If the latest wave of me-centric technology primes us to think of ourselves as consumers and all of life’s offerings, even love itself, as commodities we can accrue with enough cash for an eHarmony subscription, are we not like the mortals, skewered by many a Greek tragedy, who foolishly believe they’re in control of all the elements?
How are we to learn — truly learn — if not through our own mistakes? Sometimes the only real lesson is the hard lesson.
I can’t deny how catchy “We Can’t Stop Is,” but I can’t respect you as an artist in the way I respect those who do it from a place of tenderness. Music is not the business of the cruel; it is the business of the wronged.
I think that Paris may be a conspiracy to make you forget about time. Somehow I’ve forgotten to worry about or even think about it. It’s funny how time works: A whole summer of time makes you go crazy with boredom, but an hour to finish a paper kills you with stress.
Where and how does one find their anchor? When you veer from the handed-down K through college path, either by graduating or falling into an existential crisis like me, how do you go about getting back your sense of direction?
Electric. That’s what it felt like. Electric, like sitting on the beach and imagining whales ballooning in the ocean, and what the sky looked like in Melbourne. The electricity rooted in dreams of faraway places, but planted right here, in the present moment.
Summer, offering all of its temptations and incentives for career-furthering labor, may be most fruitful when it is used to do nothing at all.
Forgive me for sounding harsh, but “The Hangover III” is such an awful movie that I considered whether it even deserved a review.