Conflicts between Colleges

As stated in this wonderful article from The New Yorker, there seems to be two major types of college education.

The first is the small, liberal-arts college in which students learn for the sake of learning. They develop a broad foundation in a variety of mostly humanities-based subjects, and they graduate with changed minds and changed viewpoints about the world around them and themselves.

The second is the more utilitarian college degree. I include the word 'degree' in this second description and not in the first because I want to emphasize that the learning that goes on in this second college is learning towards a product: a degree, a job, and success. Of course, I don't mean to say that the learning in this second college is less valuable or less sincere than the learning of the first college. I only mean to say that the second college is more practical, more rational.

I don't know which one is more worthwhile.

For the actual article, please follow the link below!
http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2012/04/30/120430fa_fact_auletta

On Tumblr and Blogs

A few days ago, I heard someone refer to a Tumblr as a blog. I hadn't thought of Tumblrs as blogs; they seemed to me to be to rather different entities. The pace of a Tumblr is quite different from that of a blog (as in, blogs like this one, on Blogger, Wordpress, etc.), isn't it? Tumblr is also primarily image based, while blogs are often more word based (although many blogs, particularly visual art blogs like photography blogs, portfolio blogs, or fashion blogs contain a high number of images). Much of the basis for Tumblr is 're-Tumbling' other posts; while re-blogging someone else's blog posts is not uncommon, I don't know many blogs whose sheer purpose is re-blogging. Most blog writers are blog writers because they like to write.

Don't get me wrong--I love Tumblr. I think Tumblr is a fantastic commercial success, and it is very interesting and quite fun. I just think that Tumblr (more of a microblogging service) serve a different purpose than blogs, so I find it interesting that the word blog is becoming synonymous to a Tumblr account.

The development of language is so fascinating!

The Ballad of King Leir and His Three Daughters

Starting to study for exams has reminded me how much I love the course material and specifically, Shakespeare's King Lear. While I bask in Will's beautiful eloquence (Who am I kidding? Considering I am not an actress, it is somewhat absurd how many lines I am capable of reciting verbatim.), I just thought I'd share a ballad based on King Lear, or Leir, if you go by one of the pre-Shakespeare spellings of his name.

Here are the lyrics below.

A Lamentable Song of the Death of King Leir and his Three Daughters

TO THE TUNE OF 'WHEN FLYING FAME'

King Leir once ruled in this land
With princely power and peace;
And had all things with hearts content,
That might his joys increase.
Amongst those things that nature gave,
Three daughters fair had he,
So princely seeming beautiful,
As fairer could not be.

So on a time it pleas'd the king
A question thus to move,
Which of his daughters to his grace
Could shew the dearest love:
For to my age you bring content,
Quoth he, then let me hear,
Which of you three in plighted troth
The kindest will appear.

To whom the eldest thus began;
Dear father, mind, quoth she,
Before your face, to do you good,
My blood shall render'd be:
And for your sake my bleeding heart
Shall here be cut in twain,
Ere that I see your reverend age
The smallest grief sustain.

And so will I, the second said;
Dear father, for your sake,
The worst of all extremities
I'll gently undertake:
And serve your highness night and day
With diligence and love;
That sweet content and quietness
Discomforts may remove.

In doing so, you glad my soul,
The aged king reply'd;
But what sayst thou, my youngest girl,
How is thy love ally'd?
My love (quoth young Cordelia then)
Which to your grace I owe,
Shall be the duty of a child,
And that is all I'll show.

And wilt thou shew no more, quoth he,
Than doth thy duty bind?
I well perceive thy love is small,
When as no more I find.
Henceforth I banish thee my court,
Thou art no child of mine;
Nor any part of this my realm
By favour shall be thine.

Thy elder sisters loves are more
Then well I can demand,
To whom I equally bestow
My kingdome and my land,
My pompal state and all my goods,
That lovingly I may
With those thy sisters be maintain'd
Until my dying day.

Thus flattering speeches won renown,
By these two sisters here;
The third had causeless banishment,
Yet was her love more dear:
For poor Cordelia patiently
Went wandring up and down,
Unhelp'd, unpity'd, gentle maid,
Through many an English town:

Untill at last in famous France
She gentler fortunes found;
Though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd
The fairest on the ground:
Where when the king her virtues heard,
And this fair lady seen,
With full consent of all his court
He made his wife and queen.

Her father king Leir this while
With his two daughters staid:
Forgetful of their promis'd loves,
Full soon the same decay'd;
And living in queen Ragan's court,
The eldest of the twain,
She took from him his chiefest means,
And most of all his train.

For whereas twenty men were wont
To wait with bended knee:
She gave allowance but to ten,
And after scarce to three;
Nay, one she thought too much for him;
So took she all away,
In hope that in her court, good king,
He would no longer stay.

Am I rewarded thus, quoth he,
In giving all I have
Unto my children, and to beg
For what I lately gave?
I'll go unto my Gonorell:
My second child, I know,
Will be more kind and pitiful,
And will relieve my woe.

Full fast he hies then to her court;
Where when she heard his moan
Return'd him answer, That she griev'd
That all his means were gone:
But no way could relieve his wants;
Yet if that he would stay
Within her kitchen, he should have
What scullions gave away.

When he had heard, with bitter tears,
He made his answer then;
In what I did let me be made
Example to all men.
I will return again, quoth he,
Unto my Ragan's court;
She will not use me thus, I hope,
But in a kinder sort.

Where when he came, she gave command
To drive him thence away:
When he was well within her court
(She said) he would not stay.
Then back again to Gonorell
The woeful king did hie,
That in her kitchen he might have
What scullion boy set by.

But there of that he was deny'd,
Which she had promis'd late:
For once refusing, he should not
Come after to her gate.
Thus twixt his daughters, for relief
He wandred up and down;
Being glad to feed on beggars food,
That lately wore a crown.

And calling to remembrance then
His youngest daughters words,
That said the duty of a child
Was all that love affords:
But doubting to repair to her,
Whom he had banish'd so,
Grew frantick mad; for in his mind
He bore the wounds of woe:

Which made him rend his milk-white locks,
And tresses from his head,
And all with blood bestain his cheeks,
With age and honour spread.
To hills and woods and watry founts
He made his hourly moan,
Till hills and woods and sensless things,
Did seem to sigh and groan.

Even thus possest with discontents,
He passed o're to France,
In hopes from fair Cordelia there,
To find some gentler chance;
Most virtuous dame! which when she heard,
Of this her father's grief,
As duty bound, she quickly sent
Him comfort and relief:
And by a train of noble peers,
In brave and gallant sort,
She gave in charge he should be brought
To Aganippus' court;
Whose royal king, with noble mind
So freely gave consent,
To muster up his knights at arms,
To fame and courage bent.

And so to England came with speed,
To repossesse king Leir
And drive his daughters from their thrones
By his Cordelia dear.
Where she, true-hearted noble queen,
Was in the battel slain;
Yet he, good king, in his old days,
Possest his crown again.

But when he heard Cordelia's death,
Who died indeed for love
Of her dear father, in whose cause
She did this battle move;
He swooning fell upon her breast,
From whence he never parted:
But on her bosom left his life,
That was so truly hearted.

The lords and nobles when they saw
The end of these events,
The other sisters unto death
They doomed by consents;
And being dead, their crowns they left
Unto the next of kin:
Thus have you seen the fall of pride,
And disobedient sin.

a person who thinks all the time

a person who thinks all the time has nothing to think about
except thoughts
so,
he loses touch with reality
and lives in a world of illusions.

-Alan Watts (1915-1973)

If you don't have something to live for, how will you have someone to play for?

An artist at work

I had the amazing opportunity today to watch abstract expressionist painter Cesan D'Ornellas Levine as she created a vibrant painting in front of her eyes at the Petroff Gallery in Toronto. My friend H and I sat and watched her for a bit as she transformed a wooden canvas into a part of her Sun Series Paintings. It was super cool!

While I know very little about visual art and art history (and I hope to learn more soon), I really enjoyed watching Cesan D'Ornellas Levine paint. I would never have thought of some of her techniques. She used white a lot; she would paint with colour, and then 'take off' portions of the dried coloured paint with white paint. She used water; spraying the paint with water seemed to create a really interesting effect. She used a wood-carving knife to etch patterns into her painting since she was painting on wood, rather than canvas. She used paper towel to make a soft, unique texture.

It really is amazing how many opportunities are available to people living in and around the Toronto area. Cesan D'Ornellas Levine's exhibition today was free of charge, and I am sure there are many such events around Toronto that go by without Torontonians taking full advantage. Concerts, art exhibitions, historical sites -- there is so much to see and do, and so little time to do it all!

Improvisations

It may be March Break for the kids at my school, but my friend M and I decided that we'd go to school anyways for a little jam session on the piano and cello. As someone who is primarily Classically-trained and who hasn't had much experience with improvisation, it was very exciting to do some improvisation with M. Considering that I've studied piano for so much longer than I've studied cello, I was surprised to find it much easier to improvise on cello (or as a 4-hands piano improv with me on the upper ranges of piano with M on the lower ranges). Perhaps the fact that I've had less training on cello makes me less rigid or less stiff.

Time really does fly when you're having fun. M and I were only able to stay for about 1.5 hours, but those 1.5 hours sped by quickly; it was 1:30pm before we knew it! I left our school (and headed over to Chinatown and Kensington Market for a nice long walk and a bit of getting lost with my mum) feeling so much more refreshed than I've felt in a long time.

My favourite part of today's improvisations was the absence of metre (and tonality) in most of our music. Everything just flowed from one part to the next; there was no ticking metronome inside our heads. I suppose it can be considered the equivalent of a free-writing stream of consciousness with commas and dashes but no periods.

What a beautiful day.

1984

About a week ago, I read George Orwell's 1984. I did the majority of my reading on in the airport, in the plane, in the car, and in the hotel in Halifax. Living in in the GTA, I would have thought I would have spent more time enjoying the outdoors of Halifax (especially considering the spells of nice weather that we had for two of the four days spent in Halifax), but I spent most of the time indoors at Dalhousie University and the University of King's College. The time I spent outside was mostly the 20 minute walks to and from the university and the hotel. I would have gone out more often, but it always seemed to be quite late when I finally came to the hotel, and by that point, my parents were quite tired to go with me, and they did not want me wandering around an unfamiliar city on my own at night.

So, I spent my evenings reading. Orwell's 1984 is a captivating and fast-paced dystopian novel. It is a social critique. Published in 1949 and set in the then-future 1984, the novel follows protagonist Winston Smith as he quietly attempts to challenge the oligarchical dictatorship of Big Brother's Party.

The premise of the dictatorship is the Party's ability to limit all thinking. There is no critical thinking in the society of Oceania. The language, Newspeak, is so limited in its vocabulary that it lacks all the beautiful subtleties and colours of today's English, known derogatorily as Oldspeak. Newspeak users speak in a quick staccato, and the language's quickness makes it so much easier to rush over the meanings of the words. You don't dwell on the words meanings because you don't have time. The word "Minipax," for example, which refers to the Ministry of Peace (which, oddly enough, concerns itself with war), is so easy to roll off your tongue that you don't think about the word "Ministry" and its meanings of institutions and hierarchical judgement. You don't think about the word "Peace" and its corresponding ideas of contentment, values, safety, security, and its opposing associated ideas of war, violence, discontentment, etc.

The book makes me wonder about Tumblr. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a good (few hours?!) spent on Tumblr -- there are some posts that are absolutely hilarious! I wonder whether the pace at which we scroll through Tumblr though means that we don't have time to actively think about the images and text that we see and read. Instead we just digest it, without any sort of critical thoughts. We talked about this in English class a bit. It stuck with me, and came up again while reading 1984.

On voluntary writing and blogs

It's a curious thing to find the blog of one of your teachers. I suppose I'm just not used to reading my teachers' writing outside of the context of handouts, assignment feedback, report cards, and the occasional e-mail.

Perhaps it is even odder when you find yourself thoroughly enjoying your teacher's blog, and reading pages and pages into the blog's archive.

Regardless, blogs themselves are a curious sort of medium. They aren't quite journal entries in the sense of a diary, but they are more or less a published journal. Anyone can read them, but few do. I doubt that there are many people who read this blog, and of the people who do read this blog, I doubt that any are 'regular followers.'

Still, people blog all the time, without a huge concern for who might or might not be reading their words. It is somewhat of a consolation to be able to write and then to go back and see that what you have written exists somewhere, even if the Internet is a somewhat abstract and elusive canvas.

I wonder if there is an art to blogging. If there is such an art, I am sure I have yet to master it. There are surely lots of blogs that are poorly done; blogs with ridiculously informal language, laden with grammatical errors, rude content, etc. Many blogs are pointless -- this one is perhaps one such pointless blog. However, the pointlessness of such a blog is maybe what attracts the writer to create it. We write so often because we must write; we write assignments, we write business e-mails, we write messages to people because we find it is socially acceptable to keep in touch by talking about the weather (and often also because we do actually want to keep in touch with them, but we just don't know how to go about it, especially when they live halfway across the country or halfway across the world). With a blog, though, you write because you want to write; there is nothing 'forcing' you to write.

I wonder when this blog will fall under and fade away. When will I forget about it? When will I stop going back to it and posting the occasional song lyric, ramble, or poem?

I think I will always write for pleasure, be it in this blog or elsewhere.

Homo sapiens to Homo narrans, the storytelling person

"I heard... two men talking about a third old man who had recently died. One of them said, 'I was visiting him at his home. He started to tell me an amazing story about something that had happened to him when he was young. But it was a long story. Night came, and we decided that I should come back the next day to hear the rest. But when I arrived, he was dead.'

The man fell silent. I decided not to leave that bench until I heard how the other man would respond to what he’d heard. I had an instinctive feeling that it would prove to be important.

Finally he, too, spoke.

'That’s not a good way to die — before you’ve told the end of your story.' "

Source: http://www.nytimes.com/2011/12/11/opinion/sunday/in-africa-the-art-of-listening.html?_r=1&src=tp&smid=fb-share
By HENNING MANKELL
Published: December 10, 2011

On school and motivations

Are you living for the weekend, or are you living for the week?

The cities that we build

The other day, a friend and I were discussing human perceptions of the world. We settled on the idea that each of us build cities in our minds. The cities that we build exist as a result of our experiences, our memories, our admiration for our mentors, our perceptions of ourselves, and much more. Essentially, our cities are reflective of the world as we each see it, as well as how we see ourselves within that world.

Cities, however, are not stagnant. With the development of new technology, the immigration and emigration of residents, changing media values, growing personal values, and the occasional and unexpected storm or natural disaster, our cities are constantly having to be repaired, renewed, and revised to suit our needs and the needs of the rest of the world. An issue therefore arises when we, as the architects and engineers of our minds, fail to allow our cities to grow and change as they must. Inflexibility is a serious issue; in many cases, inflexibility goes hand in hand with brittleness and fragility. The collapse of our minds' cities is not an easy task to bear.

Objectiveness and Emotional Investments

I'm currently reading Shakespeare's masterpiece King Lear and have been thinking about how emotional responses to characters and empathy with characters can often cloud our argumentative judgement. If we're trying, for example, to analyze the character Cordelia, it is difficult to remain objective if we have emotionally invested ourselves in liking her character. Such is especially the case when viewing a well-acted and well-made film interpretation of the play, such as the PBS Great Performances series of King Lear directed by the talented Trevor Nunn (which can be watched at http://www.pbs.org/wnet/gperf/tag/trevor-nunn/). We are often moved to empathize with all of the characters in the play; the relationship between the Fool and Lear makes our hearts wrench, and some sympathy can even be felt for Lear's antagonistic eldest daughter, Gonoril.

The same can be said for life outside of literature. Our ability to empathize with the people around us is what makes us more kind, more compassionate, and more human. Empathy is often the basis of philanthropy. However, empathy is also often the basis for bias. How can we objectively analyze a situation, a person, or ourselves if we have become emotionally invested in a certain viewpoint or perspective?

Jason Mraz is a Curious Genius

I'm going through a bit of a Jason Mraz craze right now. I love all of Jason Mraz's songs, including "I'm Yours" and "Lucky". However, those two particular pieces are a little bit overplayed. So, instead of listening to them, I've been spending lots of time indulging in his other gorgeous creations.

What's so impressive about Jason Mraz is that he can write incredible lyrics. There's a beautiful simplicity in his work, and yet the lyrics are powerful and deep. You can never understand them just by reading them once. You have to read them over and over again while hearing his voice sing them. And the magic of it all is that the interpretations differ constantly.

Check out some of his songs if you're in the mood. They're absolutely beautiful. I'll post the lyrics to one of them here.

Here's the YouTube link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lW_JMBWd-c4&feature=related
Enjoy!

"Mr. Curiosity" by Jason Mraz
Hey, Mr. Curiosity,
Is it true what they've been saying about you --
Are you killing me?
You took care of the cat already,
And for those who think it's heavy
Is it the truth,
Or is it only gossip?

Call it mystery or anything
Just as long as you'd call me
I sent the message on. Did you get it when I left it?
See, this catastrophic event?
It wasn't meant to mean no harm,
But to think there's nothing wrong is a problem.

I'm looking for love this time,
Sounding hopeful, but it's making me cry.
Love is a mystery.
Mr. Curious...

Come back to me
Mr. Waiting, ever patient can't you see
That I'm the same the way you left me
In a hurry to spell check me.
And I'm underlined already in envy green
And pencil red.
And I've forgotten what you've said.
Will you stop working for the dead and return?

Mr. Curious, well I need some inspiration.
It's my birthday, and I cannot find no cause for celebration.
The scenario is grave, but I'll be braver when you save me.
From this situation laden with hearsay.

I'm looking for love this time,
Sounding hopeful but it's making me cry.
And love is a mystery.
Mr. Curiosity...

Be Mr. Please.
Do come and find me, oh,
Find, find me, find me.

I'm looking for love this time,
Sounding hopeful but it's making me cry.
I'm trying not to ask why
'Cause love is a mystery.
Mr. Curiosity...

Be Mr. Please,
Do come and find me.
Love is blinding when the timing's never right.
Oh, who am I to beg for difference
Finding love in just an instant?
Well I dont mind, at least I've tried.
And I tried, I tried...