"The Academy": Nursing Home for the Academic-Aged

Sorry for being so meager in the posting area...I dont' know why but for some reason it jsut hasn't been in me to write of late...That's actually a lie. I do know why. I would like to first make note of the wonderful, albeit anonymous, comment that was left on my last post. I really enjoyed reading it, of course relating to much of it. And it had a nice tone. I only wish I knew who posted it... And you know it's extremely annoying because I can't figure out how to start a new paragraph on this blog. So consider a new parapgraph begun. I often feel like I have been alive forever and at my young age I feel like I have already experienced a multitude of movements in thought and experience. I was sitting in my natural philosophy class today with an eclectic bunch of american college students and it struck me poignantly how old I have gotten. I mockingly chuckled inside silently at the eager student next to me who showed interest in picking the prof.'s brain for knowledge for he has yet to hold his own position and value his own thought more. He still pathetically approaches the educator like a lost sheep, a man possessing a thirst of which only someone who actually knows something could quench. He still views the world in a systematic catalogue of course-categories, his entire perception of knowledge reflected in the courses he has taken that he proudly mentions as a way to provide a sense of stability and validity for his thought and opinion, for himself. He thinks himself intelligent because he can take classes at expensive universities, because he can tell the prof. that he took a class that discussed the relationship between science and art and that the conclusion was that art is ultimately based on perception while science is ultimately based on a clear fact, to which the prof. responded, "well at least that's supposed to be the plan. And how did I appreciate her well-worded response. It was encouraging yet undermining and cynical simultaneously. And I liked her. It was the perfect blend of empathy with the human condition and appreciation and respect for all members of humanity since we are all specks of stardust (as my astronomy prof. likes us to recall often) and the protective and sweet facade of a serious, interested, and engaged thinker who has thought and negated and thoguht many times more all of the thoughts in the head of the 20 yr old standing in front of her. It was perfectly respectful all the while protecting her secrets. And I was struck by her persona. I think she did a good job. She gets an A. You see because I was mocking him. It struck me how uinversity is the time where people begin to think, and some don't start until the end, some never at all. (I don't know why but this was a novel concept to me...again-I do know why, bc that's me, but whatever, you get it.) And at some point later in life, after they have all entertained a multitude of ideas and drawn conclusions and correlations, after Aritstotle, Copernicus, Bruno, Galileo, Newton and Einstein, after the pomp and flair of academica has subsided and having risen themselves, the cloud of glory dissipates, they will get to the point of realization that all serious academics have to get to when they realize the lack of intense significance attached to anything and the pathetic-ness of position and formal academia. That all knowledge is somewhat trite, that thought occurs in patterns and that originality is perhaps nonexistent. And at best they just hopelessly continue, at worst, madly cast themselves into the basement on some arbitrary shelf with the Book of Sand, or escape into the cosmos, mentally or physically into some unknown blackhole. But that is not supposed to happen until later, after one is an accomplished academic. It hit me that my fellow students are in the beginning of the "discovery process", that many of them have not even begun it, and I stand on the other side next to my prof. annoyed by simplicity and simple passion and I feel old. Like this shuldn't be happening for another 20 yrs or something. And I only wonder, what comes next? Is it jsut a grander, richer experience of some previous stage of mine, or is there perhaps, maybe, something somewhere waiting for me that is new? I can't concieve of it, dont' believe it, but hope, just hope it is there, somewhere. In other news, my ankle is hurting in a new place and I'm nervous I injured a different tendon...shhh! Don't tell!! I started choreographing (wiht my coach that is) a new program to "Man in the Iron Mask". It's lovely if I may say so myself. And I want to get a telescope...except my parents are already getting me new blades for my birthday so I don't know how I'm going to work that one out...especially because if I'm going to get one I want to get a good one, otherwise I'll jsut end up getting another one later and that's a waste of money. Alright-over and out.

the proportions of crisis: in reaction to "art school confidential"

so i just got back from this incredible independent film in this quaint theatre i recently discovered, with my friend. its called art school confidential, the film that is. i would have appreciated it no matter what but it definitely affected my experience, the fact that i just took a class called art and literature last semester, in which we really covered a lot of literature regarding art and watched the interpretation of two of the novels we read into film. so there was an additional cerebral layer added to my viewing of the film...which was both enriching, and yet exhausting, i was forced to see the film analytically, forced to filter it through my previous knowledge of the subject, forced to understand the exact relationship of ideas being portrayed through the characters and events. add to that my own artistic flair and a common sense of desperation with the main character, it was intense. as most things in my life are. i would say that the film essentially is about originality/creativity and the natural self as most films/literature about art are. and i must say it just served to highlight and accentuate my current state of futility...if that makes sense grammatically. as the film opens up and the main character's voice is heard stating that he is the greatest artist of the century...so it turns out he was acting out picasso in a school presentation. but regardless, in truth, this is how the boy feels, and when he grows up he honestly wants to be the greatest artist of the century. but the truth is, so what. so what if i indeed reached that apex of creativity in any of my areas of interest, if i maxed out and tapped into something unique. would it really be unique? its possible that someone else could get to the same point as well. and even if not, what is the point of uniqueness anyway? why is it so qualitatively better than the regular? why do we have this desire to be original? why do i carry this perpetual nagging sense of angst over my need to be significant, unique, a one time occurrence? i know i do, and the cliche-ness and triteness of even the most unique of things drives me mad. but why does it drive me mad? what is so qualitatively better about being a monumental artist? there are inevitably more than one, as each revolution brings on new ideas. and even if i was "the one", why does that matter? why do i need perfection and truth anyway? what would it matter if i produced a piece of writing that achieved literary excellence in a way never done before, or a film that was gripping, emotive and technically brilliant. what would it matter if i tapped into a musical world that was as close to pure thought as humanly conceivable? what would any of it matter? and at this moment the words that keep resonating in my head are the opening lines to Lonely Man: an awareness that often assumes the proportions of crisis. perhaps if i didnt have a bazillion abilities and the stark awareness that i will never ever ever actualize all of my creative capacity even in a single area because i am involved in so many...sometimes i think it is so much healthier when you only have one thing that you are good at. then you can focus and accomplish and live. but when creativity and meaning, when the truth it self, is pulling at you from 18 different directions, each one attempting to win you over to dedicate yourself to it. and maybe none of it is important and all that matters is thought...and maybe thought doesnt matter and all that matters if the sensual experience of the present...and maybe even that is futile and all that matters is love...but is that even achievable?