a bi-weekly column
by michelle ampofo ’25
managing editor
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Alchemy
Although something tells me I might be mistaken, I had the strangest encounter yesterday. I was on a train.
I was returning to New Haven from elsewhere, thinking late thoughts. While pondering these thoughts, an old man of around 80 came and sat next to me. He was entirely unsuspecting—a navy blue sweater, dark gray trousers, and brown loafers. I glanced at him a moment, then turned back to continue my thinking. When I was beginning to fall asleep, I was startled by someone picking up my hand. It was the old man. When he took my hand, I thought he was going to kiss it but he didn’t. He moved it from where it
was resting on the aisle seat and placed it in my lap. I looked down, embarrassed by my naivete. My name is T. The old man looked at me. I looked out the window and wondered at his strangeness. My name is T. I have known about you since the beginning of time. My stomach dropped. I looked again at the old man, who had a changed look in his eye—a knowing look. When I touched you, we merged. We now subsist off the same stream. I have access to your thoughts, your worries, doubts, and fears, and I could do whatever I want with them. He smiled sincerely after saying this. What the fuck. I thought. Don’t curse. He said. Why should I believe you? He conjured a piece of paper and handed it to me. It was a list: public speaking, vintage dollhouses, getting stabbed in the stomach while pregnant, my life being The Truman Show, being buried alive, rats, becoming a housewife. All my irrational fears. Okay, I said, I believe you.
Then he said: 157346287637. 647 76487 673678. 5862. 1.
And I grew small and ashamed.
We were now on a plane.
He got up, I thought he was going to leave. But instead, he pulled out a rose. I brought you a gift. I found it strange. He liked me. I had never thought that someone could like me in that way. He handed me the rose. It was wilting and nearly dead. What a beautiful rose!, I thought, fully accustomed to its own scent. He sat down and I was happy. I had begun to love him. For him, I’d destroy the world.
He rubbed my head. My pet, my kitty kitty cat. I purred. He reached into his knapsack and pulled out a bag of cherries. Another gift, just for you. I gasped and slapped him, for he revealed himself to be evil. How could you! And after I trusted you with something so fragile as my love. Oh stop it. He said. Shut up and make me a sandwich. But we’re on a plane. I said. Then put on a movie. What are you feeling? I sat back and crossed my legs. You pick. He said while running his fingers through my hair. I smiled, happy he did that. I put on The Kissing Booth. After a few minutes, You numbskull! I don’t know why I even try with you. I paused the movie and looked him directly in the eyes.
We were now on a private jet, flying over the tropics. You’re rich. I said. Richer than you could imagine, sweetheart. Don’t call me sweetheart, I said. Fine, I’ll tell you what you really are. Because I know what you are, he transmitted. You haven’t showered in three
days. You’ve been using the same plastic spoon for two weeks. Your skin is breaking out. You falter. You have vocal fry and shaky hands and are bad at articulation. You don’t go to anything you’re invited to. You have sensitive teeth and sensory issues. You walk in a zig zag. You haven’t completed readings for any class so far this semester. You don’t belong here. Although you try, you simply don’t belong.
You knew to meet me here. I said. Who sent you? What is your station?
He got up and fiddled at the drink bar. He handed me a Shirley Temple, my favorite. Drink, he said. I sat it down. He turned back around, again facing the bar. We were at an impasse.
After a moment.
Who are you? I asked. Who sent you and what is your station? I repeated.
He turned around, My name is T. I have known of you since the beginning of time. I stared in horror. T had transformed. No longer was he a sweet, unsuspecting old man, he now looked like an amalgamation of men who have won People’s “Sexiest Man Alive” Award. In T I saw Chris Evans, Paul Rudd, Michael B. Jordan, Idris Elba, David Beckham, Channing Tatum and more. I felt nauseous. The beauty was so unadulterated, so saturated that I could no longer look at T. If I did, I would go blind.
In this transformed state, T transmitted a joke. I laughed, audibly. As he fiddled at the bar, I went to the other room to prepare.
We were on a yacht.
I painted my cheeks with rouge from an ancient bottle of blush I found washed up on the shore of an isolated beach. I didn’t know whether to wear my corset or my stola. I put on the corset, spraying aerosol on my skin to keep off excess sun rays. I put on long hanging jewelry made of real lapis lazuli that I found in an Egyptian queen’s tomb. I applied 2000 year old Nordic face cream that someone sent me in the mail. I drank water from the Indian water jug that Elon Musk gifted me after I advised him on how to handle Twitter’s affairs. I sprayed my hair with a bottle of Ronda Rousey’s tears that were collected after her 2015 match against Holly Holm. I knew the sour smell of dashed hopes would allure T. I spritzed on the pheromone perfume I ordered off Amazon.
T entered. The bed shook.
Afterwards, I walked out of the room and entered a house. I put on my apron. The baby was crying. There were dishes and the sink and they were rising. I was so tired. Earlier today, I was in line at Whole Foods thinking about how I was going to return home. After picking up Pirate’s Booty, dino nuggets, applesauce, protein shakes, and blue Gatorade, I would drive back home. Upon my arrival, perhaps I would stumble on one of the kids’ toys, or finally do the laundry, or hear his complaint on how I always pushed his buttons. I had been gone for seven weeks. And the reasons of how I got here, why I left, and why I returned are ones I only implicitly knew.
We had met at this Whole Foods years ago. And he seduced me. I was standing in line, shifting my weight from each foot. I had come to the store late at night because I had planned on attempting to make beef wellington, but had gotten expired meat. I was on the returns line to return my expired meat, but to pick up new meat as well. I was thinking about my ex who, for whatever reason, was prone to making up stories and telling lies.
I walked towards the cashier whose line was empty, lugging my reusable shopping bag that was carrying hemp, meat, liver, rhubarb, leeks, and cashews. A man stepped in line after me — the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. His beauty was blinding, and he was everything all at once. Boy and girl. Husband and wife. Good and evil. Real and imaginary. Holy and common. War and peace. He encompassed everything, the real deal. I’d die for him. He winked. I grabbed him by the bulge of his gray sweatpants and from that day forward he was mine. That was the beginning of order.
But now, the allure is gone.
This is a journal entry now.
I am so upset at T; I never thought he would make me feel so unloved.
I don’t know how I arrived at this place (why not stop now?). The baby is crying the phone is ringing there are bills on the table the sink is full the laundry needs to be washed I need to go to work again tomorrow I feel a tap from one of the children bequeathed to me I now needed to cut the ham and cheese sandwich into triangles instead of squares I mop and sweep the floors I wipe the counter and throw away the crumbs and for all my labors I’m awarded a single fly. Was there a hidden path I could have taken so as to not end up here ? I promised myself I wouldn’t come back. The roses on the table are dead, the love is gone, in what ways did I err for this to become my life? Should I have asked for help? Taken the leap of faith? I remember the days when I was young, and in my youth believed the life I was living was in preparation for something much greater. The paint is chipped and there are cracks in the wall. When I talk, I merely speak. The words no longer feel like words at all.
I looked next to me and saw the oven and felt its warm heat and radiant light. Maybe all this time what I wanted was for someone to hold me. And for me to feel that I was being held. I walked outside and felt the sun. And it tasted like spring. A child left the house and held my hand. It smiled, but I couldn’t smile back because I knew I was alone. I looked in the mirror and saw my mother. I never thought I resembled her until today.
We were on a jet.
T said:
And then I spoke aloud:
“You have been the darkness of my life. You have been the flood that follows me, the smoke that clouds my vision.
“I have a purpose.
“My life has meaning apart from you. You have hated to see me grow, to walk away. You have no control over me, and that makes you feel powerless. When I first met you, you convinced me that you did. And you assured me that you are different from the monster you are. But you aren’t, and you will always stay the same. I knew who you were the minute you entered the train. I have learned to recognize your different patterns and shapes.
“You come with the intention to destroy and when your work is done, you go away. I will not leave my station on earth. You cannot take me with you. I will not abandon the ones I love. And you will not convince me. I refuse to fade away. I persist. I am just learning how to speak. I have finally begun to crawl. I am not weak, I am fragile. And in this fragility, I have found my strength.”
We were back on the train.
We sat in silence.
I spoke: “You know, when I was young I thought we could co-exist. That I could accept you for who you are.”
I know.
“But you have never been a friend to me.”
Nothing.
“This is my stop and I have class tomorrow, so I should probably leave.” I got up to get my backpack from the overhead compartment and started along the aisle, then stopped. I forgot my journal. I turned around to get it and saw T, now in the form of a younger me, a child. She was sitting in the window seat. That being the seat that I was previously in, I asked her to pass me our journal. She did. “Thanks.” I said and turned around. I began on my way again until I felt the coldest chill because I heard a voice. I looked at T again and she held my gaze.
At last, she spoke, “
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Re: Resolve: Polarize
I went to the Dasha Nekrasova talk and absolutely loved it. I had an unabashedly great time, loved the hisses of disapproval (I didn’t know this before, but apparently when members of the YPU disagree with something being said they literally hiss), and the generally charged, chaotic energy.
Dasha came in character, one that started to get old as the debate progressed, but the issue of polarization and the right to offend is one I find very compelling. I was saving this section to write last because I have many ~hOt TaKes~ regarding the subject, but honestly, I feel like I’ve been working on this column for years and kind of just want to wrap this one up. So, I’m going to bullet point what I was planning to say instead of writing it out in essay form and hopefully everything will still make sense:
● This, at heart, is why I feel there is so much discontent surrounding the writing and podcasts being produced on campus—no one’s really saying anything. At least anything interesting or new. Any publication that claims to be subversive is not, or eventually will become sanitized the longer it stays in existence. (I think this is the baseline reason I was so unimpressed with the Ada Limon talk. I enjoyed the poetry, but I really disliked the interview that preceded it. Nothing new or exciting was said, I didn’t leave feeling like I learned something, I felt like
all the questions were stock questions and all the answers were stock answers. And it is troubling that this is a poet who rose to prominence because she was bringing something new to the table, at least at first. I haven’t read much of her work but I wouldn’t be surprised if it has become less explosive as time’s gone
on. This is one reason why I’ve decided I don’t want to become a professional writer or make a living primarily off my writing because it only makes sense that your work will eventually become less subversive and adopt a different, more genteel form.)
● There is this incompatible, dual desire to be subversive and fresh without wanting to skew from common opinion or being willing to offend people. And, of course. The fear of getting “canceled” is the greatest contemporary social fear amongst young people and people of power (some fear cancellation rightfully so, others not. I attribute the rise of cancel culture to Twitter and TikTok but I am apt to blame the two for almost everything, so I’ll hold off on that right now).
● Well, guess what people? We often like to be offended. That is why it is always interesting to hear about others’ “hot takes” or how refreshing it is to hear a “based” take—an opinion that isn’t socially right to say, but at its foundation, true.
● So what is this desire to hear and create something new and different without wanting to hear someone say something new or different?
● Now I suppose I should disclaim this all by saying that I don’t mean to say that saying harmful or racist things should ever be allowed for the sake of “diversity of thought” or subversion. I feel like I shouldn’t have to disclaim this but am doing it anyway.
● But I do believe that I’ve met some of the most closed-minded people at Yale and I also believe that many social spheres of Yale and the greater Gen-Z community are in many ways puritanical, moralistic, and totalitarian in their operations (hot take).
There is a greater issue of diversity of thought in the Gen-Z community. And I hate that I feel like fkn Alex Jones or Tucker Carlson or something by saying this. But I have been in conversations, with friends no less, where I’ve said something that I thought innocuous and was met with raised eyebrows, suspicion, or quiet disapproval. On one occasion, I was talking to a black friend about black conservatism. I said, in what I thought innocuous, something about how I thought that, at the very least, black conservatism was necessary because it showed that the black community wasn’t a monolith and that we, too, like any other race, have varying beliefs. The other occasion was just last week when I
was talking to another friend about Dasha Nekrasova and her debate. My friend wondered what her political beliefs were and was commenting on how she found it hard to place exactly where she was on the political spectrum. I said, again in what I thought innocuous, that I generally think it’s a good thing when you can’t quite place where someone is politically, where you agree with some things that they say and disagree with others because it shows that they are not blindly subscribing to any ideology but rather making a composite of what they believe. (And I still wholeheartedly believe this—I think there is value in confusion, in the difficulty of properly “placing” someone or categorizing them in a narrowed group.)
● In both these cases, I was immediately made to feel like what I said was unequivocally wrong. I felt like this opinion of mine was being extrapolated, and seemed to them to come with many other attachments about my deeper character. Again, this conversation occurred with my friends, people who I would like to think know me enough to assume the worst in what I was saying, but clearly, they did.
● (There was this desire to manipulate me into believing the same thing that they did, these are friends who, though I love, come from backgrounds completely dissimilar to my own. I have lived a life separate from the one I know here, and if I have experienced anything in my life so impactful that it resulted in me forming an opinion about something, I have the same amount of right to my opinion as anyone else has theirs. If you are going into a relationship expecting the other person to be a clone of you with the exact same opinions and beliefs, you are not only unrightfully entitled but also an idiot. My opinion is equally valuable and valid, and it is interesting that people always assume that an opinion different from theirs is necessarily wrong. Also, I think there is tension between wanting to go to college to meet people different than yourself, but still, not wanting to accept their differences.) ● (And this, while not exact to my examples, is probably an experience that everyone has faced. When you say something that you feel is completely fair to say, but when you say it is met with an entirely bad and confusing reaction. I mean, if this happens often, you’re probably the issue, but every once in a while it is a shock.)
● It has become the case that everything someone says is assumed to have a deeper, layered negative meaning.
● You cannot force someone to have the exact same opinion as you. And there are many limits to this effect.
● For one, there is a privilege and entitlement that comes with assuming that others will adopt and accept your opinion. Forget San Francisco or New York City, I come from a mostly unknown town on Long Island, a place that has a considerable conservative presence. I had to learn how to relate to people outside their politics, and learn to coexist with them even if I disagreed. I’d imagine that liberals from West Virginia, Texas, or elsewhere navigate the world differently than liberals in San Francisco or New York City or wherever because they had to learn to. In the real world. Not in college or TikTok or Twitter.
● And this really isn’t meant to be centered so much on politics. It is supposed to be about how daily relationships and social interactions have become politicized to a distressing extent.
● Even in everyday conversation, there is the feeling that what you’re saying is being surveilled by an overarching thought police. People are seen through the huge lens of politics and are judged against that lens. There is no either, or. There is no gray area. This kind of essentialism is ultimately destructive and I wholeheartedly reject it.
● I am reading a book right now that in some ways has further informed my beliefs. The book is called Simians, Cyborgs, and Women: The Reinvention of Nature by Donna J. Haraway.
● Haraway talks about how individuals are now required to translate all meaning perfectly at every given moment and place and how there is an overarching domination of thought being perpetuated that people are afraid to deviate from. This leaves little room for duality, only dichotomy. There is a narrow conceptualization of freedom and correctness that has become normalized and all we are left with are stock answers and beliefs. And people are beholden to this system because they are surveilled by fellow individuals. If you say one wrong thing, you become the enemy. There is a self vs other, right vs wrong, total vs partial dichotomy that we ourselves chose and are required to live in. To me, that seems like an impossible feat, nor one that I want to accomplish.
● I agree with Haraway but would also add that this social surveillance is at its foundation the display of a person’s desire for power—it is also a psychological thing. There is a person I know who loves to correct others and when you aren’t wrong, she’ll find something to include or detract from what you’re saying all to show that she is the one that knows. And you could see, in her face, the gratification she gets from telling you you’re wrong, that you are, in fact, incorrect, and that she has the answer.
● There is a gratification that one gets in disapproving what someone says, of getting to tell them that they’re wrong, of being able to shoot down someone’s wrong take. Political correctness is something that needs to be constantly fed and reaffirmed. Because how else would the world know you have reached the nirvana of thought? You would have to show us in order for us to truly know. You must showcase your talents. In order to affirm your goodness and political correctness, you constantly need to demonize others.
● But there is a problem in this as well in that we have gotten to a point where it is enough to simply say you are something without really being that thing. (And of course, if someone is being forced to believe something outwardly, but truly doesn’t, there will be no conviction or action behind their beliefs, because they’re not actually their own. (I would rather have a wolf in wolf’s clothing rather than that of a sheep’s.))
● Actions have interestingly taken second place to words.
● Consider, for example, the white man who on multiple occasions last year, mistook me for a black girl in his section for his political science class (“You’re in my political science section right?” No, nor will I ever be.) And it was not enough that this man had cared so little about the identity of his black peer so much to have mistaken me for her five times over the course of the semester, he interestingly had “BLACK LIVES MATTER” in his Instagram bio, which has since been replaced with some words about “having empathy”… Or in the ways my non-black POC friends have for some reason assumed that I’m an FGLI student despite the fact I have never talked to them about money, have expressed nothing to beget that belief, and simply am not. There is nothing wrong or shameful about being an FGLI student, but there is much to be said about what a “woke” person “innocently” assumes.
● From me saying all this, one might fear that I am secretly harboring the most profane, disturbing beliefs. I’m really not.
● I just think that it is strange that this phenomenon has become naturalized in society by our generation and feel like someone should talk about it (or talk about anything for that matter.) I wish I could hear other’s opinions on this (though ironically, I’m really not interested in hearing about them if they differ from what I’ve written here, but still) because I know I’m not the only one thinking this, maybe just the only one saying (at least as it pertains to Yale in particular.)
● But I actually do feel like we’re living in 1984 sometimes. And I can’t think of anything as insidiously evil and unproductive than a society where everyone is forced to agree.
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(as always, titles that are starred are ones I recommend checking out the most)
Watch:
I was not able to watch much since we last convened :,(
But, these are the movies that I had wanted to check out, and will *hopefully* get to watch at least one or two in the next few weeks:
(all synopses are from wikipedia <3)
3 Women dir. Robert Altman (1977)
“Writer/director Robert Altman claimed this impressionistic film came to him in a dream. Millie Lammoreaux (Shelley Duvall) considers herself irresistible to men, though in fact men have little trouble resisting her. Mysterious teenager Pinky Rose (Sissy Spacek), Millie’s fellow physical therapist at a desert spa who becomes her roommate at a singles-only apartment building, at first appears worshipful of Millie’s self-confidence but soon seems to be taking over aspects of her personality.”
Jackie Brown dir. Quentin Tarantino (1997)*
“When flight attendant Jackie Brown (Pam Grier) is busted smuggling money for her arms dealer boss, Ordell Robbie (Samuel L. Jackson), agent Ray Nicolette (Michael Keaton) and detective Mark Dargus (Michael Bowen) want her help to bring down Robbie. Facing jail time for her silence or death for her cooperation, Brown decides instead to double-cross both parties and make off with the smuggled money. Meanwhile, she enlists the help of bondsman Max Cherry (Robert Forster), a man who loves her.”
American Psycho dir. Mary Harron (2000)*
“In New York City in 1987, a handsome, young urban professional, Patrick Bateman (Christian Bale), lives a second life as a gruesome serial killer by night. The cast is filled by the detective (Willem Dafoe), the fiance (Reese Witherspoon), the mistress (Samantha Mathis), the coworker (Jared Leto), and the secretary (Chloë Sevigny). This is a biting, wry comedy examining the elements that make a man a monster.”
(Note: I heard that all you need to read is American Psycho and the Bible to understand North American civilization. In many ways I agree.)
A Dream is What You Wake Up From dir. Larry Bullard & Carolyn Johnson (1978) “A Dream Is What You Wake Up From is a 1978 American film that combines documentary and narrative techniques to tell the stories of two black families in the United States.”
Eyes on the Prize. First episode date: January 21, 1987*****
“This landmark series, which first premiered in 1987, documents the history of the civil rights movement in America. Produced by Blackside, segments include the Montgomery bus boycott of 1954, school desegregation in 1957 Arkansas, the right-to-vote battle within Mississippi, the march from Selma to Montgomery, and the Voting Rights Act of 1965. The series has been honored with a George Foster Peabody Award, an International Documentary Award, Television Critics Association Award and numerous Emmy Awards.”
Fannie’s Film dir. Fronza Woods (1981)
“A 65-year-old cleaning lady discusses her goals.”
Read:
Articles:
Hanya Yanagihara’s Audience of One | The New Yorker*
I’m sure many have already read this profile of Hanya Yanagihara if you are interested/follow her work. I revisited this article when thinking about ACP’s (which stands for “Apathetic Cool People” re: last column) and how intrinsically linked they are to creative scenes. For some reason, I began to think about Yanagihara and how her career and association within the literary world encapsulates this question: New York City or Wyoming? I was talking to a friend the other day about how I have realized that I don’t like being a small fish in a big pond, despite this being the less accepted answer to the “big-fish–little-pond” question. At Yale, it is super easy to feel inadequate when compared to your peers. This feeling is, I’m sure, exacerbated when looking at the creative scene and people whose sole purpose is to produce valuable, creative content. The question of “New York City or Wyoming” came to me when I started thinking about how much I wanted to be involved in any particular “scene” and how much of a small fish I’m comfortable with feeling like.
I was thinking about the writer’s experience and how different it would be depending on whether they live in a bustling, creative city (like NYC) or in a more remote, unassuming place (like Wyoming). Now Yanagihara lives in neither—she lives in LA—but I find it interesting and refreshing how uninterested she seems in being an active participant in the literary scene. Yanagihara seems to intentionally place herself on the margins of the literary community and is happy to remain an outsider. She seems to be an incredibly private person, one that doesn’t even consider herself a writer but rather, a person who simply likes to write. That got me thinking about other writers who are accomplished in the field but chose to remain outside of it. Writers like Stephen King or even Michiko Kakutani, a writer and literary critic notorious and feared for her harsh reviews, have been able to detach themselves from the environment without at all sacrificing the quality, production, and acceptance of their work.
I think this point was compelling to me because lately, I’ve been reconsidering whether I really would like to live in New York City after college. It seems like one of those that always seemed nice in theory, but in practice is actually not something I’d want. The idea of a slower life, open land, and even suburbia has appealed more to me than bustling activity. I’ll talk more about suburbia, albeit a little differently, later. But yeah. The whole thing with Hanya is ultimately appealing to me because it shows that one gets to choose what they partake in/give their energy to. And if what they are expected to take part in doesn’t work for them, they’ll do just fine without it.
I was introduced to Katherine Mansfield during my Clarice Lispector course last year (surprise, surprise) and I immediately took a liking to her work. I was happy to find this piece on her in the New York Review of Books. I found the paragraph about her many pseudonyms interesting in that she created a character to live life by and embodied it until she became the character itself (this relates to my exploration of curated image, personae, what it means to be a human sim, etc. that I’ve been into recently). I also was surprised to learn that she had a huge rivalry with Virginia Woolf and that for a time they were essentially literary enemies. That’s interesting to me because Mansfield has had significantly less staying power/relevance in modern times, despite her talents being envied and esteemed. The reason for this might be quite simple—Mansfield died young (her work only began to take off when she was dying of tuberculosis and was plagued by the knowledge of her imminent death). But the idea of eventually being all but entirely forgotten when one dies is one that I’m not sure how I feel about. The state
of legacy and permanence are ones only a famous few have truly achieved, and the rest of us probably have two-three generations before we are no longer even a memory to those who knew or knew of us.
I guess the idea of your existence being lost is one personal to me because I have known only ¼ of my grandparents, the other ones, I’ve only heard of but really don’t know anything about. Or when thinking about my parents’ grandparents and how my parents were once in the position that I’m in and how those people, my great-grandparents, are really not talked about anymore and so much of their life remains a mystery even to their families. When I have kids, they will become great-great-grandparents, and their existence will be all but entirely lost, even though their lives were as real as mine is to me now. I’m realizing now that this might be the reason why I really love obituaries and biographies, in that they are written records of the full lives that people have lived, lives that would have been completely forgotten if not recorded.
It all kind of makes me wish I was an object like a table or chair so that the idea of me would exist indefinitely.
An Interview with Ottessa Moshfegh*
This is an interview that The Harvard Advocate did with Ottessa Moshfegh. Not only did I find the interview a quick, enjoyable read, I also really like how seemingly uninterested Moshfegh was in her responses. I think I’ve touched on this a little before, but I love women who are unimpressed/don’t give a fuck. Just very blunt, straight to the point, strict business, no explanations necessary. It’s nice to see a woman operate in a way that’s opposite from how we’ve been conditioned to, and she continues to be exceptional at it. Also, she’s perhaps another writer that isn’t too impressed with the literary scene which is cool as well.
Other articles:
Violent Delights – Believer Magazine
The Hopper-Consani Connection – Believer Magazine
Mary Hannity · Two-Year-Olds Are Often Cruel: Maternal Ethics
SZA’s Ruination Brought Her Everything – The New York Times
Notes on Craft | Aidan Cottrell-Boyce | Granta
Small Girl Landlady | Adachioma Ezeano | Granta
Where Have All the Alt-Weeklies Gone? | The New Journal
Books:
Cinderella Ate My Daughter by Peggy Orenstein (2011)
Vivienne Westwood Catwalk: The Complete Collection by Alexander Fury (2021)
Poetry:
Last week, my friend Audrey and I began season three of our radio show Two Girls Talking. This season, we will be exploring poetry and connecting it to music. In its honor, I am listing my favorite poems/poetry books here:
● The Book of Light by Lucille Clifton
poet description
● “won’t you celebrate with me” by Lucille Clifton
poem
● Glass, Irony, and God by Anne Carson
poet description
additional article
● frank: sonnets by Diane Suess
poet description
review
● Diving into the Wreck by Adrienne Rich
poet description
● “In an Artist’s Studio” by Christina Rossetti
poet description
poem
● “One Art” by Elizabeth Bishop
poet description
poem
● “Lot’s Wife” by Anna Akhmatova
poet description
poem
● “Sheltered Garden” by H.D.
poet description
poem
Listen:
to the “column six” playlist on spotify:
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3kMH7exbHURarcXg2nyscU?si=f563dca5a13d4d28 Something’s Got a Hold on Me by Etta James
I Only Have Eyes for You by The Flamingos
Put Your Head on My Shoulder by Paul Anka
I Put a Spell on You by Nina Simone
Wedding Bell Blues by The 5th Dimension
This Magic Moment by The Drifters
Hurt by Timi Yuro
I Will Follow Him by Peggy March
Life is But a Dream by the Harpones
What a Difference a Day Makes by Dinah Washington
Dream Lover by Bobby Darin
I’d Rather Go Blind by Etta James
A Sunday Kind of Love by Etta James
At Last by Etta James
River Deep-Mountain High by Ike & Tina Turner
Sway by Rosemary Clooney
He’s So Fine by The Chiffons
The Name Game by Shirley Ellis
Why Do Fools Fall in Love by Frankie Lymon & The Teenagers
Blue Moon by Billie Holiday
Mist of a Dream by Birdlegs & Pauline
The End of the World by Skeeter Davis
or
my personal playlist, “oink”:
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6A7xMEBNN7y2LuNC5dcE7a?si=59be34b2707841cc Folsom Prison Blues by Johnny Cash
La foret by Lescop
Bobby Brown Goes Down by Frank Zappa
Dry the Rain by The Beta Band
The First Taste by Fiona Apple
White Ferrari by Frank Ocean
Mariners Apartment Complex by Lana Del Rey
It’s Only Sex by Car Seat Headrest
Dreams by Fleetwood Mac
Come On Eileen by Dexys Midnight Runners
Brazil by Geoff & Maria Muldar
Cash In Cash Out by Pharrell Williams, 21 Savage, Tyler, The Creator
Discover: Gregory Crewdson
I came to know about Gregory Crewdson a couple of months ago when listening to an art podcast. I’ve never had a photographer’s eye and so have never really cared much for photography, but when looking at Crewdson’s work I understand what people mean when they say that a photograph evoked some emotion within them. I find the work of Gregory Crewdson spectacular. His photography is unique in its cinematic edge, precision, and near-surrealist quality. Each photo looks like it’s been taken from a movie scene, and there is an eeriness and void that one feels when considering each photo. While Crewdson focuses mostly on domestic scenes and showcases images of everyday life, it feels as if there is something darker occurring in each photo—something you can’t quite put your finger on. This feeling, this unknowing,
lends his work a dreamlike quality and an undertone of mystery and unease, blurring reality and fiction. The soured suburban landscape Crewdson encapsulates shows the dark side of the “American dream” and presents suburban life as grotesque. Middle-class and working homes, manicured lawns, empty streets, and even dining scenes all contribute to the sense of loneliness and isolation that the people in the photograph, and the photograph itself, express.
Another unique element of Crewdson’s work is how he plays with light. In many photographs, there is some sort of light fixture, one that does little to fix the darkness of the photograph. This, I’m sure, is made possible by his meticulousness and technical precision. There is much production behind each photograph. Crewdson apparently takes months, up to years, in order to find locations, cast actors, and technically compose each photo. All in all, I would recommend checking out Gregory Crewdson’s work if you haven’t already because, through unease, surrealism, and suburban scenes, he makes us consider what it means to live, and wonder how similar we are to those depicted in his photographs.
endnote: wow, by the looks of it week five really knocked everyone out at once. i feel like i looked away for a moment and am now suddenly so far behind. not a great feeling. BUT still laboring over these columns and have yet to miss a day (bc priorities). by the looks of this one, though, the writing is once again going to be mostly incomprehensible and disjointed, even to me, due to sleep deprivation and my writing everything the night before publishing day. alas.
ok bye,
michelle
unauthorized syllabi is a bi-weekly column. beyond that, i am unsure of what it is. last cycle, i wrote about new year resolutions, birthdays, and what it means to forgive your parents. i also shared my 2023 “in and out” list.
