Forever and Ever, Amen.

“There is a tide in the affairs of men

Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.” 

My life began with a quote from Julius Caesar.  Nine years ago, I had no idea what this quote meant.   I didn’t understand Shakespeare.   I was watching One Tree Hill and it was the year of 2003.  I was only eleven years old but now, at twenty, I understand such tides—I understand the fortune.  These fictional characters, though kids, were reflecting back on words that were written a hundred years ago.  Yet, it was all very relevant.  It just so happens, it doesn’t matter what decade or time we live in—we all experience the same thing: heartbreak, love, fear, bravery, sadness, happiness.    Our emotions do not have a time frame—we ALL feel.   

Pain, Loss, Grief, Disappointment:  That dull, aching feel is a reminder.  It is a reminder that you’re still alive and that this is life and you’re going to have to fight like hell to overcome it. 

Happiness:  I have learned that this shouldn’t be thought of as a destination.  It isn’t something you can achieve.   It’s simply a mood and it will come and go.  Once you have realized that, maybe you’ll be the destination for happiness.

Fear:  It reminds us all that we are human---like pain.   It reminds us all that we are not invincible and we must be humble to things that are bigger than us.

Bravery:  Or from what I have been taught, a better word would be “fortitude.”   It is almost an exception to human emotions.  It is the test, the multitude of our strength.   But, it seems as though bravery and selfishness can be complacent with each other.   What separates bravery from fortitude?   

It just so happens that emotions are timeless. 

           I believe that everyone will experience some form of greatness in their life.  I have been desperate and searched for something with personal meaning and substance.  Surprisingly though, even the smallest, minimalist things can have great value.  Think about the simple things that can make you smile.  It can come in the company of good friends, the love of a family, the serenity and tranquility of a place you call home.  Greatness can be anywhere.  I’ve found such greatness in One Tree Hill because it made the smaller moments in my life the bigger moments.  

Mark Schwahn made it clear that One Tree Hill was about opportunity.  “Opportunity is calling, what are you going to do?”   Clearly, Schwahn gave me the opportunity to shape my life.  I have grown up with the show and I have learned more than I could possibly ever imagine.  I have learned that we all have a choice in life.  Normally, those choices come at a crossroad. 

Fear:  Life is full of fear and doubt but you have two choices:  you can fight it out or you can perish.  

Love:  There are two tragedies in life: losing your heart’s desire and gaining it. 

Pain, Happiness, Bravery:  When things get tough and life takes a turn, you have but two choices in life.  You can be the person you use to be—or you can lose that person completely.

It was 2003 and I was completely enthralled by One Tree Hill’s message.  It was a moral compass—my moral compass—and it has led me to believe that we have these choices in life.   It has led me to believe that life is an opportunity and we must all find it within ourselves to find our own greatness.   

Song of the day: Forever and Ever Amen by 8mm.

Such Fragile Moments We Share

It is officially summer time and I can finally breathe.   I am embracing this summer with a new attitude and have set myself in a new direction.  After experiencing a semester of throwing my busy-body self in a rat-race of school work and experiencing some sudden and unexpected life changes, I am ready to just sit down and enjoy the quietness of it all.   I seemed to have been contemplating moving for a while now and my current travels have only helped me come to the conclusion that I need something new.   I have mentioned moving to New York City and the more I thought about it, the more I believe it is simply just a memory, nothing permanent.   I belong in Wilmington but I will always come back to the city.  It’s a boomerang lifestyle, something to enjoy back-and-forth again but in small doses.  Considering New York has encompassed a valuable fraction of my life, I felt I should document my memories in the city.  

I stayed with some dear friends in Philadelphia and took a bus into the city a few weeks after.  The bus ride was 2 hours long and not so memorable.  What I do remember was the anticipation.  I’d stare out the window as we drove through New Jersey, passing through quaint towns and cities.  I remember the outline of the buildings in the distance as we got closer.  It was very faint and looked as if someone had used a pencil and traced the image of the city buildings into the sky.  In fact, it reminded me of the cover art for Jack Mannequin’s album, “Everything in Transit.”  The first scenery looked almost as if it was from a comic strip.  

It was foggy then so there was a mist of color masking the full image of the city.  Out from the allusion was a high peak, standing tall and valiantly.  The empire state building was always such a sight to see!  Once we got closer, buildings became more prominent.  The Manhattan Bridge hid behind the bulky frame of the Brooklyn Bridge, painting a contrasting framework of something pristine and classy with something downtown and rugged luring behind. 

The city outline faded the moment the driver took us into the tunnel that would directly lead us into the city.  It was dark in the tunnel with only a few scattered lights to guide the driver down the right direction.  I knew when we were close because I could hear the alluring hum of the city.  It was singing a welcome and chirping with the sound of taxi cab horns.  

I always took a long gander out at the city when I would get off the bus.  I could smell the familiar mix scents of smog and cigarette smoke and the indescribable smell of the sun that morning.  We would pass by a flower shop on our way to our hotel.   I remember the owner holding out a beautiful bouquet of tulips and marigolds and pestering passer bys to, “take a look! Take a look!”

Our hotel was the same as always—the Eddision.  It was right off the corner of Times Square, just across the street from a new, trendy cupcake shop that I would later indulge myself in every morning!  The concierge was always so friendly and welcoming.  I even think the baggage boy recognized me from that summer.   The second after we checked in we threw ourselves out into the awaiting pandemonium.  

It was the morning after New Year’s Eve and only a few reminiscing confetti pieces were scattered around Times Square.  I took a few and stuffed them into my winter coat as a memorabilia.  It was a memory for a new year and a new beginning.  Although it was winter, the weather was surprisingly in our favor.  The sun was out and I could feel its’ toasting touch against my bare cheeks.  I took off my heavy winter coat and lugged it around, capable of withstanding the East Coast weather with only a long sleeve t-shirt and an infinity scarf.   I remember how it smelled outside then—at that precise moment I had taken my coat off.  It smelled of fresh linens.  It smelled like just-washed curtains in the morning with the sun rays seeping through the fabric, making it smell warm and relaxing.  

We passed through Times Square, uninterested in the bright lights that attracted the first time Yorkers.   Instead, Barbara and I took full advantage of the beautiful weather and went directly uptown to Manhattan.  The subway ride was even a cherished experience.  I missed the subways despite their unusual smell and bumpy rides.  I found it humorous to see tourists clutching onto railings and gasping in surprise at the first feel of the subways take-off.

I sat patiently on the mustard colored seats, letting my fingers feel the warmth of the toasted bagel inside my Dean and Deluca bag.  I sipped casually on some coffee, savior its nutty flavor before the subway came to a halt.  I watched again with utter amusement as the tourists craned their bodies forward from the gravitational pull of the subway train and then jerk back into place like the movement of a strung rubber-band.  I snickered, quickly offered someone directions on how to get Downtown and took my exit.

Alas, Manhattan was as beautiful as I remembered.  We got off right at the end of a street that led us to the MET.  I took in a breath, watching it hover over my mouth like a small cloud before it faded in the Upper East Side air and took Barbara’s hand and reminded her that I loved this part of the city.  Women clad in Chanel coats walked along side us with their dogs adored in ridiculously expensive Burberry outfits.   

The MET stood before us like a piece of architecture straight out of a Jane Austen novel.  I sat at the steps, unwrapped my Dean and Deluca bag and took a generous bite of my multi-grain bagel.  Manhattan penguins scrambled at my feet, cooing and begging for a bite of one of the best bagels in the states.  I tossed a few crumbled pieces and then ignored the rest of their pestering and enjoyed myself.   From the steps of the MET laid Manhattan, a blanket of cream and ivory, enriched colored trees and Taxi Cabs that were all hybrid cars.  Nothing typical. 

It felt so good sitting there.  The sun was casting over the building like an umbrella, keeping me warm and cozy.  Barbara suggested that we should walk into Central Park. We stuffed our faces with our remaining bits of Dean and Deluca bagel and walked through the East Side entrance.

It was beautiful, for lack of better words.   It was during this stroll through Central Park when I realized that New York wasn’t always a pandemonium.  It could be peaceful and relaxing.   I started the New Year in a joyful atmosphere in Central Park.  I kept reminding Barbara then how thankful I was to be there at that moment—how much I loved the city—and how I loved that she would share such fond memories with me. 

My first days in New York were something similar to that.  I would enjoy the intangible beauty of Manhattan.   We spent hours walking down Fifth and Madison Avenue, adoring the setting where fictional Gossip Girl character’s lived.  The high-society life was surely far from disappointing.

SoHo, or Downtown, New York was an exquisite change from Manhattan.  It is a craft, trendy place with artwork plastered along building walls, organic coffee shops at every corner and bohemian dressed residents strolling down the streets while whistling tunes to their favorite indie band.   I immediately stopped for a cup of some herbal green tea and, once again, enjoyed the scenery.  SoHo is a complete opposition from Manhattan.  Manhattan is an obsessive compulsive side of New York City where as SoHo was a free fleeting, beat-of-its-own-drum. 

After long strolls in Manhattan and SoHo, Barbara and I would retreat back to our hotel with uplifted attitudes and very sore feet.  The cupcake shop across our hotel was always opened at the most ungodly hours.  It was, in fact, the city that never sleeps.   This shop sold miniature cupcakes—the size of quarters—and they were scrumptious.   Since the shop only made a limited amount of cupcakes a day, costumers could only order 5 at a time so Barbara and I were careful about counting our cupcakes!

I remember lying in bed at night, a stomach full of delicious New York treats, a mind full of happy thoughts and I would listen to the lullaby of the city.  I could hear the cadence of the traffic and sleepless bodies that were still wondering the streets.  I would occasionally open my eyes, still amazed that I was living in such a beautiful city, and I would see the vibrant lights of Times Square dancing through the curtains.   I got up from my bed, slipped on some winter boots and tossed on a heavy sweater and went down to the city.  I slipped into the Squares’ Starbucks and ordered a small cup of hot black tea and steamed milk and sat next to the wide windows.  The city was a kaleidoscope of color and for that split second, I could feel something tickling at the corner of my eyes.  Was it strange to cry over a city?  It wasn’t strange at all.  The only thing that kept me from believing that I had been sleep walking the entire time was the barista who had just hand delivered my cup of tea.  “Pretty huh?  Even I can’t believe it.  And I’ve lived here for 5 years!” She had said. 

I finished my tea and retreated back to my bed with the no-name barista’s comment in mind.  It wasn’t strange then—for me to have shed tears for a place—a mere adjective.  New York was beautiful and in a way, I thought, maybe I could consider this experience sleep-walking because being there in New York was a dream.  

For the next couple of days we had continued on with our sight-seeing, catching things we had missed during my previous Summer travel.   My favorite place was the Vanderbilt Garden.  Initially, we had just stopped at an older Museum that was used to film the private-prep schools Constance and St. Judes in Gossip Girl.   After indulging in fan-girl bliss and taking multiple pictures pretending to be Queen B and Serena Van Der Woodsen, Barbara and I went across the street.

The Vanderbilt Garden was lavishing with nature.  Although it was extremely cold out and my nose and fingertips were pinched red from the chill, we walked through the garden.  I told Barbara that my future fiancé would propose to me here—at the steps that were covered in a blanket of ivy.  She told me that in spring, the entire garden would bloom with flowers.  I casted a glance at the canopy of trees hovering above us and envisioned lavender and lilac flowers dropping down their branches likes an accessory.   I made a promise to myself then that I would come back to the Vanderbilt Garden to witness myself its’ spring season.

It started to feel more like winter as time went by.  It was suddenly frigid outside and Barb and I had to make random stops and hop into small shops for a chance to defrost by a heater.  We went to Strand bookstore, figuring that 18 miles of books would be a good distraction from the unbearable chill.   We shuffled through Strand, pointing out some of our favorite books, hers being The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo and Water For Elephants and mine, The Kite Runner.   

The next few days we spent some time in Brooklyn.   By routine, we would take the subway to Wall Street, walk down the famous strip and then haul a cab to Brooklyn.  I never took the subway directly to Brooklyn because I never wanted to skip riding over the Brooklyn Bridge.  It was, by far, one of my favorite pieces of architecture. 

Normally, We went to Brooklyn for two things : art and pizza. 

Oh Brooklyn Pizza! My mouth waters thinking of it.  We stopped at Grimaldis and sat at the usual spot—a table with a red and white checkered table cloth—and ordered the regular.  The waiter, handsome and rugged, was a charmer.  I would converse with him simply so I could hear his Brooklyn drawl. 

Manhattan. SoHo.  Brooklyn.  Times Square. 

I honestly wish I could document every memory spent in New York.  I wish I could detail, with all the right symbols and metaphors, how good it feels to wake up to the alarm of New York traffic, how liberating it felt to take midnight strolls down into the bright city by myself and how it feels just to simply reminisce of these things.  I’ve ran out of words to describe.

Chapter One

I was sitting in my Biology Writing class today (it sounds as boring as it seems) staring absent mindedly at a blank sheet of paper.  My assignment for the day was to write a personal statement that would highlight my long term commitments.  I was supposed to outline my future according to my current major—Biology.

So, rather than completing the task at hand, I grabbed a pen and doodled along the sides.  I made a paper accordion out of the scraps from perforated edges.   I even considered crafting a paper airplane out of this blank sheet. 

That is when I realized that I had already approached this assignment with an apathetic attitude.  I was very familiar with writing personal statements and mock application essays with the same, ambiguous topic.  What is your goal in life? Why do you want to do what you want to do? Why did you pick this major? What is your inspiration for that major?  I can almost quote the responses I have given for each question.  But, out of all of them I had never written a paper about biology.

I was purposely stalling because I did not want to write about why I loved biology.  Frankly, I do not love biology.  I do love its challenge but I do not love the content or its context.  I could not meticulously point out the things I loved that involved science.  Unless, that is, I could comically write a fanfictional script to “The Big Bang Theory.”  Maybe I should point out that my favorite scientist is Sheldon.  How about that, biology?

So rather writing about science, I began to write about literature and English, journalism and creative writing.  I wrote about the first novel I read when I was four. I wrote about the first poem I had published in the school paper when I was in the second grade.  I wrote about being the only freshmen to compete in UIL ready writing. And I wrote about this—save your scissors. 

This should have been the point in time when I realized that maybe I shouldn’t be studying biology.  This should be the turning point.  But is it?  Am I the type of girl who is bold enough to take risks and draw outside the lines?

Sometimes I want to believe that my life is one gigantic book.  It has its own table of contents.  Yet somehow I feel as if I am only flipping back and forth to the index.  I am only looking for what I need to see and what I need to hear and I am not enjoying the full novel.  I feel like if I were to continue on that way, then I’ll only have the spark notes version of a life and not the full text.

Whoever reads this, I truly hope you are braver than me.  I hope you follow your heart.  As Mark Schwahn would say, “you simply cannot measure a dream.”

--save your scissors.

Somebody told me that this is the place....

I have a heavy heart.  After nine consecutive years, One Tree Hill, is having its final season.  The opening credits to the announced January series finale stated, “Come back to Tree Hill for one final season.”  In that moment, I felt almost lost—I felt a sense of disfiguration and disorientation.   I have looked upon this fictional place called, “Tree Hill” as my own home.  The voice over, Brooke Davis, in the series preview  says that “Tree Hill is home” and that home is “good.” 

Not to be overly dramatic, but where can I possibly go—emotionally and mentally—if home will no longer be home anymore?  If Tree Hill is gone, surely a part of me that has grown over such nine years will be gone too.  

I am dedicating this blog entry to One Tree Hill, the drama series created by the ingenious Mark Schwahn because I feel that most of my writing and the inspiration to write has evolved from his creation.  For nine years I have been inspired by his inventive storylines, his realistically beautiful characters and this fictional place that is, in all fair, “good.” 

It may sound completely absurd that I am so emotionally tied to a television series—but in reality, One Tree Hill is much more than a mere television show.  In some way or another, I have related (at least once) to every single character.  I have felt the heaviness, unbearable feeling of a heart ache, I have lost as much as I have gained but I have also been able to survive it all.

I have looked upon One Tree Hill as a guideline throughout most of my childhood.  I have embellished myself in this fictional life so that I can understand how to grow—how to shape myself.   I have learned that ,”[my] life is being shaped right now.”  Looking upon this aspiring show,  it has been the plaster-the glue-to my life and the person I have become.  With all honesty, One Tree Hill has been the catalyst to every big dream I have ever had.   

I have learned a lot within these years.  I have learned that family, although it may be broken at some point, will be strong.  It only takes a few off that family tree, a few spare leaves, to help you grow.  I have learned that battling heartache and loss will only make you stronger in the end.  In fact, it just might give you another life to live.  I have learned that in this life, things will always fall apart and I have learned that there is always some way to put it back together. 

For the main character, Lucas Scott, his love and devotion for literature and writing has given me the courage to write on my own and to write strictly from the heart. Because that is where the best stories are.

Peyton Sawyer:  I have intrinsically incorporated music into my life.  From Nada Surf to City and Colour, I have learned that “music can save you.”  And although every song comes to an end, there isn’t any reason why I should never stop enjoying the music.  Her willingness to dream has made me the catcher. 

Haley Scott:  I will always believe that Haley is the most vulnerable of them all—and yet, she will always be strong enough to act just sane.  I remember Haley as “Tutor Girl” and as valedictorian of Tree Hill High.  Because of Haley Scott, I thought it was, frankly, cool to be a nerd.

Nathan Scott:  He is one hell of a legend—a dreamer and a fighter.  I have truly understood from his story the truth about forgiveness. To be quite frank, I had always admired the way Nathan Scott stayed loyal to himself--and most importantly, to his goals.  It was evidently clear that he could have given up multiple times.  In fact, he had enough reasons to quit.  But Nathan knew what he wanted--He wanted to play for the NBA and he was unwilling to accept anything else. He didn't settle and for that, I consider Nathan Scott a human trophy of indurance and perseverance.

Brooke Davis:  With all respect, my favorite character.  The one character that has evolved from the girl behind the red door, to the most beautiful, courageous person I have ever seen on One Tree Hill.  I think that the person that grows the most—the one who comes through a tight tunnel with bruises and scars and is still beautiful—is the one worth noting.  I have truly loved the person Brooke Davis has become.

Love. Forgiveness.  Bravery.  Ambitions.  Friendship.  It sounds all very simple—but it is not.

After nine years, One Tree Hill comes to an end.  So here’s to nine years of love, nine years of forgiveness, nine years of bravery, nine years of ambitions and nine years of friendship.  It feels “good.”

Song Bird

November is my favorite time of the year.  Although, as a Texan (who’s unwillingly native to a year-round Summer), I can only imagine what “Sweet November” can encompass.  I would like to think that I could walk along pavement that would  be covered in a blanket of crisp, honey toned leaves with the smell of Autumn hanging from a hammock of crimson clouds.  I would imagine that scent to be of cinnamon, a sweet tasting Brule and of spiced pumpkin and fallen pinecones.   

November is supposed to be beautiful.  I do have yet to live the vivid imagery in which I describe, but I can only hope that my winter endeavors in New York will give me a bit of that Autumn atmosphere. 

Another thing that comes to my mind when I think of November—I think of music.  As usual, my music taste is very subtle.  I created a playlist to share with you and I will dedicate this blog to it.  You can listen to many of these on Pandora if you were to create these following (beloved) stations: City and Colour (of course!), A Fine Frenzy, and The Weepies.

Save Your Scissors’ Sweet November Playlist:

A Fine Frenzy: Almost lover

Florence + The Machine:  Cosmic Love

Missy Higgins: Where I stand

The Violet Archers: You and I

Barcelona: Come Back When You Can

Walking Ashland: Take Me With You

Old 97’s: Question

Iron & Wine: Jezebel

A Fine Frenzy: Last of Days

The Mostar Diving Club: Worlds Apart

Vampire Weekend: Horchata

Ben Harper: Walk Away

Stateless: Bloodstream

City and Colour: Northern Wind

Frou Frou: Breathe In

Iron and Wine: Flightless Bird

Michelle Featherstone: Coffee and Cigarettes

Nada Surf: Always Love

I highly recommend  every single one of these songs.  If you like some of these songs, you might also want to add “Augustana” as a station to your Pandora.  Those that are not familiar with Pandora, it is a free internet radio that allows you to choose the music you ideally want to listen to.  By “creating a station” you will find songs that reflect your musical taste.

Grab a Cinnamon Brule Late at Starbucks. They are now back in season! Add a touch of soy milk and just a hint of nutmeg.  Enjoy a warm Pumpkin Spice and add a pinch of brown sugar.  Take your ipod, plug in those ear buds and simply b r e a t h e!

Try

      

              There is one illustrious piece of artwork that still adamantly resonates within me even to this day.  In the year of 2008, I stumbled upon a Swedish short film entitled “Try” that was a notable fifteen minutes long.  Surprisingly, within such a small frame of time, the video captured an immense amount of psychological thoughts and simply got my mind reeling—artistically, emotionally, and poetically. Jonas Akerlund’s short film was initially made for the 90’s sensational rock-band The Smashing Pumpkin’s latest single, “Try, Try, Try.”  Together, along with Billy Corgan’s lyrics and Akerlund’s short-film, Try tells an intrinsic heart retching story of two homeless young lovers, Linda and Max.  

            The video begins by displaying a visual of a blazing sunrise.  The camera captures a bright, bulbous sun that makes the entire screen burn a crimson orange.  It gave me a sudden warm feeling, the type of warmth that has an efflorescence to make one shudder at its beauty.  Immediately, I thought of what a sunrise would mean symbolically. As a literary element, the sun symbolizes happiness, life, and spirituality.  It’s an emblem for glory and brilliance. At this sunrise scene, Akerlund presents a voice over of Linda.  Linda, the main character, shares a rather significant childhood story:

 “I remember this clearly; when I was a little girl I had a dollhouse. Hours and Hours I would spend putting my dolls through lifetimes: work, kids, play. All of it happened in that little house.  I remember that perfectly. The rest is a little fuzzy. See somehow, I left it outside for a couple of days. When I went back to play with it wasps came to build a nest inside my dollhouse.  It looked like a twisted apple or something.   Back then it was scary—terrifying.  But I remember thinking, in that little girl way, that just like my dolls, wasps needed a place to stay too.  When my stepfather came home, he burned it all. Everything.  I cried all night long.”

Akerlund’s content presented through Linda’s story will foreshadow the entire short-film.  Initially, I thought, through formal analysis, that the sun would symbolize the usual clichés of happiness, warmth, and brilliancy. I was wrong.  My perception of the sunrise altered the moment Linda said that wasps had taken over her dollhouse.  The dollhouse was Linda’s most treasured item and now it was infested with wasps, distorting it into what she described as a, “twisted apple.”  This happy image of a dollhouse and its pristine perfection was now withering away by a wasp infestation.  Throughout Linda’s life, we will see this correlation as the bigger metaphor of Akerlund’s shortfilm.  While Linda tries and tries to obtain a life that is as perfect as her dollhouse setting, she struggles as a homeless, pregnant prostitute, living a life that might as well have been infested with wasps.  The sun’s symbolism is continuously embellished in Linda’s story.  The fact that her father burned the dollhouse—her treasured hopes and artifact—

will foreshadow Linda’s burning fate in the end.  While Linda confesses her lugubrious experience, the beautiful sunrise scene slowly alters into a sunset.  That warm, fuzzy feeling I once felt and the illusion of happiness seemed as if it had been shattered.  Within a minute of the short-film, Akerlund had captured all of these thoughts and emotions.  I felt eager at first—warm and comfortable as Linda described her beautiful dollhouse—but towards the end, the feeling became ephemeral. 

            After Linda has shared her childhood memory, Akerlund captures the present scene of Linda and her lover, Max.  The scene is shot in an abandoned parking garage and the two homeless teens are lying on top of piles of ragged clothes, litter, and filth.  The walls behind them are tainted with graffiti.  Almost instantly, I knew that Linda’s life did not end up as perfect as her dolls’.  The lighting effect that Akerlund used truly eluded the entire lugubrious, melancholy, and dreary feeling.  The color scheme was a dull spectrum of navy blues, charcoal blacks, and cement grey.  It was shadowed the entire time and every scene that followed lacked Linda’s warm sunrise I had first fallen in love with at the beginning of the film.  Although, Linda will continuously refer to this evanescent sunrise. She is dying to see it and dying to feel its warmth; as am I.  Now, the sun will be Akerlund’s on-going metaphor.  Linda will state in this particular scene,

“It’s funny really—how a life works.   The things you try to hold onto, you try to remember, those are what you end up losing.  And everything you try to forget or throwaway, those are the things that stay.  Like I said, it’s funny.” 

Now, I was provoked with this idea of the hardships in life we are forced to endure.  I believe that Akerlund used this quote as a subtext to explain that life is a continuous, ineffable battle—one that we can never win.  My personal interpretation was that Akerlund was trying to convey that we must spend our lives trying, trying, and trying but essentially we will always remember the struggle more than we can ever remember the gain.  It is important to remember this particular quote because in the end of the shortfilm, Linda’s voice over will repeat these exact same words—over expressing Akerlund’s subtext in his work. 

            Akerlund will continue to show us Linda and Max’s life but will also capture some disturbing footages that will spark some ideological criticism.  Linda is pregnant and clearly a drug abuser.  She looks to be about eight months along with the way her stomach protrudes out.  The camera catches a side profile of Linda, really exemplifying the fact that she is far along in her pregnancy with the size of her dome shaped abdomen and then it shows her drinking straight from a wine bottle.  This was utterly disturbing but for some reason. I believe that Akerlund was not intentionally trying to make his viewers feel appalled.  I interpreted it as though Akerlund wanted to show the brutal, raw truth of a desperate situation and explain this fact—some people do not get to live a good life.  Akerlund showed some bold and blatant honesty in these scenes and for that, it has become my favorite work of art.  The film will continue to take us through Linda and Max’s life.  They are seen in a quick station, snatching and stealing what they can fit in a bag and hopping on subways and begging in stations.  All through these scenes the viewer can still hear the distant echo of the subway station noises, the murmurous introduction of the Smashing Pumpkins song and Linda’s voice over:

“I know the world is hard and cold, and can hurt you bad I also know it doesn’t mean to. It’s not personal. And I know you have to try pretty god damn hard not to take it personally.”

Immediately after hearing Linda describe how she manages to get by such a terrible life, I could see pass the ideological criticism of it all. Akerlund portrayed Linda to seem as though her way of managing her life was by trying hard not to let it control her.  Linda’s main motivation was to simply—TRY.  Now, my personal interpretation of the short film was to understand the beauty of an ugly struggle.  Linda will list the things she so desperately dreams about: a house, a bar, dishes, clothes, dryers, TV, internet, etc.—things that are so modern and obtainable for myself that it makes me feel unbearably sorry for Linda.  Akerlund will show that Linda’s own interpretation of life is simply “getting by.”  Linda will continue to explain her dream and hopes of the life she wants to live but the scenes will show the perverse reality of it all. 

            What really resonates within me was Linda’s courage and positivity.  She says, “It could get worst” whereas my interpretation can be, how worse can it possibly get?  Even more so, when Akerlund continues to provoke some major controversy by showing Linda and Max surviving off by prostituting themselves. 

            I believe the turning part and the most brutal scenes in Akerlund’s short film are Linda’s drug scenes.  The footage captures Linda and Max sitting in a filthy bathroom, using toilet water to fuel up their heroine needle.  In these scenes I had to embellish on some psychoanalytic criticism.  Akerlund capture’s Linda’s eerie high with vibrant footages.  The shots seemed to be stretched out and moving as if to make the viewers feel dizzy or sick.  It shows inure pictures of what we would imagine to be the perfect family with the white picket fences, a beautiful woman sunbathing in an American flag embroidered bathing suit, a family having dinner, and a young girl sitting peacefully on her bed.  In the background there is constant creepy giggling and sadistic laughter along with the splitting octave of a needle grinding against metal. Suddenly, Akerlund’s scenes are highly altered to show a different take on each image—a rather perverse take.  The perfect family living in the big, colonial style house is shot to death by the husband, the woman in the bathing suit is now in the pool slitting her wrists, the family at the dinner table is regurgitating their meal, and the daughter in her bedroom is now mimicking some rather pornographic explicit content.  These were clearly psychological scenes that made me feel uncomfortable.  It had the same dark, psychological drug effect that is continuously seen in Darren Aronofsky’s movie, Requiem for a Dream.   Besides Akerlund’s psychological effect in this sequence, what really strikes me was Linda’s commentary.  She compared the feeling she got when she was high and used it as an allegory for The Wizard of Oz—going from a world of white and black to a world of all color.  She described it as if the drug symbolized the tornado and this tornado lifted her to a high where suddenly “everything changes to color.”

            The ending heightens the significance of this Swedish short film.  Throughout Akerlund’s video I see what it is like to be Linda—homeless, sick, poor, unfortunate—and I’m emotionally linked to the character.  It pains me to see her in pain, it sickens me to see her sick, and it makes me feel helpless to see her so hopeless. And suddenly, I believe Linda was right.  We, as humans, believe the things that are most tragic is what characterizes our fate because we always hold onto the things we are trying to forget.  The ending scenes show Linda rushed to the hospital; she’s bleeding and is dying.  Once again, Akerlund features Linda’s voiceover, repeating the same quote she had shared with us at the beginning of the film:

“It’s funny really—how a life works.   The things you try to hold onto, you try to remember, those are what you end up losing.  And everything you try to forget or throwaway, those are the things that stay.  Like I said, it’s funny.” 

At this point in the film, I was crying so hard I nearly made myself sick.  I was well aware that the repeating scheme of this quote was foreshadowing Linda’s death.  In fifteen minutes, I had witnessed one of the most tragic stories. Linda ends the film by saying that she was right all along; she had finally found her place, “It was sunny. Like California,” all while the remaining footages captured her casket being burned.   

            Jonas Aklerund’s short-film, Try, is my favorite work of art because of how it affected me emotionally.  I always found it odd that I enjoyed reading depressing novels and watching sad films, but Linda, Akerlund’s main character, proved to explain why I had such a masochistic taste.  The most depressing, tragic stories are the most memorable ones.  Linda believed so and so do I.  Not only was I emotionally attached to the film, I was amazed at Akerlund’s bold context—he was brutally honest no matter how much controversy the video sparked.  This is what I consider to be “art.” 

Artist’s Website:

http://www.jonasakerlund.com/

Song of the day: Try, Try, Try-Smashing Pumpkins.

Greener without the scenery

It has been quite some time since I have written in my blog.  My tedious schedule has made it rather difficult to be able to sit down and lavish in such finer things---besides some blasphemous chemistry (and I say this with MUCH exaggerated sarcasm. Consider it my hyperbole for the day, literary fanatics!)  Thus, my creative outlet has become a mere measly spark in my everyday life.  That, surely, must come to an immediate end.  I love writing and therefore, I must be diligent with my time and spare some for save your scissors. 

I will note that the majority of my (mental) time has been fantasizing about New York.  I have had quite the “Empire State of Mind,” if you ask me.  After my summer rendezvous in this chaotic city, I have realized I have fallen madly in love with New York.  I have also realized it is the best metaphor for anyone that has had some outrageous ambitions in their life.

 The first place I went to in the city was NYU’s bookstore.  I was flabbergasted, to say the least.  Our bookstore at Pan Am can only occupy a fraction of NYU’s intellectual loveliness.  I wanted to simply engulf myself in every single book.   If I were to be asked why I am now applying to New York University, I would immediately reflect back to this timeless moment.  It may sound ridiculous, but it was then that I had another outrageous epiphany—when I purchased my first NYU patriotic banner—that I would be the idealistic NYU student.    I do not mean to sound narcissistic; rather, I simply believe that I would be an intrinsic addition to the student body.  It felt right and I had an irresistible urge to buy a few textbooks.  In fact, I contemplated whether if I should go on with my day pretending as if I were an NYU student.

As I go through this impending application process, I have been stumped on the essay prompt.  The Common Application, (torturous fragment of my memory can vaguely point out how much I despise returning to such tasks) has supplements for each university.  These supplements call for additional information that the university requires in order to postulate a more “rounder” perspective of their fellow applications.   The question I have spent some amount of time on, perplexed with the flippant amount of ideas I may have for such a vague topic, is to describe something that intrigues/inspires me. 

There are many things that “inspire” me to say the least.  But, in this case, I would like to turn this question around and write about the “inspiration” my absent father has indirectly had on my studies.  It is not the approach they are expecting—but then again, I’ve always had a tasteful, spontaneous approach to writing.

Here’s a brief synopsis of my “inspiration:”

When I was growing up, I would do anything for my dad’s attention.  I rarely saw him and the few times I did I wanted to make them count.  Unfortunately though, my cousin would always tag along on these scarce visits.  My father adored my cousin and I knew, even at such a young age, that my father loved my cousin Amber more than he would ever love me.   It is a very profound thought for just a child.  I hated being aware of my father’s lack of interest and I resented him for making it so believable.  

I was also aware as to why my father preferred to love my cousin rather than his own daughter.  You see, Amber had talent.  She could sing.  For the rest of our childhood, I would always remember Amber as his little, cacophonous song bird.   But my father saw Amber’s voice more than just mere talent—He envisioned Amber as a star and as a clear ticket to Hollywood where money was just an extra incentive.    Money was always something my father lacked and therefore, his only priority was to always have some sort of constant currency to help him get by.  Their living style was much dissembled.  I would not go into details—but I know now that my dad would do anything for easy cash.  

Amber would sing every time I would visit. She’d sing all day and my dad loved it.  It got to the point where I was absolutely desperate for my father’s attention.  I knew from experience that I did not have such talent. I could not sing and I could not dance.  So, I tried to find my own talent.  I was good at writing and I loved to read.  I was a good student and that seemed like the only “talent” I cared for.    

I was an ambitious little girl and I made it a goal to make straight A’s on every single report card.  By the time I was in middle school, I had received notable honors such as “Student of the Year” and “Texas Honor Student.”   I immediately found my success in school and my love for my studies to be the perfect way to depict my character as "talented.”

So, while Amber continued to sing, I continued to study.  Amber would go to Broadway and I would go to an Ivy League.  I remember the multiple times I abated a “normal” childhood and found myself maturing faster than I had ever intended.  When I was six, I had already read a flippant amount of books and had started my own book list.  When I was eight, I knew that I wanted to go to a prestigious university.  I was determined and I was positive that my father would see my determination. 

Sadly though, I suppose my father was particularly incredulous of the thought that being a good student could be a talent.  I would like to think it takes a tremendous amount of self discipline and perseverance to have progressed this much in my studies and I suppose that within it-self makes me a talented individual.  To be quite blatant about it all, I took my fathers’ indifference to our relationship to get me where I am today.

It may sound rather perverse, but my absent father was the one that inspired me for all the most absurd, infamous reasons.    Thank you, Dad.  I have made it this far because you, without knowing, gave me something to (still) fight for.

Song of the day: Buried Myself Alive- The Used.  I have been in love with this band since I was in middle school. Granted, I went through a long period of  loving grundge, punk, rock-alternative music, but The Used has been one of the few bands I have consistantly had a taste for since then.