Saturday, March 21, 2009
Trip.
I'm going away for awhile. With coffee, polaroids, and friends. But the importance isn't ever in that order.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
D-Day.
Yesterday was the last day of my British literature survey classes. Final having finished, my friend and I hopped a bus and headed to Pike Place Market.
Everything changes when you take that first step on a bus. Wheels get you places. Wheels can change your scenery. They did for me yesterday.
A 50-year-old couple argued while the flustered, pudgy wife wrote out their budget on a piece of newspaper. The husband's face was scarred with white pieces of bandage attached. "Roy!", she raised her voice at him. A man who looked like a combination of an ancient Samurai and Hawaiian wrestler made his way onto the bus at Lower Queen Anne, and silently sat himself and his handlebar mustache down. Getting off the bus, we were badgered by a man handing out tracts proclaiming the "good news". My friend took one as a courtesy, throwing it out once we reached the other side of the street.
I do not need to ask the question: The world around me is so wildly different from the college I attend. Asking "why" would be ridiculous. Once I get out of this bubble I feel less paranoid, feel less self-righteous, feel like everyone is in the same boat as me. We are all confused and don't claim to have the answers.
I had a really excellent conversation with another friend of mine on a walk not too long ago, and I want to say thank you. Thank you to people who are not afraid of being at a loss for words. For people who take the leap off the edge, even though they are terrified. Here's to us all being scared shitless at the not-knowing-times while we try to figure out why we're here in the first place.
Thank you.
Everything changes when you take that first step on a bus. Wheels get you places. Wheels can change your scenery. They did for me yesterday.
A 50-year-old couple argued while the flustered, pudgy wife wrote out their budget on a piece of newspaper. The husband's face was scarred with white pieces of bandage attached. "Roy!", she raised her voice at him. A man who looked like a combination of an ancient Samurai and Hawaiian wrestler made his way onto the bus at Lower Queen Anne, and silently sat himself and his handlebar mustache down. Getting off the bus, we were badgered by a man handing out tracts proclaiming the "good news". My friend took one as a courtesy, throwing it out once we reached the other side of the street.
I do not need to ask the question: The world around me is so wildly different from the college I attend. Asking "why" would be ridiculous. Once I get out of this bubble I feel less paranoid, feel less self-righteous, feel like everyone is in the same boat as me. We are all confused and don't claim to have the answers.
I had a really excellent conversation with another friend of mine on a walk not too long ago, and I want to say thank you. Thank you to people who are not afraid of being at a loss for words. For people who take the leap off the edge, even though they are terrified. Here's to us all being scared shitless at the not-knowing-times while we try to figure out why we're here in the first place.
Thank you.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Check It.
The New York Times (left), Going West (right). Few things I like more than art. I've been getting a museum craving lately, so I thought I'd share a couple of my favorites: Jacob Lawrence, Dorothea Lange, and Diego Rivera. The top two are by Jacob Lawrence, and the mural is by Diego Rivera. In the West it seems to me that there is less of an appreciation for public art. For a large part of Rivera's life, all he did were murals, and he took them damn seriously. Why do the great painters of America want their pieces behind closed doors or framed on walls? I hope someone finds an example where I can be refuted.It is crazy to me how images can be created by nothing but colors.
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