Captured and Lost: Reflection on How Images Taint and Manipulate Memory
One thought that has been pulsing through my mind is the irreparability of memory lost to images. With the collection of moving and still images, we concentrate our memory on that which we repeatedly observe. What we begin to most remember no longer is the recollection of the event, but the recollection of what these images present to us.
The Monkey of Humanity
Specifically, in drawings throughout the late 18th century, Europeans viewed non-white people as closer to apes, hence uncivilized. Prior to photography, audio recording, and quick transcontinental transportation, local Europeans relied on drawings and journals from European explorers to understand the world beyond their immediate borders. So the question then becomes, how do Western European’s representation of observational drawings relating to apes and indigenous people propagate Europe’s colonial endeavors in Southeast Asia in the late 18th century?
When We Stop Listening
Today I have finished my 192 paged A4 Dingbats notebook. I have spent the last 359 days carving into its pages with anger, panic, sadness, joy, love. Here is one of the poems that I wrote nearly a year ago, that would otherwise be forgotten to the bookshelves that harbour away the confessions of my past.
First Impressions of San Francisco (two weeks in)
My goal with these entries is to describe my travels: what I see, what I experience, what I learn, and what I feel. With any big shift, the world seems to be moving faster than I can keep up with so I will try my best to give frequent reflections on living in San Francisco.
The Neon Glow, Reflecting Upon Growing Up
It’s night— sky starless, streetlights absent, roads barn of human life except for the neon sign illuminating in the distance. There is a sensational pull of light mimicking the insect attractions to all that glows as we grown closer to its source. It’s 8:43 pm. Seems early for the world to be asleep beyond the sign that welcomes us. And welcome we are to a place none other than Burger King, home of the Impossible Whopper.
Recounting Allegany: Black Bears, Barefoot Hikes, and Beautiful Nights
This past week I went on my first adult-less trip. I mean, technically, 18 legally constitutes an adult, but socially, we all know 18-year-old boys aren’t exactly mature.
My friends John and Andrew joined me on a 4-day camping trip to Allegany State Park in New York.
How to Create Your Sustainable Dorm Room
What if we reframed our college itinerary to buying what we NEED and doing so in an eco-friendly way? Buying less, buying things that will last, and buying things that are an investment not only to our youthful and aging selves but also to the planet.
Precision and Ambiguity: The Role of History in Rosanna Warren’s Poem “The Mink”
Throughout Rosanna Warren’s poem “The Mink,” the speaker compares her constant remembrance of one of her memories to the predatory nature of a mink. Through the mink’s movements, Warren shares the infinitely guaranteed presence of history that nobody can willfully remove, while also emphasizing the ambiguity of how that history will take shape in day-to-day life.
Symptoms of Society
The constant flare in my mind exists in the hopelessness I sometimes feel for humanity. My generation is addicted to a virtual world so deeply that even the most peaceful of places serve only a drop of fulfillment. It’s scary.
Dear Stephanie
Dear Stephanie,
Last time you posted you were in no way in a happy place. A fog loomed over you: polluted, irritable, and isolating. You could hardly see your own hands when looking down (and looking down you did a lot). You were so focused on trying to breathe, you hardly felt the sensation of a smile. Life was stagnant, and the earthquakes in your head were ever prevalent.
Exploitation with Diction
Recently, writing these blogs has increased in difficulty. It is not that I am running out of things that I am delighted by. Actually, it’s quite the opposite. I am so much more cognizant of the small joys in life, but when it comes to bringing any of them to this blog, I feel a degree of guilt.
Scrap Thoughts
“Paintings are not just the strokes that meet the surface as your eyes piece together abstractions that form a landscape. Paintings are layers of forgotten hues, forgotten memories, forgotten strokes hidden from everyone except the one who put them there.”
Things I’ve Learned
Here are a few things I’ve learned in the past few days. Take what you may from them, and interpret them how you wish. I just want to get some of my thoughts into the world :)
Memories of Ash, a poem
The days pass by like a burning page
curling at the edges
as flames destroy any ounce
of physicality except for a
single piece of ash
that is memory.
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