I have an important decision to make

and I don't know how to decide because I like all my options but none of them scream 'perfect.'

Strange dreams

I had a very strange nightmare that melded the transportation system used in Gringotts Wizarding Bank from J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter series, the heartless shadow monsters from the Kingdom Hearts action role-playing game, a tree house from a Pokemon game (probably Ruby), various locations in real life, fish skeletons, a race, and general unhappiness. Considering I haven't thought about Harry Potter, Kingdom Hearts, or Pokemon in a very long time, I awoke from the dream very confused. Also, I think I punched something in my dream with my left hand (I'm actually right-handed in real life, but in my dream I was left-handed), and when I woke up my knuckles on my left hand were red. How funny!

Vintage Fashion

Etsy, Pinterest, fashion blogs, and Google Image searches for vintage fashion are becoming my unhealthy obsessions (along with the BBC Series Sherlock and its amazing fandom... I can't wait until I finally get the time to actually watch more than three episodes of the series!). I'm particularly enjoying the late 1940's fashion following the burst of Dior, although snippets from most other decades are quite lovely too...

I need to stop procrastinating from my school work.

one of my new favourite poems

l(a

le
af
fa
ll

s)
one
l

iness 

 - e. e. cummings

Some Debussy and Bach

I had the privilege of playing for the inauguration of the newly-donated piano in a church in downtown Toronto. Despite the weather being ridiculously gloomy (it was not really raining, but it was very much not dry), the day was extraordinarily beautiful; although I've never considered myself especially religious, the service was lovely and the people were very kind. What a wonderful day!

I played some Bach and Debussy. The pieces can be listened to in the YouTube links below. 

Here is Debussy's Arabesque  no. 1 from Deux Arabesques, as played by the master Walter Gieseking.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vmDfLZSWlKI

And here is a beautiful performance of J.S. Bach's Prelude and Fugue in E-major from Book One of the WTC by Dominique Kim at the 10th International Russian Music Piano Competition. 
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oSOdUHiiXiU

Enjoy!

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!

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]