Category Archives: Musing

Knowing.

There is an instant where you wanna cry. You want to scream. You want to yell from the bottom of your stomach and soul. And this is when you know you love or have loved somebody. When you look at someone. You see into their eyes. And you know. They are you. They are exactly who you are or were. And you love them you want nothing but to hold them. You want to shout in a carnal and cathartic agony until you feel that sense fulfilled. That sense that you have seen yourself. And can finally let go of yourself.

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Another African Musing.

This will probably be a short post but it is a snippet from my notebook in Africa. This one goes out to Sylv, thanks for taking an interest and thanks for the request. ūüôā

Cockatieled feathers and glistening emerald. It is amazing how abruptly differences in area cross my path. Walking down a sidewalk a bird plumed in a brilliant green lands in my way. I stop. Here is a spectacular meeting embodying the essence of cultural travel; my wonderment, his indifference. As I stand aghast at the fantastic color of this bird, it personifies nonchalance. That¬†amazement at something that may appear so mundane is the beauty of travel and exploration. One man’s mundanity can be another’s fascination.


African Musings

Well, as the title may have suggested, I am studying abroad in Africa this summer. I’m in Botswana at the moment. It’s been absolutely beautiful and an amazing experience. Here for a while so that may play a role in my next few posts, such as these. Enjoy.

Equality. It’s amazing how, cross-continents, a smile is a smile. Just as, from one culture tossed into another, a clown is a clown. Interacting with kids always brings me to the same state, just wanting to make them smile. The real difference between America and Africa is that here in Africa, it’s easier.

There is a wide separation between two aspects of learning; the direct/real and the distant/factual. In a real experience you can easily see what is happening in this world. When you stand in a Tswana ghetto, you see what poverty really means, what it actually is to do what you need to survive, and how it truly affect’s your fellow man. But that is there. It is impossibly difficult to imagine that scene in all the areas where it is all too common. In factual learning you see the¬†breadth¬†of the issue. The scene hides behind graphs and figures that allow you to see the problem in it’s exact entirety. The figures may seem unreasonable but they are have the ability to be factual. Without both of these you lose half of the equation to grasping a concept. And in that loss, you can lose everything.


An Open Expanse.

Skin. I see it more and more each day as the blankest canvas. And nothing peeves me more than an underutilized space for expression. I have no tattoos, myself, but I crave them. I look at my arms, my chest, my entire body, and I see all that could be. Continually as words and images float across my eyes and before my mind, there is no adulteration. My imagination spreads them, recreates and reproduces them, across my self. In my head I see phrases and aphorisms drifting with their black text, changing their font, always looking for the best possible spot so as they might seat myself properly as an external representation of the philosophies I hold dear. Every illustration from the highest masterpiece to the simplest graffiti, I question whether it might have  a place on this canvas of mine.

Perhaps this is why I love my scars. They are simple representations to those around me of my history, the good and the bad. They are visual reminders of the places I’ve been and some of the people I’ve met. No, this idea is separate. It goes beyond the idea of art and visual stimulation. I love them for their primality. The simple fact that they remind me of the fragility of life. That they keep my consciousness in check with the realization of its delicacy. And out of this recognition, arises a greater appreciation. The appreciation of all the times I’ve fallen and will fall, of all the times I’ve risen and will rise again. Then again, perhaps it is the visual recreation of this internal drive I like as well…


Blink.

How beautiful can a blink be? It’s so instant, and shutters the world at that moment, essentially an obstruction. As I close my eyes for the briefest moment the image presents itself. The afterimage imprinted from the veins of my eyelids reaching and forking like a tree limb. Providing shade, if only for the moment.


Books with a Past

Recently, I asked one of my professors if he could recommend a text that would help me with a particular essay. Without delay he rummaged through the shelves of his office and lent me his copy of a text, an action which I am highly grateful for. There is only one oddity that I have noted in this. The text that he lent me is filled to the brim with his markings and annotations. I find nothing wrong with marking up books, in fact I heavily support the practice, but its the glimpse into his thought process which makes me mildly uncomfortable. To use the term lightly, it feels¬†voyeuristic.¬†While in this scenario it creates a mild unsettled feeling, it is the one thing I love about combing through used bookstores. Feeling a history in the pages, not just the words. On one day in particular I found a book that I will never forget. A copy of Machiavelli’s The Prince with two things tucked under the cover: A train stub from New York to Boston, and a visitor’s map of Beth Israel hospital… oh the stories that holds…


The Darkest Nostalgia

To throw this out there, for those who may actually being following my train of thought within these posts, this realization was sparked by the same event I wrote about on Friday.

Driving through urban streets, there can be a myriad of scents seeping through the window. One in particular crawls through and I notice it immediately, remembering it fondly. My mind goes to the days of my childhood, running around with the toy guns making their little cracks. Laughing and running through the twists and curves of white suburbia. My smile sours when the realization strikes me, as it always does on this occasion, that we played in the wisps of gunpowder. Down these streets there are no children playing. There are no laughs of joy. There are still shrieks of surprise. Down these streets only tears fall at this aroma.