Visiting my (?) University

I went to visit (again) the university that I'm 99% positive I'm going to go to next year. I'm really excited, and a little nervous. I met some really cool kids today though; they're super funny, very welcoming, and very kind.

Prom

We had our prom last night. I heard from some of the other students that they thought it was rather disappointing... but I had lots of fun. How couldn't you enjoy a nice dinner and evening with your closet friends from school, and a boy who you like but you haven't really seen in a while? Plus, there's the dancing, and the saying hello to your teachers, and it's all good fun.

My friends and I had our own little 'after party.' It was a girls-only slumber party, so we had to send our dates off on their merry way. Super fun! Good munchies, good drinks (in moderation, of course), good friends. Loved it.

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

Should a post-secondary decision be

rational or emotional?

Social anxiety like no other

We're studying T.S. Eliot in English class and have recently been looking at Eliot's poem titled "The Love-Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." There are a few lines in the poem speak so well to me; 'the evening is spread out against the sky like a patient etherized upon a table' is so still, so heavy. The entire stanza about the yellow fog-cat is fantastic (and reminds me a lot of this poem by Carl Sandburg.) The similarities to "Seasons of Love" from Rent excites me as well. Love it!

Here is the poem. If you don't feel bad for poor socially anxious J. Alfred Prufrock, you might want to consider going on a nice search for your heart.

The Love-Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

 

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .                               10
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

  In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

  The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,                               20
And seeing that it was a soft October night
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

  And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;                                30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions
And for a hundred visions and revisions
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

  In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

  And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—                               40
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

  For I have known them all already, known them all;
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,                       50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
  So how should I presume?

  And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?                    60
  And how should I presume?

  And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
  And should I then presume?
  And how should I begin?
        .     .     .     .     .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets              70
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
        .     .     .     .     .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?                  80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet–and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

  And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,                                             90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
  Should say, "That is not what I meant at all.
  That is not it, at all."

  And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,                                           100
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
  "That is not it at all,
  That is not what I meant, at all."                                          110
        .     .     .     .     .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

  I grow old . . . I grow old . . .                                              120
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

  Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

  I do not think they will sing to me.

  I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

  We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown               130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.


                                                              [1915]

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.

Sleepovers

My best friend M invited me over to her house for seder (the second night of passover) with her extended family. It's always lovely getting together with M, and it was, of course, a pleasure meeting her family. I especially enjoyed our sleepover afterwards... It is FUN to have slumber parties! I wonder whether people have slumber parties after graduating from high school. Although maybe living in residence at university is just a giant mesh between an actual lifestyle and a giant slumber party. Or perhaps it depends on the residence and the person. I hope we'll have just as good (or better!) times when high school is over!

Agony in the Woods

In one of our music courses at school, we are entering a musical theatre unit. Among a number of musicals, we're studying Stephen Sondheim's Into the Woods. Just for a bit of a smile for the day (I certainly feel like I need one - what a long Tuesday!), I thought I would post Sondheim's "Agony." "Agony" is a hilarious duet between two Prince Charmings. Cinderella's Prince is on the search for his beautiful princess-to-be who has, since midnight, run away from his ball. Rapunzel's Prince is lamenting the futility of his love for the girl trapped in the tower with no doors.

It is absurd and hilarious. I love it!

Listen to it on YouTube at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LFgMowOwek0

The lyrics are below:
[CINDERELLA'S PRINCE]
Did I abuse her
Or show her disdain?
Why does she run from me?
If I should lose her,
How shall I regain
The heart she has won from me?

Agony!
Beyond power of speech,
When the one thing you want
Is the only thing out of your reach.

[RAPUNZEL'S PRINCE]
High in her tower,
She sits by the hour,
Maintaining her hair.
Blithe and becoming and frequently humming
A lighthearted air:
Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-

Agony!
Far more painful than yours,
When you know she would go with you
If there only were doors.

[BOTH]
Agony!
Oh, the torture they teach!

[RAPUNZEL'S PRINCE]
What's as intriguing-

[CINDERELLA'S PRINCE]
Or half so fatiguing-

[BOTH]
As what's out of reach?

[CINDERELLA'S PRINCE]
Am I not sensitive,
Clever,
Well-mannered,
Considerate,
Passionate,
Charming,
As kind as I'm handsome
And heir to a throne?

[RAPUNZEL'S PRINCE]
You are everything maidens could wish for!

[CINDERELLA'S PRINCE]
Then why no-?

[RAPUNZEL'S PRINCE]
Do I know?

[CINDERELLA'S PRINCE]
The girl must be mad!

[RAPUNZEL'S PRINCE]
You know nothing of madness
Till you're climbing her hair
And you see her up there
AS you're nearing her,
All the while hearing her:
Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-

[BOTH]
Agony!

[CINDERELLA'S PRINCE]
Misery!

[RAPUNZEL'S PRINCE]
Woe!

[BOTH]
Though it's different for each.

[CINDERELLA'S PRINCE]
Always ten steps behind-

[RAPUNZEL'S PRINCE]
Always ten feet below-

[BOTH]
And she's just out of reach.
Agony
That can cut like a knife!

I must have her to wife.

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.

Fashion

In recent months and especially in the last two weeks, I've started to become very interested in clothes and fashion. I'm not positively sure why, but I think it has partly to do with the fact that I'm graduating next year and can no longer rely on throwing on my uniform every day, and partly to do with the fact that I am feeling very academically inspired by my English teacher, and she happens to be extraordinarily fashionable. My best friend also has a stunning sense of style, and I occasionally think to myself that it would be nice if I could be a stylish as her (you could analyze it and say something about wanting to be as an amazing person as her -- she has spectacular character traits -- and transferring those traits to her clothes).

The reason why I find my sudden interest (borderline obsession, considering the amount of time I've been spending on online clothing shops without actually buying anything, Pinterest, Etsy, fashion blogs, etc.) in fashion so startling is because of my strong adversity to it in previous years. I had formerly told myself that fashion should be functional (which I still think is true), and devoting so much time and energy into fashion seems to be rooted in some sort of unfortunate values of artificiality and consumerism.

It occurred more recently to me that fashion may in fact be yet another form of art.

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.

A draft of the introduction to the play that I am writing

Dim lights. A clarinet plays a light melody with a pure tone.

A large wooden chest is on the stage, just off the centre and to the right. It is deep brown and is perhaps made of mahogany. It gives the appearance of being altogether mundane, antique, and oppressively heavy. A lock keeps it tightly closed.

With slow and deliberate movements, a girl enters the scene. She appears about twenty-seven, although she could be older. Still, there is something in her movements that make her seem sixteen or seventeen years old. Perhaps it is her light step.

Eventually, she notices the wooden chest. She steps towards it, but hesitates. She takes one long, visible breath, and then approaches the chest, bends down, and touches the lock.

GIRL: It's funny how we forget some things and how we remember others.

Silence. There is no one around to answer her. She jiggles the lock lightly.

GIRL: I don't remember them giving me a key.

University Applications

Ask me to write a paper on Tess of the d'Urbervilles, and I'll write one, right away. It wouldn't necessarily be a good essay, but it would have some structure, and I would know how to take a theme from Tess and develop it into a thesis, which I'd then flesh out in my body paragraph before wrapping the whole work up with some sort of thought-provoking summation.

Ask me to write a paper on myself, and I'm lost.

Unfortunately, this situation is faced by countless number of youth across Canada and the world as post-secondary application deadlines approach. We haven't practised writing 400 word 'essays' on our deepest desires, so how can we possibly be expected to write effectively, eloquently, and efficiently?

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.

When the Leaves

A few of my friends performed some Ingrid Michaelson at school little while ago. With the winter season coming, I thought that their choice of "When the Leaves" was particularly fitting. The lyrics are gorgeous.

When the leaves turn brown
And they cover this lonely town
And I miss your kiss
When the leaves turn brown.

When the snow comes down
And it covers this lonely town
Then I miss your kiss
When the snow comes down.

On Christmas evenings like this
I wonder if it’s me you’ll miss
When Christmas carols fill every space
And I think of your hands upon my face

When the trees come down
I’m sweeping needles up from the ground
And I miss your kiss
On a Christmas night like this
On a Christmas night like this
On a Christmas night like this.

The YouTube link is http://www.metrolyrics.com/when-the-leaves-lyrics-ingrid-michaelson.html#
Enjoy!

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?

Post-Graduate Aspirations

It's the start of a school year, and high school seniors throughout the country are spending countless hours at university fairs, booking guided campus tours, and surfing an uncountable number of university websites. Despite the wide variety of available resources in our quest to identify our post-graduate aspirations, many of us still feel overwhelmed and confused.

With application deadlines quickly approaching, there is not only the pressure to improve and maintain grades and demonstrate commitment to extracurricular passions, but the 'obligation' to discover one's interests (and potential careers) seems stronger than ever.

It is important to remember, however, that post-secondary studies and activities are not about setting one's life path in stone. Rather, post-secondary studies is just another stage in life where each individual as even more opportunities to delve into the areas in which he or she enjoys, be they traveling, sciences, thinking, music, research, medicine, entrepreneurship, volunteer work, and so much more.

The difficulty therefore lies in determining one's passions and identifying what areas and fields are enjoyable. What does one do when one would like to do it all?

Recall

I'm trying to recall your face,
I haven't managed yet.
Why are half-remembered things
The hardest to forget?

- by JonArno Lawson

"Recall" is one of many of Lawson's short but thought-provoking poems in Think Again, illustrated by Julie Morstad. In only four lines, Lawson evokes the very particular feeling of struggling to remember something, be it a person's face, someone's words, a thought that you planned to write down but never got around to finding your pen, the name of someone important to you, the time you were supposed to meet him or her, or perhaps the name of the song whose melody haunts your mind.