I've always been a dog person, more specifically a big dog person. We had a cat once, but it made multiple members of my family bleed and ran away within a month, so we took that as a sign. Since I was born, my family had hosted no dogs other than Golden Retrievers and Labradors; little frou-frou, ankle-biting canine pests were never our type, and to be honest, we scoffed at the families that had them sometimes. Of course, only by the work of my baby sister did we end up getting a little surprise at Christmas last year, a Maltepoo (Maltese and Poodle, what could be worse), puppy we decided to call Daisy.
My brother and I did not welcome Daisy into the family like we should have; we already had a Black Lab named Shadow that my brother and I love to death, but no... Claire needs a dog that's going to stay little forever. So thus, we had to deal with Daisy.
To be honest though, my liking for Daisy came very quickly. She would lay on my chest and fall asleep right along with me on those warm nights I would spend watching TV on the couch; as my mother started to say "she probably thinks you're her mama." I still resent that statement, but regardless Daisy and I bonded quickly, and I have come to love her for the odd dog she is today.
Saying that dog is the weirdest animal I know would probably be an understatement. Like illustrated in the previous paragraph, she has a more calm side to her, but boy can that change fast. Whenever we go out to play fetch with Shadow, she will simply wait by his side til he takes off running after the ball, and then follow him biting his ankles the entire way. Shadow doesn't seem to mind, but honestly I think he's too dumb to know what's going on (that's why we love him).
Having a quirky dog comes at a price though, one that can be gross and unsanitary at times. Daisy loves new people with a passion, and when I mean love I mean loses control of her bodily functions love. Multiple people have been struck by the monster that is her bladder control: as she jumps on your leg, screaming with her eyes, "Hold me please! I'm adorable and fluffy!," don't be fooled. Those who are will pick her up and promptly be sprinkled by a stream of dog urine. I don't know if that dog thinks it's funny or she legitimately has a problem, but either way it's gross, and we just kind of deal with it.
As disgusting as that is, it's just one of those oddities that has made Daisy the dog that we've come to love today. Even though Jake and I despised her existence at first, I think we have both come to accept her and her quirky self as someone that fits right in with the Hockett family. And besides, Shadow is really dumb. He needs someone there to help him out in those tough doggy-life decisions.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
The Great Outdoors
If you didn't catch on in my blog about hunting and my most relaxing moment, I love the outdoors more than anything in the world. Whether it be hunting, fishing, camping or just going for a walk, I just can't get enough of this beauty that the good Lord provided for all of us. For this instance though, I want to talk about a spur of the moment camping trip two friends and I took just a few weeks ago that I will never forget, specifically that night.
We had just returned from a game of night golf, all pretty exhausted and pretty much ready to settle down at camp. The weather was perfect: slightly warm, but a cool breeze blowing without fail keeping us comfortable. Unfortunately, there was a burn ban in the county (much needed though, seeing that this place was near the Possum Kingdom area that is being ravaged by wildfires currently), but in reality we needed no fire to be happy.
Make fun of me all you want for this next statement, but there's just something that happens when fine men get together with fine tobacco. Something great. As Tyler and I lit our cigars for the occasion, he, Ryan and I started talking, talking about pretty much anything. Of course there was talk of women and such things like relationships (what we have come to call "bro talk"), and it's talk like that that really lets you take a load of. Emotions like that can really build up and be a big burden, and I know I don't only speak for myself when I say it feels great to get that stuff off your chest.
The fine conversation continued, stuff we were excited to hear, and maybe even some truths we didn't want to accept but we knew we had to. Unadulterated fellowship and conversation is great, and combined with a great smoke with great friends and some of the most beautiful stars I have seen in ages, I could not have felt like I could be at a better place in my life.
As the glow our our cigars began to fade away along with our abilities to keep our eyes open, sleep was now on our minds. We had set up a tent, but we all had a better idea for that night; there was no way we weren't sleeping under the beautiful show God put up for us in the sky. So with that we slipped into our sleeping bags, laying against the long, Texas grass ready to sleep under the stars. It took me a long time to fall asleep last night, but in the best way possible. Never did I close my eyes to put myself to sleep, I simply stared into the eyes of the beautiful beast that was the night sky, littered with light that I know only my God could have put there with his own hands.
I don't remember when I fell asleep that night, but I do remember waking up later than I ever expected to in the heat of the sun, with no memory of dreams but only of those euphoric few hours my friends and I spent with mother nature the night before.
We had just returned from a game of night golf, all pretty exhausted and pretty much ready to settle down at camp. The weather was perfect: slightly warm, but a cool breeze blowing without fail keeping us comfortable. Unfortunately, there was a burn ban in the county (much needed though, seeing that this place was near the Possum Kingdom area that is being ravaged by wildfires currently), but in reality we needed no fire to be happy.
Make fun of me all you want for this next statement, but there's just something that happens when fine men get together with fine tobacco. Something great. As Tyler and I lit our cigars for the occasion, he, Ryan and I started talking, talking about pretty much anything. Of course there was talk of women and such things like relationships (what we have come to call "bro talk"), and it's talk like that that really lets you take a load of. Emotions like that can really build up and be a big burden, and I know I don't only speak for myself when I say it feels great to get that stuff off your chest.
The fine conversation continued, stuff we were excited to hear, and maybe even some truths we didn't want to accept but we knew we had to. Unadulterated fellowship and conversation is great, and combined with a great smoke with great friends and some of the most beautiful stars I have seen in ages, I could not have felt like I could be at a better place in my life.
As the glow our our cigars began to fade away along with our abilities to keep our eyes open, sleep was now on our minds. We had set up a tent, but we all had a better idea for that night; there was no way we weren't sleeping under the beautiful show God put up for us in the sky. So with that we slipped into our sleeping bags, laying against the long, Texas grass ready to sleep under the stars. It took me a long time to fall asleep last night, but in the best way possible. Never did I close my eyes to put myself to sleep, I simply stared into the eyes of the beautiful beast that was the night sky, littered with light that I know only my God could have put there with his own hands.
I don't remember when I fell asleep that night, but I do remember waking up later than I ever expected to in the heat of the sun, with no memory of dreams but only of those euphoric few hours my friends and I spent with mother nature the night before.
A Memorable Teacher
I will always remember my first day of high school newspaper; I walked into the class with a few friends ready for just another regular class, but that’s not quite what I got. Not far behind us stooped in our teacher, a tallish, stubby man sweating very prominently who I would have the privilege of getting to know over the next three years of my life, a man named Cecil Kent Smith.
My first impression of the man wasn’t the best, his awkwardness was ridiculous. The large sweat stains hiding under his armpits and the shakiness of his voice made him difficult to take serious. But as the days went by, I learned to like him; for some reason he let us call him “Coach” (his only classes were journalism and study hall) and he was much more relaxed than the other stereotypical high school teachers. However, Coach Smith wasn’t the perfect teacher; he unfortunately had the organizational skills of a 3rd grade boy.
It wasn’t that I had a bittersweet relationship with the guy or anything; I had always liked him, and never thought of him as a “bad teacher.” But going through three full years of spending at least an hour with Smith every weekday, I learned a lot, and not always through good example.
His personality and almost weirdness was something I really admired. I’d be sitting in the room trying to study for some test I had coming up, but even though he saw me busy he would still bring up last night’s big game to me or something like that, and as much as I didn’t want to, I’d find myself having an hour long conversation about the Rangers by the time I had to go in for my test. I may have suffered in U.S. History a little bit, but at the same time it turned my mood from stressful to spirited.
Lots of things he said to me were meaningful too, my most remembered being “When somebody is doing something right, let ‘em know.” I’ve noticed how much this actually helps when you work, and from both perspectives. It gives the worker a sense of reward, and also helps the giver of the advice to keep his workers’ spirits high and keep them productive.
Like I said though, Smith was no perfect man. The staff would spend many late nights trying to finish the paper for press due to his lack of prior planning, and more than a few times did the paper accidentally run unprofessional headlines for stories (for example, one issue a basketball headline was “BALLIN’,” nothing more, nothing less). This reflected his personal organization too; I one time went to his car for him only to find it filled with breadcrumbs, paper, clothes and even a half empty can of Old Spice. Despite it all, I learned from Smith’s flaws. No good person can be perfect, and from this I strived to keep myself more organized than my teacher counterpart. I also discovered that organization is the framework of all large-scale things, and without it everything can fall apart.
My memories will always live on for Kent Smith, who sadly took a better job at another school a few summers ago, and I will never cease to be amazed about how interesting of a person he was and how he impacted me. From breadcrumbs to baseball, Kent Smith was a man of a man.
My first impression of the man wasn’t the best, his awkwardness was ridiculous. The large sweat stains hiding under his armpits and the shakiness of his voice made him difficult to take serious. But as the days went by, I learned to like him; for some reason he let us call him “Coach” (his only classes were journalism and study hall) and he was much more relaxed than the other stereotypical high school teachers. However, Coach Smith wasn’t the perfect teacher; he unfortunately had the organizational skills of a 3rd grade boy.
It wasn’t that I had a bittersweet relationship with the guy or anything; I had always liked him, and never thought of him as a “bad teacher.” But going through three full years of spending at least an hour with Smith every weekday, I learned a lot, and not always through good example.
His personality and almost weirdness was something I really admired. I’d be sitting in the room trying to study for some test I had coming up, but even though he saw me busy he would still bring up last night’s big game to me or something like that, and as much as I didn’t want to, I’d find myself having an hour long conversation about the Rangers by the time I had to go in for my test. I may have suffered in U.S. History a little bit, but at the same time it turned my mood from stressful to spirited.
Lots of things he said to me were meaningful too, my most remembered being “When somebody is doing something right, let ‘em know.” I’ve noticed how much this actually helps when you work, and from both perspectives. It gives the worker a sense of reward, and also helps the giver of the advice to keep his workers’ spirits high and keep them productive.
Like I said though, Smith was no perfect man. The staff would spend many late nights trying to finish the paper for press due to his lack of prior planning, and more than a few times did the paper accidentally run unprofessional headlines for stories (for example, one issue a basketball headline was “BALLIN’,” nothing more, nothing less). This reflected his personal organization too; I one time went to his car for him only to find it filled with breadcrumbs, paper, clothes and even a half empty can of Old Spice. Despite it all, I learned from Smith’s flaws. No good person can be perfect, and from this I strived to keep myself more organized than my teacher counterpart. I also discovered that organization is the framework of all large-scale things, and without it everything can fall apart.
My memories will always live on for Kent Smith, who sadly took a better job at another school a few summers ago, and I will never cease to be amazed about how interesting of a person he was and how he impacted me. From breadcrumbs to baseball, Kent Smith was a man of a man.
Men and Musicals
I’ll be honest, I never really enjoyed the whole Disney “High School Musical” scene. The athlete-turned-thespian drama always seemed really tacky, and the plot line was ridiculous. However, not in a million years would I have guessed that my last couple of years of high school turned out to be, in one way or another, strangely similar to this tweenage movie series.
To clear things up, my experience was most certainly not anything identical to the movies; I was definitely not the school’s star athlete, I can’t exactly sing or dance, nor did I have a beautiful girlfriend who’s going to Stanford and also happens to share similar interests with me. As spectacular of a life as that would be, it didn't really happen, and probably never will. Don’t pity me though. My non-fantasy high school extracurriculars and/or love life were in fact just peachy.
Now for the weird part. After two years of playing football and realizing that having to stand out in the Texas heat without reward isn’t fun, I quit. The next year, I took Theatre I just to get my fine arts credit over with, but guess who ended up liking this whole deal? I then proceeded to try out for the musical my senior year, and with no past experience managed to get the role in which I was interested. Don’t call me Troy Bolton, but I’m starting to feel for that slightly effeminate heterosexual.
I don’t want to come off as pretentious, but it just struck me how this fiasco fell into place. Football just wasn’t my scene; I found myself sitting on the sidelines, well, just not wanting to play. But this whole inner-thespian thing I found somewhere in myself was quite a pleasant surprise.
Playing my character in the musical, “Good News!,” was entertainment in itself; being Beef Saunders just never got old. It was strange at first though, because the character was described as the “hulking brute of the football team,” and if you know me, I’m really no brute.
However, becoming Beef was interesting; I had to turn my voice into that of a creatine-raging fullback, but at first it just sounded like a pirate with emphysema-not really one of Beef’s character traits. Also important was my “jock-walk,” which is basically walking like you have weights tied to your neck and a balloon in your chest.
All of this may sound silly, but honestly the whole situation depends on the perspective you take on things when judging what’s cool and what you think you might be interested in. So if this anecdote was completely senseless to you, at least take these three things:
1. Men in musicals are not fruitcakes.
2. Zac Efron may not be as much of a tool as we think he is.
3. And lastly, if there’s something you really want to get involved in, just do it, no matter what other people or things may dictate to you. Go Frogs.
To clear things up, my experience was most certainly not anything identical to the movies; I was definitely not the school’s star athlete, I can’t exactly sing or dance, nor did I have a beautiful girlfriend who’s going to Stanford and also happens to share similar interests with me. As spectacular of a life as that would be, it didn't really happen, and probably never will. Don’t pity me though. My non-fantasy high school extracurriculars and/or love life were in fact just peachy.
Now for the weird part. After two years of playing football and realizing that having to stand out in the Texas heat without reward isn’t fun, I quit. The next year, I took Theatre I just to get my fine arts credit over with, but guess who ended up liking this whole deal? I then proceeded to try out for the musical my senior year, and with no past experience managed to get the role in which I was interested. Don’t call me Troy Bolton, but I’m starting to feel for that slightly effeminate heterosexual.
I don’t want to come off as pretentious, but it just struck me how this fiasco fell into place. Football just wasn’t my scene; I found myself sitting on the sidelines, well, just not wanting to play. But this whole inner-thespian thing I found somewhere in myself was quite a pleasant surprise.
Playing my character in the musical, “Good News!,” was entertainment in itself; being Beef Saunders just never got old. It was strange at first though, because the character was described as the “hulking brute of the football team,” and if you know me, I’m really no brute.
However, becoming Beef was interesting; I had to turn my voice into that of a creatine-raging fullback, but at first it just sounded like a pirate with emphysema-not really one of Beef’s character traits. Also important was my “jock-walk,” which is basically walking like you have weights tied to your neck and a balloon in your chest.
All of this may sound silly, but honestly the whole situation depends on the perspective you take on things when judging what’s cool and what you think you might be interested in. So if this anecdote was completely senseless to you, at least take these three things:
1. Men in musicals are not fruitcakes.
2. Zac Efron may not be as much of a tool as we think he is.
3. And lastly, if there’s something you really want to get involved in, just do it, no matter what other people or things may dictate to you. Go Frogs.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Heaven on Earth
In such a stressful time of life, sometimes it's nice just to take a step back. Stop worrying about the matter at hand for just a moment, and breathe. Just... relax. Here is the most relaxing moment I've ever had in my life.
5:30 a.m., January 2 2009, my dad and I just climbed into the blind on our annual New Year's deer hunt. It's quiet as can be outside, and only the light of the dimly lit sky sheds visibility onto the Texas landscape. I sit down, take a deep breath, and exhale to see my breath appear before me, however as one might think I did not feel cold. I had dressed well for the morning. It was time to wait.
The sun slowly rose in the east, bringing the warm colors of the plains alive from their hiding in the night. We could practically see the dew setting on the mixed grasses surrounding us, and the night fog was pierced and disappeared with the coming of the sunlight. I had nearly forgotten about the purpose of my presence until the sounds of life burst forth from the scene.
Before we saw any deer at all, nearly a hundred turkeys filled the pasture, the toms strutting around like high school freshman in pursuit of their first date. Turkey are funny birds, yet keen and beautiful at the same time. I again forgot my purpose for the morning.
Finally, as what seemed to be Pachelbel's Canon in Gobble came to a close, the deer ascended from the deep brush where they had been bedded for the night, creeping along the outside of the field as not to intrude with the symphony in the middle. I saw my target, the young buck with a wide antler spread and clearly the dominant male of his chums. My relaxation was beginning to fade with nervousness of the shot I was about to make. I put it past me, took my aim and pulled the trigger.
At that moment, I saw the deer I had pursued drop to the ground. And the funny thing is, the entire scene experienced no change; the deer didn't move, the turkey continued their serenade, and the sun shined just as bright. I looked at the beautiful scene and embraced my success, and felt more relaxed than I had ever felt in my life.
In no other place do I feel more relaxed or at home than in the wild, raw world that the Lord has provided. And I will stand by that til I die.
5:30 a.m., January 2 2009, my dad and I just climbed into the blind on our annual New Year's deer hunt. It's quiet as can be outside, and only the light of the dimly lit sky sheds visibility onto the Texas landscape. I sit down, take a deep breath, and exhale to see my breath appear before me, however as one might think I did not feel cold. I had dressed well for the morning. It was time to wait.
The sun slowly rose in the east, bringing the warm colors of the plains alive from their hiding in the night. We could practically see the dew setting on the mixed grasses surrounding us, and the night fog was pierced and disappeared with the coming of the sunlight. I had nearly forgotten about the purpose of my presence until the sounds of life burst forth from the scene.
Before we saw any deer at all, nearly a hundred turkeys filled the pasture, the toms strutting around like high school freshman in pursuit of their first date. Turkey are funny birds, yet keen and beautiful at the same time. I again forgot my purpose for the morning.
Finally, as what seemed to be Pachelbel's Canon in Gobble came to a close, the deer ascended from the deep brush where they had been bedded for the night, creeping along the outside of the field as not to intrude with the symphony in the middle. I saw my target, the young buck with a wide antler spread and clearly the dominant male of his chums. My relaxation was beginning to fade with nervousness of the shot I was about to make. I put it past me, took my aim and pulled the trigger.
At that moment, I saw the deer I had pursued drop to the ground. And the funny thing is, the entire scene experienced no change; the deer didn't move, the turkey continued their serenade, and the sun shined just as bright. I looked at the beautiful scene and embraced my success, and felt more relaxed than I had ever felt in my life.
In no other place do I feel more relaxed or at home than in the wild, raw world that the Lord has provided. And I will stand by that til I die.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Samwise Gamg...Wilgus
So my mind is just on fire for blogging right now, so here we go for another one.
Friends have always been such an important part of my life, I have no idea where I would be without all of them. Making friends has never come as a hard task for me either, just due to the fact that I am very outgoing and easy to get along with. However there are certain friends of mine for which we share a different connection, one much more close and very odd compared to regular friendships. The friend of mine that best exemplifies this is my best friend growing up and in high school, Mr. Sam Barker Wilgus. But we just call him Sam.
Sam is by far the weirdest person I know, and for that I love him. Every year, and I mean every year, he is a hobbit for Halloween (and don't think that's the only occasion he walks around barefoot with his khaki pants rolled up and a pipe sitting in the corner of his mouth). He also was the Editor-In-Chief of our schools newspaper. And the funniest person I've ever met. Sam is the most eclectic person I know.
Some of you may have already made the LOTR connection in the title of this post, but if not, Samwise Gamge is the kindred-hearted hobbit from the series, a name I frequently call my buddy. Lord of the Rings is a common bond Sam and I share; we both love anything and everything to do with it. A few summers ago, Sam and I had the privilege of climbing a volcano in Guatemala while on a mission trip; if you haven't already guessed, we were giddy with joy and excitement. Yes, we called each other Sam and Frodo the entire time. Yes, we spoke with British accents without fail that day. And yes, we absolutely bought a plastic ring at the market and threw it into the lava at the top of the volcano. It's things like this why some people choose not to be friends with people like Sam and I, but we never cared because we loved it, no matter how stupid it was.
Sadly Sam and I have parted ways since last fall, he pursuing the ministry of the Lord at Wheaton College in Chicago (Sam is a modern day saint (his favorite is Saint Francis)), and me leaving Dallas for the far away land called Ft. Worth. But it's alright, because we keep up well and spend practically every waking moment together when in Dallas at the same time. We plan to one day go backpacking and kayaking through New Zealand when we have graduated; something we like to think we be our "lifetime reunion" trip.
This is starting to sound creepy though, like Sam and I are soulmates or something haha. Not quite, but I do love that kid to death. Sam is just a friend that I will cherish forever and hope to never lose, because he really has stayed with me through the bad and good and helped me become the man I am today.
Friends have always been such an important part of my life, I have no idea where I would be without all of them. Making friends has never come as a hard task for me either, just due to the fact that I am very outgoing and easy to get along with. However there are certain friends of mine for which we share a different connection, one much more close and very odd compared to regular friendships. The friend of mine that best exemplifies this is my best friend growing up and in high school, Mr. Sam Barker Wilgus. But we just call him Sam.
Sam is by far the weirdest person I know, and for that I love him. Every year, and I mean every year, he is a hobbit for Halloween (and don't think that's the only occasion he walks around barefoot with his khaki pants rolled up and a pipe sitting in the corner of his mouth). He also was the Editor-In-Chief of our schools newspaper. And the funniest person I've ever met. Sam is the most eclectic person I know.
Some of you may have already made the LOTR connection in the title of this post, but if not, Samwise Gamge is the kindred-hearted hobbit from the series, a name I frequently call my buddy. Lord of the Rings is a common bond Sam and I share; we both love anything and everything to do with it. A few summers ago, Sam and I had the privilege of climbing a volcano in Guatemala while on a mission trip; if you haven't already guessed, we were giddy with joy and excitement. Yes, we called each other Sam and Frodo the entire time. Yes, we spoke with British accents without fail that day. And yes, we absolutely bought a plastic ring at the market and threw it into the lava at the top of the volcano. It's things like this why some people choose not to be friends with people like Sam and I, but we never cared because we loved it, no matter how stupid it was.
Sadly Sam and I have parted ways since last fall, he pursuing the ministry of the Lord at Wheaton College in Chicago (Sam is a modern day saint (his favorite is Saint Francis)), and me leaving Dallas for the far away land called Ft. Worth. But it's alright, because we keep up well and spend practically every waking moment together when in Dallas at the same time. We plan to one day go backpacking and kayaking through New Zealand when we have graduated; something we like to think we be our "lifetime reunion" trip.
This is starting to sound creepy though, like Sam and I are soulmates or something haha. Not quite, but I do love that kid to death. Sam is just a friend that I will cherish forever and hope to never lose, because he really has stayed with me through the bad and good and helped me become the man I am today.
The Tank
Minus my one meeting with Hannah and her conversation partner, y'all might have realized via discussion in class that I've had bad luck with the ESL students. Either that, or my name translated to "jerkface" or "I hate you" in Chinese, Korean or whichever respective language the student speaks, because they refuse to respond to my emails. Awesome. But when Dr. Williams sent us the list of alternative blogging options, I opened the document and my eye was instantly drawn to one topic- write about your car.
Again as discussed in class, I drive a 1999 GMC Suburban that holds eight people comfortably (nine if you include the beach chair in the trunk that has not left my car since South Padre Island). He's got 180,000 miles on him, and to just drive strait you practically have to hold a hard left all the time. It smells kind of funny, shakes when you break 60 miles per hour, but it's all these things that I love about my car. A car so affectionately named Frank, the Tank, or Frank the Tank by my friends, with the recent addition of Deathtrap by one of more cautious driving peers (that name may or may not be more influenced by my style of driving).
I think what so attaches me to my car is the fact that I have been commuting in it for literally most of my lifetime, and by that I mean 13 years. Granted I haven't been driving the car since I was 6, it was the old family car, but when I took over the wheel at age 16 I felt like I had been driving that car for forever.
People ask if it sucks that I have to have an old hand-me-down car more often than you'd think, but my response is always no; I've made that car my own in uncountable ways. It may be the addition of the "party" seat in the trunk, or the 5-6 months spans when my car savvy friend and I will rip off the muffler just for kicks, making that car roar like the lion I think it is on the inside. If you can't tell by this great American novel I just wrote about an old piece of junk, I freaking love that car.
Sadly enough though I am starting to see the ol' Tank come close to his limit these days. Batteries seem to last shorter and shorter, trouble starting is more frequent, and multiple trips to the shop are just a hassle. That's ok though, because it's just the circle of life. Frank will go on to better things one of these days when he just can't be mine anymore, and I've accepted that. But someday in the future, I'll look back and remember the fits of laughter, private screams of anger and dismay, and experiences of a lifetime I had in that old Suburban.
Again as discussed in class, I drive a 1999 GMC Suburban that holds eight people comfortably (nine if you include the beach chair in the trunk that has not left my car since South Padre Island). He's got 180,000 miles on him, and to just drive strait you practically have to hold a hard left all the time. It smells kind of funny, shakes when you break 60 miles per hour, but it's all these things that I love about my car. A car so affectionately named Frank, the Tank, or Frank the Tank by my friends, with the recent addition of Deathtrap by one of more cautious driving peers (that name may or may not be more influenced by my style of driving).
I think what so attaches me to my car is the fact that I have been commuting in it for literally most of my lifetime, and by that I mean 13 years. Granted I haven't been driving the car since I was 6, it was the old family car, but when I took over the wheel at age 16 I felt like I had been driving that car for forever.
People ask if it sucks that I have to have an old hand-me-down car more often than you'd think, but my response is always no; I've made that car my own in uncountable ways. It may be the addition of the "party" seat in the trunk, or the 5-6 months spans when my car savvy friend and I will rip off the muffler just for kicks, making that car roar like the lion I think it is on the inside. If you can't tell by this great American novel I just wrote about an old piece of junk, I freaking love that car.
Sadly enough though I am starting to see the ol' Tank come close to his limit these days. Batteries seem to last shorter and shorter, trouble starting is more frequent, and multiple trips to the shop are just a hassle. That's ok though, because it's just the circle of life. Frank will go on to better things one of these days when he just can't be mine anymore, and I've accepted that. But someday in the future, I'll look back and remember the fits of laughter, private screams of anger and dismay, and experiences of a lifetime I had in that old Suburban.
ESL Time Finally!
Today was a huge day. I finally had my very first, wait for it, meeting with an ESL student. Granted it was not my own assigned one (Hannah invited me to come hang out with hers) but it was good to finally get an idea for what was going on in this far away land of foreign people.
The first thing I noticed was how strong her English seemed to be in the first place. From what I knew, these kids were not that familiar with the English language that well, yet Young seemed to be doing a fine job communicating with it. I thought to myself if I was hanging out with a bunch of Spanish speaking students, I would have no chance keeping up with them. Even after four or so years of class it would be really, really difficult to do so.
It was very interesting to see Young struggle with words, too. We were discussing the weather, comparing that of Korea and here. She said summers in Korea are hot, but different because of something. She tried to communicate that something, but just couldn't think of it so she busted out her little translator and showed me the word "moisture." I knew instantly: Korea is very humid. Hannah and I laughed and brought up Houston and how it must be similar.
When Hannah asked me if I wanted to meet with her conversation partner and her, I assumed we would just go somewhere were we could sit down and talk, but oh how was I wrong. We actually went to the Rec to play a little game of pool. It was nice because it was almost like an icebreaker for me; I got to interact and be competitive with her without struggle to keep up a conversation or anything. She was good too, I had to leave early, but from what I know when I left she picked up her game and schooled Hannah in our little game of cutthroat.
The last thing that struck me as so funny was Young's interaction with Hannah; she seemed to be acting like they were best friends, grabbing her arm when she laughed and such. Guess I just assumed that we Americans are far more touchy-feely that those of the eastern hemisphere, but I guess sometimes there are exceptions. Young and Hannah just seemed like besties, I was slightly jealous.
The first thing I noticed was how strong her English seemed to be in the first place. From what I knew, these kids were not that familiar with the English language that well, yet Young seemed to be doing a fine job communicating with it. I thought to myself if I was hanging out with a bunch of Spanish speaking students, I would have no chance keeping up with them. Even after four or so years of class it would be really, really difficult to do so.
It was very interesting to see Young struggle with words, too. We were discussing the weather, comparing that of Korea and here. She said summers in Korea are hot, but different because of something. She tried to communicate that something, but just couldn't think of it so she busted out her little translator and showed me the word "moisture." I knew instantly: Korea is very humid. Hannah and I laughed and brought up Houston and how it must be similar.
When Hannah asked me if I wanted to meet with her conversation partner and her, I assumed we would just go somewhere were we could sit down and talk, but oh how was I wrong. We actually went to the Rec to play a little game of pool. It was nice because it was almost like an icebreaker for me; I got to interact and be competitive with her without struggle to keep up a conversation or anything. She was good too, I had to leave early, but from what I know when I left she picked up her game and schooled Hannah in our little game of cutthroat.
The last thing that struck me as so funny was Young's interaction with Hannah; she seemed to be acting like they were best friends, grabbing her arm when she laughed and such. Guess I just assumed that we Americans are far more touchy-feely that those of the eastern hemisphere, but I guess sometimes there are exceptions. Young and Hannah just seemed like besties, I was slightly jealous.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber
So I've been excited about reading this story all year, ever since I learned it was about safari hunting in Africa (something I've always dreamed about doing one day), and needless to say it didn't disappoint me. It did, however shock me and make me think about hunting in ways I never have before, things that may now pop into my head come time in the deer stand this coming winter.
The characters in this story are incredible. I mean I hated the people they we're supposed to be, but they we're developed so well. On an initial level, I can kind of relate to Macomber. That initial nervousness the hunter gets when getting ready to take his animal is simply inevitable. Even white tailed deer hunting, I still get a little shaky in the hands and have to really keep my breathing steady when you see that deer in your crosshairs (buck fever my family has always called it).
So for that, I show no disrespect to Macomber, however when he runs from the animal that he made the conscious decision to shoot it the first place, that's my problem. So yes, Macomber is a coward. But lets bring Margot into this. She completely takes advantage of her husbands cowardice, far past anything that someone should do to help the other "learn." She kisses the guide and then sleeps with him the next night. I feel like something about that just isn't kosher. Not to offend anyone, but when Macomber calls her a "bitch," he's right. 100% right. Any good wife doesn't sleep around because their husband is a coward.
Then in the end comes the climax of the action, filled with excitement, disappointment and irony. Macomber finds his courage, like a "dam breaking" he says and no longer has any fear in his body, what his wife has been looking for in him all along. But now she realizes she's losing control of her advantage over him. Thus begins his "happy" life, which is soon cut "short" when he is getting ready to take down the buffalo with his new found courage. Except instead his wife shoots him, on "accident."
The characters are such morons, all except for Wilson who is just the rugged, independent man who facilitates all this action and helps create the great story that this is even despite the tragic downfalls of Macomber and Margot. I'll end my final short-story blog on this: if you and your spouse have a bad relationship, and especially if they are frequently cheating on you, don't take them hunting. It could end poorly.
The characters in this story are incredible. I mean I hated the people they we're supposed to be, but they we're developed so well. On an initial level, I can kind of relate to Macomber. That initial nervousness the hunter gets when getting ready to take his animal is simply inevitable. Even white tailed deer hunting, I still get a little shaky in the hands and have to really keep my breathing steady when you see that deer in your crosshairs (buck fever my family has always called it).
So for that, I show no disrespect to Macomber, however when he runs from the animal that he made the conscious decision to shoot it the first place, that's my problem. So yes, Macomber is a coward. But lets bring Margot into this. She completely takes advantage of her husbands cowardice, far past anything that someone should do to help the other "learn." She kisses the guide and then sleeps with him the next night. I feel like something about that just isn't kosher. Not to offend anyone, but when Macomber calls her a "bitch," he's right. 100% right. Any good wife doesn't sleep around because their husband is a coward.
Then in the end comes the climax of the action, filled with excitement, disappointment and irony. Macomber finds his courage, like a "dam breaking" he says and no longer has any fear in his body, what his wife has been looking for in him all along. But now she realizes she's losing control of her advantage over him. Thus begins his "happy" life, which is soon cut "short" when he is getting ready to take down the buffalo with his new found courage. Except instead his wife shoots him, on "accident."
The characters are such morons, all except for Wilson who is just the rugged, independent man who facilitates all this action and helps create the great story that this is even despite the tragic downfalls of Macomber and Margot. I'll end my final short-story blog on this: if you and your spouse have a bad relationship, and especially if they are frequently cheating on you, don't take them hunting. It could end poorly.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Hills Like White Elephants
I’m sitting here trying to think of my first reaction to Hills Like White Elephants, and honestly, I can’t think of one. When I first started reading, I assumed they were in Africa, knowing Hemingway’s history of writing of the dark continent, and the fact that everything seemed to be hot and wild. Oh, and plus the fact that they were talking about elephants, it just screamed Africa to me. Then he mentioned Madrid and Barcelona, so that shut my idea down pretty fast.
So I got over the fact that I was wrong there and kept reading, hoping to maybe gain a little more insight into what the story actually meant. There seemed to be two recurring things throughout the body of the story: alcohol and some “thing” that the man and woman were arguing about, and I had no idea what the latter was. I read and I read, but all they seemed to be saying was “should we do it?,” “only if you want to,” “but do you want to?,” “only if you want to.” It was frustrating, and I felt like I was listening to a freshman couple at their first high school dance.
Finally though, towards the end, something started clicking. Love was brought up. The man said no matter what she did, he would love her either way like he loves her now, and more things of this matter. An idea had popped into my head. “Marriage!” I though. “They are one of those weird couple who are too scared to take that final step of marriage even though they love each other!” I was so content with myself, and as they story ended, I felt like a literary genius.
Noooooope. I decided I’d look up an analysis of the story for a better look into it, and practically every one of them started with “this story is an obvious symbol of the struggles of abortion.” Well crap. But as I looked back at the story and thought more about it, I actually found abortion to be the most obvious symbol in the story. The heat in the beginning setting a tense tone right off the bat, and as the website stated, the two train directions representing the two ways they could go with their life: settling down or continue their adventurous lifestyle.
It’s funny how Hemingway works, using the physical aspects of places and things to represent emotion and feeling so well. But I like it, his stories can always be presented like a portrait of the African savannah, but in reality be the story of that savannah itself. I’m not sure if that made any sense at all, but it does in my head, and it’s pretty cool.
So I got over the fact that I was wrong there and kept reading, hoping to maybe gain a little more insight into what the story actually meant. There seemed to be two recurring things throughout the body of the story: alcohol and some “thing” that the man and woman were arguing about, and I had no idea what the latter was. I read and I read, but all they seemed to be saying was “should we do it?,” “only if you want to,” “but do you want to?,” “only if you want to.” It was frustrating, and I felt like I was listening to a freshman couple at their first high school dance.
Finally though, towards the end, something started clicking. Love was brought up. The man said no matter what she did, he would love her either way like he loves her now, and more things of this matter. An idea had popped into my head. “Marriage!” I though. “They are one of those weird couple who are too scared to take that final step of marriage even though they love each other!” I was so content with myself, and as they story ended, I felt like a literary genius.
Noooooope. I decided I’d look up an analysis of the story for a better look into it, and practically every one of them started with “this story is an obvious symbol of the struggles of abortion.” Well crap. But as I looked back at the story and thought more about it, I actually found abortion to be the most obvious symbol in the story. The heat in the beginning setting a tense tone right off the bat, and as the website stated, the two train directions representing the two ways they could go with their life: settling down or continue their adventurous lifestyle.
It’s funny how Hemingway works, using the physical aspects of places and things to represent emotion and feeling so well. But I like it, his stories can always be presented like a portrait of the African savannah, but in reality be the story of that savannah itself. I’m not sure if that made any sense at all, but it does in my head, and it’s pretty cool.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Pie Makes Everything Better...
Here I am again blogging for what I think is the second time within 12 hours, so I’m pretty impressed with myself. This time talking about Ten Indians, which strangely impacted me just like Cross-Country Snow did; the story did seem rather pointless, but nonetheless I connected with it.
The father-son relationship seems to be one of the most studied, talked about, and written about in history. Tales of men going out with their fathers on their first hunt, the fathers telling stories to the boy about hunters’ past and teaching him the lay of the land. The boy watches his father in admiration, wishing only to be like him one day. Other stories show a not-so-good influence of a father for his sone; the proverbial drunk man who wastes all his families money at the bar, comes home and beats the wife and kids, and does the same thing every day. The boy learns what not to be here, hopefully, but Hemingway seems to cover neither of these father-son relationships in Ten Indians.
In this short story, a more affectionate side of the relationship is shown, in one way or another. Nick’s love interest, Prudence (ironically named), is caught with another man by Nick’s father, who must break the news to him. The funny part about this is that his reaction is so typical of any confused dad who is trying to comfort his son emotionally for maybe the first time, he just has no idea how to. So, he gives him food. He breaks the news to heartbroken Nick, and then offers him lots and lots of pie. I love my dad, but I can just see him doing this himself, and it make me kind of sad but more just giddy at the same time. Mothers have traditionally satisfied the emotional need of children, but when Hemingway puts it the opposite it points out an odd and comical truth: Dads just aren’t the best people to talk about girls with.
In no way am I saying I or anybody shouldn’t go to their dad for advice, I do all the time. The truth that Hemingway brings out here is just so real, and I can’t seem to get over it. “Oh I’m sorry I caught your girlfriend cheating on you, how about some pie?” Then again if Nick was a girl, maybe the pie would’ve helped...
The father-son relationship seems to be one of the most studied, talked about, and written about in history. Tales of men going out with their fathers on their first hunt, the fathers telling stories to the boy about hunters’ past and teaching him the lay of the land. The boy watches his father in admiration, wishing only to be like him one day. Other stories show a not-so-good influence of a father for his sone; the proverbial drunk man who wastes all his families money at the bar, comes home and beats the wife and kids, and does the same thing every day. The boy learns what not to be here, hopefully, but Hemingway seems to cover neither of these father-son relationships in Ten Indians.
In this short story, a more affectionate side of the relationship is shown, in one way or another. Nick’s love interest, Prudence (ironically named), is caught with another man by Nick’s father, who must break the news to him. The funny part about this is that his reaction is so typical of any confused dad who is trying to comfort his son emotionally for maybe the first time, he just has no idea how to. So, he gives him food. He breaks the news to heartbroken Nick, and then offers him lots and lots of pie. I love my dad, but I can just see him doing this himself, and it make me kind of sad but more just giddy at the same time. Mothers have traditionally satisfied the emotional need of children, but when Hemingway puts it the opposite it points out an odd and comical truth: Dads just aren’t the best people to talk about girls with.
In no way am I saying I or anybody shouldn’t go to their dad for advice, I do all the time. The truth that Hemingway brings out here is just so real, and I can’t seem to get over it. “Oh I’m sorry I caught your girlfriend cheating on you, how about some pie?” Then again if Nick was a girl, maybe the pie would’ve helped...
Monday, March 21, 2011
Cross-Country Snow
So when I first told a fellow classmate today that I was finally going to blog, she told me it was the most boring story ever; it was just a plotless story about guys going skiing. This encouraged me to blog even more, so here I am. The reason behind this is that I just went skiing four days ago with a few guys, so I am now totally inspired to write about what I just read.
The first thing I love about Hemingway is his appreciation for the outdoors. The opening page of the story is all about the mountain, how serene it is up there in the snow and whooshes of the skis through the fresh powder. I've always been a lover of the outdoors myself, and am never more relaxed in any other place. Obviously here in Texas it isn't the snow that I'm around all the time, but the fresh smell of cedars and the sound of the soft river in the fall cannot make me a happier man.
Like I said earlier, the placement of this story in our reading schedule is perfect. Hemingway seems often to write of gender behavior. Male mostly, but female too. In this story, he hits it right on the head. Guys going out and doing something that can easily be competitive, making fun of each other for falling, and going out for drinks afterwards; this seems so alike to what men do for fun today. Honestly, this is exactly what my chums and I did on our ski trip, except sub the drinks for pizza and a trip to the Hot Springs. And it was great, really great. Even though he wrote these so much earlier in the century, it's strange to see how similar it is to a man's life today. Oh, and the "bro talk," as we call it, or talking about women in any way, shape or form; after a hard day's fun, it's essential to any gathering of good guy friends.
I also noticed Hemingway's connections to himself in the story. These could very well be wrong, but it just seemed too obvious. The men talk of how the American mountains just aren't anything as great as those in Europe, those of which I have to believe to be the Alps. This has got to have some connection to Hemingway being an expatriate and going abroad to Europe to write. Lastly are the women (it always seems to be like this with his writing...); there seems to be some sort of conflict between Nick and a pregnant lover of his named Helen. This instantly brought me back to the trouble Hemingway seemed to have with women throughout his lifetime.
Whatever this story is meant to mean or whatever connections we are supposed to establish, I just love it for how true it rings to the masculine lifestyle and how well Hemingway portrayed it even years and years ago.
The first thing I love about Hemingway is his appreciation for the outdoors. The opening page of the story is all about the mountain, how serene it is up there in the snow and whooshes of the skis through the fresh powder. I've always been a lover of the outdoors myself, and am never more relaxed in any other place. Obviously here in Texas it isn't the snow that I'm around all the time, but the fresh smell of cedars and the sound of the soft river in the fall cannot make me a happier man.
Like I said earlier, the placement of this story in our reading schedule is perfect. Hemingway seems often to write of gender behavior. Male mostly, but female too. In this story, he hits it right on the head. Guys going out and doing something that can easily be competitive, making fun of each other for falling, and going out for drinks afterwards; this seems so alike to what men do for fun today. Honestly, this is exactly what my chums and I did on our ski trip, except sub the drinks for pizza and a trip to the Hot Springs. And it was great, really great. Even though he wrote these so much earlier in the century, it's strange to see how similar it is to a man's life today. Oh, and the "bro talk," as we call it, or talking about women in any way, shape or form; after a hard day's fun, it's essential to any gathering of good guy friends.
I also noticed Hemingway's connections to himself in the story. These could very well be wrong, but it just seemed too obvious. The men talk of how the American mountains just aren't anything as great as those in Europe, those of which I have to believe to be the Alps. This has got to have some connection to Hemingway being an expatriate and going abroad to Europe to write. Lastly are the women (it always seems to be like this with his writing...); there seems to be some sort of conflict between Nick and a pregnant lover of his named Helen. This instantly brought me back to the trouble Hemingway seemed to have with women throughout his lifetime.
Whatever this story is meant to mean or whatever connections we are supposed to establish, I just love it for how true it rings to the masculine lifestyle and how well Hemingway portrayed it even years and years ago.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Time Magazine, April 18, 1927
As I cracked open the Time Magazine collection, I could tell I was into something I had never been exposed to. That is, a magazine with hardly any pictures and articles covering things I had never even heard of. As I read deeper into it though, my interest began to spark; I was recognizing companies in the advertisements and even connecting some of the articles with information I have learned in history classes over the past eight or so years.
The first aspect of the magazine that caught my eye was the advertisements (I suppose they are still doing their job even nearly a century out of relevance). Let me also say I specifically picked an issue of Time before the Great Depression, simply because that wasn’t something I was exactly in the mood to cover the excitement I am experiencing with Spring Break looming five day away. However because of this, I noticed certain things about the advertisements: they nearly all seemed to be about luxuries. This century was always known as the “Roaring Twenties;” businesses succeeding, happy people, and the introduction of buying on credit gave the American people every reason to have fun with their lives. Ads for luxuries such as fine stationaries (funny to see that advertised since the written word has nearly been phased out by our culture) littered the pages. Also present were pages advertising video cameras, cabins in the beautiful woods of Tacoma, and cigarettes. But not just regular cigarettes, Murad brand, “for the man who feels entitled to life’s better things.” Even though our country recently went through an economic slump, we live in a culture where luxury seems to be very important to everyone, and due to this these advertising schemes don’t seem too different to the ones we seem today. Though it is funny to think about how much this magazine had changed in entirety just a mere two or three years later.
While on my literary scavenger hunt, came across two articles that I found very interesting, and it was funny how pertinent each might be to the college lifestyle: prohibition and pornography. Obviously I’m not saying our campus needs prohibition nor is a pornography collection a staple to every student, but alcohol and sexuality are definitely rampant over college campuses.
The prohibition article isn’t even anything special, but it just sparked my though about the uproar that would occur if TCU were to be made a dry campus. Obviously the article was written before the 21st Amendment was ratified in 1933 repealing it, which made me think more. Does it look bad when a college switches from a dry to wet campus. To be honest, I feel like it might, almost like the school is giving in, saying “well, if they’re gonna do it anyway, might as well let ‘em.”
Even more striking than this is the article about a B. MacFadden who was frowned upon by the public eye for his production of pornographic material, and by that I mean a skit involving women in “scanty costume” being measured “for hip, breast, ankle, [and] calf dimensions” in order to get a job as a stenographer. It’s funny to see how this was called blasphemous back then, and today could practically be in a PG rated movie. If this is pornography, then you could practically call any party that goes on around here a pornographic presentation. With these two things being presented to the public’s eye in 1927, it really is a sight to see how much of a spectrum we can create of it in comparison to the lives we are all living today.
The first aspect of the magazine that caught my eye was the advertisements (I suppose they are still doing their job even nearly a century out of relevance). Let me also say I specifically picked an issue of Time before the Great Depression, simply because that wasn’t something I was exactly in the mood to cover the excitement I am experiencing with Spring Break looming five day away. However because of this, I noticed certain things about the advertisements: they nearly all seemed to be about luxuries. This century was always known as the “Roaring Twenties;” businesses succeeding, happy people, and the introduction of buying on credit gave the American people every reason to have fun with their lives. Ads for luxuries such as fine stationaries (funny to see that advertised since the written word has nearly been phased out by our culture) littered the pages. Also present were pages advertising video cameras, cabins in the beautiful woods of Tacoma, and cigarettes. But not just regular cigarettes, Murad brand, “for the man who feels entitled to life’s better things.” Even though our country recently went through an economic slump, we live in a culture where luxury seems to be very important to everyone, and due to this these advertising schemes don’t seem too different to the ones we seem today. Though it is funny to think about how much this magazine had changed in entirety just a mere two or three years later.
While on my literary scavenger hunt, came across two articles that I found very interesting, and it was funny how pertinent each might be to the college lifestyle: prohibition and pornography. Obviously I’m not saying our campus needs prohibition nor is a pornography collection a staple to every student, but alcohol and sexuality are definitely rampant over college campuses.
The prohibition article isn’t even anything special, but it just sparked my though about the uproar that would occur if TCU were to be made a dry campus. Obviously the article was written before the 21st Amendment was ratified in 1933 repealing it, which made me think more. Does it look bad when a college switches from a dry to wet campus. To be honest, I feel like it might, almost like the school is giving in, saying “well, if they’re gonna do it anyway, might as well let ‘em.”
Even more striking than this is the article about a B. MacFadden who was frowned upon by the public eye for his production of pornographic material, and by that I mean a skit involving women in “scanty costume” being measured “for hip, breast, ankle, [and] calf dimensions” in order to get a job as a stenographer. It’s funny to see how this was called blasphemous back then, and today could practically be in a PG rated movie. If this is pornography, then you could practically call any party that goes on around here a pornographic presentation. With these two things being presented to the public’s eye in 1927, it really is a sight to see how much of a spectrum we can create of it in comparison to the lives we are all living today.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Gettin' Modern
So I’ve definitely never been anyone who’s huge into the art scene, but then again I’ve never had anything against it. I mean I’ll look at a piece of art for a minute or so and try to find out what it means but mostly just because its aesthetically pleasing, but just can’t stand and stare for an hour like some. I still enjoy art though, don’t get me wrong. I’m a huge doodler, so there’s something down in me that can show my interest in it. All this being said, my trip to the Modern was... interesting.
The first thing I noticed about the modern was the people there; they’re really weird, especially the children. For example, before we even entered the building, my friends and I were just chilling in the echo tower when a small, lanky child with curly hair, braces and glasses as think as soda cans popped out from behind the wall and screamed in attempt to scare us. We walked away quietly. Also, my friend claimed to have made awkward eye contact with a small child wearing a cowboy hat with regular clothes throughout the afternoon. Needless to say, I tried my best not to judge.
To the real point though, which was the art inside the museum on its walls, or in this case possibly on the floor, or suspended mid air. That was the first thing I had come to love at the Modern: it wasn’t normal. One very interesting piece was what appeared to be a sea foam green wave of cellophane along the ground in one room. Little did I know that at a closer look, they were all individually wrapped candies, and according to a friends knowledge, are meant to be taken. We took our candies, and I kept looking at the “art.” It confused me, but I liked it.
We proceeded on upstairs where I found my favorite piece, ones man’s depiction of Noah’s Ark. Not only were the animals beautiful (I’m a sucker for anything nature related, but when I looked past them, there was something incredibly intriguing about the background. You could see the ensuing dangers of the storm, and it struck a fear into my eyes I’m sure similar to Noah’s as he got on. Actually he was probably a lot more scared, seeing the he was actually there. But either way, I was dumbfounded by how the background of something could simply make me feel like that.
Lastly, a piece that had me thinking was the book with wing sculpture. Especially the way the museum presents it, it looks holy and divine floating there by itself. The first thing I though of was that it was trying to say something about reading. Maybe that reading gives you the wings you need to fly. The ironic thing is that it’s made of lead so it never could fly, what I thought could possibly represent our generations disrespect for the written word. Whatever it meant, that one really had my brain churning.
Among many other pieces at the Modern, I definitely walked out feeling I had not wasted my time. Talking and reading about modernism so much, it was good to put pictures with words. Enjoying the museum as much as I did, I felt an oncoming excitement to continually pursue modernism this semester.
The first thing I noticed about the modern was the people there; they’re really weird, especially the children. For example, before we even entered the building, my friends and I were just chilling in the echo tower when a small, lanky child with curly hair, braces and glasses as think as soda cans popped out from behind the wall and screamed in attempt to scare us. We walked away quietly. Also, my friend claimed to have made awkward eye contact with a small child wearing a cowboy hat with regular clothes throughout the afternoon. Needless to say, I tried my best not to judge.
To the real point though, which was the art inside the museum on its walls, or in this case possibly on the floor, or suspended mid air. That was the first thing I had come to love at the Modern: it wasn’t normal. One very interesting piece was what appeared to be a sea foam green wave of cellophane along the ground in one room. Little did I know that at a closer look, they were all individually wrapped candies, and according to a friends knowledge, are meant to be taken. We took our candies, and I kept looking at the “art.” It confused me, but I liked it.
We proceeded on upstairs where I found my favorite piece, ones man’s depiction of Noah’s Ark. Not only were the animals beautiful (I’m a sucker for anything nature related, but when I looked past them, there was something incredibly intriguing about the background. You could see the ensuing dangers of the storm, and it struck a fear into my eyes I’m sure similar to Noah’s as he got on. Actually he was probably a lot more scared, seeing the he was actually there. But either way, I was dumbfounded by how the background of something could simply make me feel like that.
Lastly, a piece that had me thinking was the book with wing sculpture. Especially the way the museum presents it, it looks holy and divine floating there by itself. The first thing I though of was that it was trying to say something about reading. Maybe that reading gives you the wings you need to fly. The ironic thing is that it’s made of lead so it never could fly, what I thought could possibly represent our generations disrespect for the written word. Whatever it meant, that one really had my brain churning.
Among many other pieces at the Modern, I definitely walked out feeling I had not wasted my time. Talking and reading about modernism so much, it was good to put pictures with words. Enjoying the museum as much as I did, I felt an oncoming excitement to continually pursue modernism this semester.
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