A Beauty To Behold

"To photograph is to appropriate the thing photographed. It means putting oneself into a certain relation to the world that feels like knowledge -- and, therefore, like power." These are the words of Sontag, author of "Beauty" and "On Photography," a woman whose own power originates in words, in thought, and not in images. Susan Sontag performs her art through mental pictures that vary from person to person, imagery through language rather than colors and pixels. However, literature is not the only form of art - for aside from the alien magic (photographs) that captures moments under the sun, in the rain, and in microscopic detail - there are also pictures painted by brushes. Susan Sontag glosses over this type of picture, an abstract one, where focus is discarded in favor of emotion, and the blurry beauty of nature. Despite the strong assertion that experience and "living in the moment" is punctured with "pollution" of the mind, such as selfies and instagram filter obsessions, pictures do not solely dwell in a superficial reality parallel to the real one. Pictures can just as easily enhance reality and allow for observation that the eye cannot capture appropriately. Therefore, although pictures, when utilized excessively, are instruments of narcissism and frivolity, they also allow for a profound appreciation which cannot be properly attained otherwise. Pictures are "an ethic of seeing," as Sontag so agreeably defines, and good or bad, aren't they easy on the eyes?

March Madness, Madness Indeed

Muscle mass is manly, according to all the thirteen-year old girls i have encountered in my life. More manly though, is a guy in sports. No matter, what sport - I am assured by my younger female counter -parts, be in tennis, soccer, football, track, basketball, even cricket - any sport will do. Sweaty, testosterone driven guys all leaping manically to throw a measly sphere into a net 10 feet above their heads, that is what is supposed to leave me panting with estrogen driven desire. Alas, I do not find this attractive. Football college athletes in tights scrambling to jump each other other's bones, it just doesn't leave my heart a-thumping, just with a raised, disdainful brow and a shrug. Their pathetic attempt to revert to the caveman era doesn't impress, it just disheartens me that Darwinian fitness has not eliminated fitness. Maybe I am heartless, maybe I am an alien race, but I cannot shake this thought that if I am, I cannot be alone. Surely I am not the only girl who finds that a beefy guy can often resemble a gorilla: all bulk, no brain. This is not true all the time, I realize, but I still find that pale species whose habitat consists of the library more alluring, preferably the British variety, and maybe, just maybe this gentleman Darcy will have loathed gym class as much as I always have. Maybe one day March Madness will no longer drive me mad, but until that day I leave you with a motto I live by, courtesy of Oscar Wilde:
"Whenever I feel like exercise, I always lie down until the feeling passes."

Half a Teaspoon of Widsom

The fantastical Mary Poppins' "a spoonful of sugar" is often a bit difficult to resist. May the sweet saccharides be in the alluring form of Hershey's milk chocolate or a grandma's coffee cake smothered in ruby red, ripe strawberries and winter-chilled vanilla ice-cream, these delicious carbohydrates are sirens calling us into temptation's grip. Yet, with the obesity epidemic running rampant across the nation, there is a doubt that half a teaspoon of wisdom can be encountered amidst this greed and gluttony. The quest for ultimate satisfaction, in beauty, knowledge, or life may be not the absolution of the selfish homo-sapiens, but rather their demise. As Raymo's so eloquently warns, this “unexamined quest [] is hemmed with peril”. Science, Raymo's cautions, much like the mythical Janus, god of Greece, is two-faced: just as it may incite the beginning of paradise, it may equally incite the end. Therefore, "a measure of restraint" must be exerted, for if it is not, all that is human and pure and natural will be sacrificed to fulfill an Utopian universe that cannot last. All that will result is "a hellish zoo"- a dreamed heaven that will prove to be the path to the devil's domain- and not even the Goddess of Wisdom herself, Athena, may correct the mayhem that ensues.

 

The Earth: A Public Space

Profiling, harassment and attack- these are just a few of the recurring occurances that span this giant rock surrounded by an outerspace that seems to be the only reprieve from the constant judgement that permeates the very air of streets and schools around the globe. However, even though there are uncountable counter examples to the stereotypical "predator", such as Jimi Hendrix, with his guitar spewing the true nature of America in his punk rendition of the national anthem, many spot an African American man and automatically assume, "mugger, rapist,...or worse." Brent Staples reveals this as he provides a plethora of personal anecdotes. He demonstrates how he, with his gender and race, alters public space in, "ugly ways." The fire of truth he stokes in the reader is a reminder that fear is not a valid excuse for discrimination, no matter what he may look like at first glance. He argues that while others might say "his first victim" was acting on statistics, there are repercussions that others do not consider; she is fearful, but he is mortified by the effect he has had, especially since the fates have not consulted him. Just like Jeannette Walls and Jim (from Huck-Finn) are deemed dirty and dangerous for their impoverished condition, everyone, everywhere is judged superficially. And no matter how irredeemable it may seem, there is hope for peace on earth, for correction of this atrocity, if tolerance is preached on every square, school, land, country, and continent, if acceptance trumps tradition. 

PEAS ON EARTH

 

The Boogeyman Lives in the Dark

Darkness brings uncertainty and fear. The ominous clouds that hang over barren streets serve to remind those that remain outside late at night that there is danger. Darkness, shadows, in short the unknown, incites a primal sense of imminent peril. It muddles the rationality of those in its presence. This terror leads to jump conclusions and, yes, unfortunately profiling. As Staples reveals through ample anecdotes, many of those he passed on the narrow alleys of Chicago assumed he was either, "a mugger, a rapist, or worse." However, whether the woman who was supposedly, "[his] first victim"was guilty for her assumption or not, is not an easy question to address. I personally, am quite always paranoid, especially if I am alone and someone, anyone-black or white- is close by. Since I am a woman, I am susceptible to violence by my male counterparts, and have to react accordingly. Although I can empathize with Staple's situation of extreme embarrassment,  I can't help but focus on the turmoil of anxiety and apprehension any woman is forced to feel in such an instance. It is more than disconcerting that woman are forced to cower in public space for fear of their own well being. How unfair it is that women must run and profile men like Staples because they must anticipate something as horrid as rape. Even though Staples was harmless, with his classical humming and refined education, it could have not been so. Just as Staples lives in fear because of racial profiling, women must live in fear of attack because of a society that lets the boogeyman roam in the dark.

Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah

As represented in the lovely song Hello Mother, Hello Father, by a poor little camp-goer, parents are the safe-haven, the harbor, the sea of tranquility that storm-drenched children oft turn towards when they are in dire straights. Be it during the time of diapers, or the era of teen angst, whenever life seems a bit too daunting, too confusing, too plain hard, it is an instinctive reaction to exclaim "take me home, oh muddah, faddah." Motherhood is characterized by love and affection, fatherhood by protection, and both are comfortable. However, that is not to say that to love your parents is to agree with them, for that is as much the case as the sky is raining Jane Austen novels (on the godly day that this is true, disregard this horridly inaccurate attempt at a witty comparison). This opposition to a parental belief is not always an attempt at rebellion, at provocation, nor an embodiment of the modern ingrate, but rather a natural progression of establishing an identity separate from those once "such a strong father [or mother]," as Manning stated. In order to mature, ideas must be contemplated alone, and the "default setting" is sometimes to take the opposite view from those closest. That, such a sprightly adolescent may muse, "that is me showing the man." Nevertheless, be you virtually a carbon copy of dearest mother, or nothing like that old brute that is your father, you are more similar than you care to believe. In some manner or the other, you are a product, the addition of m&d, and you are shaped by nature and nurture by these tremendous beings that made you, you.

Bad Boy, Good Girl

 

Jack Vettriano

She can't believe,

 that she put on her favorite dress for this,

a rouge satiny delight,

for this man,

smoke enveloping his sharp features,

a cigarette haughtily dangling from his slack lips,

oh, how she despised men like him,

men who treated her like candy from their choice confiserie.

Oh, how lovely such a damsel was,

he could just swallow her whole,

he could, indeed he could,

although, she seemed oddly adverse to the thought,

he did perceive this much at least,

for,

although she hadn't strutted off yet,

with her polka dotted gown billowing from the shore's breaths, 

she rolled her sweet, earthen pupils skyward when he called her baby,

and promptly told him she was no child,

she was a woman,

she was Samantha,

and would respond to no other,

for no sugar-coated, mollifying epithet,

would ever sound as good as the one her mother bestowed upon her.