an open letter to college

To college:
I am ready. I am so ready. I think, I think.
Twelve years of preparation for four years of living. Really really living.
Learning? In the classroom? Yes, of course.
But learning. Away from the books. That is what I call learning.
Life will hit me in face. Away from the face shield that is my dearest Lexington, Kentucky.
No more of those rolling green fields saved for the majestic creatures admired at Keeneland.
More like cold, cold, cold weather. The snowiest winters I've ever seen.
But I am ready. I am so ready.
Ready for the excitement, ready for the newest experiences, ready to take the world by storm.
At least from Connecticut.
Ready for the 3 AM study sessions, ready for the sweet taste of dining hall deliciousness, ready for the freshman 15. Ready for the goofy suitemates, frustrating papers needing attention, walking across the gorgeous campus whiteness in the largest overcoat I can find. Ready for the working hard, the playing hard, the living hard. Ready to cheer on that champion hockey team, ready to cheer on the perhaps not-so-hot football team, ready to emanate and embody the school spirit so dominant. Ready for the best experiences of my life, the opportunities for me to grab. Ready to be a part of the tightest community there is, ready to join a family, to meet those lifelong friends who await me. I am so ready for you, college.
I think.
I think I already love you.
Ready or not, here i come!
Boola boola.

Jessie

children's poems ftw

Children's poems may be for children, but I thoroughly enjoy them. Take this poem for example, called "Be Glad Your Nose is on Your Face" by Jack Prelutsky.

Be glad your nose is on your face,
not pasted on some other place,
for if it were where it is not,
you might dislike your nose a lot.

Imagine if your precious nose
were sandwiched in between your toes,
that clearly would not be a treat,
for you'd be forced to smell your feet.

Your nose would be a source of dread
were it attached atop your head,
it soon would drive you to despair,
forever tickled by your hair.

Within your ear, your nose would be
an absolute catastrophe,
for when you were obliged to sneeze,
your brain would rattle from the breeze.

Your nose, instead, through thick and thin,
remains between your eyes and chin,
not pasted on some other place--
be glad your nose is on your face! 

Silly-- perhaps, but even silly poems can be saying something worth saying. "Be glad your nose is on your face." Genius. We as teenagers (as humans even) seem never to be satisfied with anything. Complaints have become so prominent in our natures that we hardly even noticed them anymore. But what if our noses were on top of our heads, in our ears, or between our toes? Certainly worse off than we are now. Be thankful the nose is on the face where it is. 

Subliminal messaging? Of course! The poem is for children, but the message is for everyone. The humorous arrangement of the message is what makes the poem memorable and enjoyable to all. Stop complaining! Your nose may be too big, too small, oddly shaped, or stuffed up, but at least it is not between your toes. 

a cheater's guide to love

"The half-life of love is forever." - Junot Diaz

(semi-spoiler alert)

This Is How You Lose Her is a story about love. It's love, but not that kind of romantic cheese only girls can find the heart to enjoy. On the contrary, Diaz's novel is about a cheating sex addict whose experience with love and relationship is all but romantic and cheesy. This Is How You Lose Her is that fascinating story centered around the all-too-common view of women as objects-- the idea that men are more interested in sex than relationships and commitment. Our sad protagonist only discovers his own destructiveness after the permanence of heartbreak.

The novel is an expert look into this dismaying perspective of women and relationships. Yet, while it may be dismaying in this culture, it seems to be quite prominent in Diaz's Dominican culture, where the patriarchal dominance of men diminishes the level of sanctity customarily associated with romantic relationships. And Yunior was exposed to this culture. His destructive father surely was not a help in the respect towards woman. His addiction to sex was certainly not helped when his rather old teacher offered him sex.

And when he finally found the love his life, he simply screwed it up. Did he know better? Sure-- but an addict is an addict. It was perhaps the shock of the heartbreak that causes his inner transformation, when he realizes that the half-life of love is forever. From there, Yunior can perhaps begin.

bye bye nest

Since I soon will kiss the nest goodbye in the near future, it may be fitting to find some appropriate poetry:

Waving Goodbye by Gerald Stern

I wanted to know what it was like before we

had voices and before we had bare fingers and before we

had minds to move us through our actions

and tears to help us over our feelings,

so I drove my daughter through the snow to meet her friend

and filled her car with suitcases and hugged her

as an animal would, pressing my forehead against her,

walking in circles, moaning, touching her cheek,

and turned my head after them as an animal would,

watching helplessly as they drove over the ruts,

her smiling face and her small hand just visible

over the giant pillows and coat hangers

as they made their turn into the empty highway.

Ah--- goodbye from the point of view of the dear parents. I will be leaving my parents an empty nest, and I think, what in the world will they do with their lives now that I'm leaving? What will they do... be thankful that there are such things as "minds to move us through our actions / and tears to help us over our feelings?" Will they watch as I walk away from their car? There must be some sensation of fear, hopelessness, and sadness within any parent who must relinquish a child into the "empty highway." A mother cannot let go-- I know my mother will not: she "hugged her, / as an animal would, pressing [her] forehead against her, / walking in circles, moaning, touching her cheek, / and turned [her] head after them as an animal would, / watching helplessly." This poem seems to specifically connect the mother with an animal, a sentient being presumably with no mind to move through action or tears to get over the feelings. She can only feel. It's pretty sad, actually. 

we're here!

Time for spring break. What does that mean? It means... this year of school is over. It means... senior year is over. It means... no more high school? It's hard to believe.

I have finally heard from the last of my schools, and the end result is better than I could have ever imagined. But as I take a step back, nostalgia gets the best of me. We're actually going to college! And while I'm quite excited about that, I am also quite sad about that. Lexington has been my home for 17 years, where my closest friends, family, and memories reside. I am anxiously awaiting the exciting, fascinating, enriching experiences ahead of bigger cities, new people, and an amazing education. Yet... I am leaving behind just as much as I am gaining.

We're finally here. This moment we have looked forward to from the very beginning, and it's actually here. Do we feel as excited as we thought we would? Is it as awesome as we thought it would be?

Relief. That's what I feel. But it's bittersweet-- theme of the year. Saying goodbye isn't always easy, but it's something I'll have to do in a few short months. Time is flying away from us, but maybe we should feel as good about that. High school will not last forever!

fleeting youth

Let it be known that we are adults/ almost adults. Is that scary? 

This thought crossed my mind upon reading Bryan Borland's "Chasing Fireflies," a rather sad depiction of the loss accompanying the transition from childhood to adulthood. Do you still remember those nights "where [you] were content to run in circles, / arms outstretched, / chasing fireflies [?]" That kind of feeling of real freedom, the kind you can taste as a kid who didn't really have anything to worry about. As we cross the boundary from kid to no-longer-a-kid, will we see what Borland saw? Where life "has raised her mask and / revealed her face to be / the unexpected, / where even her smile / might be interpreted / as cold or callous." Have we already begun to see what Borland sees? 

The fact of the matter is, we are growing older, and a growing age calls for growing responsibilities. It is sad to think that the wonder, imagination, and magic of childhood may only be a faint memory, when the complexities of life begin to really slap us in the face. We won't have faithful guardians for much longer, those loving parents who have, for 18 years, shielded us from the worst. Will we change in the face of the evil that inevitably pervades this world? Will we have the "the heart to seal their fate / inside a mason jar [?]" Things changed for Borland. Things will change. That's the sadness of the fleeting youth. 

poems

"Poetry is what gets lost in translation." - Robert Frost

Have you ever thought of the transition between the words on the page and the person reading them? Does the entire intention really get through? Does anything get lost in translation?

The more I think about this, the more I believe in a divide, a certain amount of depth eliminated with the jump from words to mind. Every time I write a word, commit a thought to paper, does my reader really understand what I was thinking, what I'm trying to convey? Prose can be clear and illuminating but can also be limiting in a way, losing that sense of depth, emotion, poignancy, or intention that is ultimately lost in translation.

Poetry can be different, though, and for this reason, it is what gets lost in translation. The freedom allowed in the form of poetry is precisely what allows for the expression of thoughts, ideas, and feelings that usually remain untouched in the prose of the conventional nature. Poetry captures the imagination, states the relatable in a way that is understandable. The jump from paper to thought is manageable, eliminating that ordinary cost of transition. Poetry is what gets lost in translation.

literate lexington

http://www.usatoday.com/story/life/books/2013/02/06/most-literate-city-washington/1894511/

Check it out. Lexington, KY is the 24th most literate city in the United States. Find this a little surprising? I do, as well. Lexington tops the literate list amongst the likes of Baltimore, New York, Boston, and New Orleans--large cities known for high-end education. The study conducted was based on the number of bookstores, library resources, newspaper circulation, Internet resources and educational levels (the goal was to shift the focus away from reading scores and more on how much people are actually reading)-- factors that are most attributed to bustling cities with high populations. How interesting that a small city in the southern state of Kentucky should be among the most literate cities. 

I do feel a certain amount of pride in Lexington for this surprising feat, for we are are mighty city of readers able to compare with the largest cities in the nation. We have a wonderfully efficient public library system and a rather dependable newspaper source-- strong public schools and apparently a good number of bookstores to boot. Way to go Lexington! 

an open letter to my iphone

Dearest iPhone, 

I have a problem. And it's not that I can't iMessage my best friends, message them on Facebook, or tweet at them. It's not that I can't call up my best friend to gossip. It's not that I can't snapchat bizarre faces to my equally bizarre comrades or instagram my beautiful pictures. It's not that I can't use the wonderfully fast LTE network to surf the web, check my email, or find out the latest news, not that I can't check the weather about the incoming winter blast or see the forecast for the next week, that I can't use Wikipedia to remember a fact I can't remember. Not that I can't use maps to find directions back home, check movie times on Yahoo, not that I can't ask Siri how to factor (x^3 - y^3), not that I can't talk to Siri like she's a friend. Not that I can't kill time with Tiny Wings, Temple Run, or Angry Birds. Not that I can't challenge my friends to a game of Ruzzle or Words with Friends. Not that I can't listen to my favorite music on Pandora or Spotify. Not that I can't look up funny cat videos on YouTube, check my grades on Infinite Campus, pin a picture onto Pinterest. Not that I can't do all of things. No, that's not the problem. 

The problem is that I can do all those things. #sleepdeprivediphoneaddictedteenager

Jessie

reckless lovin'

Beloved is, in many ways, a case study of love and all its implications. The story centers around a mother's uncompromisable and reckless love for her children, a kind of emotional attachment so strong that it has twisted her sense of logic and rationality to the point where she would kill her children rather than allow them to suffer.

As the romantic I am, the notion of love is magical and enchanting, a kind of unforced bond formed regardless of intention. A mother is certainly inclined to love her children. Children are certainly inclined to love their mother. This is not intentional. In Sethe's case, loving in that way is dangerous and unhealthy, a love that is "too thick." But it is not intentional, and that fact renders her love uncontrollable. Reckless, yes. But controllable-- not likely. Even the desire to control such emotions would likely only be a fruitless quest.

Sethe is a dramatic and extreme example. But how much far removed is she really from real life? Human beings are inherently inclined to love and inherently inclined to desire meaningful love. The inevitable and uncompromisable desire to find it and have it-- that is what, at the simplest level, is unhealthy in itself. It is not intentional, and certainly impossible to control.

letters!

There are many wonderful things in this world. But there aren't many things much better than a nice, handwritten letter. 

Well... that may have been a slight exaggeration. But there is hardly another gift as heartwarming to me as a lengthy letter written in the familiar handwriting of a wonderful friend. Nothing says "I care about you" like the time dedicated to putting thoughts to paper-- not just blankly typing but truly writing, with meaning and consideration. 

I truly do relish the pleasure of reading words thought out for me in a font of personality, not the typefont of computerized images. I keep letters sent to me in a drawer, for another wonderful part of handwritten letters is the ability to take them out time and time again to experience the enjoyment all over again. 

I know how much I enjoy letters and long, written-out birthday cards. And that is why I am a passionate birthday-card-writer (all of my birthday cards are novels. No empty space. None.) The birthday cards I write to my friends are the fruits of my labor as an author of heartfelt words, and it is through my handwritten masterpiece that I can share the joy of handwritten glory with a friend. 

So why are handwritten letters important? Because they can make people happy, people like me. 

thoughts from all-state

Maestro asks the orchestra a simple question-- one of those questions that every person opens his mouth to answer but hesitates because of its unsuspected complexity.

What is music? Some violist raises his bow and says, "organized sound." Interesting thought.

But what is music? We spend so much time in our lives listening to it, playing it on instruments, being surrounded by it. Even so, the word "music" seems to have no single definition because a single definition would be unable to do it justice. All that music encompasses seems impossible to constrict into the limitations of a few words or phrases.

What is music? Sure, it's organized sound. But can organized sound really be enough to make you feel boundless joy, deep sadness, irrepressible anger that music can induce? Can it be a medium for self-expression as a unique art form? Can it be as beautiful as music can be? Is music really just organized sound?

But maybe that's what the entire purpose of art forms is--to mean something different to every individual. My definition of music is surely not the same as any other individual's definition. My definition of any form of expression would unlikely to be the same.

on grief

"Life changes fast. Life changes in the instant. You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends." -Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking

Grief is an intangible thing for those who remain untouched by it. But it is inevitable, something I have realized upon turning the last page of Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking, an account of a widowed author attempting to make sense of her husband's sudden death. One particular thought of hers really struck me-- the fact that "everything evens out in the end," that bad things will happen to all of us. It is a part of the human inclination to live happily that we are disillusioned into living as if we were immortal. Taking things for granted, not paying attention to the things and the people around us-- we live as if we were to live forever. 

This is a discovery Didion describes, stringing the reader along in her desolate journey through her year of magical thinking. She sits down to dinner one night to have her husband collapse from a catastrophic cardiac event. The normalcy of it all is what is shocking. Life changes fast. Life changes in the instant. The fact that bad things are so imminently possible is sobering. We are told to not take things for granted. But how many of us actually do not? It is the first step to moving past the grief. Having little regrets. 

what happens next

The endings of books are nearly always dissatisfying. The sad fact is that as readers, we become attached to these characters that we have followed and come to care about. And then we must say goodbye to them, never knowing how their lives turn out-- what ever happens to them next. They disappear into the depths of the literary limbo where no book character is able to escape. No one ever knows what happens to them there. 

What happens next? What happens to the little boy, the beautiful being born to an ugly darkness? I'd love to think a happy story for him. He joins the family. The world miraculously returns into the lush atmosphere bursting with life. He thrives amongst a bond of love and friendship without the constant suffering and hunger. He lives a fulfilling, satisfying life, perhaps finding a wife in some beautiful maiden who sweeps into his life. He fathers delightful children who too bask in the light of happiness, love, and fulfillment. 

But that's probably not what would happen. In the best of situations, the boy joins the family who accepts him as their own. It is difficult to imagine the boy moving on from his father's death. And if he does, he is perhaps able to entrust in his new family the kind of dependence and love he once reserved only for his father. I cannot see a future for this boy that is any brighter than it was throughout the novel because the reality is plain: there is nothing in this ruined world for him. Nothing for anyone. 

But maybe that is the beauty of book endings. I can imagine anything I want. Who cares if it doesn't make sense. I can pluck that little boy from literary limbo and place him in the happiest world I can dream up. I can do it all in my head. 

the very long road

Cormac McCarthy's The Road has been a poignant, painful journey to say the least. As an avid reader often inclined to get too involved inside a story, I have a tendency to fall headlong into the book as I were as much a part of the story as any character. Every time I open the book, I am the man or the boy. I suffer along with them, despair in the ruined world, hopeless. 

An infant impaled on a stick, roasting over a fire. A scene I had never expected. Words with an effect on me that no other words have ever had. I didn't want to read on. I wanted to close the book and never read the horrible words again. I wanted to cry. (Perhaps too dramatic-sounding, this is all unfortunately 100% true). 

From this I derive my final feelings of the novel. I see the literary worth. The writing is impeccable, moving, poignant, effective, and beautiful. The story is haunting, painful, incredible. It is the story of human nature when there is nothing else. The stripped down version of human vices and virtues. The core of all of us. I see the literary worth. 

But this is not to say I have enjoyed reading this novel. At no point have I experienced enjoyment or pleasure. I'd like to think there is always some kind of hope, some kind of notion, something that can foster happiness, something to live for. McCarthy's story is crushing. 

kissing 2012 goodbye

I've always loved the end of a year. It's a time when reflection is common, a time when remembering a year of memories and experiences and happenings prompts the nostalgia that makes me truly thankful for what I have. A representation of my nostalgia is my favorite moments and parts of 2012:

10. The Olympics. Probably the one sporting event (besides March madness) that I ever consider worth sitting own in front of the television to watch and concentrate on. It's the chance to cheer on your own country, immerse yourself in national pride as you cheer on Michael Phelps or go wild with Misty May Treanor's winning spike. The end of the Olympics is a sad time indeed. It won't come around for another two years.

9. Taylor Swift. Okay, okay. So I love Taylor Swift. I have no shame. The release of Red was an exciting day for me. A very exciting day. I listen to it on repeat.

8. The beginning of the end. The start of senior year-- a landmark unparalleled in my academic career. The beginning of the end of my secondary schooling. Talk about nostalgia.

7. iPhone 5. Is that too materialistic? I don't know how I would function without it. First world problems.

6. Siemens Competition. Yes, I actually did compete in a nerdy research competition called Siemens. (*cue immature giggling?) All funny names aside, it was an experience unlike any other. A weekend where everything was paid for, from the fancy hotel to the upscale course meals, to the gas mileage. I could get used to this kind of living.

5. Les Miserables. It was that good.

4. Orchy dork time. The very first time I played as a soloist with a full orchestra. Nerve-wracking, exciting, inspiring, and incredible. The first time I truly felt like I had a voice as a musician.

3. Hitting that dang submit button. It feels good every time without fail. Applying to college has a certain finality to it, doesn't it?

2. Getting into college. Excuse me while I have a 30-second dance party while I celebrate the fact that I will, in fact, be going to college. There was always that chance that I wouldn't.

1. The best vacation in the whole entire world. AKA cruise. AKA visiting extraordinary, exotic islands while everyone else was at home slogging through college applications. AKA warm weather. AKA swimming with the turtles. AKA snorkeling with Dory and Nemo. AKA I want to go back. AKA the best part of 2012.