The University Library: Silence, Graffiti, and Books

Yesterday, I stepped into another dimension, a bastion of solitude where the silence was nearly tangible - TANGIBLE!!! I had stepped into the University Library.

You'd think that - given my predilection for books and bookstores and libraries and old-book smells and quiet places - I would have been there already, but I hadn't. Don't ask why. There really is no good answer.
Anyhoo -

As I took in the library's silent splendor (2nd and 3rd floors only; the 1st floor is way too noisy) and acclimated to the comforting presence of books, I found myself a lonely place at which to plant myself for several hours. It was at this desk that I encountered a perplexing problem: graffiti.

I was in a library, not an out-of-business gas station. Why is there grafiti in a library? Why are there graffiti-drawing delinquents at the library? Oh, well - better in the library than on the streets. Some of the graffiti was vulgar, some was slightly motivational (see picture above), and some was pitiable ("I love Liz" and "I like Vivianna." Wow, Vivianna, not only is your boyfriend a graffiti-drawer, he only "like"s you, not "love," "LIKE." Liz's boyfriend may be a graffiti-drawer, but he "LOVE"s her.)

Surrounding me are aisles after aisles of bookshelf after bookshelf with . . . books? Hmmm . . . some are books and some are compilations of journals ("New England Journal of Medicine"-lovers rejoice!!). A quick check of the library catalog reveals that I'm not likely to find Barnes and Noble fare here. A search on Jim Butcher yields the following results: "Ecoutourism, NGOs And Development: A Critical Analysis" and "The Moralisation Of Tourism: Sun, Sand--And Saving The World?" Unless Jim Butcher moonlights as an article-capitalizing, tourism-writer, I don't think I'm going to find any authors I know here. But wait! A search on "H.P. Lovecraft" yields something promising - "Necromicon: The Best Weird Tales of H.P. Lovecraft," which has a status of "Lost and Paid" (probably lost by a graffiti-drawer), and "Supernatural Horror in Literature." Both these books are on the fourth floor. This is a surprise to me. I had no idea there was a fourth floor. Maybe I'd have known this if I took the elevator instead of the stairs.

As my time in the library for the day draws to a close, I realize two things about the silence in the library.

(1) The silence, the absolute lack of noise sucked away like light into a black hole, makes you forget that there is a louder, more stressful world beyond its walls. You can easily sit at one graffiti-engraved desk for hours and only by chance become aware of the passage of time when you happen to look up and see that the skies are pitch black and it is now well after 8:00 pm. Don't do this. Walking back to the dorm in the dark with the typhus-carrying cats is not cool.

(2) The silence makes you forget that there are people around you; consequently, you don't notice the person in the desk next to you until you've already begun singing "Je Suis un Homme" under your breath and have gotten to "a la guerre," at which point you shut up rather quickly. Don't ask me how I know.

The Right-brainer's Lament and the Importance of Art

I mentally walked through the National Gallery of Art this morning and I looked at my favorite paintings: the hunk of butter, the lady reclining on the pillows, the boy (who looks like a girl) with the broom, Van Gogh's portrait, the Da Vinci painting, and the one of that guy falling off the boat into the ocean with the shark. As I looked at them, I thought, "I really hate being right-brained. I'm hardwired for art and literature and mismatched colored socks. I'm hardwired for this (mentally gestures to the paintings on the walls) and not any of the important things that the world values - like science and math skills.

Where some people receive math problems and easily smooth them out as if they were wrinkles on a tablecloth, I receive math problems that are snarls and that grow worse and more tangled with every effort I put into solving them. Some people can clearly "see" math and logic problems. There's a big spotlight shining down on them and they deftly grasp how to work and solve them. I receive math and logic problems and I see words, words that take difficult minutes and seconds to state and restate and write down and draw diagrams for and solve (don't get on my case about my ridiculous use of "and"s. I decided a long time ago that I was going to stop caring about commas so much.) I can't do what they can do, but I can use art.

I can draw things that are real and things that aren't real. I can mash colors together on a canvas until they resemble something. I can decorate and design. I can make things pretty. But the world doesn't care about pretty. The world cares about science and industry and math - and rightly so; those are the more important things. I learned in Art History (thank you, Mrs. Russell!) that it wasn't until after civilization attended to the things that were more important (food, shelter etc.,) that it was able to really focus on other things like art.

But I think art is still important (no, I don't care that I started a sentence with "but"). Science and math and industry improve our quality of life and expand the boundaries of the world we live in, but is it enough to just live? To just exist? To work in steel buildings and drive our expensive cars and eat our casseroles and watch our TV and go to sleep and do it all again the next morning? No. There's more. And art allows people to show that "more." People have ideas, passions, feelings, a kaleidoscope within them that art - dance, painting, pottery, jewelry, architecture, embroidery, anything - unleashes. No, the artist might never be as highly valued as the scientist or the engineer, but that's okay.

As I mentally leave the National Gallery of Art and step back into my own world where there are chemistry problems to learn and metabolic processes to memorize, I realize that I'm actually happy to be right-brained. No, school isn't easier, but the world outside of it is a whole lot more colorful.

College Thoughts and Occurrences

THE VIEW FROM MY DORM ROOM

Okay, first of all - I LOVE this view. It looks out over the sidewalk that leads into the dorm. It reminds me of how in "Anne of Green Gables" (movie, I mean. For some reason, I never read the books.) there was a nosy lady who lived by the crossroads and would sit on her porch and watch everyone who went by. She knew when people were leaving and where they left to. I'm not saying I'm nosy or anything, but it's neat to have a view of the entry way to Troxel. The view is lovely, and it's nice to look out the window and see people and not cows (though I kind of miss the cows.)

COLLEGE CLASSES: HALF THE CHALLENGE IS FINDING THEM

Chemistry was good today . . . when I finally got to class. The classroom was at the end of a hallway and a paper with the class number was tacked on the wall, so I figured I was in the right place. It was only after I sat down in the very front row, volunteered to pass out syllabi (but I never looked at them), sat down again and looked at the powerpoint that I realized I was in a Biology class. Yeah. "Pretty stupid" wouldn't cover how I felt. Anyhoo, I got to the right classroom in time to hear Dr. Ahmad's class introduction which included a . . . .

TUTORIAL ON HOW TO PRONOUNCE "AHMAD"
If people had been pronouncing my name incorrectly for over half a century, I'd probably be giving them a tutorial on it, too. It is not "A -mad." It is "Ah-mad." While he was born and educated in India, his name is of Arabic origin. There are two types of "h" sounds, and the "h" sound in "Ahmad" is an "h" sound made with the throat.

THIS CAMPUS IS INSANELY EASY TO GET LOST IN
While trekking about campus, I am never without my handy-dandy yellow campus map. Four years from now, I will be using this map to get to my Finals. I think I should get it laminated.

MISCELLANEOUS
My Bio. lab had better be interesting; it's nearly three hours long. One of the lightbulbs in the bathroom doesn't work. The pigeon nest on the ledge has two baby pigeons in it. My critical thinking course doesn't start 'till Wednesday, so I have the rest of the day offf. I only know of two places to eat on campus. I need to stop blogging and get back to studying.

Thoughts on College as it Looms Closer than Ever Before

This is what I see right before I go to sleep (of course, the lights are out then).

Let me tell you something. I've looked at this wall for years but most particularly at a certain time for the past four years. Since High School started, on one night before school starts, I find myself facing this wall and considering the future. It's my annual moment to assess where I am, what's going to happen, and how I feel about it. Three years ago, I looked at this wall and cried. The sudden reality of college and my brother leaving and my life changing forever had dawned on me; however, I felt that I still had four years, plenty of time, before that would happen. Two years ago, I looked at that wall and felt a little more resigned towards the future. I don't recall crying, but I wasn't entirely at ease. Last year, I looked at that wall and couldn't believe that time had passed so quickly, that in one short year, it would arrive - college. Tonight, for the last time, I will look at that wall and consider the future. This is what I will think: It's finally here. It's no longer four years away; it's four days away.

This is odd, isn't it? Me, the school-lover, dreading college? It's just that I expect college to be hard, and right now I have no way to measure my skills up to its difficulty level. I need it to hit me so that I can hit back and see what we're both made of. Until then, I can only worry about how challenging it will be, and I can acclimate to the endings and the beginnings. I've never thought of myself as someone who didn't like change, but now I think I am. I'm waiting 'till the joy of new beginnings overcomes the sorrow of endings.

Don't worry. In a fortnight, I'll be blogging about how wonderful college is and how great and sunny my existence is turning out to be.
Until then, I'm here. Staring at a wall in the dark.



Yes, I do sleep with at least five stuffed animals on my bed (Eeyore, Mousse the moose, Winston the mouse, Chocolate the lab., and Harold the hippo). . . . . what? . . . . stop giving me that look.

The eyes that blink . . .

"Human beings do not live forever, Reuven. We live less than the time it takes to blink an eye, if we measure our lives against eternity. So it may be asked what value is there to a human life.There is so much pain in the world. What does it mean to have to suffer so much if our lives are nothing more than the blink of an eye?" He paused again, his eyes misty now, then went on. "I learned a long time ago, Reuven, that a blink of an eye in itself is nothing. But the eye that blinks, that is something. A span of life is nothing. But the man who lives that span, he is something. He can fill that tiny span with meaning, so its quality is immeasurable though its quantity may be insignificant. Do you understand what I am saying? A man must fill his life with meaning, meaning is not automatically given to life.It is hard work to fill one's life with meaning. That I do not think you understand yet. A life filled with meaning is worthy of rest. I want to be worthy of rest when I am no longer here. Do you understand what I am saying?"

-my favorite passage from "The Chosen," by Chaim Potok

Coffee and Time: Things Worth Wasting

Have you ever read "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn"? You haven't? That's okay. Most people I know haven't. Anyhoo, it's basically a story about this poor family growing up in 1930s Brooklyn, New York. Even though they're very poor, the mother lets her son and daughter pour their coffee down the drain, even if they haven't finished it all. When her sisters protest this, she replies that it's good to be able to waste something because it allows you the luxury of feeling that you can waste it.

I feel that way in my life sometimes. When I'm saturated with dates and projects and deadlines, when I have no time to spare, I find myself taking 15 min., or even an hour, to paint, to blow bubbles, to walk, to doodle, to straighten my bookshelves, to write a letter, to embroider a hankerchief, or to goof off. I don't have time to waste, but I waste it anyway because I want to feel like I do have the luxury of being able to waste time. It keeps me sane (I think).

Anyhoo - today, I had things to study, read, send, finish, and take care of. So what did I do? I poked, danced around, twirled about, and relished in bubbles. My mind is back to an equilibrium between happy, fanciful nonsense and cruel, unbelievably amazing reality. I think I can accomplish everything tomorrow.

Everyone should keep bubbles with them.

"Happily Ever After" By He Is We

One more reason to not be afraid

For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.

-2 Timothy 1:7

. . . because they are hard . . .

"We choose to go to the moon. We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard, because that goal will serve to organize and measure the best of our energies and skills, because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone, and one which we intend to win, and the others, too."

Does anybody else feel like they're going to the moon?

In Progress . . .

Revamping still in progress . . .