tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63086847647828175512024-03-13T13:18:19.215-04:00the streameBrooke Kueihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759805591689499724noreply@blogger.comBlogger70125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308684764782817551.post-55928963312143986212020-09-08T21:32:00.003-04:002020-09-09T11:37:52.970-04:00The first revision<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAqIOrA707gy_xxJhIUx3C7LEN-vl_Ryhk-kYYtDdwvL9fmC-5_w53EvF6UUNrBYYfWeal1SVultTvzzG75qENdMD0wbBHhY1QNzBSgU9zg_jjC3kSmmDbvU7hy6j-CY2jBh8w2-kVAUy0/s2048/photo1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1364" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAqIOrA707gy_xxJhIUx3C7LEN-vl_Ryhk-kYYtDdwvL9fmC-5_w53EvF6UUNrBYYfWeal1SVultTvzzG75qENdMD0wbBHhY1QNzBSgU9zg_jjC3kSmmDbvU7hy6j-CY2jBh8w2-kVAUy0/s16000/photo1.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">I used to call myself a writer. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Writing was always my way of simultaneously getting
closer to and farther from my feelings—analyzing them in detail while placing
them outside of me onto a blank page. This blog, in particular, was my pride
and joy for years, the place where I wrote most freely. But as I swam into the
depths of grad school, I found myself drowning in research, heartbreak, low
self-esteem… <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">I stopped writing on paper, and started writing in my
mind—a self-narrative of worthlessness, a story of shame. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">After five long years, I officially graduated last month with
my PhD and will be starting a new job in November. When I should have been
celebrating, I sulked about how there was no big moment, no graduation
ceremony, no night out with friends in this pandemic world. Instead of
recognizing my achievements, I complained about how nothing felt different, how
I was still working long hours trying to wrap up my papers. I felt like I didn’t
even deserve the degree, and that the journey to get here was not one of
growth, but just a giant mess that I managed to barely scrape my way out of. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">After another day of moping last week, I went out for a
run around the neighborhood and took a turn that I don’t normally take. The
street looked familiar to me, and I suddenly realized that I was running past
the house where I used to get tipsy, where my classmates held parties, where
I laughed with all the giddiness of a first-year graduate student. Where I was
a different version of myself, a version that didn’t make it to today. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Sometimes I think back on that naïve girl, with all her optimism
and without all her tattoos, and I wish that I could go back. Back before she
realized that she wasn’t going to save the world with her research. Before the
imposter syndrome sunk in. Before she learned that some men don’t take no for
an answer. Before she started going to therapy. Before she buried herself in work, only to lose all interest
in it. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">But as I ran past that house, I realized that I had been living
in this story that I’d actually outgrown. A story where life
got the best of me, and I gave up. A story where I’m a victim, where I got lost
and couldn’t find my way out.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">The truth is, I <i>did</i> find my way out. I made it to
the other side. All this time, I had become so fixated on all the negative
aspects of these last few years that I didn’t even notice how much I’ve grown. I
longed for graduation photos and a big night out, as if I needed <i>proof</i>
that something had changed, when in reality, <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">the change has been happening for a long time. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">I’m not that innocent first-year anymore, and there are a
lot of memories that I wish I could undo from these years in between, but I
have climbed to the top of the mountain. I have been hiking the ridge for longer
than I realized, huffing and panting on an uphill that I had already passed,
and forgot to take a look at the view. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">I used to call myself a writer. Writing helped me
reflect, helped me better understand who I was, who I wanted to be, and how to
get there.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Maybe, with this post, it’s time to reclaim that identity.
It’s time to pick up the pen and rewrite the story that I have been telling
myself for far too long. I <i>am</i> smart. I <i>am</i> worthy. I <i>am</i>
confident. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">This is just the first revision.</p><p></p>Brooke Kueihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759805591689499724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308684764782817551.post-85649584549396897442018-04-29T23:06:00.004-04:002020-09-03T13:15:06.007-04:0025.txt<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnIi-kfviMZaqC7AoG7TG8VTxIxAWRzsmcvp5ar2ItHghDykQ3jKPHaky1peqng4ewbQt1NTLj2uFxzE_qziZ4oWcSD6kPGcjvR7K1bGmsKi30q93Ne6wL2rwSEdGnt-YY-Ii7JttgOSTy/s1600/DSC_0376.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnIi-kfviMZaqC7AoG7TG8VTxIxAWRzsmcvp5ar2ItHghDykQ3jKPHaky1peqng4ewbQt1NTLj2uFxzE_qziZ4oWcSD6kPGcjvR7K1bGmsKi30q93Ne6wL2rwSEdGnt-YY-Ii7JttgOSTy/s1600/DSC_0376.JPG" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
yesterday, i turned twenty-five. when i say twenty-five, i mean a quarter century. when i say a quarter century, i mean the quantity of time by which a person discovers how they intend to live their life, except that i am still figuring out what it means to live at all. i am not graceful. which is to say, i try too hard to be at ease. i once learned a word - kalokagathia - it means beauty and nobility of the soul, but my tongue feels clumsy when i try to say it and my soul feels clumsy when i try to be it. i like small places but large crowds make me claustrophobic. when i say claustrophobic, i mean sometimes i desperately want to be left alone, but once i am alone i am bombarded by the kind of thoughts that make being alone scary. do you feel like the world has robbed you? sometimes i feel trivial, which is to say, i thought my life would be more extraordinary by now. what i mean is, if i were a plant i would be a vine that stretches its neck out as far as it can but is never able to start over. when i was in ninth grade we dissected a sheep heart and i was awed by the intricacy of the cardiovascular system. i wish i was still in ninth grade because then i could tell miss thomas i don't care where the aorta and the superior vena cava are. which atrium feels heartbreak? which ventricle heals loss? maybe then i would not now be twenty-five with the heart of a sheep. one time i went to a ballet and i fell in love. when i say i fell in love, i mean i cried but no one saw me. when i say i cried, i mean i wanted to be the tiny dancer that you held close. beautiful and strong and effortless. i once had a friend who paid for his gas five dollars at a time. cash. we never had a destination but we never ended up in the wrong place. when i say destination, i mean life. when i say life, i mean time revises you. i mean sometimes i get to the bottom of a bottle and it becomes a lens that i see myself through. i mean everything is uglier up close, but tomorrow i will wake up a different person than i woke up today. i mean i overheard my seventy-six year old landlord reminding her daughter that we are always becoming who we are, every moment, not all at once, and i felt bad for eavesdropping on an intimate moment, but it is probably the best advice i've never gotten<br />
<br />
*written in response to the essay <a href="https://genius.com/Sabrina-benaim-first-date-annotated" target="_blank">first date</a> by Sabrina BenaimBrooke Kueihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759805591689499724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308684764782817551.post-15784008576310526502018-01-03T17:08:00.001-05:002020-09-02T22:19:24.235-04:002018<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9fu_uz2kKYXFfLk0jeOCtthNVrIhvdx8oVncftq6vMwuo28LibnXRM6Eqe9WzCLaKsrsDr0dQbuEyhlIDE72CycjoAOEJnI1F-dr-up315qYrEIbK8Czf3PUebLpTqUDLRpjdu2TrSQKG/s1600/26613849_10156482620390656_1578492284_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1130" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9fu_uz2kKYXFfLk0jeOCtthNVrIhvdx8oVncftq6vMwuo28LibnXRM6Eqe9WzCLaKsrsDr0dQbuEyhlIDE72CycjoAOEJnI1F-dr-up315qYrEIbK8Czf3PUebLpTqUDLRpjdu2TrSQKG/s1600/26613849_10156482620390656_1578492284_o.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
2017 simultaneously saw the best and worst iterations of
me.<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It saw me navigate through new and old cities alike – New
York City, Boston, New Orleans, Denver, San Diego, San Francisco. It saw me
feel brave<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It saw me make new friends and become even closer to old
friends. It saw me truly appreciate their love, care, warmth, laughter,
support, acceptance<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It saw me crumble into tears in the middle of an Au Bon
Pain while my brother handed me napkins and a stranger averted his gaze and my
mother sat by my father’s hospital bed four floors above us. It saw me afraid<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It saw me pass my comprehensive exam and receive two fellowships.
It saw me publish a paper. It saw me present my work at conferences and meet
the big names in my field<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
2017 saw me go on first dates, perhaps too many of them, stomach
in knots every time. It saw me learn to not reduce myself to my physical appearance. It saw
me search desperately for love, and then suddenly, to not want it at all<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It saw me realize that I didn’t need anyone, but that
this does not mean I never need anyone<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It saw me learn to put myself first, to learn that doing so
does not make me unkind. It saw me find out that not everyone can be trusted.
It saw me look at the world more sadly but less naively<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It saw me grow up<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It saw me keep secrets, and to feel lonely with these
secrets<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It saw me call my brother crying in broad daylight. It
saw me find out the hard way that sometimes shitty things happen that no one
could have predicted and no one can be blamed. It saw me accept. It saw me move
on<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
2017 leaves me with a heavy heart, but a resilient one. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The only way out is through, and we made it through
another year. Let’s go, 2018.</div>
Brooke Kueihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759805591689499724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308684764782817551.post-61258803327606558302017-08-24T21:15:00.002-04:002020-09-02T22:20:16.364-04:00A guide to navigating your loneliness<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPsp7LjErx0l5r98Pv3yy7WhFNML_ZC2RK8DuG_zviKUZrgEizdjsLSGbopfIhP4Tb-pFzPmL6bDqu_ZIur6msV_kCFMvbH7tChhUgOpQI2sygVcje9PtTmlmJSGkXDHShZRSrtHVLU6ir/s1600/sf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1334" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPsp7LjErx0l5r98Pv3yy7WhFNML_ZC2RK8DuG_zviKUZrgEizdjsLSGbopfIhP4Tb-pFzPmL6bDqu_ZIur6msV_kCFMvbH7tChhUgOpQI2sygVcje9PtTmlmJSGkXDHShZRSrtHVLU6ir/s1600/sf.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1. At first, it will be difficult. The bed will look so warm
and so safe. There will be emails to respond to and dishes to wash, but you
will curl up in one corner of your mattress and make yourself as small as you can.
The walls of your room will tremble as if they are trying to decide if it is
safer for you to keep the world outside, or safer for the<i> world</i> to keep you<i> inside</i>.
You will feel disinterested in most things. You will just want to go to sleep,
and that is okay – go to sleep.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2. Some days, it will come easy. On those days you will cook
with just your underwear on with music blasting from the speakers. <i>Ooh woo, I’m a rebel just for kicks, </i>you
sing with a dramatic wave of your spatula. <i>Your
love is an abyss for my heart to eclipse</i>, you croon to your refrigerator. You
will arrange your dinner on your plate as if you are a restaurant cook, even if
no one will see it but yourself. You will even open a new bottle of wine, and
by the third glass you will feel immensely pleased with how your sophisticated
night has turned out. As you should. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3. Other days, the lights in your apartment will remain off until dinner time has already passed. Alone, in the darkness, just <i>shhh</i> forgive yourself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4. You will feel vulnerable on a Tuesday night at 8:21pm and
find yourself swiping through endless profiles on a dating app. This will be
exhilarating, at first, and you will even hang out with The Musician and The
Undergrad and The Golfer (who was not very good at golf). You will be excited
before every first date, disappointed after every first date, and rarely go on
a second date. This will make you feel as if loveisimpossibleandunattainable and
you will frantically download new dating apps, until you realize how much they
have brought out the worst in you. Please do not feel horrified at yourself.
Please understand that we are all caught in between being too afraid to commit,
but too lonely to stay alone, and that this conflict inside our little human
hearts can make us unrecognizable to ourselves. You will find yourself again –
just remember that you cannot find yourself in other people. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
5. You will feel restless. You will feel like you need to
get <i>out</i>, even if you do not know what
you are getting out of. Your work will offer you the opportunity to go to
conferences in places like New Orleans and San Diego and you will seize these
chances as if they are your lifeline. You will love every moment of it, from
the lectures and the networking to the jazz clubs and the beaches. You will
meet people with fresh ideas and accents you’ve never heard before. You will
feel more alive and more inspired than you have in a long time. <i>Remember this feeling.</i> When you are
unhappy with your life and your small corner of the world, <i>remember</i> that there is a whole universe for you to discover.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6. Every once in a while, you will be overcome by the desire
to cry – but of course, you never actually do. Stop acting like youdon’tgivea<i>fuck</i>. Try to be okay with being <i>not okay</i>, for once. Be soft…be
vulnerable... show your weakness to the world. It will only make you more a
part of it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
7. You will flip yourself inside out, dump out your contents,
and wait to see who might fill it again. You will feel like your worth can only
come from external things like a text from a certain someone or praise from
your boss. You will know that this insecurity is senseless, but for some reason
you will not know how to give <i>yourself</i>
worth. Take a look at your life. Zoom out as far back as you can and look at
how much you have changed. It is easy to overlook your own progress when you
have been with yourself all along, but look back far enough and you will see
that you have grown much, much more than you are giving yourself credit for. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
8. You will hang out with your best friends one weekend.
It’s been a while since you’ve had the time to all get together, and you will
realize how much they mean to you. You will realize how much you care about
them, and how much they care about you, and this will make you feel so thankful
that you think you might burst. Don’t <i>ever</i>
take these people for granted. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
9. You will be getting ready for work one morning when you
suddenly remember you had been meaning to delete those dating apps. You will
pull out your phone, rid them of the apps forever, and go out the front door.
As you walk to your office, you will marvel at how light-hearted you feel. It
is a relief not to <i>look</i> for love
anymore. <i>You will wait patiently for it
to arrive.</i> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
10. You will stop comparing yourself to other people. You
will learn that everyone has their highs and their lows, and that even the
happy people on your social media feeds have their insecurities and fears. You
will realize that the people you look up to have felt loneliness too. This
whole time, you thought you had no one to turn to – when in fact, it was you who
would not turn to anyone. Embrace that you are just as human as everyone else. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
11. You will inevitably have a relapse, and drink whiskey
and write dark poetry and spam your older brother with a series of deplorable
text messages. He will tell you to call him, and listen to your tales of woe
until even you are tired of listening to yourself, and you will realize that
you are never actually alone because you always, always have family. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
12. Most days, you will be calm. Your apartment will still
feel too quiet sometimes, but you will be in less of a hurry to fill up the
silence. The walls will not tremble anymore. You will curl up in a corner of
your mattress and tug your fleece blanket up to your chin. You will toss and
turn a little bit, and you might even wish there was someone there with you. A
shoulder to rest your head against. Soft breathing in sync with your own. You
will close your eyes and drift off into a gentle sleep, alone. Dream that you are free…because
you are.</div>
Brooke Kueihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759805591689499724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308684764782817551.post-34084340517546693312017-04-25T18:32:00.004-04:002020-09-02T22:20:26.076-04:00Be my escape<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs4VCl6oLrRnaM-kU5r_Q5AiQ0CwcWWnzIGEERAFCIHh-2IBXkW9fQvUB-ZZLKjdHYUZsIsyfm2xwnDbTPsSIb5hkfnM-oVbXNekAdgZgFAvK9Bo8vhfIjojvvh2szW8iI5iHjn613iQRY/s1600/18119814_10155743463180656_290659377_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs4VCl6oLrRnaM-kU5r_Q5AiQ0CwcWWnzIGEERAFCIHh-2IBXkW9fQvUB-ZZLKjdHYUZsIsyfm2xwnDbTPsSIb5hkfnM-oVbXNekAdgZgFAvK9Bo8vhfIjojvvh2szW8iI5iHjn613iQRY/s1600/18119814_10155743463180656_290659377_o.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I’ve been having trouble focusing lately. I keep feeling
overcome by this urge to do something exciting, meet someone new, go somewhere far
away. It’s the kind of restlessness that keeps me up at ungodly hours of the
night, my body exhausted and surrendered to my covers, but my mind flickering with
little flame-thoughts that lick their way around my sanity, spitting and
burning and sparking…</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The flame-thoughts scurry away when the sun comes up – as
if humbled by its superior glow – but the restlessness remains. It is difficult
to satiate a feeling when its origin is unknown, but some things can curb the
worst of it: a busy day in the lab, a blurry night drowned in liquor, a new
tattoo. But late nights at work have ceased to be productive. And the louder
the bar, the lonelier the quiet walk home. The tattoo, though permanent, gave
the most ephemeral satisfaction of all. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Sometimes the inside of me feels like it is aggressively unraveling
– not falling apart, but rather, untangling into different versions of me that
are trying to coexist within the same small body.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It does not feel safe walking around as if I will
detonate at any second. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I crave the exhilaration of detonating every second. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The restlessness makes me look everywhere, searching
wildly for something that will make it go away. Worst of all, the restlessness makes
me look into myself, and I don’t like what I see. I see someone who uses other
people to feel whole again, yet rejects anyone who gets too close. I see
someone who loves the feeling of falling for someone new, but bristles at the
idea of any sort of real commitment. I see someone who uses novelty as a tether
to sanity, chasing new people and new interests, right up until the moment they
are not new anymore. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The restlessness is all-consuming. It makes every day
feel like an endless climb where the higher I go, the farther the sky seems.
The more I want, the more I get, and the more I get bored. As each day ends, I crawl
into bed with this immense feeling of chronic dissatisfaction. The
flame-thoughts come back, and sometimes they are hurtful. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>You are scared to
be alone because it is easier to make other people like you than to make you
like you</i>, they tell me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>You take everything
and everyone for granted. Why do you want more when you already have it all? </i>they
ask me. I don’t respond.<i> </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I try to close my eyes, as if the shutting of my eyelids
will seal these flame-thoughts inside my head, denying them of oxygen, but they
continue to spit and burn and spark and spit and burn…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And the truth is, I don’t think I’m ready to extinguish
them just yet. As much as I hate the restlessness, I am more afraid of the
stillness. Somehow…that would feel too much like settling. Giving in. Being
tamed.<br />
<br />
As much as I hate the restlessness, it sometimes feels
like freedom.</div>
Brooke Kueihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759805591689499724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308684764782817551.post-48318889480896380712017-01-27T17:46:00.002-05:002020-09-02T23:14:00.131-04:005/7/5<div style="text-align: center;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifxyJYfqh_bHSqJ8PN9duWFpToJnMXYr1EGnQUe4ON0Oe4X3FfmmytjNiSjjoj44S6zD4TKNCHaCQiW6RLb5SHuG9Sh5y1qbi2ofzzUvlO-U0naVh2VFG1NpzmbjZ4EL3Q3VLcacKUbrj2/s1600/16395757_10155481364700656_1164243891_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifxyJYfqh_bHSqJ8PN9duWFpToJnMXYr1EGnQUe4ON0Oe4X3FfmmytjNiSjjoj44S6zD4TKNCHaCQiW6RLb5SHuG9Sh5y1qbi2ofzzUvlO-U0naVh2VFG1NpzmbjZ4EL3Q3VLcacKUbrj2/s1600/16395757_10155481364700656_1164243891_n.jpg" /></a></div>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><i>Sunday</i></i></div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
I hate feeling like</div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
I'm supposed to impress you.</div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
Should it be this hard?</div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Monday</i></div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
This type of sadness</div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
is so heavy that it will</div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
immobilize you</div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Tuesday</i></div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
I'm not gonna lie</div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
It's nice to have someone here</div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
Even just to talk</div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Wednesday</i></div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
I wanted to help.</div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
(I forgot your happiness</div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
wasn't mine to fix.)</div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Thursday</i></div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
Empty promises:</div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
I'm getting quite good at those.</div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
Someone make me stop.</div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Friday</i></div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
Sometimes, in the dark</div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
I hate myself for thinking,</div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
"I wish you were here."</div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Saturday</i></div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
At least once a day</div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
I wonder if they can tell</div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
I'm breaking inside</div>
</div>
</div>
Brooke Kueihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759805591689499724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308684764782817551.post-84685419561011881432016-11-14T11:16:00.001-05:002020-09-02T22:20:56.016-04:00On being independent (reprise)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNdKMvcyeYePYj6D5WsIxPIlDp2HRJV-sYx3UiI0sNHudDK1iuioaYE9Twlm99toF8PUWyFsktHpHGXyc3NM7tqB2rpCz6caW-FliFCTYRz2IiSKvh4nAVFNgswCJheadzb5S5UVywCXbf/s1600/15060458_10155246546580656_23515614_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNdKMvcyeYePYj6D5WsIxPIlDp2HRJV-sYx3UiI0sNHudDK1iuioaYE9Twlm99toF8PUWyFsktHpHGXyc3NM7tqB2rpCz6caW-FliFCTYRz2IiSKvh4nAVFNgswCJheadzb5S5UVywCXbf/s1600/15060458_10155246546580656_23515614_o.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I’ve a spent a lot of this past year chasing after
independence. Obsessing over it, even. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
For some reason, independence felt like a thing to claim,
the next necessary step to my <i>growing up</i>.
To my <i>becoming</i>. Fresh out of college,
I was ready to soar – as if I had been waiting my whole life to finally be set
free into the world. I felt a need to prove my competence, to show my strength,
and most importantly,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
to do this all alone. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It was nice – for a while. I relished in having a living
space all to myself, decorated to my very eclectic taste and, of course, full
of all things wolf-related. I liked waking up every day, writing down my to-do
list in impeccable handwriting in possibly the most OCD journal you’ll ever
see, and feeling certain that each task would be dutifully checked off by the
day’s end. I liked feeling comfortable showing up to social events by myself,
making new friends, and going home as late or as early as I pleased. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
In fact, it was the happiest I had been in quite a while.
For the first time, I felt like I knew what kind of a future I wanted for
myself, and even more – that this future was within grasp. Life fell into a
structured routine, each day beginning with optimism and ending with satisfaction.
I was self-dependent. Self-sufficient. I was <i>enough, </i>and simple as that sounds, it is a wonderfully powerful
thing to feel. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
As summer turned to fall, the air became crisp in the
kind of way that is usually accompanied with a sense of freshness and change –
a big change, it turns out. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
When the new semester began, I found myself facing a
daunting workload, a slump in my research, and – perhaps the most frightening
part of all – single for the first time in my adult life. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
My survival tactic was to work hard, play hard. My
weekdays became a whirlwind of non-stop studying while my weekends were packed
with social activities. Late nights in the office became a norm – as did late
nights out at bars. I (don’t) remember celebrating my friend’s birthday until 4am,
miraculously waking up hangover-free less than five hours later, and heading
straight to the lab. I even tried<i> forcing</i>
myself to relax one night by trying a face mask for the first time, and instead
spent the twenty minutes of “relaxation” reading about the chemistry of how the
tannins in my face mask were reducing my pores.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Sometimes friends would ask me how I was doing, and I
would look at them almost incredulously, as if the mere suggestion that I might
<i>not</i> be okay was an insult to my
fortitude.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Back in my cross country days, I remember my coach
telling us that even if we were tired, it was always better to keep running than
to stop and walk, even if you had to slow your pace, because walking would decrease
your heart rate too much and make it even more difficult to pick up and run again.
This is what the semester felt like: a long race in which I could not stop, for
fear that any break would mean that I might not finish the race at all. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
This lifestyle, however, was not sustainable. After
another busy week, I found myself unexpectedly without work and without plans
one weekend. As midnight creeped around on a Saturday night, I suddenly felt a
craving for ice cream. And then all at once, I wished not only for strawberry ice
cream with rainbow sprinkles, but for someone who would sprint down the block
with me, laughing all the way, to snatch a tub of Ben and Jerry’s right before
McLanahan’s closes. I wished for someone to devour it with me while watching <i>Star Wars</i> in bed. I wished for someone
to rant with me about how awful <i>The
Phantom Menace </i>is while still watching the whole thing and not making fun
of me while I cry at the scene when Anakin has to say goodbye to his mother. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And as much as I hated to admit it, I realized that I
felt…lonely. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And worse, that admitting it was uncomfortable. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I find myself now entangled in a strange web of feelings.
Some days I concede to the vulnerability. <i>You
are only human</i>, I tell myself. <i>It is
okay to feel like something is missing. It is okay to want to love, and to want
to be loved. It’s okay to need someone else, sometimes. </i>I sit at my kitchen
table and sip coffee. I read in silence, and it feels nice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Other days it makes me angry. <i>Get it together</i>, I say to the mirror. <i>Loneliness is for the weak, and you are not weak. </i>I pick up my
phone. I put it down again. I sit at my kitchen table and sip whiskey. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
In the end, I know that I need to find a balance between
the two.<b> This whole time, I thought that being independent meant being alone,</b> but
real independence means knowing yourself well enough to admit when you <i>don’t</i> want to be alone. Real
independence means giving yourself enough credit to realize that needing other
people doesn’t mean you are any less without them. As it turns out, independence
was never mine to claim, but all of ours to share. You and you and you and I,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
we can be independent,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
together.<o:p></o:p></div>
Brooke Kueihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759805591689499724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308684764782817551.post-14477274970377171662016-09-18T17:54:00.001-04:002020-09-02T22:22:33.183-04:00A Poem to My Future Lover<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBWn-qGzwchikr8vki9XOOF95KlrSFVHESGUK2Wdlpae6KSB_wdZNdWSRA2E8fZlCQ0YskQwufb_siJSIuWXbwMAs_YTQUcS1J9uYfGHxYgaNsv6lltYNjuc14wXYmcq9dA2FG49AgPNHK/s1600/14407827_10155079920420656_1514593049_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBWn-qGzwchikr8vki9XOOF95KlrSFVHESGUK2Wdlpae6KSB_wdZNdWSRA2E8fZlCQ0YskQwufb_siJSIuWXbwMAs_YTQUcS1J9uYfGHxYgaNsv6lltYNjuc14wXYmcq9dA2FG49AgPNHK/s1600/14407827_10155079920420656_1514593049_o.jpg" /></a></div>
Let’s just get this out there:<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I’m no good<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
at being one half of a whole<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I will either be consumed by you<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
or I will not give you any part of me at all <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
(and neither has worked out for me so far)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I am fairly certain there’s an organ<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
in the vicinity of my chest<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
pumping blood through an aorta or something <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It beats,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
but it’s all Morse code to me<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I have never understood what it’s trying to say<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
So I am sorry in advance<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
if falling in love with me<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
just feels like falling<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Don’t say I didn’t warn you<o:p></o:p></div>
Brooke Kueihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759805591689499724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308684764782817551.post-6362964073162058482016-09-04T17:54:00.004-04:002020-09-02T22:22:42.226-04:00On being good enough<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkExzUmQ-aEBnQJJVzPwXozeOfK-CDREFvRkCpwFgG-XdOcG9mT09lRGVB9_T2xmH0dYB9JB3KsAGSYj_DuahxAi6dvzjRN3g-PCef5CjVpbi7-of-YSGmaKmJt1XKX4m0xG5Vtb6NJ7JM/s1600/14215661_10155040518995656_1705316226_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkExzUmQ-aEBnQJJVzPwXozeOfK-CDREFvRkCpwFgG-XdOcG9mT09lRGVB9_T2xmH0dYB9JB3KsAGSYj_DuahxAi6dvzjRN3g-PCef5CjVpbi7-of-YSGmaKmJt1XKX4m0xG5Vtb6NJ7JM/s1600/14215661_10155040518995656_1705316226_o.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Candidacy. This word has given me butterflies in my stomach
since I started grad school. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like most PhD programs, the Penn State materials science and
engineering program requires students to take a candidacy exam at the end of
their first year. This exam consists of a written paper and oral presentation
that is meant to test your ability to problem solve and think creatively.
Personally, I don’t think that writing a proposal on a subject outside your own
area of research and defending it in front of a committee of professors who can ask you any materials science question they please as you flounder in front
of an empty whiteboard (can you tell that I’m bitter?) is the best way to
decide whether or not someone is “fit” to stay in the graduate program, but
alas, that’s how it works. You fail twice, you’re out. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
---<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last month, I had the pleasure of experiencing this fine
tradition of emotional torture. All the older grad students who I talked to
told me that candidacy was going to be the most miserable few weeks of my life—but
they were wrong. For four weeks, <i>I could
think about</i> <i>nothing but</i> <i>perovskite solar cells.</i> I spent my days
reading papers about the moisture degradation of perovskites and spent my
nights waking up to dreams about crystal chemistry. But it wasn’t these long
hours poring over research papers that was miserable. It wasn’t the sleep
deprivation or the paper writing or the practice talks that got me down. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No, the worst part of candidacy is not candidacy itself but
waiting for the results after you’re all done.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t think I’ve ever doubted my own intelligence as
much as I did after candidacy. For the four weeks leading up to the oral
presentation, I went home every day feeling tired, but determined. After my
presentation, on the other hand, I went home and promptly melted into a puddle
of blubbering and tears and heartbreak. The questions that my committee had
asked me during the exam kept circling round and round in my head. I kept playing
everything back, cringing at the stupid responses I gave. Why couldn’t I describe
the synthesis of my proposed organic cation? Why couldn’t I think of better
ways to purify a compound? Why couldn’t I give a better explanation of the
Flory-Huggins interaction parameter? There was a moment during my exam when I
was in the middle of giving an answer that I <i>thought </i>was reasonable, only to be interrupted by:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wrong!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, I thought that—”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wrong! Come on, you’re making physicists look bad!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember freezing for a second when the professor said
this—not because it was a rude comment, but because I was afraid that he was
right. For the next few days as I waited for candidacy results, this line kept
echoing in my head. <i>You’re making
physicists look bad!</i> I honestly felt ashamed of myself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
---<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As it turns out, I passed candidacy, but I still can’t help
feeling that in some ways…I failed. I let candidacy get the best of me. I let a
one hour and forty-five minute oral exam convince me that any academic success
I’ve had in the last few years must have happened by luck. I let a professor’s
small comment make me question whether I deserved my physics degree. I let
candidacy make me feel like…I just wasn’t good enough. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of these days, I hope I can look back on this experience
and chuckle about how sensitive I was being, how easily I lost my confidence. I
hope I’ll have become a tougher person. In the last few years, I think I’ve
gotten better at the getting back up part, but my next goal is to work on not
getting knocked down in the first place.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Watch out, world. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
You’ve got a fighter in your midst.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Brooke Kueihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759805591689499724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308684764782817551.post-71692583196399803012016-07-03T13:50:00.005-04:002020-09-02T22:22:53.997-04:00Snapshots<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ZmnSs9kUURX3qkMYNIFkS4_ANNaS5_WeyqYVmjvNT4BTHqRBNoi2vbBypP9u2a3TY0EeaE6KrC-eM1M68FJSv1sZ9jtXEZETxBdFKgql2IxArwkqZqGb1NPwac6qEbhElZxuZD3ILOnf/s1600/SF+blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ZmnSs9kUURX3qkMYNIFkS4_ANNaS5_WeyqYVmjvNT4BTHqRBNoi2vbBypP9u2a3TY0EeaE6KrC-eM1M68FJSv1sZ9jtXEZETxBdFKgql2IxArwkqZqGb1NPwac6qEbhElZxuZD3ILOnf/s1600/SF+blog.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Wine and cheese at Dolores Park. Feeling free with a
bottle in my hand and rebellion in my heart. Cool grass against my legs. The
remnants of a wild night—scattered trash and cigarette butts—making white
specks in the distance. I am only witnessing the aftermath, but feel almost
like I was a part of it. Palm trees surround me. <i>Real palm trees!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Brunch in San Francisco. A bright omelet and bright
optimism. Teasing old friends and making new ones. Sparkly temporary tattoos. Photos
with complete strangers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Conversations with the staff scientist. Confusion slowly
ebbing away to clarity, which quickly plummets into frustration. Eyes glued to
two computer monitors showing me what I don’t want to see. A slow walk back to
the hotel. <i>But I’ve got a plan for
tomorrow.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
A used book store. Infinite shelves of treasure. Claiming
a corner and sharing it with Keats, Dickinson, T.S. Eliot. A title: <i>Savage Beauty.</i> I am inexplicably drawn
to it. A glance from a stranger, and the thought—<i>here is where lovers meet. Here is where two minds understand each
other and two hearts need each other.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Sitting in the same tiny room for too many hours to
count. Coming to the realization: <i>this is
all my fault. I should have been better prepared.</i> Tears threatening to
escape my eyes. Trying the experiment one more time and being disappointed one
more time. Polite conversations with the staff. Back in the hotel room, on the
phone, crying.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Taking the BART at night. I’m on edge—afraid I’ll get
lost—but I’m distracted by dancers on the train, swinging off handle bars,
making moves in mid-air. The bar I finally arrive at is the fanciest one I’ve
ever been to. Dim lights, candles, typewriters, newspaper clippings. Whiskey
and friends. I’m happy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Struggling to use a new microscope. Even the most basic
of tasks are suddenly ten-fold more difficult. Finally acquiring some
interesting images—very, very slowly. Asking the staff scientist a billion and
one questions because, really, I’ve no shame left. At least I’m learning.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
A European books and media store. Guessing the names of
foreign titles. Reading Calvin and Hobbes—in French (or trying to). I’m kind of
proud of myself because <i>pude leer algunos
de los libros espanoles. </i>Well at least, <i>un
poco.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Breakfast at the guest house. Everyone is talking too
loudly. I am normally smitten with anyone with an accent, but this time I glare
silently at the offenders of my morning. The only thing I’m not mad at is my
coffee. Although I am aggressively ambivalent about that, too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Walking around downtown. There are more homeless people
than I’m used to, and I’m not sure whether it is more rude to make eye contact,
or avoid it. Someone asks me for my leftovers—<i>he </i>doesn’t look homeless, though. “Sorry,” I mumble. “No need to
apologize, hun,” he sneers. His friends laugh. I cross the street self
consciously.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
My last day on the second microscope. Time is running
out. Lunch is skipped. Liquid nitrogen sputters out and the vacuum is dumped.
An impatient half hour of waiting. Relief when the vacuum is back, exasperation
when a new problem arises. 6pm rolls around the staff scientist is leaving. My
week is up. Defeated.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The hipster streets of Temescal. Apothecaries and ice
cream shops and thrift stores. Of course I buy another journal—I’m accumulating
them faster than I can fill them—but the atmosphere, the wonder makes me feel
like I <i>need</i> to write. There’s
something I love in every direction I turn. I am <i>charmed.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
The middle of the night. The seatbelt sign is on. Crammed
between an angry-looking woman and a man who looks uncomfortable when I sneeze.
Incessant kicking from behind me. At first I don’t mind, but then the angry
woman complains, and her annoyance is contagious. Pulling my legs up, curling
into a ball. Closing my eyes very tightly.<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Brooke Kueihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759805591689499724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308684764782817551.post-17418751738156336652016-05-16T10:26:00.003-04:002020-09-03T13:15:33.469-04:00Young and wild and free<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvKdGIT-4NLomO0T8sVjggWDBwiWFBL62jGORyYb2LSc3StB1ckjaSq0YW1QITU0q9nBVb0tuo47WQBxP8Rwh_QLhi4-jUmrCImZUTEHl1YVQqu4TAIkLh19fCDN9f4aZxS3D0QkjwRfxY/s1600/wild.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvKdGIT-4NLomO0T8sVjggWDBwiWFBL62jGORyYb2LSc3StB1ckjaSq0YW1QITU0q9nBVb0tuo47WQBxP8Rwh_QLhi4-jUmrCImZUTEHl1YVQqu4TAIkLh19fCDN9f4aZxS3D0QkjwRfxY/s1600/wild.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
You reach for the whiskey because you long to feel that
burning near your heart — to feel your rib cage go up in flames, setting you
free at last. You long to toss your head, give the world the finger, and
disappear in one grand gesture of rebellion. You want reckless, you want
passionate. You want wild.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
You wonder if your soul ran away long ago, because it
feels like you’ve been chasing it for a while now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
You want to light up like a city at night, with neon
signs one after the other, flashing, the sound of laughter and clinking drinks
against footsteps and car horns. You want to love like a storm that electrifies
the skies — and kiss like the rain, lightly, then all at once. You want to live
like the stars, burning until your last breath, then say farewell to the
universe with a glorious supernova. You want you want you want <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
But there you sit, burning like a candle — quietly,
softly, melting under your own flame.<o:p></o:p></div>
Brooke Kueihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759805591689499724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308684764782817551.post-15595084931778512142016-03-12T22:35:00.003-05:002020-09-02T22:23:19.273-04:00Taking it easy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_ZKKU1LULleVkptc7jBfrl2KG_8MdLULCy43Nenv0kteRT7k-9_shRfbN3bE00wfLqk6YZ9vlnl2GK0HU6UcO4MMNCbQyVRBE5VDJ37Q4073t5_OJGHVzpmFSZ4YkzZrcX8jj3MxzOwKP/s1600/floppy_blog.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_ZKKU1LULleVkptc7jBfrl2KG_8MdLULCy43Nenv0kteRT7k-9_shRfbN3bE00wfLqk6YZ9vlnl2GK0HU6UcO4MMNCbQyVRBE5VDJ37Q4073t5_OJGHVzpmFSZ4YkzZrcX8jj3MxzOwKP/s1600/floppy_blog.JPG" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I’m the kind of person who loves to keep an impeccably
organized calendar—and loves that calendar to be packed. I like adding things
to my “to do” list just as much as I like checking things off. I get restless
when I’m not busy. I like living life at full throttle, moving from one day to
the next, never wasting time. I <i>hate</i>
wasting time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
But sometimes when you’re moving so fast, you lose your
breath. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
After a busy week with two midterms, two problem sets,
and three sessions on the transmission electron microscope, I went home last
Friday with plans to go out and see the new Tina Fey movie with some friends,
but ended up passing out with all the lights still on and waking up in a
sweat-drenched fever with a raging headache, coughing my lungs out. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Come Monday morning, when the same symptoms persisted, I
decided a visit to the doctor might be wise. When he said I had bronchitis and
pneumonia and that I should go home...well, I should have gone home. Slept it off. But
me being the stubborn person (and workaholic) that I am, I decided I’d go about
doing everything I was scheduled to do that week.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And I did. I went to my cleanroom safety training, I went
to lithography training, went to my meetings, and everything was going fine
until I got a call from Kathy, a peppy employee from my realtor. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“Hi there! This is Kathy calling from your realtor! Am I
speaking to Brooke?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“Yes, this is—this is—” I croaked. My voice sounded like
a dying frog by this point.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“Hello? Am I speaking to Brooke right now?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“Sorry—” I tried again. “Yes, yes this is Brooke,” I
managed before an exploding coughing episode. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“Hi there!” A confused pause. “Are you…okay?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And that was it. Out of nowhere, tears started streaming
down my face. Because, <i>No Kathy, I’m not
okay! I feel more sick than I’ve been in years, I’ve got a review article that
I need to finish in two weeks that I barely understand, none of my data makes
sense, I'm having a hard time breathing and those cleanroom suits don't make it any easier, and there are just so many things that need to be done that I just—physically—can’t—do.
<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
In the next minute, I went from feeling utter despair at
what felt like my inability to do anything useful at all, to relief at the
prospect of letting myself just forget all the work and wallow in self-pity, to
anger at myself for giving up so easily. <i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
In hind-sight, it was silly. I shouldn’t take myself so
seriously. I was sick, and upset that I couldn’t get my work done. Big deal,
Brooke. The world isn’t going to end if you take a break for a couple of days. But
I don’t know, I just can’t shake that feeling. Of always needing to be moving
forward. Always doing something. Always achieving. Do you ever feel like that?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
But I’m reminded of this little quote from <i>The Book of
Brave</i>, written by one of my favorite bloggers <a href="http://www.superlativelyrude.com/" target="_blank">Laura Williams</a>: <b>“Progress isn’t always a forward force.”<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I know it seems simple, but it’s so easy to forget. You
don’t always need to be moving forward. You don’t need to be running full speed
ahead each and every day—in fact, you’re never going to make it to the finish
line that way. It’s okay to give yourself a day off if you need it. Don’t be a
slacker, but also don’t become so obsessed with progress that you forget to
take a break.<br />
<br />
"Progress isn't always a forward force."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
So this is just a friendly reminder from your resident
workaholic: pace yourself. Take it easy. Don’t move so fast that you leave yourself behind, alright?<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Brooke Kueihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759805591689499724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308684764782817551.post-194051004673238912016-01-29T10:53:00.001-05:002020-09-02T22:23:27.291-04:00The theory of everything, and more<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrcUvWs1PixMJyU97T0Ca8jkKxR8T_oMm5wMFH9dTFbJl2gCAK5JJmRIZizJC578a9-J01SmqqF3SS9QJrbL0iKMypuPey7ivTKxIS5i_O0BvrOvLwGU7MrG8chr04wlYr2vAJ-1EQlHzQ/s1600/IMG_7345.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrcUvWs1PixMJyU97T0Ca8jkKxR8T_oMm5wMFH9dTFbJl2gCAK5JJmRIZizJC578a9-J01SmqqF3SS9QJrbL0iKMypuPey7ivTKxIS5i_O0BvrOvLwGU7MrG8chr04wlYr2vAJ-1EQlHzQ/s1600/IMG_7345.JPG" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I have felt a hunger lately. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I have felt an insatiable desire to wrap my arms around
the entire world and understand its every nook and cranny. I want to cradle the
globe in my arms, whisper my secrets to her, and wait for her confessions to be
whispered back to me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I still remember back in high school when I resolutely
decided I was going to study physics in college. I can still remember what I
wrote in my application essays — <i>physics
is the science that underlies the entire universe. Physics can explain <u>everything</u></i>.
Ironically, five years later, there is still no agreed upon “theory of
everything” in the physics community, but I think a part of me thought I was going to single-handedly figure it all out back then.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
As it turns out, graduating with a degree in physics did
not lead me to uncovering the secrets of our universe. The real secret, I
sometimes fear, is that I really wasn’t much of a physicist, anyways…. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
That being said, I have not given up on my passion for
finding answers. What <i>has</i> changed is
the realization that if I really want to understand the world, I cannot just do
it through science. And I realize that as a first year engineering PhD student,
I have five long years of science ahead of me, but what I mean is that you
wouldn’t try to understand love by only studying how adrenaline and dopamine
work. You would <i>fall</i> in love — and
feel every part of it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I remember going to a poetry reading back at Carnegie
Mellon a few years back. During the Q&A session, someone asked the poet why
he decided to become a writer. “Because I resisted specialization,” he said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
He kept switching majors because he was passionate about
so many different things that he couldn’t pick just one. In the end, he realized
that poetry was the one thing that let him combine all his interests,
synthesize different concepts through his own interpretation. I remember
frantically pulling out my notebook to scribble down his quote so that I wouldn’t
forget it, but I guess I let it slip my mind — until now. <i> <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
There’s a Barnes and Noble in the student center at Penn
State, and earlier this week on a particularly long day, I decided to stop by
to pick up a coffee. My friend had told me that it’s better to get coffee at
the in-store Starbucks at Barnes and Noble than go to the real Starbucks
because the line is much shorter — but instead of saving time, I found myself
weaving through the bookshelves for an hour after getting my coffee (my friend
was right though, there really was no line! Pro tip.) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I couldn’t help myself. It had been a while since my last
bookstore excursion, and I found myself wanting every book that I laid my eyes
on. I wanted Mary’s Karr’s memoir, last month’s <i>New Yorker</i>, a collection of 2015’s best magazine pieces, a
cookbook, Amy Poehler’s <i>Yes Please</i>, a
European history book, and a Star Wars encyclopedia. As I darted from shelf to
shelf, enthused by fresh caffeine, I realized that <i>I resisted specialization, too.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The research group that I work in places a large emphasis
on developing cheaper, more efficient materials for solar cells. But I don’t
just want to sit in my lab learning everything there is to know about poly(3-hexylthiophene-2,5-diyl) — I want to pick
up that <i>New Yorker</i> and read Elizabeth
Kolbert’s story about climate change and Florida’s disappearing coast and
understand why we actually <i>need</i>
better solar cells. I don’t just want to watch the 2016 presidential debates — I
want to refresh my memory on all of American history, way back to the Mayflower.
I don’t want to be immersed in my own world, my own life, and my own
experiences — I want to read the biographies and memoirs of my many idols and
learn through their experiences, too. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I want to see
the big picture. I want to connect it all together. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I feel like I’ve
grown up backwards, that I am feeling that child-like wonder again, and that
the world has all at once become an endless place of infinite new things to
learn. I am determined not only to appreciate every shape in its kaleidoscope,
but to find beauty in their combined pattern.<br />
<br />
To be honest, I
think string theory confuses me more than it helps me understand the universe.
But in my own little way…I’m already creating a “theory of everything.” And I
think I like this version better. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Brooke Kueihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759805591689499724noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308684764782817551.post-3685295978729640552015-12-20T23:24:00.001-05:002020-09-02T22:23:33.831-04:00A few thoughts on surviving my first semester of grad school<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_UCOu09Ud4kIC_LbWG5Hl2gj6DytF5ZM3BdwQkt9QuEpoDY2vZXnwuPITom1yG06AO4wlTS162LOIbZWChY6ay6blBgDcacExlfJEh4FQa4oOscYqo9ZRVFVgIgTwdBj2twt1FE-irWNa/s1600/blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_UCOu09Ud4kIC_LbWG5Hl2gj6DytF5ZM3BdwQkt9QuEpoDY2vZXnwuPITom1yG06AO4wlTS162LOIbZWChY6ay6blBgDcacExlfJEh4FQa4oOscYqo9ZRVFVgIgTwdBj2twt1FE-irWNa/s1600/blog.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I was scared to come here, honestly. Moving to a new
town, switching majors, being in a long distance relationship – this all
sounded terrifying to me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Fortunately, the last few months have been nothing short
of wonderful. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I made new, amazing friends. My empty apartment became a
cozy home. My days settled into a happy routine – and always began with a
lazily made latte. I tried cooking new things. I went out to bars and danced to
live music. I found time to actually read. I learned so much in my classes (and
also learned how to swing dance). I worked out, went to yoga classes, and was
even convinced into trying Zumba. I got a haircut. I flew across the country to
work at a national lab. I wrote my first song. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And throughout the course of all these things, I started
to feel a little different. A little brighter. But I couldn’t quite put my
finger on why that was so until I stumbled across a poetry book at Webster’s
today.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Inside the front cover, the author himself had scrawled a
note to his mentor: <i>More than anyone,
your influence, your passion for poetry, sparked these poems</i>, he wrote. <i>Without your teachings, I’m not sure I would
have arrived as a ‘poet’ until much later in life. For that, of course, I must
thank you. I can assure you, what I become in this world owes no small sum to
your dedication and kindness. I would be honored to have a fraction of your
sincerity and compassion. I hope these young poems show something like
potential. They are yours, somehow – your passion working through me….</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
For some reason, these words touched me deeply. Maybe it
was because they were handwritten and felt like such a personal glimpse into a
stranger’s life, maybe it was the inspiration and gratitude that was so evident
in his tone – but for whatever reason, this note made me realize what was
different these past few months: I’ve felt inspired. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Much like the poet who just published his first
collection of poems, I have just begun a new chapter of my life that I am
passionate and excited about, too. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Sometimes, our days just blur together and we find
ourselves on autopilot. Sometimes we get so caught up in our schedules that we lose
our true sense of what we’re waking up for every morning, what we’re ultimately
fighting for. But I realized that I felt different these past few months because it was the first time in my student life that I had both the time and the interest to truly appreciate everything I was learning. And it turns out that when you are actually happy with what you’re doing, you live
with a little more...purpose. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
You live more deliberately. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And even though I’ve been warned that it’ll get harder,
that research will be tough and that I will grow jaded and tired – guess what? <i>I like living deliberately</i>, so I am determined to hold on to the optimism and zeal that comes with new beginnings. I’m
going to stay inspired, and stay curious.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Because why do what you’re doing if you can’t find
meaning in it?</div>
Brooke Kueihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759805591689499724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308684764782817551.post-32524041847922461252015-12-11T11:22:00.002-05:002020-09-02T22:23:41.243-04:00You win some, you lose some<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie7adtwtsp057xMPkI1980qCk6F4iElAouxxcVs77lUivv0j49SIh_5OwxmJDXBDnmyV0D9v-V30JUTtQe_J_GaKALPKXB5QJQVqrTiLCNGCXv9xWF7vqt7OikCCwX-E7w2NTPQg0QgY0v/s1600/blog-isaac.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie7adtwtsp057xMPkI1980qCk6F4iElAouxxcVs77lUivv0j49SIh_5OwxmJDXBDnmyV0D9v-V30JUTtQe_J_GaKALPKXB5QJQVqrTiLCNGCXv9xWF7vqt7OikCCwX-E7w2NTPQg0QgY0v/s1600/blog-isaac.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I went to a poetry reading a few weeks ago—or rather, I
went to a café with the intention of studying, only to discover that I had
walked in on a monthly poetry reading event. As it turns out, I think I learned
a lot more from the poets than I ever could have learned from my thermodynamics
textbook.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
My favorite poem was titled “Why A Pansy.” The woman
reading it explained that she had recently gotten a tattoo of a pansy—because
it is the symbol of remembrance. The pansy represented the things that we’ve
lost: the ones who have passed away, the lovers who left us, “<i>the versions of ourselves that didn’t make
it to today.</i>”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
That particular line stuck in my head. It reminded me of
all the risks I didn’t take, the challenges I shied away from, the
accomplishments that I never achieved because I was too afraid to try. It made
me realize that there are <i>far too many</i>
versions of myself that didn’t make it to today. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And that’s such a shame.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
---<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I’ve been trying to learn how to do headstands lately.
Now don’t judge me, but I follow all these beautiful, fit women on Instagram
who are always posting pictures of fancy yoga poses and videos of effortless
inversions. Feeling ambitious (and a little jealous), I thought, hey—I can do
that too!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Except that…I couldn’t. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I tried over and over again, but to my utter disappointment
I just could not hold my legs up straight. Being upside down felt unnatural and
scary and I didn’t like the way my room looked when the floor was suddenly the
ceiling. My body felt heavy and my arms felt weak—<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Until I flipped over, landing flat on my back with a
resounding <i>thunk.</i> <i>Ugh, my downstairs neighbor is probably
judging me right now</i>, I thought, being self-conscious about what other
people think of me, as per usual. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>But wait, that
actually didn’t hurt</i> was my second thought. Because it really didn’t. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And suddenly, headstands got a whole lot easier. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
---<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I know that most things in life aren’t this simple, but I’m
a sucker for metaphors. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And the truth is, the concept still holds: it’s scary to
put yourself out there, to try something new, to tackle a challenge when you’re
not sure if you’ll come out a victor. But for what it’s worth, even the most
perfect person will not be successful in every one of his or her
endeavors—ironically, it’s the realization that it’s okay to fail that will
ultimately make you successful. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
During my Thanksgiving bus travels, I listened to Mindy
Kaling’s book <i>Why Not Me? </i>She said
that a little girl once asked her, “Mindy, how are you so confident?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Her response wasn’t what I was expecting, but it sure was
the truth. She said that <i>confidence is
like respect—you have to earn it</i>. There’s no magical formula for becoming
that smart, confident person you want to become. You just have to work hard.
Put in the effort. Try. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
---<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I know it’s a little early for new years resolutions, but
I always thought it was silly for January to be the only month you could rise
from your phoenix ashes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The way I see it, you can’t wait around for a sign to
finally do the things you’re scared of. Maybe it’s a hard physics problem that
you don’t think you can solve. Maybe it’s a hobby that you’ve been meaning to
pick up “when you have time.” Maybe it’s admitting to that cute girl that you
think she’s really somethin’. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And maybe you <i>won’t</i>
solve the physics problem. And you’re horrible at that hobby. And the girl says
you’re <i>just friends</i>. But even if you
don’t succeed in everything, you’ll succeed in enough that your confidence
starts to grow just a little tiny bit…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
So forget new year resolutions. Just start <i>now</i>, because that’s what this is all
about anyways: <i>always </i>trying, often
losing,</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
sometimes winning. It’s the only way we move forward.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Brooke Kueihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759805591689499724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308684764782817551.post-61432157769057507062015-09-01T12:33:00.004-04:002020-09-02T22:23:49.736-04:00The art of letting go<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1UpMF34QvFZ8elOcGgcxZeqTcBo8G-2EJcV7No1p1AxC3rmYZg0OmD8GaPEuWhOhHOD8sLChXo77ED8v49h3vDFT78G0DhyphenhyphenT0WsWmqLqK8in3lQtCUQ9L5SU4b6wvjC5J1zDIKMT1egzj/s1600/DSC_0444.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1UpMF34QvFZ8elOcGgcxZeqTcBo8G-2EJcV7No1p1AxC3rmYZg0OmD8GaPEuWhOhHOD8sLChXo77ED8v49h3vDFT78G0DhyphenhyphenT0WsWmqLqK8in3lQtCUQ9L5SU4b6wvjC5J1zDIKMT1egzj/s1600/DSC_0444.JPG" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Most of my friends know that I am a pretty anxious person—okay,
I’m a <i>really</i> anxious person. And I’m a very nondiscriminatory worrier too,
because I will panic over the miniscule details of my day just as much as I
will panic over important life decisions. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I rush to every class and every meeting, thinking I am
late every time, and always end up arriving ridiculously early. I’m incapable
of playing any sort of musical instrument in front of an audience without my
hands shaking so much that I create an entirely new piece altogether. And if I
have so much as half a latte before any sort of remotely stressful situation, I
am sure to have a panic attack (which is really unfortunate, because I happen
to like lattes a lot). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I am the kind of person who will think about one question
on an exam from the moment I hand it in until the moment I get it back,
wondering and wondering if I forgot that one negative sign (I probably did).
And sometimes, when nothing is stressing me out, I start worrying that I’ve
forgotten about something that <i>should</i> be stressing me out. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Am I making you nervous yet? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Anyways, bearing all this in mind, I was sure that my
first few weeks of grad school would be a completely traumatizing experience,
but to my pleasant surprise it has been quite a happy transition. And I think
that it is because lately, I have stopped trying so hard to always be in <i>control</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Because life isn’t about always being in control—it’s the
opposite. It’s about letting go. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I went to this yoga class the other day and it was in
this dim room with a few earth-toned tapestries hanging on the walls and
bookshelves made of dark oak. As I sat on my mat thinking about how unlike
other yoga studios this place looked, I realized (with some embarrassment) that
there was a shirtless young man doing handstands on my right, and grew
increasingly self-conscious when I looked around the room and saw that a little
more than half the class was actually male. Suddenly, the instructor said <i>okay
everyone lie on your stomachs, turn your head to one side, and close your eyes </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And then he started spouting the most philosophical
poetry I had ever heard. I actually peeked my eyes open for a second to see if
he was reading off anything and was impressed to discover that his eloquent
words were completely impromptu.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>can you feel that? can you feel what’s in this room?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
At this point I started to get worried because no, I didn’t
feel anything, what was I supposed to feel?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>can you feel your heart against the floor, can you feel
your breath? now stop and just notice this moment. notice the present. feel
that jumble of neurons in your mind, all the cells that make up your body. do
you realize just how many cells that is? And you think “this is my body! I want
to control my body!” but just relax. you don’t need to control every one of
those cells. don’t you see how your body breathes without you having to tell it
to? let your mind be still, trust yourself, and let everything calibrate on its
own…</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It wasn’t a life changing moment. It didn’t knock the
breath right out of me. But the words just stuck with me, you know? They kept
echoing in my mind…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
A couple of days later, I came across a Native American
story in a book I found while browsing through a second-hand book store (the
best kind of book store). In the story, a Native American elder said, “There is
a river flowing now, very fast. It is so great and swift that there are those
who will be afraid. They will try to hold on to the shore. They will feel they
are being torn apart and suffer greatly. <span style="font-size: large;">Know that the river has its
destination</span>. The elders say we must push
off into the middle of the river, keep our eyes open and our heads above the
water…” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I don’t know about you, but I’m a romantic so I am a
giant cheeseball when it comes to life metaphors. And I particularly liked this
one. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It’s kind of a relief to know that it is okay to not
worry, to simply let life happen on its own. And I’m not telling you to give
up, to lose motivation, or to wing the rest of your life. I’m just saying that
it’s going to be alright. I’m saying that it’s completely okay if you don’t
know what’s supposed to happen next, whether it’s the next day or the next
couple of years. I’m saying that even if you plan something meticulously and it
all falls apart, life will go on. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It’s good to know what you want, it’s good to have a plan,
and it’s good to <i>care</i> enough about your life that sometimes it even causes you unnecessary
anxiety. But if that anxiety is not benefitting you in any way, it’s time to
let go. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“Let go of that which does not serve you,” as they say…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Take responsibility for the things you can control, but
learn to let go of the rest. Keep your head above the water, but don’t try to fight
the current.</div>
Brooke Kueihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759805591689499724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308684764782817551.post-85547463489567571812015-07-27T21:54:00.001-04:002020-09-02T22:24:09.911-04:00On being fearless<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNdCk-0oSzjoPwRLCXwuRsitlmEMkcGo1BMEqT3CiWMfSZF_cvJrVufGG5Kjqdj5pvDgX0Q5wIKTFpxiTfX694MH1TsJOrujkTeD-7ZfbPfcP721KiDoUH058aWnmVCpkn2bddAGLQ7JIS/s1600/DSC_0945.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNdCk-0oSzjoPwRLCXwuRsitlmEMkcGo1BMEqT3CiWMfSZF_cvJrVufGG5Kjqdj5pvDgX0Q5wIKTFpxiTfX694MH1TsJOrujkTeD-7ZfbPfcP721KiDoUH058aWnmVCpkn2bddAGLQ7JIS/s1600/DSC_0945.JPG" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve always loved that word—fearless. I love the idea of it.
The concept. The feeling. When I was a little girl, I used to hide behind my
mother’s legs every time I got introduced to someone new. She said I was like a
baby koala bear—I could never let go. Although I eventually grew out of my
marsupial phase, I remained shy throughout my teenage years, and now in my
twenties I find that I am still shy, sometimes insecure, and always anxious.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I don’t want to feel this way. In the words of the poet
Mary Oliver, <i><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">“I want to be improbable beautiful
and afraid of nothing, as though I had wings.”</span></i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have a lot of idols. My favorite blogger, <a href="http://www.scarphelia.com/" target="_blank">Scarphelia</a>, for
moving from London to New York City all by herself at 22. Adriene Mishler for creating
the inspiring home yoga series <a href="https://www.youtube.com/user/yogawithadriene" target="_blank">Yoga With Adriene</a>. <a href="http://www.kaylaitsines.com/" target="_blank">Kayla Itsines</a> for her rockin' body and BBG
workouts that have reached continents all around the world. Anna Akana for <a href="https://www.youtube.com/user/AnnaAkana" target="_blank">her hilarious YouTube channel</a>, budding acting career, and clothing line. My parents for taking
the big leap from Taiwan to America. My brother for his love of the stage—whether
it’s diabolo, piano, or dance. My boyfriend for running a marathon. One of my
best friends, Steph, for realizing what she really wanted and changing her
career path. My amazing Harvard-bound roomie. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You see, I want to be as brave as Scarphelia and my brother and my
roommate.<i> I want to be fearless. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Next month, I will be moving into a new (one bedroom)
apartment in a new town to begin a new chapter of my life. My August calendar
is covered in post-it notes and reminders—pay rent, transfer utilities,
schedule meeting with Peg, submit immunization records, etc.—but I’m starting
to think that I need a new set of reminders. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I begin the journey towards my graduate degree, I will
remind myself of a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jDaZu_KEMCY" target="_blank">quote</a> from yet another beautiful and lovely idol, Natalie
Portman: “Your inexperience is an asset.” She said that she once knew a
violinist who said he couldn’t compose because he knew so many pieces that
every time he tried to write something original, all he could think of were
the melodies of pieces he already knew. Most of the time when I’m scared of
something, it’s because I’m afraid of inadequacy, that I’m not good
enough, that I don’t know enough. But if I want to be fearless, I must dive
right into the challenge. I must believe that my ideas are worth something.
That my inexperience is, in fact, an asset.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the same time, though, I will remind myself to admit when
I am wrong. I won’t be afraid to ask for help when I need it. And I will not be
afraid to say no.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll learn to love myself. I’ll remember bad memories
without cringing, without feeling weak. I’ll say I love you, even if it makes
me feel like my heart is completely naked. And someday in the future, I’ll live
in the bustling city and the subway won’t confuse me anymore. I’ll be the boss
at wherever I work, and who knows, maybe I’ll even become someone else’s fearless idol. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But for now, I’ll settle for becoming brave enough to play
the ukulele and sing in public some day. Maybe I’ll learn those yoga inversions
that make me feel like I am falling into the earth.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No matter what I’m doing—whether it’s grad school, reaching
personal goals, or just my every day shyness—I will learn to be bigger than my
fears. I will walk onto that stage one step at a time…and one day…<i>I will be
fearless, as though I have wings. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
Brooke Kueihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759805591689499724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308684764782817551.post-78818280238470486822015-07-08T21:47:00.003-04:002020-09-02T23:00:47.101-04:00Confessions of a social media addict<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc1tewAECo5NVeQiTS2EApeYGgQFCtk-3gQKAC1e2vEj7FWsMheY4gJpJmDOqYg9Pm_WZzdAYWOIoBc3Gtf_2PYGahUcDa_F5FkxLto233cVr6AZbPi3YyiM3kMUBVzKEiPyIp0Ra1JLR5/s1600/DSC_0644.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc1tewAECo5NVeQiTS2EApeYGgQFCtk-3gQKAC1e2vEj7FWsMheY4gJpJmDOqYg9Pm_WZzdAYWOIoBc3Gtf_2PYGahUcDa_F5FkxLto233cVr6AZbPi3YyiM3kMUBVzKEiPyIp0Ra1JLR5/s1600/DSC_0644.JPG" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Social media is life. Social media is king! Facebook,
Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr, and Pinterest make the freakin’ world go round. As one
wise person once asked, “If you don’t Instagram your brunch, did it really
happen?” I know we’d all love to think that we don’t depend on these things,
but really, could you go a day without them? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I decided to give this blog a new look the other day, and
I must admit I was pretty proud of the little social media buttons that I added
to the sidebar: there’s a cute box below my profile that says “Let’s be friends,”
under which there are four mint-colored icons linking to my Facebook, Twitter,
Instagram, and Tumblr. But as I was checking to see if all the links worked, I
suddenly found myself staring at a Chrome window with four different tabs open,
each a different representation of my identity on different corners of the
Internet. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Let me be honest with you. I have an eight-year-old Facebook,
a Twitter account which has undergone several username changes, an Instagram
that basically consists of dogs and cats and food, two Tumblrs (not including
my angst-filled teenage private Tumblr that I deleted sometime in high school),
a Pinterest that I sporadically become obsessed with and then forget about for
months at a time, and a LinkedIn profile that makes me look a hell of a lot
more qualified than I probably am. I also have two Gmail accounts, and
consequently, two YouTube accounts that are linked to those Google accounts,
and a Google+ profile that I don’t even want—thanks, Google. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
All of these forms of social media are supposed to
reflect who I am. They’re a way for me to share a piece of myself to the public
and for me to learn about my friends in return. But the thing is, being a part
of so many different social media communities at the same time is actually
really confusing. Between the casual, everyday life posts on my Facebook, the
reblogs which don’t even belong to me that are on my Tumblr, the staged
Instagram photos coated in different filters, the cryptic one-liners on my
Twitter, the hair and fashion pins on Pinterest that I will never achieve in
real life, and the professional profile on my LinkedIn, <i>I don’t even know who I
am anymore. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
There is a similar confusion on the receiving end of
social media, too. I was taking a bus home from the city the other day, and
because I’m super nosy and have this uncontrollable habit of hyper-observing
complete strangers, I kept peeking over at the guy sitting diagonal to me, who was
on his phone for the entirety of the one-hour ride. What I was fascinated with
was the speed at which he scrolled through his Instagram feed—I swear he was
scrolling at a rate of three photos a second. How can someone retain any of
what they are looking at when they’re scrolling that fast?! He did pause every
once in a while to take a closer look at a photo. The first time was to check
out some girls in bikinis at the beach. The second time was to check out some
other girls in bikinis at the beach. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
As much as I’d like to laugh at this guy, though, I know
I’m guilty of the same thing. (The photos I pause at are usually puppies though—not
bikini babes.) My point is, our computer screens and phone screens are so
saturated by waves of statuses and pictures and gifs and hashtags that <i>we don’t
even surf the web anymore. We drown in it. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Now I’m not saying that social media is bad. I’d be a
complete hypocrite if that was my message. But I <i>do</i> find it a little alarming
that I am sometimes more connected to the ones and zeros zipping around
cyberspace than I am to the physical world around me. It’s easy to get caught
up in the world of the Internet, and it’s a ton of fun, too—but I think that
every once in a while (like now), we just need to remind ourselves to look up
and appreciate the rest of the world. To <i>like</i> not just Facebook statuses, but
what we see with our own eyes. To discover a new favorite book, instead of just
favorite-ing tweets. To enjoy your goddamn eggs benedict so much that it’s all
gone before you even think of Instagram-ing it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
I love social media, but I love life, too. It’d be such a
shame if we forgot to live it.<br />
<br />
-B.<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Brooke Kueihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759805591689499724noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308684764782817551.post-54815215552084170312015-07-02T00:56:00.002-04:002020-09-02T22:24:26.624-04:00It's a really old city, stuck between the dead and the living<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP02Pfh7FYNrLV2QJLiGBZGnfNtmWuXHOshQGzYPcj2FI0gRVAMla3o59VzpniHkk6Ok7_aHFQXN4LgYOLDY0vSJQBp87XCYZrnu0tn1m02rJkG03uOyD7EryN98U46B3OBgZOFEkPsRy8/s1600/taxis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP02Pfh7FYNrLV2QJLiGBZGnfNtmWuXHOshQGzYPcj2FI0gRVAMla3o59VzpniHkk6Ok7_aHFQXN4LgYOLDY0vSJQBp87XCYZrnu0tn1m02rJkG03uOyD7EryN98U46B3OBgZOFEkPsRy8/s1600/taxis.jpg" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Okay. Let’s call it a place. People and things are too
hard to talk about, but a place is more vague. A place is less personal. You
can walk away from it, but still go back and visit someday. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
This place feels familiar and strange at the same time. It’s
a city, and during the day it’s bustling with people who have purpose in their
stride, but at night the darkness explodes with gunshots and at dawn my alarm
is the sound of sirens. It snows a lot in this place but I actually kind of
love the snow because it blankets the city in this white perfection—at least
until the snow melts into dirty slush that piles up on the curbs. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I’ve memorized the map of this city. The roads haven’t
changed in years and I know the street names by heart, but new shops have started
popping up everywhere and just the other day I visited my favorite café only to
find that it, too, was closing soon. There was nothing special about their
coffee, but I really liked its down-to-earth atmosphere. And the view from the
table in the corner. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Most of the friends that I met here years ago have
already gotten new jobs and are trickling out of town, but I haven’t had any
reason to leave. It’s beautiful, this city, it really is. But for some reason
every time I try to take a picture of the skyline, the camera just can’t seem
to capture what I see. It’s as if this place is cursed with a beauty that can’t
last. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I know I should leave this place. I want to run off to
the West coast where the skies are always sunny and the cities are alive, but
the truth is, this place is my home. I want to run off, but there is nowhere to
run, because this place isn’t even a place. <b>It’s the past.</b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And no matter how many days or months or years I put
between it and myself—no matter how much I don’t belong there anymore—I’ll
always live in this place. Despite the gunshots, despite the snow, despite my
missing café... I will always live in the past. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
-B.</div>
Brooke Kueihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759805591689499724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308684764782817551.post-85978768305906393042015-06-20T15:19:00.001-04:002015-07-06T21:38:16.090-04:00The search for love in a world of hate<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhofEbXCK7hLnIgVO_kxRWtff4zCJn7ljgYVcN5RXyvIKyYEkuVhNL9WqLQxuApIwK5fUslM4vys3BvGyXSfbqtnURvhNwtaH8dqmjIyVmzB_WKPzy3ct1QFSdl-QKd_6LBMi6h4Iylgxw/s1600/DSC_1030.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhofEbXCK7hLnIgVO_kxRWtff4zCJn7ljgYVcN5RXyvIKyYEkuVhNL9WqLQxuApIwK5fUslM4vys3BvGyXSfbqtnURvhNwtaH8dqmjIyVmzB_WKPzy3ct1QFSdl-QKd_6LBMi6h4Iylgxw/s1600/DSC_1030.JPG" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I have never been very good at keeping up with the news,
but lately I’ve been making a conscious effort to stay more informed—maybe because
summer is making me restless, maybe because the hype of next year’s elections
is infectious, who knows. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The problem is, staying informed is <i>damn depressing</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I mean, seriously, the top stories on my Flipboard right
now are “Charleston Church Attack Suspect Charged with 9 Murder Counts,” “Terror
attacks, deaths up sharply in 2014: State Department,” “Ten dead after attack
linked to gangs in northern Mexico,” and “Gunfight in Cincinnati street leaves
officer, armed man dead.” It’s difficult news to swallow. It’s bewildering. I
want to shut off the TV, close all my news sites, and drink my chamomile tea
while watching Game of Thrones. Because at least the violence in <i>that</i> is
fictional. The violence on the news is real. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I’ve lived in a safe suburban bubble most of my life, so
call me naïve or even call me insensitive but for the most part I haven’t felt
a strong connection to the increased hate and violence in the world—it was
never in the local newspapers that landed on <i>my</i> front doorstep. But recently, my
Facebook newsfeed has been full of angry statuses condemning the latest
shootings (notice the plural) and amid the pretty photography and silly gifs on
my Tumblr newsfeed, I was hit with a reblogged condolence speech by Obama. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
In a casual conversation with my mom about going to the
city, I was warned about a criminal in Manhattan who has been specifically attacking
Asian women in the past few weeks. I have always considered myself pathetically
oblivious to the real world, and yet the real world is crashing into my bubble
with alarming force, spelling out the worst parts of humanity with a vividness
that is impossible to ignore. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
But you see, now I am at a crossroads. When I sat down to
write this post, I had intended to give it an optimistic twist, for it to be a
reminder of the love and the good in the world. To assert that despite the
negativity that dominates the news, there is a lot to be happy and grateful
about, from the little things in our daily lives to the $358 billion that
Americans gave to charity last year. But is this hopeful view a lie? Am I just fooling
myself? Would the world benefit more from trusting in the good, or confronting
the bad? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Either way, I feel helpless. The problem is too big—in fact,
I’m not even sure how I would define the problem. All I know is that when it
comes to running away from one, I’m usually an Olympic sprinter—but here, now,
exposed to the tragedy that is our reality, I am unable tear my eyes away. But
staring isn’t going to help anyone. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
What am I supposed to do?<br />
<br />
-B.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308684764782817551.post-14225475657687597512015-05-12T15:58:00.001-04:002015-07-06T21:37:53.105-04:00You have to be always drunk<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUU2Kz8HMZcs11uhC9lWvG4L8SaDzvW0CryMpqdi4su5pwP6SUk1WBJjgY1Xau7vQXhvAGK3-hv4vYh8Cl8hc70Y_Z2dFriaUR6R_pzKMiM9xyV7icVCgQ-8C57QgjYOwIpkqDnReI7aQ/s1600/DSC_0884.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUU2Kz8HMZcs11uhC9lWvG4L8SaDzvW0CryMpqdi4su5pwP6SUk1WBJjgY1Xau7vQXhvAGK3-hv4vYh8Cl8hc70Y_Z2dFriaUR6R_pzKMiM9xyV7icVCgQ-8C57QgjYOwIpkqDnReI7aQ/s1600/DSC_0884.JPG" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I went to a bar called The Beerhive the other day, and as
I sat there with my friends sipping on an intriguingly flower-scented beer, we
suddenly noticed a quote on the wall behind us:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>You have to be
always drunk. That’s all there is to it—it’s the only way. So as not to feel
the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth,
you have to be continually drunk.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a
ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness
already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the
clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that
is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking…ask what
time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: “It is time to be
drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually
drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We laughed as we started to read it, thinking that it was
literally only a quote – appropriate for a bar – about the wonders of being
tipsy. But as we continued to read we realized that it was not necessarily
about being drunk on alcohol, but that it was about finding something you care
about so much in life that you are perpetually intoxicated by it, euphorically
drowned in it, blissfully consumed by it. “Have you guys found a passion like
that?” we asked each other. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Among us we had a physics major, an electrical and
computer engineering major, a business major, a psychology and human-computer
interaction double major, and a mechanical engineering and philosophy double
major, all of whom are graduating from Carnegie Mellon in less than a week.
This is a pretty random sample, I think (my statistics major roommate might
disagree, but shhh), and yet out of the five of us, not one felt as if we had
truly found something we are <i>passionate</i>
about. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I’ve always envied the people who take the unconventional
path. You know, the ones who move to the city of their dreams and bartend at
night while writing a novel during the day. The ones who start a band that
maybe makes it big and maybe falls apart but never for a moment was something
they didn’t love. The ones who start their own company from scratch and give it
their all, despite the risk of failure. And I don’t know, maybe they’re not
always happy and maybe their salary isn’t pretty and maybe I’m just being a
romantic, but at least they had the guts to chase their dreams, right? At least
they found <i>passion</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Don’t get me wrong – I’m excited about my future. I look
forward to going to Penn State and getting my Ph.D. and I genuinely hope that
the research I do can benefit society in some way. I chose Penn State because
the lab group I’ll be working in specializes in organic photovoltaics (in other
words, new solar cell technologies!) and I want to be a part of this cutting-edge
energy research. “I’m going to save the world!” I tell my friends naively. I
think the science is really interesting and I like that it’s an applicable
field that could have real-life impacts on the world…but I certainly don’t get <i>drunk</i> off it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Anyways, I guess we’ll see. The world is a big place –
maybe it just takes a while to find where we belong. After all, I didn’t even
like beer four years ago, and now I’m going to places called The Beerhive. You
just never know.<br />
<br />
-B.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308684764782817551.post-799566652382822142015-01-01T15:51:00.000-05:002015-07-06T21:38:25.478-04:00You can't always get what you want<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg34F6zc29-ByXuAKitWRIlt7Fjc2zm8MdZ4jxROh4y8WJPEdEL9E6Bq0wt1GvL8_S1JgcKfRuy_XOn__K7wYnlmjbnPIWGKiFoNrgy-eWtsEA3vQ4mNdVdSkQdWruPNcFotczR_A0saT4/s1600/DSC_1062.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg34F6zc29-ByXuAKitWRIlt7Fjc2zm8MdZ4jxROh4y8WJPEdEL9E6Bq0wt1GvL8_S1JgcKfRuy_XOn__K7wYnlmjbnPIWGKiFoNrgy-eWtsEA3vQ4mNdVdSkQdWruPNcFotczR_A0saT4/s1600/DSC_1062.JPG" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
A new year is usually a good thing, an exciting thing—but
2015 is a little more intimidating than the others. 2015 is the year I graduate
from the college that I’ve sometimes hated but loved just as fiercely. It’s the
year I venture outside the little bubble where I live with my best friends,
where the Starbucks baristas remember my name, where I know shortcuts around
campus like the back of my hand. It’s the year of uncertainty, of dreams that
can be crushed just as easily as they can be achieved, of making bigger
decisions than I’ve ever had to make before. It’s the year I’ve longed for but
dreaded, and it’s the year that is finally here. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
There are resolutions upon resolutions that I could make
for the new year, like working out more, not skipping meals, and learning how
to cook, but if there is one promise that I absolutely have to make to myself
for 2015, it is <b>to accept the future as
it comes, even if it’s not the future I saw for myself.</b> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Last week, I went to New York City to watch “Beautiful
The Carole King Musical,” which was based off the true story of
singer-songwriter Carole King’s rise to fame. While she was always a talented
composer, Carole struggled with writing meaningful lyrics for her music. As
fate would have it, she met and fell in love with aspiring playwright Gerry
Goffin while in college and the two not only quickly married and had a child,
but Carole’s musical talent and Gerry’s penchant with words made them a
powerhouse for top radio hits. The happy couple enjoyed several years of magic
and success, but Gerry soon became frustrated with writing catchy radio tunes,
wanting instead to create a new style and sound, to be the pioneer of the next
generation of music. Gerry’s obsession, though, led to irrational behavior,
infidelity, and eventually, the deterioration of his marriage. Without Gerry,
Carole felt completely broken—not only did she lose the love of her life, but
she also lost the voice and the words behind her music. With time, though,
Carole began writing her own songs, and performing them too. It wasn’t easy,
but in the end she produced her famous album <i>Tapestry</i>, which won the Grammy Award for Album of the Year in 1972—something
that never would have happened if her life hadn’t been turned upside down. I
was tearing up by the end of the musical because it kind of hit home for me. The
upcoming year is going to be a big one, and I’m pretty sure it’s not going to
be a smooth ride, but it is comforting to know that even if your world comes
crashing down on you like it did for Carole King, it might just be a blessing
in disguise. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
For myself, as well as for many of my friends and my
peers, 2015 is going to be the witness of our job offers and job rejections,
our grad school offers and grad school rejections, our all at once confident and
terrified steps into the real world. It is going to be a scary year, but it is
a little less scary because of my new years resolution, because I’ve decided to
loosen my grip on my expectations and understand that the “perfect” future I
want so badly is not the only future in which I’ll be happy. The Rolling Stones
said it best: “You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, well
you might find you get what you need.”<br />
<br />
-B.<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308684764782817551.post-51535587409360404012014-11-29T21:08:00.001-05:002014-12-31T16:17:53.341-05:00Here's to Halestorm, here's to love<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
As much as I like writing and as much as I like concerts,
I’ve never written a concert review before — because honestly, I’ve never been
so moved by one that I felt the need to write about it. But last night’s
Halestorm show at Starland Ballroom, the same venue at which I watched my
very first concert? Well, let’s just say that I’m not surprised they sold
out the first day tickets went on sale.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPwfGTsXj1auX3t5Tu9kOFV_nvProX__QjuEHcqHYj-3qZ96pDg13FJvPrXgxLHRoeceDYTter0atA-oaJAJrQMoNWDSHb8tkSyjimi39U2OCf_GcR50xYYd3D3eQaVrHZ1vXfYs-3ToI/s1600/halestorm4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwjPTSq9cWkCyiCT69dvKZ-g9S0UN2ZwlmOsynuOLbRkl3vuo5ZRvRHc1Ri621viJSwZ9cgjg_svlV8BCvfwCk68y3JxptAEj8fXTLnMdq5v53EHp-77y_MJPgNSZg-HMvAQTOdsZZatQ/s1600/first.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwjPTSq9cWkCyiCT69dvKZ-g9S0UN2ZwlmOsynuOLbRkl3vuo5ZRvRHc1Ri621viJSwZ9cgjg_svlV8BCvfwCk68y3JxptAEj8fXTLnMdq5v53EHp-77y_MJPgNSZg-HMvAQTOdsZZatQ/s1600/first.jpg" height="323" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
First, a brief word about the openers, The Dead Deads and
New Medicine. While I didn’t entirely love The Dead Deads’s music, I was
pleasantly drawn to their character: a couple of girls from Nashville,
Tennessee who formed a rock/metal/punk band with X’s drawn over their eyes, a
necklace of lights on the lead singer, and a surprisingly not-out-of-place
daisy in one guitarist’s hair. It was all very unexpected, and yet they were <i>fresh</i>, so it was nice, you know? Next up
was New Medicine. They came on strong, and finished stronger. If I wasn’t
saving up my cash to buy a Halestorm t-shirt at the end of the show, I probably
would have bought one of their CDs (and then used that as an excuse to take a
picture with the sexy-in-a-humble-way guitarist who is now my new phone
background, which is not creepy in any way). One of the best parts of their
show was when they played “Race You To The Bottom” and actually brought out two
cups of beer and, well, raced each other to the bottom. Props!</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEithiDTbmYJo9YuZN6QRJ4pGF2ScwVeUEki4rE8FVhwnCxun1foPL1bHhgNfPgfDcWhMuW75Z2l7Uz7ejduvLGGOVo3u-DwszOKem6LqQAgTFpCANzeHuCHFpqxtOiOuAJvwgf9C_hfUoQ/s1600/second.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEithiDTbmYJo9YuZN6QRJ4pGF2ScwVeUEki4rE8FVhwnCxun1foPL1bHhgNfPgfDcWhMuW75Z2l7Uz7ejduvLGGOVo3u-DwszOKem6LqQAgTFpCANzeHuCHFpqxtOiOuAJvwgf9C_hfUoQ/s1600/second.jpg" height="321" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWXSoE1EsM3VisUEJ4HxR0l4jIOzj8uFEx_fmJVxqpe9hxJw0JQtb_VY1ZfyCOfS2nHBVGgGh_CpBbggAdN3wixusQsEZB5QXG6D5GXh1NWwlMQ_do7v4p27GDp_OXkoZ9-crJI1fuUtU/s1600/third2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWXSoE1EsM3VisUEJ4HxR0l4jIOzj8uFEx_fmJVxqpe9hxJw0JQtb_VY1ZfyCOfS2nHBVGgGh_CpBbggAdN3wixusQsEZB5QXG6D5GXh1NWwlMQ_do7v4p27GDp_OXkoZ9-crJI1fuUtU/s1600/third2.jpg" height="318" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<span style="text-align: left;">Anyways, after two openers that actually really psyched
me up for Halestorm, lead singer Lzzy Hale walked on stage with a dramatic but
beautiful acapella performance of “She Won’t Mind.” And then the night </span><i style="text-align: left;">really</i><span style="text-align: left;"> began. Halestorm played the badass rock songs that they are
so known for, such as “I Miss the Misery,” “Freak Like Me,” and “You Call Me a
Bitch Like It’s a Bad Thing,” all of which had me fist pumping, screaming, and
feeling as if I ruled the world — but the crazy thing is that what really got
me was the mellower songs they mixed into the set, such as “In Your Room” and
“Break In.” It’s truly amazing how versatile Lzzy’s voice is, how she can have
you raging like a rock star one second and close to tears the next. Not to
mention she’s even more gorgeous in real life than in her pictures and music
videos, which I didn’t think was possible. I kind of really want a red leather jacket now, if only so can have a tiny bit of her edgy, wild charisma. I also enjoyed how Halestorm brought The Dead
Deads on stage for “Daughters of Darkness” (it’s just too fitting) and how the
drummer of New Medicine joined Arejay Hale during the drum solo — I don’t think
I’ve ever seen a drum </span><i style="text-align: left;">duet </i><span style="text-align: left;">in my life
before, and it was pretty freakin’ awesome. They ended their set with “Love
Bites (So Do I),” which temporarily made me lose my voice. And of course,
Halestorm encored with “Here’s To Us.” Despite the freezing cold weather, the
line for the show not only wrapped around the building but around half the
parking lot, with characters ranging from college kids like us to rockers in
their 40s to scary biker dudes in leather jackets to kids that looked like they
were still in middle school — yet as we all sang along to Halestorm last night,
it felt like we were one and the same. </span><i style="text-align: left;">Here’s
to us, here’s to love, all the times that we messed up. Here’s to you, fill the
glass, ‘cause the last few days have kicked my ass. If they give you hell, tell
‘em to fuck themselves, here’s to us.</i></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7IRgrnScQqzB_Pf0wXDiC-V67g7K4o50IiaxwJqTXNsYjY7eA9K617PGCOtM3CVh_oKM-na4p-BrFs3IWlMjJCn6MFNzrx0CcsWdgb_p7qgVv-qyMHQTPqcmAuAwTlietbmTnuxyKp-4/s1600/fouth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7IRgrnScQqzB_Pf0wXDiC-V67g7K4o50IiaxwJqTXNsYjY7eA9K617PGCOtM3CVh_oKM-na4p-BrFs3IWlMjJCn6MFNzrx0CcsWdgb_p7qgVv-qyMHQTPqcmAuAwTlietbmTnuxyKp-4/s1600/fouth.jpg" height="314" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZjev7NZ77nq3lRUk9zxAbpRiCHhc7KOd3ZedYplOP44IV4G3LNa6_cbLYnJXVnVrduRJS3WwGqZ_HS3ah-DWnOz0GO-g3jNsnOp9Cj_g88EuXcIzWRnV33wfuW2925Lmi0BMoTZn4tPw/s1600/fifth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZjev7NZ77nq3lRUk9zxAbpRiCHhc7KOd3ZedYplOP44IV4G3LNa6_cbLYnJXVnVrduRJS3WwGqZ_HS3ah-DWnOz0GO-g3jNsnOp9Cj_g88EuXcIzWRnV33wfuW2925Lmi0BMoTZn4tPw/s1600/fifth.jpg" height="316" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
After the concert, we scoured the ground for picks that
got thrown out into the crowd, but eventually had to give up empty handed.
Luckily, I have enough sick memories of the concert that I don’t think I’ll
need a souvenir pick to remember the night. Thanks for stopping by Jersey,
Halestorm — this has been my favorite concert yet. <o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<object class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/s_vi/ASxLdESwoh8/default.jpg?sqp=CKT76aMF&rs=AOn4CLBOmlbaudqVNbO_JiIvTNTnIAqj3A" height="399" width="480"><param name="movie" value="https://www.youtube.com/v/ASxLdESwoh8?version=3&f=user_uploads&c=google-webdrive-0&app=youtube_gdata" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/v/ASxLdESwoh8?version=3&f=user_uploads&c=google-webdrive-0&app=youtube_gdata" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<object class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/s_vi/OOIkIk_TVXc/default.jpg?sqp=CPz_6aMF&rs=AOn4CLBybOJ_3i6o709zO8bcQyeZ05ksSA" height="399" width="480"><param name="movie" value="https://www.youtube.com/v/OOIkIk_TVXc?version=3&f=user_uploads&c=google-webdrive-0&app=youtube_gdata" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/v/OOIkIk_TVXc?version=3&f=user_uploads&c=google-webdrive-0&app=youtube_gdata" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308684764782817551.post-68485052674448821712014-10-11T17:58:00.006-04:002020-09-02T23:10:51.697-04:00Falling in love in a coffee shop<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwpA6G5drA_pMDysID6APfIZmX0yCoXBvlSGvbOXJiM-dIu5PqJyJxTjH0rOgFnbMnfALY4gh-PEeubdXTKB93iLmBlSwA7N9mJDIKZUYuiiq3fHi26PrJcR32MHlPVVSTtx8ErTDtFd0/s1600/DSC_0209.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwpA6G5drA_pMDysID6APfIZmX0yCoXBvlSGvbOXJiM-dIu5PqJyJxTjH0rOgFnbMnfALY4gh-PEeubdXTKB93iLmBlSwA7N9mJDIKZUYuiiq3fHi26PrJcR32MHlPVVSTtx8ErTDtFd0/s1600/DSC_0209.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br /><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>
I've often wondered what it would be like<br />
<br />
to go on a coffee date, to sip and flirt and smile,<br />
<br />
and share our histories for a while.<br />
<br />
I've always wanted to hear utensils clink while<br />
<br />
I think about the words being framed by your lips,<br />
<br />
and slowly, gently surrender my mind <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">—</span><br />
<br />
to the touch of your thoughts along the length of my spine.<br />
<br />
I want to kiss you with my wit, seduce you<br />
<br />
with my fears <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">— </span>is it possible to hold you near<br />
<br />
while remaining a respectful coffee table apart?<br />
<br />
I want to love and be loved despite all my sins,<br />
<br />
to be looked at in that way without exposing skin <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">—</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6308684764782817551.post-47024727922291427212014-09-13T12:18:00.002-04:002015-07-06T21:39:15.414-04:00Tonight, we are young<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXLpY_L3x-mtsGcbDqh-uvHHgl3J67Kc9vQDWvw-hELCnKPXQX6YzkGZsX18Xmf3rXXOODPjNk8KJ2F62VXCNi6p8MjdoAawPCZF_I4X9Wc64S66ZCh2s8GGRgaE2Me9V_bQdpGbck894/s1600/leftbehind.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXLpY_L3x-mtsGcbDqh-uvHHgl3J67Kc9vQDWvw-hELCnKPXQX6YzkGZsX18Xmf3rXXOODPjNk8KJ2F62VXCNi6p8MjdoAawPCZF_I4X9Wc64S66ZCh2s8GGRgaE2Me9V_bQdpGbck894/s1600/leftbehind.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
A conversation I had with a freshman the other day went
something like this:<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Freshman: What year are you?<br />
Me: I’m a senior!<br />
Freshman: Oh, are you thinking of applying here?<br />
Me:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
***<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And I mean, I don’t blame her. Besides being five foot
two and having a tiny face that is usually half obscured by hair, I simply don’t
carry myself like a college senior. I’ve got the jaded, look-what-CMU-did-to-me
part down pretty well, but the beaming confidence? the bright, knowledgeable
eyes? the I’m-a-real-adult posture? I’ve got none of that. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<a name='more'></a>It’s weird being in a position where I feel as if I’m
watching all my friends growing up around me, taking on leadership roles in
various organizations, discovering their passions, trying new things, and even
accepting full-time job offers — while I sit here, scared, left behind,
retreating into myself.<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The crazy thing about this universe is that it’s just one
universe, and there’s only one of each of us in it. And who knows, maybe there’s
another universe, or a billion other universes, and a billion better versions
of me, but the only me that I’ll ever be is the one in this world, the one that’s
being created by every decision I make, the one who can’t rewind time even by
one second, <i>the one who could have been anyone, and could have done anything,
but is just me</i>, sitting here drinking beer and writing sad things. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It’s like we all started off at the same place, with an
infinite number of futures ahead of us, but while everyone seemed to choose the
right paths, I took a wrong turn somewhere. <i>Four years ago, we were all at the
brink of becoming great people. Four years later, I wish I could go back and try
it again.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
One of my best friends here started out as a physics
major, just like me. We took all the same classes freshman year, but while 112
became the bane of my existence, programming came easy to him. By the next
year, he had switched into electrical and computer engineering. Now he has two
full-time job offers and several upcoming interviews on top of that. All I’ve
got is a few unfinished, mediocre grad school applications.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
My brother always stood on the sidelines during high
school dances. But throughout college, he joined two dance companies and
transformed into a talented dancer that I can barely even recognize on stage as
the guy who once wore huge glasses and told me to give boys my number in the form of a system of equations. He went to college and got swag. I went to college and got awkward.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
But I don’t know, maybe this just wasn’t my time. Maybe I’m
just a late bloomer. I always feel as if it’s too late, as if at 21 years old I’ve
already hit my peak, and that whatever I haven’t done yet will never get done. But
like Marina Keegan said, “The notion that it’s too late to do anything is
comical. It’s hilarious … We’re so young. We can’t, we MUST not lose this sense
of possibility because in the end, it’s all we have.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
So I’ve decided that it’s only half-time. I can still
win.<br />
<br />
-B.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0