Student 24's blog

The article about the development and expanse of coffee houses and cafes on the Mainline reminded me of a coffee house to which I went in New Orleans, where there was an open-mic event, followed by a singer-songwriter's concert.

I decided to look up open-mic events in Philly, but none take place during the day on Saturday.

I thought about slam poetry events as well, but, again, no luck in finding something for this Saturday.

So, I thought I could look up some interesting coffee houses. I found a couple, and I think I'd most like to check out One Shot Coffee, at 217 W George St.

I don't even like coffee. I'm a tea person, but regardless, I do like spending time in cafes reading and writing. Of course, it is a pretty typical place to sit and write poetry, but I sure would like - and desperately need - a poetic escape of some sort for part of a day. 

It's quite soothing of an atmosphere, having the hum of coffee making machines and the buzz of conversation around... it's a nice space for your mind to bounce around and latch onto a word you might happen to hear someone say, or an image in a photograph on the wall... Anything.

I'm also a fan of meeting new people, so I'm looking forward to the opportunity of striking up a conversation with a stranger, if it seems like a reasonable thing to do at the moment.

So, yes. I hope to go to the One Shot Coffee cafe when in Philadelphia this weekend.

There are a few places where I want to take this paper. We’ll start briefly in a city: Philadelphia. And then we’ll go to another city: Nairobi. And then into some playful, less familiar, far less appealing, but ultimately unavoidable terrain -- simply due to the fact that the world has taken us into this direction and it would be foolish to ignore or underestimate its gravity and relevance in our everyday lives. Because, after all, with what are we left at the end of the day other than our everyday lives? It would, no doubt, serve us well to place our concerns in the big picture of a communal everyday life.

I haven’t yet gone to any markets in Philadelphia, but I know that there are some major, historically-significant markets around the city. I’ve heard they’re fun, cute, artsy - what have you - but I’ve been to my fair share of markets around the world so I don’t yet feel a particular urgency to see more. Markets can be many things (to those other than the sellers), but mainly they are a consumer’s form of entertainment and leisure, effectively through their engagement with a capitalist economy or market system. Producers and sellers make attractive their product or the experience of its purchase, thus encouraging active and enjoyable participation in the market - arguably, a form of play, be it consciously or otherwise.

https://soundcloud.com/fenceless/julia-of-eyes-mosaic

This is a link to my mosaic, an audio track, which I created and posted onto my Soundcloud page, soundcloud.com/fenceless.

Best enjoyed through ear/headphones.

I walk downstairs to the washroom in the Free Library in Philadelphia, because I still have a few minutes before the fringe festival performance begins. The washroom is nothing spectacular. There are six or seven stalls on the left-hand side, and a few sinks installed into the wall on the right. There isn't much light because probably this is basement level so the window on the opposite end of the washroom isn't all too effective.

I go into the third stall. There is no latch on the door; instead, the hole where the latch should have been is stuffed with a thick wad of toilet paper. It holds the door closed so I don't mind.

There is a woman in the stall to my left. She is sobbing. I don't know if she is standing or sitting, but she is shuffling her feet nervously. And she is sobbing, mumbling in a panicky voice. I can't understand everything she says because it doesn't seem to all be in English. But I can hear her words – between sharp, ragged breaths – that nobody knows, don't nobody know. Nobody.

And her voice sounds like pain and fear. Airy, high and small. Choking and weary and trembling. Small.

And I can't say anything. I can't ask her what is wrong or if there is any way I can help. There is much more than just the wall of a bathroom stall between us. I leave my stall, walk to the sinks and wash my hands. The woman is still in the stall, crying, speaking to herself as I dry my hands and walk outside. And that is that. I remain simply with the voice and tearful, frightened words of a faceless woman in a stall next to mind.

I didn't find Henig's article to be overly revolutionary in terms of how I personally view the act of play, but it definitely diverted my attention to something which, upon some thought, is more disturbing than all the frightening and awful things we realise that kids do and say to each other when they play. Bullying, name-calling, fighting, lying... it is certainly really terrifying to see that children have it in them to truly be so mean...

And yet, there is not the same let-down, horror, or shock when adults behave in the same, or worse, manner. What brought this to my attention was the ease and calmness with which the lab tests and brain surgeries and experiments on rats were described. I took a moment to step back and look at the situation.

Adults collecting and breeding rodents. Controlling the environment in which they are raised. Slicing open their brains, poking around inside their little craniums – and why? Because “science demands that if there are important long-term benefits to play, they must be demonstrated.”

“That is why studies of play-deprived rats are so fascinating.”

I don't have a photograph.

I mean, I could have one if I wanted, but I am terrible at making decisions. I couldn't possibly choose one photo from one city, from one home, from one chapter in my life and use it to illustrate how it shapes me and my mentality.

It is precisely my indecision that depicts the impact my life has had on my mentality. I don't want to have to choose, and deny all the other pieces of myself.

Richmond, Virginia

I'm seven years old. I go to a public school in the Fan district. My best friend, Grace, and I like to do silly things around the neighbourhood. Because we have no reason not to. We pick flowers that grow in the cement cracks in the alleyways. We crush the petals and mix them with her mother's expensive perfume, some lemon juice, a bit of white, silky hair conditioner, and other things that smell nice. Then we pour and distribute the ambiguously-aromatic concoction into ten red, plastic cups and place them neatly on a tray.

Our plan is to go from door to door around the block and sell as many of our perfume cups as we can. Prices are flexible, we decide beforehand. When a woman answers the door, we use our amateur entrepreneurial talents to convince her that smelling beautiful is being beautiful and we are just the two people who can make that happen for her. When a man answers the door, we improvise and explain the perfume cups also function as air fresheners and would make even the most odorous of rooms smell divine beyond belief, as is very likely the case.

I'm an absurdist. I'm also a musician and my stage/performance name is The Fenceless. The photo I've chosen illustrates a phrase that inspired me to choose this stage name, which goes along with my personalised definition of absurdism, in which I believe anything is meaningless, so therefore anybody has every right to assign anything any function or meaning they choose. I took this photo while on a trip to Northern Kenya two years ago, and it is of a chicken perched comfortably on a fence made of sticks. It just happens to illustrate a phrase that I heard for the first time this past year during a debate in my literature class. One of the students couldn't pick a side in the debate, and he said he was “sitting right on the fence” about it. That stuck in my mind, and irked me because of its discomforting connotations about limitation in expression and choice-making. It didn't bother me in the context of the present discussion, but in issues in life in general, when people take opinions on “current issues” or make statements about “right” or “wrong.” I haven't fully thought out my philosophy about this to a point where I can eloquently present it, but it goes something along the lines of working towards the removal of the ability to separate opinions or stances, therefore eliminating the issue to which it pertains. I think that separation of parties is what contains and fosters the glaring dynamic for having a conflict in the first place. I don't like homogeneity. I like contrast, mix, and confusion. I don't like fences. I like open spaces which allow liberty and motion.