pialikesowls's blog

Going into Philadelphia yesterday, I was certain that I was going to go to the Barnes Foundation, the Philadelphia Museum of Art, or both. However, plans change and time restrains. My group and I found ourselves on Walnut Street, a major shopping street in the city. While I did not get to see a Post-Impressionist painting, I did manage to purchase some clothes from Urban Outfitters, some books, tea, and perfume.

The Quiet Volume was extremely bizarre; I’m not too sure how else to explain it. It felt strange, having a man whisper instruction into my ear. Oddly enough, it did make me aware of what I wasn’t usually aware of when I’m in a library, or when I’m reading. I became conscious of the placement of my hands, the noises I was making, and what I was reading. Every flick of the nose, flip of the page, little cough was audible to the people around me.

One of the pieces that I felt connected with during my trip yesterday was Sunstein’s piece about finding serendipity. While attempting to find serendipity on the Internet might be impossible due to personalized news, it is possible to find serendipity in real life. Finding serendipity is considered old-fashioned, according to Sunstein, but in my opinion, I find it beautifully rare. A place might exist in the sense that it is a part of the city; however, coming across it might affect someone in such a way that cannot be explained.

Reading through "Taking Play Seriously" by Robin Marantz Henig, I thought about how the people my age play. The cell phone generation. I came across a quote a while ago from Jeremy Glass' blog post called "We Can't Get Lost Anymore," where he claims, "We can't jump off bridges anymore because our iPhones will get ruined. We can't take skinny dips in the ocean, because there's no service on the beach and adventures aren't real unless they're on Instagram. Technology has doomed the spontaneity of adventure and we're helping destroy it every time we google, check-in, and hashtag."

Is a city still a city if it’s considered dead? A necropolis? What is a city, exactly? There is a myriad of definitions for “city,” and due to the ambiguity and extensive possibilities, the true definition of a city will never be deciphered. That being said, while states and governments have their own meanings for what a city is, each person has their own denotation of what they think a city is. My relationship with a city stems from its history, its art, and its culture.

Coming from the truly metropolitan and thoroughly modern Singapore, I don’t feel connected with how little history, art, and culture there is. Singapore has a need to stay in the contemporary scene in almost every aspect, and doesn’t leave much room for creativity and culture. While some landmarks of certain cities are older than Singapore itself, the landmarks of Singapore are not particularly historically interesting, in my opinion. However, since Singapore is such a young country, it’s not exactly fair to compare it to a place with such old places. This being said, I yearn to live in and experience a city with history, art, and culture. This is where I turn to museums; specifically, the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

The simple thought of going through a day without some form of music frightens me. Whether I am walking to meet a friend or on the way to school, music is my companion. It is my workout partner and my study buddy. Unaccompanied by music, boredom comes too quickly in its place. This is why my profile picture is so important to me; it is of myself and my one true love, music. Specifically, Jack Steadman, the lead singer of one of my favorite bands, Bombay Bicycle Club. This was back in January of 2012, and I still consider that night to be one of the most memorable of my life. Without Jack – without music – I would be alone. Many walks would have gone unwalked, many dances gone undanced, many car rides gone unbearable and monotonous. Not only that, movies would be lacking emotion, MTV wouldn't exist, and exercise videos would just be people sweating, someone yelling, and silence.