My life pretty much sucks in the most hipstery way possible.
Let's begin with my social life. I have all the right friends, but don't spend time with them. Instead, I spend time with less than intelligent people doing less than intelligent things. It's kind of a waste of time.
Because my time is more valuable than other people's time.
My art life...aka my academics. I can't draw worth a lick because I have zero self-confidence. And as much as my professors might lecture me to "just be confident," I can't.
How hipster is that- being emo and it affecting your artwork.
Ugh.
And then there's my psychoses. It's a jungle in there. Plenty of well camouflaged tigers and secretly poisonous plants. Therapy once a week isn't cutting it.
My life sucks because I don't spend time with the right friends, my art is weak, and my brain is messed up.
Also, I don't have an iPad.
I think I'm finally hipster.
23 October 2011
20 September 2011
Random Rant: The Multifacets of Confusion
Today is certainly a historic day for the United States, but I have a lot going through my head. There are three of me all thinking different things at once, I really want to take this opportunity to clear my thoughts by putting it in writing. Plus, as a hipster, I have to believe that my opinion is the only one that matters and that other people want to hear it. So, I will drop some personal inquiries on you in the name of hipsterosity.
The first part of me that is really tugging at me isn't my homosexuality--it's my military upbringing. I've heard everything, including my own father's ideas on Don't Ask, Don't Tell. I understand a lot more about the military than most. So, I know that the issue surrounding DADT is not homosexuality, but sexuality in general and how it affects combat readiness. Men and women live in separate barracks because any sexual contact would cause unneeded distraction from the mission at hand. What do we do with gay men and women? Putting them in separate barracks would be the equivalent of putting men and women together. So, the military has no option but to keep living quarters integrated, which brings me to the next point. Yes, it's repealed, and yes, gay service members can serve openly, but, quite frankly, it doesn't change jack squat. When was the last time you observed a heinous act of racism or heard on TV about one committed? If you can say "in the 20th century," I applaud you for your success in living in a cave full of rainbows for the last decade. Even though slavery was officially abolished more than a century ago, and segregation ended almost 50 years ago, black people are still discriminated against. Why? Because Americans are ignorant, judgmental, egocentric, and prejudicial. And no matter how cynical I am being, we all know it's true. We are never going to be able to change the mind of the man living deep in the hills of Arkansas who has a Confederate flag hanging on his barn. And this is why I understand that gay service men and women will never be able to "openly" serve until every service member in America stops being prejudicial and ignorant. Which will take a long time.
Don't get me wrong, I have the utmost faith in our military to make this transition smoothly and to educate our troops against discrimination against homosexuality and continue to punish those who commit hate crimes against gay men and women. I have faith that service members will learn that homosexuality has nothing to do with career ambitions, and will not stop gay men and women from being fantastic service members.
The second part of me speaking out is my inner Public Relations/International Relations geek. I feel like sometimes we cling to this ideal that America values liberty more than anyone else, and we forget that we are not a progressive nation. We value the freedom to be ignorant more than the freedom to exist. We are not the first nation to allow gay men and women to serve openly. The only reason it's a big deal today is because we were one of the few countries (including Saudi Arabia, Iraq, and North Korea) to enact strict laws banning homosexual service members from serving. In 2009, when talks of repeal started, there were 25 other countries (including Israel!) waiting for us to repeal it. We may be the most powerful military, social, and economic entity in the world, but we always lag behind every other developed nation in the realm of personal liberties. Kind of ironic for the country that was the first to aggressively defend the rights of the individual. It's good PR for the US for now, but it's more of a "you're finally doing something right; don't screw it up" kind of publicity. It needs to become a non-issue and become a part of our everyday culture. Everything else will follow.
The last part of me to speak up is my homosexuality. And for him, it's a big deal, but he's outspoken by the other pieces of me. I'm excited for all those who can finally be who they are while serving the country they love, just like Obama said. I'm glad that we are slowly absorbing the sub-culture of homosexuality into mainstream acceptance. I'm overwhelmingly relieved that gay men or women who are discriminated against or abused won't have to make the choice between being silent or being discharged. But I still hold my previous views.
So, in true hipster fashion, I'm going to end this with a broad, overarching statement that is supposed to be excellent advice for humanity.
Instead of rejoicing in our "success," we should realize that we are not achieving anything revolutionary, but rather fixing a wrong that was made 17 years ago. We are back on track, and we need to just keep marching forward.
Tucker
The first part of me that is really tugging at me isn't my homosexuality--it's my military upbringing. I've heard everything, including my own father's ideas on Don't Ask, Don't Tell. I understand a lot more about the military than most. So, I know that the issue surrounding DADT is not homosexuality, but sexuality in general and how it affects combat readiness. Men and women live in separate barracks because any sexual contact would cause unneeded distraction from the mission at hand. What do we do with gay men and women? Putting them in separate barracks would be the equivalent of putting men and women together. So, the military has no option but to keep living quarters integrated, which brings me to the next point. Yes, it's repealed, and yes, gay service members can serve openly, but, quite frankly, it doesn't change jack squat. When was the last time you observed a heinous act of racism or heard on TV about one committed? If you can say "in the 20th century," I applaud you for your success in living in a cave full of rainbows for the last decade. Even though slavery was officially abolished more than a century ago, and segregation ended almost 50 years ago, black people are still discriminated against. Why? Because Americans are ignorant, judgmental, egocentric, and prejudicial. And no matter how cynical I am being, we all know it's true. We are never going to be able to change the mind of the man living deep in the hills of Arkansas who has a Confederate flag hanging on his barn. And this is why I understand that gay service men and women will never be able to "openly" serve until every service member in America stops being prejudicial and ignorant. Which will take a long time.
Don't get me wrong, I have the utmost faith in our military to make this transition smoothly and to educate our troops against discrimination against homosexuality and continue to punish those who commit hate crimes against gay men and women. I have faith that service members will learn that homosexuality has nothing to do with career ambitions, and will not stop gay men and women from being fantastic service members.
The second part of me speaking out is my inner Public Relations/International Relations geek. I feel like sometimes we cling to this ideal that America values liberty more than anyone else, and we forget that we are not a progressive nation. We value the freedom to be ignorant more than the freedom to exist. We are not the first nation to allow gay men and women to serve openly. The only reason it's a big deal today is because we were one of the few countries (including Saudi Arabia, Iraq, and North Korea) to enact strict laws banning homosexual service members from serving. In 2009, when talks of repeal started, there were 25 other countries (including Israel!) waiting for us to repeal it. We may be the most powerful military, social, and economic entity in the world, but we always lag behind every other developed nation in the realm of personal liberties. Kind of ironic for the country that was the first to aggressively defend the rights of the individual. It's good PR for the US for now, but it's more of a "you're finally doing something right; don't screw it up" kind of publicity. It needs to become a non-issue and become a part of our everyday culture. Everything else will follow.
The last part of me to speak up is my homosexuality. And for him, it's a big deal, but he's outspoken by the other pieces of me. I'm excited for all those who can finally be who they are while serving the country they love, just like Obama said. I'm glad that we are slowly absorbing the sub-culture of homosexuality into mainstream acceptance. I'm overwhelmingly relieved that gay men or women who are discriminated against or abused won't have to make the choice between being silent or being discharged. But I still hold my previous views.
So, in true hipster fashion, I'm going to end this with a broad, overarching statement that is supposed to be excellent advice for humanity.
Instead of rejoicing in our "success," we should realize that we are not achieving anything revolutionary, but rather fixing a wrong that was made 17 years ago. We are back on track, and we need to just keep marching forward.
Tucker
15 September 2011
Sampling Two: The Rose Amongst the Daisies
As promised, I'm revealing some of my writings as a sort of catharsis. I actually really enjoyed writing this one, so enjoy, I guess.
The rose amongst the daisies stands in a field of yellow,
its thorns are sharp, its petals soft, it's regal but it's mellow.
The daisies ask the rose each day: "Why be so defensive?
When someone dear takes you from here, then it's all the better.
See rose, the clouds, the sun above; why must you be so pensive?
Rejoice in life, in love, in laughter; give up your pointy fetter."
But the rose just sits and sheds a petal, crimson, limp, and torn,
wondering why the Earth's so bright and why it was even born.
"The daisy," it mutters in tones a-wearied, "knows nothing of my plight.
They dance, they sway, they giggle and play, with nary e'er a fright.
If only they knew of the dangers in store, of pain, illness, and death,
they, the gleeful contended ones, would feel naked with thorns bereft.
They turn their faces to the sun, make petals bright and sunny,
they understand only happiness, bees, and honey.
They forget the world, its cares, its woes, and turn their backs aloof,
maintain their naive children's dreams in the face of dreary proof.
Their life is as short as their attention span, they can't be bothered with suff'ring,
They bud, they grow; then, doom: a holocaustal off'ring.
"I've lived before," the rose warns aloud, "and I know what is in store;
it's fast, it's cruel; they chop you down, then you are no more.
You daisies, with your visage fresh, your countenance clean and bubbly,
are packed in vases a dozen abreast, even more than doubly.
No resurrection is in store, and by this time next year
I'll say this adage to new-born daisies here.
And while you rot in houses, I'll mourn with dry eye,
for my like end will be approaching nigh.
But I will bloom again, my friends, for I am more resilient;
Once you are faded, dry, and bald, I will bloom more brilliant.
It's happened to me times before: death and then rebirth,
and every time I get cut down I double in heart and girth.
"You, my children," the red rose coos, "will never know of love
until you've suffered and pruned a hundred time with solace only from above."
The daisies keep on dancing, gaily twirling, whirling, and flailing,
while the rose resumes its melancholy weeping and wailing.
The rose amongst the daisies stands in a field of yellow,
its thorns are sharp, its petals soft, it's regal but it's mellow.
The daisies ask the rose each day: "Why be so defensive?
When someone dear takes you from here, then it's all the better.
See rose, the clouds, the sun above; why must you be so pensive?
Rejoice in life, in love, in laughter; give up your pointy fetter."
But the rose just sits and sheds a petal, crimson, limp, and torn,
wondering why the Earth's so bright and why it was even born.
"The daisy," it mutters in tones a-wearied, "knows nothing of my plight.
They dance, they sway, they giggle and play, with nary e'er a fright.
If only they knew of the dangers in store, of pain, illness, and death,
they, the gleeful contended ones, would feel naked with thorns bereft.
They turn their faces to the sun, make petals bright and sunny,
they understand only happiness, bees, and honey.
They forget the world, its cares, its woes, and turn their backs aloof,
maintain their naive children's dreams in the face of dreary proof.
Their life is as short as their attention span, they can't be bothered with suff'ring,
They bud, they grow; then, doom: a holocaustal off'ring.
"I've lived before," the rose warns aloud, "and I know what is in store;
it's fast, it's cruel; they chop you down, then you are no more.
You daisies, with your visage fresh, your countenance clean and bubbly,
are packed in vases a dozen abreast, even more than doubly.
No resurrection is in store, and by this time next year
I'll say this adage to new-born daisies here.
And while you rot in houses, I'll mourn with dry eye,
for my like end will be approaching nigh.
But I will bloom again, my friends, for I am more resilient;
Once you are faded, dry, and bald, I will bloom more brilliant.
It's happened to me times before: death and then rebirth,
and every time I get cut down I double in heart and girth.
"You, my children," the red rose coos, "will never know of love
until you've suffered and pruned a hundred time with solace only from above."
The daisies keep on dancing, gaily twirling, whirling, and flailing,
while the rose resumes its melancholy weeping and wailing.
12 September 2011
Month Two: The Ends Justify the Beginnings
This past month has been a personal revolution. I have delved into a world completely new to me, even though I have thought about it a lot. This world--the world of the art student--is inviting, challenging, exhausting, titillating. I have learned that I am really not the only one who listens to Andrew Bird or is obsessed with Renee Magritte. I have found more people who, like me, are willing to break convention because they are unconventional, who wear what makes them feel comfortable as an individual. I have learned to see the world not for what I think it is, but for what it truly exhibits. In short: I have learned a lot in the past month.
Perhaps the most important thing I learned in relation to my journey into hipsterdom is the difference between making art and what the average hipster (who isn't an artist) thinks of art. Before I started taking drawing and design classes, I thought that art was the portrayal of "individual truths" that need not be derived from reality and didn't need to be understood by anybody but the creator. If I am correct in saying so, I think that's the off-mainstream/hipster view of art. Each piece of art is intended to make a message held by the individual; no one needs to actually get what's going on. The whole process is personal and completely introverted. I could be really wrong, but it seems like that's the prevailing philosophy among those who claim to be indie and believe in the power of one.
However, my extremely brief exposure to art has taught me that art is about portraying the world around us. Regardless of whether or not the finished piece resembles anything in nature, each and every piece of art portrays a human emotion, and it's not the subject matter that determines the emotion, but rather the way the artist renders his subject. Even a box, or a chair, or an onion can have emotionality if an artist is emotionally attached to it and exudes that attachment while creating his artwork.
Even though I am probably wrong about my assumptions of the hipster philosophy of art, it's an irrefutable fact that hipsters love art galleries and modern art. Thus, I am glad to know more about art so that I can pretend to be knowledgeable about it in front of other people in public.
And when I get people to notice that I am deep and can interpret art abstractly, I'll be a hipster off the mainstream.
...right?
I guess I'll find out by the end of the year, when I can actually call myself an art student. Until then, I'll just keep drawing chairs and boxes.
More updates to come as I tackle some do-it-yourself projects!
Much love,
Tucker
Perhaps the most important thing I learned in relation to my journey into hipsterdom is the difference between making art and what the average hipster (who isn't an artist) thinks of art. Before I started taking drawing and design classes, I thought that art was the portrayal of "individual truths" that need not be derived from reality and didn't need to be understood by anybody but the creator. If I am correct in saying so, I think that's the off-mainstream/hipster view of art. Each piece of art is intended to make a message held by the individual; no one needs to actually get what's going on. The whole process is personal and completely introverted. I could be really wrong, but it seems like that's the prevailing philosophy among those who claim to be indie and believe in the power of one.
However, my extremely brief exposure to art has taught me that art is about portraying the world around us. Regardless of whether or not the finished piece resembles anything in nature, each and every piece of art portrays a human emotion, and it's not the subject matter that determines the emotion, but rather the way the artist renders his subject. Even a box, or a chair, or an onion can have emotionality if an artist is emotionally attached to it and exudes that attachment while creating his artwork.
Even though I am probably wrong about my assumptions of the hipster philosophy of art, it's an irrefutable fact that hipsters love art galleries and modern art. Thus, I am glad to know more about art so that I can pretend to be knowledgeable about it in front of other people in public.
And when I get people to notice that I am deep and can interpret art abstractly, I'll be a hipster off the mainstream.
...right?
I guess I'll find out by the end of the year, when I can actually call myself an art student. Until then, I'll just keep drawing chairs and boxes.
More updates to come as I tackle some do-it-yourself projects!
Much love,
Tucker
13 August 2011
End of Month One: Almost Cherry Blossoms
The last week and a half (since I last posted) have been absolutely hipsteriffic. My parents have moved into a small townhouse in Alexandria, Virginia. The house is very close to Old Town (established in 1746 or something) and is literally minutes from Washington, D.C. The Pentagon is about two miles from my house. No kidding. Needless to say, I've really been enjoying my time here, and my stay has been characterized by a lot of indie activity.
We arrived Sunday. Monday, my mother and I walked to Old Town to look around. We stopped in at a few thrift shops/antique stores and I had a lot of fun trying on various (very old) high-end suits (that didn't fit me in the least). That evening, after dinner, we went to a little cupcake cafe for dessert and coffee. I've had better cupcakes in my life, but the atmosphere was hipster beyond description.
Tuesday I went to the library. It's not huge, and it's not the most well-stocked, but it's absolutely adorable. The building looks very colonial (bricks, columns, all that) and is very austere. I walked in to be greeted by a huge, airy room with plenty of natural light and open space. A curving staircase to the right lead me up to the second floor, where I found a large reading room bathed in light from the wall-sized window that made up the far wall. I sat down with my laptop, but after a few minutes of working I began to feel guilty for not reading in the sunlight. So, I pulled out a book and started reading.
I've been on a bit of a reading kick this week. I've always loved reading, but college took my yen away, thanks to the incessant flow of textbooks. Once I sat down in the library and began reading The Ugly American, I couldn't stop. My dad sent me The Ugly American from Kandahar while he was stationed in Afghanistan; he found it an interesting biopic of American foreign relations (an interest we share) and thought I would enjoy its wisdom and humor. I did. I read the 250 page book in about three days, and moved on to Candide by Voltaire. That lasted me two days. Now, I'm well into The Brothers Karamazov and hope to finish Catcher in the Rye (if not another book) before I leave in six days to move in to my dorm.
Before you write me off as the epitome of hipster based on my reading selection, I have to confess how I read these. I read a lot of The Ugly American at the library over a couple visits, but I read a majority of it at home with a cup of tea. But that's not all. I read basically the entirety of Candide underneath a weeping willow on the banks of the Potomac, looking over the river upon the monuments of D.C. Veritably, I was in heaven, and even if I wasn't reading Voltaire I would have waxed philosophical. I'm hoping to return to that same spot (which, coincidentally, was Lady Bird Johnson's favorite locale) so that I can sit on that bench in the shade of the willow and finish my Dostoyevsky. Does that make me hipster; or does that make me intellectual? snooty? cosmopolitan? I'm so new to this thoroughly urban existence!
Even in the midst of the sprawling metropolis of my new life in D.C., I have managed to maintain a semblance of connection with nature (which I believe is something many hipsters pretend to aspire to, but I honestly enjoy). My sister and I have been taking my dog on walks to different parks along the river (which is how we found Lady Bird Johnson's garden) and doing a little biking and walking. Yesterday, we decided on a whim to go to Theodore Roosevelt Island. We were at LBJ arboretum and had planned to go to the Navy Yard (the base my dad works on) to workout later, which is two miles South of Teddy's Island. So, we decided we would run there in lieu of spending thirty minutes on an elliptical.
It turns out that this sporadic decision was not the most well thought-out--3pm in Washington D.C. means about 95 degrees with 85% humidity. Needless to say, we didn't exactly run there, and we ended up crawling across the bridge to the island. Luckily, there are tons of water fountains all over the island and plenty of shade. After escaping from the clutches of heat exhaustion, we explored the island a while.
I don't know why it's named after Theodore Roosevelt. They're building a HUGE statue of him in the middle of the island, so I guess now I have one reason. The island stretches from the Memorial Bridge (which is right next to the Lincoln Memorial) to the bridge that crosses over into Georgetown. It's surprisingly natural--the whole island is heavily forested, and there's a large part of it that is natural swampland. They prefer the term "marshes" but everyone knows D.C. was built on a swamp. Literally. My sister and I diverted from the main path for a little while, and happened upon a portion of coast that had huge, flat boulders and looked over the river to Georgetown. So, we sat on the rocks and, in the sight of Georgetown University's looming terraces and dozens of kayakers and rowers, read and sun-bathed. It was beyond pleasant. We walked the two miles back to LBJ park and drove home. Our excursion into nature was over, and we were immediately thrust back into the nature of the city.
I have a little less than a week here, and I anticipate a lot more tea, more trips to Lady Bird Johnson Garden, more hours spent in the sunny library, more cafes. I'm overjoyed that this is my home, and I think it's going to push me towards hipster much more quickly than I could ever have anticipated.
I'll catch you all on the flip-side (aka: Ohio),
Tucker
We arrived Sunday. Monday, my mother and I walked to Old Town to look around. We stopped in at a few thrift shops/antique stores and I had a lot of fun trying on various (very old) high-end suits (that didn't fit me in the least). That evening, after dinner, we went to a little cupcake cafe for dessert and coffee. I've had better cupcakes in my life, but the atmosphere was hipster beyond description.
Tuesday I went to the library. It's not huge, and it's not the most well-stocked, but it's absolutely adorable. The building looks very colonial (bricks, columns, all that) and is very austere. I walked in to be greeted by a huge, airy room with plenty of natural light and open space. A curving staircase to the right lead me up to the second floor, where I found a large reading room bathed in light from the wall-sized window that made up the far wall. I sat down with my laptop, but after a few minutes of working I began to feel guilty for not reading in the sunlight. So, I pulled out a book and started reading.
I've been on a bit of a reading kick this week. I've always loved reading, but college took my yen away, thanks to the incessant flow of textbooks. Once I sat down in the library and began reading The Ugly American, I couldn't stop. My dad sent me The Ugly American from Kandahar while he was stationed in Afghanistan; he found it an interesting biopic of American foreign relations (an interest we share) and thought I would enjoy its wisdom and humor. I did. I read the 250 page book in about three days, and moved on to Candide by Voltaire. That lasted me two days. Now, I'm well into The Brothers Karamazov and hope to finish Catcher in the Rye (if not another book) before I leave in six days to move in to my dorm.
Before you write me off as the epitome of hipster based on my reading selection, I have to confess how I read these. I read a lot of The Ugly American at the library over a couple visits, but I read a majority of it at home with a cup of tea. But that's not all. I read basically the entirety of Candide underneath a weeping willow on the banks of the Potomac, looking over the river upon the monuments of D.C. Veritably, I was in heaven, and even if I wasn't reading Voltaire I would have waxed philosophical. I'm hoping to return to that same spot (which, coincidentally, was Lady Bird Johnson's favorite locale) so that I can sit on that bench in the shade of the willow and finish my Dostoyevsky. Does that make me hipster; or does that make me intellectual? snooty? cosmopolitan? I'm so new to this thoroughly urban existence!
Even in the midst of the sprawling metropolis of my new life in D.C., I have managed to maintain a semblance of connection with nature (which I believe is something many hipsters pretend to aspire to, but I honestly enjoy). My sister and I have been taking my dog on walks to different parks along the river (which is how we found Lady Bird Johnson's garden) and doing a little biking and walking. Yesterday, we decided on a whim to go to Theodore Roosevelt Island. We were at LBJ arboretum and had planned to go to the Navy Yard (the base my dad works on) to workout later, which is two miles South of Teddy's Island. So, we decided we would run there in lieu of spending thirty minutes on an elliptical.
It turns out that this sporadic decision was not the most well thought-out--3pm in Washington D.C. means about 95 degrees with 85% humidity. Needless to say, we didn't exactly run there, and we ended up crawling across the bridge to the island. Luckily, there are tons of water fountains all over the island and plenty of shade. After escaping from the clutches of heat exhaustion, we explored the island a while.
I don't know why it's named after Theodore Roosevelt. They're building a HUGE statue of him in the middle of the island, so I guess now I have one reason. The island stretches from the Memorial Bridge (which is right next to the Lincoln Memorial) to the bridge that crosses over into Georgetown. It's surprisingly natural--the whole island is heavily forested, and there's a large part of it that is natural swampland. They prefer the term "marshes" but everyone knows D.C. was built on a swamp. Literally. My sister and I diverted from the main path for a little while, and happened upon a portion of coast that had huge, flat boulders and looked over the river to Georgetown. So, we sat on the rocks and, in the sight of Georgetown University's looming terraces and dozens of kayakers and rowers, read and sun-bathed. It was beyond pleasant. We walked the two miles back to LBJ park and drove home. Our excursion into nature was over, and we were immediately thrust back into the nature of the city.
I have a little less than a week here, and I anticipate a lot more tea, more trips to Lady Bird Johnson Garden, more hours spent in the sunny library, more cafes. I'm overjoyed that this is my home, and I think it's going to push me towards hipster much more quickly than I could ever have anticipated.
I'll catch you all on the flip-side (aka: Ohio),
Tucker
04 August 2011
Week 3, Part 2: The Missing Piece
I have a whole slew of things in store to continue my hipster journey--look out for Luis Bunuel, Henrik Ibsen, and do-it-yourself projects. But, this week has been vastly unsuccessful insomuch as I have done nothing hipster-y thanks to my classes. However, those are done (with the exception of an online exam) so my focus will be more poignant in the near future.
I have decided, though, to make an effort to be more emotionally transparent. Is that a quality of the hipster? I don't know, but I definitely think I could get more out of my relationships with others, and every hipster needs a good posse. I do know that writing poetry is beyond hipster; in that case, I've been hipster for years (but more likely just emo). Pen and paper have always been my one true friend, and it's the only place I feel completely and utterly natural. I've been thinking about it though, and I think it's time I stopped using my writing as a form of escapism. I need to make the language of my heart and the language of my mouth one; being bilingual in this way has become wearisome. So, I'll begin by revealing a sampling from my collection of little writings that I've been amassing for about three years now. Hopefully this unveiling, in the privacy of public domain, will aid me in baring myself to others. (Emotionally, not physically, sicko.) So, here is the lifting of my steely curtain. I wrote it in my junior year of high school.
A sky of crimson, a sun azure,
grass maroon and flowers black;
trumpets whistle, and flutes fanfare;
children yelling and dogs of yore.
A cliff where she reclined,
the meadow where I lay,
a subtle breeze, a gentle aroma:
sunbeams hot, hard, heavy.
A flower torn, a cloud approaching;
the wind gusts and knocks.
One raindrop.
Swamp lays still, a log overpass;
meteor shower, hurricane blasts.
Love, hope, future, excitement.
Confusion, bitter, tears, isolation.
Again, again, the world spins backwards.
As the tape plays again, where is the horizon?
It's so weird seeing something that I've written be posted for the world's eye, and I'm terrified to share myself. But I'm going to have to learn how to do so, and not be so greedy. My emotional vulnerability for your dining pleasure.
Next time I post, I'll be in Washington, D.C.! Until then, bon voyage.
Tucker
I have decided, though, to make an effort to be more emotionally transparent. Is that a quality of the hipster? I don't know, but I definitely think I could get more out of my relationships with others, and every hipster needs a good posse. I do know that writing poetry is beyond hipster; in that case, I've been hipster for years (but more likely just emo). Pen and paper have always been my one true friend, and it's the only place I feel completely and utterly natural. I've been thinking about it though, and I think it's time I stopped using my writing as a form of escapism. I need to make the language of my heart and the language of my mouth one; being bilingual in this way has become wearisome. So, I'll begin by revealing a sampling from my collection of little writings that I've been amassing for about three years now. Hopefully this unveiling, in the privacy of public domain, will aid me in baring myself to others. (Emotionally, not physically, sicko.) So, here is the lifting of my steely curtain. I wrote it in my junior year of high school.
A sky of crimson, a sun azure,
grass maroon and flowers black;
trumpets whistle, and flutes fanfare;
children yelling and dogs of yore.
A cliff where she reclined,
the meadow where I lay,
a subtle breeze, a gentle aroma:
sunbeams hot, hard, heavy.
A flower torn, a cloud approaching;
the wind gusts and knocks.
One raindrop.
Swamp lays still, a log overpass;
meteor shower, hurricane blasts.
Love, hope, future, excitement.
Confusion, bitter, tears, isolation.
Again, again, the world spins backwards.
As the tape plays again, where is the horizon?
It's so weird seeing something that I've written be posted for the world's eye, and I'm terrified to share myself. But I'm going to have to learn how to do so, and not be so greedy. My emotional vulnerability for your dining pleasure.
Next time I post, I'll be in Washington, D.C.! Until then, bon voyage.
Tucker
03 August 2011
Week 3, Part 1: The Lightning and the Shade
I recently watched the early 00's show "The Book Group," which proved interesting. I mention the show because it's about a group of people who love books, and most of them are writers. This one phrase kept being thrown around, and it got me thinking: "The most important thing is that you just show up at the page." I've been dabbling in poetry since high school, and I've been trying my hand at myriad forms of writing: this being one of them. Recently, though, I've been showing up at the page, and it's amazing what can happen when you just think about something and just start typing. As of now, I have written 24 pages of a novel that I hope will serve as catharsis for me and those I love. It's recounting my journey to self-discovery, my battles with society and traditional culture, and my struggle to come to terms with my homosexuality and the world's view of it. And every time I sit down and start typing, things come out of me that I never thought of. I admit things I haven't said out loud, and I start to see things differently. Of course, all the events are through my tinted paradigm, but seeing it written before me has made me realize how faulty I can be. More importantly, it has made me realize how weak, immature, stubborn, and selfish I have been. I have come a far way from being weak and immature, but I've still got vices to wrestle. Writing has provided me a way to heal and re-evaluate, and sometimes it's tough to be so frank with myself. I guess that's why they kept saying showing up was the hardest part, because sometimes you delve inside yourself and get scared by what you find.
30 July 2011
Week 2: Precedence
This week has been a triumph of exploration.
To start with, I made the acquaintance of some people who share my interests, and have realized which of my friends I cherish most. This is an accomplishment in general, for who you are is in large molded by who you surround yourself with; people influence your actions, which influence your behavior, which influences your being. More importantly, the people you associate with expose you to their world and thus broaden how you see yours. And since I'm looking to expose myself to the world beyond the obvious, I am especially proud of my ability to realize who can help me learn.
Secondly, I am quite honestly proud of myself for learning how to use a sewing machine. Again, I feel that this is an important life skill in general; it one step towards self-reliance, and maybe one day I'll be able to make very useful things out of fabric so I can live more cheaply. I am more proud of learning to sew in that it expands my ability to create, which I believe is an important ability to have as a hipster. Like I said, knowing how to sew enables you to spend little money making things you would normally buy for a lot more in a store, but it also enables me to embellish and improve objects I already have. Take my first project completed with my new-found skill: pockets. Using scraps of fabric that my grandmother would have otherwise never used, I made my shoulder-bag (which I'm not sure makes me hipster or really gay) much more versatile, organized, and functional. I exercised my creativity a little by picking fabrics and threads that complimented each other and using a special needle-point pattern when I created the hem of the pocket (where it opens). I then sewed my new pockets into my bag, and now have three pockets, in which I can place pens, hand sanitizer, keys, gum, all that jazz. I'm very excited to not have to dig through the bottom of the bag to find my chapstick!
Thirdly, I have embarked on a mission to broaden my intellectual horizons. The last books I read this summer (the perks of being a wallflower, Le Petit Prince) have been aimed at gleaning emotional depth. However, starting with Henrik Ibsen's "A Doll's House," I am hoping to glean wit and perception through studying classic and cerebral literature. For my Religion class I'm reading Dorothy Day's autobiography and she keeps throwing out all these names of famous authors and philosophers who have written influential texts, so I'm going to pick a few and start heading in that direction. So far, "A Doll's House" is intriguing and I'm enjoying it immensely. Next, I'm going to attempt to read Walden by Henry David Thoreau. I've tried before and didn't finish, but maybe it will prove to be a good exercise and help me understand complicated movies I'm watching. Hopefully by the time I get around to watching another Luis Bunuel movie I'll actually know what's going on.
Lastly, I am ecstatic to be applying for an internship with the Public Relations department of the Victoria Theatre Association, which owns the historic Victoria Theatre downtown as well as the modern Schuster Center. Art is a fundamental aspect of the hipster's life...at least I think so. Regardless, it is an aspiration of mine to work in Arts Management, so I am absolutely thrilled to have the opportunity to apply for a position. If I get the job, I will be surrounded with art and people who actually care for it, so I am presuming that the internship would bring me very far down the road of hipster enlightenment.
My journey is finally about to get underway; preparations are heating up. I am learning the skills, finding the people. searching for the environments. Once the semester starts, the trek begins, and I'll be hitting the ground running.
Next week is my final week of classes, and I cannot wait for them to be over! As much as a hipster appreciates his solitude, he thrives off the company of others who share his passions. Plus, I'm more than ready to get my life underway again. Until then, I've got books to read and movies to watch.
Until next week: ciao!
Tucker
To start with, I made the acquaintance of some people who share my interests, and have realized which of my friends I cherish most. This is an accomplishment in general, for who you are is in large molded by who you surround yourself with; people influence your actions, which influence your behavior, which influences your being. More importantly, the people you associate with expose you to their world and thus broaden how you see yours. And since I'm looking to expose myself to the world beyond the obvious, I am especially proud of my ability to realize who can help me learn.
Secondly, I am quite honestly proud of myself for learning how to use a sewing machine. Again, I feel that this is an important life skill in general; it one step towards self-reliance, and maybe one day I'll be able to make very useful things out of fabric so I can live more cheaply. I am more proud of learning to sew in that it expands my ability to create, which I believe is an important ability to have as a hipster. Like I said, knowing how to sew enables you to spend little money making things you would normally buy for a lot more in a store, but it also enables me to embellish and improve objects I already have. Take my first project completed with my new-found skill: pockets. Using scraps of fabric that my grandmother would have otherwise never used, I made my shoulder-bag (which I'm not sure makes me hipster or really gay) much more versatile, organized, and functional. I exercised my creativity a little by picking fabrics and threads that complimented each other and using a special needle-point pattern when I created the hem of the pocket (where it opens). I then sewed my new pockets into my bag, and now have three pockets, in which I can place pens, hand sanitizer, keys, gum, all that jazz. I'm very excited to not have to dig through the bottom of the bag to find my chapstick!
Thirdly, I have embarked on a mission to broaden my intellectual horizons. The last books I read this summer (the perks of being a wallflower, Le Petit Prince) have been aimed at gleaning emotional depth. However, starting with Henrik Ibsen's "A Doll's House," I am hoping to glean wit and perception through studying classic and cerebral literature. For my Religion class I'm reading Dorothy Day's autobiography and she keeps throwing out all these names of famous authors and philosophers who have written influential texts, so I'm going to pick a few and start heading in that direction. So far, "A Doll's House" is intriguing and I'm enjoying it immensely. Next, I'm going to attempt to read Walden by Henry David Thoreau. I've tried before and didn't finish, but maybe it will prove to be a good exercise and help me understand complicated movies I'm watching. Hopefully by the time I get around to watching another Luis Bunuel movie I'll actually know what's going on.
Lastly, I am ecstatic to be applying for an internship with the Public Relations department of the Victoria Theatre Association, which owns the historic Victoria Theatre downtown as well as the modern Schuster Center. Art is a fundamental aspect of the hipster's life...at least I think so. Regardless, it is an aspiration of mine to work in Arts Management, so I am absolutely thrilled to have the opportunity to apply for a position. If I get the job, I will be surrounded with art and people who actually care for it, so I am presuming that the internship would bring me very far down the road of hipster enlightenment.
My journey is finally about to get underway; preparations are heating up. I am learning the skills, finding the people. searching for the environments. Once the semester starts, the trek begins, and I'll be hitting the ground running.
Next week is my final week of classes, and I cannot wait for them to be over! As much as a hipster appreciates his solitude, he thrives off the company of others who share his passions. Plus, I'm more than ready to get my life underway again. Until then, I've got books to read and movies to watch.
Until next week: ciao!
Tucker
24 July 2011
Day Seven: Ketchup
This weekend was...interesting. The first part of it was spent doing absolutely nothing. I watched TV, worked on an assignment, ordered pizza. I am working on knitting myself a huge fluffy white scarf for those Ohio winters, and that helped me retain sanity while being cooped up in my dorm. I figure that knitting is actually pretty hipster--what could be more so than making your own clothes? I'll post a picture onto Tumblr when I'm done and we can judge just how hipster it is.
I couldn't go the entire weekend without exploring the mystical land of hipster, so Friday night I watched Pulp Fiction. Directed by Quentin Tarantino, released 1994. Starring Uma Thurman, Samuel L. Jackson, John Travolta. Miss Thurman and Mr. Jackson weren't big names yet, and Mr. Travolta had fallen off the radar; Mr. Tarantino wasn't the legend he is now. Thus, all things considered, I excused their current mainstream-ness and decided to see what the hype is all about.
I have to admit, I'm still slightly confused. Quentin Tarantino has a fantastic knack for witty banter and dark humor, but my lack of hipster perception left me befuddled as to some major details. I understand the intricacies of the film, but don't honestly comprehend the significance of most it. I thoroughly enjoyed frequently seeing a much younger, shirtless Bruce Willis, but frankly did not see the significance of his character in the film. Uma Thurman turns in a solid performance being weird and druggy, but again, didn't quite see the deeper meaning. The only two characters that I profoundly understood were the hilarious Samuel L. Jackson and the weird-haircutted John Travolta. I'm going to have to find a more seasoned hipster to help me out with this one. As a cinematic whole, I enjoyed the film. The acting is commendable. The dialogue is smart, sharp, comedic. The directing and editing are quite stimulating. That being said, to me it's a beautiful, well-crafted armoire, but when I open up the drawers its contents are a mystery.I'm still realizing how simple I am. That's going to have to change though, because every hipster I know wishes they were interesting.
But how does one become interesting?
I couldn't go the entire weekend without exploring the mystical land of hipster, so Friday night I watched Pulp Fiction. Directed by Quentin Tarantino, released 1994. Starring Uma Thurman, Samuel L. Jackson, John Travolta. Miss Thurman and Mr. Jackson weren't big names yet, and Mr. Travolta had fallen off the radar; Mr. Tarantino wasn't the legend he is now. Thus, all things considered, I excused their current mainstream-ness and decided to see what the hype is all about.
I have to admit, I'm still slightly confused. Quentin Tarantino has a fantastic knack for witty banter and dark humor, but my lack of hipster perception left me befuddled as to some major details. I understand the intricacies of the film, but don't honestly comprehend the significance of most it. I thoroughly enjoyed frequently seeing a much younger, shirtless Bruce Willis, but frankly did not see the significance of his character in the film. Uma Thurman turns in a solid performance being weird and druggy, but again, didn't quite see the deeper meaning. The only two characters that I profoundly understood were the hilarious Samuel L. Jackson and the weird-haircutted John Travolta. I'm going to have to find a more seasoned hipster to help me out with this one. As a cinematic whole, I enjoyed the film. The acting is commendable. The dialogue is smart, sharp, comedic. The directing and editing are quite stimulating. That being said, to me it's a beautiful, well-crafted armoire, but when I open up the drawers its contents are a mystery.I'm still realizing how simple I am. That's going to have to change though, because every hipster I know wishes they were interesting.
But how does one become interesting?
22 July 2011
Day Five: Mental Undertones
Admittedly, there hasn't been much going on that is worth reporting. I've kind of gotten a little run-down, and need the weekend to catch up on things. I had been focusing a little too much on being hipster, which means I had basically lost touch with the reality that right now my life cannot be solely about connecting with my emotions and exploring the artistic. I will be able to do that one day, but right now is a different story.
In the spirit of diversity and expansion, though, I have created a Tumblr. Someone suggested I do so to earn more "indie cred." I think I'm trying pretty hard to do so and not doing as well as some of my obviously more seasoned friends who are much more acquainted with the world of hipster. It has made me realize that I am not the only one with such "obscure" or "exclusive" tastes--I'm not the only one obsessed with Animal Collective and Alexis Mabille. However, there is still so much of the Alternative music, art, and fashion scene that I have yet to discover. Tumblr really is the hipster's version of Facebook--you post anything you want, but since no one comments or anything, what you're positing is for privately expressing yourself in public view (even though you're secretly dying to know what people think about what you're blogging). I think my next step is to see what everyone is blogging and explore the music/books/artists that they mention. Should provide for some....eye-opening discoveries, I presume.
If you'd like to follow me on Tumblr, the blog is under the same name as this one.
I still have a lot to learn and explore. But right now, I've got schoolwork.
Hasta luego amigos.
Tucker
In the spirit of diversity and expansion, though, I have created a Tumblr. Someone suggested I do so to earn more "indie cred." I think I'm trying pretty hard to do so and not doing as well as some of my obviously more seasoned friends who are much more acquainted with the world of hipster. It has made me realize that I am not the only one with such "obscure" or "exclusive" tastes--I'm not the only one obsessed with Animal Collective and Alexis Mabille. However, there is still so much of the Alternative music, art, and fashion scene that I have yet to discover. Tumblr really is the hipster's version of Facebook--you post anything you want, but since no one comments or anything, what you're positing is for privately expressing yourself in public view (even though you're secretly dying to know what people think about what you're blogging). I think my next step is to see what everyone is blogging and explore the music/books/artists that they mention. Should provide for some....eye-opening discoveries, I presume.
If you'd like to follow me on Tumblr, the blog is under the same name as this one.
I still have a lot to learn and explore. But right now, I've got schoolwork.
Hasta luego amigos.
Tucker
21 July 2011
Day Four: Life's a Pearl; I'm Swine.
It's almost weekend time, so I'm going to keep this one short to leave plenty of time for PBR, flail-dancing around campfires, turning t-shirts into cutoffs, and listening to Jimi Hendrix records while stoned. Well, I won't be doing any of the above, but I'm sure I'd meet some pretty...interesting lads and lasses if I did.
Regardless, the other day I was talking to a very dear friend of mine about le Petit Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry and how utterly adorable it is! This time, I promise I won't ramble, and there weren't any tears. It's just a cute little book that contains pretty simple little nuggets of wisdom. A WWII pilot and French war hero, Saint-Exupéry's still is profound while maintaining whimsy. I think the hipster is starting to soak in.
This conversation lead me to ponder one hipster trait I wish to never possess- looking for profundity for the sake of profundity. And I honestly hope I never become one of those people who just posts quotes that are supposed to me meaningful but really say anything. Even though sharing your enlightenment and boasting your broad "knowledge" of books and music is one of the most hipster acts one can do, it's where I draw the line. Unless I have read it and seriously pondered it, and it has a specific sentimental value (which a lot of things do to me these days), I promise not to be "that guy" who is so phony and tries to act like he's intelligent and sensitive.
I really hope I'm never that guy.
But I can't help but do it once...for irony's sake.
"Dit le renard: Voici mon secret. Il est très simple: on ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur. L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux."
[If you're dying to know what it says, Google Translate it. That way you can hear it for yourself. Mmmmmm.]
Tucker <3
Regardless, the other day I was talking to a very dear friend of mine about le Petit Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry and how utterly adorable it is! This time, I promise I won't ramble, and there weren't any tears. It's just a cute little book that contains pretty simple little nuggets of wisdom. A WWII pilot and French war hero, Saint-Exupéry's still is profound while maintaining whimsy. I think the hipster is starting to soak in.
This conversation lead me to ponder one hipster trait I wish to never possess- looking for profundity for the sake of profundity. And I honestly hope I never become one of those people who just posts quotes that are supposed to me meaningful but really say anything. Even though sharing your enlightenment and boasting your broad "knowledge" of books and music is one of the most hipster acts one can do, it's where I draw the line. Unless I have read it and seriously pondered it, and it has a specific sentimental value (which a lot of things do to me these days), I promise not to be "that guy" who is so phony and tries to act like he's intelligent and sensitive.
I really hope I'm never that guy.
But I can't help but do it once...for irony's sake.
"Dit le renard: Voici mon secret. Il est très simple: on ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur. L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux."
[If you're dying to know what it says, Google Translate it. That way you can hear it for yourself. Mmmmmm.]
Tucker <3
20 July 2011
Day Three: Through the Tunnel
Well, I finished The Perks of Being a Wallflower. In all honestly, I gravely underestimated it. I had almost written it off as an over-hyped book that less than intelligent people try to pass off as "mind-blowing," like Inception. However, upon reading the book, I cannot emphasize enough how much it means to me. It perfectly captures the spirit of being in high school, of being in love, of being hurt, of being alone, of being accepted, of being sad. There were so many times that I stopped to ponder the last line, then read it again and just sat there. At a couple points, the book even brought me to tears. Before you begin to think that I've just been brainwashed into the Cult of Hipster, allow me to explain why it affected me so.
First off, it gave me nostalgia for the 90s. And I don't mean that in a "I miss Nirvana and when Clinton was President" kind of way, because I wasn't old enough to truly understand the culture of the 90s; what I mean is the wonderful sensation that was being an American in the 1990s. What this book captures so perfectly is the pre 9/11 world of my childhood--the world in which nothing could go wrong in the little worlds we lived in. There was corporate greed, sexism, environmental decay, racism, and all that punk rebelled against, but that was left to the radical thinkers and the outward artists. I miss the naivete of the late twentieth century, when I could play in the neighborhood without my parents fearing for my life. When life was a little simpler because it wasn't plastered all over the internet. When getting in touch with someone meant talking to him or her on the phone for hours, not shooting an occasional text. When music was real and emotional, and people made mixed tapes and still bought records and CD's because they truly appreciated an artist, not pirated songs from the internet because others wanted them to. That 90s--the 90s I grew up in.
Secondly, even though the book is set long before my high school years, Chbosky perfectly encapsulates the social fears, tensions, and stresses of adolescence. What particularly touched me was his portrayal of Patrick and Brad. Patrick and Brad are what today's terms would simply call a "gay couple." However, Brad being the starting quarterback greatly complicates the relationship. There is even a subtle understanding that Patrick, the "open" one, isn't extremely open about his sexuality. Today, in 2011, I am openly gay; the book is set in 1991--the difference of two decades is monumental yet eerily constant. All throughout middle and high school, I was called names that still grate upon my eardrums, even though I had always identified as straight. Thus, the struggles of this couple to find honest and transparent love rang especially resonant with me, and the way Chbosky describes their relationship gives me hope that one day, I will find true love and all the exotic accompanying trappings of grief and complexity that every couple encounters.
Third: Charlie's mental afflictions are hauntingly similar to the psychological struggles I have been facing for the last few months--the panicky sobbing, the anxiety and over-thinking. The point at which the tears started forming in the corners of my eyes was a passage (on page 94). "I don't know if you've ever felt like that. That you wanted to sleep for a thousand years. Or just not exist. Or something like that. I think wanting that is very morbid, but I want it when I get like this. That's why I'm trying not to think. I just want it all to stop spinning." Only someone who has been to the hellish depths of depression knows what this feels like. And I have. And I do. Too well.
Fourth: Charlie's relationship with his sister reminds me of my own relationship with my sister. The character does not resemble my sister in herself, but I relate to the situation--the desire to be close, the frustration in not being able to get close, the exhilaration when we are close.
As far as how this book has taught me about the wonders of hipsterosity, it would seem that a hipster has to have a certain sense of vulnerability and immense amounts of emotional depth. Especially after reading this book, I think I have that down pat.
Now that I have been way too open, I don't really know what to say. Except: I know why people quote this book on Facebook all the time, and I will no longer be irritated by that. There are countless gems of wisdom and meaning in this book, and I sincerely suggest that everyone who had a difficult high school career read this book.
Hopefully the next excursion is a little happier. I'll see you then.
Love always,
Tucker
First off, it gave me nostalgia for the 90s. And I don't mean that in a "I miss Nirvana and when Clinton was President" kind of way, because I wasn't old enough to truly understand the culture of the 90s; what I mean is the wonderful sensation that was being an American in the 1990s. What this book captures so perfectly is the pre 9/11 world of my childhood--the world in which nothing could go wrong in the little worlds we lived in. There was corporate greed, sexism, environmental decay, racism, and all that punk rebelled against, but that was left to the radical thinkers and the outward artists. I miss the naivete of the late twentieth century, when I could play in the neighborhood without my parents fearing for my life. When life was a little simpler because it wasn't plastered all over the internet. When getting in touch with someone meant talking to him or her on the phone for hours, not shooting an occasional text. When music was real and emotional, and people made mixed tapes and still bought records and CD's because they truly appreciated an artist, not pirated songs from the internet because others wanted them to. That 90s--the 90s I grew up in.
Secondly, even though the book is set long before my high school years, Chbosky perfectly encapsulates the social fears, tensions, and stresses of adolescence. What particularly touched me was his portrayal of Patrick and Brad. Patrick and Brad are what today's terms would simply call a "gay couple." However, Brad being the starting quarterback greatly complicates the relationship. There is even a subtle understanding that Patrick, the "open" one, isn't extremely open about his sexuality. Today, in 2011, I am openly gay; the book is set in 1991--the difference of two decades is monumental yet eerily constant. All throughout middle and high school, I was called names that still grate upon my eardrums, even though I had always identified as straight. Thus, the struggles of this couple to find honest and transparent love rang especially resonant with me, and the way Chbosky describes their relationship gives me hope that one day, I will find true love and all the exotic accompanying trappings of grief and complexity that every couple encounters.
Third: Charlie's mental afflictions are hauntingly similar to the psychological struggles I have been facing for the last few months--the panicky sobbing, the anxiety and over-thinking. The point at which the tears started forming in the corners of my eyes was a passage (on page 94). "I don't know if you've ever felt like that. That you wanted to sleep for a thousand years. Or just not exist. Or something like that. I think wanting that is very morbid, but I want it when I get like this. That's why I'm trying not to think. I just want it all to stop spinning." Only someone who has been to the hellish depths of depression knows what this feels like. And I have. And I do. Too well.
Fourth: Charlie's relationship with his sister reminds me of my own relationship with my sister. The character does not resemble my sister in herself, but I relate to the situation--the desire to be close, the frustration in not being able to get close, the exhilaration when we are close.
As far as how this book has taught me about the wonders of hipsterosity, it would seem that a hipster has to have a certain sense of vulnerability and immense amounts of emotional depth. Especially after reading this book, I think I have that down pat.
Now that I have been way too open, I don't really know what to say. Except: I know why people quote this book on Facebook all the time, and I will no longer be irritated by that. There are countless gems of wisdom and meaning in this book, and I sincerely suggest that everyone who had a difficult high school career read this book.
Hopefully the next excursion is a little happier. I'll see you then.
Love always,
Tucker
19 July 2011
Day Two: Like Clockwork
Tonight, my journey into hipsterdom leads me to an exploration in film. The movie: "A Clockwork Orange." Released in 1971; directed by Stanley Kubrick. It seems hipstery enough...is it?
Well, first off, it was made before I was born, and every hipster knows that if it was made before you were born, it's awesome. Secondly, upon reading the reviews, it would appear that the movie has somewhat of a cult following as well as a large amount of people who despise it--excuse me: don't get it. (The mainstream hates what it can't understand; the hipster understands what the mainstream can't.) Thirdly, it's British, and we all know that the British are so much more raw and grungy than we uptight Americans are; grunge is so indie. Fourthly, it has a message that takes some time, perception, and dark humor to understand--only truly indie movies make you feel something real.
So: old, "misunderstood," foreign, contemplative, and sarcastic. I'd say that's pretty hipster. I enhanced the hipster mood by ordering a mushroom pizza from Cousin Vinny's [hipster qualifications: cheap, not so great tasting, local, vegetarian]. All I needed to complete the effect was my grandmother's Tiffany lamp hanging from the ceiling.
Upon viewing the movie, I fell into a truly indie state of contemplation. I don't think it will really give anything away to say that Kubrick is trying to make his viewers think about crime and punishment: the personal benefits and detriments of the former; the lengths governments will go to make sure the latter is effective. Any movie that makes you think like that is so exclusive. So, I begin to ponder these abstract generalities that specifically affect my everyday life. What is the role of government in reforming its prisoners? Is Skinnerian conditioning on humans immoral? Does the absence of evil equate to the presence of good? Of course, I have to have an opinion about all of these things because being conscious and opinionated is so obscure. However, I come across a stumbling block: I have absolutely no idea why the film is called "A Clockwork Orange." Is he trying to make some sort of extremely obscure message? Is it a metaphor? An allusion? I just can't figure it out. I guess I have a long way yet until I master the philosophy of hipster.
After a while, all this profound pondering is giving me a headache, and I am growing weary of thinking about serious things that are obviously very important in my immediate life. I'm going to chalk it up to a philosophical workout and call it a day. However, I can't deny that I actually enjoyed the film for its efforts toward poignancy, humor, and creativity: three main components of hipster living.
See? I'm learning already.
Well, first off, it was made before I was born, and every hipster knows that if it was made before you were born, it's awesome. Secondly, upon reading the reviews, it would appear that the movie has somewhat of a cult following as well as a large amount of people who despise it--excuse me: don't get it. (The mainstream hates what it can't understand; the hipster understands what the mainstream can't.) Thirdly, it's British, and we all know that the British are so much more raw and grungy than we uptight Americans are; grunge is so indie. Fourthly, it has a message that takes some time, perception, and dark humor to understand--only truly indie movies make you feel something real.
So: old, "misunderstood," foreign, contemplative, and sarcastic. I'd say that's pretty hipster. I enhanced the hipster mood by ordering a mushroom pizza from Cousin Vinny's [hipster qualifications: cheap, not so great tasting, local, vegetarian]. All I needed to complete the effect was my grandmother's Tiffany lamp hanging from the ceiling.
Upon viewing the movie, I fell into a truly indie state of contemplation. I don't think it will really give anything away to say that Kubrick is trying to make his viewers think about crime and punishment: the personal benefits and detriments of the former; the lengths governments will go to make sure the latter is effective. Any movie that makes you think like that is so exclusive. So, I begin to ponder these abstract generalities that specifically affect my everyday life. What is the role of government in reforming its prisoners? Is Skinnerian conditioning on humans immoral? Does the absence of evil equate to the presence of good? Of course, I have to have an opinion about all of these things because being conscious and opinionated is so obscure. However, I come across a stumbling block: I have absolutely no idea why the film is called "A Clockwork Orange." Is he trying to make some sort of extremely obscure message? Is it a metaphor? An allusion? I just can't figure it out. I guess I have a long way yet until I master the philosophy of hipster.
After a while, all this profound pondering is giving me a headache, and I am growing weary of thinking about serious things that are obviously very important in my immediate life. I'm going to chalk it up to a philosophical workout and call it a day. However, I can't deny that I actually enjoyed the film for its efforts toward poignancy, humor, and creativity: three main components of hipster living.
See? I'm learning already.
18 July 2011
Day One: Chbosky who?
At age 19, I have finally come to a realization and have come to terms with what that realization entails: I am, for all intents and purposes, a hipster. I cringe upon hearing myself utter that phrase, but after making fun of so-called "hipsters" for so long, it has finally dawned on me that so many of the things I criticize them for, I actually do myself.
For example, the practice of "upcycling-" the euphemistic term used to describe salvaging old things and using them in daily life. This ranges from vintage T-shirts and bags, to playing vinyls, to drinking out of mason jars. Right now, I am living on campus for summer classes, and as I look around my dorm room, I notice immediately a rusty beach chair that was probably purchased in 1993; a leather shoulder bag that my grandmother gave me; and, unfortunately, two mason jars that I regularly drink and eat out of. With such glaring evidence, how could I have ever denied my hipster-ness? Allow me to make my case.
Take the beach chair. Every weekend that I lived in North Carolina as a child, my sisters and I would take the golf cart down to the beach. Often, we would take with us a boogie board, some sand castle building materials, and a small beach chair. Thus, I present the rusty, child-sized beach chair as Evidence A, in defense of what I am veiling my hispterosity as: nostalgia. When my parents claimed they were throwing it away during their recent move, how could I let them do it? Tossing it in the dumpster would be tossing my childhood on the sandy dunes of Emerald Isle along with it!
Evidence B: the shoulder bag. People frequently ask me which vintage store I went to and purchased this bag. I tell them: "My grandmother's attic." You see, I use it because it is a part of my family heritage, a piece of my past and my family of yesteryear.
Evidence C: the mason jars. I am allowed to use them because I am from Ohio (kind of). That is, I live in Ohio, my mother grew up in Ohio, my grandmother grew up in Ohio, yadda yadda yadda. And I'm not talking "one of the three C's" Ohio--I'm talking good ol' New Carlisle. Never heard of it? It's in Bethel Township. Never heard of that? It's near Tipp City. Never heard of that? You get my point. Plus, my mother and grandmother have always had numerous mason jars around so that they could jar the green beans my grandfather grows, or the jam made from the concord grapes out back, or for homemade apple butter. So who blames me for using an old one for personal use?
Okay, fine; my case is hogwash. Nostalgia is hipster.
The first step on the road to recovery is admitting you have a problem. Step 1: done. But before I admit myself to Exclusive Rehab, why not have fun with it? Join me as I attempt to live the life of the hipster from A to the letters after Z that are too obscure for the mainstream. Tonight, begin my journey by picking up the hipster's diary: The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky. I would listen to Arcade Fire while I read, but ever since they won a Grammy, they're too obvious.
Mata! (That's Japanese for later- bye is so cliche.)
Tucker
For example, the practice of "upcycling-" the euphemistic term used to describe salvaging old things and using them in daily life. This ranges from vintage T-shirts and bags, to playing vinyls, to drinking out of mason jars. Right now, I am living on campus for summer classes, and as I look around my dorm room, I notice immediately a rusty beach chair that was probably purchased in 1993; a leather shoulder bag that my grandmother gave me; and, unfortunately, two mason jars that I regularly drink and eat out of. With such glaring evidence, how could I have ever denied my hipster-ness? Allow me to make my case.
Take the beach chair. Every weekend that I lived in North Carolina as a child, my sisters and I would take the golf cart down to the beach. Often, we would take with us a boogie board, some sand castle building materials, and a small beach chair. Thus, I present the rusty, child-sized beach chair as Evidence A, in defense of what I am veiling my hispterosity as: nostalgia. When my parents claimed they were throwing it away during their recent move, how could I let them do it? Tossing it in the dumpster would be tossing my childhood on the sandy dunes of Emerald Isle along with it!
Evidence B: the shoulder bag. People frequently ask me which vintage store I went to and purchased this bag. I tell them: "My grandmother's attic." You see, I use it because it is a part of my family heritage, a piece of my past and my family of yesteryear.
Evidence C: the mason jars. I am allowed to use them because I am from Ohio (kind of). That is, I live in Ohio, my mother grew up in Ohio, my grandmother grew up in Ohio, yadda yadda yadda. And I'm not talking "one of the three C's" Ohio--I'm talking good ol' New Carlisle. Never heard of it? It's in Bethel Township. Never heard of that? It's near Tipp City. Never heard of that? You get my point. Plus, my mother and grandmother have always had numerous mason jars around so that they could jar the green beans my grandfather grows, or the jam made from the concord grapes out back, or for homemade apple butter. So who blames me for using an old one for personal use?
Okay, fine; my case is hogwash. Nostalgia is hipster.
The first step on the road to recovery is admitting you have a problem. Step 1: done. But before I admit myself to Exclusive Rehab, why not have fun with it? Join me as I attempt to live the life of the hipster from A to the letters after Z that are too obscure for the mainstream. Tonight, begin my journey by picking up the hipster's diary: The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky. I would listen to Arcade Fire while I read, but ever since they won a Grammy, they're too obvious.
Mata! (That's Japanese for later- bye is so cliche.)
Tucker
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