"If—"

Dear Dennis Hopper,

Please reanimate yourself now, so the world might have more moments like this preserved forever within the faceless void of the Internet.

This is a video of Mr. Hopper reading "If—" by Rudyard Kipling on The Johnny Cash Show. The broadcast was initially on September 30, 1970. I had no idea that Johnny Cash even had his own television show, let alone that Dennis Hopper ever appeared on it or that he read classic poetry on it. That's pretty cool, if you ask me.

As for the poem itself, I have immense respect for those creators and doers who are able to plod forward, continually, no matter what life throws their way; in particular, I'm thinking of Hemingway, who claimed that Kipling "swiped" the good ideas for book titles before him in a letter to F. Scott Fitzgerald. (I can't find an online copy of the letter, but he's referring to his collection Men Without Women, which I'll be honest, I've never read. But here is a source for that because I am a well-indoctrinated college student.) And, if we're being completely objective, I probably think immediately of Hemingway because he is the most looming example of fortitude within my (very limited) frame of literary reference. I'm sure there were many others before him who wrote about quiet suffering and all that.

On a different note, I take issue with the fact that Kipling seems to define masculinity by fortitude. Although he lived in different times, when societal expectations of men often involved traits like strength and resilience, I think those traits transcend gender, and that, in my eyes, being a strong person simply makes one a more respectable human being--regardless of that person's gender.

Digressions aside, I really appreciate and respect the ideas in this poem, even if I don't always embrace them in my thoughts and actions.

Also, am I the only person who thinks that a young Dennis Hopper looks a lot like Owen Wilson?

 

"If—"

If you can keep your head when all about you   

    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,   

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

    But make allowance for their doubting too;   

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;   

    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;   

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

    And treat those two impostors just the same;   

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

    And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

    To serve your turn long after they are gone,   

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,   

    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

    If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,   

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   

    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

-Rudyard Kipling, Rewards and Fairies (1910)

The Great Intoxication

"The Great Intoxication" by David Byrne, from Look Into The Eyeball (2001)

This song has been flitting around my head quite a bit today, so I thought I'd share the gift of David Byrne's nimble dance moves in this YouTube video.

But Oh, What Providence

I had a fulfilling discussion with a new friend last night about the concept of fate, and how unlikely it seems (to us, anyway). I like to believe that human beings have control over their own lives, for the most part, but that sometimes strange, providential things happen.

My friend told me a story about how she was driving her fourteen-year-old car to the auto mechanic to scrap it for parts. The car wasn't falling apart or anything, it simply had a lot of miles and she could no longer drive it due to a medical issue. The auto shop was only a mile or so down the road, but to get there, she had to drive across the hellhole that is Route 9 in Natick. She crossed the busy road, managing to avoid any oncoming traffic. As she was parking the car for the very last time, she noticed that it felt weirdly close to the truck in front of her. She shrugged it off, went indoors, and told the mechanic her car was outside. He went to check it out, and when he came back in, she said he was ghostly white. He told her that, right as she had parked the car, her brakes had failed. Not only the handbrake, but the emergency brake as well. Completely shot, they were rusted out after fourteen years of serious driving. As in like zero function.

If this had happened thirty seconds sooner, for instance while in the intersection, that story could have had a much different ending.

Being a very naive and sheltered twenty-year-old, I'm not sure what my religious and spiritual beliefs are yet. But I do think I have a pretty firm conviction, at the very least, that sometimes these things happen, for good reasons, and that maybe we're all a little safer and looked-out for than we think.

Or maybe I'm just naive. But I'd rather be naive and gullible than cynical and jaded, any day.

You Take The Dark Out Of Night

Put some pep in your step.

Emitt Rhodes is a fellow Midwesterner and pop-music magician. He doesn't actually perform magic, I don't think, but his songs are wonderfully melodic. This song, "You Take the Dark out of Night" is from his self-titled album, which he recorded in his house and released in 1970. It makes me smile, and I hope you like it too.

In the City, There Is Something to See

To preface this, the last two times I've ridden the commuter rail, I haven't had to pay. This evening, on my return trip to Wellesley, was the first time a conductor has collected my ticket in months. Sometimes, nice little things like that happen. I try to revel in these trivial joys as much as I can.

"Whatever were you doing on the train into Boston?" you might wonder. Well. That is an excellent question.

I went in this morning to spend time with a few very dear friends, two marvelous people both of whom graduated last year. Before seeing them, however, I walked around the south Boston waterfront and watched the seagulls flying around. I always forget how ocean-y the harbor smells until I go there, and then I get excited and take lots of deep smell-y breaths until a stranger gives me a dirty look and then I stop. Luckily, that didn't happen today, so I got lots of ocean smells before I left.

Afterward, I met up with Zoë and we spent some time at Franklin Square Park before meeting our friend Katie at the SoWa market, which is a big bustling place full of everything imaginable. There were faux-taxidermists and honey vendors and farmers' stalls. I got some huge peaches and, what's more, three rolls of 35mm film for five dollars! But perhaps most spectacularly, we saw K-Bot (the elusive president of Wellesley College) wandering around the market with her husband. There goes my theory about her being a computer algorithm. Darn.

All in all, it was an exciting, happy, tiring day. We walked all over the city, talked about everything under the sky, and accidentally got a little sunburned--my backpack straps left quite an attractive line on my shoulders.

The Inner Harbor from Fan Pier.

Simply a relief; these signs should be everywhere.

Some really proud construction that brightened up my morning.

Wellesley

After a morning full of warm encounters with other people, I walked around campus and took a few photos (and earned a few rather itchy mosquito bites--oops). It feels good to be back in the beauty of Wellesley. I always forget how vibrant and lively this campus becomes in the summertime.

I'm practically Sofia Coppola with this sun-through-leaves shot

The writing nook

In memory of Margaret C. Ferguson

Why I Love Amy Poehler

Amy Poehler gave the graduation speech at Harvard (hah, hah) in 2011, and she talked about life and improv. I liked the things she had to say, so here they are. If you are like most people and don't want to actually read or watch this whole thing, my favorite tidbits are in bold, so you can skim like a good college student before returning to your game of League of Legends, or whatever is the currently popular Internet game. (Is it maybe Candy Crush? Is that still a thing? Anyone?)

...All I can tell you today is what I have learned. What I have discovered as a person in this world. And that is this: you can't do it alone. As you navigate through the rest of your life, be open to collaboration. Other people and other people's ideas are often better than your own. Find a group of people who challenge and inspire you, spend a lot of time with them, and it will change your life. No one is here today because they did it on their own. Okay, maybe Josh, but he's just a straight up weirdo. You're all here today because someone gave you strength. Helped you. Held you in the palm of their hand. God, Allah, Buddha, Gaga.
Whomever you pray to.
They have helped you get here, and that should make you feel less alone. And less scared. Because it has been a scary ten years. You were young children when you watched planes hit the World Trade Center. You quickly understood what it was like to feel out of control. Your formative teenage years were filled with orange alerts and rogue waves and unaccomplished missions. For my generation, it was AIDS. We all grow up afraid of something. Your generation had to get used to taking off your shoes at the airprot. My generation had to get used to awkward PSAs from Boyz2men telling us to use protection. But during those tough times, we realized how wonderful it felt to be part of a group.
But more about me. I moved to Chicago in the early 1990s and I studied improvisation there. I learned some rules that I try to apply still today. Listen, say yes, live in the moment, make sure you play with people who have your back, make big choices early and often. Don't start a scene where two people are talking about jumping out of a plane. Start the scene having already jumped. If you are scared, look into your partner's eyes. You will feel better. This advice has come in handy and it would often be something I would think about when I would perform on Saturday Night Live. Live television can be very nerve-wracking and I remember one time being nervous, looking into the eyes of the host and feeling better. I should point out I was wearing a chicken suit at the time. The host was Donald Trump. He was wearing a bigger, more elaborate chicken suit. I looked into his eyes, I saw that he looked really stupid, and I instantly felt better. See how that works? I should point out that that sketch was written by a Harvard graduate and also a graduate from Northwestern but who cares about that, am I right?
I cannot stress enough that the answer to a lot of your life's questions is often in someone else's face. Try putting your iPhones down every once in a while and look at people's faces. People's faces will tell you amazing things. Like if they are angry or nauseous, or asleep. I have been lucky to be a part of great ensembles. My work with the upright citizens brigade led me to my work on Saturday Night Live, and when I graduated from that comedy college, I was worried about what came next. Then Parks and Recreation came along, a show I am proud of where I get to work with people I love. You never know what is around the corner unless you peek. Hold someone's hand while you do it. You will feel less scared. You can't do this alone. Besides it is much more fun to succeed and fail with other people. You can blame them when things go wrong. Take your risks now. As you grow older, you become more fearful and less flexible. And I mean that literally. I hurt my knee on the treadmill this week and it wasn't even on. Try to keep your mind open to possibilities and your mouth closed on matters that you don't know about. Limit your "always" and your "nevers." Continue to share your heart with people even if its been broken. Don't treat your heart like an action figure wrapped in plastic and never used. And don't try to give me that nerd argument that your heart is a Batman with a limited edition silver battering and therefore if it stays in its original package it increases in value. Watch it Harvard, you're not better than me.
Even though, as a class, you are smart, you are still allowed to say, "I don't know." Just because you are in high demand, you are still allowed to say, "Let me get back to you." This will come in handy when your parents ask when you plan to move out of their basement and you answer, "I don't know. Let me get back to you." Which leads me to my final thought: would it kill you to be nicer to your parents? They have sacrificed so much for you, and all they want you to do is smile and take a picture with your weird cousins. Do that for them. And with less eye-rolling, please. And so, class of 2011, it is time to leave. Oprah has spoken.
So I will end with this quote: Heyah, Heyah, Heyah, Heyah, Heyah, heyah, heyah, heyah, alright alright alright, alright, alright. The group: Outcast; the song: Heyah. The lyrics: nonsense. I'm sorry it was really late when I wrote this.
This is what I want to say. When you feel scared, hold someone's hand and look into their eyes. And when you feel brave, do the same thing. You are all here because you are smart. And you are brave. And if you add kindness and the ability to change a tire, you almost make up the perfect person. I thank you for asking me to speak to you today. As you head out into the world I wish you love and light, joy, and much laughter. And as always, please don't forget to tip your waitresses. Thank you very much.

Blues

During my first year of college, I wandered into the Grolier Poetry Bookstore in Harvard Square, where I found a copy of Sunbelly by Kenneth Fields. Its price was labeled as $2.50, which seemed particularly low to me in comparison to most of the other books in the store. When I asked the shopkeeper about it, she told me that it had been priced long ago, and that no one had bought it after years on the shelf. So I gave her $2.50 and she gave me the book. We got to talking, and she told me that Sunbelly was published by David R. Godine, a local publisher who took immense pride in his work--the printing and binding of the book are what initially caught my eye. It's a very slim volume, with a beautiful golden hardcover. Here is a very low-quality computer-camera photo of it, to give you an idea.

I have no idea how many copies of this book exist, or how much recognition Kenneth Fields ever received for his poetry (according to Wikipedia, he's teaching at Stanford now, not that you care, dear reader), but this book in particular has brought me small joy every time I've opened its cover. Here is a poem I especially like.

***

"Blues"

Do you wait a change of weather to be gone?

I know of men who never get away,

     Who never really stay,

Homeless, but never up to moving on.

And then there are the drifters, men that comb

Through every part of country like a rain;

     Missing yet always shunning home,

Coming and lighting out on the same train.

The same train for both sorts, for whom the night

Nurses the heart in its old secret pride:

     Missing the Midnight Special's light,

Its long slow whistle own the mountainside.

-Kenneth Fields, from Sunbelly (1973)

Peace Frogs

Good morning, Internet.

This song is "Peace Frogs" by the Doors. After reading the news this morning, it seemed relevant.

-From Morrison Hotel (1970)

A Tea Party for All

Well, I'm back in Boston, and with the return comes a whirlwind of emotions ruled mostly by satisfaction and anxiety and hope. This semester, I'm going to take care of myself so I can be a better friend to others (or at least so I assure myself). I'm determined to spend more time in the city and so this seems a promising start. I just have to come back when I'm not carrying the bulk of my possessions.
Here is a glimpse of Summer and Dorchester Streets, a few blocks from South Station.

Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters

So as I pack up my material goods and prepare to return to the east coast, I find myself reflecting on the people I've met and known, both in and away from Kansas City. Being the sappy, hyper-emotional person that I am, I feel a plethora of emotions about leaving my hometown and returning to college. I'm excited to see all of my friends at Wellesley tomorrow, and very sad to say goodbye to everyone here--especially since it never feels like there's never adequate time to see everyone I'd like, or even adequate time with the people I do get to see.

But more than anything, I suppose, I feel incredibly fortunate. Although I'm fairly inept when it comes to maintaining contact with people (especially when there's a significant geographic distance involved), I'm so indescribably lucky to know as many warm, caring, good-hearted people as I do. Being physically removed from any loved one is never easy, but (to my inexperienced way of thinking) it's an inevitable aspect of life, and it amazes me how irrelevant geography is in connecting with others, how wonderfully friendship transcends constraints like physical distance. And that idea is about as comforting as can be.

I could babble for days on the topic, but this Donovan record won't flip itself, nor will my clothes magically assemble themselves into my bags. So I'll let Elton John say the rest, with way more eloquence and musical inclination than I could ever hope for.

-From the Honky Chateau debut concert (1972)

Y Me Voy

I return to Wellesley on Sunday. Oi.

Here is a circa-1990 Rolling Stones performing "Ruby Tuesday." (Originally from Between the Buttons, 1967.)

Oh, and I just yesterday began reading D. H. Lawrence's Sons and Lovers. My heart is prepared for various wrenchings and breakings. I'm only on page twelve and already I feel so, so regretful for Mrs. Morel and her children. Now here's to hoping that I'm able to finish this book whilst in the grips of the academic semester.

Run To Me

It's a Bee Gees kind of day today.

-"Run to Me" from To Whom It May Concern (1972)

I Have News For You

This is a poem by Tony Hoagland. I did not write it. I just read it and thought it was amusing.

***

I Have News For You

There are people who do not see a broken playground swing
as a symbol of ruined childhood

and there are people who don't interpret the behavior
of a fly in a motel room as a mocking representation of their thought
process.

There are people who don't walk past an empty swimming pool
and think about past pleasures unrecoverable

and then stand there blocking the sidewalk for other pedestrians.
I have read about a town somewhere in California where human beings

do not send their tuberous feeder roots
deep into the potting soil of others' emotional lives

as if they were greedy six-year-olds
sucking the last half inch of milkshake up through a noisy straw;

and other persons in the Midwest who can kiss without
debating the imperialist baggage of heterosexuality.

Do you see that creamy, lemon-yellow moon?
There are some people, unlike me and you,

who do not yearn after fame or love or quantities of money as
          unattainable as that moon;
Thus, they do not later
          have to waste more time
heatedly defaming the object of their former ardor.

Or consequently run and crucify themselves
in some solitary midnight Starbucks Golgotha.

I have news for you--
there are people who get up in the morning and cross a room

and open a window to let the sweet breeze in
and let it touch them all over their faces and bodies.

(Tony Hoagland, 2010, from Unincorporated Persons in the Late Honda Dynasty, Graywolf Press, Minneapolis, Minnesota. I hope this suffices as a disclaimer of ownership to The Faceless Powers of the Internet)

Lilting

To my ears, this is one of the most perfect songs I've heard in my brief twenty years.

 

"Colours" by Donovan, 1968 version

It reminds me of summer mornings at my folks' place. Waking up, you can look out over the low sun at cornfields and forests and wide-open skies that just don't exist in the same way in eastern Massachusetts. But I should let the music speak for itself.

And because I've been sappy and nostalgic recently, here is a poem that I wrote this time last year. It doesn't much align with that Donovan song with regards to tone or feeling, but I'm quasi-proud of it.

***

"York, Pennsylvania"

A space that God forgot,
where the highest point—
a Baptist steeple—
looms through the Greyhound window.
Apathetic rowhouses
shrug together in weathered shambles,
peeking up
at our cheap
metal carpet ride.
Looking for America,
we’d only found shadows on our eyes. 

Everyone else
disembarks when we brake for cigarettes.
Solitary, I sit and look out
at the deserted bus terminal:
stale smoke hanging heavy
from the barbed metal roof. 

Breaking loose,
we meander back to the interstate.
The roadside grass is preparing
to blur once again
in my mottled, personal pane.
Then, a single frantic shout
as a detached traveler begins
to seize
catty-cornered behind me. 

I am helpless—
We withdraw from the crumbling asphalt
to stop
and wait.

Self-Serious Reflections on Baltimore

Whilst in the middle of (nearly) finishing my book this morning, it occurred to me where I was this time last year--I had finished my internship at the Senate and was leaving D.C. on a jaunt back up to Wellesley. I just checked the notebook I was keeping at the time, it looks as though I was in Baltimore a year ago today. How strange a thought that is; I feel simultaneously and paradoxically as though it was only last week, and yet as though I'm almost an entirely different person today. I guess that both of those feelings can be true, can quietly and peacefully coexist in my head.

While on the train to up to B'More, I sat next to a sixty-year-old woman named Valerie who explained the Bronie subculture to me (I recall her telling me that her daughter and son-in-law were rather enamored of My Little Pony). And while we talked about a lot of fairly benign and inconsequential topics, I remember our train ride ending with her realization that we were two women respectively bookending a very significant and eventful period of life, with her impending retirement and my return to a second year of minimal-responsibility and extremely-sheltered college. She had all of the usual caring wisdom to share with me, like that I should write and travel if it's what I love and that I should always be careful and to not stay out too late alone, especially not if I was planning on descending the hill from Mount Vernon and going into the "less reputable" areas of town.* And though there wasn't anything particularly lasting about our encounter, I took a small comfort in knowing that, as scary and cruel as the world can be, that people are still basically good and caring, especially when they're around people in whom they choose to tenderly see aspects of themselves.

Maybe I'm choosing childish naivete over weary cynicism, but I think I'd rather experience life with optimism than bitterness.

Anyhow, I remember having a lot of fun in Baltimore. I met a Wellesley alum at the Farmers' Market, climbed Federal Hill and looked out at the city, ate a crabcake, and walked all over the city dragging my ragged, faded suitcase with the crazy wheel. It's maybe the most liberated and independent and free I've felt in the past year. I take immense joy in exploring, and (selfishly) being alone with my thoughts and observations, and I think more than anything the experience helped me realize how individualistic I never knew I was, how desperate I am to see things and explore and observe. And that kind of epiphany, though not always simple or easily-realized, is priceless as a sort of personal compass, even a year later as I pack up my bags once again and prepare to return to Boston for another season of challenge and learning and growing. And I cannot wait to see what that time brings.

*I'd just like to point out that in the minimal urban wandering I've done alone, mostly in the eastern-U.S., I've felt safe in almost all my experiences, probably in part because I've been careful and aware and prepared and informed about my surroundings, and haven't done anything stupid like let's say wandering around particularly violent neighborhoods at two a.m., although I completely understand and appreciate why my parents and elders always worry about me when I travel alone.

Creepy, no?

Mount Vernon

The Inner Harbor from the top of Federal Hill

Candelabrae

Today my head is stuck on the short story "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place" by Hemingway. I read it for the first time last semester, and I gotta say that if you haven't read it, you should because

a) it's brief (even for a short story)
b) its characters and ideas are somehow incredibly human and believable and effective, especially considering its brevity
c) and perhaps most simply, it's darn good writing


I could go on for days about this story, but I won't, suffice it to say that solitude doesn't always necessitate loneliness (nor does loneliness necessitate solitude) and I appreciate how Hemingway treats those concepts.

This is all a long-winded way of realizing how excited I am to take more English classes this semester.

And because I haven't really taken a lot of photos in the last week or two, here is a shaky photo from July of 2012.

Attack of the E-Mail

Right now, I'm opening my e-mail inbox for the first time since mid-May, and it's...daunting. I think that's maybe an effective word for what I'm feeling, my feelings about technological communication in general. It's not that I find anything inherently (if I had a dollar for every time I misused that word...) wrong with technology as a means of communication, but it's not at all my preferred mode of interacting with others. There's something cold and impersonal about reading text on a liquid-crystal screen, free of vocal intonation or personal handwriting flourish. It may be the convenient norm to type an instant message to a friend, but I have faith that good ol' face-to-face interpersonal interaction will prevail in the end.

I still use technology way more than most people, I am sure, and do not pretend to transcend these habits of the time. I sometimes listen to my MP3 player through my car's auxiliary port; I make cell phone calls; I play N64 when I'm not at school. I write academic papers on my hardy little Acer computer. I shoot digital photos. I'm hardly a picture of neo-Ludditism. But I still feel enough unease with a lot of technology that I keep its presence at arms' length when I can. Perhaps, like anything else, technology just needs to be implemented with a healthy crop of understanding and moderation.

But understanding and moderation are two completely different conceptual animals from (than?) technology, things my young and naive mind is too feeble to yet comprehend, so I conclude this here, before I further embarrass myself in front of the faceless void of the Internet.

Here is a delightful little bit of music for your weekend; it's called "'Cello Song" by Nick Drake.

Strange face with your eyes so pale and sincere
Underneath you know well you have nothing to fear
For the dreams that came to you when so young
Told of a life where spring is sprung.

You would seem so frail in the cold of the night
When the armies of emotion go out to fight
But while the earth sinks to its grave
You sail to the sky on the crest of a wave.

So forget this cruel world where I belong
I'll just sit and wait and sing my song
And if one day you should see me in the crowd
Lend a hand and lift me to your place in the cloud.

-From Five Leaves Left (1969)

Rough

I've been pretty consistently waking up in a funk since I've been back. I couldn't say why. Reading helps, as does writing, and as such the notebook I began at the end of May is almost full--it makes me feel productive to be creating something. I think I feel very anxious to return to the pressure-cooker of Wellesley (albeit an often-wonderful and not-to-be-taken-for-granted pressure-cooker).
Oh, and I haven't checked my e-mail in about two-and-a-half months (or used a computer since I've been home), so that's going to be a rather daunting Internet experience, one that I've entirely harvested for myself.
But now that I've done a bit of whining, I'm going to go enjoy the rest of my summer.
(And the attached cell-phone photo is from Walnut Grove Cemetery in Parkville. It's a particularly peaceful place.)

Cholera

From W. M. Paxton's Annals of Platte County, June 1850:

"The first visit of cholera to Platte City was this summer. A stranger got out of the stage, and commenced screaming and cramping, at the post-office. A hasty consultation was held, and Judge Norton, N. H. Hope and W. M. Paxton determined to lead him to a vacant house, standing on the lot occupied by the present jail. But the man fell on Main Street, with cramp, and screamed as to alarm the town. We gave him the best of care, but, in thirty-six hours, he died. The breath had hardly ceased before a trembling gang, who had given no help in the man's lifetime, hurried him off in a box, by night, to an improvised grave. His name was never learned. Fear settled on the whole county. The disease was fatal among emigrants on the plains. Several strangers and some citizens died at Weston."

Platte County

Summer living. Platte County, Missouri.

Ah! Sun-flower

Ah, sun-flower! weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the Sun,
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveller's journey is done:

Where the Youth pined away with desire,
And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow
Arise from their graves, and aspire
Where my Sun-flower wishes to go.

--William Blake, 1794