Book Blog: Kafka on the Shore review

Kafka on the Shore was definitely a different novel from any other book on the shelves. Filled with explicit scenes of unconventional sexual desires, gruesome cat-killing descriptions, and a complex, twisted journey of both the tastes of dream, desire, and fantasy, Kafka definitely was not an ordinary kid.

The book was neither an ordinary book and it did not depict confusing bizarre moments as pointless confusion. The book comes in a full circle: with the beginning full of questions, questions without a right answer, and multiple beginnings to separate stories, the book then vaguely answers the questions presented at the beginning and ties all the stories in a big bundle at the end - like destiny.

Because of how the book was written and presented, I definitely believe that there were some big symbolism and allegories within the novel that one might be unable to detect the first time. I believe all people's lives all begin with questions and might live their life in search for the answer like Kafka, and like Kafka, once again, might never have a complete answer in the end. Also, sometimes life presents simple questions that we are able to answer right away but because of the answer, it leads to another. Life is just as complex as the dreams and confusion within the book. Maybe it's all from evolution that we have adapted to juggle multiple things in life at once, or maybe sometimes we choose to avoid and run away. However it is, I know that our lives, like the book, will nicely tie itself at the end, maybe sometimes with loose vague knots, but nevertheless, everything comes in place and fit perfectly together - like destiny.

Book Blog: A Time of Lost

I don't exactly remember a time of me being lost physically. Maybe when I was really young and small in department stores.

But I do remember an identity crisis. I remember feeling lost because I have lost myself. I did not know my sense of direction in life. In fact, that was quite recent. This feeling has peaked, only last year.

It was a time of darkness and nothing words can truly describe. The feeling was so overwhelming, suffocating and powerful. No comforting words or consoling pats could have settled me. It was something that I had to find myself and words cannot completely be felt and registered in my head until I have experienced something important.

Likewise, I think this is what Kafka felt in Kafka on the Shore, especially when he was on his identity quest and it wasn't until certain experiences. His conscience, which I thought it could have also been his alter-ego, the boy named Crow, would appear at troubled, dark times and after each time with words advice, Kafka understands himself and the world a little bit more.
I think this goes for much of the other people out there in the world and everyone has/will go through this period of lost and uncertainty.

Letter to my parents

Dear mother and father,

I cannot adequately articulate my deep and dearest love and appreciation for the all the things you two have done for me. I remember the dark nights I've had, troubling times with myself alone. I remember your frustrations, for your inability to comfort and ease my aching soul. I know you two constantly worry for me and hold me the closest out of the three, though you two won't admit to favoritism.

I remember my childhood full of curiosity, questions after questions I would ask you two and thanks to your patient, thorough answers, I become the passionate learner I am today. 

I remember exploring museums with you, Dad, as you constantly quiz me and joke with me. You challenge my beliefs and knowledge ever since I could talk. And even now, you challenge me to push me beyond my comfort zones, from daily responsibilities, to making me question art and philosophies. You inspired me to not settle for the given answer. You inspired me to quench for more knowledge. You inspired me to become better.

Mom, I see you sometimes in bed, restless and awake. I know you repeatedly have worrisome thoughts about me. I watch you scrunch up your eyebrows when you see me in pain and I watch the color leave your face when I'm sick. I know that you have already hosed to place my life in higher priority over yours. I cannot imagine what it is to be a mother and have the burden and the aching of watching a child grow, with self conflicts of longing when they leave and worrying that they might not mature. 

My dear parents, I am forever indebted to you two. I think the only way to repay you two is to treat you two as best I could until you two leave from old age and use your teachings and nourishment to better myself and society, to push for something more and not stop until I have done my best.

Thank you and my unconditional love for you two will never die.

Forever your daughter,

Olivia So

Civics

What does it mean to be civilized?
I think humans are filled with such confusing definitions of what it takes and what it means to be "civilized". Mainly, the rules and restrictions are based on the cultures and religions.
Found in the dictionary:

Civilized: 
1. Having a highly developed society and culture.
2. Showing evidence of moral and intellectual advancement; humane, ethical, and reasonable

 But what does it mean to be in a highly developed society and culture? Education perhaps? Technology maybe? Okay. But what about simple things like clothes? In the 18th century, most countries feel that even revealing shoulders and ankles are considered improper and uncivilized, for the uneducated to do. In sweating hot nations, such as Africa, it's common to see both males and females shirtless. In Japan today, smiling too much, especially when showing teeth, is considered rude. As you can see, much of the rules for being civilized, is absurd.
Sometimes, I feel that being "civilized" might give a system order, but most of the time, I prefer chaos.

Is Poverty A Choice?

I don't believe poverty is a choice. Given the option, I think the majority of the people would choose having money or at least a secure lifestyle, where they have their basic necessities for living. Even if one is a Siddhartha or a Christopher McCandless, where he/she chooses to give up the wealth and material items in life in search for a meaning and inner peace, I highly doubt hey would continue the next generation without providing the best for their children. In other words, even if a person chooses to give up money, there wouldn't be generations of their family line being poor, which is by definition, what poverty means.
Most cases in America are great examples to explain how poverty is not a choice. The majority of impoverish groups are generation after generation of poverty, of being deprived of basic human necessities: food, shelter, clean water, and clean air. Most of the time there really is no escape; there are no higher education offered or available. Sometimes even with the motivation, determination and education, they might not be given the chance.

Separation segregation integration

 America has always been described as a nation of hope and opportunities throughout history, because it's founded off of the belief of an equal opportunity system. Despite a nation full of immigrants and described as "the melting pot" of culture, I don't think our different nationalities has been completely integrated. 

Many times I find myself forgetting I live in a bubble, a concealed safe place, where the rest of the nation probably doesn't look like my diverse high school. And it probably isn't booming with ethnic groups in the city. However, Chicago itself, might a good example to describe the nation in a nutshell. Although Chicago, like USA, is diverse and have immigrants from around the world, Chicago is still very much segregated. Some people still live in their "caves" and refuse to leave it and venture out into a different culture. Likewise, many Americans would even stay on only one side of town their entire lives. 

Racism still exists. We all love to pretend that it doesn't and hope it is getting better. But even living in a majority liberal city, I still walk outside my house sometimes with racial slangs yelled at me. Strong stereotypes still exist. And if I sat on a bus on the south-side, there will definitely be a difference in behavior and treatment than if I was sitting on a north-side bus. 

I don't think segregation would help. I think separation only makes it worst. It makes people ignorant and grow deeper prejudice. It causes misunderstandings and assumptions, for there were no chances for both sides to communicate. 

I don't think forced integration is a solution. In fact, I'm not completely sure if there is a true black-and-white solution. However, I do believe that there are times where forced integration is needed and only time can help cultures adapt to one another. If there WAS one set right answer, I think after The Civil Rights Movements and The World Wars, we would have found and tried it by now. But every case is different and just as fragile to balance and maintain peace.

A Response to the Autobiography of Malcolm X

What I found most intriguing about the book was not just the complexity and the detailed descriptions of Malcolm X's life, but of how many people, especially kids, are oblivious to his contributions and his life. When people think of Black History Month, they think of Martin Luther King Jr. and of Rosa Parks. It is rare to hear or see pictures of Malcolm X. In my grammar school's Social Studies book, I think it had perhaps mentioned Malcolm X for a paragraph right after several pages of MLK's achievments. And why? Well, Malcolm X has always been a controversial figure as an African American activist, constantly portrayed with the usage of violence as the solution to end the discrimination.

Malcolm X did not advocate or desire violence, however, despite the complicated violent life he led previous of his arrest. In comparison to MLK's peace movement, Malcolm X seemed stubborn, whites-hating and unwilling ti compromise. Instead, in reality, he understood that racial discrimination wasn't a simple black-and-white matter and he felt that in certain situations only violence can get their voices heard and points across. However, he wanted to limit violence as much as possible. 

Although I disagree with his belief of racial separation as the only solution, I was continually dumbfounded and impressed by his strong determination and willingness throughout the book. Time after time, Malcolm X was faced with difficulty and hardships. But without work ethics like him, with the dedication and effort he placed in his self-education in prison as an example, it would be virtually impossible for him to come up with his own opinion and moral restrictions in the most educated and thoughtful manner afterwards as a preacher and leader to many.

Some people still question his facts and details, especially the facts and vivid imagery of his childhood in his autobiography. Which led me to coincidentally stunble upon an opposing and attacking book:

http://www.lansingcitypulse.com/lansing/article-5776-debate-still-rages-over-malcolm-x.html

I don't think anyone can say for sure everything in Malcolm X's autobiography was accurate, especially minor details within the plot, but I think his ideas, intentions and beliefs are sincere and congruent throughout most of life and portrayed well in the book. I think criticizing him as far as to call him a liar would be too extreme because much of his thoughts were shown through his actions and that's what we should be focusing on.

Solitude

Assigned: ~Decemeber 16, 2012
Alone. Solitude. Silence.
These words have never meant so much (and on a bigger, metaphorical level) to me the past two years. I remember the discussion we had in class once about No Exit and what was one's personal hell. I remember someone saying that isolation and/or physical pain was probably most people's hell.

Then maybe, I've been in hell the past two years. It's waking up to a migraine, with bright, blinding lights in your face. It's anxiety and panic attacks that you can't explain. It's a looming, brooding emotion that clings onto you. It's a disease that everyone wants to explain to you. Want to fix for you. Want to give solutions to you. But you, yourself, don't even know what it is. It is depression.

Trapped in my own head, my own mind. Filled with racing thoughts at night. The only thing at night accompanies me along with insomnia. There is no true outlet, because it is almost impossible to articulate to anybody, despite how "professional" in the field they are and despite how intimate my relationship with them is. This mental isolation is hell.

However, it's not so much the physical isolation that bothers me most of the time. In fact, one of my most favorite things in the world, is to be alone with myself. Not in any self-righteous way. But walking around the city with a very observing, pensive outlook. Sitting on the train and not knowing where I'm headed. Stopping where I want to stop. When I want to stop. Watching mothers cradle their precious child. Watching girls cry to their girlfriends on the phone. Watching "Steve" carry a sign that reads "Disabled. Please HELP". Listening to the wind chimes as I pass creaky, old houses in Uptown. Listening to children's laughter as I pass Lincoln Park Zoo. Listening to the waves of Lake Michigan crash the concrete just below my feet.
It's a paradoxical feeling; being physically alone- but because of the stillness, the silence, you realize you are not. And you become so small, yet so fulfilled. So much more than just one being.

I Know This Means SOMETHING

Assigned: November 28, 2012
Art means something to me and I think it is most appropriate to reply to this post with my personal statement I wrote for colleges:

Art is an idea formed in the soul and spoken out to society. In Midsummer Night’s Dream, Shakespeare stated, “The object of art is to give life a shape.” A friend once asked me what made my life worthwhile. I replied that if I were unable to produce art, to evoke emotion and express myself, I would rather die. This startled him. He, like most people, thinks of art as unpractical, unsuccessful, and unaccountable.

Art, to him, is not a necessity, with no true evolutionary purpose. Some might argue that a fork is more practical than art. Yet, the fork, once upon a time, was a piece of art. It was an idea that sparked in someone’s head. From just a mere thought to a sketch to a verbal subject, and finally physically crafted from wood, the creation process and the fork, itself, were art.  

Although art cannot be physically consumed by my body, it is crucial to my life; I digest the thoughts fed to me from society, process it, and create my own opinion. This freedom of expression played a further significant and intimate role when I was struggling with depression my junior and senior year. My feelings seemed impossible to adequately articulate when I had the disease. My only outlet for my complex thoughts and emotions was through the creation of visual arts.

I remember isolating myself from my dearest friends and family daily. I locked myself in my room for several days, repeatedly painting gray lines, the same color that seemed to haunt my daily life. Through painting, I was able to release my frustration and my physical pain from migraines and frequent nights of insomnia. Soon, the trees in my scenic paintings darkened over time, the once glowing sunset dulled, and the faces blurred and faded into each other. Every stroke I place on the canvas was filled with bitterness, exhaust, and agony.

While people neglect art to avoid misery and poverty as the notorious starving artist stereotype does, I sought art as a solace from my personal distress. Art has been uplifting; fantastic poets, authors, and songs motivated me to live on. I find no charm in the American Dream; money cannot buy my happiness or success. My fulfillment is the freedom of expression.

Although art is broad and unaccountable, I understand all tangible things are fleeting. One day, unfortunately, close friends, family and belongings must perish. Art never dies. Art is science, a question. Art is philosophy, a thought. Art is human, an emotion. It does not solely apply to visuals; it can only be seen with the heart.

Art lives on through other people, shaping their lives. Every time someone attempts to interpret it, a new seed of idea is planted. It is a concept that grows in every single individual, changing, morphing and reshaping daily.

I am an artist. Although my external form will decay one day, I hope to use my voice to live on through others, through art.