I.
Marching in the snow, tire marks
breaking ice shales, this is Siberia in lucid sleep,
in the gallop of steam & horns.

II.
I must be a mammoth once wedded to ice,
I am as old as the whipping storms.
There is no Venus in the morning sky, pines
growing wet with mercury—
when the whiteness leaves, another comes
with the promise of a crow.

III.
I feel a bulldozer in the distance, a simian groaning
with mouthfuls of salt;
I taste the earth behind it, I lick the wounds.

IV.
Over the slumping of ice grains on sand, a tusk of magnolia
juts from the sun,
abandons her tracks on the cobbled waves.
The water swallows her.
She is not hungry, but she lives
& primal, her lips try hunger.

V.
I send emptiness to that other coast—
a floating rubber pail.
I give what lives to the basin edge: silence & its waterbed.

By this hostel for the fins—infantry of the feathered flock,
I dig a nest for the flipper breed.
When I tire & the tides grow limbs,
I will gestate beneath the fog, in the infinite rinds
of this winter, this gathering in the womb.

I am not the first person to feel that a certain text—whether it be poem, novel, myth, or just about anything else—possesses, as a kind of quasi-mystical twin, a perfect musical pairing. Some people in the past have felt so strongly about this that they actually took the time to write the music themselves (for some reason, Scheherazade keeps coming to mind), but, lacking such compositional skills, I have been forced to confine my searches to the realm of pre-existing music. Which brings me to the pairing which I am about to suggest.

But first, let me give you some little idea about the context in which I first read Wallace Steven’s Sunday Morning. Still struggling to sort out how I ought to view my life in a post-theistic state of mind, I had come across Phillip Larkin’s poem, Aubade. It is, by all accounts, an absolute gem—how else to describe a poem which, without blinking, swallows lines like “Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,” and “Death is no different whined at than withstood” ? Not exactly the stuff that happiness in made of. But then, I came across Stevens. It would be difficult to overestimate the effect that these lines had on me:

Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be
The blood of paradise? And shall the earth
Seem all of paradise that we shall know?
The sky will be much friendlier then than now,
A part of labor and a part of pain,
And next in glory to enduring love,
Not this dividing and indifferent blue.

Here was a visionary (and I do not use the word lightly) who could perceive as possible the fruition of all human longing for paradisiacal fulfillment—and perceive it, moreover, in a world with a human sky. This, my friends, was a moment of joy.

And now, cue the music. In the year 1958, the Brazilian musician Antonio Carlos Jobim collaborated with the poet and lyricist Vinicius de Moraes to write a song which, in the skillful hands (and iconic voice) of João Gilberto, would become popularized as one of the earliest manifestations of a style soon to be known as Bossa Nova. The song, Chega de Saudade, is not something to be missed. Its lyrics describe the intense and painful longing (saudade, which many say is untranslatable) one lover feels when separated from the other, and the imagined ecstasy of their future reunion. Its music, which floats along with Bossa Nova’s characteristic lightness, begins in minor during the ‘tristeza’ section, but halfway through, it shifts to major with the words, “But if she comes back…what a beautiful thing.” I cannot do justice to the way the ears are uplifted by this brightening. It is never overwhelming—Bossa Nova rarely is—but it’s certainly difficult to feel the change without smiling.

I can just imagine Stevens’ woman of Sunday Morning, nested contemplatively among the “pungent oranges and bright, green wings,” hearing Gilberto’s voice wafting over from the next room: late coffee and oranges, and Chega de Saudade. Among all the music with which I am familiar, there is little else that can evoke so effortlessly for me those words, “But in contentment I still feel the need of some imperishable bliss.” Few other songs make me so happy to spurn Augustine and fall more deeply into the things of this world. In their own way, those wonderful Brazilians have ‘stray[ed] impassioned in the littering leaves,’ enshrining, with Stevens, the delicious temerity of human longing.

Let it be known that I had a Korean-food themed New Year’s Eve party in the works WAY before Kim Jong Il decided to ruin it all and make me look completely tasteless. Instead of re-theming the menu, I’ve decided to embrace the indelicacy and GO ALL OUT! As such, you are cordially invited to a…

GEOPOLITICALLY TACKY NEW YEAR’S EVE PARTY!!!!!!!!!

Have you ever wondered if you’d make the same dirty jokes at a party if you knew you were being wiretapped? Do you have a burning desire to know what a “Fascist Party Favor” is? Do you ever wonder what kind of tattoo (butterfly, heart, or tramp stamp?) your favorite dictator sported on his hiney? Have you ever had the urge to play a game of “Pin the Mustache on the Dictator” or “Spin the Molotov Cocktail?”

Well then, this is the (AUTOCRATIC) PARTY FOR YOU!!!!!!!

The Date: 31^st of December
The Time: 8 o’clock in the P.M.
The Place: Your nearest bunker
The Dictatorial Details: There will be no uprisings at this party. So check your free thought and speech at the door with your coats. In fact, this whole party’s going to be censored, kind of like the rest of this sentence dissentious a material in dissentious material and that’s when she dissentious material dissentious for material by dissentious material or dissentious material to dissentious with material then dissentious material.

Potential Party Games include Fascist Family Favorites like….

• Musical Electric chairs™ – where the winner is the person who doesn’t get a chair
• Totalitarian Telephone™ – a game of censoring sentences beyond recognition
• Francisco…. Franco! ™ – a version of the popular “Marco… Polo!”
• Stoning, Firing Squad, Guillotine™ – a delightful modification of “Rock, Paper, Scissors”
• Spot the Informant ™– a variant on “Where’s Waldo?”
• Truth or Dare… on the RACK. ™
• Socialist Charades™
• Knock in the Night™ – Followed by a game of “Hide and Go Seek.”

How to Best Prepare for this Party…

1. Come dressed as your favourite dictator! Need inspiration? Here’s a list…

• “Don’t disrupt me, I’m anachronistically playing the Four Seasons on my violin… also it’s getting a little hot in here, someone turn down the thermostat” Nero (Roman Empire)
• “Broseph” Joseph “I mustache you to join the Communist Party” Stalin (Soviet Union)
• Adolf “I keep my mustache this short because I get embarrassing amounts of schnitzel stuck in it if it’s any longer” Hitler (Third Reich, Nazi Germany)
• Emperor “My skin grafting operation didn’t go as well as expected” Palpatine (The Galactic Empire)
• Benito “I actually prefer coffee, please stop asking me to tea” Mussolini (Fascist Italy)
• Napoleon “my sideways hat is almost as obnoxiously large as my ego” Bonaparte (Post-Reign of Terror France)

2. Design a unique commemorative mustache for Kim Jong Il. Help the recently departed dictator join the impressive mustachetorial ranks of his fellow autocratic rulers (see: Stalin and Hitler).

Still thinking of joining a different party? I have testimonials…

“They rang in the New Year with absolutely no tact at all.” – The New York Times

“I felt invigorated to join a Totalitarian party after playing ‘Spot the Informant.’” – The LA Times

R.S.V.P. … or else

xoxoxoxoxoxox,

Comrade Weston

On Sunday night, facing the truth that over 45 cumulative pages of final papers were calling my name, I swore off of Facebook.

Actually, “swore off” isn’t the right phrase. It implies that I have a measure of self-control, that I could distinguish myself from my legions of friends who complain, “I’m wasting time on Facebook! It’s such a time suck!” even while they… continue to waste time on Facebook, papers and projects languishing all the while. I forced myself off of Facebook, was more like it. Instead of signing a mental pact with myself or deactivating my account – which I theoretically could have just reactivated anyway – I handed my password over to my sister, had her change it, and then washed my hands of the whole thing.

Now, the obvious risks of such a move aside, I’ve been feeling surprisingly relieved. Even if my paper-writing hits a wall and I want to defer the strain (i.e., procrastinate) by taking a peep at my news feed, I can’t. My most recent status – telling my friends to text or email or come find me if they need me – is still there, gathering comments and “likes” for all I know. And I’ve been reflecting on what drives the text-based attraction of Facebook in the first place.

I was not someone who joined Facebook willingly. Even while my high school friends professedly used the website every night, I wrote my papers, wrote for fun, chatted with my family, read novels, and went to bed early. I admit it: I was antisocial, unwilling to become digitally active until the end of my freshman year at Stanford, when someone pointed out to me that if there was a venue for making more connections with people, I should use it. And then I discovered something else. For someone who considers herself an introvert, being social (or believing that I was social to some extent) became as easy as what I already enjoyed most: reading and writing. Through the interface of text, a medium which I already understood, I could appear to have a lively social life on the interwebz, all while protecting myself from the uncertainty of seeing other people face-to-face.

I need not describe the downward spiral from the time I gave in and joined, the exchanging of my private literary interests for the excitement of conducting textual interactions in a semi-public setting. Before this past Sunday, I had been increasingly struck by the fact that, on Facebook, my goals were not necessarily to “keep in touch with my friends!”, to waste my time, or even to tell the world my moment-by-moment answers to that question: “What’s on your mind?” Instead, as murky as they otherwise were, my goals all stemmed from the desire to have a social standing, to have my curiosity about other people satisfied, to have a presence in a way that promised minimal commitment and maximal affability. Most of all, the ability to construct this type of presence, frivolous and time-consuming though it may be, strongly appealed to my drive toward writing. I’ve long considered myself a writer, but I’ve also long maintained that I was a better writer before Facebook. And it’s true. When the source of this inner energy to narrate, to shape, to interact through words was channeled toward actual composition, it was unmistakably purer.

It was that feeling of undivided attention, of engrossment in the page rather than in my own construction of my life, that drove me to abstain from Facebook. As well as the sort of undivided attention I remember giving my friends and their words more of when I was 17. So I was only 17 then. But I remember sending long emails and letters and thank-you notes to my closest friends and relatives, as small as that group might have been. Instead of the cursory writing on someone’s wall or “liking” their status, I did text or email or go find someone if I needed them. As for the people who slipped through the cracks, the ones who nowadays amused me with an occasional post but otherwise never crossed my mind – all they added to my Facebook life was the feeling of being well-connected, and nothing more.

The truth is, since Sunday I’ve already felt the desire to post an amusing thought or link on a friend’s wall, or to see what that interesting acquaintance is saying next. But why not satisfy those curiosities on a personal level? Via direct writing or face-to-face? The truth is, Facebook has added distance to my sense of intimacy with friends, as well as the type of response I have to the happenings in their lives. What happens is less sharing than showcasing, casting onto others our own words or theirs, constantly aiming to alter a public consciousness through the textual proof of our presence.

I’m wondering if it all adds up to a process of narrative construction – which people have always done anyway, in life and in literature. As I use my time to grapple through concepts of narrative formation for an ever-lengthening honors thesis, it strikes me that this might be an interesting research topic indeed. But maybe that’s just the thesis speaking. Or my desire to procrastinate – again.

by Sandy Huang

He is probably an expert on truffles. He can teach you what you couldn’t learn in Catechism and Synagogue. He directs Stanford’s Alpine Archaeology Project. You’ve seen him on the National Geographic Channel and the History Channel.

Yeah, Patrick Hunt is kind of a big-time professor here at Stanford—even if his humility may cause him to profusely deny it.

As a member of Patrick’s SLE (Structured Liberal Education) section, I am constantly astonished by his vast knowledge of various topics. The size of his personal library just goes to show how well-read he actually is. My section notes tell me that he has quoted John Keats and Epictetus verbatim without ever having to consult a hard copy (or Google, I guess).

Patrick also composes operas, plays the flute fairly well, writes poetry inspired by his time teaching, and is editor-in-chief of a history-focused magazine called Electrum. And on top of all this, he works with Stanford’s athletic department in talking to interested recruits. Yep, that means he personally knows Andrew Luck and every other player on one of the top-ranked football teams in the nation (in fact, many of them have been to his house during their time on campus).

If Dos Equis ever decides that Jonathan Goldsmith is getting a bit too old, Patrick Hunt has my vote to replace him as the “The Most Interesting Man in the World-” even without the beard.

Friends, Romans, Countrymen, ….random people whose names I picked out of the telephone book,[1] lend me your … sunscreen? Being a person who thrives on rain and over-cast skies, but is forced to brave college in depressingly sunny California, I am so disappointed right now at the downright “pleasant” weather in Missouri over my winter break.

Just to be clear, that was a purposefully deplorable transition into a discussion of Missouri weather… Okay, to be honest, I really couldn’t think of a witty play on “lend me your ears,” so I just pretended like I was trying to be ironic with the “sunscreen,” but I was actually pretty desperate, because I had dug myself into a hole with the “Friends, Romans, Countrymen” thing.[2]

As you can probably already tell, the Weston parents made the terrible decision to let their daughter write this year’s holiday letter. I persuaded them (N.B. they did not need much convincing) that I have had by far a more eventful and exciting year than they have, and, thus, am eons more qualified to write this letter than they are. I told them to be prepared for an exciting, stimulating whirlwind of a letter. The competition over the letter-writing position was a heated one, resulting in a smack-down between my cat, Bubbles, and me. Ultimately, it came down to who was the better typist.

I have been posturing to get this coveted position for YEARS, but now that I have it, I am not entirely sure what to do with it. So I’m just going to pretend like I’ve written it, and spring a pop quiz on you to see if you’ve been paying attention to my riveting letter detailing the goings on in the Weston family’s past year.

True/False.

Not needing to ferry me around from one extra-curricular to the next, my parents have filled their spare time with a promising hobby. Yes, Bruce and Dana have taken up looting. You will have seen their mugs in the papers. FALSE: You obviously did not read my extensively detailed letter closely enough. My parents would never loot. They are much too classy for that riff-raffyness. No. Heists, a la Bonnie and Clyde. That’s where it’s at. But we have all agreed that “Bruce and Dana” doesn’t quite have the same ring to it. If you have better ideas, we are taking suggestions.

While in college, I have become the proud owner of not one, not two, but THREE fuzzy blankets. TRUE: It’s all or nothing with Sarah Weston.

I am currently on the residential staff for my college dorm, holding the position of Resident Writing Tutor. This noblest of noble positions has entitled me to a room of my own – located the staggering distance of exactly one door away from the room I had last year. TRUE: I pride myself at my ability to handle drastic change.

One of my freshmen snagged my unattended computer and posted this status on Facebook: “Sarah is single, septilingual, and ready to mingle.” TRUE: To plagiarize the joke of a good friend, the one positive thing about the break-up of the former Yugoslavia is that I can now call myself impressively multilingual. I speak Serbian, Croatian, Serbo-Croatian, …

My dad has taken to staging Civil War reenactments in our back yard. FALSE: No.. just… no.

The majority of my summer, I spent with 216-year-old editions of the English Romantic poet William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience. I received a grant from Stanford to study them at the British Museum (London) and at Cambridge University. TRUE: The people who supervised my research fed me chocolate cake nearly every day… but only after I had finished smearing peanut butter and jelly all over the multi-million dollar manuscripts. Peanut butter is easy to clean off 200-year old texts, but we all know that chocolate doesn’t come out of anything.

I spent the 4^th of July in England. TRUE: Awkwarddddddddddd.[3]

My dad has a huge man-crush on Andrew Luck, star Stanford quarterback. He has plans for me to woo, seduce, and marry “the Luck fellow.” TRUE: I am pleased to announce my upcoming nuptials! Just in case you want to get me a wedding present, Andrew and I are registered at Whole Foods under the “Nutella” section.

I drove for 4 hours on the freeway on the way back from Chicago. Previous driving experience: driving around my neighborhood at 5mph, and hyperventilating when another car was turning a mile ahead of me. TRUE: Thanks, dad.

I am currently on crutches, and have proven myself to be a menace to society. A pregnant lady held the door open for me the other day, and I felt like a chump. TRUE: People smile at you and give you sympathetic looks when you’re on crutches. I’ve decided to keep mine around, so that I can receive preferential treatment.

Surinam Toads giving birth… perhaps the most disgusting thing I have ever seen in my entire life. TRUE: Don’t look it up. Just… don’t.

While debating the merits of different desserts at dinner the other night, my mother referred to The Tiramisu as “an unstoppable force.” TRUE: My mom is one of the wisest people I know.

My parents have gotten matching tattoos. FALSE: Wait, yes they have… (Note: No, they haven’t.) (..I can’t tell what’s true and what’s false anymore…)

My dad has been conning little children out of their French fries whenever we go to a restaurant. FALSE: Unless you substitute “Me” for “my dad” and “my dad” for “little children….” In which case, that statement is *absolutely* true.

I was going to set aside a place in this letter for a “Weighty Aphorisms Section,” but I’m burned out.  Happy holidays!!!

Love, The Westons

Amid all the talk of sportsmanship and integrity and athletic ability and scholarship, it’s sometimes easy to forget that at its heart, college football stands for one thing: spectacle. Luckily, we have Bowl Season (sponsored by the Sizzler) to remind us. We’ve already seen an Alamo Bowl (sponsored by the Texas Historical Society) to remember, witnessed the Air Force come under Rocket fire in the Military Bowl (sponsored by Cyberdyne Systems), and watched Cal go on vacation during the Holiday Bowl (sponsored by Cheese Board Pizza). So what can the Fiesta Bowl (sponsored by T. Boone Pickens and John Arrillaga) possibly hold?

In a word? Spectacle. (Sponsored by Andrew Luck and Brandon Wheeden.)

I’d like to think that over the last fifteen weeks, I’ve touched on a lot of the traditions and topics that make college football such a unique experience. And this week, during the biggest desert party of the year, they’re all on display.

Okay, second biggest desert party.

Ridiculous press build up? Yeah, the game between Stanford and Oklahoma State is being billed as the offensive half of the national championship, with the LSU-Alabama rematch being left to the defense. Oh, and headline puns abound, of course.

Mascot match up? The Stanford Not-So-Much-the-Indians-Anymore versus the Oklahoma State Cowboys. Poetic western backdrop for shootout metaphors is a go.

Between “Pistol Pete” and a horse named “Bullet,” it’s a wonder no one’s died at an OSU game.

Over-the-top fight songs? OSU’s is “Ride ’Em Cowboys.” It really doesn’t get much more over-the-top than that. (Oh wait…)

And as for a venue, we have the University of Phoenix Stadium, home of the Arizona Cardinals and host to Super Bowl XLII, last year’s BCS Championship game, and Wrestlemania XXVI. The stadium, located in the sprawling Phoenix metropolitan area, is the home field for the University of Phoenix, thirty-time national champions in seventeen different Division I sports.^{[citation needed]}

The stage is, in every conceivable way, set. It’s time for the Cardinal and the Cowboys to do what they’ve done best all season: play some damn good football.

Thanks for a great season, Stanford—and thank you for reading. I’ll see you in Phoenix.

Finally finally, a look at some rhetoric from around the internet:

• At very least, Andrew Luck is big schmoe on campus—we know he’s humble, but this borders on meiosis
• Stanford running back Stepfan Taylor delivers rap on, off the field—gaining yards with rhythmic meter
• Stanford football instills importance of education to its players—a regular Institutio Oratoria
• Get Him to the Game—phronesis from Coby Fleener

In the course of human history, there are individuals who, from time to time, rise above the dirt and grime of ordinary humanity and transcend our mortal lives, become immortalized as shining paragons of all that is commendable about our species.  These are the titans of their age, giants nonpareil whose names are writ in the tome of history indelibly.

As the Histrionic Historiographer, I have been silent for many weeks.  But that is because I have been waiting.  Watching.  Observing.  And now, the time for apotheosis has come.

This quarter has given us one of these aforementioned titans, one of these names that will haunt the halls of Stanford University forever, enshrined with the likes of Jordan, Branner, Elway, Tresidder, Plunkett, Hoover, even young Leland Jr. himself.  This quarter, we have seen greatness.  This quarter, we have seen Luck.

Maybe you’ve heard of him.

Luck was born in 1989 to Kathy and Oliver Luck, the latter a former NFL quarterback for the Houston Oilers.  The young Luck spent much of his childhood in England and Germany playing football (that sport with the black-and-white ball and the ridiculous haircuts) before returning to Texas, where he—you know what, I’m tired of dancing around it.  Let’s cut to the point:

Andrew Luck is the best fucking architect ever.

It’s not even a competition.  I mean, there have been some great architects, don’t get me wrong.  When you look at the forward motion that Frank Gehry can create or the changes that Walter Gropius brought to the game, well, those are phenomenal advances that revolutionized the industry.  But no one—no one—architects like Andrew Luck.

Luck is the full package.  He can draft, he can model, he can analyze.  He has an extensive knowledge of complex building codes and is adept at reading local planning and zoning laws to ensure he constructs the best possible building for that specific location.  And the man can build like no one I’ve ever seen.  Houses, office buildings, stadiums, dams, Russian palaces, pyramids, synagogues—you name it, Andrew Luck knows how to design, orchestrate, and execute it in the field.

Just by numbers alone, Luck stands out.  He’s designed over eighty different buildings during his time at Stanford, and built models of another seven.  This is especially remarkable when you consider that Luck’s only been an architecture major for three years—he spent his freshman year on the Farm undeclared.  In just three years, Luck has managed to break almost every architecture record the department keeps, and consistently turns in quality buildings when the pressure and odds seem insurmountable.

But it’s more than numbers.  Luck is the only architect to ever master both Trojan and Irish architectural styles—in fact, on a recent class trip to Los Angeles, Luck was able to revitalize the aging Memorial Coliseum, replacing it with a wide open thoroughfare from end to end, a radical redesign that was greeted with huge industry fanfare.  Luck not only does the final design work on each of his buildings, but is involved with the planning from the beginning, often deviating from professors’ prompts if he sees a better way to build.

Whatever firm acquires Luck next year is in for a marquee architect, one who has the potential to make a huge impact from his very first day through the door.  Luck’s talents are unique, his intelligence unrivaled, and his ability to integrate sustainable design practices while creating a building that is not only functional but also aesthetically appealing is simply incredible.  Someone should give him a trophy.

It’s really too bad he’s just not very good at this sports thing.

Finally, a look at some rhetoric from around the internet:

• Heisman or not, Luck’s legacy at Stanford sealed among school’s greatest athletes, ambassadors—yet has never once sunk to bomphiologia
• Fiesta Bowl has makings of a classic—all these rhetorical terms come from the classics, after all
• Andrew Luck wins Johnny Unitas award—for the best quarterback in the nation, just like Toby Gerhart won the Doak Walker award for best running back in the nation in 2009
• Stanford QB Luck: I’m ‘absolutely’ prepared to try the NFL—well, damn
• Salon’s Sexiest Men of 2011—number 12 is number 13

Major: Earth Systems
Year: Coterminal Senior

Mattias Lanas is an Earth Systems major with interests in nature illustration and detail-oriented fine art. This botanical series is part of a project to document some of the common flora found at Stanford Sierra Camp, where Mattias spent this past summer working as the art instructor. He hopes to one day launch his passions for natural science and fine art into a career.

Indian Paintbrush (Castilleja miniata)
This genus is known for its hemiparasiticism: it often taps into the roots of grasses. The red parts are actually not petals, but sepals (modified leaves). The true flower is yellow and tube-like, protruding out of some of the sepal clusters.

Crimson Columbine (Aquilegia formosa)
A perennial native to the Western United States, it has a history of multiple uses by Native Americans as medicine, decoration, and food. Aquilegia comes from the Latin aquil, meaning eagle, and formosa means beautiful.

Sierra Bog Orchid (Platanthera dilatata)
As its name suggests, this orchid grows in boggy meadows and generally moist areas in the Sierras. The small white flowers on its stalk produce a fragrant, sweet perfume that can be smelled from a fair distanceaway. The plant’s range extends north all the way to Alaska, and it is especially common in the mountainous regions of the Pacific Northwest.