Alright, you are warned. I have been building up all these tidbits all quarter, and I’ve been finding so many of them in different notebooks and random places, so now you get to enjoy all of them at once, which should scare you.
On Color, Music:
Music is the highest form of art because it is pure in its means, and doesn’t use or rely on anything from the material world. Matisse thought the same of color. “Colorless” or “musicless” would be the more awful thing to call someone. If they can’t be color or if they can’t be music, how can they be human?
Art isn’t stimulating enough.
This quarter wasn’t particularly academically productive for me, but it was a sort of creative high, and my creative endeavors refected what we were focusing on academically. In my project I want to investigate how I made connections. Through doing this, it took me a very long time to realize that I would benefit more not from knowing where the similarities are but from why were are similarities or why I made the connections.
I was really inspired by Artaud, by his poetry and the fact that he didn’t have to continue a though for it to be interesting, and also by what he said about magazines, because it helped me realize how I wanted to present what I’d worked on. So I’m working on a magazing that incorporates that, along with some pictures and photos.
Small notebooks have always been my joy. I have a whole box of them at home that have never been written in… or maybe they have. I’ve only ever finished on notebook, and it was the best feeling ever. It lasted me maybe seven years–I remember writing about September 11, then a few coming-of-age mementos, then about a friend dying in 10th grade. Since then, my diary has been online, in various blogs.
Also, I have this bad (?) habit of leaving the first page of journals blank. As if nothing I ever say will be good enough for the front page. I lower my standards of myself by skipping it. Maybe, if I come up with something prophetic enough, I’ll put it on the front page.
I am so over several things:
Leadership: Follow all the way. Less work, less boss/friend juxtaposition.
Late nights: Screw it, I need sleep. (Unfortunately, I learned a night after I wrote this that it’s not really up to me anymore. My brain and my body don’t want me to sleep.)
Crying: Haven’t done it in a while, who needs it?
Picasso: Or, ah hell, just all art.
Poetry: Just stop spacing the damn lines already.
Long hair on people over 40.
All of my belts.
The woman who lived the longest life ever was French. She smoked regularly and probably ate bread and cheese and drank wine all the time. Who knows if she just had incredible genes or what, but I guess I’m jealous.
I wonder if there’s anyone in the world who takes notes on music staff paper, like with actual music notes, to be interpreted later. … It would be so cool to learn in terms of music notes.
I really, really want to know what other people take notes about during class. Do the come up with amazing, deep ideas that never actually get spoken? Do they make speculations about other people in class, like I do? Do they doodle?
This is the least amount of work I have ever done for a class, and the most about of work I’ve ever been assigned. I feel like hell and wracked with guilt aout it all quarter, and yet everything I do in life has nothing to do with my class. It wouldn’t even be so bad if I’d actually talked to my teachers about it earlier, but I didn’t so they think I’m just a slacker, which I am a little bit, but it also has to do with a sort of senioritis syndrome that has to do with going to France and fighting a depression evoked by the darkness of everything we read and watch in class.
On Dark Romantics, the people:
I talk a lot of sh*t about the people in my class, but I love them. I love that they know how to pronounce “niche” and “rimbaud.” I love that they’re just so INTO everything they talk about. If they’re not passionate about poetry, they could fool me. I love that they talk about the moon and trees and Nietzsche.
But I hate that I don’t want to be friends with any of them, and I hate it even more that I have to go to France with all of them.
The thing is, there’s nothing collaborative about loving poetry, especially this poetry. If you love this poetry, it must be for very personal reasons, since it’s so dark.
I’m gearing myself up for a technology withdrawal. Not taking my computer is going to be insanely difficult. I rely on it for everything and at this point I’ve surely deluded myself into thinking I “need” it.
My teacher knew Aimé Césaire, whose poetry we’re studying right now. I think it’s sad that she doesn’t tell us, when we’re picking apart the poems, “hey! This was a real man! He existed!” Because sometimes I think we forget.
There are several moments I love during a seminar.
One is that moment where someone says something very serious, but you know it’s something that can actually be taken very dirtily, so you look around to see if anyone noticed it, and sure enough there’s that one awesome person who is smirking across the room.
Another moment is the one where the one person– you know, that person, who says the most ridiculous, know-it-all, selfish things– is talking yet again. Most people are looking at their notebooks, not paying any attention at all… but then all of a sudden the speaker has just gone on one moment too long, and everyone happens to look up at the same time and give one another that “wtf” look.
Ambiguity is not an excuse to not examine something. I don’t think ambiguity really exists.