Ryan Huemmer, Boston University
L: Living in all three planes
A: Action Drives
B: Bound and Unbound Flow
A: Accessing the totality of the Kinosphere
N: Never stop moving in new ways
B: Beach Boys
U: Unleashing your inner Sexy Salamander
T: Testing your physical limitations
O: Oscillating between over theatricality
H: Hometown Inspiration
I am infatuated with your textures,
Your air, your space.
Until I first saw your tramonto,
How could I know I had lived colorblind?
Above all else,
I will keep these vibrant colors,
Michela Macalizio, Boston University
I’ve been here as long as anyone (except the full-years, teachers, and staff) but I still have questions.
Does anyone read the blog?
Which is older – the villa itself or the memes that decorate it?
Is the limo really as dirty as it seems or is it all *~theater magic~*?
Or better yet: Dad?
Why are the frogs suicidal here?
Are half smiles to optimists half frowns to pessimists?
Either way, they’re half attractive. So knock it off.
WHO WROTE THIS?
“The first World War. Referred to fondly as “the war to end all wars” , a saying which has now been proven to be complete bollocks, excuse the expression. When Woodrow Wilson said “Life does not consist in thinking, it consists in acting.” he certainly believed it, allowing 4,355,000 soldiers to “act” in this fatal farce. (After, of course, letting the Europeans have a go at it for about four years) Losing around 35% of our soldiers, we returned to find that we were no better or worse off which is more than could be said for Europe. It was also, might I add, the beginning of what I fondly refer to as “The swelling period” in which America bloats a hundredfold, gluttonizing and gorging itself on national pride and the power we obviously deserved. (A note to the reader: The last point should be read saturated with sarcasm. As should the next three points. Thank you) We definitely saved the day on this one, chaps. We were never pussy-footing about it at all, we knew what we wanted and we bided our time, and with precision determined the best course of action. Yay America!
With the venom successfully milked from my fangs, allow me, dear reader, to direct my sorrows towards Europe. (A note to the reader: I, having extremely limited knowledge on this subject and simply using it as an excuse to postpone writing an actual essay, apologize in advance for any fabricated, falsified, ignorant, informal or vulgar statements to proceed. Thank you.) My condolences go to the brave subjects of Europe and elsewhere. The whole “total war” thing really was a bummer. Ladies, to have to send off your men resigned to the prospect of probably never seeing them again, save an arm or other appendage, must have been a harrowing excursion, to say the least. (Still, must have been a grand time to be a lesbian.) And gentlemen, to have to be sent off by your ladies who were resigned to the prospect of probably never seeing you again, save an arm or other appendage, must have been a bit disturbing. (Again, great to be a gay gentleman.) And children, you had no idea what the fuck was going on, I’m sure. I, never have been drafted and never (probably)((Hopefully)) going to be, would be in such a fragile state of mind I would possibly consider not going at all, claiming some sort of ridiculous ailment. (Scurvy or Leprosy, perhaps. Always been fond of those.) But not these sturdy European gentlemen! No, sir! (Maybe I’d make one up…like “post-drafting fragility syndrome” or “frooglenosh”. Sounds dreadful.) You marched into battle, heads as high as you could get them without having them blasted clean off, not knowing where you were or why exactly but having drums in your feverish blood (ouch) and that wonderful adage “Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.” Whatever the hell that means. (“Oh, my dear sir! Are you not to be joining us considerably non-pussylike gentlemen in a jolly battle?” “No, no…I’m afraid I’ve come down with a rather foul case of frooglenosh”)
Now, now, my sweet readerkins (May I call you “Sweet readerkins?”) we must not forget the reason the whole snit started. I believe all those centuries of feigned politeness and gossiping behind one another’s backs began to take its toll, and all that sexual tension (territorial tension, sorry) between the Great Powers was rather eroding….”
Turns out I wrote that shit in 8th grade. Why, dude?
I’m people sick more than home sick, but can people be home?
Will we ever escape the power of our pasts or will it always keep me up at night?
How do I make the perfect pair of jeans so I don’t have to make more disappointing trips to Target?
Is there a Target in Italy?
Do the french call it “tar-jay” like a mom?
Why is pasta so good, and why did it decide to be bad in huge quantities?
Do the walls get painted here or are the windows left open and the yellow color is all pollen?
Do I have any reason to be so scared?
I found a frog, it died in my hands, Send prayers to Squish the frog.
Somewhere in the wall on the way down the hill I put a dead bird into a hole. If you can find it I’ll give you a prize.
Does anyone read the blog?? Hello, you lonely soul.
Being here is hard. Not challenging, but taxing for sure. My soul is tired. I want to move more. I miss who I was.
And yet, and yet, it’s awe-some. Awe-ful. I’m awed. I will forever know what it is to miss this place, these people.
I wouldn’t have gotten that sorrow if I hadn’t come here. How unique.
Hope your day is going well.
Madison Dickson, Goucher College