Maybe the real [art] was... the friends made along the way

Hi. I've been feeling pre-nostalgic again. Granted, so has everyone - at least it seems it's that time of year, when people start leaving their respective classrooms to linger the hallways with little to no specific aim, and all I hear is "hey, have you signed my yearbook yet? here's a pen", and the days feel like they're just barely slipping through my fingers (all the time :p) 

I've blogged before about how I see school hallways as living art, the commotion and the chaos and seemingly choreographed movements forming community. Everyone has an unspoken position to fall into, be it waiting in line for the main staircase (at least I know I won't miss this) or sitting in the same lunch corner where your friends staked a claim at the beginning of the year.

I'm sure by some metric or another that this interpretation of aesthetic may not be deemed as "art", but what is art, really? If its definition is so contested, can't we all just agree to disagree, and come to terms that there is no final explanation for "art" but the one you decide for yourself? I was so touched by the ideas shared in our final Harkness, in specific when Jack posed the possibility of art as an abstract. Art as not a final product for showcase but a process to sow foundations that reap benefits upon benefits. Where ultimately, all that is left is the bits of beautiful pieces made, picked up, and preserved somewhere along the way.

And how, in my sentimental state, could I possibly not tie this back to sixth hour?? Of course, this year in our classroom has been the most beautiful process. Akhil's generous and admirable musical knowledge. How Kyle's blogs literally never disappointed. Julia personifying the word "cool". Adam's impressive commitment to mispronouncing things (I'll give it to you, Estragon and estrogen only have two letters' difference). Anshul as my ever reliable sixth hour friend! Siddhant's unwavering patience. Olivia's willingness to share food with Cate and me, always (I will miss your Vera Bradley). Jack's harkness hero-ness. Jacob as the ever-wise (albeit random) philosopher. Katherina and Arunima's steady thoughtfulness. Annie and Neha's enviable friendship. Nikhil letting all of us in on an incredibly stretched out joke, and his seriously admirable ability to keep the End Game content continuing. Hwany's gentle kindness. Cate's pestering of Hwany until they became friends. Kara's clear voice and Khalia's diverse, dependable film recs. Brielle and Justine's corner of unbridled conversation. Shrey's golden smile. Vaish and Clara (and me) becoming unexpectedly bonded through Audre Lorde <3 The friendships forged throughout. The laughter shared. The lessons learned. The memories made. Here, all this time, we have had (or been?) art. 

An excerpt from Stay True by Hua Hsu seems appropriately fitting in these final moments:

"Maybe if you had a camera, you used it during those last few days of school, at parties or as people were packing up, the logic of last-minute cramming applied to the documentation of memories. If someone tried to take your picture, even if it was meant to be silly or spontaneous, you still fussed and awkwardly posed, because there was a finality to it, one or two snaps at most, any more would seem obsessive. A moment would pass, unremarked upon, until months later, when you developed photos you had taken at a concert or birthday party, a proper event worth chronicling, and you discovered some images of friends getting ready to go out, or else a slice-of-life candid intended to burn through the end of the roll. You’d forgotten about this. Later, when photography became ubiquitous, pictures were evidence that you existed at all, day in and day out. They registered a pattern. Looking back, you began to doubt the sequence of events. If, in the absence of proof, anything had happened at all."

If, in the absence of proof, anything had happened at all. Wow. Ok. Sure, maybe we don't have that many pictures to show for it. Maybe we haven't won any showcase prizes. Maybe with time, we'll lose the fine details. But we have these blogs - forever in the online data machine! And we have our brains to cherish as our archives! Well, perhaps the enigma of art is one that we should embrace. The knowing that the good things existed at all- isn't that the beauty of the process? All in the eye of the beholder, I guess...

TBR...!

I got a library card when I was three, the summer of 2010 when my family moved to the states. Really it was my mom's, but it was my sister and I who used it to no end- the Troy PL became a true second home to us. 

Of course, things now aren't quite as they were over a decade ago. I don't jump onto the concrete ledge of the plants box at the main entrance each time I enter or exit, balancing (and flailing) as if I'm on a beam. I walk the normal route with my too heavy backpack and books overflowing out of my arms. My sister isn't here to play Fire Boy and Water Girl with me on the library-owned DELL computers in the kids' section anymore. I have my own laptop, and most of the time I go study in the adults' booths alone. 

But at the same time, life isn't completely unrecognizable. I still use their bits of papers and nub pencils to to write down the exact aisle location and call number of the book I'm looking for. I still know that ever so comforting yet uncomfortable feeling of a heavy tote bag full of new pages resting, weighing down on my shoulder.

I'd consider myself a consistent reader. Through ebbs and flows, it's always remained my favorite pastime- I have my mom to thank for that. Growing up, she really instilled in me the gravity of words. 

In high school I've grown to gravitate toward nonfiction, so this list to read in the next decade is largely that. Beyond this required syllabus of ten, however, I'm making a larger goal to be more varied in my information and content consumption to be more world-conscious. I'm signed up to a couple email subscriptions now (NYT's The Morning and The Atlantic's The Wonder Reader, as well as a few Substacks). I'm also considering creating a Substack (basically a blog style newsletter) myself after the end of this Lit blog, so I can continue to personally write in some way or another. Let me know if you'd care for it at all, or if I should just channel my inner Sylvia Plath and resort to diving headfirst into my journal instead of publicly oversharing. 

1. A Random Walk Down Wall Street by Burton Gordon Malkiel

    - Getting the really boring out of the way first, this will be the reality of my 20s! The defining decade!! Growing up makes me feel sick!!!

    - I'm actually taking Personal Money Management right now which theoretically should be teaching me what this book will, but ironically I actually feel like my brain is in retrograde in that nap hour class

2. Mortal Questions by Thomas Nagel

    - philosophical book so I can be more pretentious

    - all jokes aside, I'm really interested in ethics and general principles

 

3. Notes of a Native Son by James Baldwin

    - Baldwin's writing in Giovanni's Room made for a thrilling reading experience and I don't believe this one could possibly disappoint

    - This is an essay collection; Baldwin has such a singular mind that I'm curious to see if it'll be more centered on his personal life. I hope that it will

4. The Bach Cello Suites: A Companion by Steven Isserlis

    - We get it, I play cello

    - Music is a lot like literature, in more ways that one. Steven Isserlis is a pretty iconic cellist, so by transitive theory I assume he's a comparable writer, too

    - How nice it'd be to be biking in early August-ish as the sun sets. I'll stop at a bench, and I won't feel like stopping for long, so I'll bring a light book. And I'll keep my earbuds in so that I can read Isserlis's perfect descriptions and detailed analysis of each movement of each suite that I'm listening to at that moment. Perfect summer

5. The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness by Michelle Alexander

    - I actually read this freshman year during covid time, but I think I need to reread it because I doubt I retained much of the content at all

    - The prison industrial complex is a subject I want to be more educated on; not much else to say here

6. Women, Race, & Class by Angela Davis

    - I'm making conscious effort to intake more scholarly content outside of required readings 

    - I've yet to read anything by Davis, but I've heard so much (good) commotion around/about her, that her writing compares to the likes of Toni Morrison and Audre Lorde

7. Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery

    - Another reread? This one from elementary school, I think maybe just before college it'd be nice to reread the series to simulate being a kid again

    - I want to feel that stinging (but sweet and sentimental) realization while powering through the series that it's almost like Anne and I are growing up together

8. The Short and Tragic Life of Robert Peace: A Brilliant Young Man Who Left Newark for the Ivy League by Jeff Hobbes

    - This is a definite must read before getting to college in the fall. I'm excited to go out-of-state (Providence, RI) for college, but I'm acutely terrified to turn into some haughty and out-of-touch elitist... What does it mean to climb the ivory tower? (How) can I do it ethically?

    - Reading this one's blurb VERY loosely reminded me of Min Jin Lee's Free Food for Millionaires that I read last year and felt seriously targeted by

9. the Bible

    - The Bible is actually so long though that I'm making it a goal to finish it by the end of undergrad; I don't want to skim past anything but instead really try to understand it - and through it, myself

    - One of my favorite authors that I mentioned above, Min Jin Lee, actually said in an interview once that she likes to read and annotate the Bible every morning because it provides her with literary inspiration. I guess it goes to show that you don't necessarily have to be super nonsecular to derive meaning

10. How to Win Friends & Influence People by Dale Carnegie

    - This is partly a joke, sorry Adam. I'm not much of a believer in the effectiveness of self-help books (they seem a bit forced), but maybe this will change my views

    - I know, we haven't even made it on college campus yet - but I worry for what making/maintaining friendships as a post-grad adult will look like, because the geographically convenient system that more or less forces you into socializing won't be there. also I read this article about the loneliness crisis

Olympic friendships that could've been

And we run to the bank and we

fill up the gas and we

finish our errands and we don't

stop we just

check off our lists then we 

write tomorrow's and we-

I'm just tired. I say this in a way less of complaining but more of noticing - I am so easily exhausted. This final semester of the past 13 years is supposed to be one of good things, of closeness and bonding. And yet, I find myself shrouded by stresses. While it may come as surprising to some (or unsurprising to others), I am an introvert by nature. I love conversation, and I love my friends. But when I go home after a long day of socializing and return to my room, I am struck by the weight of my tiredness. This past winter break, my social battery hit an all-time death- I gave up seeing virtually anyone but my parents, my sister, and my dog. I just needed a minute- or an entire week, it turned out- to myself. 

But here is where my internal rumination begins. Last week, I had a revelation that led to a deep spiraling. Here's the scene: imagine watching the Olympic Games. Only the best of the best gymnasts, curlers, and alpine skiers, and this is their moment. What they've worked towards for most likely their entire lives, all that they know. But there's a small voice somewhere, asking - what if the fastest runner of all time isn't Usain Bolt? What if it's some unassuming 14-year-old boy living in a small-town village in the depths of Guatemala? What if there's a swimmer comparable to Katie Ledecky whose name no one knows?

I love my friends, I said this before. But in this final semester of which is supposed to be full of good things, I still feel a tightening sense of claustrophobia. What if there is someone roaming the hallways of Troy High who would've been my closest friend, had we just run into each other, if even only once? What if there is someone here who I don't know, who turns out to like all the same things I like? Understand me in all the ways I understand them? What if I'm missing out on this life-altering, Olympic tier best-friendship? What steps should I have taken backward, to then find myself, to know this person, in this otherwise unknown otherworld?

I've tried explaining this nearly unbearable idea to those around me now. And they ask me- are you not content right now? In turn, I exclaim- of course I am! My friends are the best people that I know! But there's an internal voice that wedges me... but what if I could be content-er??? And then I chastise myself... why am I always needing more? Don't I have everything I need? Where is my stop?

I've been wondering more too about negative capability, which helps a little bit in subsiding my recent mental scaries about what could've been - thinking about embracing uncertainty, despite the ego. Accepting and celebrating what is present...

Is it me, or is it the poem

In the weeks of this unit, I have heard an ever constant refrain. The repetitiveness of complaining is almost poetic in and of itself; it is with near to no-miss accuracy that I can make my daily prediction of when someone in class says, "I have no idea what I'm supposed to understand here. Why is poetry so impossible?" 

Even today during our class conversation, Mrs. Liamini exclaimed at how suddenly introverted our class became- the timing uncoincidentally aligning with when we would have to share thoughts on what meanings we thought the poem beheld.

We hold fear of misinterpreting the conclusions the speaker wants us to search for and find. We gripe about how, comparative to prose, poetry is just so subjective. And thus, attempts at deconstructing what is in front of us remain futile. But why is that? Can we really attribute our struggle to it just being mediocre poetry? Or rather - perhaps a more controversial take - could the problem be ourselves?

one of my favorite pods!

Just the other day, I listened to this awesome yet slightly (acutely) horrific podcast by Ezra Klein, who discusses with Maryanne Wolf the importance of "deep reading" amidst our living in the Information Age. It made sense to me: having been born into an era of endless scrolling of short-form content designed to capture and distract, capture and distract- the most of us are left with nothing but charred attention spans. There just may be such thing as too much information. To navigate it all, we must have strong literacy. I deleted TikTok off of my phone (I'm joining you Cate) less by feelings of inspiration and more out of alarm after listening to that full conversation.

I imagine all the little facts in my mind's storage leaving my mind to be just like this excerpt from "Forgetfulness" by Billy Collins: 

The name of the author is the first to go

followed obediently by the title, the plot,

the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel

which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never even heard of,

I know I started this blog exposing all of our reactions to this recent unit, but regardless... I've been thinking more, especially in relation to poetry, about our generation's rewired ability to process the true abundance of information that surrounds us, floods us, drowns us. It's an easy way out, to resort to skimming. To succumb to only absorbing the surface of what we see. To give in to our inferiority complex, and give up... But deeply processing things, including poetry, doesn't have to be as belletristic or pretentious as we perceive it to be. In fact, our attention may possibly be the thing we need to hold onto with the most protective intention. 

That's all for this blogpost- I've got to go read my sbc paperback now

Crush!

My idea, and ideals, of Valentine's Day began wholesome and indulgent; it was an annual tradition in elementary school to spend the night beforehand scribbling my name on the To: line of paper valentines cards from a store bought 25-pack, so that the next day I could give the same Disney princess candy gram to my first-grade bully and my crush. (Although if I'm to be majorly vulnerable, I think it's safe for me now to admit that I most definitely saved Belle, my favorite, for my at-the-time classroom crush, and gave my not-so-crushes Pocahontas or something, sorry). 

Over the past decade of growing up, however, my reaction and relationship to Valentine's Day and its themes have ebbed and flowed. For a while it was too embarrassing to even admit I was even friends with someone of the opposite gender; then, the ever looming question of what if we're just friends? could we be just friends? could it ever be just that simple? What a When Harry Met Sally tragedy.

I know, how dramatic. Partly, maybe most prominently, it is because we are all still too young and stupid and immature. We might even think we're too good to show love- or maybe we think we're incapable of it. I think many of us may be in our Siddhartha era- dismissing love in its many forms, considering it inessential and turning a blind eye even as it weaves and intertwines all the parts of our lives.  

Around this time last year, Richard Siken's Crush, a collection of poems, was my hyperfixation; I chose him as my mentor poet easily yet cautiously - if you are at all into the themes of the month of February / as sentimental of a person as I am, you might enjoy. Here's an excerpt from Scheherazade, the first poem in his collection: 

Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.

These, our bodies, possessed by light.

Tell me we'll never get used to it.

Maybe it's not that serious. Maybe it's not even about us- the modern phenomenon of Valentine's Day, once you think about it for a little too long as I am right now, is lots bizarre. There's also always that argument about its consumerist and capitalistic nature... but I guess this is where I reveal my sentimentalism. Despite everything, I think it's still worth it to celebrate all the love around you. What's the harm? Hating Valentine's Day only hurts yourself- it's so fun!!! and silly and sweet!!! and special!!!!!

An aside: why do we celebrate Valentine's Day as a marked holiday? like, why do we honor mothers on Mothers Day? And women on Women's Day? To challenge it, why don't we just set a random (but still intentional) calendar notification in mid-April, or in late October, or early June- to remind you to tell everyone in your life how important they are to you, this day and every day • ₊°✧︡ ˗ ˏ ˋ ♡ ˎˊ ˗

orthogonal vectors and pre-nostalgia

I am a second semester senior.
I am a second semester senior?
I am a second semester senior!
I am a second semester senior!!?!!???!?!!@?@%#@%^#!?@$!^%&^%
I am a second semester senior...

Each of these sentences, distinct with their marked punctuations, resonate with me in ways all different yet identical in a way, kindred to the idea of "senior year".

"Senior year" has been all but a dream to me for the last... forever? In a way, it still is. I've always considered senior year not as a time to enjoy while knowing it won't last, but as a fleeting feeling, almost like a personality in and of itself, conjoined together piece-by-piece by a combination of "lasts" to revel in. Now that it's here, I don't know what I should be doing to serve it justice. To be wearing its hat now is still a reality to wrap my head around.

I have an ever-evolving, heavily edited Google doc pinned in my tabs labelled "senior year" with subheadings of "To do!", "To watch!", "To buy!", "To learn!", and "To go!". In the literal sense, these are tangible goals for this semester, a few relatively undemanding to-dos that help me compartmentalize and simplify: Learn what sourdough is. Buy Monopoly Go for spring break (or any other fun game). Go to TopGolf with friends, half off on Tuesdays. Watch High School Musical 3 the Tuesday night before the last day of school. 

Lately as I drive home from orchestra rehearsal with Halle and Jay as I do every Saturday afternoon, I've been feeling both sad and glad. I've been feeling a certain paralysis- not in a heavy way, but more in an anticipatory way, a "I want to screenshot this memory into my mind and never let it go" kind of way. I can already tell that I'm going to miss it.

Pre-nostalgia is one of my favorite feelings. A state of wistful consciousness and melancholy; missing a moment as I am living it, missing it even before it is gone. But perhaps as I often look to my future self looking back at her past self, the vectors of imagination become orthogonal (calc joke!), and the opposite dimensions collapse. And if so, perhaps what I've been doing all this time is simply looking more focusedly and entirely at the present.

calc3 🤝 lit

Already, I feel this final year of high school has challenged me to grow emotionally, mentally, and spiritually, though not at all vertically. Already, my heart is so whole, stretching and tugging at capacity with feelings of happiness and sadness and surrealness and everything in between. Already, I don't think I need anything more.

So maybe my true goal is to do everything I say I want to do, all while thinking or worrying about absolutely nothing else. To pay acute attention to the memories I know I will miss, to extend moments as far as they will allow, to hold onto the present as long as it can last.

I want to linger a little longer at the lunch table. I want to keep people-watching in the parking lot with Manahil, conjuring the most outrageous stories for those that unassumingly pass us. I want to honk at my friends' cars when I see them. I want to race Karina down Long Lake (and I want to see Adam contentedly riding his bike beside us, with his wired earbuds in but his hands off). I want to take the long way home. 

adam, celebrity of long lake x crooks

Ethics of war and violence

When referring to war, the majority of debates fall on what is at best interests to survival and success- be it related to economic reasons to clashing political ideologies or even differences in religious beliefs. Too often as a result, the aspect of ethics and human impact is an afterthought to decisions made by countries and governments- but does the level of attention or priority make ethics any less important? In other words, is war ever morally permissible?

So what are the limits that morality places on wars? Conversely, what limits does wartime invoke on morality?  My approach (at least as of now, as I consider it while researching and developing thoughts for this project), is cautiously optimistic: I think that war, by majority, is by-and-large irrational. Achieving a certain end through means of violence lends itself to unnecessary casualty in the crossfire- regardless of who stands victorious in the end, it seems nearly inevitable in conflict that all parties involved ultimately incur massive losses.

Adding insult to injury is how modern media has come to polarize sides and even further inflate uproar. Among the most common weapons of modern war are warped narratives, disinformation, and misinformation- and have seriously contributed to creating a culture of closed mindedness among individuals and society at-large.

With the start of the new year, I, as an avid indulger of entertainment news, prepare to gear up for one of the most providing seasons for pop culture fans like me: awards season! 2023 was a great year for movies, most notably with the releases of Barbie (2023) and Oppenheimer (2023) creating one of the largest social phenomenons out of a portmanteau: Barbenheimer. I'll save everyone the synopses (but if anyone needs a recap, I can just refer you to Jo Koy). 

The latter film, Oppenheimer, is the latest addition to Christopher Nolan's massively successful filmography. A film biopic that analyzes the infamous man who led the Manhattan Project and focuses on the Allies' perspective on the creation of the atomic bombs. Oppenheimer is three hours in length, which some have criticized as being too long. And yet, it still didn't have enough room for any Japanese perspective for that matter, a convenient lack of point of view of the victims (Qarjouli 2023). Disclaimer: I still haven't watched Oppenheimer. But even just reading the online discourse, I can see what is inherently problematic- not even the misportrayal, but just a complete and utter absence of Japanese civilian suffering. At best, it was a poor judgment call from the director. At worst, a one-sided glorification of war.

And as social media becomes increasingly an essential part of our lives, public opinion on war has, over time, shifted from being reliable to now, just stunningly manipulative. Even now, as the Israeli-Palestinian conflict continues to rage on in the Gaza Strip, placing entire blame on either the Israelis or Palestinians is unfair- both are guilty of disseminating harmful misconceptions of each other (Gold 2015). With every statement holding an underlying agenda, the lines between truth and generalization, right and wrong, become blurred; every time I open Instagram, I brace myself for the seemingly endless and exploitative blue-pilling that, without active and conscious effort, is pretty much irresistible. With the media perpetuating the idea that peace is impossible, it is almost as if that, in and of itself, becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Measuring intent amidst war can easily prove to be a philosophical undertaking- ambiguous and seemingly impossible to reach a final term on. And yet, we must not fall short of remembering our first, foundational priorities. It is relevant yet seemingly obvious to point out here that civilian casualties during war are largely accidental. But does merely not "wanting" to kill people allow an excusal from liability? Does not "intending" to kill innocent civilians make a murderer innocent, too?

I don't believe so. What are feelings for, if not to be taken and put to action? Where does the desire to be right lead one, if not to the wrong place?  

"The most important time for action is now." This ever relevant adage must be heeded tenfold in times of war, times when moral standards are crushingly necessary. Inaction is still action; just it is a conscious decision to remain complicit amidst violent extremism. Subjective feeling and passive willingness of violence in a glorified state is all but a fantasy, a daydream- only through action is it possible that we are able to collectively move forward from the past. In wartime, urgency is opportunity (Zuo 2007). Resolving conflict mere minutes earlier could save lives in the battles fought. Even the opportunity to avoid a single senseless casualty should be reason enough to commit to striving towards peace.

“Of course, I had to own that he was right; I didn’t feel much regret for what I’d done…I have never been able really to regret anything in all my life.” (Camus 100). The Stranger revolves around Meursault, an anomaly of a character whose inner thoughts show that he simply sees no reason to seek external validation or comply with certain standards. Even at the expense of being shunned from society, Meursault marches onwards as a stranger to his own life, indifferent to his actions in it, even after his senseless murder of someone who was a stranger to him. But are people truly not hardwired to feel guilt after committing violence?

This is getting a little depressing now. Considering the current state of the world, I feel myself shrinking more and more as I do my late-night doom scrolling that carries over when I wake up, feeling more sympathy for Meursault. Am I turning towards nihilism as a result of this project? (only partly joking)

“Maman used to say that you can always find something to be happy about.” (Camus 113). Throughout The Stranger, Meursault does not show much emotion, or care for that matter, for life. But it is in Meursault's final chapter that even he ultimately admits that despite seemingly apparent futility, there is a possibility that everything can change, and everything might actually have meaning. Warning- this is a very condensed and simplified moral of the story. In the least, it makes me feel a little better.

Perhaps the true enemy of war, all this time, has been war itself. Meta much? What I mean is that maybe I'm (and we're) not like Meursault after all. Or maybe we shouldn't be. When war is begun, there exists a tendency for violence to confound and contort basic moral principles that exist so clearly and naturally during peacetime. Fundamental pillars of society that were once universally agreed upon are no longer stable or supported. For as long as war endures, moral code and common logic suspends. Sometime amidst the fighting, social empathy becomes distorted- somewhere in the path of crossfire, hope for cooperation or diplomacy is lost.

So then, is it at all possible? Can happiness still exist amidst the turbulence of war? And if so, how? 

According to Pavlo Matyusha, a Ukrainian author and translator who joined the Armed Forces of Ukraine after the launch of Russia's 2022 invasion, happiness exists in hope. "Happiness in the belief in distant horizons for yourself and your children." It is crucial that we must search deeply to see ourselves in each other in times of war and civil unrest. Despite deep conflict, we must reach within and introspect. Somewhere along the way, we can begin again unraveling our basic human empathy to prioritize peace and bring forth meaningful, necessary change. 

Enter a world where the goal of war has nothing to do with revenge; instead, is ultimately just reaching an overarching sense of peace. A world that initially seemed distant, too far gone beneath all of the atrocity and loss. A world where, when reached, despite the mess of it all, we remember hope to be the truest thing of all, the hinge on the chain link that bonds us all together, where hope acts as a concept transcendent even across opposing forces.