To Fadwa

Here I was sifting through these real responses to the eleventh blog post prompt thinking what else do I have in common with these guys besides class , and then I found a gem that reflected a few of my own thoughts and personal experiences. (If you noticed the kitten in my imovie you know where this is going) My Godmother recently took in a stray kitten that would always be roaming around outside her house, and named him Expo. (short for exploration, exposition, or something to that effect) When I was shooting my imovie for the final project, I was so anxious regarding what to film, and how, since I hadn’t used a video camera for a few years. As I was developing my message, I wondered frantically, what could embody curiosity? Then it hit me, of course!! It was the same snowy morning I shot the other clips, and I was jittery since it was Saturday. I walked over to my Godmother’s house to ask her (with a straight face) if I could film her kitten just walking around. To my surprise and relief, she let me.

Before I go on, (I know you’re on the edge of your seat lol) there’s some context you should know right meow, in case I forget. When I was very young, young enough to only know this from pictures and stories, My family had two cats named Henry and Kiki (key-key). Kiki died before I was old enough to have a theory of mind, or thereabouts, but Henry was alive long enough to give me a lasting funny story. One morning I awoke to a strange mewling sound coming from downstairs. I got up, surprised the sound hadn’t woken up anyone else, and went to investigate. (smart move right?) When I got to the bottom of the stairs I saw Henry making muffled purr/mewls, and found a particular object in his mouth. He proudly presented to me a freshly caught, still twitching, mouse that I proceeded to take from him (for some reason). At this point my mother was coming downstairs so I showed her what Henry had so kindly given me. The face she made confused me then (cuz I was like, yo what should I do with this?), but now it just cracks me up. She ironically found a small rug in the shape of a cat to wrap it in, and put it in the garbage. It was my sister’s favorite rug at the time (anyone else like rugs?) so she probably remembers this too. Henry died soon or years after that, I don’t remember. I found him another morning motionless, but his eyes reflected the light filtering in from the morning like he was just relaxing. We buried him in our backyard. I forgot to mention we got a dog while Henry was still alive. Whenever we left to go somewhere, leaving them alone together, when we got back home they would be having some comical confrontation. Henry would bat at Bella’s nose, while retreating under a chair. She was never aggressive towards him, just curious.

While I was filming Expo, he was wary at first, but this was my second time hanging (in there) with him so he warmed up pretty quick. He did nibble my fingers and grab at my hand, which kinda put me on edge at first, but I warmed up to it throughout that experience. I stopped taking the assignment as seriously as I had earlier that morning, and started having fun with my new buddy Expo. Thank you for bringing back these memories.

The Destination Is The Journey

The journey to find the Real defines it and gives it the strength to manifest. It is not an end to be obtained, rather an atmosphere to be attained. I can’t imagine how boring life would be without the possibility to pursue this concept of self-realization. We leave such explosive creativity dormant by not awakening, yet if this process is forced upon us it becomes an oppressive entity in place of a freeing one. The Youth in Passing Strange came to associate himself with many instances of a Real, but they were not his personal Real. He did lack a physical guide to direct him, but no guide can show you the way. It must be an attraction and requirement in the moment, with no pre-determined end, for this is end, this way, this Real, is reached simply by mustering the desire to discover it within the process. Attempting to plan this undertaking can do more harm than good. Perhaps what some call fate, not to a fatalistic extent, is evident in the uncertainty of the journey and what one may uncover within oneself. Every person’s life directly impacts all in proximity on an atmospheric level, even without collision. Wishing to control even our individual role in this cycle is a fool’s errand, but that is not to say your insight is worthless. So next time it seems nothing is working out or all is for naught, step back, take a breath, and look again.

Channeling Echoes With New Rhythm

Bow to the past

David Bowie’s own recording of Sound and Vision was slightly entertaining, but left much to be desired, along with an almost cliffhanger ending. I understood that he is waiting for some sound and some vision, perhaps something specific, but is he not creating his own vibratory expression to which vision is needless if someone can hear? Additionally, images can be created by the mind to supplement the sound that is so evident, so what is he really waiting  for? Overall I found his original version to be too evidently repetitive, as most songs must repeat in some aspect or chorus, but most of it was an overtly treble vacuum finally filled by both a searching and disinterested voice. I felt no adequate resolution, and as such the song left me unresolved.

Give way to the future

The beginning of Beck’s recreation seemed to be mostly concerned with showing off the magnitude this large group of musicians consisted of, and swept across all instruments as a welcoming to all into the present reality of the updated layers of music. While it did serve this purpose, the intro was drawn out and redundant, inciting the longing for the overtly reminiscent aspects of song to begin. The melody was present, but the sweep across instruments made it choppy and hard to coherently follow. It was cool, if not practical for a cohesive melody. Once Beck joined in, the song began for me. Finally I could follow the magnification; multiple chorus members to give deeper definition and strength to the background vocals, a myriad of percussionists to keep the rhythm, an orchestra section that accented the acoustic instruments, and a few screaming guitars. All pulled together under Beck’s lead to form an excellent rendition of David Bowie’s Sound and Vision. Now the question of wondering about sound and vision is more directed towards the audience, as there is inherently sound and a dynamic image portrayed on stage, to spur us to find our own unique sound and vision. The lead out feels the most groovy and improvised, perhaps tipping a hat to the genre of jazz while not embracing it fully.

Definitive Creativity?

1.) “The only way people can describe pain is to objectify it.”

2.) “When people forge tools or build things, they are often trying to alleviate discomfort. But first they must define the discomfort.”

The creative process has no objective origin regardless of its physically relative result. It cannot be ignored that, on an immaterial level, aspects of the artist are indeed what holds the result together. Art can portray pain and alleviate discomfort, but it can also radiate with happiness, drawing attention and inspiring others to create something unique as well. The former can inspire, but will not inspire everyone. Pain is a trivial matter; it is present as a reminder of our mortality, but blinds us in times of trial. The process of creation can be a therapy for this pain, but there is much more possibility for innovation beyond this once suffering has ended.

Not all discomfort leads to pain, and not all pain stems from discomfort. When discomfort is given definition and then exemplified in form, it is separated from the vessel that harbored it originally. While this may alleviate the range of discomfort to excruciating pain, it may undercut the purpose of this pain or discomfort. The world does not exist for life to be easy, regardless of how much humans contribute to this notion. Pain can serve as a teacher. To define art simply as another medicine, a mere loophole to avoid prolonged pain, makes evident how blind some are to the definition of creation. There isn’t one. To define is for some things to objectify, but for all things it is to relate them to other things such that they lose individuality.

The article challenges the mystery of creation, trying to define its intention with a formulaic rendering of that which is inherently random (lacking pattern or predictability).

Water Under Bridges

Part 1: Distillation

The excerpt from judge’s day describes the chaotic nature of the city, as though experiencing crime, as a recipient or responsible for delivery, is inescapable. The spirit of the legal system regards sentencing as correcting missteps. The man on the wire took a walk as a result of planning, practice, and precise execution of balanced footfalls. Any misstep would lead to disaster that could not be corrected.

Part 2: Concurrence

The justice system becomes routine and boring, after a while, to a judge who has just about seen it all. This day however, the judge is entertaining a major junction in the brothers’ storyline, but it is overshadowed, even rushed, to make room for the tightrope walker. It is evident as the judge gives frequent glances to the walker, even remarking in an aside that the walker was showing the telltale signs of being arraigned for the first time. This scene is only referred to in another chapter, while following Ciaran’s perspective, but now that we have walked the length of the wire, we are rewarded for our ocular effort. The walker’s resolution is primed by this alluded foothold of story, and connected further by Claire’s matrimony. While the first event may be important to us because of the relative buildup, the flow of the story treats it as an inconvenience to get to the desirable lapse in monotony. If we were not lead through prior character development, we would perhaps feel the same as the judge. The overlap of these two events leads to a competition of prose to decide which has greater power over the inked pages.

Part 3: Stand Clear of the Gap

Bridges connect to allow passage of thought or physical form. Material trains of being and trains of thought run in cyclical blind fervor. You can choose which bridges to make, but you also cannot prevent them from forming on their own. Collisions make bridges that may stand or fall under the weight of the world. The entire story is a tightrope walk, swaying between dutiful moral responsibility and the practicality of undesirable consequences. The prologue opens with with a general wonder at an unforeseen spectacle. A man risking his life at a dizzying height, while the momentous world of passerby stops. The world seems to halt revolution, to steady the wire. He sways as onlookers dare him to do the impossible. He walks on air, circumventing their comments. In one day there is a countless potential for collision. A simple walk can characterize a lifetime. The hazardous walk might begin on the towers, but it is representative of everything below. A last show, to slow the world down, and take a breath even if it is a gasp. A feeble effort against an unforgiving world. Death lives on, and inevitably the world spins on, regardless of those who step above the crowd. (reality shining in spite of its fictional nature)

I was perturbed by one particular collision that manifested in physical contact of motor vehicles. This bridge was constructed by circumstance, then neglected, falling into disrepair. The driver of the car that hit the van immediately drove off and hid the car, basically putting a halt on bridge construction. The passenger and driver of the van were both fatally injured. This is an example of a bridge created by nature, but was an extreme case study. Some are not open to maintaining the connections that present themselves in the turmoil of chance, be it for legal considerations or individual nature. What unsettles me the most is how disastrous such simple interaction can be. Had this bridge been maintained, due consequence would have rightly been enacted, but fate can only place foundation. It is human will that must be evidently cooperative to facilitate lasting association.

First of all, my immediate reaction was, “my heart does not sing,” in fact if this activity ever befell my circulatory power source, I would seek professional medical attention. I’m imagining the perplexed look on the doctor’s face after they ask what’s wrong. Jokes aside, one particular story contained a multifaceted bridge, strengthened by a desire to heal by way of mutual support. This main purpose struck a chord with me because the one type of event I hate attending the most is a funeral. The energy of such functions may be focused around loving remembrance, but there is always an undercurrent of loss and mortality. These feelings are further amplified if the individual was extended or biological family. Claire and the bereaved mothers, however, didn’t all have bodies to bury. The passing of their sons was also not natural. Add these factors, and I am simply amazed these women have the fortitude to speak past the tears and frozen memories, rather than keep the emotion under a calm facade.

Par 2: Trial by Fire

She Sets The City On Fire – Gavin DeGraw

I thought, at first, that it was a despondent love song, either relishing in the past experience or a petty announcement of the woman’s appeal. New York City seemed like a backdrop to the message. I never really listened, since NYC didn’t really mean anything to me then. Now I see that the song, in my opinion, is comparing the atmosphere of being with someone special to the all-encompassing depth and uniqueness of each block in NYC. It’s so easy to get lost in such a city as the burning passion of existence burns through the darkest nights, with the brightest blend of red, orange, and golden yellow. The acoustic version brings out the most emotion, I think. Here, through the chords, I feel more connected to the song on a vibratory level, as I play guitar myself. (brb gonna go learn that song real quick) It’s more than just a good song, it makes me want to pick up an instrument. It invokes the sense of creative expression in others by simply being awesome.

Part 1: The Classical Expressive Plane

Listening to either of the two compositions incites images and possible storylines in which the auditory support would flow with upon the expressive plane. On the sensuous plane neither of the two contained the auditory stimuli I search for or find engaging enough to listen more than once. Honestly, I don’t gravitate much towards most music in this genre, and felt slightly awkward entertaining the melodies; there is something missing or not quite captured.

Swan Lake- Tchaikovskey

There was a tragic event that is being lamented, and referred to such that it happened in the distant past and warrants remembrance in the current state of things. The anticipation is evident as to whether the sentiment is embraced or ignored. Heed is not taken, and events once again descend into tragedy.

Beethoven’s 9th Symphony First Movement

I feel the beginnings of a journey. There is an expectation of what is to come, but resignation to its process. Various situations of peril and escape ensue. The end is in sight, as usual on the metaphorical mountaintop, but reality conflicts with desired brevity. Resign to the task at hand, and be rewarded with further instances of actionable progress. The end is near finally, and one last task looms ahead, as daunting as one can imagine. Succeed ye must, ushering yourself to fruition, you realize your fate extends from your own hand as you look back upon that which you have accomplished as an indication of what is to come. Do not stand idly by, plunge into the fray!!

Tchaikovskey’s piece has many crescendos with enumerated extravagance; very hard to keep up with. Beethoven’s piece has a more grounded and structured story, leading you along the adventure.



She Sings to the Moon

The moonlight breaks upon the city’s domes,
And falls along cemented steel and stone,
Upon the grayness of a million homes,
Lugubrious in unchanging monotone.

Upon the clothes behind the tenement,
That hang like ghosts suspended from the lines,
Linking each flat to, but to each indifferent,
Incongruous and strange the moonlight shines.

There is no magic from your presence here,
So moon, sad moon, tuck up your trailing robe,
Whose silver seems antique and too severe
Against the glow of one electric globe.

Go spill your beauty on the laughing faces
Of happy flowers that bloom a thousand hues,
Waiting [on] tiptoe in the wilding spaces,
To drink your wine mixed with sweet draughts of dews.

The Path One Takes

I won’t lie, this time; I’m not that tall. In fact, most everyone I currently know is either marginally shorter than me, or noticeably not at my eye level, but the focus of the walk is not just about who’s next to you. It’s about where you are, and where that place takes you. Towering skyscrapers above don’t make me feel inferior, and the minuscule passerby below don’t grant superiority, rather a view of dimension from in between. A different angle; a high line of sight, unbeknownst to those not standing on that forested path through cemented steel jungle. All is stationary to the eye focused on the path, not its end. The path has a life of its own, and a front row spectacle of your appreciation of its existence, and continued allowance of immersion. A museum may hold many interpretations, but a journey in one direction, open to many others, has the potential to lead oneself somewhere…