Thursday, November 28, 2013

Insight with a Laugh: A visual representation of my marriage

So these made me laugh because they totally remind me of mine and Spencer's relationship. I hope you enjoy them, and maybe find yourself in them too. :) They are by the online comic Wasted Talent in case the pictures stop working.

-Natalie Cherie

Minimalism with an Exception                                                                 Crank Test



Happy Day                                                                          The Symptoms are Horrible...and Delicious






Despectacled                                                                                     Your Argument is Invalid






The Playoff Beard                                                                                    The Bits I Miss

Sunday, November 17, 2013

The Center of Time


August 30th, 2013

So I got to talk to my little brother Tanner for a good hour or so today. It was so much fun to just talk, whether on sports, his latest book, the impending first day of school, or friends. I was also eating chicken curry and so I, of course, was in a fabulous mood. And after sitting on my kitchen floor, in front of my only air-conditioning unit, watching RWBY trailers I decided to begin my next essay. I've been married for almost two months and it's been incredible, so I felt like it was about time to write about it. At first, I had decided not to talk about getting married because I didn't quite know what to say. Spencer and I had known one another, progressing from friends to dating to engaged and finally marriage, for two years. Each summer was spent abroad, first him in Jerusalem and then me in the United Kingdom, and because of these difficult and worthwhile periods of separation we've accumulated quite a few letters. But there is one letter in particular that I am thinking of that he wrote, not while one of us was abroad but, right before we got married. In his first sentence he used the phrase "the center of time" and ever since having read it I can't seem to shake the idea that this phrase is significant so I once again decided to write an essay about what it feels like, and only guessing at what it means, to reach the center of time.

September 1st, 2013

The Center of Time

Today I woke up fifteen minutes early. 7:00 am instead of 7:15. It was my first day being trained, I had only been hired two days earlier. Two months ago I might have treasured and fought for those extra fifteen minutes of sleep, especially considering my current rising time of 11:00am, but not anymore. You see I got married. I think it was while I was traveling in England that my fiance, Spencer, first mentioned this idea of waking up a little early. At the time he had said he was practicing making time to hold me. Later in a letter, he closed by assuring me he'd always have fifteen minutes to give. Well it's habit now and this morning as I slowly opened my eyes at 7 am, I automatically began to shift towards Spencer, lightly kissed his cheek, and watched his lips form a small sleepy smile. This is my favorite part of being married.

Shortly after getting married I was re-reading a letter Spencer had written to me the night before we got married. Usually, I noticed the end, which promised me 15 minutes, but I noticed the opening this time. It said,


"Ma cherie,
It is weird to think of this moment as the center of time. But it felt like it took forever to get here. And it feels like we have forever ahead of us (which has some pretty awesome potential)."

For some reason I kept having to re-read it, trying again and again to comprehend the phrase, "the center of time." I mean, was that possible? I don't think I would have cared so much if I hadn't found some possibility in them. Albert Einstein said, "Time is an illusion." and the Doctor from "Doctor Who" always explained time as, "people assum[ing] that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, but actually from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint-it's more like a big ball of wibbly wobbly...time-y wimey . . . stuff." So I began to suppose that reaching the "center of time," keeping in mind my limited understanding, was perhaps possible.

November 13th, 2013

So I've decided that "The Center of Time" isn't meant to be an essay. At least not yet. Right now it's a poem. Months ago I was talking to Spencer and said, "I'm digging a trough against falling walls." At the time I was struggling with isolation and fighting against the onset of depressive symptoms. Needless to say, I wasn't referring to the Center of Time in relation to my wedding day or any other happy moment. But, I think I've come to a conclusion. I think time is medium that I will never understand. No amount of Dr. Who quotes or Einstein relative theory will ever truly express the difference between the movement of time and the comprehensible parameters we place around it. But this summation doesn't stem from a defeatist attitude. I've simply realized that for now I can't really claim that a center of time and eternity exists.

But I do still wonder. Maybe it's like the center of a tornado. The winds swirl around and in the middle everything is perfectly still. But if that were so, is it possible to make it to the middle? Are we forever stuck on the outskirts in turbulent winds, attempting to swim to the middle while dodging each passing day in fear of our time catching up to us as we're laid in the grave? Or are we already in the middle, mindless of our place in eternity, each striving determining our happiness or otherwise?

If we are already in the center of time then my Center of Time felt like my Wedding Day because it was the moment my current decision influenced the rest of my eternity. But if I'm on outskirts, forever fighting for an eternal perspective, then the moments of pure peace, between sleeping and waking, or in meditation and writing, these feel like frozen points of time, the instant I found my way to the center, if only to be pulled back into the winds in the next instant. In these moments I could live forever. And that's where I'll strive to stay whether by memories, writing, or digging troughs against falling walls. Because learning to live in eternal time, that's the goal when searching for the center.


Falling Walls

I wish I could freeze it.
And place it in a drawer--
On sad days of loneliness and difficulty,
I could pull it out and gaze once
Again on his peaceful features, so untouched by the worry of a waking reality.

I am digging a trough against falling walls,
Blindly scratching at the sands of my own time.
A Silhouette of the Living.

Perhaps if I dig deep enough someone will notice,
Long after my digging has ceased.
But if not I'll bury my tools,
In the top right corner of the base of my trough.
And as the walls fall in I'll wait to be found, all the while dreaming of a small sleepy smile.

The silhouettes of the living will stumble into timelessness,
Found only in themselves;
The contours of a memory and the potential of eternity.

"Sometimes I feel like if you just watch things,
Just sit still and let the world exist in front of you-
Sometimes I swear that just for a second time freezes
And the world pauses in its tilt.
Just for a second.
And if you somehow found a way to live in that second,
Then you would live forever."

Lauren Oliver said that.
And no matter the falling walls,
I believe her.

-Natalie Cherie

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

A Substance of the Metro in September, 1918: High Modernism 101




In an effort to post more regularly I'm hoping to share at least weekly something that has impressed itself upon me. Recently I've done this by sharing the essays I've written, but with my return from Great Britain my essayistic boot camp has ended and I'm simply not producing enough to post. So I thought I'd explore some new forms of posting.

Today I had a three-hour lecture course on High Modernism in American between World War I and World War II. Some names you may recognize from this category are Ezra Pound, H.D. (Hilda Doolittle), Amy Lowell, Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, T.S. Eliot, and Katherine Anne Porter. American Literary Modernism was, in essence, a response to the social and economic conditions of Modernity. With the eruption of World War I and chemical warfare, 5 million dead, and a world left reeling everything was beginning to change. Women gained the vote in 1920 with the 19th Amendment and a new set of sexual mores were coming into existence making many behaviors more acceptable e.g. cohabitation, homosexuality, etc. With these social conditions in mind, Modernity is described as a sense of newness and a dramatic rupture from the past. It's emphasized through Industrialization with the introduction of an increasingly present middle class and the assembly line method to production, as well as scientific developments with Einstein's redefinition of space and time and soon the atom bomb. And finally as previously discussed the social revolutions of the day (voting rights and liberality) were booming.


Understanding the atmosphere of modernity helps us understand the lifestyle of High Modernists who lived bohemian lifestyles, which specifically rejected the middle-class values. They tended to be ex-patriots living abroad, mainly in London and Paris. They were specifically not American Exceptionalists and they used art to imitate the fragmented pieces of their modernist world.

So fragmentation is a style beautifully displayed in Ernest Hemingway's writing.

Indian Camp
http://faculty.ksu.edu.sa/73035/Prose1/the%20story%20Indian%20Camp.pdf

After or before reading "Indian Camp" consider looking for these fragmented techniques.
  • omitted explanations, summaries, or continual perspective
  • begins arbitrarily and no resolution at the end
  • occasional symbols that are very personal to the author
  • Tenuously related segments in juxtaposition

Now that you've read it, think of this . . . What if George was the father of the newborn Indian Baby? !!!!!
What!!!?!?!?! you may say, or maybe you saw it all along. The exciting part is that we'll never know. Why? Because of Hemingway's Iceberg Principle. Hemingway said, "I always try to write of the principle of the iceberg. There are seven-eighths of it under water for every part that shows." In other words, it's not what you read in the words but what you read in the words that aren't there. Gertrude Stein once told Hemingway to write like Cezanne and from the choppy strokes, we find Hemingway's unforgettable Modernist writing style.

Marcel Duchamp's Nude Descending a Staircase
Modernism, under Ezra Pound, eventually took a turn towards an artistic movement called Imagism. Eventually, Pound went to something new and Amy Lowell became the torch bearer but essentially Imagism attempts to show and not tell, and connect the image with the complex. Of the image, Ezra Pound said, "And 'Image' is that which presents an intellectual and emotional complex in an instant of time." And a complex in Freudian terms, to which Pound was referring later in the quote, is a group of emotionally charged ideas or mental factors, unconsciously associated by the individual with a particular subject, arising from repressed instincts, fear, or desires." Oxford English Dictionary

Below are two of my favorite Imagism Poems. Before you read them here are the "Rules of Imagists" as laid out by Ezra Pound.

  • Imagists must have direct treatment of a "thing" whether subjective (imagined), or objective (concrete)
  • Imagists must use absolutely no word that does not contribute to the presentation
As regarding rhythm: Imagist should compose in the sequence of the musical phrase, not in sequence of a metronome. See if you can see the image and complex connection.

In a Station of the Metro

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

Ezra Pound-1913




September, 1918

This afternoon was the colour of water falling through sunlight;
The trees glittered with the tumbling of leaves;
The sidewalks shone like alleys of dropped maple leaves;
And the houses ran along them laughing out of square, open
       windows.
Under a tree in the park,
Two little boys, lying flat on their faces,
Were carefully gathering red berries
To put in a pasteboard box.


Some day there will be no war.
Then I shall take out this afternoon
And turn it in my fingers,
And remark the sweet taste of it upon my palate,
And note the crisp variety of its flights of leaves.
To-day I can only gather it
And put it into my lunch-box,
For I have time for nothing
But the endeavour to balance myself
Upon a broken world.

Amy Lowell-1919



And finally, perhaps the most far-fetched movement was Cubism as triumphed by Gertrude Stein. Cubism was an early 20th-century artistic movement that rejected realism by breaking a scene apart and reassembling it in a scattered order. If you were to imagine a conversation, but you could only hear the key sentences or random snippets of thought, and then string them together you'd have cubism. Below is only an excerpt but try to find meaning. I focus on the second section and what it means for women. See what you find.

Excerpt from "A Substance in a Cushion" from Tender Buttons

The Change of color is likely and a difference a very little difference is prepared. Sugar is not a vegetable.

Callous is something that hardening leaves behind what will be soft if there is a genuine interest in there being present as many girls as men. Does this change. It shows that dirt is clean when there is a volume."

Gertrude Stein

~~~END~~~

Feel free to leave comments about your feelings and interpretations or questions. Modernism is fantastic and hopefully, you've seen a couple reasons why. Also, Midnight in Paris is a cute film that deals directly with the Modernist group who lived in Paris if your curious to see a depiction. :)


-Natalie Cherie