China Chronicles: Assault on the Visual Sense

This post is the second in the "China Chronicles: Assault on the Senses" series (see my previous post on the auditory sense assault). ~ Be prepared for something different this time around. Think camera flashes - quick, memorable, vivid, and now preserved. ~ Collage created using Photovisi and pictures from the broken camera featured in my karma post, and my uncle's cell phone. ~

Buildings everywhere. None of that familiar Calgarian flatness - no, rather, thirty-story apartments, gigantic shopping centres fashioned in all kinds of shapes, train stations with tall clock towers proud as sentinels parading on the battlements of a strongly-defended fort... ~

Seas and seas of people. Umbrellas floating over each head like a tiny beacon - blue, purple, pink. ~ Faces rushing by. Clothes that look different, yet the same - swirling skirts, collared shirts, impossibly high heels, rainbow-hued sun visors, a Dr. Seuss quote (“Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You.”) on a white top. Bows, bangles, jade pendants, silver bracelets (one of which I am now a proud owner of). ~

Countless temples, statues, postcard-worthy scenes. ~ Click, flash, picture taken, move on. ~ Smile - your face is right next to Mao Ze Dong's! ~ Move your face a bit closer to that lion - now it looks like you're kissing its nose. ~

Flashing low battery sign. ~ Secret relief. ~ Putting down the camera, turning actual eyes onto century-old artifacts. Drinking in the sights gluttonously. ~ Tiny blue cranes fashioned on a queen's crown. ~ Lances, crossbows, arrowheads. ~ A meticulous reconstruction of an early-settlement village, complete with dozens of pointy trees and even windows in the huts, all facing towards the centre as a sign of man's first sense of community. ~

Darkness. But no - lights. Lights everywhere. ~ Flashing helicopters emitting police-like blue and red flashes as they spiral up and up and up into the sky, then float lightly down to crash gently onto the pavement, just as the eager owner runs up on his short legs and grabs the toy for another run. ~

Smoke. Twinkling strobe lights peeping through the haze, merrily calling out to tired wanderers. ~ Tanned men grilling fresh lamb kebabs, fish kebabs, vegetable kebabs. ~ Rows upon rows of food waiting to be consumed, enjoyed, licked off of greasy fingers. ~ Spices upon spices. ~ Blood red soup, with globs of crimson oil floating on top. ~

Dancing. ~ People swaying to the same beat, clapping their hands, shaking their sweaty bodies, stomping and turning and twisting. ~ Freedom, restrained into one square. ~ A sudden impulse, a rush of boldness - and then running up to join them, twirling like I know what I'm doing, laughing at my inability to keep up, smiling at the knowledge that it doesn't matter if I don't know the steps. ~ Anonymity in numbers. ~ Just another face, black hair, brown eyes, glasses. ~

Beautiful, perfect lighting in ceramic bathrooms, shining rays off of every reflective surface - which, incidentally, is every surface. Dismay at opening the first stall and finding the now-familiar hole in the ground, with the rib-like indents on the sides of the filthy ceramic toilet. ~

A whole spread of lotus leaves and flowers, bobbing gently as the motor boat sends soft ripples across the surface of the lake. ~ Strolling in a park, scabs on my knees, dirt under my fingernails, skin slowly browning. ~

An aunt, belly swollen with pregnancy. ~ An alarmingly pink newborn, tiny fingernails perfectly formed and little button nose, eyes not yet open, with the world waiting for her firsts. ~ Figuring out how to prepare infant formula, stirring as the yellowish-white powder dissolves into the hot water. ~ Some blood. ~

Chickens. Chicken poop. Sows. Barns. Hay. Ramshackle doors. ~ Makeshift locks, CO2-spewing motorbikes racing and bumping up and down hilly roads. ~ Staring up at thousands of twinkling stars and getting lost in their endless meaning, yet cold indifference. ~

Hills. Mountains. Valleys. Lakes as smooth as mirrors, deep with shades and hues of green, blue and indigo. ~ Water falling, trickling, streaming, so clear in places that each rock, fish and aquatic plant seems to have an even more distinctive outline than in the air. ~

One cousin's shy smile, another's grinning bunny imitation, complete with arms tucked close to the torso and hands bent at the wrists, just begging for a carrot to be clenched between those curved fingers. ~ A grandfather shouldering a pink backpack halfway throughout the day, looking like a pre-schooler, revisited. ~

The sky. Clouds. Above clouds. LAX, with its beautiful, interminable ocean and its thin strip of beach. ~ Landing, landing... impact. ~

Blue, red, white, yellow, orange, green. Up, side, down. A bright smile as the colours match and the Rubik's cube is solved, once again. ~

Then, suddenly - emptiness. ~ No lines to the bathroom. ~ No one pushing and crowding to be able to see the baggage carousel and claim their luggage. ~ Empty roads, open stretches of highway. ~ Home. ~ Comfort, loneliness, and familiarity. ~ What now? ~

Time to make a collage. ~

China Chronicles: Assault on the Auditory Sense

Remember the Six Senses post series I drafted up two years ago? (Wow, has it really been that long?) ~ Well, in China, I noticed some alterations/differences to my usual sensual experience. ~ Thus, here's a retake on my impression of the senses, China edition. ~ Let's do them in the same order as last time, shall we? ~

Audition. ~ This truly hit me whilst I was in Tianjin, though Beijing certainly had its fair share of noise pollution. ~ Even at around midnight, the commercial streets were a bustle of activity and people. ~ Peddlers selling their wares, children screaming in delight or anger, girls giggling over their phones, men loudly proclaiming their acts of valour or business profits of the day... It made no difference as to who I saw. ~ Then, there's sleeping - or rather, trying to fall asleep. Even on the sixth floor of an apartment building, you hear all sorts of noise traversing the polluted air to snake its way into your tender ears. ~ Most notably, of course, are the honks. ~ While I understand that honking is actually considered a kind, "polite" act in China (after all, it's a warning that will prevent you from being run over!), I still think it's excessive to blare your horn at every intersection, turn or even pause in the flow of traffic. And there must be something wrong when cars are so decrepit that they have doors that won't close properly, windows that won't roll down, and non-existent seat belts, but horns that sound as healthy as cows in their prime, demanding to be milked. ~

There's also the infamous "欢迎光临" that greets you no matter what store you step - or don't step, and merely pass by - into. This loosely translates into "welcome, customer" and sounds uncannily alike no matter who is saying it to you. ~ And the store keepers following barely half a step behind you don't take away from the Big Brother experience either. In fact, sometimes I felt myself resisting the urge to pull my phone out of my pocket to check the time merely because I was afraid of being tackled and accused of thievery if I did. ~

With all this going on, you might be wondering - how is one ever heard above this miasmic chaos of sound? ~ Not to worry - the tour guide leaders have mini speakers to travel over/add to the din. With their flawlessly memorized and delivered speeches at each tourist attraction, these people seem unfazed by anything, nearly robotic in their perfection. ~

As an aside regarding speakers here: One of my fellow Beijing adventurers bought a set of speakers that attach to any surface and transmit vibrations from a sound device, thereby amplifying the sound. ~ We had much fun testing out the amplifying power of different surfaces, and one of my most memorable experiences was strolling down the street at one in the morning, holding up a large piece of discarded Styrofoam attached to the speakers and an iPhone, blasting "Don't Stop Believing" into the pitch-black night. ~

Onto a different topic: Something else that surprised me was the sheer homogeneity of the language. ~ While I was not naive enough to expect that I would be regularly hearing English or any other foreign language on the streets of China, I had somehow developed the impression that I would feel at ease being surrounded by exclusive Chinese speakers, despite the fact that I only converse in the language with my parents. ~ Not so. In fact, after the week spent with English-speaking friends in Beijing, I discovered that I could not slip back into the Mandarin pool like the red fish I'd thought myself to be. ~ Instead, I found myself seeking any English lifeline I could. Sometimes, that included secretly shadowing tourists if I was lucky enough to hear the familiar English or French words rattle off their unsuspecting tongues. Other times, it meant delving into a bookstore and booking it (pun-intended) for the Foreign Languages section, losing myself in the works of George Orwell or F. Scott Fitzgerald. ~

Finally, there were also the numerous accents to consider. ~ I started off fairly easily - Beijing speaks Mandarin, after all. ~ Tianjin wasn't much harder to comprehend, though I was still mildly amused when I heard a middle-aged lady loudly talking in a strong accent into her phone, as mindful of the bus-full of people around her as us Calgarians are of a hailstorm in the middle of summer. ~ That's why Chengdu hit my eardrum and ear bones with such strong force. ~ The people's lilting, song-like accent seemed just beyond my grasp to understand. ~ I remember tilting my head to the side with a confused, plastered smile on my face when a waiter offered to take my offer in a restaurant. ~ Things got even worse in Gansu, where I spent two weeks with my relatives on my dad's side. ~ I became really good at holding my tongue - mainly because the only word I could contribute to any conversation seemed to be, "what?". My cousins did attempt to teach me the accent, which simply resulted in many gales of laughter and instances of mirth, albeit at my expense. ~ I didn't mind, though - after all, I can proudly say that I survived China and fit in well enough that people even came up to me to ask for directions on the streets of Tianjin and Chengdu... as long as I kept my mouth shut. ~

China Chronicles: Karma

This post is labelled as having been published on the 26th of July, despite today's actual date being the 19th of August. The reason being that the silly Chinese Internet seems to regard my blog as a profanity, choosing to block it from the general public's screen. ~ While dismayed that I couldn't post this on the proper date of its conception, I deliver to you "China Chronicles: Karma" with as much legitimacy as I can provide. ~

I haven’t really been a great proponent of the karma doctrine until recently. ~ The universe operates with a certain balance – that’s evident in the basic laws of physics, which seem to apply conservation laws to just about anything, from energy-matter to momentum. ~ Yet humans are beings with a will of their own, so shouldn’t that disrupt the natural harmonious flow of the universe? We’ve messed enough with our planet that it should be apparent we don’t always obey the natural laws to a T. ~

This last year has made me rethink karma, though. ~ A few simple things came along that suddenly shed a new light on the smallest details; yet, these are the ones that make all the difference. ~ It all started when my friend complained about too much high school drama, lamenting that everything seemed to happen to her. ~ I remarked with a quirky smile that she would regret saying that later in the year, when she would surely be bored of the lack of drama in her life. ~ Teasingly, she poked me and quipped that it was only because I had not suffered through any drama myself. ~

Those words doomed me, I am certain. ~ Right before spring break, just as I was least expecting any sort of upheaval of events in my life, karma deemed it necessary to dump a bucket of drama right on my brain. ~ I can see it crystal clear in my mind: I had just finished delivering my English IB Oral Commentary and was finally breathing a sigh of relief, looking forward to a week of being able to relax at last. ~ Then, that very evening, it all began. Like bullet shots, little doses of drama were administered here and there, until I felt myself cracking like a smashed window pane. ~ Talking to my friend again some time later, she reminded me of our previous conversation together, and I could only smile wryly and fight the urge to facepalm. ~

Karma has hit those around me, as well. ~ My dad recently bought a beautiful new Canon camera that became his pride and joy. He studied the instructions manual like it was the Bible, and he played with it with a quiet pleasure that was evident through the care and precision of his picture-taking. ~ Over and over again, he warned me to be careful when I used it, and to take care that I always had the protective wristband on so that I wouldn’t drop it. ~ Annoyed by his endless pestering, I shrugged off his advice, knowing that no harm would come to the camera in my hands. ~

Here is where the "China Chronicles" portion of this post really comes into play. ~ I visited Beijing for an entire week in July. ~ Before leaving, my dad entrusted me with his camera, holding it lovingly and advising me once again to not drop it. ~ I sighed in exasperation and promised that I would bring it back to him in one piece. ~

As predicted, the camera was still fine by the time I had traveled to Tianjin and my dad’s airplane had landed. ~ Tired of taking pictures (because in truth, I much prefer seeing things with my own eyes than through a camera lens), I gladly relinquished the prized possession to my dad. ~ This is where the karma really kicked in. ~ The day after my dad had arrived, it was burning hot outside. ~ In China, no one sane travels without a water bottle or some spare change to purchase some refreshing drink in the sweltering heat. ~ Thus it was that barely a day after the joyful camera-to-man reunion, my dad raised the camera while attempting to hold a water bottle, all in one hand. ~ I watched, ready to have my picture taken, as in seemingly slow motion, my dad’s hand slipped and the camera plummeted to the ground in one direction, while the water bottle fell in the other. ~ For an insane moment, I felt myself lunging for the water bottle first, not wishing to believe that any harm could have come to the camera – not now. ~ My dad had no such qualms. With a look of dread, he bent down to retrieve his love, heart evidently in his throat. ~ He tried opening it, but discovered with horror that the screen had cracked and the camera was speckled with little dents here and there. ~ His sadness and anger were palpable. ~ 

Despite my genuine regret and sympathy for my dad’s unfortunate turn of events, some little, mean corner deep inside of me could not help reveling in the justness of karma’s delivery. ~ Later on, when the wound no longer stung so bitterly, but had rather subsided to a dull ache, my dad admitted in a rueful tone that this seemed to be karma’s work. ~ For the rest of the trip, we made do with lower-quality cameras and cell phones, so that every blurry picture taken seemed to be some more salt sprinkled on my dad’s injury. ~ Oddly enough, knowing that karma played a role in our camera’s demise lightened the loss for me, in part because my dad seemed to feel bad enough for the both of us, but also because I reserved myself the right to whisper “I informed you thusly” to myself every once in awhile. ~

In the end, karma makes you realize that no one is infallible, and that everyone tries to hide away their weaker and darker side in order to impress. That in itself is a sign of innate vulnerability. ~ Karma evens out the suffering, but also the joy in the world, if only by that little bit. ~ No, I’m not naïve enough to believe there is equality anywhere. But karma can at least soothe our fierce burning welts with a little aloe and help make the pain of injustice a tiny bit more bearable, if only in our minds. ~

On Writing

I realize I've drafted many a post concerning this subject, but that just goes to show it's one of my favourite. ~ The source of inspiration this time was from a day spent concocting, spilling out and sealing off a long letter of reminiscence, celebration and farewell to my dear friend, CZ, who reaches adulthood much the same time as myself. As well, it's yearbook signing season, which naturally prompts one such as myself to reflect on why we have the tradition at all - namely, writing down things at the end of life stages and events. ~ For instance, when I attended Shad Valley (a lovely summer program), we had a monthbook. ~ People keep journals all the time, and our society nowadays has a puzzling need to document every single moment of its mundane life (Facebook statuses and Tweets, anyone?). ~ And naturally, what last day of high school would be complete without groups of students gathered around in circles in various areas of the school, congregating around a pile of books and pens? ~
So. Why do we write? ~ Some answers are obvious and come to mind right away. ~ To remember. That's why we take notes in class, draft grocery lists, and use day planners or Blackberries. ~ We rely less and less on our true memories. After all, the human mind is fallible, isn't it? Why bother when it's so much easier to have it remembered for us? ~
A more sentimental reason, as well. ~ We seek to leave behind a piece of ourselves - an imprint on a person, on society, on the world. ~ We all want to remember, but we also want to be remembered. ~ One thing that drives most of us to do something great with our lives is the fear of dying without having changed our little - or big, for some - corner of the world. ~ I recall a dream - nightmare, really - where I was truly certain I was going to die. The pain didn't scare me. What truly made me break out in sweat and wake up feeling sick was the fact that I realized my life still holds so much potential. ~ So much to do, so much undone as of yet. ~ Writing can help assuage some of that fear. It leaves behind something that's tangible. ~ Really, us humans are creatures of touch and sight, deep down. In a way, writing down our memories, dreams and goals is a way of being productive. There's an end result to our labours - evidence that we had these thoughts, formed them into words, and transformed them into an art form, into a different medium. ~ That's what I'm doing right now, isn't it? ~ It's partly why I blog in general. More to come on that once I finally roll around to updating the "About Me" page. ~
On emotional sentimentality... I've realized that we can write what we'd never say, or wouldn't ever be likely to say. ~ Talking is face-to-face: scary in today's society. But writing: that's different. There's a barrier, ofttimes a welcome one, that separates the giver from the receiver and allows words to come pouring forth that were previously stopped by the dam of self-consciousness. ~
Yet in another sense, writing takes bravery. ~ That precise immortalization we seek also locks our writing in, makes it last as our legacy. ~ That can be scary. ~ Though the written word can be destroyed, that's becoming harder and harder today with today's technology. ~ What we write, then, becomes what we'll be seen as in the future. We put more thought and effort into it than we do to our speech, because it's so easy to scrutinize, especially by the masses. ~
In the end, we are able to convey these last memories and thoughts in writing, despite any such fear, because finality pushes people to extremes. ~ Tying it back to yearbook signing, I'll say that I signed many a page focusing on the better moments, perhaps at the detriment of the full truth. ~ That's where the bravery comes in, I suppose. ~ Writing unembellished, frank words is so difficult when a light dusting of sugarcoating is almost effortless to apply. ~ We've have BS-ing skills pounded into us. ~ Maybe yearbook-signing time should be a chance to peel away the varnish and lay out the wood beneath, rotten as it may be. ~ It's all up to where you take your pen. ~
After this lengthy and somewhat rambling post, let me end off by saying that I've published this only because it's the last day - last hour, really - before I step truly and fully into adulthood, and that as with all good beginning and endings, I feel that familiar urge to write tugging once again at my fingertips. ~ For all the reasons I've mentioned and half dissected above, and to put a closure on affairs, I click the button. ~ Writing it down may not make it true, but seeing it on the screen or on paper is so much more real than when it's just in the mind. ~ Goodbye, childhood and teenage me. It was a good time we spent together. I know you'll be with me in this blog and in all else I've written since I first picked up that crayon to spell out my name. ~


Thanks to MT for the thoughts, comments and inspiration. ~ It's lovely to have such sharp-minded, well-spoken and smiling friends. ~

Why Physics Intimidates Me

A cute little post I found lying around in my saved posts, dating from early February. ~ The post being shown here in its mostly unedited state - just a stream of conscience that flowed from my itching fingertips - I must apologize for the poor quality of writing. ~
Admittedly, my views have changed somewhat after surviving my first-ever semester of "legit" (excuse the slang) physics, though not all too greatly, surprisingly. ~ I admit that the opinions expressed in this post are skewed somewhat by the fact that my previous physics knowledge can be condensed into one week in Science 10 pre-IB and two months in Chemistry 20 IB, under teachers who were most comfortable in the science of chemistry (obviously), yet even after having taken physics under what I consider to be an excellent teacher, for Physics 30, I can readily reassert the fact that physics should still be left to mathematical minds than my own. ~

All of the smartest people - those who are geniuses and are recognized to have off-the-chart IQs - are physicists. ~ Albert Einstein, Isaac Newton, Galileo Galilei, even the fictional Dr. Sheldon Cooper. ~ These are men society has long regarded as being the smartest of them all, so to speak. ~ The "best and brightest" of mankind. ~

Physics is also closely interrelated to mathematics - another area that intimidates me. ~ Not the basic 1+1, mind you - no; I'm talking about the abstract, "imaginative" mathematics. ~ Think of what men such as Leonhard Euler, Rene Descartes Carl Friedrich Gauss, and Gottfried Liebnitz have thought up, tested and proven - feats that I hadn't even considered, let alone would have been able to approach. ~ Also, reflect on the fact that many high school and university students have much trouble just learning these concepts - not even deducing or developing then, but merely understanding them. ~ This hints at the magnitude of these men's intelligence, creativity and imaginativeness. ~

This is evidently a biased opinion, but I believe that it takes much less intelligence to write proficiently than to develop algorithms or dream up new theories. ~ That's not saying that anyone can produce brilliant pieces of writing - that would be completely undermining the works of such men as William Shakespeare and Edgar Allen Poe, to mention just two - but I do believe that writing is a tool in everyone's box of skills that is at least present, if not sharpened. On the contrary, one does not always find the math drill or the physics saw so conveniently handy as the writing screwdriver often is. ~ In fact, these physicists and mathematicians all eventually need to draft and publish papers on their findings, and that implies having at least a solid enough knowledge of the literary arts to be able to clearly communicate their ideas. ~

(Here, I went off and had a discussion with GL, who is a whiz at physics and math, which prompted the little post-blurb found below. ~ Ah, the joys of argumentation and debating.)

Presumption: almost all of the topics worth dealing with have been addressed deeply and extensively by literature already. ~ The millions of books written on practically any and all subjects imaginable provide proof to this claim. ~ Of course, there exists future topics that will spring up depending on evolution of the earth and of the human species. Yet even these can be tied back to aspects that have already been examined. ~ Take the example of environmental concern - a subject that may seem novel to our era. ~ However, First Nations have always sensed a deep connection to nature that to them is inviolable. Does protecting the environment, with its shiny new gloss of modernism applied on, seem so new after all? ~ The point that I'm trying to get at with all of this is that writing can hardly be called novel or original anymore - at least not fully. ~ Yet mathematics and physics still continue to expand and grow into m-theory, dark matter and entropy. All this makes me feel as though literature is much more dusty and old in comparison. ~

And there you have it. Perhaps at a later date I shall write up a new and improved version of this post, or merely continue the self-debate. ~ Just a writer's whim, perhaps? ~

Bonus (or just an amusing factoid, for those who care): My physics teacher wrote up little blurbs on each of us students and showed them to us on the last day of classes. Imagine my amusement when he popped down to me:

Answer: Biology.

Question: What was [Resa's] favourite part of physics class?

Yes, just a little bias.~

Qualities

After this nearly three-month long hiatus, I've finally picked up blogging again! It feels delightful to pound out my stream of thoughts through my keyboard and onto the computer screen, listening to music and enjoying a post-exam de-stressing session. ~ But my post today is quite filled with tirades and an usually critical tone - perhaps these past few weeks of essay-writing have made me a bit too emphatic? Regardless, please read this with a fresh eye and an open spirit. ~

For some reason or another, I've had to ask people to write compliments about me quite frequently in the recent months, whether it was for reference letters, or for a simple activity. Through this unofficial surveying of ideas, I've begun to notice a trend - a saddening and bizarre trend, in fact. ~
Essentially, what other people think of as qualities, often have associated negative connotations in my mind. I've drafted up a quick list below to explain what I mean, each followed by a friendly suggested improvement. ~

Hardworking
This is a classic. A typically positive word, it can be associated to dedication, determination and detail. Yet while the latter three words paint the picture of a devoted individual, "hardworking" has always just screamed mulish, slow-witted and even a little bit daft to me. I suppose it's because I've always thought those who are smart enough, end up finding shortcuts. And yes, I know that there are no shortcuts to anywhere worth going in life. But if there's an easier option, why force yourself to follow a fruitless path of misery? No, indeed. Hardworking is just a bit too boring for me - after all, half of it is comprised of the word "working."
Instead, use disciplined. While this might seem like an even more boring word to some, in my mind, it evokes the great images of kung fu masters, who have enough self-control not to be distracted by pain or tiredness.

Smart
Ah, the ever-clever term. Should be a good thing, no? After all, we know that the pen is mightier than the sword. (Notice how I used a cliché there? That's a subtle jab at how cliché the use of the word "smart" as a compliment has become.) Who wouldn't want an employee with the brains to solve problems, or the intelligence needed to keep up with a higher-level discussion on politics?
Yet, this word is so very terribly generic, and perhaps worse, unspecific. What type of smart? Book-smart, street-smart, EQ-smart? Because all of these are very distinct things, and each with a very different connotation. Book-smart screams nerd, whereas street-smart or EQ-smart draws up a portrait of a bad-boy wearing shades and cruising down the street in his shiny red car, smiling a cocky smile and nodding with condescension at the book-smart boy with the glasses and the untucked shirt clutching his books and staring in undisguised awe at the passing image of glory. Far-fetched? Perhaps, but not as much as I'd like to think.
Instead, use bright or witty. The first has a touch of precocity within it, whereas the second hints at a subtle, perhaps sarcastic, humour. And we all do love that sarcasm.

Interesting
This one is perhaps the worst of the bunch. "Interesting." It's the default word - the word we fall back on when nothing else will fit. In essence, it's an untailored, ill-fitting garment thrown upon a person; it'll do, but not well. Besides, how many times have we ourselves said, "that's very... interesting," with a slight touch of uptalk at the end of the phrase, when grasping for a nice compliment when some poor friend tells a lame story or makes an ill-suited remark?
Instead, use fascinating. It shows that you're more than interested - in fact, you're captivated; your attention has been grasped. In addition, just saying the word itself is delicious - it forces you to open your mouth in an "ah" shape, whereas you can get by with mumbling an "interesting" if need be.

I hope you're beginning to understand at least a bit the point that I'm trying to get across. Naturally, I don't expect you to suddenly associate these terms with negativity - indeed, you shouldn't, because most of society doesn't, and I'm an exception. But the next time you give a compliment or help someone out with their resume, take a step back and question yourself - just how much do we rely on these tired, washed-up old words of "quality"? ~

The Wars, Part Twelve

Last part! ~ Start at Part One to "get the full experience." ~

So, this... is the end. ~ A very optimistic and hope-filled ending, no? ~ "Unwritten." Introduced to most of us through that delightful Pantene commercial ages ago, this song by the lovely Natasha Bedingfield has always enchanted me with its upbeat tempo and joy-filled sounds. ~ Here, I've used it to bring light back into the playlist, and instill in the listener and reader a sense of a better future out there, if only one will persevere. ~ Hopefully, this won't take away from the rest of the content, and that rather, the contrast here highlights the fact that despite all of war's toils and troubles, there can still be light at the end of the tunnel, even though the trip through that tunnel might be painfully twisted and hazardous. ~

To break this influence and to rebuild a connection with society, individuals must find a new purpose to replace that of fighting in a war in order to diminish the focus on war within their mind.

Unwritten, by Natasha Bedingfield:

[Verse 1]
I am unwritten,
Can't read my mind
I'm undefined
I'm just beginning
The pen's in my hand
Ending unplanned

[Chorus 1]
Staring at the blank page before you
Open up the dirty window
Let the sun illuminate the words
That you could not find
Reaching for something in the distance
So close you can almost taste it
Release your inhibitions

[Chorus 2]
Feel the rain on your skin
No one else can feel it for you
Only you can let it in
No one else, no one else
Can speak the words on your lips
Drench yourself in words unspoken
Live your life with arms wide open
Today is where your book begins
The rest is still unwritten, yeah

Oh, oh

[Verse 3]
I break tradition
Sometimes my tries
Are outside the lines, oh yeah yeah
We've been conditioned
To not make mistakes
But I can't live that way oh, oh

[Chorus 1]

[Chorus 2, repeat]

[Chorus 1, gospel style]

[Chorus 2, repeat]

The rest is still unwritten (repeat)

Lyrical Content

In Unwritten, several months have passed since the individual has returned home from the war. He has continually attempted to readapt to civilian life, combating alienation and the pull of violence, and has finally begun to come to terms with the suffering he has endured in the war by immersing himself in a newfound passion: writing. He describes himself as an “unwritten” book, using this metaphor to convey the sense that he is attempting to start his life anew. This echoes the lyrics “Time still turns the pages of the book it’s burned,” from the song “So Far Away,” during which the individual suffered from emotional pain due to facing the many deaths caused by the war. Now, the individual attempts to use “the pen […] in his hand” to write out his experiences on the “blank page before [him],” in order to “release [his] inhibitions” – namely, the pent-up anger, depression and sadness caused by his war experience. He admits that sometimes “[he] break[s] tradition” and that “[his] tries / Are outside the lines,” yet because of his grueling experiences, he “can’t live” without “mak[ing] mistakes,” for it is only ignoring society’s conventions and putting words to his pain-filled memories of war that he can make peace with himself. Because the individual became “undefined” as he lost his identity in the war, he now desires to open himself up to the light and “let the sun illuminate the words / That [he can] not find,” thereby stepping out of the darkness that the war has imposed upon him.

Auditory Elements

The melody has an optimistic quality to it that reflects the lyrics’ hopeful nature. The pop style evokes a lighter mood and joyful, celebratory tone that contrasts with the previous songs chosen.

In Chorus 2, more voices join the singer, conveying the sense that the individual is no longer alone, and that he is receiving support from society at last thanks to his new-found passion of writing about his experiences. Throughout Chorus 2, the individual gains the sense that he should appreciate being alive and “live [his] life with arms wide open,” because peace was worth fighting for only if those who remain take advantage of it.

The last rendition of Chorus 1 is sung in gospel-like style, furthering the idea that a large group is supporting and even encouraging the individual’s attempts at writing in order to express his emotions and thereby release them, leading him to find joy in the world once more.