Category Archives: College days

The Facebook Insult

The following is a brief reflection written about a lecture given by Professor Michael Bruner, (expected) Doctor of Theology. I sum up highlights of his argument and pose my own thoughts about them. This reflection begins with the response to Facebook as a Christ-follower but ultimately regards the general interest of humanity, no matter what religion. I hope to encourage some dialogue about this daily matter of our culture. 

In Professor Bruner’s lecture “Effacebook: Would Jesus Friend You?” he spoke about the messages that Facebook and social media send us and the implications of them—and why they are damaging our culture. Relationships and community is an important property of the Christian life, as well as self-reflection and identity. Facebook, though it assumes to promote these things, actually turns the opposite direction. Reflecting on the truths revealed in Bruner’s lecture, it is no wonder that Jesus would neither “friend” anyone on Facebook, nor even sign on to Facebook.

Professor Bruner’s first pointed out that Jesus came to the world in the flesh, not in a virtual sense. This simple statement develops an idea that for interactions of importance and value to take place, a living and breathing element is essential. True relationships cannot be virtual; they must be literally fleshed out. In contrast, Facebook and social networking serves to disembody the individual; interactions can become completely anonymous and are one-dimensional reductions of words and images. Examining my own relationships, I noticed that none of my close friendships have been built by social media, and they will not thrive without personal encounters. In a face-to-face conversation, there are more than words being exchanged between people. In addition, there is an intense flow of non-verbal communication in tone, body language, facial cues, interactions with the present environment, etc. Because of the expedience of Facebook as a social network, it becomes a dangerously easy to accept this form of communication that lacks the nuances that actually bond people.

Partner to this hollow communication is the essence of the Facebook profile. Professor Bruner also built a main portion of his argument demonstrating the way the Facebook profile strips us of our humanity. “Sufficient complexity,” he said, is the definition of a human; to understand who we are, we have to accept we are complex beings that are more than the sum of our parts. This is a profound statement that is not reflected much in our culture (especially with mindsets deeply rooted in dualism). Even in our language we reduce ourselves, content to categorical statements such as, “I am ugly,” or “She is an accountant,” or “He is a punk,” or “I am insane.” I wonder if our self-images would change if we began to rephrase ourselves by saying instead, “She works as an accountant,” or “He acts like a punk,” or “My mind is making me feel disoriented,” or even “I think my body looks ugly”—at least the attribute is going only to the body and not to the entirety of one’s being. However, our culture is extremely comfortable in our self-simplifications, shown by our gleeful compliance in filling out our social network profiles. Bruner stated that there is not a social network that attempts to define humans and our needs. The Facebook profile tells that we only consist of a birthplace, birthday, gender, family ties, significant other, “friends,” occupation, current setting, activities, personal “likes,” opinions, and a thousand images of yours truly. This profile ultimately contains a few facts and a load of self-promotion. For example, by viewing my profile, one might learn that I am a female that likes outdoor activities and went rock-climbing in Sawtooth Canyon last October to prove it. But what my profile lacks is the expression of the utter joy I felt by spending a day with close friends exploring the gritty desert rocks in the mild fall sunshine. It lacks the way I smelled, or how dirty I looked after the day was done. It lacks how my muscles burned and knees bled on a particularly difficult route that I was determined to conquer. It lacks the way the trail mix tasted, the sound of laughter and struggle, or my awe of the quiet boy who could climb despite the uselessness of his left thumb and index finger. The representation via Facebook is at best un-poetic. At worst, it offensively diminishes the human being, and we click “Post” without blinking.

However, people (I) will continue to use Facebook because it is not completely evil and does provide beneficial resources. Because our world is fast-paced, we have adapted by creating fast methods of communication, and Facebook triumphs as one of the best forms of quick mass communication. Events can be configured and spread quickly to a lot of people, a productive venue for social coordination (an extreme example being a revolution that caught fire via Facebook). But the Facebook insult still remains. Perhaps a place to start is to refuse let a virtual profile tell us who we are. Then, maybe we will start realizing that status-updating and picture-posting for every activity is not an important part of our lives. Finally, I suppose I could get off the instant messenger and call my friend on the phone to ask him if he wants to go on a hike this weekend and catch up.


It’s been how long? Oh yeah, here’s this mask I made…

I haven’t posted here in forever.

That’s really lame.

I blame it all on Tumblr.

*Tumblr, shocked, points at himself* “Who, me?”

Yeah. Well, I guess college had done this to me too. Those studio classes will get ya.

However, I have been rather prolific in the last couple months, and it would be a shame to let no one know about it. I guess. If anyone’s still following me. I have 78 followers on Tumblr, though…

Anyways so…first and foremost, I realized I didn’t post my final 3D project from May.

(Once again) LAME.

I’m going to fix that right…now.

The assignment: create a mask that involves 2 animals, with characteristics that are representative of yourself.

Meet Red Hawk Wolf.

…Then walk around and creep in the library and classroom windows during everyone’s finals.

Apparently someone was tripped out enough to Instagram me, commenting that someone must have put something in his coffee that morning.

I can roll with that.

P.S. I definitely wore this for Halloween. I got more attention than I’ve had in a month, I think.

 


Featured Artist: Ólafur Arnalds

Okay, I’m gonna come clean–I don’t like classical music that much. I know, I know, I should because I’ve played the violin since forever, but honestly…I have a hard time connecting emotionally a majority of classical music. Maybe it’s the harpsichord that bugs the heck out of me, or maybe it’s the piano accompaniments that really only serve to fill sonic space, or maybe I just haven’t worked hard enough to find out which classical artists I would like. 

I mean, I sure wasn’t looking for Ólafur Arnalds. And I love him. So maybe I just haven’t been looking hard enough. That’d be fair.

I happened upon Ólafur Arnalds in philosophy class last semester.  Our professor had made split us into groups to choose something to define “Beauty,” and one group played his piece “3055″ as their example.

Whether or not Ólafur Arnalds could possibly be the answer to Plato’s question of What is Beauty, I fell in love immediately with his music.

Think classical music with a contemporary twist–Arnalds brings in drums, nature sounds like wind and creaking wood, and the most delicate piano arrangements you may have ever heard. This is music to play while studying, sleeping, or showering at night, when you’re feeling sad, lonely, or peaceful, when its rainy outside or right after the sun comes out of the clouds on a spring day.

And the guy used to be in a metal band.
Recently, he scored the soundtrack for Another Happy Day. I haven’t seen the movie, and I don’t know if I will, but the soundtrack is, in one superficial word, fabulous. In more words, I’d say that the simplistic yet elegant arrangements featuring piano and strings are sweet, somber, haunting, can-I-touch-the-depths-of-your-soul flat-out beautiful. In different words, I’d say it’s one of the prettiest film scores I’ve heard lately, and I believe it’s too amazing for you to pass up.

Poem: PSYC 290

Today,
I was supposed
to write two
three-to-four page
Essays
for my psychology midterm.
All I wrote
Was five sentences
of nonsense
And six pages
of Poetry
For you.


Art assignment fail

You are about to read a classic college-kid fail, which took place as of last week:

Pulling an all-nighter to finish an art project for the next day, and realizing the following 3 things, in this particular order:

1. I will forever have an aversion to pliers after torturing my hands with them for 10 straight hours.

2. The project still isn’t finished, and class starts in 20 minutes.

3. The project isn’t due until next week, and I should have double-checked the syllabus.

So I drove home and went to bed.


As I Lay Dying. I think you should read it.

“Sometimes I aint so sho who’s got ere a right to say when a man is crazy and when he aint. Sometimes I think it aint none of us pure crazy and aint none of us pure sane until the balance of us talks him that-a-way. It’s like it aint so much what a fellow does, but it’s the way the majority of folks is looking at him when he does it.” –Cash

I, as a writer, kind of salivate at Faulkner’s narrative style.

Cover of "As I Lay Dying: The Corrected T...

Cover of As I Lay Dying: The Corrected Text

The quote is from a character in Faulkner‘s novel As I Lay Dying, which I just finished reading for my American Lit class this weekend. Basically, it’s a mock epic about the very dysfunctional Bundren familythat takes up a treacherous journey to bury wife/mother Addie Bundren in her hometown.

The novel is divided up into short narrations by various characters–giving several obscure perspectives to see the plot through: the intense eye of the eldest brother Cash, the intuitive and insanely observant Darl, the horse-loving mystery son Jewel, the pregnant-at-sixteen Dewey Dell, the innocent and confused eye of little brother Vardaman, the shell-of-a-man weak patriarch Anse, the corpulent doctor Peabody, the over-religious Cora Tull, her practical husband Vernon Tull, and others.

Each unique character portrayal will make you stare in fascination. From the first image of Cash building Addie’s coffin in her view (before she dies), to Jewel rescuing the coffin from the barn Darl set on fire, even those with a good grasp of understanding will probably be asking “Seriously, what’s going on here?”–and it’s perfectly human to take a peek at Sparknotes for some assistance.

I mean…take the classic quoted chapter of the whole novel:

Vardaman

My mother is a fish.

P.S. I hope you realize this has nothing to do with the metalcore band As I Lay Dying. Faulkner made the name first.


The adventure isn’t over

I crawled into bed. The two roommates I had met four weeks ago breathed quietly in their sleep. Loneliness enveloped me with the darkness. I don’t belong here, I miss everyone, I hate this awful city air. I want my High Sierra home back. I cried to myself under the covers before lulling off into a somber sleep, feeling hopeless of surviving the transplant back to main campus life.

Last semester had been a dream come true; even before I set foot on campus as a freshman, High Sierra was in my study abroad plan. Joining 39 other students to live in Bass Lake to study the Humanities, adventure in Yosemite, and wear flannel shirts and hiking boots as much as I pleased sounded like an ideal college experience for me.

By the end of those three and a half months, I found myself amazed at how fast my fellow students and I formed a family-like community and how much I grew individually. Together, we backpacked through 20-something sweaty miles of the Ansel Adams Wilderness, strained our minds through intense academics, broke down and cried over the pains of life, and laughed ourselves sore at all the moments in between. I learned how to adventure, how to be a scholar, and how to make friendships by trusting people enough to share my life stories with them and then listen to theirs. But winter quickly caught up with summer, and soon after the leaves fell from the oak trees, we left to move back to our “normal” college lives.

I expected my return to the main campus to feel just like any other time of transition. I trusted my adaptability. I felt excited to reconnect with friends, to move into an apartment, to go on beach trips, to ride freely around the town on my longboard. I barely read the email of suggestions for coping with “re-entry” struggles that the Study Abroad Office sent out.

By the second week of going through the motions of school, I began wondering what was wrong with me.

Instead of enjoying my classes and tackling homework with the usual I-am-such-an-honors-student attitude, I felt mechanical every time I went to class. I didn’t know my professors and they didn’t know me—none of them were going to sit at the same dinner table with me after class, take me and my friends mountain-biking, or write a heartfelt poem for the entire class. Homework seemed more like a chore rather than a mental workout; I missed the tough conceptual questions the texts challenged us with to apply to present-day life.

I dreaded coming home to my apartment after class to receive either an awkward “Hey” from one of my roommates or just the blank quiet of a place void of memories. I used to be unable to escape from a friendly face. Instead of eating every meal with my big family in the dining hall, I found myself eating alone on my roommate’s shabby living room couch, either staring at the walls or occupying myself with homework.

Few of my non-High Sierra friends asked about my experiences or how my adjustment fared, so I began to subconsciously rate the quality of my days by how many people from High Sierra I had a chance to hug or say “Hi” to as I traveled between classes. I made a playlist of all the songs that reminded me of last semester and listened to it religiously. I started running around the track at night to stare at the moon, to forget how uprooted I felt, and escape from the bombardments of everything demanding my attention,.

By the fourth week of school, one of my friends asked if I wanted to go visit High Sierra and see our friends that were attending the Spring semester—two of which also attended Fall semester. I packed up my sleeping bag and wolf shirts.

When I stepped out of the car into the brisk mountain air and saw stars in the sky for the first time since December, I felt my spirit say “Welcome home.” Then my friends and I ran up the steps to the dining hall to find our friends and hug them as tight as possible. My body trembled from all the emotions of anticipation, nervousness, and happiness and my face began to hurt from smiling so much.

The presence of seventeen alumni of Fall ’11 made the place feel even more like home, especially as we sat around the dining hall tables at the end of each night, laughing and sipping hot drinks as if we had never left. Some of us wore the tank tops we had ordered to wear at the concerts for our personal five-guy hardcore band, “We Are Ansel.”  On Saturday, some of us hit up the local thrift stores and the family-owned coffee shop in Oakhurst while others rock climbed in Yosemite. Later, a familiar study session took place around the little furnace in the meeting hall. After dinner, a big group of alumni went to a professor’s house just to hang out and eat ice cream.

After church the next morning, I found myself saying goodbye again to my friends and the sweet-smelling pine trees. As we drove over the Grapevine pass into L.A., resentment churned inside me, followed by the deep sadness that caused me to cry myself to sleep that night.

But the next morning, I had to wake up, eat breakfast, and go to class. Longboarding over the white sidewalk wasn’t much like feeling the wood and dirt under my bare feet, but the breeze and warm sun against my face felt good. On Wednesday, I met a bunch of girl friends for lunch, and it felt like an ordinary High Sierra meal—though in a different context. I began to wake up to the idea that if I missed my community so much and wanted to grow in those relationships, I could find ways to deal with it. As I continued to experience little reunions with people, my motivation increased to make my semester back at APU worth the struggle.

I started with designating a meeting place to eat lunch together on Mondays and Wednesdays, and determined that this semester should have as much adventure as the last, I made a list of all the activities to plan—beach trip included. For the upcoming weekend, I organized a hike up a local trail, followed by a homemade brunch.

My friends seemed to catch the fever, and my days started filling up with activities—a Pasadena trip, a Titanic movie night, pancake breakfast, game night, and a big almost-all-nighter at one of the senior’s houses. Four other girls and I now meet once a week for a Bible study, and the guys’ band We Are Ansel is scheduled to play at a benefit concert on campus.

One day as I was leaving the gym, I passed the High Sierra representative that helped connect me with the program a year ago. I related to her how I was doing, and she smiled, saying:

“Yeah—it definitely takes a while to get used to, but you’ll get there.”

I may never “get over” my feelings for High Sierra; my roots grew strong there. But now I am able to prove my adaptability—not by ignoring the heartache, but by finding my way to flourish in spite of it. Facing the challenge to take the time to foster stronger connections with my friends has resulted exactly in what I wanted in the first place—strong relationships and exciting adventures. My High Sierra experience didn’t just end in December; it continues as long as the friendships keep growing, as I keep learning, and as the adventures keep coming. There my heartache finds remedy, and everything that High Sierra called me to be lives on.


Pretending to be Robert Rauschenberg

Robert Rauschenberg is probably one of those artists you learned about in your high school art class, one of those artists you thought was more of a loon than an artist. I mean, he did put a tire around a taxidermy goat and stood it on top of a painting.

I confess, I felt skeptical at first of this man’s “combines” (his self-made term for his works, since they combine sculpture and painting) but the more I have gotten to know Rauschenberg’s works, the more I just love them.

Monogram

Monogram

He can interweave the two-dimensional and the three-dimensional. He printmakes like a boss. He knows how to take random objects of life or pop culture and apply paint and texture and pieces of wood and birds and old photographs and turn them all into a beautiful sensory explosion.

 Untitled

I am literally not Robert Rauschenberg. But I can pretend I’m an artist like him sometimes…

All of my objects came from a thrift store or a dumpster. Guess which ones came from where.

I had the best time whacking the remaining life out of the ukulele on a curb. Made me feel like a hipster rockstar for a brief 5 minutes.

I used an inordinate amount of spray paint, plus primer. I had to arrange a ride to go back to the store two more times. Fabric absorbs paint really well.

And can I just say that I love toy dinosaurs? They make me revert back to childhood and happiness in general.

I was pretty pleased with the end product, though after my art critique, I could design some adjustments for a better piece. Unfortunately, I haven’t come up with any good ideas on what to do with it. I don’t have a studio…and rolling the chair a mile to my apartment that won’t have any room for it anyways doesn’t sound very romantic.

So the amateur artists realizes she might be getting a little ahead of herself by making large art for art’s sake. But feeling like Robert Rauschenberg in the process and getting to play with toy dinosaurs again? Yeah, worth it.


3D Design projects

This semester I’m taking a 3D design class, which has been exciting for this little art minor here. This is the first time I’ve really concentrated on creating sculptures, so this class has pushed my skills beyond the familiarity of drawing and collage. Though sometimes uncomfortable, I feel like I’ve been growing artistically and figuring out how to express myself in sculpture. I’m pleased with my results thus far, so I wanted to share some of my favorites with you. Let me know what you think.

Clay sculptures (from a 50-sculpture project)


Deconstruction: Print on foamcore

Reconstruction: Sticks.

Manufractured: Record, guitar strings, drumsticks, guitar pick, and bandanna.

“Dream On”


Becoming a scholar

Hey guys………..

So I know I haven’t been around in a while.

…Yeah…5 months…it’s a long time since we’ve spoken…I know…I’m sorry.

Do you want to catch up? I do. I missed you. I know excuses are excuses, but I do have a few. Well, here goes…

Excuse #1:

The stack on the left contains all the books I read through completely, minus two: Antigone and Three Cups of Tea. The stack on the right contains all the books of which I was only required to read partially. Said reading took place between the months of September and the first half of December–you know, about 3 and a half months.

I was thinking about doing the math to average out how many pages I had read per day, but I got tired thinking about how I read more than 100 pages of Dante one day and stayed up until 6 am reading 3/4 of Three Cups of Tea in order to finish it before taking a test on it  before the next class (in fact, I shudder every time I hear the name Greg Mortenson now–less because of the controversy surrounding his work than my bitterness of losing so much sleep over a book with such an embarrassing writing style). Anyways, I got tired thinking about such an endeavor, and I figured you would trust me when I said I read a BUTTLOAD of pages a day.

All of this reading was my academic endeavor last semester. I had chosen to leave the main campus of Azusa Pacific for one of their “study abroad” programs called High Sierra. At the start of the semester, all I knew was that I would be living up in Bass Lake with 40 other students on a small summer camp compound (known as Yosemite Sierra Summer Camp), promised a bunch of outdoor adventures (backpacking trips, wakeboarding, rockclimbing and the like), and taking some Humanities courses. Alumni from other semesters had said something about a lot of reading, but I didn’t understand what they meant. I had spent my summer breaking in my new hiking boots, and I thought I was ready to go.

Three and a half months later, my mind had absorbed the classics of history, philosophy, and literature–of which Three Cups of Tea, the unfortunate requirement of my leadership class, should not be grouped with (still bitter).

Anyways–oh, the classics! I read through the works of St. Augustine, Aristophanes, Herodotus, Plato, Aristotle, Parmenides, Dante, Milton, Galileo, Homer, Hildegard of Bingen, Virgil, Machiavelli…Yes, the reading, the mind-probing daily assignments–it was hard (and it’s really a shame that thinking a lot doesn’t burn a ton of calories). Despite racking up a massive sleep debt by the end of the semester, though, I think I fell in to a strange sort of love. Instead of drilling my brain with typical textbook knowledge, I was interacting with the original works of historic brilliant minds that have affected the way people see the world even today; I was learning about hospitality, the arguments of politics, mysticism, friendship, man’s pride, purgatory, predestination, how Aristotle and Plato influence Christianity, special revelation versus natural revelation–this, my friends, is scholarship.

Instead of throwing up dates and trivial information, I had to discover the argument of Aquinas in his writings on law. Instead of falling asleep during lectures, my classmates debated about what really is “The Good.”  I took a scene from Paradise Lost and rendered it into a drawing of Adam and Eve. I wrote a paper about Plato vs. Aristotle on art and another about the history of the philosophy of time.

I became a scholar.

And some people thought I was just going to summer camp for a semester…


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