Who are you, lovely lady?

"Lady with Hat and Feather Boa"
Gustav Klimt

There's a certain mystery to nearly any woman in any painting. I don't know whether it's simply a matter of trying to capture life on canvas, or the nature of the subject itself that renders such mystery and lends itself to unending curiosity.
When I look at her, I can't help but wonder. Who is she? Where is she? Where is she going? What is she doing? At what is she looking?
No matter who or what she is, though, I still want to be her. She's lovely, and will be forever perfect, thanks to Klimt...
Whoever this woman is, she's immortalized in this painting.

And we can all say, "wouldn't it be nice?" and think about the possibilities when we don't know the truth. We get to invent and dream because for us, the reality doesn't exist. In fiction and paintings we can dream...


But when we discover the reality, we probably no longer want to be the subject of the lovely paintings. When we see things for what they really are, there's no more room to hope.
Which is better? The possibility of a lie or a truth that kills our dreams?

All I know is that I want to look at this painting beyond the composition and layout...and see the woman...and I want to wonder. I want her mystery to remain, because isn't that wherein most of the beauty lies, anyway?

Wolken oder Watte?

English speakers, my apologies. This is not for you. It's for me, and tonight I need to write auf Deutsch.

Wenn ich spazieren gehe, spreche ich (sehr ruhig) und denke ich auf Deutsch.
Manchmal sehe ich gar nichts, was wichtig ist...und manchmal denke ich ueber tiefe, wichtige Sachen. Aber immer fuehle ich mich besser, weil es auf Deutsch ist.
Warum kann deutsche Gedanken meiner Ansicht wechseln? Ich weiss genau nicht. Aber ich denke, dass wenn ich auf Deutsch denke, fuehle ich mich wie ich eine andere Person bin.
Wer, denn? Noch ein mal, weiss ich nicht.
Aber ich fuehle anders. Nur anders kann ich sagen. Ich fuehle mich nicht wie die schlimme Sara, die immer verwirrt, immer gekraenkt, immer schwach und traurig ist... Ich denke, dass ich eigentlich stark bin, wenn ich auf Deutsch denke. Vielleicht weil Deutsch ist etwas, was ich fuer nur mich gelernt habe. Ich habe nach Deutschland geflogen und da gewohnt ohne Hilfe. Ich war doch brav. Und wenn ich auf Deutsch denke, fuehle ich wie die Sara, die da war.
Also bin ich nicht die gleiche Sara? Hab ich etwas da verloren? Kommt es zurueck-das was ich verloren habe? Oder ist es staendig weg?
Bitte, Sara, finde es! bitte, bitte.

Und jetzt komme ich zu das, was wirklich mir Leid tut: Einsamkeit.
Nicht weil ich in keine Beziehung bist. Und nicht weil ich allein zu sein hass.
Es ist weil ich keine echte Freunde HIER habe. Die Freunde, die ich habe, haben nichts gemeinsam mit mir. Wir haben in andere Richtungen gegangen. Sie alle sind in eine Sorority zusmammen...und wenn nicht...singen sie alle in "the con." Ich bin nicht in the conservatory und ich will kein Sorority Frau sein. Sie sprechen nur ueber diese Sachen...und wenn sie das tun, habe ich nichts zu sagen. Ich warte auf sie nicht mehr. Ich esse mit ihr nicht mehr. Ich fahre irgendwo ohne sie. Ich spaziere allein. Alles, was ich jetzt tue, ist allein. Manchmal ist das besser. Manchmal liebe ich die Ruhe. Manchmal liebe ich, dass ich Leute-anschauen kann. Manchmal ist es total gut, dass ich meine Hausaufgabe in ruhe machen kann.
Aber manchmal brauche ich jemand mit dem ich lachen kann. Manchmal brauche ich nur eine Umarmung. Manchmal brauche ich jemand...nur fuer einen Moment... aber wenn man etwas brauchst, braucht jemand dieses Etwas ganz schnell and ganz genau.
Die Familie kann diese Leerheit nicht fuellen.

Ich kann es nicht aendern, dass ich alles so tief fuehle. Aber ich will es nicht aendern. Am wenigstens fuehle ich...und ich denke, dass es besser ist, als jemand der nichts fuehlt.
Das muss ich glauben. Glaub mich. Du! du nichts fuehlst. Hoer mich. Ich fuehle mich wie ich mich fuehle, und dass kann ich tue. Niemand kann es halten. Versuch nicht. Lies oder Geh.

"Ich sehe, wie Jakobs Mund breiter wird, er sagt: 'Nicht ganz. Sie wuenschte sich eine Wolke. Der Witz ist, dass sie dachte, Wolken sind aus Watte, und nur deswegen war sie mit der Watte zufrieden.'
Lina sieht eine Weile hinaus, mir will scheinen verwundert, bevor sie ihn fragt: 'Aber sind denn Wolken nicht aus Watte?'"
-Jurek Becker aus Jakob der Luegner

Ich bin die kranke Prinzessin. und ich brauche eine Wolke...oder vielleicht nur ein stueck Watte.

"Expectation"

Gustav Klimt
From Stoclet Frieze

I want to be audacious, again.

A Valentine

Lewis Carroll

And cannot pleasures, while they last,
Be actual unless, when past,
They leave us shuddering and aghast,
With anguish smarting?
And cannot friends be firm and fast,
And yet bear parting?

And must I then, at Friendship's call,
Calmly resign the little all
(Trifling, I grant, it is and small)
I have of gladness,
And lend my being to the thrall
Of gloom and sadness?

And think you that I should be dumb,
And full DOLORUM OMNIUM,
Excepting when YOU choose to come
And share my dinner?
At other times be sour and glum
And daily thinner?

Must he then only live to weep,
Who'd prove his friendship true and deep
By day a lonely shadow creep,
At night-time languish,
Oft raising in his broken sleep
The moan of anguish?

The lover, if for certain days
His fair one be denied his gaze,
Sinks not in grief and wild amaze,
But, wiser wooer,
He spends the time in writing lays,
And posts them to her.

And if the verse flow free and fast,
Till even the poet is aghast,
A touching Valentine at last
The post shall carry,
When thirteen days are gone and past
Of February.

Farewell, dear friend, and when we meet,
In desert waste or crowded street,
Perhaps before this week shall fleet,
Perhaps to-morrow.
I trust to find YOUR heart the seat
Of wasting sorrow.

Happy V-day...

This may be a couple's day, and though I'm not part of a couple, I think I've had my favorite day in a long time. This time, though, I recognize that I'm not happy because I feel like the old me again; today I'm happy because I was comfortable with the new me.

Invented holiday or not, today's a day focused around love. First and foremost, then, should be love of self. Next is my family. Then my friends. If there's space for anything more, then so be it.

<3

the glories of 21...

It seems that it is officially the day of my birth...plus 21 years.
No, I am not out bar-hopping. It seems that it is a Sunday night, and, going to Lawrence, homework is a priority. Even if I had wanted to go out, I'd be out alone.
I am not, however, sad. I waited 21 years for this status, what's another couple of days?

Anyway, instead of a long post, I want to share one of my favorite poems from ee cummings (one of my favorite poets). This is one of my favorites for its unusual simplicity. It's no. 58 in his book No Thanks:

love is a place
& through this place of
love move
(with brightness of peace)
all places

yes is a world
& in this world of
yes live
(skilfully curled)
all worlds

Enough said. Today I am on my own terms as a present to myself--a day of favorites and yeses.

solitude and solace

First, I will begin this entry with a confession:
I just spent too much time looking up the etymology of these two words because I wondered whether they stemmed from the same root. My search, although somewhat short, since I used only the Oxford English Dictionary Etymology, was not very conclusive.
As it turns out, Solace and Solitude both originated in Old French...but from different stems.
Anyway, I must officially admit that being fascinated and curious enough to look up such ridiculous things on a regular occasion makes me a huge geek. It's a good thing I take pride in that.

Moving on to the point.
These two words first caught my attention today because they are things which I have been working on today.
First, Solitude...
Webster says:act of being alone or secluded, isolated
OED says: The state of being or living alone; loneliness, seclusion, solitariness (of persons)
...they pretty much say the same thing.
Solitude, however, can be negative or positive. Often the word is used poetically to depict a level of loneliness and isolation. When we think of what the word implies, we often associate only things that are negative.
When we use the word ourselves, though, or merely say the word out loud, there's a sort of beauty to it--a quiet, unimposing kind of beauty that asks nothing of anyone.
I've recently found a new love for being and doing things alone. I've been isolated in some way for nearly my entire life, and until recently, I've always seen it as a sort of flaw; I've always felt that I've been doing something wrong. The truth is, however, there's a certain strength to be found in the act of doing things, being or living alone.

And then we come to solace...
Webster: comfort in a time of trouble, grief or misfortune
OED: Comfort, consolation; alleviation of sorrow, distress, or discomfort
Solace is a peaceful word. Similar in its loveliness to solitude, but more positive in its outlook by dictionary definitions. Solace, though not stated in a dictionary, is often something that people seem to "find" and not to receive. It is often found through self-discovery or by accident.
...or in my case...in solitude.
It doesn't take a very perceptive person to notice how I have often been down in the past two months. And though I don't write about every inkling of improvement, I thought it was time to say that it is getting better.
The comfort of my close friends has, at times, been invaluable. I appreciate all the time a few people have put into me, and this is in no way to take away from my thankfulness for those people...
I do want to say, though, that I have found the greatest solace in solitude. I genuinely enjoy time spent just with myself more than time spent with other people. As it turns out, no one gets me better than me. I'm always on my own time. I no longer wait around for other people. I enjoy eating meals at Downer alone more than I enjoy eating with other people. I allow myself to feel what I want and need to feel when I want and need to feel it.
The more I discover that I have almost nothing in common with my closest friends, the more I discover that being alone has its perks.
This new kind of independence is not one that has always been easy, as I have said, but learning to not only accept a level of isolation but actually embrace it has been and is one of the most pivotal discoveries I have made and and am making in my college career.
It's both frightening and exciting to see how well I truly can and do function completely alone.

I certainly don't intend on being alone forever...but I'm in no hurry to get in the way of this new relationship I'm developing with myself. I think it's the best and most meaningful relationship I've ever been in, and I'll be damned if I'm going to screw this one up.

It's 2:30AM and we should all be asleep.

In an era of instant gratification, unless it's right now, it's never soon enough.

And if actions speak louder than words, then I am just trying to digest a handful of lies.

beauty

Photograph from Edward Streichen

This photograph is among my favorites. There's something about it that's almost eerie. Its imperfection in the lack of clarity of focus is something that speaks to its pure beauty.
I don't want to say too much about this photograph, only that it is one with which I can connect.

What has me tangled in thought these days is the concept of beauty itself... It's impossible to really get to the matter of what it means to be beautiful for all things and all people because it is so highly subjective. I know this is a thought that most people have had, and I'm not saying anything truly mind-blowing, here...but I think it's worth saying again; it's worth another thought.
Since we cannot simply define beauty in abstract terms accurately (i.e. ...something that is aesthetically pleasing or as oxford English Dictionary online says: "Such combined perfection of form and charm of colouring as affords keen pleasure to the sense of sight."
But what of something that is not necessarily the most aesthetically pleasing? Can an action possess beauty? A non-conventionally attractive person be beautiful? I think most people would respond in the affirmative.
And what of art that depicts horrible events? Pictures of the holocaust that are aesthitically ideal in composition, but reveal death and killing? Can that be beautiful? Or must we choose another word?
The question is really rather pragmatic, to me: what are the effects on a viewer or an observer of something that possesses this abstract quality that we call beauty?
I am not sure that I can define my response succinctly to all that I find beautiful. Sometimes I am moved to tears, I am moved to outrage, silence, gasps, vocal affirmations... My reaction has never twice been the same to different possessors of beauty, for each has been unique. What is not individual, however, is the ability of all things that I dare to call beautiful to instill some sort of personal, emotional reaction. But the problem is that not all personal or emotional reactions are caused by things that I would call beautiful...and there I am blockaded from further inquiry. I can only conclude that beauty is not a quality that is inherent in objects; it is not something to either be acquired or had. It truly does exist in the eye of the beholder. Maybe beauty is something like an emotion, a specific physical response of the body to objects we perceive. Yet, I would like to look at specific things and proclaim with a sense of certainty that these objects were created beautiful, have always been beautiful and will always be beautiful.
It seems that things are never as simple as I would have them be.

I can't wait until someone actually wants to debate these things with me. There's nothing worse than having ideas against which no one will fight. I want someone smarter than I am to tell me I'm wrong and make me work for my thoughts. I have so many new ideas recently, and I'm bleeding for a challenge...or a challenger, at the very least. Wo bist du, eigentlich?

Paul Klee, a well-known German artist said about art:
"Kunst gibt nicht das Sichtbare wieder, sondern macht sichtbar."
(Something to the effect of...Art doesnt recreate the visible, but rather makes things visible.)
What does art make us see that we couldn't see before?

distrusting memory

Memory--the way through which we perceive those moments that are past--has been the subject of two of my three courses recently...and something with which I often grapple to comprehend. (Ruth Kluger and the philosophers C. Peirce, W. James and, of course, Dewey have set me off on this course of thought)
Its subjectivity is very much like our skewed perceptions of the present, except intensified. We do not remember every detail of every moment.
I've always liked to think of my own memories as snapshots...more like photographs, really. My memories depict a moment, a facial expression, a sound...all, coincidentally, connected to feelings. So the question is how much can we trust our memories? How much of what we recall and relive and retell is merely artistry, and how much the reality, which, being in the past, might or might not actually exist, depending on ones views.
Recently, I am discovering that the selectivity of my memory is perhaps more intense than I would like it to be. I cherish people as I would have liked to have seen them, and not as they really were, and are. I become obsessed with either all that was good, if that's what I some part of me (of which I am not always conscious) wants...or all that I didn't like. I either revere people or detest them, or they did not leave enough of an impression on me for me to care either way.
The problem is one of either gross expectation or lack thereof. For those people I decide to elevate in my unreliable memories, I find constant disappointment, for these people are just as fallible as they were when the past was the present. For those whom I find some kind of dislike because of these memories, they either remain in that category through a lack of further interactions, or are herded into liking by exceeding the expectations for them which I never had. Both prospective situations, although the cases for only those people extremely influential in my memories, are not favorable. I would like to point out, however, that I am exaggerating the emotions here (it was not always a case of reverence or detestation; I can and do experience things on a much smaller scale) .
So what do we do? What do I do? What should I do?
Tonight, I can merely concede that I often expect too much of the people whom I love. Friends, family...I expect too much of you.
The problem is only compounded by the fact that I am a giver, a people-pleaser. I give, fast immer, more than I know I will receive, and then expect less, although still unreasonable amounts from others. It is probably for this reason, among many others, of course, that I am also such a forgiver. I expect only that a person attempts to begin anew or rectify the situation with some sort of gesture--no apologies necessary.
...At some point, however, these qualities which have become a part of my character, begin to hurt me. It's easy to take advantage of someone who primarily gives and readily forgives. But who am I to look around and try to see who is merely taking advantage ad who is genuine with good intent? ...But who am I not to do so?

Tonight as I relive memories near and dear to me, I ponder whether to remember more accurately, and insert those memories which I would rather forget, or to live with partial truths and expectations that will never be met.

Or are my expectations normal? Should I be more critical? Do I let the words that, probably unintentionally, seared me hurt me further? Do I wipe the slate clean and forget them? Or do I continute to acknowledge the pain, and perhaps give up on any semblance of the fullillment of expectation I once had? Am I strong enough to refuse forgiveness? And more importantly, is that something I should even want to do?

Memories have something about them that haunts us. Once they are allowed to flourish in our thoughts...they don't leave us as readily as we might hope. They have the audacity to enter our dreams, and are altered and changed in ways we would never permit or predict. For better or worse, they show us for who and where we are: people who are trapped in the temporality of now within the continuum of our experiences. Present and past live within the continuum of who we are, but we access, in reality, only this moment. The past, though still within the continuum, is altogether inaccessible in accuracy and entirety.

So what else can we do but weiter leben?

indifference

I need to be asleep right now, so this is going to be a comment without premise, which is perhaps for the best.

I have come to the conclusion that indifference towards someone or something is malicious in its own right. Indifference or apathy directed (or lacking direction) often hurts the most...more than harsh words and active malice.

It's like Russell would argue: love and hate are not opposites. In fact they are more closely related than we might like to admit. It's apathy that is the opposite of either. One must care enough to love or hate someone or something...apathy is easy.

That's how to really inflict pain...indifference...