literally a line of communication between the Shona people and their ancestors, and as Wikipedia so authentically and definitively summarized, “popularized it internationally,” under a new name.
Well, first, we have to thank Hugh Tracey for preserving African folk musics that otherwise would have been lost to the violence and apartheid his own country established. I guess.
Still, I feel comfortable criticizing the man, despite his acts of service. Because how much did he preserve, and how much did he curse, to be forever understood through a coating of white paint, eurocentric frames for buildings we must rip apart to understand the land beneath? He’s not a storybook character: Mr. Tracey. He’s not a villain, but he’s most definitely not a hero.
More importantly, this is a story of how the Shona of Zimbabwe gave us… scratch that…gave themselves… the mbira, an instrument with about twenty eight thin metal bars you pull with your thumbs, gently, to sound various pitches. Its timbre is both clear and tender beyond the endeared tone of the bell. You may also have heard of the fucking kalimba.
The fucking kalimba can be made out of highly manufactured, mass-produced plastic, and it speaks to one.
Food cannot be contained. Of course it fits in pots and pans, ovens and fridges, and eventually big black garbage bags, but what food is cannot ever be kept within a single word or culture or experience. In Greece food is a vessel for feelings. The passion of a sensuous meal shared with a lover, the care placed within a grandmother’s pie, as she cooks for two generations which follow her own, the memories shared over ouzo and antipastos and a lifetime past.
Food is a stepping stone for cultures and connections, yet that stone can often be cracked. The line between hunger and hate can become much too thin, as you try to do the same, starving and slicing away at all the moments eating could have offered you.
People will try to use food to control you, whether a severe mother, or a multimillion dollar marketing scheme, eating can be classified a crime. Yet food is how we learn ourselves. The taste of food can teach you how to cook, how to love, and how to enjoy the small and delicious moments in life.
As a tiny tornado of taste buds and a self-proclaimed foodie, my love affair with Indian vegetarian cuisine is as grand as it is flavorful. Despite my size, I’ve mastered the art of savoring every bite, turning each meal into a culinary adventure that tickles my taste buds and warms my heart.
One of my favorite indulgences is the masala dosa, a South Indian marvel that never fails to make me smile. Picture me, not much bigger than a dosa itself, sitting in awe as a giant crispy crepe filled with spiced potatoes towers over my plate. It’s a comical sight, but one that brings immense joy with every bite. And let’s not forget the coconut chutney and sambar, adding their own zing to the dosa dance party in my mouth.
Venturing into the north, I find myself mesmerized by the magic of paneer tikka. Here I am, a pint-sized aficionado of all things paneer, marveling at how those humble cubes of cheese can be transformed into smoky, flavor-packed delights. It’s like a magic trick for the taste buds, and I can’t help but grin with each succulent bite.
Of course, no culinary journey through India is complete without a rendezvous with chana masala. As I dig into a steaming bowl of chickpea goodness, I can’t help but feel like I’ve discovered a treasure trove of comfort and flavor. It’s a hug in a bowl, and I relish every spoonful with a gusto that belies my size.
And let’s not forget the street food adventures, where my petite stature is no match for the towering flavors of bhel puri and pav bhaji. I navigate through bustling markets with the agility of a food ninja, sampling crispy snacks and buttery delights with equal enthusiasm. Who says size matters when it comes to devouring street food masterpieces?
Being a foodie isn’t about the quantity of food consumed but rather the quality of the experience. It’s about romanticizing and embracing the spice of life, quite literally in the case of Indian cuisine, and finding joy in every flavor-packed moment. So, while I may be small in stature, my love for Indian vegetarian delights knows no bounds!
25 responses to “Flash on 1 Subject”
“Brainwashing”
To put it how many “critics,” “researchers,” and “scientists” do. Every evening I “ignore my responsibilities” and settle in front of a “brainwashing machine” pumping “disastrous blue light” directly into my eyeballs. I enter a “state of complete laziness” as my “attention span diminishes” and I am “trained to commit violence” when I eventually “return to reality” and come face to face with a “ruined life, no friends, and no real job.”
To be fair, I am generalizing. Perhaps there is research that genuinely states (with sufficient evidence) that videogames are bad for young people. And perhaps they are right. However, I am willing to bet there’s research that genuinely claims (with sufficient evidence) the opposite. Yet every time a news station or scientific journal publishes new findings, they villainize not only videogames but the people who play them. We are reduced to lazy, dumb, male young adults who live in their parent’s basement playing their games all day.
I won’t deny that there aren’t people like that out there, but they are not the only people who come home to a good video game. Your doctor, financial advisor, professor, or your best friend could all be playing these games in their free time. However, I don’t blame you for your immediate suspicion of video game players. It’s not your fault.
So today, I am going to put it how I do.
Every evening when I’m done with my work, I settle in front of a window shining a new world on my weary eyes. I enter a state of contentment, excitement as I focus on tasks far detached from the struggles and fear of everyday life. I become practiced in puzzle solving and teamwork as I connect with others who live across the globe from me. And when I log off, I smile and pat my cat’s head and text my friends about meeting up after work tomorrow.
And I go to bed happier than I was before I sat down.
Review of KINETIC LIGHT: DESCENT
It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
I am there to see art made by people like me. Kinetic Light is a dance company composed of just three people – Alice, Laurel, and Michael. On the credits for DESCENT? Venus, Andromeda, and the RAMP.
Andromeda’s hair curls into space. She has the sort of face that, if tilted, would frighten you. I think about Peter Pan, maybe it’s the glittering leaves sewn across the costumes. There’s mischief, and deeper, danger. She looks at unearthly peace. Above everything. She has otherworldly knowledge, and she knows it. She is powerful, and she is beautiful. There is no other way to put it.
Venus, goddess of love & the most beautiful woman in the universe, is a round-bodied, earthbound woman with a short, blunt haircut and the same eyes. Her face a little stiller, deeper underwater. It is benevolent and godly. She does look like she’s in control of the universe, or at least this part.
Venus & Andromeda both use wheelchairs. If things can be beautiful, their chairs are. Silver like water, barely but decidedly there. They do look like something that would carry the divine, a godly chariot from an old Greek myth, water. Up close, I know they are uncomfortable. They have no cushion, no back. They are purpose built to let these dancers fly through the air, crash into each other, and do it again, and again. It is all straps, buckles, scratches. But most magic dissolves up-close. And what’s real can still be beautiful.
They move and dance across the RAMP. It comes apart in pieces, is cloaked in rubber, but when they move across it, under lights & music that have been perfectly designed – they really do look like they’re in space. It is a world unto itself. Venus & Andromeda are, for a moment, the only thing in the universe, and they are giants. I find rehearsal footage, and even in its loud, rough phases, even in the daylight, it is beautiful.
Over them, the music, the lights, is poetry – or a sort of poetry. Visual descriptions, designed to help people who are blind or who have limited vision. They have somehow captured the poetry of the pair’s movements in words. Over this, sign language interpretation, more movements, more poetry, to capture the dance, the lights, the music, the words. I have always liked sign language because I think, like dance, there are parts of it you understand implicitly, without knowing the language.
The story they tell is based on Rodin’s Venus & Andromeda, and it is inspired by itself. They have reinvented, rediscovered it all. They tell us that, early in development, they were inspired by the pain of the two figures in the sculpture. I cannot see it any other way now. A woman crumpled on the floor; another clutching her neck. But at the same time, they said, it was beautiful. It was sensual, and most importantly, they had no story together, and they needed one. So the dance was born.
Dance so rarely has a story to me. When I used to dance, as a child, I was too much of a perfectionist to enjoy it myself, but I loved to watch it. My favorite part of the annual recitals was watching the shadows of the dancers flicker while I waited in the wings. Now that I don’t dance in any sort of professional or competitive setting, I know that dance, for me, is about feeling; about touch, connection, interaction. It’s all about a heartbeat. This dance has this, and a story. There was a rhythm, a sense of symmetry to it all. A sense of trust, and slowness. It moved like the ocean, or a dream.
This show dissolved several ideas – that disabled people are unnatural, or less than human; that access is ugly, more. The truth is, we exist in nature, and in the world Kinetic Light created, we exist in the stars, and in the heavens. The god of this place is one that looks like so many of us. It spun inhumanity on its head – from animals to the divine. This dance is about a million things, but it was also about the beauty of access – of the RAMP, the poetry of visual description, of sign interpretation. It often feels like there’s not a place in the world – and especially the art world – for people like us. This company proves that there is, and that those places can be transcendent.
I am not happy with this review – but I knew going into this that I would be. The feeling of seeing DESCENT is incommunicable, and I knew this even watching it. Please imagine the unimaginable.
Review of painting:
A girl looks back at me with eyes big and full of hope. An intense shade of black with depth and a yearning expression in her eyes. Her full red puckered lips align parallel with mine enticing me to get a closer look. In a wall full of women who appear similar but with different variations, she stares back at me captivating me with her gaze. The simple beauty of this painting with a girl looking back with two sunflowers in front of her differs from the rest. While other women were standing far back with different expressions or holding different objects, her sunflowers are her beauty; they are not flawless but rather vivid, delicate, and intricate. Art has always interested me. Learning the painter’s story behind their pieces has always been my joy in discovering art, but with this piece, I did not think about the painter, I thought of myself. So, when the seller came over to me and asked why I was drawn to this specific piece, I said “Porque se parece a mi”. The girl in this painting does not scream her frustrations or sadness, she hides behind her soft smile and sunflowers. I got this painting because it reminds me of myself.
I sat at the end of the long kitchen table at my grandparents house in sarasota florida, recently having changed out of my travel outfit that was somehow suited for neither the chill of massachusetts or mugginess of florida. My grandfather leaned against the counter asking me to guess where he went yesterday. His life isn’t too exciting so I know it’s probably bridge, the grocery store, or maybe he took Mémé, my grandmother, to the orchestra. I didn’t offer an answer, instead asking “where?!” matching his enthusiastic tone. He would go on to tell me all the things he got at Publix and what deals he found, making sure to emphasize the hagen daz coffee ice cream that he got special for me. In a few moments my Mémé would come in and jump at the opportunity to bring out the tiny silver tea spoons that I loved to use, and my grandfather would sit across from my grinning as I scooped out the ice cream. I’d sit there for a while, slowly turning the scoops over with my tiny silver spoon so I could scrape the melted part off the bottom. It was my favorite part, the kind of soft serve texture it had; my grandpa would always belt out a kind of half shout half laugh, amused by my particular eating habits. They loved making me happy. Beaming at the chance to put a smile on my face.
Bless us O Lord, for the bright red longaniza sausage, scrambled eggs, fried rice, warm pot of arroz caldo, sweet bibinka, lechon, spaghetti, champurrado, puto, boba, and donuts which we are about to receive, from thy bounty through Christ our Lord. Amen.
That is what everyone is really thinking at 6:30 AM, as the congregation speeds through the prayer before meals while simultaneously swiftly escaping the brown wooden pews to get to the first cut of lechon. The poor nine pigs that had to be slaughtered for the nine days of devotion. Coats, beanies, gloves, and boots are on, as the congregation braves the 50-degree pilgrimage across the parking lot from the church to the community center for a post-mass breakfast. A simbang gabi breakfast is unlike anything you have ever seen. Aunties save seats at the circle foldable tables with their gaudy Louis Vuitton bags and uncles stand in line gathering styrofoam plates, plastic forks, spoons, and knives for the family. Most adults are there before they have to go to work most kids are there before school, aching for their final days to be over before Christmas break. There is no need to crave more sleep since there is an array of food presented on long white foldable tables to crave instead. The room is filled with spirit and life, as 6:30 am is the perfect time for anticipation, feasting, and sharing. Christmas music is playing from big black speakers and parols are hanging from the ceiling. You stand in line, scoop your rice first, then hold your plate out for aunties to fill it up until your rice is falling over the edge. The other hand is reserved for a bowl of arroz caldo or soup. Another plate is needed for the white, orange, and purple deserts, all a different form of rice and sugar, all very crucial to the meal. Everything is too salty or too sweet, just how it should be. No one is tired because the meal is a reminder that Christmas is approaching. This breakfast reminds you of home. It reminds you of a home that you have and a home that you don’t have whether or not you are a devout Filipino Catholic Christian. The meal is the gathering and sitting and chaos and excitement. It’s the anticipation and chatter and December chill. It makes you want to go home, full from breakfast, and set an alarm for the next morning, at 4:45 am.
In the summer I wear a dress to feel the breeze on my bare legs and lay around letting the cool fabric pool around my thighs. I feel like a girl. In my tween years, I never wore dresses. These days I wear them often. I like to quickly turn around and feel the dress spin with me. My favorite dresses fall above my knees but not too short that I won’t be comfortable going about my day. A dress is perfect for a day at the beach or lake. I would wear a loose dress over my swimsuit and when I’m still wet it’s easy to put on. In the spring I wear dresses with flowers on them, and in the fall I wear black leggings. In the winter I wear dresses and jeans. I imagine that the love of my life will see me in my favorite dress and know that I am beautiful and the one. I imagine that I turn to meet their eyes and my dress moves in the wind and they are mesmerized by the new stretch of skin revealed. Dresses are romantic. Flirt at a party in a dress, go on a date in a dress, get married in a dress all because I want to. I am building a collection, looking for the perfect dress forever and always.
Topic of interest – Inner monologues and self-conversing
I read in an article that around 50% of people don’t have inner monologues. That article went viral recently and sparked a lot of discourse online, prompting many people to talk about their experiences with (or without) internal monologues. As far as I know, I have some form of inner voice, but is it an inner monologue? What exactly does that mean for me, and how is it different from other people’s?
For some people, their “inner monologue” is apparently like narration in a book. Many of these people compare it to narration in young adult novels. I have to wonder if that includes describing to yourself things that you are doing in real time. The common thread I have been able to spot in people’s descriptions of their inner voices, however, has been the trait of simply talking to oneself. Some articles say that inner monologues and talking to oneself are two completely different things. In any case, it is a more accurate description of what I do.
I treat my inner voice like a good friend, and I tend to strike up silent conversations with it when the place I am in gets too quiet. My inner voice is the one who reminds me to look after myself, asks me how I am feeling, and quite possibly the only one I know who will listen to me ramble about my favorite pieces of media for hours on end. Every time I go on a walk around campus, the voice is there to help me sort through my feelings and make sense out of my busy life. Sometimes, I’ll catch myself whispering too loudly at the voice in a public space and get confused glances from nearby people, which is ironic considering so many of them look like they are also talking to themselves when they are using wireless earbuds to make phone calls.
Last year, I took a Video Production course where the final project was to make a short movie. My movie, “Alone With My Thoughts,” was inspired by my inner voice, and is about a girl whose inner voice is its own character, in the form of a sort of imaginary friend. I thought it would be interesting and funny if the inner voice somehow had a mind of its own. Since my own inner voice helps motivate me to do things, I thought: what if it went too far and acted hostile towards the girl in an attempt to mold her into her ideal self? I ended up having a lot of fun making the film and I am very proud of the final result.
I like treating my inner voice as if it is its own person, and I wonder what proportion of people out there do the same thing. It may sound silly, but I’ve found it to be a very healthy way of working through my thoughts and emotions. Plus, it gives me someone to talk to when there’s no one else around. It’s very easy to talk with someone who knows you extremely well, and I can’t think of anyone who knows me better than myself.
Topic: Candy in the SAW Center
It feels like I have hit peak exhaustion every time I walk into the center. I sit in the same plush chair every time — away from everyone else because I feel too tired to talk. I pull out my computer and check the scheduling website. There’s a sort of peace to sitting there but it only lasts for a minute. Then I’m restless again. There’s nothing to do but get up and grab some candy.
Right now, it’s lifesavers. There are running low so all the good flavors — green and yellow — are gone. I grab a purple one because it’s on top and I feel like digging around in the container is weird. I go back to my chair knowing that I will get up again in 20 minutes to grab another piece.
The grape candy tastes like mint. It’s a product of sitting with the mint lifesavers for months on end. I hate mint. I keep eating it anyway. Day after day, shift after shift, I always eat the minty fruit lifesavers. What else is there to do? The candy has a sort of pull to it — magnetic and sharp. I hate the mint but it’s still candy. If you wait a minute the mint goes away and it’s back to regularly scheduled programming. The brief cooling fresh taste is a small price to pay for special candy that makes me feel just that little bit more awake.
We used to have Jolly Ranchers in the container. I loved those the best. Before that, before I worked at the center, we had small little candies with fruit pictures on them. They seemed cheap and they looked like cough drops. The blue one tasted like a cough drop too. The yellow and green — the same colors that disappear quickest from the lifesaver stock — were hardly ever present. The trick was to avoid the blue ones at any cost. If you ate a blue one it scared you off from trying any of the others, and the red one really wasn’t too bad.
I would never buy any of these candies for myself, but I ate them — I eat them — every time I work. There’s something especially sweet about free candy when you feel trapped in a building. Despite this, I do love my job. I will talk up the center whenever possible and I would choose this job over all other jobs here. The best part of the job isn’t even the candies, it’s the feeling I get when I know that I was helpful. It’s the candy that the student offers me in thanks after we worked through a difficult part of her essay, she had slowly given up hope on. The candies entertain me during a slow shift and spark a bit more life in me, but they aren’t really anything special. When you leave the center, you remember how it feels to see someone leave with a smile, not the taste of mint where there is meant to be fruit.
When I think of my childhood home, it is filtered. The physical image of it has a sepia hue. My memory is aged. Adrienne Lenker explores the rust of childhood in “half return” off of her 2020 album “songs”. An acoustic, upbeat strumming greets the listener, leading them to Lenker’s gentle crow of a voice, unique and jagged. Her voice is gentle and almost childlike, as Lenker muses on returning to a place she once knew.
“Shadow, shadow, what a show
Every other step, there’s a crosseyed crow”,
opens Lenker, reflecting on shadows of the past and creating a scene of omens— a show of shadows: dark, looming, brooding. And the unsettling crosseyed crow.
“Half return, half return
Minneapolis, soft white snow
35 bridge, hometown”.
Lenker, perhaps, is returning “half” to what is her hometown, and paints an image of a snow-filled town, on a journey crossing the bridge. We then read the chorus, where Lenker gently hums,
“Half return, half return
Standing in the yard, dressed like a kid
The house is white and the lawn is dead”
This chorus always puts the image on my first home in my mind. I was born there. It was a white shuttered box— an island in a sea of grassy yard, probably a bit dead. Or, I think it’s dead because I’m no longer the one playing there. Someone else lives there now; we moved out when I was eight. But sometimes I feel the ghost of my child self lingers. I too see myself in the yard, dressed in flower-embroidered jeans, chunky and clunky sneakers, caked in dirt. In some zip-up hoodie, probably pink, with some flower or butterfly or something to signify I was a girl as I combed through dirt and ran until my lungs ached. My house was white, the lawn was dead, and my memory is sepia of the place. I was born there, and I will never return.
That house is parallel to a highway, meaning if you’re really going somewhere, from Salem to McMinnville, or even to Eugene, you’ll see that house. You’ll pass the bridge into my hometown, and see my birthplace. I’ve driven past it a lot since I moved. My mom always points it out, like I would forget. I shyly peak when we drive by, not to look too eager. I drove past it once with my friends on a bus to a band competition. I pointed my old house out like my mom, noting it was the house I was born in. That memory is sepia now too.
When we go place to place, lose memories and faces, we can only “half return”, as Lenker puts it. This song paints images of childhood and old homes and feelings, coming back to an old place as a new you. Lenker concludes the song with an emphasis on how “the lawn is dead”. The lawn is sepia, and our old versions of us are sepia. Those memories are old pictures, faded and worn.
Pasta. The pinnacle of my joy. The variety, complexity, and simplicity. You’re hungry, that’s alright, I’ll go and grab by pasta pot. Yes, my pasta pot. Small yet large enough for two portions but justifies one portion easily. Round like a cauldron, that perfectly distributes heat for a nice boil and reduces cook time. With an insulated handle, sturdy and not too far or too close to the pot. Set the water to a boil. Rigatoni, Penne, Linguine, Farfalle, Macaroni, Orecchiette, Shells, no Vegetable Rotini. My house is always stocked with Penne, ricotta, tomato sauce, parmesan, and red pepper flakes.
Macaroni and cheese was my main source of food when I was younger. Sick? Mac and Cheese. Healthy? Mac and cheese. Sad? Mac and cheese. Happy? Mac and cheese! When we host or aid in hosting family gatherings, no mac and cheese means there is no meal.
Although, I have an unconditional love for pasta dishes I am not easily pleased. Not everyone knows how to make a good pasta dish. Blanch for example, even though plain pasta is “plain” it should not taste plain! Where is the salt, at least, that accentuates the “plain” pasta taste, good pasta can be flavorful without sauce or meat and I will stand by that! Not many options for me so plain pasta, okay I’ll manage, sauce, nothing notable. Even their parmesan cheese and red pepper flakes have a weird texture and taste, chalky.
At home pasta is a highly rated cuisine, at school pasta is my last resort. Involuntary betrayal *sigh*. It hurts to betray what has held me down for decades when I turn in my Southern card every 5 months. Not by choice but by force. When home, I apologize with several pots of pasta, showing my gratitude and appreciation. I go out to eat, “what are your pasta entrees? Any specials?”.
I would never deny her, we go together.
Portrait of a Young Girl Staring at a Portrait of God
There were no seats in the museum. At least, no seats where I wanted to sit. There were plenty in the halls, for people-watching or admiring the marble busts, but none there, in that room. I’m not sure what it was about it. I’m not a religious person. I don’t believe in God. I’m also not very tall, and the painting kissed the ceiling, hung unfortunately high like something from an old Paris salon. I had to crane my neck to see it properly, squinting past the glare of the window and bouncing on my heels.
I don’t know how to describe it. Though I could tell you about the pastels, the lush green meadow with spotted flowers, could wax lyrical about the wisteria blossoms and the figures lying languidly in the grass, twisted almost inhumanly around one another. Skin mapped like mountain ranges — they were beautiful. Eyes tilted upwards towards him and his translucent robes, white like the morning sky, hand lifted like Raphael’s Plato. He’s telling stories of the heavens.
I could describe this — but could never properly retell the feeling of looking at it, standing in that room for ten and then twenty minutes, thirty and then forty, only half aware of the ache in my feet. There was something beautiful about it, it’s make but mostly its nature, like you were staring at something familiar but too perfect to ever reach. In the grass, there’s an empty space for you to sit. It beckons you, taunts you. Dares you to join. I am not a religious person. I don’t believe in God. The closest I will ever come is worshipping that piece of art.
Topic of Interest: Jorge and His Wives
I’m sitting in a chair. Hands hovering over the keyboard, and eyes glued onto the screen. I’m thinking and thinking. “How do I start this assignment? I’m so confused about what this means. I have a test the next day.” My eyes glide over to the top right corner of the screen. 5:00 pm it reads. “That’s it” I finally say. “I’m going for a walk.”
I quickly organize everything in my backpack. My headphones are in my headphone case which lies in the front pocket of my backpack. My iPad charger was wrapped tightly around the outlet and placed on the other front pocket in my backpack. My iPad, was turned off and placed in the back pocket of my backpack. And finally, my laptop, closed shut and placed right next to my iPad. I then zip up my backpack, grab my coat, and place my black bag over my shoulder. I pulled out my phone and checked the time. 5:05. ‘I wanna see Jorge” I said. I rushed to the elevator. I pressed the blue button and waited. Techniquely it only took a minute for the elevator door to open, but that minute felt like hours. I couldn’t miss Jorge. Not when it was still light out. I quickly dialed my mom as I was walking to the two mahogany wooden doors. “What are you doing?” my mom asked. “I’m looking for Jorge, and I’m sending you a million pictures.” I zoomed out of the doors down the path. It was a slightly downhill path that led me under the hall of 2 buildings connected. “My god,” my mom said. “Please don’t send me a million pictures, I’m tired.” “Well, that’s too bad,” I said, staring at the stone steps in front of me. Those stones were about to lead to something so magical. I ran down them and zoomed around a dirty frozen pond. I ran past the road down the bridge. There he was. With his friends and his wives. “Mom!” I screamed. “He’s walking on ice! Jorge is walking on ice! Isn’t that amazing?”
“Don’t yell!” she said. “People are going to think you’re crazy.”
“Mom. People know I’m crazy.”
Beaded jewelry was my first hobby ever. This sounds so mundane and unexciting but it was for me because this was my first hobby and I was a sophomore in college. In high school I did activities. I played tennis, I was part of a French club, and I loved discussing and debating politics but I never considered any of those hobbies. I did academics, a sport, sometimes, and watched TV. I do not know why, but I never did anything creative really, academics were my life and my “hobby”. But once COVID hit I realized how much that couldn’t be it for me. High school had made me a shell of a person and I wanted to be more. It took a while to find out what it is I really wanted to do but making beaded jewelry became my first hobby. Every week, a couple of days a week, I would go to Fimbel lab and make little beaded earrings – little cows, flowers, bees, and other things, then I would give them to my friends and other people. I even sold some. I still enjoyed learning and academics but it was not all-consuming. I was learning to balance my time. I started other hobbies too – crocheting, knitting, drawing. Sometimes I do not have a lot of time for these things but I can always go back to it if I ever need to.
Topic of interest: Classics (Latin and Ancient Greek)
School has always come easy to me. I rarely studied, and although I was not a straight A student, it didn’t bother me that much. I was a straight A and B student, all without putting in any effort; I say this not to brag or show off, but to emphasize just how difficult learning Latin was. For the first time in my school career, I struggled. I failed tests, I failed take-home exams, and I failed in-class presentations. Latin challenged me from the time I began in 6th grade until my senior year, and I am sure, should I take a Latin class now, I would struggle just as much. Despite my struggles, I took Latin for seven consecutive years, adding on Ancient Greek in my last two years of high school. Why? Maybe it was my overpowering crush on one of my teachers, or the friends I had in my classes, but I like to say it was because I loved the language. I did love the language, and I still do. I loved the challenges it presented, and the excitement I would feel when getting something right. I loved the history we learned and the famous stories we read. I loved the bragging rights that came with saying I’ve read the Aeneid or The Odyssey in their original form.
I cannot accurately express what was so challenging to me about Latin, because I still do not fully understand. Perhaps the first year I did not put in enough effort, and hence I fell behind, unable to ever catch up. But I do know my main struggle was with vocabulary. I could easily recite sum, es, est, summus, estes, sunt, but I could not tell you the translation of veni, vidi, vici.
When I came to Mount Holyoke, I had planned to major in Classics, but after sitting in on one Latin class, I changed my mind. I was tired of struggling and putting in effort, only to never see the results I wanted. I still love Latin and Ancient Greek, and taking them taught me healthier study habits and perseverance.
Topic of interest: Twisted like a pretzel
I squish the light brown dough where one side twists with the other. The knot – the heart of the food that is in front of me.
“Are you happy now?” My friend asks somewhat annoyed.
No, I want to say.
“Yes,” I answer instead and plaster a very fake smile on my face. It goes unnoticed and she continues picking at her salad. Tomato, cucumber, bell pepper, and feta cheese. Cut up into tiny pieces for a better “sensory experience” – her words, not mine.
I rip off a piece of the pretzel in front of me. Its color is a perfect light brown. It looks fake like those fast-food chains’ hamburger commercials. I dip the piece into grape jelly.
When I was younger I always shared pretzels with my mom and dad. Every weekend we would set up breakfast on my tiny, pink plastic table and my dad would crouch on one of the matching plastic chairs. My mom would feed the teddy bear next to her a pretzel dipped in strawberry jam.
It is nothing like that now. The dough is too doughy. The jam is too sweet. The taste lacks the feeling of home.
I guess I am a bit homesick. I look forward to eating a German pretzel again with my parents.
Film Review: Possibly in Michigan
Possibly in Michigan is a 1983 short film directed by Cecelia Condit. The film is often described as a ‘musical horror story.’ It follows two young women who are shopping for perfume while a masked cannibal follows them through the mall. When he follows them home, the tables turn quickly, and the victims become the assailants–the women kill and eat him instead.
The film was shot using rudimentary video technology giving it a dreamlike quality. The colors are grainy, and there are lens flares and light leaks; giving it an eerie glow resembling analog photography.
The film covers themes of violence against women, monotonous midwestern life, and consumerism. The mall is big and empty, a result of mass production and overconsumption, it has been left behind as new ways of spending come along to replace it.
I think that Possibly in Michigan is a great piece of art. Its visual aesthetic is unlike any other film I’ve seen. It perfectly captures the feeling of a strange hazy nightmare or a distant unsettling memory. The music is creepy but also extremely catchy. While it’s creepy, it’s also pretty silly, which makes it fun to watch. The editing is also great, the film quickly cuts to seemingly random scenes that eventually all connect, it’s a skillful editing method. It’s not a surprise that this film has come out of obscurity recently and become beloved by so many young people. In the past many films made by women have been overshadowed, but as the current generation explores film, these works are rediscovered.
Not Just a Key Chain
As I look at the pink ‘H’ key chain in front of me, I don’t just see a color or an object. It is much more. It’s all the laughter that I shared with my sister, the tears that we shed together, and the tears that we wiped off of each other. It’s the fights that we fought and the times that we pretended we never got into a fight in the first place. It’s the letters my sister would hide under my desk every time I was away for too long. It’s the books that we read out to each other and the ones we never stop ranting about. It encapsulates the time when I told my sister about my first crush, her watching me fall in love for the first time, and getting my heart broken for the first time. It captures the times she stayed up with me all night, holding me tight as I broke apart in her arms. It’s the moment she realized the world was not all sunshine and rainbows. It’s that time I had to break it to her that real monsters don’t hide under the bed but real monsters are humans in disguise. It’s us growing together. It is a reminder of all our firsts and sadly, all our lasts.
It’s our last hug in the airport, the last tears we shed together, and our last goodbye. Now, as I hold the key chain in my hand and a decade full of memories in my heart, I can only wonder what she is up to on the other side of the world. It’s the only thing I can hold close when I think about her. So, no, it is not just a key chain. It is our girlhood engraved in this key chain. With this pink ‘H’ key chain in my hand, somehow, being 12,456km apart does not seem so bad.
Subject of interest- a scene from Barbie!
The most perfect woman sits on a rusty park bench. She humbles her surroundings and you can’t look away. Her straight blonde hair, twinkling blue eyes, and hot pink cowgirl hat are unavoidable. Her face, expressionless. Her lips, slightly parted. Her blue eyes, wide. She is illuminated in the park’s sunlight.
Suddenly, a single raindrop rolls down her cheek. Her face refuses to change. You can’t help but wonder why?
The sound of children screaming and crying are in the distance. You can hear a man shout, “what is wrong with you!” You hear leaves rustling from the breeze. Overwhelmed with the roaring sounds, you have to look away from her. Obligated to look at the surroundings.
You scan the gloomy park unavoidable encounters. A man yells at a woman, parents try to calm their wailing child, and a couple holding hands.
You need to look back at the flawless woman to escape the darkness. The drop, still rolling down her face, has made its way to her jaw, falling off of her face. The sun has set, but in its replacement is her.
Workshop Essay
What comes first? The emotion or the feeling? Most think the emotion presents itself, followed by its correlating physical reaction.; but I would think it is the other way around. When my chest begins to hurt and I can’t breathe, I know that I am feeling anxious about something; when my eyes tear up and I feel a knot in my throat, I can confidently say I am sad; when my legs refuse to move and I feel as if I am rooted in place, I can deduce something is triggering me. I was born with a brain that cannot communicate between its left and right side. I have emotions, but I don’t always perceive or process them. My only option is to listen to my body, to rely on its infinite wisdom and patience while I try to decipher why my heart aches. I know to listen to my flesh, heart, and tears, because if I don’t no one else will hear their song of sorrow.
My ancestry comes from the darkest parts of Spain, two grandfathers born and raised during a war. One of them grew to be a decorated general for the dictatorship, the other shook off the stench of the coal mines and clung to education to avoid dying of lung cancer. Both never learn to process their emotions, both of them abused my parents respectively. My Dad learnt what not to do, Mother took it as a handbook. Sometimes I am disgusted at the dirt I carry in my blood, smudged by colonizers, dictators, and psychopaths. Sometimes I glow in pride at the honor passed in my genetics, the title wrought through past heroics. My body carries these stories in the DNA that created it, all the opportunities for creating pain and suffering as well as the ability to improve the world around me. I trust it to follow the path I have chosen for us since it knows better than anyone else how horrible the other one would be.
I grew up surrounded by nature, climbing mountains and reading the stars. I could pitch down a tent at the age of three, carry 20 pound backpacks by four, and find my way out of a darkened forest by five. During young years mostly forgotten, my tiny body faced the realness of death–dangling from cliffs, picking up black widows, getting struck by lightning, nearly drowning in an enraged sea– and adapted accordingly. It cultivated a set of crucial reflexes, agility, and strength. Despite my reckless disposition and complete lack of impulse control, I endured crazy travels in every corner of the world, each trip amassing more and more knowledge in my veins, muscles, and heart.
Whether it be by trauma, brain injuries, or undiagnosed ADHD, my memory of events is hazy, shaky, and often non-existent. However, my hippocampus does not need to work for my muscles to tense up at the sight of an oncoming thunderstorm, nor does my heart need to remember pain in order to know it. I have a complete, unwavering faith in my body, in its wisdom and instincts as it pulls 21 years of trials and tribulations into a fantastic natural algorithm to keep me safe every day.
Depths of Sapphire
Within that stare, a crystalline sea,
Reflecting galaxies, dancing free,
Stars alight in their ethereal glow,
Guiding me through the cosmic flow.
With every blink, a new world forms,
A mosaic of dreams, where love transforms,
I’m lost in the beauty, lost in the maze,
Of her eyes, where eternity plays.
Oh, how her gaze, like a fractal’s grace,
Unfolds the mysteries of time and space,
In those beautiful blue eyes, I find,
The universe, and all that’s intertwined.
Each glance, a journey, an endless flight,
Into depths of sapphire, pure and bright.
“I drop the gun to my chest. I’m so sad and I can’t really see a way out of what I’m feeling but I’m leaning on memory for help.”
This sentence I think really encapsulates the parts of this piece that hit me the most. The way the author portrays his struggle with mental health, simplifying such dark, overwhelming, and complicated emotions into “i’m so sad”–especially in a moment so gut wrenching as attempting suicide. This sort of matter of fact writing style perpetuates the piece and makes it a fascinating read, since it allows for the reader to make their own conclusions and insert their own emotions onto the writing; personally I think this makes it a very powerful story. Lastly, the “I’m leaning on memory for help” segment really hit me as a unique but extremely successful way to depict trying to find happiness in a moment outside of the present. I think the simplified language also works very well here, since the imagery is so well crafted that we can visualize exactly what coping mechanism the author used; but without taking away from the atmosphere of trudging and suffering through the swamp of life.
Mathematics, often regarded as the language of the universe, holds within its elegant formulas and intricate theorems the keys to unlocking the secrets of cosmic power that lie hidden beneath the surface of our reality. From the tiniest subatomic particles to the vast expanses of space, math serves as a bridge between the tangible and the abstract, allowing us to grasp the underlying order and beauty that governs the cosmos.
At its core, mathematics is not just a tool for calculation, but a profound exploration of patterns, relationships, and structures that shape the fabric of our existence. It provides a framework for understanding the natural world, revealing the hidden symmetries and harmonies that underpin everything from the motion of celestial bodies to the growth patterns of plants.
One of the most mesmerizing aspects of math is its ability to unveil the hidden laws that govern the universe. Through mathematical equations, physicists have been able to predict the behavior of particles at the quantum level and describe the curvature of spacetime in Einstein’s theory of relativity. These equations serve as a testament to the power of human intellect to uncover the underlying principles that dictate the workings of the cosmos.
Moreover, math possesses a timeless beauty that transcends cultural boundaries and historical epochs. The elegance of a geometric proof or the simplicity of an algebraic equation can evoke a sense of wonder and awe, akin to beholding a work of art or listening to a symphony. The beauty of math lies not only in its utility but also in its intrinsic aesthetic appeal, drawing us into a world of pure abstraction and intellectual exploration.
Furthermore, mathematics has the remarkable ability to inspire creativity and innovation across diverse fields of human endeavor. Whether in music, architecture, or technology, the principles of mathematics serve as a source of inspiration, guiding the design of intricate structures, algorithms, and artistic compositions. The fusion of creativity and mathematical rigor gives rise to groundbreaking discoveries and inventions that shape the course of history.
The beauty of math lies in its ability to unveil the secret rules that lay beneath the surface of our reality. Through its elegant formulas and profound insights, mathematics offers us a glimpse into the underlying order and harmony that pervades the universe. It shows chaos as an order to it, an endless oxymoron we cannot navigate without this logical guide. As we delve deeper into the mysteries of mathematics, we come to appreciate the timeless beauty and profound significance of this ancient discipline in illuminating the secrets of the cosmos.
Spinach Fettuccini Alfredo
After my parents divorced and before my father took his own life, he got an apartment on the top floor of an old building. It wasn’t the worst part of town, but it was far from the best. The kitchen was simple and outdated, still this kitchen is where he got to be his best self. He worked with machines by day, but he was a talented cook. In this kitchen, he made spinach fettuccine alfredo from scratch, hanging the green strands of pasta anywhere and everywhere to dry. Before buffalo wings were a thing, he fried split chicken wings in his countertop wok and served them lightly smothered in buttered hot sauce, but on this day, he came home from work, opened a can of Progresso lentil soup and heated it up in a pan on top of the oven. “MMMmmmmm”, he said out loud after taking the first warm bite and thought to himself, “Maybe, I can do this.” His marriage was dead, but he wasn’t – not yet anyway.
In this apartment, I saw a glimpse of my father I never got to see before. He kept the apartment spotless. He had a hip fashion sense and meticulously cared for his clothing. He had good taste in TV shows, movies, and music which he recorded onto blank tapes, neatly labeled and shelved in alphabetical order. He had beautiful handwriting. He kept cans of lentil soup in a neat row on the top shelf of the open kitchen hutch. What I remember the most is the food. He was fancy. He drank Corona beer with a slice of lime pushed through the opening. He drank Dr. Pepper heated up and garnished with an orange slice. He made beautiful spinach salads with the tangiest homemade mustard dressing.
Only visiting on weekends, my brothers and I shared a room in this apartment, in which we kept a Nintendo, our He-man and She-ra toy collection, and a set of youth encyclopedias. We spent our time playing Nintendo, playing He-man and She-ra, or playing school with the encyclopedias. I was always the teacher and I always started the lesson with Aardvarks.
I remember sitting on the couch in that apartment watching “The Simpsons” and “Tour of Duty,” holding hands with my dad after he served us a thoughtful and delicious meal. It was neat and tidy all around us. I felt safe, loved, and cared for in this apartment.
I found out my mom eloped while in this apartment. We got a call from her late one Saturday night, “Do you remember Eddie?”, a man that had given us a ride home from the grocery store the previous week. Eddie was a drummer she met two weeks prior at the bar where she worked. My home with my mother never felt safe after that. One day, she called my Dad to inform him that I was going to move in with him. He ended his life a couple of days later in a park downtown.
Years later, a dear friend of mine rented this same still-outdated apartment after her own bad breakup. The opposite of my father, she was very messy, a bit of a collector, and certainly not a cook. Also stylish, she would hang her clothes anywhere and everywhere. One of her doll collections decorated the shelves of the open hutch in the kitchen. She is one of those people who uses her oven as a place to store her sweaters. When visiting her, I noticed how small the apartment was and how very low the ceilings were. It hadn’t changed a bit, and honestly, I found it barely livable. Yet, here she was, living here and working on her new life. She has a family of her own now, and a house, and is an avid artist and activist in our community. She did it.
Liminal spaces and familiar strangers.
The elevator door opens to reveal a solitary figure, standing in front of you like your own reflection. You glance at their face for a moment. They are a familiar stranger. Perhaps you’ve seen them before, or perhaps their features are so commonplace you are just imagining you have. As you look at them your eyes meet and an agreement is made without words. You will remain strangers, at least for now. As you stand waiting for the elevator to reach your floor, you become aware of the way they stand with their shoulders slouched forward and their hands protectively clasped in front of their body. They are gently rocking from side to side, like a baby’s cradle. They exhale once loudly through their nose. You can feel anxiety radiating from underneath a layer of frustration. All of this learned without a word spoken. A strange intimacy, created and lost within the same minute.
The hallway to your dorm room looks like any other hallway but you feel relief immediately upon entering it. It tells your brain that you are about to be safe. You are aware that the person from the elevator is behind you, however, so you don’t feel totally relaxed. They follow you all the way down the hall. You stop at your room and they keep walking, eventually stopping in front of a room a few doors down. You feel vaguely uncomfortable knowing that they live on your floor and you don’t even know their name. You realize how many familiar strangers there are, existing in your periphery – getting into elevators, running late to class, trying to find something to eat at Blanch, avoiding eye contact in the dorm bathrooms.
You realize you are a familiar stranger, too.
Food. Oh god do I love food. The taste, the smell, the look, it’s just heaven on a plate made just for me and my pleasure. Food used to be made to survive. It used to be bland food that was purely made to stop the rumbling in your stomach. Then, the good and flavorful food was made for the rich and the mighty. Now, not everyone has access to delicious food, but a lot more people do.
People can be so creative when it comes to different meals, combining different cultural cuisines or making completely new and innovative dishes. There are so many different combinations that may not sound good, but they just hit all of the regions of taste just so well. For instance, my family owns a pizza restaurant. Now this isn’t your average pizza restaurant. No, my dad decided that he wanted to create a bunch of different crazy combinations on pizza and see what goes the best together. For instance, over the summer our valley is famous for our peaches. People travel from all over the world to try our peaches and wine, but more specifically our peaches and everything we make out of it. One of my favorite pizzas and one of the best pizzas we make, is our Peach Season kick off pizza. This pizza has garlic olive oil sauce, mozzarella cheese, then peaches, basil, bacon, creme fraiche, and jalapenos. Now Peaches on pizza might sound strange to most people, but trust me if it is done right it is one of the most delicious mouth watering combination dishes you will ever try.
Pizza is by far my favorite food. There is so much you can do with it, and clearly I have a lot of free access to it which is amazing. I grew up on good pizza, just overall really flavorful and bright pizza. Therefore, I know I am spoiled when it comes to good food. However, growing up with good food has made me love food even more and has spurred a fun passionate side hobby of cooking for myself and others in my free time.
I just absolutely love and always will love food.
The “thumb piano” is some colonial bullshit. Thank you so much, Hugh Tracey, for taking what is literally a line of communication between the Shona people and their ancestors, and as Wikipedia so authentically and definitively summarized, “popularized it internationally,” under a new name.
Well, first, we have to thank Hugh Tracey for preserving African folk musics that otherwise would have been lost to the violence and apartheid his own country established. I guess.
Still, I feel comfortable criticizing the man, despite his acts of service. Because how much did he preserve, and how much did he curse, to be forever understood through a coating of white paint, eurocentric frames for buildings we must rip apart to understand the land beneath? He’s not a storybook character: Mr. Tracey. He’s not a villain, but he’s most definitely not a hero.
More importantly, this is a story of how the Shona of Zimbabwe gave us… scratch that…gave themselves… the mbira, an instrument with about twenty eight thin metal bars you pull with your thumbs, gently, to sound various pitches. Its timbre is both clear and tender beyond the endeared tone of the bell. You may also have heard of the fucking kalimba.
The fucking kalimba can be made out of highly manufactured, mass-produced plastic, and it speaks to one.
Mbira, mbira, mbira.
Food
Food cannot be contained. Of course it fits in pots and pans, ovens and fridges, and eventually big black garbage bags, but what food is cannot ever be kept within a single word or culture or experience. In Greece food is a vessel for feelings. The passion of a sensuous meal shared with a lover, the care placed within a grandmother’s pie, as she cooks for two generations which follow her own, the memories shared over ouzo and antipastos and a lifetime past.
Food is a stepping stone for cultures and connections, yet that stone can often be cracked. The line between hunger and hate can become much too thin, as you try to do the same, starving and slicing away at all the moments eating could have offered you.
People will try to use food to control you, whether a severe mother, or a multimillion dollar marketing scheme, eating can be classified a crime. Yet food is how we learn ourselves. The taste of food can teach you how to cook, how to love, and how to enjoy the small and delicious moments in life.
As a tiny tornado of taste buds and a self-proclaimed foodie, my love affair with Indian vegetarian cuisine is as grand as it is flavorful. Despite my size, I’ve mastered the art of savoring every bite, turning each meal into a culinary adventure that tickles my taste buds and warms my heart.
One of my favorite indulgences is the masala dosa, a South Indian marvel that never fails to make me smile. Picture me, not much bigger than a dosa itself, sitting in awe as a giant crispy crepe filled with spiced potatoes towers over my plate. It’s a comical sight, but one that brings immense joy with every bite. And let’s not forget the coconut chutney and sambar, adding their own zing to the dosa dance party in my mouth.
Venturing into the north, I find myself mesmerized by the magic of paneer tikka. Here I am, a pint-sized aficionado of all things paneer, marveling at how those humble cubes of cheese can be transformed into smoky, flavor-packed delights. It’s like a magic trick for the taste buds, and I can’t help but grin with each succulent bite.
Of course, no culinary journey through India is complete without a rendezvous with chana masala. As I dig into a steaming bowl of chickpea goodness, I can’t help but feel like I’ve discovered a treasure trove of comfort and flavor. It’s a hug in a bowl, and I relish every spoonful with a gusto that belies my size.
And let’s not forget the street food adventures, where my petite stature is no match for the towering flavors of bhel puri and pav bhaji. I navigate through bustling markets with the agility of a food ninja, sampling crispy snacks and buttery delights with equal enthusiasm. Who says size matters when it comes to devouring street food masterpieces?
Being a foodie isn’t about the quantity of food consumed but rather the quality of the experience. It’s about romanticizing and embracing the spice of life, quite literally in the case of Indian cuisine, and finding joy in every flavor-packed moment. So, while I may be small in stature, my love for Indian vegetarian delights knows no bounds!