English

I think when it comes to creating a platform for conversation, there are many aspects to remain mindful of to ensure some sort productive dialogue. However, even that phrase, “productive dialogue”, I feel can have a layered meaning.  Sometimes, even an incredibly problematic, unproductive, skewed, or even downright absurd dialogue in regards to any topic, not just meat-eaters vs. vegetarianism, can have so much value. I find value in knowing how I don’t want certain conversations to go. I find value in having experiences that make me realize what I think isn’t right, or productive, or problematic. For example, I read the The Lives of Animals with Jenna, and whenever we would get to a part the either shocked us, bothered us, intrigued us, etc, we would show one another and discuss it.  Through trying to follow Elizabeth’s argument and point of view, and disagreeing and feeling frustrated at points with the strange deadlock dichotomy between vegetarianism and meat-eaters, I was able to gather and form my own ideas in where I could perhaps place myself on this spectrum of this debate.  I agree with Kelsey’s sentiments of perhaps we place too much emphasis on dialogue sometimes, and perhaps in a way where the emphasis is more so on the end result of the dialogue, rather than the experience itself. Simply reading this excerpt, “However, there are still animals we hate. Rats, for instance. Rats haven’t surrendered. They fight back.

When reading "The Land and Language of Desire" and thinking of how it would be possible to "collapse the distinction between nature and textuality", I kept reflecting back to my Eco-Artist Ian Hamilton Finlay and the ways in which he weaved language into his art, bringing together two very different disciplines into one object. The art and literature were seamlessly weaved together in such a way it was hard to find any distinction between art/landscape and the language and poetry he used in his work. I also thought about John Dixon Hunt's quote about Finlay's work, specifically that "the ideal gardner is the poet". How can we see post-structuralism and nature/the land as more porous to one another? As Campbell states " what makes one of us care about textuality, where another cares about the land?" (134). Both studies and writing about land and language have inherent value, but should there always be a distinction between them? When should we make them porous to one another? When should they be made to be separate units of study? And who should decide?

I’ve been here before.

There is a sense of excitement that accompanies encountering the familiar, paralleled by discontentment at being unable to articulate the vague and seemingly random connection I am feeling...

I felt it even as we drove to our destination, passing the rooftops of buildings in Manayunk. Manayunk, which according to Wikipedia, literally translates from the Lenape language as, “place to drink.” It was their word for River. I take note of the tall sign that marks a movie theatre. It is also the sign I look for to indicate the entrance to a small outlet containing a liquor store.

“Place to drink” was indeed my experience with Manayunk this past summer, though I recognize that the Lenape Indians and I most likely have different interpretations of the word “drink.” 

I’ve been here before.

We step out of the vans and the sense lingers. Anticipation holds a sense of remaining unfulfilled… Is that what this unease is, being unable to place a finger on how you know a place or why you know it?

"Are we really still in Pennsylvania?" I kept asking. "This place has been here for the past four years?" I found it hard to believe. Wissahickon holds the kind of beauty that in my mind is reserved for mountains of Colorado or West Virginia. Or, at the very least, rural-rural PA. But not Philly. Not Germantown. Not 20 minutes away from the place I've been living for the past four years of my life. For me, Bryn Mawr has never been a place to be connected to nature, to escape from the developed world. I suppose I've tried a couple times - sitting quietly at the labyrinth and lookin at the sunset, pretending the grass around me wasn't perfectly groomed and ignoring Rhoads and the vast athetic fields stretched out before me. The back porch of Batten offers a beautiful view into the woods, but just beyond that is a big road and it's hard to block out the noises of cars zooming past. The stars are somewhat visible at night, but not to a large degree, what with all the light pollution from the city and suburbs. I've resigned myself to a life without much connection to nature whenever I'm at school.

I've been to the Wiss twice before, though only in the summer, and both times during the cross country pre-season. The whole team–at least those who could run–piled into the BMC athletic vans for a morning run along the trails. I remember covering a good five-six miles, climbing up hillsides, jumping rocks, skirting tree branches and hurtling small streams, cursing the hills for being so steep only to feel the elation of finally cresting the top. Rain aside, the Wiss was just as gorgeous coming back in the spring as it was in the summer and I did enjoy my time there. At the same time, however, I could not help but feel my own limitations. I wanted to climb to the top if the rock formations, to run up the trails as they spiralled higher and higher till they reached the top of one slope, only to find another slope still left to summit. I wanted to run like I had so many months ago; to take in the fresh air, the dirt, the rocks, the trees, the river; to feel that same freeing happiness I remembered. Yet this time around, it felt like I was watching myself and my classmates enjoy the experience, like there was a wall separating me from everything else. Maybe it's just the concussion talking, and regardless I loved being outside and escaping the confines of my dorm room, but I couldn't help but feel that something was missing...

There was a point on our hike that struck me, where we crossed a bridge and climbed up a hill and looked out at tbe view of where we had just stood on the bridge. So much of life feels like that; so often you get used to one perspective, only to then discover the fleetingness of any one 'phase' in life, and promply move on, only able look back at where you were, but never again experience its perspective. Makes me think of Joni Mitchell...

And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We're captive on the carousel of time
We can't return we can only look
Behind from where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game

I'm walking through the trails- conversations in the background fading away in the distance as my lense focuses more and more on what my eyes lock on to. It fascinates me how perspectives can differ so much on where you stand, everything dependent on an angle. As I walked through the Wissahickon Valley, I'd take several pictures from different angles. Some were standing up, others squatting, and even making weird neck movements. Every picture captured something different. We take for granted light and air, the simple things in life yet they're what makes us exist. They're what made every scene uplifting...every picture different...every experience worth breathing. 

I'm walking through the trails- conversations in the background fading away in the distance as my lense focuses more and more on what my eyes lock on to. It fascinates me how perspectives can differ so much on where you stand, everything dependent on an angle. As I walked through the Wissahickon Valley, I'd take several pictures from different angles. Some were standing up, others squatting, and even making weird neck movements. Every picture captured something different. We take for granted light and air, the simple things in life yet they're what makes us exist. They're what made every scene uplifting...every picture different...every experience worth breathing. 

I'm walking through the trails- conversations in the background fading away in the distance as my lense focuses more and more on what my eyes lock on to. It fascinates me how perspectives can differ so much on where you stand, everything dependent on an angle. As I walked through the Wissahickon Valley, I'd take several pictures from different angles. Some were standing up, others squatting, and even making weird neck movements. Every picture captured something different. We take for granted light and air, the simple things in life yet they're what makes us exist. They're what made every scene uplifting...every picture different...every experience worth breathing. 

"I've had thoughts but not written anything. I am happy and at peace, though, so it's alright. I am tired and don't want to find problems." That's all I wrote in the pocket notebook I carried all day with me on our trip in Wissahickon. I feel like I always push myself to try and find issues with things; keep myself from totally enjoying an experience. But cynicism is exhausting, and I was truly happy during our trip - I don't want to steer away from that. Perhaps, though, I don't know how to write about happiness?

Being content isn't triggering enough to get me to write. Is that okay?

Would we be in school if everything in the world was right, and everyone was happy? Would we learn about economics if the system was working smoothly and had no problems? Can you write a novel without the conflict, struggle, and difficulty that lead to resolution, or some sort of conclusion?

I don't really have much to say.