"Nature" by Ralph Waldo Emerson

My favorite line of "Nature" may just be the following: "These enchantments are medicinal, they sober and heal us. These are plain pleasures, kindly and native to us." This line is immensely powerful because it iterates how the remedy for most modern ailments can be found by appreciating that which was here before us, and that which will be here long after we perish. The everlastingness of nature must enchant us at a deeply personal level because despite modern medicine, despite the revolution incited by the antibiotic, there is still a sacred, mystic healing power of a peaceful yoga retreat in the Himalayas. For me at least, even something as simple as a picnic in the grass leaves me nostalgic for some reason in a way that going to the movies or arcade will not, regardless of who I am with. This sentiment reminds me of another one of Emerson's quotes: "We never can part with it; the mind loves its old home: as water to our thirst, so is the rock, the ground, to our eyes, and hands, and feet." He is referring to Nature and how its presence is something that will always be imbibed within us no matter how distant we may physically be from it.

One line in particular made me think of something Thomas Jefferson said. When Emerson claims, "Cities give not the human senses room enough," it made me think of how Jefferson greatly valued an agrarian America. He saw those who worked the earth to be the "chosen men of God" and he hoped with all his heart that America wouldn't industrialize to the degree which European society had because he observed how Europeans seemed to "eat at" each other. This may very well be because industry, or other trends of modernization, suffocates us in ways that only Nature can liberate us from.

Questions Thoreau Makes Me Ponder:

In Walden, I stumbled upon what I consider to be a fascinating conflict. Thoreau explains, "I found in myself, and still find, an instinct toward a higher, or, as it is named, spiritual life, as do most men, and another toward a primitive rank and savage one, and I reverence them both." I engage in the same thought process on such a frequent basis. He sometimes feels as if there is conflict between the two lifestyles, but I think he has struck a balance, which is one of the most important prospects in life. I sometimes feel as though we as humans are less "human" than we were centuries ago. I occasionally deem it ludicrous that we would suppress our natural instincts for the sake of being politically correct or conforming to social standards. Yet, other times I feel as if I must treat my body as a temple and dedicate my life to spiritual evolution, for we are not merely animals but also spiritual beings capable of seeking out fundamental truths during introspection. Thoreau claims that "goodness is the only investment that never fails." Most people at some point in their lives wrestle with the issue of morality, and ask themselves the question of when being "good" is going to pay off. I wish I had unflinching faith like Thoreau does. His firm belief that the cosmic order of nature will reward those who do good seems as if it would make one feel so much more at ease in life.

Transcendentalism.

Henry David Thoreau's words ooze with undertones of malice for the emerging corporate ethos which he saw to be dominating American culture. Still, in his time, I'm sure he maintained that this emergence was not as all-permeating as it is today. A beautiful chapter of Walden entitled "The Ponds" details all the splendor and beauty of the simple things Nature has to offer anyone with a keen eye. He talks about amenities such as coffee, teas, butter, and how so many people work incredibly hard to be able to purchase things such as these. The key, however, is that he implies how the lives that the masses lead are wasted in trying to acquire material things by toiling day in and day out. He mentions, "But the only true America is that country where you are at liberty to pursue such a mode of life as may enable you to do without these, and where the state does not endeavor to compel you to sustain the slavery and war and other superfluous expenses which directly or indirectly result from the use of such things." I take this to mean that with the propensity to acquire which inevitably grows out of capitalism, Americans still fundamentally have a choice about what kind of life they want to live. You can choose to submit yourself to the capitalist system and "work hard to eat hard," so to speak, or, you could resign from that way of living, just as Thoreau had, and seek fulfillment someplace else. I think he is saying that if you choose to spend your days in a traditional manner which entails finding an occupation to take up your days, endlessly bonded to a cycle of ceaseless work and subsequent consumption, then you may find yourself "enslaved." Still, at the end of the day, you can choose to opt out. I do not think such an option is nearly as easy today as it once may have been. It is unfortunate but the forces of socialization which condition us to submit ourselves to the aforementioned cycle are so incredibly strong that it is not feasible for the common person to withdraw from it and seek a life of fine quality elsewhere. It is not impossible, but it certainly takes strong character.

Reflecting Upon Emerson

Having recently moved to Boston for college, I've decided to delve into some of the works from great New England thinkers, mainly my Transcendental-soulmates, Thoreau and Emerson. I've always found "The American Scholar" to be extremely eloquent. I will start my reflection by citing a portion of the speech which I currently relate to most: "Meek young men grow up in libraries believing it their duty to accept the views which Cicero, which Locke, which Bacon have given, forgetful that Cicero, Locke, and Bacon were only young men in libraries when they wrote these books." I don't think I've ever been one to blindly accept anyone's philosophies without first thinking critically, but there is a specific dilemma I believe I face. I read the works of great thinkers and become so enchanted by their ingenuity and dazzled by their brilliance, and I sometimes forget that if I work and think hard enough, I may be capable of contributing something to society just like my heroes (mainly Thoreau and Chomsky, right now) have. I sometimes feel powerless because even though we live in a society, which, because it is grounded in capitalistic values, should theoretically reward ingenuity and innovative ideas, it often does not. I find this daunting and occasionally doubt whether it is worth it to strive for anything other than mediocrity. I quickly recover from this thought process, however, and realize that if anything else I know I will simply find it more fun to stimulate myself mentally, and if I happen to achieve something great in the process, so be it. Still, it is not fun to fall prey to demoralizing thoughts where I question the impact I am capable of making as one tiny unit in a massive, convoluted world.

On a similar note, Emerson remarks, "The so-called 'practical men' sneer at speculative men, as if, because they speculate or see, they could do nothing." It's so true, too! I wonder how many parents genuinely fear for their children if they see them developing a tendency to think freely and outside the box - as if society will have no place for them because they are too iconoclastic and less willing to submit themselves to traditional ways of doing things. Still, I must say, I do believe it is 100% understandable for a critical person to become jaded very early on, hence, falling prey to apathy does make sense if you are aware enough to understand how the world works and consequently have difficulty seeing yourself as a content, active participant within it. It's interesting how such a keen awareness of the world can either propel one to "do" something about it or to develop such a deep-seated revulsion toward all things, thus retreating and forever living a life enshrouded in observation and speculation rather than physical creation. Emerson claims "The preamble of thought, the transition through which it passes from the unconscious to the conscious, is action." Gosh, it's amazing how difficult this can be to implement sometimes.

Nonetheless, it was refreshing to read "The American Scholar" because Emerson's words were so infused with a beautiful sense of hope. His faith in human reason and potential is so inspiring. Thoreau's work contains a similar appreciation for human potential, but his language is more emotional to me. Emerson's declarations of human potential hit me at a more cerebral rather than visceral level for some reason. Here is a portion of Emerson's speech which I really enjoyed: "One must be an inventor to read well. As the proverb says, 'He that would bring home the wealth of the Indies, must carry out the wealth of the Indies.' There is then creative reading as well as creative writing." I took this to mean that if we want to be active members of society, we cannot simply consume without producing something of redeeming social value. Society, with all its plagues and banes, gives us many useful things such as portal through which we can express ourselves and connect with others of similar mindsets. Therefore, it is our obligation to give something back to society in whichever way we see fit. I'm excited to figure out exactly what my particular calling may be...

Ugh

I'm pretty fucking disgusted. I have to say, overall my Living Skills class is kind of a bullshit class, and I'm only taking it because I need to graduate, but occasionally some thought-provoking information comes up. Today we watched this video called "Generation M" (with the M standing for misogyny) and while some of us are trying to pay attention to the commentary on the rampant hyper-sexualization of women in today's society, the Abercrombie-dwelling fuckwits next to me are glued to their Cosmos and Seventeens, giggling and gossiping without any regard to the absolute IRONY that they are bringing to the situation. Now, I'm not saying anyone ever died from reading a 21st century fashion magazine... but wait, that's sort of true. Is it really surprising that 95% of eating disorders are experienced by women and girls when everywhere we turn is laced with idealized beauty and, in my opinion, fucking classless objectivization of females? Honestly, those godawful Carl's Jr. ads? Like you're really going to stay that hot if you eat that greasy hormone ridden filth all the time.

In one part of the documentary, they played a clip of one of Eminem's songs, "Kim." Now, I used to really dig Eminem. Before my conversion to the faith of Punk Rock, I was a big fan of rap. But when you hear lyrics like "Sit down bitch, move again and I'll beat the shit out of you" and "Come on, we're going for a ride, bitch, while I'm in front you'll be in the trunk," it's fucking revolting.

But people in my class started LAUGHING. How the fuck is this funny?

This is when I lost it.

One of my closest friends killed herself one year ago because she was physically abused so bad, she didn't know what else to do. The look of desperation that I saw in her eyes just 2 days before she committed suicide was probably one of the most haunting images that I'm never ever going to forget.

Everyone really needs to step it up. I honestly don't care about your "stay in the kitchen" jokes but if you ever see someone disrespecting a woman for no good reason, stop it.

It's amazing how much things can change.

Perhaps the best quality of life is that we all have the potential for change. We don't always have control over our circumstances, and sometimes it feels like our thoughts and actions never amount to the outcome we've hoped for.

But living without faith - faith in our potential to change - will amount to the most dismal existence of all.

For a while there I think I had forgotten what happiness felt like. I forgot the warmth of self-assurance and the bliss of optimism.

All it takes is a small reminder to reiterate our beautiful capacity to refocus our direction and change our mentality. Change is the most amazing thing we have.

Hello, I am a song.

I'm not a typical piece of music. Most songs are prerecorded and then eternally bound into a compact disc, forever stagnated in digital form. What makes me special is that I constantly rewrite myself. My artist blessed me with the ability to erase the parts I dont like and enter in new content that better suits my vision. I'm always modifying, never committed to a static existence.

I was not signed to a major label, so I don't get a lot of attention. It's okay though because once and a while someone hears me and I get the sense that I made them think or they enjoyed my tune.

When I started out as just a little tiny song, I didn't have a lot to say. My artist supplied me with a bit of content, but as the years went on, I started to build myself up, amending and rewriting until I felt confident that I was ready for my listeners.

I like being a song. I don't think I'd ever want to be a human; people seem strange to me.

I've spent so much time organizing the zeros and ones embedded into my configuration, making sure that I sound exactly how I want to sound, fine tuning my bass, strengthening my drums, making my lyrics as meaningful as possible. Honest, I make an earnest attempt to make my message, my sound, and my impact valuable. I couldn't tell you why people pass me by in the stores and refuse to hear my story.

I doubt that humans put as much effort into being thoughtful like me. I doubt that human beings try as hard to evoke meaning into the lives of others, like I try to.

Everyone can know what they're going to get when they hear my sound byte. I am a safe investment. I can't say the same about people.

A September Morning

The lights have dimmed and the shine has dulled and

the loudest of the lot have become so sullen.

The city of charm and romance, the city that claims to never sleep,

the flowers that once glistened, the butterflies and the angels retire and weep.

Their beautiful mouths now hidden from view beneath those protective masks--

Thin as paper, stretching across those unfathomably fragile faces.

All of the lovelies, the models, our radiant neighbors-- their perfectly shaped lips covered with film of debris, the remnants of a trademark dissipate into the sea.

Those beautiful eyes, crying tears which mix with the dirt on your cheeks. You wipe it away but the dust still collects and collects. It collects and collects and your efforts are in vain. You do what you can to ease the pain but the bodies fall and the children are slain.

You can't escape the thrust of the cloud, and all those attempts to make your parents proud, all of it for nothing just like your attempts to wipe away the dust that settles on your once colorful face.

You can't escape the force of the smoke, and I can't forgive those who misspoke, assuming we had their trust when all we have is this inescapable, omnipresent dust.

The most vibrant borough covered in brown and gray--

These shades of sorrow are forever here to stay.

The remnants of the city of the fearless and brave, buried under sheets of that ashen Tuesday.

The murky depths of Hell rise into the streets. Colorless waves consume unapologetically, mile upon mile until the walls appear bleak and the air smells vile. Pallid faces and wan, waxen hair, I look into your eyes with a dismal stare. You glance over and the overcast skies match your anxiety-ridden eyes.

Hoary streetlights and civilians collecting dust, an entire city reduced to brown and gray. Here today, gone tomorrow, stand proud once, eventually fall in sorrow. Every glance stricken with pain and every hand trembling in grief except those responsible who were granted a reprieve.

The Lost World of Iconoclast Park

I was going through old shite in that darkened abyss I have dubbed my closet, and encountered the 2007-2008 yearbook from the highly acclaimed Hewitt School: 45 East 75th Street. After recovering from having died a little bit due to seeing the cover of the yearbook's "Express Yourself" theme (which was absolutely ironic considering they excelled in hindering most forms of self expression), I decided to browse through it.

If you know me in the slightest, you know that I detest everything about the Hewitt School and dreaded my experience there. If you don't know me at all, allow me to tell you that, in my eyes, that school is about as prestigious as a golden gilded shit can. Masked by ostentatious portraits of previous headmistresses (including Ms. Hewitt, herself) and a seemingly out of place grand piano in the library, the students were about as sharp as the convex surface of a plastic spoon. We had Smartboards© though. Those were radical.

Anyway, this post has not been created for the purpose of complaining. A striking thought came to me as I was reading the few student autographs I had in my yearbook. In essence, I was astonished to read these because they remembered me in the way I've always wished to be remembered by people, which I sure as hell didn't expect. I had no idea that I had an impact on some of those girls; I thought I was the least suitable person whom they would even consider learning from and the least likely candidate to come along and inspire them. Anyway, to provide context, here is one of the entries I received on that grand last day at the Hewitt School.

"Shit, where do I begin? You've been here for 2 years (in great pain) and yet you've still managed to offer something great. You are one of those people who come along and stretch my mind. I will miss the conversations we have after Advisory, and being able to look across the room at you and know that someone just 'gets it'. You say what you think, not what others want you to think. You are sanity and originality, brilliance and analysis, even in this ocean of stillness and conformity. I hope you continue to question everything and fight the fight, and one day reach peace. I can't thank you enough because I feel like I won't realize everything I learned from you until I get the opportunity to implement it."

I made a conscious effort to rebel in a myriad ways when I went to Hewitt. It sometimes got me into trouble but it always gave me gratification. We all were forced to look the same via uniforms, so I felt an obligation to make it clear that I was not one of them despite our physical homogeneity. While I do not feel any spirit of warm kindredness toward those girls, I do appreciate that they took the time for one day out of the school year to let me know that my struggle to salvage my originality taught them a little bit about the nature of iconoclasm. God knows if they'll retain it, but that's not where my quandary lies.

My issue is the fact that it is in our times of struggle and adversity that we realize the true meaning of discovering who we are and presenting it to the world. Since I never found my comfort zone in New York, I had to work extra hard to develop a sense of self. Now, I live in California and feel happier with my station in life. I wonder if feeling too situated is a curse, for it destroys that little engine encased in the shrouds of displacement and uneasiness which propels us to find a sense of home and identity.

I think this affliction affects the weak minded and complacent. I try to remind myself every day that we are never truly done growing up until the day we die. Therefore, we cannot become too fixed into our niches; we will miss out on so much learning, growth, and joy.

Panem et Circenses

Hello there my young child. Put that book down and listen to me. My, what a beautiful piece of carbon-based wastage you’re growing up to be! It’s 8:42 am. We’re losing contact. Allow me to nurture you. See how I provide you with the illusion of choice with your 500 channels? Bow down to me. I’m responsible for making Vladimir cry. He envies my ability to vegetate you. It’s 8:46 am. Flight 11 impacts the North Tower. Sit right there. Continue to absorb as I sensationalize. It’s 8:52 am. The F-15s are scrambling. These problems don’t affect you. We’ll get around to fixing them. Stay complacent in your contentment with the war—you’re not the one fighting it. It’s 9:00 am. Flight 77 hits the pentagon. Sit still. Allow me to offer you more short term government palliatives. I know you’ll unwittingly comply. You and I have formed a lovely relationship. You’re bored, I entertain you. You’re disgruntled and I pacify you. I am your baseline necessity. You need me. It’s 9:02 am. Flight 175 impacts the South Tower. Some say I’m sick. They say I should be reformed in order to counteract the natural tendency to seek power. I say fuck ‘em. If you wanna watch The Bachelor getting screwed over by the scantily clad cheap trick in the red, you go for it. It’s 9:21 am. The Port Authority orders all bridges and tunnels in New York to close. You know something? You’re much, much cuter as an inactive, sleeping pawn. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. You’re one big myoma that thinks your planet supports you and you alone, and let’s keep it that way. It’s 10:03am. Flight 93 crashes. Except there are no plane parts. And the hole in the ground is only 14 feet wide. But you weren’t supposed to know that. Young child, don’t let anyone tell you I’m trying to infect you. You’re a pathetic example of earth’s organic heritage, but I adore you! I see you spend with careless abandon, but I love you anyway. Remember back in March, 2003? The Gallop poll asserted that 51 percent of your fellow Americans thought Saddam Hussein was personally responsible for 9/11. That’s all my doing. No need to thank me. So remember, baby doll, listen and listen good—the only way to ensure progress for a more perfect union is to remember who your goddamn boss is.