A Portrait of the Artist- Of Sorts.

I am less than tall,
With dark, unruly curls,
Skin that burns not too easily
And eyes of mixed-color whorls.

I live in jeans-
Except when I move into dresses.
I love the golden hour:
Bare shoulders, wild tresses.

I like chocolate chip cookies
And pink lemonade.
My fingernails are long and squared-
They are not painted.

My ears are awkward.
My nose is strangely shaped.
My complexion does not conform
To the accepted topological range.

My favorite pain
Is that of a laughing stomach.
I have two tongues.
Most say I have one sister.
(They know only how to count in blood).

I am afraid of answering the phone.
I am afraid of scraping my knees.
I am afraid of spiders, beetles, bees-
Of far too many things.

I want to befriend a flower,
I want to scatter dandelion seeds.
I want to linger in a tree-
Someday.

I build castles in the air.
I get lost within my head.
My childhood is scattered
Among the books that I have read.

I am sentimental.
But I prize rationality.
I am romantic.
And I lack practicality.

I can tell you about
Ascending orders of infinity.
I can charm you with paradox,
I can enchant you with irony.

My friends are few.
They are beloved.

I read marriage

As souls intertwining.

My mind is filled with wherefores
And punctuated with question marks.

I think--

I love him.

I write long letters.
I do not tell great stories.
I want to be a good mother.
I hope to be lovely.

Reader, Meet My Letter Box

Greetings, dear Reader!

It is midterm break and I am being very foolish. The prudent thing to do right now would be to go to bed... but I shall be a rebel and stay up a while longer. Ah, the luxury of having a day off!

It has been a while since I wrote a nerdy blog post, and I suspect there may be something on the wonder of natural numbers coming up soon. (I do love the natural numbers. They are so very beautiful...!)

Yay! Spring Dreams!

But that is not why I am here now.
I am here because of a burst of inspiration to briefly share some personal treasures. I snapped a few pictures of some of my trinkets- my sparrow necklace, my letter box, my wall of love, my Latin shoes, my bookshelves, and my Spring Dreams chart- which is now at the halfway point!

It is interesting that I do not seem to have very many trinkets… not exactly. But my wall of love and my letter box hold a downright treasure trove. And I really enjoy my bookshelves. Old favorite books, academic books, my writing box, a cute teacup, my bow-bedecked pinecone, the Rubik’s cube… many little wonders fill its shelves :] 

But for now I shall focus on the letters and notes and tokens of love which most brighten my days, noting before I begin that a curious and courageous reader is encouraged to inquire further into the objects introduced here.

The "wall of love"

They may not look like much, but these little mementos mean a great deal to me, and I am rather proud of my small badges of love. I want people to “see” the people that I love- the cute and clever notes from Dylan, the sincere and whimsical letters from Brynna, handmade cards from my sea-star, short and sweet notes of appreciation from Tristan, cards which once accompanied Friday flowers, postcards from friendly travelers and well-wishing friends, dried flowers (a perfectly-tinted rose from Dylan and mini-roses for my sister), an eerily well-timed post-it note found in a bathroom stall, gorgeous drawings and happy notes from Becca… It is the best thing in the world to have a wall adorned with love, and mornings are made happy by glancing up at the beautiful wall by my side.

And then there are the wonderful items stored away in the letter box. Old love letters, sketches drawn on a whim with friends, wrinkled and torn sheets recording old memories, newspaper clippings detailing my epic room draw victory last year, the absolutely ridiculous product description from the back of a package of trail mix, programs from plays once performed in, pieces of paper filled with strange math things- including a particular sheet whose corner I almost ingested to prevent prying eyes from reaching it (however, that failed, and the very wrinkled corner in question was subsequently re-taped), and a host of other cherished tokens fill this box of wonders. Each note, letter, random sheet of paper, or miscellaneous object brings me back to a time and place of happiness, be it of the somber-and-serious or playful-and-ridiculous kind.

A peak into the letter box

Each object also makes a bit more tangible the connection I have to the people I love. I think that may be why I treasure these things so greatly- and why my letters and notes tend to be so infamously lengthy. I may not have very many friends, but the ones I do have I care greatly for, and the exchange of words allows me to let them know it. My hope is that, someday, when the ones I care for find themselves lonely or frightened or unsure of themselves, my notes may do the job they were intended to perform. I hope that my friends will be able to gather the words given to them with sincerity and affection, and to see that they are amazing, accomplished creatures deserving of (and in possession of) love. I know that their kind words and the records I have kept of old happy times spent in their company have certainly brightened my spirits on a number of occasions.

So, my dear Reader, know that your kindness, your smiles, and your words are remembered and cherished. Know that somewhere, someone who loves you carries those gifts you have given them in their own treasure chest.

Goodness, isn't that beautiful?

At any rate, I think so.

On Seeking Some Hippiness

I think I want to be a hippie.

I don’t mean the cliché scraggly hair, unwashed, perpetually-high kind. I don’t mean “at peace” because I’m not here, I mean at peace because I am present. Spiritual, mindful, grounded, flower loving and tree hugging… maybe someday even walking barefoot through lush, green grass. I’ve never been good at walking barefoot. I like the protection of socks and shoes.

Becca took me to her yoga/pilates class this morning, and now I am a curious mixture of calm and emotional. I feel as though tears could leak from my eyes- not violently, but like a cup filled to the top drop by drop which slowly overflows- and it would be perfectly fine.

Perhaps “hippie” is too laden with meanings and suggestions. And hippie, even as I envision it, doesn’t seem to capture the full gamut of what I hope for.

On one hand, I want the mindfulness and grounded spirituality which I associate with hippiness. I want to see beauty and happiness in my surroundings, I want to feel united in body and mind- I seek harmony.

There was a time in my life when part of me enjoyed tearing myself down.
I have trouble seeing myself in perspective, judging what qualities I possess or not, and oftentimes I’ve hated myself for being small and tightly wound—timid, closed in, and shamefully afraid of peeking out. In high school, I would not hesitate to remind myself of how weak and pathetic I was. No, far from it. I would put it in writing, I would pen myself into a ball of bitter tears, I would force myself to face the ugly and inevitable truths about myself (my cup has overflown, but the drops are no longer acrid and they will not sear me).
 Do you want to know what I fear most to be true about myself?
I fear that I am boring.
Uninteresting.
That I have nothing to offer or share of myself.

Writing my college application personal essay (or rather, figuring out what to write about), was something vaguely resembling a mild nightmare.

I love hearing other people’s stories. I love hearing their thoughts, I love hearing about their family and friends, I love listening to them talk about what they are passionate and excited about, I love seeing them, because inevitably I find something beautiful and wonderful and unexpected and thought-provoking.

And yet I cringe when someone asks me to tell them about myself, because while it seems that they have so many things to offer- well-polished thoughts, odd trinkets, family heirlooms, germinating ideas, and so much more!- when I peek into my cabinets, I seem to have nothing to bring out.

I suspect an analysis of my verb tense would be interesting to carry out. But I am pleased that I spoke of how weak and pathetic I was, and not that I am.

Because, to get back onto the original path which I was walking, at some point, after getting to college, I just grew tired of beating myself up. I guess that was a good start, but I must say, that’s not good enough for me anymore. No, because merely tolerating myself is not enough. To get back to what I want- I want to be healthy.

I don’t just mean healthy in an eat-your-fruits-and-vegetables kind of way (though I definitely need to work on that). I mean whole.
I speak of well-being. I speak, again, of harmony. I want to run, I want to stretch and strengthen my body (and mind). I want to become an embodied spirit- otherwise known as a healthy and mindful person.

I want to be at ease with myself, I want to frolic in pretty outside things, I want to walk with hands outstretched. I want to forgive myself for being tightly furled, and to give myself time to open up a bit. I want to laugh at myself as I pick myself up from having tried something new and failed at it- and then I want to try it again. I want to lose myself in thought, I want to solve puzzles, I want to ask difficult questions and accept only sound answers.

I want to listen to other people’s stories- to your story. I want to see a bit of your soul, because I know it is beautiful and wonderful and surprising and that you deserve a bit of love.

I also want to find my own story, and at some point I would like to show you a trinket or two.

A Spring Quest

Hello again dear Reader,

Spring has come to Carleton!
I intend to take a nice walk around campus and capture its loveliness on camera, but haven't quite gotten around to that yet. For those of you not fortunate enough to be here, I assure you there is much in the way of happy greenery and pretty flowers to delight the soul. I am especially happy that my tree friend by the concert hall has started to blossom. I have already been taken aback by her loveliness, and I am excited for the moment when she is fully bedecked with beautiful flowers. But really, there are many pretty things sprouting around campus. Spring is wonderful!

Spring also means the beginning of a new term, and the term is already on its way. First week has met its end, and week two is all ready to rush in. This term is going to be a crazy one for me... but currently I am very much in the idealistic phase of my voyage. For some reason winter term seemed to skip the idealistic phase altogether. Winter term started off in the midst of a whirlwind, I think, and I didn't even have time to formulate grandiose schemes.
But now! Ah, this time I have set sail with all sorts of wild hopes and dreams for grand achievement, and it doesn't help that I am already surrounded by a paradise of lush greenery to make my dreams seem all the more realistic!

As I said, the term is going to be a little crazy. Or a lot crazy. I am venturing into the upper levels of math and chemistry for the first time. Math-wise I am taking a seminar in set theory, which should be very cool but also seems a bit intimidating. We're basically building up Zermelo-Fraenkel set theory and shall be working on constructing the natural numbers, integers, and real numbers. There are a lot of very quick-thinking, intelligent math people who are fortunately very good-natured and fun, but I know I'll be working hard to stay on top of things. I'm a little scared, but mostly very excited.
As for chemistry, I am taking an introduction to computational chemistry, which is almost guaranteed to kill me (in a good way?). My professor (with whom I'll be doing computational chemistry research with this summer, coincidentally) is awesome... and (or but) she expects a great deal out of her students. She promises us that we will learn tons, and she also promises that we will be working HARD to get there. This class again finds me feeling a bit intimidated, as it's a class composed almost entirely of hardy, senior chemistry majors... but they also seem like a good batch of people. It should be a very rewarding class, but, again, it's going to be a ton of work. My last few days have been spent trying to make good enough sense of quantum chemistry, and we'll be reading a ton of literature... oh, so much learning to be done! Trying to piece together quantum has certainly made me want to learn quantum in a nice and thorough manner, as well as like... all of math. I need to do differential equations and more linear algebra and statistics and apparently abstract algebra is also used to describe quantum stuff... Oh goodness, there are so many cool things to learn!
My last class is intro psych, which is nothing compared to the other two, but should provide interesting things to muse on.
Finally, I am lab assisting for a chemistry course and grading for a physics course. This also translates to a lot of work.
So essentially, I have a lot to do in the next ten weeks. A lot.

Even with this realization- or partial realization- I am filled with ambition. My roommate and I decided it would be an excellent idea to put together goal charts to keep us motivated. Here is mine!

What could be more exciting than rewarding oneself with cute stickers for a job well done?
Realizing that you have made your dreams come true! 

While I do have these specific goals that I'm working toward, I think I have two main ambitions.
The first is to stay involved in dance stuff. Ballroom/social dancing is awesome! The people are great, the dancing is fun, and it gives me an opportunity to develop a somewhat unusual skill. Part of my plan is to start to learn how to lead (My respect for leads has increased considerably. It's so stressful to have to plan out and keep track of directionality, timing, posture, technique, floor craft... Oh goodness!), and the other part is to try to work on solidifying technique. I want to make sure that, on a regular basis, I go into Cowling and seek refuge from life-hecticness on the dance floor. It'll be a good mix of challenge, socialization, and relaxation.

Second, I am intent on maintaining a positive attitude. There are a lot of challenges ahead of me, academic as well as social and emotional in nature. I expect the term to be a difficult one, but, more importantly, I expect it to be an opportunity for wonderful growth. There are a lot of cool people in my classes (and on the dance team!) to get to know better, there is a lot of interesting material to be learned, and there is so much beauty around me to walk around and appreciate!

I think a challenging spring term is a good way to kick off this whole blooming adulthood thing.
What with best friends at different schools, people (including myself!) working over the summer, a boyfriend exploring the streets of Moscow, and my own hopes to study abroad, the next... eight to nine months have me largely estranged from those happy individuals who more or less make up "home."

So... I'm on my own little adventure now.
It's time to learn new things, to step away from sluggishness and step into my swan (or sparrow!) skin, to face challenges and defeat them, and to dance and go on pleasant strolls every now and again.

Happily, I now have the chance to gather stories to be exchanged with loved ones at a future time when our paths may converge, and thus bring me back home- if only for a time.

Some Thoughts on Stepping into Twenty

My dear Reader, I am now twenty years of age.

If you are well acquainted with Anne Shirley- or are well acquainted with me and are tired of hearing me speak of her- then you know that age twenty is a significant landmark.

My eighteenth birthday, though a small and lovely affair, seemed rather silly in the way of adulthood. Eighteen year olds, in my path of life, are not to be seriously considered as adults. Yes, I suppose there are some nice legal doors which are unlocked. No need to turn to parents or guardians for signatures, and guys get to register for the draft. That's cool... Oh, and you can smoke and vote. But by and large, eighteen year olds are hardly treated with any sort of gravity or respect, and at eighteen I thought it a joke to consider myself an adult. (Then again, I suppose I still feel that way. I wonder if shall ever not feel that way...)
As for the twenty-first birthday- for one, it seems rather silly to remember that it is actually the drinking age, as most everyone violates that particular law, and second, I happen to be minimally concerned about alcohol, so I am not particularly worried about whether or not I am allowed to legally purchase and consume it. The point of the matter being, no, twenty-one isn't it for me either.

No, the big "coming-of-age" year for me is age twenty, courtesy of L.M. Montgomery's Anne of Green Gables. The twentieth birthday marks the end of the teens, and thus the end of one's "formative years." By age twenty, we select the path we choose to travel. I do not speak of a career path- though in Montgomery's days you should have had a pretty good idea of how you plan on making a living by this point- but, much more importantly, of a moral path, as Anne girlishly explains:

It's such a solemn thing to be almost fourteen, Marilla. Miss Stacy took all us girls who
are in our teens down to the brook last Wednesday, and talked to us about it. She said we couldn't be too careful what habits we formed and what ideals we acquired in our teens, because by the time we were twenty our characters would be developed and the foundation laid for our whole future life. And she said if the foundation was shaky we could never build anything really worth while on it. Diana and I talked the matter over coming home from school. We felt extremely solemn, Marilla. And we decided that we would try to be very careful indeed and form respectable habits and learn all we could and be as sensible as possible, so that by the time we were twenty our characters would be properly developed. It's perfectly appalling to think of being twenty, Marilla. It sounds so fearfully old and grown up. 

So, this is it for me. Twenty years of age, and my character has been fixed for good or for bad. Sort of.

At any rate, the realization that the fateful twentieth birthday was upon me was a daunting one. Is a daunting one. Once upon a time, twenty sounded like a ripe old age, and now it seems a very silly one... and yet not so silly. It is very strange. I feel much like Anne, who on her twentieth birthday cannot quite believe that is has come to be, who realizes that her character is still filled with cracks, and yet also realizes that there is some truth in her old schoolteacher's words.

I keep trying to make sense of what my twentieth birthday means to me. In my strange and sentimental way, it is a true coming of age for me. It stands as a bit of a warning sign-- real and scary decisions are in my near future. It also stands as a warm welcome, beckoning me to enter a new realm where I may uncover many surprises and great happiness. It is a pat on the back accompanied by an understanding smile and laughing eyes, saying, Yes, you have done some good things, but my dear girl, how much more there is to do!


I have learned remarkably little in my twenty years.
I have learned that, surprisingly, it's the small things that really matter to people. Yes, sometimes there's something tremendously large at stake, but often what matters is taking the time to talk to someone, or making the effort to move to where your friend is and sitting by them, or remembering to show support for a loved one. We love in small, ordinary ways, but that doesn't make it any less beautiful or important.

I think I have learned that many of the "big" things aren't really all that great, and that the small, silly things are usually the most wonderful. Prom? Yeah, dressing up was fun, but, honestly, it wasn't the fancy dinner and all the glamour that I enjoyed about that day. No, it was definitely the exhausted silliness of trying to recall (and terribly botching) the words to the national anthem (and the consequent laughter-induced aches) which I remember most clearly and most fondly. Actually, many of my fondest memories seem to share the properties of silliness and hilarity: laughing over terrible word plays (or a large number of terrible things) with мой друг, baking monster cakes/singing&dancing crazily/composing poetic masterpieces with my best friend, utterly destroying the brilliant lyrics of the latest boy band with my sister, totally failing to make balloon animals while almost managing to die of laughter in a crowded mall... Yes, the best moments seem to come unplanned, when I feel sufficiently comfortable to embrace a bit of playfulness.

I think I've also learned that goodbyes are never very convincing. It's hard to believe that the person who has become a happy part of your life won't be there the next day or the day after that or even a few days after that. I've also learned that with good friends, that's okay. A lot of days after that, they'll be part of your life again. And really, they were part of your life all along.

I have not learned how to say eternal farewells. (Do we ever learn that?)

I have learned that I am reserved, and hesitant, and scared.
I have learned that I am playful and eager to love.
I have learned that I would like to be confident and warm. And graceful. And interesting.

I have learned that there are many things that I wish to learn and think and feel and see and do.

On my twentieth birthday, I sat down and looked around and more or less settled on a certain winding path.
And now there's a whole lot of walking (and running and skipping and sitting and jogging and standing and sprinting and dancing and leaping) to be done.

Just a poem

Hello, hello, dear Reader,

So it is National Eating Disorders Awareness week, and wonderful people have been placing sneaky notes around campus reminding people that they are worthwhile and beautiful. It makes me happy that someone actually took the time to write these. The messages, though small, are important. And the messages, though they may seem silly and trivial, can be difficult to hear. The following is a poem I wrote after encountering some of those handwritten notes posted on mirrors and in bathroom stalls and on water fountains. Hopefully we will remember to be kind to each other and to show a bit of love. We can never be certain the difference a kind word or thoughtful gesture may make. Happy Friday! (Or whatever day of the week it may be for you now.)

A strange thing happened to me today.

I wept, in a bathroom stall

Because a stranger had left me a note

Telling me I was

Beautiful.

No, it wasn’t addressed to me, not exactly,

But it was left for me,

Stuck on the inside of the door:

Perfect people are not real.
Real people are not perfect.
Love your flaws.
Forgive yourself.
Because you are-
You are-
You are beautiful.

That word… it hit me.

It jolted me.

Its underlines crept into the

Underlying sadness of my soul

 And suddenly

Tears were slipping down my face.

It was like… they knew

How lonely

And empty

And weary

I …am.

I sank down, fighting back tears,

Fighting back the fighting back of tears,

Lips trembling and blurry eyes

Taking in the message

Again

And again

And again

Wondering whether to

Believe

My unknown admirer--

Questioning the plausibility,

Weighing the possibility,

Running over what I knew of me

And comparing it to she,

And then-

And then

I knew that the note could not have been

For me.

So I wiped my eyes

And left the note

For whomever it was meant to be.

For…Who would say

That I

 Am a beauty?

(Though I would like so very much to be.)

Word-Legos and the Metaphysics of Properties

Generally speaking, I am a lover of words.
Admittedly, I am not a super Scrabbler (which is somewhat surprising, really. I should do that.), but I am fond of writing and devoted to books and my thought-process tends to be greatly language-driven.

I do like playing with words. I admire the clever manipulation of language, I enjoy painting with words, I appreciate poetry... I even appreciate weird stream-of-consciousness modern stuff every now and then.
However, while I appreciate flexibility and creativity, I also insist on a certain level of precision when it comes to language.
Words, to me, are what I imagine legos would be to a playful child architect- except perhaps more precise. Now, before vehement lego-devotees attack me for having an improper appreciation of the structural precision requisite for beautiful lego-building, I only mean to say that most lego pieces are pretty general-usage. In fact, I am sure a large part of the appeal of legos is just that-- you are free to take general pieces and combine them in precise ways to create wonderful structures.
However, words do not come attribute free.
Au contraire. Far from being identical pieces, words come with a richness of (pretty) specific meaning, and therein lies the beauty of language manipulation. You can combine specific words in precise ways to create structures rich with color and meaning. "Interchangeable pieces" are not quite interchangeable, due to small differences in connotation which create subtle shifts in meaning. It is possible to rearrange pieces and retain the general meaning of a phrase while slightly altering its emphasis. Translating between languages presents an interesting and challenging problem in that there are a multitude of elements to reconcile-- is it best to focus on global architecture or to strive to find best-matches between individual pieces, even though (perhaps paradoxically) this may lead to certain architectural discrepancies?
The point of the matter is, language is fun to play with, but doing so requires a certain appreciation of syntactical and semantical structure.

And so I reach the motivation behind this blog post.

Wandering around campus I have been unable to avoid focusing in on examples of linguistic clumsiness which have lead me onto paths of amused philosophical contemplation.

First, I would briefly like to talk about a "Happy Bodies" sign which features a smiling woman cut out from a magazine and the happy exclamation: "I love my body because I love my body!"

Umm. No. This infinite downward spiral of justification suggests an irrationality I refuse to accept. Although the intention seems to have been good, the result was unfortunate. Rather than making a statement about body positivity and how we ought to care for and appreciate the wondrous organism which carries us through life, this statement is disappointingly empty and circular.
Instead, the writer should have written: "I love my body because it is my body!"
We don't love our bodies because we love them... we love them because they are our bodies! Suddenly the statement points to the significance of the word body, which reveals all sorts of beauties and wonders. Our bodies enable us to walk, talk, think, feel, dance, laugh, cry, paint, experience the icy kiss of snow, and do everything else we are capable of doing.
See the wonder of constructing statements a bit more carefully?
(Note: I admit I may occasionally, or frequently, fail as a good linguistic architect. I recognize this and I apologize. But I do try.)

Now for the second example, I have captured not-very-good photographic evidence. (See figure 1 below.)

Figure 1. Etchings on a toilet paper dispenser in the LDC, Carleton. 

The picture, admittedly, is not very good (I feel strange taking the time to get a decent picture in a bathroom. It just seems kind of wrong to be taking pictures in a stall. But anyway.), so you may not be able to read the writing very clearly.
The primary piece:
Why is a toilet like a literature analysis?
They're both full of- (Yeah, you get it.)

A bit below that there is the following profound question:
Why is a raven like a writing desk?
To which the answer seems to be: Edgar Allen Poe.

Now my response to this is amused puzzlement.
The raven and writing desk question is so wonderfully strange that I really don't know what to think of it.
As to the literary analysis question, I must suspect some student bitter over a failed English paper felt like denouncing the whole concept of literary analysis in an almost clever but crude manner.

But then I begin to ponder the structure of the literature question a bit further.
"Why is a toilet like a literature analysis?"

The question, based on the intended response, seems to actually be asking,
"How is a toilet like a literature analysis?"
That is, what property or properties do toilets and literary analyses both possess such that we may find a similarity between them?

But what if the writer really is trying to make some profound philosophical statement here? (We are going to ignore the witty quip provided as a response for the purposes of this discussion.)
Perhaps this was not a simple case of unfortunate word-lego confusion, but rather an intentional why, the result of frustrated philosophical contemplation and a call upon the gods-- why, oh why are they alike?

I ought to make this more clear. See it is all very well and good to recognize similarities in things.
This apple is red. This book is red. They share some feature- in this case, "redness"- which causes us to recognize them as similar. However, like most philosophical (especially metaphysical) topics, once you sit down and try to explain what it is that is actually going on here, all sorts of craziness emerges.

So let's say that we know or are aware of a similarity between toilets and literature analyses. What does that actually mean?
As some sort of Platonic/Aristotelian realist, I would be inclined to say that toilets and literary analyses share some actual feature. They possess a common property, we recognize that property, and thus we are able to see the similarity.
Of course, there's some question as to how exactly objects possess properties. Enter forms (if you're Plato), or some recourse to meanings arising from structural properties of an object, which is a response I am kindly disposed toward. The focus is on the fact that objects actually possess these properties, and we are simply latching onto what actually exists when we identify similarities.

However, others would disagree and tell you that the whole notion of properties is great- from a linguistic, in-your-head point of view, but you're not tracking anything that's actually out there. Berkeley is prepared to tell you that there really isn't anything out there, except some immaterial spirit which perceives everything. It seems that you recognize similarities...because...you just do...(What?) You know, conditioning and stuff. People point to a yellow object and say yellow...and eventually you figure it out. Somehow. Without there actually being any sort of yellow-ness that you're actually recognizing....

Personally, I'm not sure the nominalist perspective succeeds in explaining how we group things or how we actually learn to call things yellow if there's nothing concrete that we're tracking, but Plato's lovely realm of forms doesn't seem like quite the right explanation either, and what if it really is all in our heads anyway?
The whole question can really get a bit frustrating.

So, really... why is a toilet like a literature analysis?
...Or did you just mean "how"?