Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun...there are millions
of suns left,
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand...nor look
through the eyes of the dead...nor feed on the spectres in
books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself.
.....
There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now;
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.
-- Walt Whitman, from Leaves of Grass
At this moment, I have just finished writing a couple of monstrously endearing papers for grad school. I have two pastries in my tummy, and the night is breaking into the next day. It is almost June. And at this moment, I feel something along the lines of joy, despite all the uncertainties of tomorrow, of the year to come.
I am going to turn off the light, take out my contacts, and feel my way through the dark. It is the promise of sleep, and the promise of writing anew, that awaits. I will find myself in the embrace of my love, and leave my fate to my dreams.
Drifting to sleep with a piece of Kant that I have loved reading over and over again this past month:
The night is sublime while the day is beautiful. Temperaments which have a sense for the sublime will be drawn toward eleated sentiments regarding friendship, contempt for the world and toward eternity, by the quiet silence of a summer evening when the twinkling light of the stars breaks through the shadows of the night and a lovely moon is visible...
The sublime, in turn, is at times accompanied by terror or melancholia, in some cases merely by quiet admiration and in still others by the beauty which is spread over a sublime place.
I blame and thank the Romantics and Transcendentalists for keeping me in merry, insane company tonight.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Monday, February 21, 2011
Serving Up a Snowpocalypse
About a week ago, a powdered-sugar monstrosity came into my life. Marketed as a Dutch-style pancake, this cavernous world of breakfast left me feeling like I had discovered some sacred (edible) scroll...
It was crunchy on the edges, but tender and gooey on the inside. It lovingly held the strawberries and bananas as they fervently and shyly embraced. It left me moustached and merry.
That lasted for about 15 minutes. Although it was good, it left me feeling slightly underwhelmed; the pancake was too thin to be substantial, and I was hungry for more. Indeed, I was seduced by the siren's call of sugar and sweet promises...
And so today, on this work-free Monday, I decided to try my hand at some good ol' buttermilk pancakes. (Given the state of this wrathful winter, I steered clear of all powdered sugar.) I do not know what it is about pancakes that make a morning so spectacular. Perhaps it is the way the scent evokes last year's sleepy weekends with my roommate; we would slap lumpy pancakes onto the skillet, laughing through conversations that drew us slowly out of our confused dreams. Though our pancakes would often turn out burned or shaped like Louisiana, making these together was an almost ritualistic holiday. It promised some solidarity after a week spent flailing on the high seas of stress.
Although I am no longer in that house, I find myself warmed by whiffs of these times. I think I have finally perfected the art of fluffy pancakes. I also think that one of our kitties, Clio, has pancake batter on her foot.
Pancake cat!
It was crunchy on the edges, but tender and gooey on the inside. It lovingly held the strawberries and bananas as they fervently and shyly embraced. It left me moustached and merry.
That lasted for about 15 minutes. Although it was good, it left me feeling slightly underwhelmed; the pancake was too thin to be substantial, and I was hungry for more. Indeed, I was seduced by the siren's call of sugar and sweet promises...
And so today, on this work-free Monday, I decided to try my hand at some good ol' buttermilk pancakes. (Given the state of this wrathful winter, I steered clear of all powdered sugar.) I do not know what it is about pancakes that make a morning so spectacular. Perhaps it is the way the scent evokes last year's sleepy weekends with my roommate; we would slap lumpy pancakes onto the skillet, laughing through conversations that drew us slowly out of our confused dreams. Though our pancakes would often turn out burned or shaped like Louisiana, making these together was an almost ritualistic holiday. It promised some solidarity after a week spent flailing on the high seas of stress.
Pancake cat!
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Kindling Rage
Note: From time to time, I may include reflections from my grad school seminar. The following comes from my recent post on our discussion board.
Ah, the Kindle. Its very name conjures up the image of reading next to a roaring fire...but I would love to throw it into one.
I was that strange girl surreptitiously sniffing the pages of books whenever I visited B&N as a kid; even today, I still love cracking open the covers of Shakespeare or Whitman or Plath. The raw joy of reading includes hearing that soft crackle and feeling the cobblestone bumps of pages. It is as satisfying as walking into a glorious library and seeing rows and rows of books, aged and loved by so many people (Beauty and the Beast dream library, anyone?).
But perhaps what the Kindle can never capture is the craft of book-making, the history of binding pages together into a complete piece. An art teacher once showed me how to make pulp out of starch and shredded paper, which would then be applied to a solid backing. The finished product -- journal covers in all their rough edges and imperfections -- felt majestic yet familiar. With blank pages added, it felt like a worthy vessel for words.
Walter Benjamin wrote that "mechanical reproduction of art changes the reaction of the masses toward art" (234). The Kindle, though light and efficient, is simply a beautiful machine for our fast-paced, glistening world. It is cold and heartless; every piece is designed to operate perfectly, whereas a book finds a tenuous identity through the hands that hold it. For instance, I can never expect what happens when one of my students picks up a book -- will he embrace it, throw it at my head, or ask me how to turn it on?
Ah, the Kindle. Its very name conjures up the image of reading next to a roaring fire...but I would love to throw it into one.
I was that strange girl surreptitiously sniffing the pages of books whenever I visited B&N as a kid; even today, I still love cracking open the covers of Shakespeare or Whitman or Plath. The raw joy of reading includes hearing that soft crackle and feeling the cobblestone bumps of pages. It is as satisfying as walking into a glorious library and seeing rows and rows of books, aged and loved by so many people (Beauty and the Beast dream library, anyone?).
But perhaps what the Kindle can never capture is the craft of book-making, the history of binding pages together into a complete piece. An art teacher once showed me how to make pulp out of starch and shredded paper, which would then be applied to a solid backing. The finished product -- journal covers in all their rough edges and imperfections -- felt majestic yet familiar. With blank pages added, it felt like a worthy vessel for words.
Walter Benjamin wrote that "mechanical reproduction of art changes the reaction of the masses toward art" (234). The Kindle, though light and efficient, is simply a beautiful machine for our fast-paced, glistening world. It is cold and heartless; every piece is designed to operate perfectly, whereas a book finds a tenuous identity through the hands that hold it. For instance, I can never expect what happens when one of my students picks up a book -- will he embrace it, throw it at my head, or ask me how to turn it on?
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Greetings, earthlings...
Perhaps it is because of all the snow, with its blank slate of a promise. Perhaps it is a perk of celebrating the Lunar New Year, reminding me of my resolutions (already growing a bit stale on the shelf). Either way, I am ready to start again.
In my college years, I used to blog impulsively; between midnight buffalo-wing splurges and the occasional class, I poured my angst into the crevices of virtual reality. Like many of my contemporaries on Xanga, life was just so complicated, and everyone had something to share. After all, there is much to say about the meaning of life according to French toast.
Five years later, the fast-moving streams of Twitter, Facebook, and Tumblr have left me longing for something less ephemeral. This blog is meant for sitting back and mulling over the delicious moments thrown at me from random directions; yes, a proper pieing indeed. As a lover of words, I hope to share literature, stories, and foodie adventures that may stick around, longer than the ice currently imprisoning the Garden State.
As a first bit, here's a benediction that one of my favorite authors declared at the start of this new year:
May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you're wonderful, and don't forget to make some art -- write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself. -- Neil Gaiman
In my college years, I used to blog impulsively; between midnight buffalo-wing splurges and the occasional class, I poured my angst into the crevices of virtual reality. Like many of my contemporaries on Xanga, life was just so complicated, and everyone had something to share. After all, there is much to say about the meaning of life according to French toast.
Five years later, the fast-moving streams of Twitter, Facebook, and Tumblr have left me longing for something less ephemeral. This blog is meant for sitting back and mulling over the delicious moments thrown at me from random directions; yes, a proper pieing indeed. As a lover of words, I hope to share literature, stories, and foodie adventures that may stick around, longer than the ice currently imprisoning the Garden State.
As a first bit, here's a benediction that one of my favorite authors declared at the start of this new year:
May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you're wonderful, and don't forget to make some art -- write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself. -- Neil Gaiman
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