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On Tuesday evenings, I sit in a classroom with twenty-some students and a librarian. While we chat, the room remains quiet. Our hands say: how are you? Exhausted. (Two clenched fists, releasing outwards with an exhale as the shoulders slump). Last week, a classmate shared that they saw an alligator eat a chihuahua down the street. Jaw drop! They explain: I live in Florida.
Tsundoku is the art of buying books and leaving them unread, or the pile of unread books themselves.
A teenager exaggerates their grossed-out expression. They mouth along to the trending sound of a Korean-accented voice saying, “ah disgusting naemse ganayo… disgusting shet.” The video is overlaid with text reading: “POV: you took a break from Kdramas to watch an American show but it’s the first episode and they’re already having seggs.”
All chat names come with good reason. Every so often, four friends and I text each other in our iMessage group Dystopian Plots. While nobody dwells on this name nowadays, it originated from a lengthy conversation during last year’s (excuse for a spring break marked on calendars as) “Wellness Day.”
Rembrandt! Van Dyck! Goya! Degas! These names sang gloriously in their gold plaques on filigree frames. I couldn’t help but stare a little harder at these paintings shining in their auras of fame, the large and gently cracked faces holding my attention as I attempted to decipher how these paintings made the painter who they are today. I stared especially hard at Rembrandt’s 1658 self-portrait which caught me by surprise, his deep gaze piercing into mine after I rounded a corner on the second floor. I had no idea this iconic piece belonged to the Frick Collection, and around every turn and upon entry into each new room, another pair of awe-inspiring, oil-on-canvas eyes bore into mine.
Through the mind of Scout Finch, Harper Lee wrote: “Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing.”
Three weeks ago, I finally got around to reading Obama’s A Promised Land. Being, as my 8th grade teacher proclaimed, a “voracious reader” — I call myself an “unpicky reader” — I’ve recently picked up books with hopes to gain a stronger foundation in political discourse. My whole life, I’ve been consuming literary content, so college, I decided, is prime time for me to read and articulate my own opinions on, you know, relevant important things. A book by our nation’s first black president seemed like a good place to start.
Last October, inspired by artist Kip Fulbeck, I wrote an article in which I interviewed five Duke individuals on a search for the intersection between “inking and identity.” After interviewing one professor, three students with tattoos, and one without, I concluded simply that tattoos are outlets of self-expression, ways for people to bare their internal stories to the world.
Wash! Wash!
This Saturday, New York City was vibrant as ever. I reconnected with a middle-school classmate at Columbia midday, met a mutual friend on their Low Library steps, then rode Line 1 to K-town for dinner with another friend from NYU. It’s impossible not to feel alive then, splendidly uplifted, swept into the glamour of a city at night amongst laughing couples, businessmen and fashionistas, mills of friends passing unassuming drug dealers (marijuana smoke hangs heavy where Broadway meets 6th St).
Content warning: this column contains references to suicidal ideation and suicide.
Though my parents beg to disagree, I’ve always seen tattooing as a form of self expression. Therefore I was incredibly inspired when, a couple weeks back, artist Kip Fulbeck came to speak with my FOCUS Discussion Course on a Monday evening. While we significantly spent time learning about his largest project Hapa.me, he spoke tangentially about another past project he completed titled “Permanence.” As the title of his project and this article may suggest, he photographed and interviewed his subjects, compiling his collection into a book.
On Wednesday, Sept. 23, in the year 2020, I woke up to the grimly familiar feeling of a runny nose. Having already dismissed the itch in the back of my throat from the past two days as the universal autumn-temperature-drop throat itch, I found myself unable to ignore this dreaded drip.
“You don’t know if they exist… it could be a coordinated prank,” my friend Henry responded when I asked him what his thoughts were on the concept of morning people.
Falling down the rabbit hole of DukeGroups, I land on an image of a spread of cards.
Sunday night before FDOC, I watched "Interstellar" with a few friends in Trinity’s movie theater. I was extremely drawn into the movie with a plot so seemingly bizarre yet authentic enough to become the tenth-highest-grossing film when it premiered in 2014.
