It is impossible to ignore the weight of purpose here.
There are the expected staggerers limping from college town and the once in a while RA in drag. There are mosquitos, outright nerds, lost romantics, and bathroom stall hiders. The best badminton players - actually, the only badminton players - are men. Those people without real photos of themselves on Facebook turn out to be some of the most well-read scholars. The workout-holics stand chest out and only raise their arms a certain height. The workaholics are buried in Uris, completely in flow. That guy plays piano at RPCC every single night. That one gets high on biking, that one on proofs, that one on pussy. We all interact ceaselessly, under the quilt of Cornell.
I would be a fool to dismiss the inevitability of every occurence, so fresh and raw and meaningful. We run into that one Cru leader, but also that one, but also that one. The people who stay in conversation with us, who sit with us in silence for no spoken reason, seek a greater perhaps, a peace buried among us. The first time I ventured to have a spontaneous conversation, was with a classmate so forgettable that it might not have happened, except that by the next time we had lunch, we were talking about suicide, and purpose, and God. There aren't that many of us - I know because we've walked the entire plantations, Triphammer, college town, Commons, the main portion of Cayuga. Every one walks forward, granted, often with passion, but nevertheless with some motivation to progress. But no one looks upwards. No one watches God tear away the clouds and reveal his baffling universe.
The Milky Way is beautiful, of course. Shooting stars never lose their magic; sunsets maintain awesomeness. But that is not the point. The point is that the stars are full of conviction. They burn and blink and spiral as close and as far away as the soul next to me. They are flawless, unscathed by distraction, completely and utterly whole. And that is how they make us feel - full, and wildly in love.
I don't need anybody. No one needs any one. There isn't a single person in this world who can take away the poison in my meals, the fatigue in my legs and mind and heart. No one can tell me to leave my dorm and surround myself with better people than myself. The dorm room is claustrophobic. It makes monsters inside men, for everyone. Even the townhouses can induce unfathomable loneliness. Anything, even a walk into a suspicous smelling 7-11 is better than being so restricted. So I'm trying, really, awfully hard, to move, so I can read and write and draw and love. I fall short more often than I would like, but less than I anticipated. Every cafe, every work space, every library, brims with the buzz of life. I'm here now, at the Libe Cafe, 80% confronting the day.
I'm in a better state, but it all feels very beautiful. Suffering has meaning, even encouragement. Friends are real, accepting, unprecedently passionate. Every walk matters, but every outfit doesn't. This institution is so rich, in every way. God was merciful enough to let me in. How dare I let it go to waste.
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
On Monsters and Men
If retreat is like the previous two, I won't have many coherent thoughts on it for several months. But it's tomorrow, so I better write now, before the overwhelming holy presence of everything immoblizes my spew of irrationality.
In my parents' perspective, this summer has probably gone completely to waste. Chinese, SQL, Java, Javascript, linear algebra books lay untouched. My Internet history is an endless scroll of philosophy lectures and Just Kidding News (and even more guilty pleasures). I won't deny the complete pointlessness of some of these days, but I also won't dismiss the validity of the rest.
There were afternoons of staring at the ceiling with the cat, awash in self pity and hopelessness. There were nights destroying the stiff feathered shuttlecocks with a demographic of people I thought I would never, ever befriend. There were days that even the light of day couldn't permeate, and instead, the glow of Photoshop burned into my eyes. Those days were the full days, when peace and meaning seemed tangible, when I felt like a self, a piece of creation rather than a byproduct of it. And when I think, it is true, that the only thing that has been consistent throughout the past 18 years is drawing, even comics. From Pokemon battles to Goofy's squad to the death of ISATS to the death of PI+ to the atom's evolution to psychedelic giraffe sightings. All of it has stayed with me, longer than any single friend, any personality, sickness, mathematical inclination. How dare I ever consider giving it up.
There were early, early mornings of wild and engaging discourse - the exchange of vulnerability but also intense, thoughtful passion. And its not being original, but real (look, the quote). And that is so exciting, more than 7000 views, more than 17000 views. And, and, and this is not even the beginning.
Socially, we are pushed towards being perfect. Physically, beautiful to conform to standards that are cruel and uncommon, to demonstrate to the world that we are happy and healthy and all full of sunshine. However, I feel that the most achievable goal in most of our lives is to have the freedom that our imperfection gives us. And there is no better patron saint of imperfection than the monster. We will try really hard to be angels, but I think what a balanced life is to accept the monstrosity in ourselves and others, as part of what being human is. Imperfection, the acceptance of imperfection, leads to tolerance and liberates us from social models that I find horrible and oppressive.
Guillermo Del Toro
"Basically, we're all shitheads at the end."
In my parents' perspective, this summer has probably gone completely to waste. Chinese, SQL, Java, Javascript, linear algebra books lay untouched. My Internet history is an endless scroll of philosophy lectures and Just Kidding News (and even more guilty pleasures). I won't deny the complete pointlessness of some of these days, but I also won't dismiss the validity of the rest.
There were afternoons of staring at the ceiling with the cat, awash in self pity and hopelessness. There were nights destroying the stiff feathered shuttlecocks with a demographic of people I thought I would never, ever befriend. There were days that even the light of day couldn't permeate, and instead, the glow of Photoshop burned into my eyes. Those days were the full days, when peace and meaning seemed tangible, when I felt like a self, a piece of creation rather than a byproduct of it. And when I think, it is true, that the only thing that has been consistent throughout the past 18 years is drawing, even comics. From Pokemon battles to Goofy's squad to the death of ISATS to the death of PI+ to the atom's evolution to psychedelic giraffe sightings. All of it has stayed with me, longer than any single friend, any personality, sickness, mathematical inclination. How dare I ever consider giving it up.
There were early, early mornings of wild and engaging discourse - the exchange of vulnerability but also intense, thoughtful passion. And its not being original, but real (look, the quote). And that is so exciting, more than 7000 views, more than 17000 views. And, and, and this is not even the beginning.
Socially, we are pushed towards being perfect. Physically, beautiful to conform to standards that are cruel and uncommon, to demonstrate to the world that we are happy and healthy and all full of sunshine. However, I feel that the most achievable goal in most of our lives is to have the freedom that our imperfection gives us. And there is no better patron saint of imperfection than the monster. We will try really hard to be angels, but I think what a balanced life is to accept the monstrosity in ourselves and others, as part of what being human is. Imperfection, the acceptance of imperfection, leads to tolerance and liberates us from social models that I find horrible and oppressive.
Guillermo Del Toro
"Basically, we're all shitheads at the end."
Friday, August 1, 2014
Circles
Before I see everyone, most for the first time this summer, let us have a moment of silence for dead friendship. Even though I haven't a single excuse for not even attempting to reach out, and even though I feel a prick of resentment between snaps. This summer didn't change the validity and depth of the relationships of so, SO many years of friendship, but isn't it funny that its so much easier to connect to people a thousand miles away than it is with the thirty people I invited to my graduation party.
For people that I used to see every day, not a single sentence was exchanged in the past two months, yet here I am, drowning in the warm satisfaction getting someone 800 views on a comic at 4:35 am. And for all 60 some missed lunches and every gathering I would decline, I really would rather sit with a cat and a boy I haven't talked to in four years. Because the exchange of our lives in the present is nothing like sharing a dark cynicism. Because every time I want to participate in Naperville, in church, in school, among friends, I also understand that we weren't made for each other, and because every time I think about walking from Helen Newman to North Campus, nothing in this befouled place matters.
Because. When I was on the carpet staring at the ceiling with 400 mg of caffeine coursing through my slightly abused veins, the people who brought me back weren't... you. When I was shaking and drowning in some stupid bout of fright, we didn't go out for Chipotle. Instead, I bought a giant squid and introduced a girlfriend to my roommate's pet rock Frederick. Maybe its as weird as it sounds. Maybe these boys are still the scum of the earth. But they are most certainly a different type of scum. Like, interesting types.
Because. I sent more bunny butts over WeChat than chat lines over Google+ (not that Google+ was ever a thing). And maybe everyone in this city just had their shit together two years ago, and I'm still trying to figure out what that is. I like to think that its in something like The Red Hankie, and Guillermo Del Toro, and C Major. It might not be. But it's certainly not here.
For people that I used to see every day, not a single sentence was exchanged in the past two months, yet here I am, drowning in the warm satisfaction getting someone 800 views on a comic at 4:35 am. And for all 60 some missed lunches and every gathering I would decline, I really would rather sit with a cat and a boy I haven't talked to in four years. Because the exchange of our lives in the present is nothing like sharing a dark cynicism. Because every time I want to participate in Naperville, in church, in school, among friends, I also understand that we weren't made for each other, and because every time I think about walking from Helen Newman to North Campus, nothing in this befouled place matters.
Because. When I was on the carpet staring at the ceiling with 400 mg of caffeine coursing through my slightly abused veins, the people who brought me back weren't... you. When I was shaking and drowning in some stupid bout of fright, we didn't go out for Chipotle. Instead, I bought a giant squid and introduced a girlfriend to my roommate's pet rock Frederick. Maybe its as weird as it sounds. Maybe these boys are still the scum of the earth. But they are most certainly a different type of scum. Like, interesting types.
Because. I sent more bunny butts over WeChat than chat lines over Google+ (not that Google+ was ever a thing). And maybe everyone in this city just had their shit together two years ago, and I'm still trying to figure out what that is. I like to think that its in something like The Red Hankie, and Guillermo Del Toro, and C Major. It might not be. But it's certainly not here.
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