L'Ecriture Incontrollable

La puissance de lecture est un thème important dès le commence de Madame Bovary. Mais, à la fin, on trouve la puissance d’écrire qui se démontre très important aussi. Des que quelque chose est écrit, les effets sont hors du controle des personages, et ça leur morde la queue* plusieurs fois.

Les lettres d’amour qu’échangeait Emma et ses amants n’avait pas trop de puissance. Même, ils étaient symptômes d’impuissance de l’amour quand ses lettres à Léon devinaient plus externes. Le lettre de Rodolphe est la première d’avoir vrai signifiance. Mais sa puissance est diminuée quand elle est lue par Charles et il la trouve innocente. De la façon opposée, quand les lettres qui n’avaient pas trop de drame originellement sont trouvées,  elles deviennent tout d’un coup les meurtres de Charles. Alors en lisant, tout peut changer de signifiance même beaucoup de temps après les incidents.

Avec les signatures sur les billets, on trouve un pareil traitement. Pour Charles, c’était grand-chose de signer le premier, mais Emma n’avait presque pas de soucis en tout ce temps qu’ils accumulaient. Et quand le temps arrive qu’elle voie ce qu’elle a signé, c’est étonnant. Elle n’arrive pas à les effacer. Ce n’agit plus la littérature dont elle s’occupe, mais plutôt ses écritures propres.

Apres qu’elle s’est empoisonnée, elle écrit son lettre de suicide. Puis, dans son lit, elle a du mal à se débarrasser de « cet affreux gout d’encre. » (408) Alors ça la suit jusqu’à sa mort, ou bien elle l’apport jusqu’à sa mort. Quand Charles déligne l’extravagance funèbre, c’est aussi à l’écrit. Il aurait pu le dire, mais il l’a écrit, et cela donne une sens d’immobile et de durant.

*C’est plus belle en français qu’en anglais, je trouve.

This Dragon Eats Obedience

One of the graffitis I've been up to lately. Future projects include : "We put the quest in question and the queer in query." I'm really excited for that one. Also, more dragons of course.

Representative of Reed Culture

"Why does getting dressed up include teasing your hair like an 80's whore? No whore shaming, just 80's shaming."
-Maddie.
"Hell hath no fury like a band pass filter."
-Joel Franklin.

L'Opera

Des qu’elle était trahit et malade, Flaubert n’a pas beaucoup écrit du perspective d’Emma. Mais ca change à la scène d’opéra aux pages 302-306. A l’opéra, son imagination est rallumée. Sa passion pour la lecture et pour la chanson se mélangent et se confondent et enfin il y a seulement sa passion pour la fantaisie qui reste.

En écoutant la musique, « Elle se retrouvait dans les lectures de sa jeunesse » et plus dans le monde real.  Sa manière d’écouter est symptôme de cette connexion, parce que les paroles sont très importants et elle n’en manque pas, même que son mari n’entend rien sauf les instruments. Cette connexion est un peu superficielle, parce que l’opéra et les livres sont tous les deux romantiques etc. Mais les paroles ouvre une porte qui mène à une fantaisie plus profonde.

La partie qui décrit les arbres peints fait plus vrais l’expérience par la rendre dans une autre monde, comme si elle fallait se détacher complètement de la réalité pour se sentir a l’aise. « Elle n’avait pas assez d’yeux pour contempler » tous les illusions qui lui mènent à réfléchir sur sa tragédie passé et les vies qu’elle veut. Le manière dont ils sont décrit montre clairement qu’ils sont des « costumes, [… ] arbres peints qui tremblaient quand on marchait.. » mais les sentiments qu’ils apportent sont réels.

Pour Emma « La voix de la chanteuse ne lui semblait être que le retentissement de sa conscience, et cette illusion qui la charmait quelque chose même de sa vie. » C’est une instance dont la conscience de soi est inexacte.  Sur tout, « Elle connaissait à présent la petitesse des passions que l’art exagérait » mais au même temps elle le voit pareille à la fois à ses veux et à son histoire. On sait toujours que c’est une illusion, même en traitant comme une vérité. D’une façon, c’est pareille au travaille du lecteur avec un roman. Le terme anglais « suspension of disbelief » est pareil pour Emma à l’opéra que pour le lecteur avec un roman, sauf qu’Emma se perd un peu avec cette suspension. Mais, comme on n’a presque rien entendu de sa perspectif avant le scène d’opéra, il me semble qu’il faillait qu’Emma se perd dans la fantaisie pour que le lecteur la retrouve.

Ce partie du blog suivant est un peu détache du reste, mais je voulais remarquer quand même. Il m’a frappe que « …quand ils poussèrent l’adieu final, Emma jeta un cri aigu, qui se confondit avec la vibration des derniers accords. » A la page 352, il y a un autre cri. Quand Emma voit le mendient dégoutant, «Elle se retirait avec un cri. » Le mendient cri aussi, quant Hivert lui donne des coups de fouet : « il tombait dans la boue en poussant un hurlement. » Alors, la question de cri pourrait continuer depuis qu’elle était au foret avec Rodolphe et que M. Bovary a fait son erreur médicale avec le pied de l’homme. Mais je n’ais pas eu de grands idées à propos de ça.

Reflecting On Nice Things to Avoid Wanting To Die in a Hole.

So, as of today one of my friends from early in the Reed days is probably going to be arrested. I don't want to text him and ask how he's doing because he said that every time he gets a text he thinks that it's the PoPoPo. I sat next to him for lab lecture while his palms sweated and he fidgeted and made nervous conversation during the lecture and it was probably more stressful for him than me but some of the stress definitely transferred to yours truly.

Now I'm listening to Page of Cups, which is super soothing. I'm also kind of trying to get out of something that is way too close to a date. And my room needs to be cleaned. Clearly I am backsliding into stress-zones.

So, let's talk about Saturday. I woke up naturally at 11 am and cozily read some of Madame Bovary outside of Nommons and in the Thesis tower. Then I went to Kara's to make alien bastard children out of clay for her claymation stop motion porn film. I think that makes her the coolest person in the world. Then I went to my uncle's house for dinner.
The shrimp was like art slipping down your throat. The salmon was a a secret that let you in on it as you let it in on you. Grilled onions and a cheery salad rounded out the main course. Then Neuhouse Diavola Chocolate biscuits followed by Tillamook Mudslide Ice Cream. My food-baby was painfully rambunctious after that much deliciousness.
I went home and watched half of The Life Aquatic. I'll finish it later.

Sunday, I settled down in the Thesis Tower for more work. At a little before 1 Nikole suggested we go do work elsewhere. We hopped into Sisu and headed towards Mt. Tabor Park. On the way we ran into a garage sale where I bought a rainbow feather boa. So, that part of my life is complete and fulfilled. Then we drove around the park for a while before finally parking and stepping into a half-built house. The floors seemed stable enough, and the walls only had a few bracings that were clearly temporary. We stayed far away from the caution tape, and just read there for an hour and a half. It felt like a tree house. Naked wood and nails laying around, and us two being really sketchy imagining what the police would think when they gave two kids trespassing charges for doing homework.
Then we went to Laurelhurst Park. The first bench we investigated was the one my family got in memory of my grandfather. So we sat there and did more reading. As we read, squirrels dropped acorns all around us. They seemed to circle in, dropping closer and closer to our unprotected heads and finally the stress of it all forced us to leave. We headed back towards campus, stopping at bimart so that I could buy supplies for graffiti. Turns out you have to sign for all of the supplies you buy.

I don't know. Writing really hasn't made this feel better. But at least he won't be arrested today. God.

Following a Week of Madness, Some Nice Things From A Weekend

This week was an emotional shitstorm. I felt the need to begin the end of the silly unhealthy flirtation that had been going on for months. In addition to that, I was massively, unnecessarily honest a few times over the course of the week. Mostly people didn't notice, but mostly isn't everyone and I felt rather uncomfortable after realizing what/how much I'd just shared sometimes.
The only good part of the emotional shitstorm was becoming invested in the graffiti effort at school. I painted/drew on the bathrooms almost every night, with cohorts of other people. This kept me up into the wee hours, but I also bonded with the Blue Heron kids and the Poetry Night kids via the furnishing of the ingredients of colorful deviance. That part almost balanced out the unpleasant oddities and general imbalance of the week.

But come the weekend, there was a bit of a shift. First, Kroger's inauguration took place. There was so much situational humor under that large white tent that 3-4 hours of sleep rather failed to restrain my giggles. When the Oregon State Treasurer cited Steve Jobs as one of Reed's great contributions to the world, and evidence of future contributions, I could barely contain the amount of mirth, shock, and indignation that I experienced. I left thoroughly giddy, especially after watching the entire faculty parade by in their fancy robes. There was even a bagpipe.

The food was scrumptious, and reminded me that the same kitchen can cook good meat and it tastes great, or shitty meat and it tastes shitty. Yay Nommons. Anyways, I sat with Olde Chittick and enjoyed their sassy nicotine-flavored company, as well as some alums who had interesting stories/opinions.

I also had not one but two awkward encounters with the Legendary David Griffiths. No country has yet been wise enough to knight him, so I'll just go with Legendary. However, if I am drunk enough at Renn Fayre and I see him and anyone in the immediate vicinity has any kind of sword-esque implement, I will run over there and knight him for his services to the realm. When I first conceived of that idea I thought I would never do it but having written it all out it sounds not only awesome but also viable.
Anyways, beyond the potential future encounters, when Bennette said "Do you know David Griffiths" while in line for food I said "Uh, yeah, I mean, I've seen him around" And proceeded to derp as hard as anyone has ever derped. Later, near desserts, I ran into Bennette again. At that juncture he invited me to a bar that he was going to with David, and I had to admit to being only 19. Good lord.

Then the band started. This guy was the weirdest. I will not dwell too extensively on his weirdness, and instead provide a quotation from one of his songs:
"Dick sucking whores moving into the neighborhood, some call it gentrification, I call it good"
This man played music at the inauguration of my college's president. Good lord.

Then I got a little tipsy with Sasha, Blum, Lea, and Darcy before going off to see the fireworks. They were lovely. Everything was just lovely. Even the music was lovely, if you didn't listen to the lyrics and just danced. In a flippy giddy mood I bounced over to the Cockpit, for a birthday party. There, I witnessed beer pong and talked a bit.
But it turns out that sometimes you're just in a messy mood and need some whipits.
So I went to the Chittick party held in Birchwood 13. I shotgunned one with the person I had decided to stop flirting with. I felt really silly about that for much of the night. Then I did two on my own and left before I could be tempted into any more. I ate half a space cookie too. When you hear that the recommended dose is one NOT two cookies, that really means .5 cookies. That's my take on it.
I went back to the Cockpit and sat on the roof with Edith and Justin and we all felt foolish together. At least I think that's what we were feeling. Maybe I was just projecting.
But the party went on and eventually I found myself sitting in a circle of Blue Heron kids. We all shared a 40 and chitchatted until we were the last people in the house. We left towards campus at a little past 2 in the morning. A beautiful interesting brave spunky inspiring kid walked next to me with his arm over my shoulder and mine ended up around his waist and we jumped to smell flowers and it erased all feelings of foolishness with feelings of silliness in the best way. I dawdled with them as much as I could, but I decided to go home because I had to sleep. It was a good choice, I think. I'd rather go home with that kid some other night, with more connection backing it up.
I feel good just writing this.
I'll do Saturday and Sunday in some other post. Those were good too but it's really time to sleep.

The Prefect's Visit

The town of Yonville is mobilized for the prefect's visit and welcomes him with much pomp and circumstance. The prefect was too busy to come, however, and sent his one of his advisers instead.Still, Tuvache is almost too excited to express "l'honneur que l'on faisait a Yonville." Binet and Tuvache's son wear ill-fitting military gear out of excess excitement. They stand there with sabres in the air, grinning like fools. The speech that the prefect's aid gives honors the importance of the work done by farmers and the importance of the strength  of France. It ends with a reward of a silver medal and 25 francs woman who gave 54 years of service. All the while, Rudolphe and Emma court quietly, somewhere in the background of the situation but the foreground of the narrative.
The incident read as a collection of people getting less than they expected and being completely satisfied. More than completely satisfied, even. They were overjoyed by the tiniest recognition. A silver medal is a fine gesture of recognition, but I would be insulted if I was given just 25 francs for 54 years of service. It was also strange to pick out an old lady from the crowd.To add insult to injury, as she approached slowly, they asked her if she was deaf. Still, she was pleased with herself and not at all offended by her treatment.
Rodolphe and Emma's story continues along the same lines, to some extent. Emma braves the morning dew to visit Rodolphe's castle, but eventually is told that she's being indiscreet. On page 241, the falsity of their bond is stated outright. They both sensed it, and Emma "redoubla de tendresse; et Rodolphe, de moins en moins, cacha son indeference." Still, they go about their courtship passionately regardless of their lack of fulfillment.
Instead of reading the speech as a demonstration of pointless happiness, a more sympathetic interpretation would see it as an example of simple pleasures being appreciated without cynicism. This would put Emma and Rodolphe's conversations in contrast to the situation. They make fun of the villager's clothing, and "la mediocrite provincial,[...] des illusions qui s'y perdaient." (204) They are unable to take the same pleasure out of life that the other villagers have.
I'm still not certain how to read this passage, but it was a strange segment. It almost seemed to mirror the ball scene in that it was a special occasion that was something of a turning point for Emma.

Adrenaline+Caffeine+Months of Sexual Tension=

"Do you like me?"
"Not like that"
"But you like to be liked, don't you"
"Hehe. Yeah, sometimes."

Well, I guess the only thing left on my to-do list is finish a problem set.

L'Action d'Emma

Emma se sent attrapé par la vie. Quand elle attend la naissance de son enfant, elle souhait que ce sera un fils, parce que “Un homme, au moins, est libre.” (146) Elle est toujours ennuyé et se croit immobile avec son rôle. Mais, beaucoup des évènements mènent directement de son influence.

Par exemple, la famille Bovary se déménage a cause de sa sante. Quand Charles pense à ses problèmes financiers, sont a cause des dépenses de Emma. Elle ait une fille, la seul grande chose qui passent dans toutes les vies incluses dans le livre. Pourtant, elle se sent tiré par des forces étrangères. Mais, en réalité, c’est elle qui pousse l’histoire. Elle se croit serré, mais quand ils arrivent a Yonville, c’est Charles qui n’a presque rien a faire et qui s’endort au travaille.

C’est donc bizarre que c’est Emma qui pleur du lenteur de la vie quand elle est la seul qui l’empêche a changer.

A Night In the Bathroom

I was planning to see Buckethead on Friday. But that disintegrated as the people I was going with lost interest and I felt the need for a night on my own.
Handstands and cuddles as the sun set on the quad. I talked to Cogelle while he fixed his brakes and somehow I ended up with a plaid wool scarf. It's been quite a challenge to wear it as much as possible in this summer weather. I've been sleeping in it, so that helps. Sophomore year demands some kind of teddybear/security blanket equivalent.
With my cozy companion hanging over my shoulders, I went back to Chittick where my paints awaited me. 15 years of graffiti had to be avenged. I ate some space cake, and waddled off with a really heavy bag of acrylics and spraypaint.
It took me about two hours to paint the gender neutral bathroom to my own satisfaction. My own satisfaction was somewhat expedited by the space cake, which kicked in towards the end and made painting very difficult. I put up a random set of quotes, which covered most of my feelings about sophomore year. As expected, they're largely incomprehensible. I might change the Jason Webley quote. It was a last minute addition and I think it's a little out of place. I like the idea of having layers of paint. There are already so many. There are some hand prints, some flames/drops of blood, a Loch Ness monster and a lightning bolt, etc. I also put up an "I love.." The loss of the collection of those secrets is pretty tragic. I hope other people will add. I tried to invite them to do so with  "Ever had a toussle with ______" to see what they'd write. Too bad I misspelled tousle. I was pretty baked, blame the drugs.
My incapacitation with respect to fine motor skills did not deter me from trying to spin fans while high. Most of my friends purposefully smoke before spinning because it's apparently so much better.
It was definitely different. Instead of feeling the momentum I gave the fans, I felt what they gave me. It was harder to keep both fans spinning, but that's always hard anyways. I tried spinning again two days later and my hands are still bruised.
After that, I wandered around and kind of interacted with people to whatever extent I could, which was rather below par.
I'm mostly just proud of fulfilling my creative impulses this weekend.
And I have a midterm in 20 minutes and I'm so nervous.

Les Livres D'Emma et Le Livre "Madame Bovary"

Pendent que Emma est au couvent, elle lit des livres d’aventure et d’amour. Pour le lecteur, ce petit meta -littérature signifie plus qu’une étincelle pour l’imagination. C’est une sorte de commentaire sur Madame Bovaryet les vies y-décrits aussi.  

En lisant les cent premières pages, c’est évident que Madame Bovary ne soit pas un livre de grand amour. Ce n’est pas de fantaisie exagéré ni des idéels romantiques.  En décrivant les livres qui « n’étaient qu’amours, amants, amantes, dames persécutées s’évanouissant dans des pavillons solitaires […] » (87) on se rappel du mot anglais « trashy. » Mais on ne peut pas le réduire à trashy immédiatement. Sur tout, ils donnent de plaisir fugace et des idéels qui n’existeront jamais.  Alors, il me semble que, en sachant que Madame Bovary n’aurait nulle comparaison positive avec ce genre de livre, on peut faire des hasards sur ce qui vient.  Il n’y aura ni d’hommes charmants ni des femmes passionnées. L’imagination ne sera pas excitée. En décrivant les livre d’Emma a quinze ans, Flaubert met les « larmes et baiser, nacelles au clair de lune » (87) quelque part même plus loin que dans les livres. Ce sont dans des autres livres.

Mais Emma croit à ces histoires tellement romanisées. Elle rêve de ca. Elle le désire. Mais a la page 87 le lecteur est connait déjà très bien le caractère de Charles Bovary, et c’est sure que ce spécimen exemplaire de la médiocrité n’aurait rien avoir avec les fantaisies d’une jeune fille.  Alors on voit un conflit entre les personnages principaux. Même s’ils ont une vie déjà assez pareille—grandir à la campagne avant de venir en ville, avec des pères fainéants--  leurs idéels sont très loin. Ce parait un conflit sans résolution, mais on verra.

The Fungus Among Us - Breaking The Mold

I'm proud of this little piece of creative writing. I forgot to send it in to the Student Body HandBook so I thought I'd give it to the internet, just in case.

Mushrooms have much in common with the word "fuck." First of all, they're multipurpose. Fuck is a noun, a verb, an interjection, an adverb, the list goes on. I challenge you to make it an onomatopoeia, for IQ points. Mushrooms help plants grow, can be used as insecticides, help cure breast cancer, are really tasty, can make you see red people pole dancing on fractals behind your eyelids, were the first living things over 3 feet tall, etcetera. Fuck and mushrooms are both fun, fulfilling parts of a good life. Through Reed’s mycology club, you can have at least one of the two.

You may be wondering exactly how mycology will enrich your life. Our largest effort to date is our annual pilgrimage to the Yachats Mushroom Festival during the last weekend of fall break. This festival gives the attendee first hand experience at growing, hunting, identifying, and cooking mushrooms. It also involves camping at the coast. Highlights from last year include a spontaneous naked modern dance performance on the beach (performer 1, audience 2), participation in the drinking game that was the keynote speech, and the discovery of new passion for mushrooms and all their glory.

Last year, the Fungus Among Us also showed a lovely film, narrated in patriarchal British drone and almost exclusively time lapse video with a Star Trek soundtrack. Heaven. We also cooked using lobster mushrooms harvested near mount hood, chanterelles found in forest park, and criminis harvested at Trader Joe’s. We taught a paideia class as well, introducing cultivation, identification, and weird facts. Mushrooms allegedly have 36,000 sexes.

The future looks… a helluvalot like the past, as far as the Fungus Among Us goes. However, we aspire to improve our organization and to plan activities less sporadically. Wink. Last year we sporulated and found our potential, this year we grow. We will descend on forest park like a hive of wasps who’s nest has been disturbed and are blinded by rage and fear, minds unwavering from their single duty: protect the queen. I mean, hunt mushrooms.

La Crise Morale

Le passage qui ma plus frappé Père Goriot se trouve pendent que Rastignac attend pour que Delphine se prépare pour la bal de Madame Beauseant. Aux pages 326 et 327 Rastignac trouve une sombre philosophie pour s'expliquer le monde comme il le comprend au moment d'avoir laisse le père Goriot souffrir sans lui ni ses fille.

Ses réflexions se commencent ici: "Il voyait le monde comme un océan de boue dans lequel un homme se plongeait jusqu'au cou, s'il y trempait le pied." Alors même si ses crimes était "mesquins" il se voyait noyait de saleur au moment la. Il ne pouvait plus se croyait pur. En continuant , il simplifie les "grandes expressions de la société" en trois parts: "L'Obéissance, La Lutte et la Révolte" dont il trouve des parallèles avec "La Famille, Le Monde et Vautrin," respectivement. La, il est un peu comme Balzac en écrivant des types (et un peu comme Marx avec l'économie.) Une grande différence est que Balzac commence avec des simplifications qui deviennent des personnages complets, et Rastignac s'occupe de simplifier ce qu'il a compris. Mais, ils voient tous les deux une niveau sous la réalité qu'on n'échappe pas, même si on se croit seul en son genre ou indépendant en ses décisions. 

Ce réflexion rend Rastignac sans espoir. Il trouve que "L'Obéissance était ennuyeuse, La Révolte impossible, et la Lutte incertaine." Le conjugaison passe lie a l'obéissance signifie que Rastignac voit son passe comme Obéissance, puis il ne voit pas de future qui ne soit ni impossible ou bien incertain.
Mais avant qu'il puis déterminer son avenir, il cache ses peurs sous des justifications. D'un coup, il n'a plus peur que Delphine soit cruelle pendent que son père mort parce-qu'elle ne sait pas la gravure de son condition. L'amour lui guérit de son crise, même s'il est encore dans la détresse.

The Intensity of Reed has a New Spin

Last year I was caught up in a thousand adventures. Spontaneous ones, planned ones, colorful ones and dirty ones. Some left me breathless from exhaustion, some left me breathless from laughter, and others breathless from awe. This may sound melodramatic, but I really didn't breath last year. I saved my lungs for whip-its. #justkiddingmostlyjustkidding.
This year, as I compulsively take on responsibilities and arrange fun things to do, I realize that the four major problem sets that I am assigned each week will suck all of the time away from those adventures of yor. The math problem set last week took Eric and I 6 hours. The physics that's due tomorrow at 10 am took Justin and I 7 hours to do half of. This is not an understatement. My breath has found new places to be sucked into.
The weird thing is, I'm getting a new kind of adventure high. I only know that the problem sets took so long because they took from 12 am to 6 am, or from 7 pm to 1am, respectively. The time flew, it was fun, I laughed from sheer excitement and my heart leaped at small steps for physics-kind. It's was exhilaration. It was adventures.
This goes beyond me coping with my workload by pretending that it's fun. I wouldn't be up at 1:20 am after Justin and I called it a night to write about my rationalizations. I found another strange similarity between these brutal problem sets and my funtimes last year.
The memories I have from them mirror some of the best adventures last year. Sort of a vivid snapshot, that in the moment screamed out a thousand little details. For instance, when Lyle and I had biked to Voodoo after Rocky Horror and we were sitting with our bikes outside of commons at 3:30 am. I remember his face peaking out from under a helmet, the red sheer shirt over my black velvet dress that I was never to see again. The expression he had while talking about his family, a mix of acceptance with a little bit of pain to keep it sharp.
On Friday morning in the early hours, Eric laid his head on one of the armrests of the blue Chittick couches, his knees drawn up to a subtly obtuse angle. A notebook rested on them, his fancy pencil in one hand. The cap from the eraser of his fancy pencil peaked out of his mouth, scooching his upper lip a little bit up and to the left. And he sat there and thought, while I absorbed the moment.
Less than an hour ago, Justin sat on his porch with a cigarette between his fingers. It was reluctant to ash, in spite of his fingers' agitated taps. In the other hand was a gallon of milk. He was wearing the silly 'spikeball' t-shirt that had been suddenly drained of its color as a housemate shut off the last of the lights. He exhaled smoke looking past the railing, still thinking about the problem. And he drank some milk and finished the cigarette and we went back to work.

Ta fucking da. No really, it was all very intense. I hardly do it justice. It was adventure. I'm starting to understand why we do what we do. I just can't explain because I'm getting sick and I promised to stop writing at 1:30 am.

It doesn't take a Renn Fayre to make a Reedie. It takes a 7 hour half problem set.

Amanda Reed Has to DIE

One of my first ever college-adventure-post was about Noise Parade. With a comforting symmetry, a synopsis of my second RKSK sponsored cacophony will follow. First, some fancy-shmancy information about noise parade! It began as a protest about how the Reed endowment was invested, called "The Racket Against Apartheid." Here is the editor of Reed Magazine, who helps out with the Quest more than we deserve, talking about it. It has lost all political significance of note, and now it serves to initiate the freshmen into the idea of a Reed Party. Or the Reed lifestyle. It's a rude awakening of an unbelievable magnitude.

The Hum Play cast, of which I was a part, has the honor of performing a ritual after the parade around campus has happened. When I received the fateful email which gave me the role of Amanda Reed, I screamed. I screamed a lot. Then I proceeded to fail to explain to my parents why I was excited. Finally I just broke down and told them that I would essentially be naked, painted white, and yelling rhymes at a large crowd. They understood. They understood in a shake-head-what-have-we-raised kind of way, but they understood.

Once at Reed, I totally failed to memorize my lines. I forgot about a rehearsal, had my phone silenced, and eventually sprinted to the front lawn 15 minutes late. I wouldn't call it an auspicious beginning. But once we all sang our Hum Play warm up songs, cursed the damn bitch who stole our man, and pretended to be Richard Nixon, Jimmy Carter, and Theodore Roosevelt in quick succession, the magic came back. You simply can't spend 80+ hours creating a play with a group of people and not have an automatic dynamic that you fall back into. Soon, we were chanting in broken unison, kneeling and jumping when told to, and shouting liberal Reed propaganda to the empty field.

Empty, but for one stranger. There was a man in his 50s playing on the swing set. Playing may be an understatement, he was owning the swing set. He went as high as one could, all while twisting and spinning through the air. We cheered, impressed by his antics. That was a highlight of rehearsal.

Before Noise parade, we congregated in the Quad. I was stripped and two people painted all of my white while I attempted to join in on some of the warm up cursing. Fully ghostified, we rehearsed again. Unfortunately, the chanting still fell short of unison. I had ripped the important monologue, taken directly from Amanda Reed's will, from my copy of the script and taped it to the megaphone. Someone the year before had taped on a different part of the ritual. That made it easier on me, but no one else had that luxury. The directors were worried. Everyone was nervous. But then Noise Parade was ready for us, regardless of if we were ready for it. We downed a 40 in the women's bathroom before running out to start the festivities.

The shouting began. I cheated with the megaphone, running around with a sheet tied over my shoulders. It did little to conceal my role in the affair, not to mention my body, but I wouldn't have sat out for anything. I trilled and yelled and screamed and spoke and sang into the megaphone, skipping and dancing through the crowd of confused freshmen and elated upperclassmen. I would stop strangers and friends alike, and expectantly hold the megaphone to their lips. Some people yelled immediately. Some people looked at me quizzically before understanding. Others withdrew, unwilling to contribute. I tried not to shame those people excessively. Caught up in the hullaballoo, I ferried the megaphone from reveler to reveler as if it were a sacred duty from Bacchus himself.

Then the parade started. The crowd milled out of the quad and left the hum players to their last, desperate rehearsal. I crouched under the sheet on the picnic table, the alcohol heating my extremities, and my heart pounding. I burst from beneath my invisibility cloak at the cue, the headrushes becoming more intense each time we ran the beginning. Suddenly the crowd was back, and I covered up for the last time.

Flanked by the rest of Hum Play MMXIII, I listened to the noise die down as they chanted "Amanda Reed has to die" on bended knee, gently quieting to the masses. The directors begged and ordered the crowd to be silent. I sat under a sheet, crouched over my megaphone, waiting for the cue. The signal was given, and the people directly to my right and left stood, and yelled "AMANDA REED HAS TO DIE." The rest followed suit. The chanting built. The last verse cued me to stand:

"Amanda Reed has come to Reed has come to fund a college now!"

I threw off the sheet, and stood quickly, holding the megaphone up to my lips at full volume. I said the first line "An institution of learning..." then my eyes went black and I swayed. "Oh my god" I said into the megaphone. A headrush for the ages. As the crowd came back into view, they cheered at my slip-up. I continued, reading from the cheat sheet. "...having for its object the increase and diffusion of knowledge among the citizens of said City of Portland, and for the promotion of literature,
intellectual and moral culture, the cultivation and development of fine arts, and education
for the people.”

The rest of the cast and I chanted about my impending death, the future of Reed, the will of Reed, etc.The trustees came out, and threatened to make us a big school, a trade school. We screamed at the audience, did they want to go to trade school? No, they roared back. They wanted to go to this school. Foster came out in gold hot pants and fairy wings, squeaking a falsetto promise to build a small college on crystal springs farm. Keezer came forth to threaten us, saying nothing breeds nothing and Reed was broke. Scholz stepped to the foreground, a massive cardboard effigy of the Odyssey in his arms. With this formidable weapon, he beat back the evil Keezer. "Scholz gave his fire, poured his life out for Reed Scholz gave up all for the college's need. Do you want a taste of the fire of Reed? Here is the fire , the fire you need!" The fire came in the form of libations of booze, the fire that gives your night life, and coffee, the fire that wakes you at night.

We neared the climax: "You are Reed, Reed is us, with faith we believe, Reed College is possible."

Then the end, with fists thrust in the air : "Become a Reed and Reed will live and Reed will live Forever!"

On "Forever" a bucket of red corn syrup was poured over my head. The sweet 'blood' dripped down my white body and stuck my hair to my scalp. The ritual was over.

The Odyssey burned in the fire. The drum corps beat chaotically. I ran to ODB to shower. The rest of the night was also good, but I'll maybe write about that some other time. For now, Amanda Reed is dead, and Reed lives.