Oversoul

The "oversoul" is an interesting notion, to say the least.  The concept states that each small part (or being) is a part of some sort of larger whole (the universe, God, community, etc.).  I suppose it brings about a sense of belonging for some - community, oneness, unity.  It is a feeling that every human being longs for (whether or not this is a conscious sense of longing is besides the point).  One could argue, however, that there is already a sense of interconnectedness amongst mankind - the whole "six degrees of separation".  But is it really enough?  You and I are connected.  As you read this blog post of which I have just poured out the thoughts within my head, we are connected.  You now know what I think.  You now know what I feel.  But is it really enough?  To say that simply because you know what it is I feel, you automatically comprehend and therefore feel what I feel would be preposterous.  No man or woman in their right mind would claim such a thing.  To go even further into detail, I will never know that we have a link between us, just as many of us go our entire lives without knowing that we have created a link with another being.  So, in actuality, it is a dotted line of sorts that may never become a solid, completed, line.  It seems a waste to completely dismiss the dotted line, though, don't you think?  So, my question of the day is the following:  How do we complete the connection?

Intertextuality

The Pillsbury Doughboy has become a bit of an icon for the American Family. We've all grown to laugh with him, love with him, and eat with him. It's always a great thing, then, when we see him thrown into an ad for another product/service than we're used to seeing him in (horizontal intertextuality). So is the case in the above commercial - we smile when we see our familiar friend talking about Nestle Cookies, but we laugh when we realize it's actually a commercial for "Got Milk?" and he's been caught red-handed. Guess you can go wrong with the Pillsbury Doughboy - "woohoo"!

Ever Thine, Ever Mine, Ever Ours

People say it all the time - that they wish we would go back to the days of snail mail.  But we rarely make an effort to revert to such a wonderful custom.  Imagine the reaction of Beethoven's beloved when she received the famous love letter from him - certainly it wouldn't beg the same reaction than that of an e-card bear saying "I wuv you!".  There are certain things that are only capable of being displayed in letters - certain emotions are best conveyed in the permanent form of letters.  Real letters - not emails.  I've decided I'm going to write more letters - even if just to best friends and family.  After all, whatever happens in the future, they'll always have the letter of that time to keep as a memento.

Marked

I went to the Texas State Fair, this past weekend, and noticed something a bit ironic while in the museum bathroom (hey - some of the greats in this world got a thinking start in the bathroom!).  There, on the stall door, was in small, black, hand-writing, "Vera Cruz wuz here! 2002, baby!"  I initially had several thoughts floating through my head: 

1)  It's spelled "was", not "wuz", dear.
2)  What the...?!  This is the museum's property!  How rude to deface it!
3)  Vera Cruz...wasn't that someone famous?  Ah, well - at least her parents didn't name her Blanket.
4)  Hold on...this is actually kind of wonderful.

I know you're probably shocked to read #4 and trust me, I was just as shocked to think it.  The truth is, I really am a firm believer that we all go through life yearning to leave our marks on the world.  Depending on what our expectations are, this task can vary in terms of difficulty.  But look at good ol' Vera - she defaced a bathroom stall with her name on it seven years ago, and she still manages to have the world (or, the female population of the Texas State Fair/Museum) remember her name. 

That, in an odd sense, is truly remarkable. 

(I regretfully didn't take a picture of the writing, but here's another picture of people leaving their "marks"!)

"It's A Calder!"

Perhaps you have heard of the famous Calder sculptures - artistic mobiles and stabiles that reside in many of the nation's art museums.  They are, in my opinion, quite beautiful and scientific, as well - they must take into account balance and material along with concept. 

While I don't contest the beauty of the pieces, I do contest the "Calder-ness" of them.  If I created a mobile that was very similar in nature and stuck it in a local art museum, would it instigate such conversation as Calder's pieces do?  The following is, undeniably, one of the most controversial points that comes up in the art world: What. Is. Art?  I, however, do not seek to answer such a question.  In fact, I will not even attempt to answer it.  I simply want to know...why it is that we, often-times the audience in the picture, are the determiners of what is and what is not art?  It is a question that is not as often asked and a question which I hope to determine someday.

Fulfillment

Today, as I soaked in the glory of fall break and mourned the soon death of it, I thought back to my jaunts in NYC, this summer.  I recalled the countless amounts of vendors that reached out to us, attempted for us to hear their pleas, and went unfulfilled.  Surely with the amount of faces that they see everyday, it makes no difference to them...right?  But I couldn't help but think that their goal is to get the consumer to first show interest in their products and second to buy the product, itself.  Beyond that they care not what we do with the product or think of it.  But what if we fail to get them to that point?  What if we simply walk past them without even acknowledging their presence?  Do they go through a sense of failure or lack of fulfillment?  Or does the amount of attempts cancel out those that would typically be labeled as "failures"?  I can't imagine being told, "Peel these one thousand potatoes perfectly" and feeling unfulfilled for failing at a few.  On the other hand, if I was told to peel just three potatoes perfectly, a single failure would count more towards determining overall fulfillment.  Who knows - maybe I'm thinking too hard about this.  Maybe the vendor down the street closes every night with the simple hope of making a net profit.  But I can't help but feel that our faces are floating around in their heads and are all adding up to some sort of sum - whether positive or negative.

Shining Star

Today has been a wonderful day,  It seems a bit odd that it's been a wonderful day, however, because the majority of it has been spent in class and studying for my two midterms this Thursday.  But a single moment (or rather, an hour of beauty followed by a single moment) can change everything.  

I attended SMU's Fall Brown Bag Dance Series - something that I would not miss for the world.  It has become a bit of a tradition, I suppose, but given the amount of talent that is displayed in a single hour of time is unbelievable.  Brown Bag Dance Series (for those non-SMU students) is a free bi-annual dance performance that contains the hard work of many of the dance majors in the Meadows School of Art.  Students choreograph and perform in these pieces of glory and people from the entire community come out to watch.  It is, if I may say so, the best event on campus; it is something that I plan for about a month in advance...and if that means skipping a class, then so be it (but I always try to find a way to make it to class, as well).  

As I watched my third Brown Bag Dance performance whilst at SMU, I found myself in tears.  Tears of happiness, tears of sadness, tears of anger, tears of surprise.  It sounds silly, I know, but the amount of feeling and emotion that is put into these pieces are always overwhelming.  Needless to say, this was enough to tip my day over to the joyous side.

While leaving Meadows (the school of the arts), however, I stumbled upon an elderly couple - the wife of which seemed to have her hands full and the husband of whom was a sickly character in a wheelchair.  Without a moment of hesitation, I asked the elderly couple if they required any assistance.  "Actually...that would be wonderful, if you wouldn't mind," the woman responded.  I quickly took her belongings onto my shoulders and into my arms and also offered my arm to her husband.  As the two of us walked down the steps and his wife stood on top of the steps waiting for me to return, the old man looked to me with a glistening eye and slowly said, with grunts of pain in between, "When you get to heaven, there will be an extra star waiting for you."  My heart fluttered.  I didn't know what to say in response - what do you say to such a wonderful thing?  "I'll be sure to tell you 'hello' when I see you," I whispered and added a wink.  

As we reached the bottom of the stairs, I left him there (holding the railing) and ran up to carry the wheelchair down.  As I collected my belongings to head to my next class (which I was now late for), the old woman thanked me and the elderly man said (with quite an effort), "Have a wonderful rest of your life."  I replied with no words, as I could not find any words that were worthy, so I instead smiled my widest smile with absolutely no effort.  Who needs exercise when you have a helping hand that, when offered, can reward you with a more-than-worthy amount of endorphins?

Forgotten

A terrible thought just came over me and it has to do with Shirley Temple.  Aha - caught your attention, didn't I?  I've been thinking about "child star syndrome".  You know, when a person is famous as a child - whether it is by acting, singing, dancing, etc. - and then simply fades away into the deep abyss of pop culture past.  It's a bit scary to think about.  Shirley Temple is somewhat an exception, I suppose, as she remained an icon to many even after her stardom (which, of course, revolved around her childhood).  But there are plenty of names out there that get forgotten almost as quickly as they are thrown at us, in the first place.  So what of us who are not known to many for our childhood achievements?  Does that mean that we are to be known in our futures?  And if so, are we to be remembered? 

Don't look at me - I didn't say I had the answer.

I want to hold your hand.

I drew the above picture a while back as I found myself dazing off.  There's something intriguing about human nature.  We yearn for human touch - human affection and human warmth.  It works wonders - it gives security.  It gives confidence. It gives love and happiness and fuzzies and companionship.  And it is electric.  Whether a friend, family member, or a love, the human touch is electric.  There is not, and never will be, anything quite like it.

Cataclysm

There are moments in life where things are drastically altered. Where you know you cannot look back. Where you know that things will forever be different in your view. Where something entirely too cataclysmic has decided your fate for you.

The word "cataclysm" is defined as 1) a flood; a deluge, 2) a catastrophe, 3) a momentous and violent event marked by overwhelming upheaval and demolition; broadly : an event that brings great changes (http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/cataclysm). It seems odd that a word with three predominantly negative denotations can be given a final and unusually possible-positive connotation. An event that brings great changes. "Great", of course, can be connotated as great impacting or great in terms of positive changes. At any rate, this portion of the definition stands out from the rest. It would be, if you have ever played the game, the one part that is not like the others.

So when we come upon a change in our life that is so cataclysmic, why is it that we are predisposed to thinking the change will be terrible in nature? Destructible, even? Is it because the Merriam-Websters of our lives have told us that it must be so? I am a firm believer that change, whether primarily good or bad, can be taken and molded how you wish to be fit. If you accidentally flushed your gerbil Petey down the toilet, think of the happy life he lived before that. Think of the fact that, now, you'll be able to get a new gerbil and show it copious amounts of love, as well (though, this time, keep him away from the toilet). I'm not saying the grass is always greener on the other side, but sometimes, there aren't as many weeds as you might think.