When I was in elementary school, I remember how excited I got about Scholastic book fairs. I don’t know when they happened, or for how long. I only remember entering the auditorium I usually hated going to — it reminded me of long lectures by the principal on useless topics such as, “You must stay on the playground during recess — or else,” or “Chocolate milk won’t be available for lunch anymore — don’t ask” and browsing through the dozens of new, glossy books selected for us. And the little bits they sold; I went crazy for them. The tiny, colorful erasers and wall-sized posters seemed like the coolest things at the time.
At 1:44 p.m. last Wednesday, I made an executive decision. For the next three hours, I sat with other students, feeding off the energy of the room and, occasionally, the free popcorn I realized I hadn’t been taking more advantage of. I sent an email to my professor on why I couldn’t make it to class and regretted not feeling sorry. The decision wasn’t difficult, but I owe it to my sophomore year English professor. No matter what we discussed in her class, we were grounded by our feelings; we were students studying texts, but we were not purely analytical beings who were detached from emotional connections.
If I could, I would tell Helen of Troy I’m sorry she had the face that launched a thousand ships. Because I had the shirt that launched a thousand other things, and none of them were that pleasant. It was a simple white T-shirt; one with the outline of two boobs (two half circles and two dots). I thought it was simplistic, minimalist and far from graphic; just a fun way to support the “Free the Nipple” campaign and female empowerment. I had seen it on websites such as Etsy, ROMWE and Shein, but when I saw it hanging up in a small store in New York City, I knew it was my chance.
It was hot, like only the city can be. The kind of hot that keeps you crossing to the other side of the street to find shade the buildings create just to realize you have to cross back over a minute later. And you can’t help but feel absolutely dragged down by the mixture of heat from the subway and the hordes of people passing by and the blazing sun that makes your skin feel like it’s been stuck in an oven, but it’s the city and what are you supposed to do — stop? No, you keep going. So it was one of those days.
But college is such a confined place where so much happens every day, whether that’s because of the proximity of so many students or the exposure to so many new things at once. Our self-growth is sped up in this four-year experience; it can be difficult, but it’s something I’m already grateful for.
A whole Great Gatsby affair comes to mind when I think about the ’20s. The glorified notion of the time of prohibition, symbolized by speakeasies and flappers. Or when I think of the ’60s, it’s Woodstock and hippies that come to mind, complete with colorful Volkswagen vans and the Beatles. It seems like human nature to categorize these time periods. We find specific objects or events to describe an entire era, so that when we look back on a particular decade, a specific image comes to mind.
It’s not exactly as if we’re developing deep relationships with the people we sit next to in class everyday, or the ones we spend long rides with. But at the same time, we experience a brief connectedness with others that almost seems tangible. We get a little sliver of another person’s life through the ways we unknowingly communicate — stolen glances, quick observations, short exchanges. These interactions we have with others, on the subway, in the hallways, in a large lecture class or on a plane, show how little we know about others’ lives — we only catch a small glimpse of something we aren’t completely sure of, but can attempt to know and understand.
Sunday morning I found myself in a coffee shop on North Cayuga street. My notes for an art history exam laid on the table. My iPhone 6s was charging and I checked it periodically to scroll through Instagram or check my email. I sat with my earphones in and some soft tunes playing. The contrast of this outside representation of being calm, cool and collected made me want to laugh, for my mind was raging.
A tattoo of Earth inside a Haida raven on his left shoulder. Sightings at boxing matches. Articles and pictures of his rear in slacks. Ever since October of 2015, popularity over a certain world leader emerged. But since a highly controversial president was elected in America, not only has Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau’s popularity skyrocketed, but his status within this country has as well.
The Decadent movement in the late 19th century, which affected both literature and art, was one of excess. It favored aestheticism, devoid of anything with political, spiritual or moral value. Edgar Allen Poe, a notable Decadent writer of the time, thought the only purpose of poetry was to be beautiful to read. It should be separate from truth and feeling — an “elevation of the soul.” The focus of his poem, “The Raven,” is not his dead wife, but rather the musicality of language and the way the vowels and rhyme scheme sound when read aloud. There is no significance behind the name “Lenore” beyond the fact that it rhymes with the repeated word “nevermore.” He wrote “The Philosophy of Composition” to describe poetry as an impersonal process, the largest emphasis being on technical and lyrical composition, so that the final product would be one with the greatest aesthetic value.