Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog

We studied this painting while discussing Kant's concept of the sublime. A sense of majesty understood through reason and thus mastered, how enchanting is that scene? I wish I could trade places with him. After reading Wordsworth I wonder if Missouri can inspire the same sense of ecstasy with nature experienced by the Romantics. I suppose there have been times when I've felt crippled by the beauty of a Kansas City sky, however I feel like what Casper David Friedrich was experiencing in this image, is so much greater, something I've never understood.

All of this makes me wonder if I have been missing something, something essential. How would the fulfillment of this x value flavor the syntax in which I view life, art, and all the other topics that pop into my malleable mind? This painting evokes void in my heart instead of the glorious sublime. Void and jealousy. And although I fear this post sounds pretentious, as so many of my writings do, I have to emit my feelings. Thus, this post.

Incomplete Story

There was something catching about the way her hair spilled over the grass. The careless tangles, split ends, the occasional brilliant curl contrasted with stick straight locks of brown, all summing up a careless beauty vacant in her awkward features. He noticed she wasn’t beautiful; her lips were to thin, her elbows to dry, hazel eyes bright but not charming. And yet, her hair was to beautiful for her to be ugly. The brunette sat up, covered in grass. “What is it about a cemetery that makes you feel so alive?” inquired she, dancing nimble fingers along a sepulcher while passing it. The boy watched her. He knew she had said that to sound poetic, and said so. Indignant she cried, “nothing of the sort” and ran along, red dress floating with her, feeling quixotic and beautiful, as if she were Holly Golightly, yet the boy saw no resemblance.

New Layout

Like my new blog duds? I do.

Subtle and classy, everything I daily strive to be!

Hmm.. I really do come off like a pretentious ass sometimes. Trust me, it's not on purpose.

Good Day

Today was a good day. I babysat that cutest baby in existence, worked out, found out the math I'm taking is worth 5 credits AND comes with friends. (or at least old acquaintances) Plus, a tornado siren interrupted everything and we got to go home early. (Albeit the drive was dangerous.) Moreover, the teacher literally called the class "watered down Calculus." It doesn't get much better then that.

Other exciting news? Well, I am probably switching my Theatre major into Philosophy and Religion. I dropped stagecraft and theatre practice and will probably drop Hist and Lit I. Let me say that dropping the above wasn't like throwing off clothes to jump into a pool. The decision was/still is hard.

I don't know... sorry, I just got really sick of blogging.

telephone wires

She drove an unnoteworthy distance,
in the backseat of a car.
Her eyes followed the telephone wires,
that for her, formed musical bars.
A poem was stuck in her head,
the words: incomplete,
they were weightless and simple
yet still, inevitably concrete.

My Mom had an Eddie Bauer SUV named Eddie.
Then she traded it in for an explorer, Edward.
Now she has a Volvo, named Edvard.

Alfred Lord Tennyson Selected Poems

I clicked the title thingy and it gave me an option of titles from recent google searches my family made on this computer. I chose that one because it reminds me of Dr. Pearce. (My Dad must have been looking up Crossing the Bar.)

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.

I really miss Dr. Pearce. He planned his whole funeral. We even sang "Home on the Range" and "When the Saints Go Marching In" at his request. Sometimes I wonder if he can watch me and if his opinion of me has changed since he no longer gets the unabridged version of Lauren Rachel Greenspan. It makes me wonder what I'm like to read objectively without my defense mechanisms in play. I'm not even sure who that person is. How cliche, a nearly post-teenager questioning her identity.