(no subject)
I just came back from the library after reading a significant (or insignificant since it has yet to relate to any of his films) portion of Bunuel's "My Last Sigh". Maybe it is because he was born to a rich father, maybe it was the times, his upbringing, or maybe it was just Spain, but for some reason Bunuel's life seems far more fascinating than I imagined life could ever be. The book is just a string of memories, from his childhood to become an adult, something that I romanticize in writing. Memories are the stories we write in our own minds. Bunuel is a fascinating character with an extradorinary youth. I'm wasting away my life and education here in America, limiting my experiences from becoming anything that would fill a biography and keep a young student from turning the pages the way I did. I hope Luis realized before his death that there was something extraordinary in his words.
As I was walking back from the library I could smell winter in the air. It was like all those times I walked back from Mike's house as a child, after playing football in the yard or playing videogames in his room, whatever it was we did as kids. I would look at the lights on the houses and take slow breaths of the air. I would have to surpress myself from running home, I would be running from the fear of the dark, even at 5pm, though I would tell myself I was running from the cold in the air.
This is as late in the year as I have been at Drew. Last year I was studying for my French exam on this day, the French exam I would later find out that I had missed (being that it was on the morning of the 16th) and was able to make up thanks to the generosity of my professor. The night of December the 16th, 2003, I smoked about as much pot as I ever had at that point in my life, a mark I would easily surpass within the following year.
Looking at the lights on the way back from the library, the campus was almost unrecognizable. It took on a new face, a new look, for this time of year which I had never experienced before. I stared down at the ground outside the back of Mead Hall from the library window, watched a dark shadow cross the still green grass, walking towards the DOYO or whatever other building is on that side of our little campus. I looked across Tipple at the Shakespeare Theatre and the graduate dorms on the walk back from the library. Their dimly lit facades were as foreign to me as the first day I stepped foot on campus, finding myself lost countless times before I finally got the hang of things. It was a strange feeling, of solitarity without fear or anxiousness. It was new but familiar, not frightening but intriguing.
With Bunuel's ideas of political subversion, of surrealism or Dadism filling my mind I stood outside my dorm for a little bit in the cold. It was a nice time for reflection. I fingered a cigarette like it was my last, waiting to be put to death for radical ideas during a time of Civil War. I felt the paper roll between my fingers, I watched the smoke drift away from the tip as I lit it for the first and last time. As the cigarette burned, I smoked it slowly. Where each drag used to symbolize minutes it would take away from my life, the cigarette would be the only thing keeping me alive at this point. Reaching the end it tasted more and more bitter. When it was done, I was granted a reprieve from impending death, long enough to take my exams tomorrow and Tuesday.
I don't have so much to look forward to this winter break, I think, not like winter break. Last year I was coming home for the first long period of time since I went to school, it was to be a glorious homecoming indeed. I don't think too much happened, Kraft, Mark and I found some interesting ways to waste our time, and Sara and I desperately searched for a similar source of entertainment as well. Grams were precious where 8ths wouldn't even suffice now. I don't think last winter break lived up to any of the expectations that I had placed on it; I think this year it will far surpass my lack of expectations. I know at least that finding school friends over break (McKay's birthday, hunt, and a possible visit to Raft or Worcester) will be fun. I know that hanging out with Kraft, Mark, Fran, and Dan will be everything that its always been.
Nothing special has happened in the past semester, but I've made the most of it. I've made a bunch of friends and I think I've lived life a bit differently than ever before. I think I have Kunal, the Meth, and Matty to thank for that, though I guess anything could've made this happen. I know my ambitions far outreach my drive, and I know I'm gonna end up coming out of this place in two and a half years without the first clue as to where I am going or why.
I'm coming back to Marlton with a fresh outlook, pretty much like every other time I've come back to Marlton. I hope that I will find some of my friends likeminded, like I always have. I vaccilate between this circle or that, though they are all part of one larger group of friends. Everyone knows everyone, but they don't always hang out with each other. I'll see you all soon.
As I was walking back from the library I could smell winter in the air. It was like all those times I walked back from Mike's house as a child, after playing football in the yard or playing videogames in his room, whatever it was we did as kids. I would look at the lights on the houses and take slow breaths of the air. I would have to surpress myself from running home, I would be running from the fear of the dark, even at 5pm, though I would tell myself I was running from the cold in the air.
This is as late in the year as I have been at Drew. Last year I was studying for my French exam on this day, the French exam I would later find out that I had missed (being that it was on the morning of the 16th) and was able to make up thanks to the generosity of my professor. The night of December the 16th, 2003, I smoked about as much pot as I ever had at that point in my life, a mark I would easily surpass within the following year.
Looking at the lights on the way back from the library, the campus was almost unrecognizable. It took on a new face, a new look, for this time of year which I had never experienced before. I stared down at the ground outside the back of Mead Hall from the library window, watched a dark shadow cross the still green grass, walking towards the DOYO or whatever other building is on that side of our little campus. I looked across Tipple at the Shakespeare Theatre and the graduate dorms on the walk back from the library. Their dimly lit facades were as foreign to me as the first day I stepped foot on campus, finding myself lost countless times before I finally got the hang of things. It was a strange feeling, of solitarity without fear or anxiousness. It was new but familiar, not frightening but intriguing.
With Bunuel's ideas of political subversion, of surrealism or Dadism filling my mind I stood outside my dorm for a little bit in the cold. It was a nice time for reflection. I fingered a cigarette like it was my last, waiting to be put to death for radical ideas during a time of Civil War. I felt the paper roll between my fingers, I watched the smoke drift away from the tip as I lit it for the first and last time. As the cigarette burned, I smoked it slowly. Where each drag used to symbolize minutes it would take away from my life, the cigarette would be the only thing keeping me alive at this point. Reaching the end it tasted more and more bitter. When it was done, I was granted a reprieve from impending death, long enough to take my exams tomorrow and Tuesday.
I don't have so much to look forward to this winter break, I think, not like winter break. Last year I was coming home for the first long period of time since I went to school, it was to be a glorious homecoming indeed. I don't think too much happened, Kraft, Mark and I found some interesting ways to waste our time, and Sara and I desperately searched for a similar source of entertainment as well. Grams were precious where 8ths wouldn't even suffice now. I don't think last winter break lived up to any of the expectations that I had placed on it; I think this year it will far surpass my lack of expectations. I know at least that finding school friends over break (McKay's birthday, hunt, and a possible visit to Raft or Worcester) will be fun. I know that hanging out with Kraft, Mark, Fran, and Dan will be everything that its always been.
Nothing special has happened in the past semester, but I've made the most of it. I've made a bunch of friends and I think I've lived life a bit differently than ever before. I think I have Kunal, the Meth, and Matty to thank for that, though I guess anything could've made this happen. I know my ambitions far outreach my drive, and I know I'm gonna end up coming out of this place in two and a half years without the first clue as to where I am going or why.
I'm coming back to Marlton with a fresh outlook, pretty much like every other time I've come back to Marlton. I hope that I will find some of my friends likeminded, like I always have. I vaccilate between this circle or that, though they are all part of one larger group of friends. Everyone knows everyone, but they don't always hang out with each other. I'll see you all soon.