(no subject)
currently, this is my favourite painting:
this tiny version does not do the actual one justice. i'm supposed to write a poem on it.
one session of Composition reminds me how much i miss being in writing classes. how much i desperately miss writing...
we read a William Carlos Williams poem and "Musée des Beaux Arts," which always makes me cry, and i almost cried.
nearly two years later, i am kicking myself. shoulda gone to writing school.
it would have been hard and emotional and passionate and wonderful.
instead, i pick a school that doesn't even have a creative writing major, just a pompous English department.
where everything feels so grey all the time.
right now is the state of the union address. and i hate this school that treats it like a football game. all these kids and their psuedo-righteous indignation and i wonder what it's for. i wonder what's it's all for. i keep thinking: a piece of paper and a name and a salary and 20 years later, a mid-life crisis, wondering when your life began and when time slipped through your fingers like water.
today, the absurdity of this life came crashing down on me. it doesn't make sense, make sense, at all.
i go to the 13th best liberal arts college in the nation. 11% of the kids here receive federal Pell grants. Compare that to Smith College, another seven sisters school, at 27%. Wellesley has the second best diversity rating, with 31% Asian-Americans, and i wonder what that means for Asian stereotypes. the schools with the highest percentage of Hispanics are all in California or Texas. and looking at this list, i notice all the African-Americans and Asian-Americans and Native Americans and i wonder if Hispanics are considered Americans at all, wonder at the lines between hyphenation and nation. and i wonder what this means at all. what does any of it mean.
and all day, my classmates are talking heads and i wonder if what they say has any meaning. what good does it matter if you know a poem is constructed of iambs if it doesn't make you cry, feel, want, need. what good is it to say every thought that pops into your head if even you don't listen to yourself. i want to shout at them that thoughts are sacred, that words are powerful, that silence is respect, and don't they understand?
it's empty. so very empty. the bottom of a river, below the dark water, devil all around. around.
this tiny version does not do the actual one justice. i'm supposed to write a poem on it.
one session of Composition reminds me how much i miss being in writing classes. how much i desperately miss writing...
we read a William Carlos Williams poem and "Musée des Beaux Arts," which always makes me cry, and i almost cried.
nearly two years later, i am kicking myself. shoulda gone to writing school.
it would have been hard and emotional and passionate and wonderful.
instead, i pick a school that doesn't even have a creative writing major, just a pompous English department.
where everything feels so grey all the time.
right now is the state of the union address. and i hate this school that treats it like a football game. all these kids and their psuedo-righteous indignation and i wonder what it's for. i wonder what's it's all for. i keep thinking: a piece of paper and a name and a salary and 20 years later, a mid-life crisis, wondering when your life began and when time slipped through your fingers like water.
today, the absurdity of this life came crashing down on me. it doesn't make sense, make sense, at all.
i go to the 13th best liberal arts college in the nation. 11% of the kids here receive federal Pell grants. Compare that to Smith College, another seven sisters school, at 27%. Wellesley has the second best diversity rating, with 31% Asian-Americans, and i wonder what that means for Asian stereotypes. the schools with the highest percentage of Hispanics are all in California or Texas. and looking at this list, i notice all the African-Americans and Asian-Americans and Native Americans and i wonder if Hispanics are considered Americans at all, wonder at the lines between hyphenation and nation. and i wonder what this means at all. what does any of it mean.
and all day, my classmates are talking heads and i wonder if what they say has any meaning. what good does it matter if you know a poem is constructed of iambs if it doesn't make you cry, feel, want, need. what good is it to say every thought that pops into your head if even you don't listen to yourself. i want to shout at them that thoughts are sacred, that words are powerful, that silence is respect, and don't they understand?
it's empty. so very empty. the bottom of a river, below the dark water, devil all around. around.