A series of appreciations for the home-away from home I have found here at college and beyond.

A is for Animate

a moment of awe, video and text, oct. 1

Video 01. The camera is pointed towards a sunset reflected in a building’s windows. It then pans over to the actual sunset, appearing over the top of nearby buildings. 

It was 7:22pm on Wednesday night in early fall. I was exiting the surge, the building that housed my last class of the day. I hardly noticed what my friend to my right was saying, too busy looking ahead at the sunset. I couldn’t see the real thing yet, blocked by surge’s steadfast walls. Instead the reflection of the scene onto nearby windows had gripped me, and I was oblivious to the world around me. I think I commented on the sight, how beautiful it seemed. I think my friend replied in kind, and revealed that they had commented the same, I simply hadn’t noticed, too distracted by the sight itself. There’s a hope that burrows itself deep in my heart when I see things like this. The windows that reflected the sunset were cold, unfeeling planes, rigid and regimented and set in ugly tan stone. Man-made to the core, more focused on functionality than anything else. But for that moment, during those golden hours, it was beautiful. It was man and nature in a certain kind of peace, harmony, unity. You can look at the grass beside the road and see it half dead and littered with humanities refuse. You can see oil pumps scattering the plains of Texas like so many ticks, sucking more and more blood from the earth, eternally thirsty, never satisfied. And then you can look up at the windows of a building, its eyes, the gateway to whatever works as its soul, and you can see the soothing gradient of the sun relaxing into night, its heaven bound duties done for the day. (270)

B is for building

a chill down the spine, photograph and text, oct. 29

Figure 09. The image shows a distant mountain, blurred almost to obscurity by a thick fog.

The day is October 29, only two days away from Halloween. There is anticipation in the fall air, and an added layer to the crispness of the season. The low fog hanging over the mountains only serves to heighten this oncoming excitement, even nature herself seems to be getting ready for a celebration of the spookiest time of the year. Just as I pass homes with fake cobwebs strewn about and pumpkins carved with little faces, I walk by the mountains and their opaque cloaks. It’s almost funny in a way. The old hunks of rock and stone and dirt don’t move so much as an inch, but their clothes flow and weave through the air in a performance far better than any a human could put on. Even as I get on the bus, there’s still an almost imperceptible buzz to the air, as we all feel the weekend approaching. The bodies back together in the great belly of the beast, and conversations inevitably slide towards who will be what, and what’s going where. Though we can’t see it, the moon is preparing itself too, a bright and perfect half circle, suspended far above. The rising in your chest as something so fun approaches is contagious, delightful, and slightly addictive. (270)

C is for Crickets

A lovely seat, photograph and text, sept 30

Figure 01. A stone wall covered with moss. A small patch on its top has been brushed clean of leaf debris, making a convenient seat to stop and hear the crickets chirp. (Original picture, Claire Smith)

When she exits the front door, it is the serene gray of clouds that greet her, not the sun lying in aching blue. When she walks down the path, it is the smell of softly rotting leaves that greets her, not the fresh summer breeze. When she looks out towards the mountains, it is sprinklings of red that greet her, not young fresh green life carpeting all. When she closes her eyes and listens, crickets greet her, their chirps heralding the season of twilight, of the slow death before sleep. (90)    

D is for Darkness

a moment of comfort, photograph and text, oct. 29

Figure 10. A lamppost stands tall and proud in the somewhat dim light, its head a butter yellow.

Our campus doesn’t really exist all in light or all in dark. Out here, where we are bordered with mountains at every turn, is far different from the flat home I am used to up north. Where I grew up, the cities and streetlamps make it so there’s never true darkness, always a haze of light over all. Tech is very different. The light pollution, though present, is much diminished. At night, there is near total darkness, with small glowing pockets of light around every lamppost. It almost feels like a giant laid down candle after candle to guide your way. They have a warmth to them that is so often lacking in today’s lights. The lamp here is a perfect example. Though I did not take this picture in the darkness, the lamp still has a comforting yellow glow to it, with a bright haze surrounding it. Against the backdrop of the gray gray sky, I can’t help but be grateful for it. The post itself is its own contrast as well, with its inky black body and illuminated head. (180)

E is for Even

a flash of hope, photograph and text, oct.10

Figure 05. The sky is completely cloudy except for a single small gap, through which a clear blue can be seen. The horizon appears dark and foreboding, but it’s clear, even with such ominous clouds, that the sun still shines. 

Even when rain hangs low and heavy, even when the land is cast in shadow, even when the morning drags instead of lifts, even when your sock slips off your heel in your shoe, even when your clothes don’t lay right on your body, even when your food tastes like ash in your mouth, even when your coffee is cold and your tea is watery, even when your bus is late and your umbrella is missing, even when your hands are cold but your head is hot, even when your faucet is leaky and your neighbors are loud, even when your bread is stale and your water is cold, even when your eyes itch and burn and the work still isn’t done, even when you stain your clothes and rip your papers, even when you get no reply, even when your books are overdue and bills aren’t paid, even when your feet ache and your back strains, even when your home is cloaked in the inky shadows of night, even then is the sun waiting to shine on you again. (180)

F is for Future

a delightful shiver, photograph and text, oct. 31

Figure 11. Distant clouds hover above a mountain of patchwork colors.

The clouds above are unmistakably winter clouds, the kind that herald snow, now or later. They have the same white top, the same almost purple bottoms, and float about in patches. Even though its the last day of October, with a whole November to stand between us and true winter, the clouds serve as a reminder, and a warning, and a promise all in one. You can feel it in the air as it sharpens from crisp to bitingly cold. You know winter is coming, foretold in the sky above. (90)

G is for Gift

a fleeting gift, photograph and text, nov. 2

Figure 12. A rather poor picture, taken inside a car, of a corridor of trees that open into a view of the distant horizon.

This picture is not my best, taken in one hand as I paused at a stop sign near my house. The trees in the distance are barely visible and the clouds above aren’t exactly the interesting ones I love to document. But the thing about this picture is that it’s not actually meant for me. When me and my friends all split off for college, our journeys took us all over America. For two of my friends, New York city is their reality, every day, in and out. They both enjoy it, but I could tell from our messages that they wanted more of the fall changing colors, of nature reacting to the colder weather. To me, there are few better ways to view that than cresting the hill that takes me home, where a valley tracing up into a mountain is centered dead ahead, and the trees line the street like a parade. Of course, my phone barely captures the beauty and scope of the scene, but I have a feeling my friend won’t mind. (180)

H is for Heart

a passion in the heart, photograph and text, oct 24.

Figure 08. The blue sky in the background and the green tree in the foreground serve as a perfect contrast for the singularly most vibrantly red tree I have ever seen in my life. The changing of the seasons has done  a number on this particular piece of greenery, to the point that “greenery” couldn’t be a more inaccurate term. 

Hearts are red, everyone knows this. They are the physicalization of love, they are violently alive, they are blood, they are red. Sometimes the leaves themselves appear like little hearts, their flicking in the breeze so akin to that many thousand thready pulses. It’s fitting, in a way, that this is their last hurrah before they all die and fall off. Almost as if they know their fate, and their fear causes their hearts to beat ever faster, blood pumping harder, color coming in stronger. Maybe it isn’t fear, but excitement. It’s called a last “hurrah” for a reason, and perhaps the plants in question are trying all to out do each other in a dazzling last encore before the year’s curtain call. I know my heart began to beat faster when I saw the leaves in question. I was outside a chipotle, awaiting the completion of my order, my eyes skating aimlessly around me. I had to do a double take when I saw the tree in the photo, it was so rich and saturated. A gift from Autumn. (180)

I is for Imagine

a distant friend, photograph and text, oct. 2

Figure 03. The camera is pointed towards a snippet of a distant mountain range. The peaks, though still covered in green at this time, appear in shades of blue. The photographer seems to be ignoring the busy foreground of a college campus, the focus of the camera is above the hubbub of daily life. 

The mountains are a constant presence in Blacksburg. They form the horizon in every direction, a ring of staunch sentinels, silent and steady. They are older than I can comprehend, and “live” on a scale that I cannot grasp in any way that matters. I like to picture them as old men, in line with classic appalachian folk lore, the kind of old men who refuse to move because they know that if they do their front yard, a safe haven for endangered hummingbirds, will be repossessed by the local government and turned into a fast food restaurant. The kind of withered old geezer that fought in a war they don’t teach you about anymore, who’s devoted to his brothers in arms but always willing to make a new friend. The kind of stalwart fogey that snores like a woodchipper on this favorite chair, and refuses to move. There are a lot of things he could be, many names you could give him. Many lives he could have lived. Sometimes you just have to talk to him and find out. (180)

J is for Journey

a moment of excitement, photograph and text, nov. 7

Figure 13. A picture taken at the top of a hill, where a sweeping arm of colorful trees curls around the sidewalk.

This is the first time I have ventured to see my sister at her home in college while we are both at school. This is the first time she has invited me specifically, instead of the open invitation that she offers constantly, a door left ajar and unlocked. I think I would have been too nervous to do this in my freshman year, too worried about falling behind in classes or just too tired with all the homework I would have to do. But today, as I walk away from my last class of the day, a test I have just completed, the world feels spectacularly inviting. I took this photo to show her, as her neighborhood in North Carolina does not have nearly as much color as we do here in the mountains. It feels like all my thoughts are directed towards my trip and my sister like a magnet. Everything I see suddenly seems extremely newsworthy, something I should tell her about right away. The walk to the bus loop is one I take often, and it’s become a muscle memory. The same stop, the same bench, the same few people and the same time. It’s nice in a way, the familiarity. But this time there’s a novelty to it, akin to the feeling of having a field trip instead of school, of the morning before a fun trip, the eve of your birthday. A charge to the air, that speaks of incoming happiness. It snaps and crackles around and in me, little pops in my chest, like bubbles or poppers. My smile is distracted, my gaze distant. (270)

K is for Known

the start of a walk with jane, photograph and text, nov. 8

Figure 14. Another corridor of trees provide a cover for sunbeams peaking through puffy clouds that are almost blue.

Anyone who has a sibling knows that they are one of the strangest relationships you’ll have in your life. Right now I am nowhere near where I usually walk. This is not my neighborhood, not my home. This is my sister’s turf, where she treads daily. We stroll aimlessly, catching up as best we can, trying to bridge the distance that always grows between us when we’re apart for a while. She pauses indulgently to let me take a picture of the clouds as I comment on them for the 5th time. She knows how much I love them, she would not deny me this. We have grown and raised in the same home, i know how she faces adversity, i know how she deals with annoyance, rage, happiness, peace. I know how her favorite color bounced from purple to blue when she was still trying to be different, I know how she used to pour hours into her homework until she could lay down for a 15 minute nap and instantly fall asleep. I know we love each other. (180)

L is for Lull

a view from underneath, photograph and text, sept. 30

Figure 02. The camera is aimed towards the sky, capturing the cloud cover. The pattern of the clouds appears like the underside of water, as if the photographer is in the ocean, looking up.

Sand rests beneath, and the roiling sea above. Sound is muffled, water cradling the head, preventing sharp slices of sound. The air I breathe is set aside for the fantasy, that I lie under the waves. It aches, the symmetry this world provides. Patterns endlessly repeating, a gift that never stops renewing its generous beauty. On land, I drown in work and stress. Ensconced below the frozen and fluffy waves of my own creation, I can breathe. There are so many parallels on this earth, so many little things mirrored over and over. I love trying to find them throughout my day, seeking the comfort they bring. Truly, there is nothing new on this planet, only familiar comforts taking on new shapes. There is a fear of the unknown shared by all humankind, if you keep your eyes open, and try to notice the world around you, is it really unknown at all? If you only have the eyes to see, as a flower unfurls its petals, so too will your own nature, as you gain peace in this world. (180)

M is for Music

a moment of peace, video and text, oct. 12

Video 02. The wind combs through the trees with an absent minded hand, fading in and out. The leaves twitch as they are blown about. The sound is unlike anything else, thousands of paper-thin hands all fluttering against each other, brushing like the turning of so many pages.

Music comes in many forms, even in the natural world. From the sound of babbling brooks, to crashing waterfalls. The calls of coyotes to the chirps of cardinals. Even the silence of the stars spinning in the heavens. But few things can compare to the sound of the wind weaving through the trees. I captured this video on the front stoop of my home, the screen door propped open on my shoulder uncomfortably. I was entranced by the scene, only because I had stopped to watch and listen. On my way to the car, I was struck by the thought that the sound was much louder than usual, and, for reasons both superficial (I needed to record something for this assignment) and inexplicable (something about the noise gripped me, and I recorded far longer than what would be required) I stopped, took out my phone, and started to take a video. I am a musician, I started on piano, I am continuing with violin and bass guitar. Violins specialize in melody, bass handles, understandably, the bass. This is something more. (180)

N is for New

the middle of a walk with jane, photograph and text, nov. 8

Figure 15. The clouds swirl with golden highlights above a peaceful suburban scene.

We continue our walk, the clouds revealing a new aspect of the sky. She pauses again to let me take a picture. The fresh air is so different from the Blacksburg I’ve been experiencing these past few days. The air is warmer, and the sun seems to stay in the sky longer. That, combined with her presence, means I’m happier, more willing to share whatever I can. We talked about our childhood, shared between just the two of us. How she saw things, how I saw things. A new perspective. (90)

O is for Opulent

the end of a walk with jane, photograph and text, nov. 8

Figure 16. The sun sets golden and bright on the horizon, bathing the bottoms of the clouds in gossamer tones.

We’re on the last leg of our walk, the conversation flowing neatly, no need to push it on laboriously. We turn a corner and I see the sun in the corner of a painted canvas sky, golden and covering the rest of the sky in gold. I have always loved the skies around my sister, they have a way of inspiring awe in even the most stoic of hearts. (hers, because she’s heard me talk about clouds enough times to be fed up.) We stop for the final time, and I take as many pictures as I please. She’s telling me about the latest in her life, and I make sure she pauses while I snap my photos. Both these things require my full attention, and the clouds are that much more fleeting. She never begrudges me this, to my relief. She pauses to, and for a second that stretches comfortably, we just stare together at the sky. It really is beautiful, and I can’t help but be overjoyed that I decided to visit. There is so much joy here. (180)

P is for Puzzled

a moment of confusion, photograph and text, nov. 10

Figure 17. A picture taken through a window of a patchy layer of snow on the ground.

When I was a kid, snow was something of legend. Kids would devolve into rituals, passed down from elementary schooler to elementary schooler. everything from leaving your pjs outside to flushing ice down the toilet. Any hint of the stuff was the only news that would be talked about, besides what game to play later. So when I woke up this morning and found a whole (thin) layer of it on the ground I was highly confused. Not only had I received no mention of this, but it’s early november? (90) 

Q is for Quite

a stalwart friend, photograph and text, nov. 14

Figure 18. A single lamppost stands a silent vigil with pink dusted clouds in the background.

The lamppost has become a friendly presence in my daily walks. Right outside my front door, it greets me cheerily in the early morning and late at night. I can’t help but be reminded of the lamppost in “The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe”, and those little British kids that went with it. The lamppost seems more British the more you look at it. Bright and yellow, you could mistake it for gas, thinking it belongs more on the streets of London than a random suburb in southwest Virginia. I should break out my kettle and biscuits, have a, quite lovely i might add, tea just for myself. The lamppost is stalwart like those brits too, doesn’t complain or talk about anything. Perhaps that’s a strange thought to have towards an inanimate piece of civil architecture, but aren’t walks supposed to increase your brainpower, creativity, and overall blood flow? We can hardly help the funny little ideas that flit about our heads when we amble along, and, truly, would we want to? I should give him a British moustache. (180)

R is for Rest

a flash of jealousy, photograph and text, oct. 3

Figure 04 A glimpse of a line of fog is visible through distractions in the foreground. The sky is completely clear, the only cloud around is the one lurking in the valley before the mountain begins.

The mist rests sleepily in the valleys just off the mountain range, cradled by the tree covered crags. It slides through the leaves still adorning the trees, brushing each and every one with its icy breath. It will burn away from the sun soon, and vanish up high where the clouds are wispy and the sky is the kind of clear blue that makes your eyes tear up, it’s so bright. But for now it relaxes in a hammock of branch and stone. Considering how early it is, I’m jealous. (90)

S is for Sassy

who is that diva?, photograph and text, oct. 18

Figure 06. As if framed, part of a tree trunk is encircled by a ring of leaves in. the tree trunk has two branches growing out of it, branches that startlingly resemble a supermodel striking a pose at the end of a runway, one hand on the hip while the other dangles casually, boldly, at the tree’s side. 

Humans-like seeks like- anthropomorphize- we see ourselves in everything- we bestow ourselves upon everything – we take on the likeness of everything – how bold is that? – to be yourself and to make “yourself” something of others – to let yourself feel – to know and be known – to shout to the world that you are unapologetically you – and prove it by taking on pieces of others – the people who achieve this are confident – they greet the world with kindness and open eyes – they make the sidewalk their stage – the individuals around them become a collective – a troupe – cartwheeling – dragging your feet – back straight – back hunched – a grinning mask – a miserable mask – presenting their performance that isn’t a performance -it’s just themselves – the tree puts on no airs – it cannot – its nature is unapologetic – its nature is to be unapologetic – nature does not say sorry – nature does not say goodbye – it has an attitude – it’s apathetic – its multiple things at once – and why not? – no man is an island – no performer can be called such without an audience – we are our audience – we applaud and cheer and heckle and shame – the tree strikes a pose – the tree grew that way naturally – it is unconcerned – we see inspiration in it – ourselves in it – humor in it – a story in it – something to share – and what do we as a species do but share? – our lives, our beings – our habits, our homes – our funny little ways of talking – my sister learned to raise one eyebrow – learned to give the worst side-eye you’ve ever seen – she shared that with me many times – sassy and herself and me. (270)

T is for Tinder

a fire in the heart, photograph and text, oct. 24

Figure 07. Two trees are lit by the rising sun. Their tops are a bright yellow-green, like the wick of a lit candle. The sky is blue and white behind them.

The morning strikes like flint and steel igniting the day ahead. This is not to say, however, that it lights a fire under me, quite the opposite. Mornings are full of drudging, trudging, groaning laments of the lack of a warm bed in the safety of my head. In some ways, the walk from my house to my bus stop, the constant muse for many of the pictures, is a help. I am forced to see the beauty around me, and ponder it. It truly makes the mornings more lovely. (90)

U is for Unlock

a moment for nostalgia, photograph and text, nov. 15

Figure 19. A beige locker sits in a cinderblock wall. It has two lonely stickers adorning it.

My locker is nowhere near my usual route. It’s in squires, by Henderson, completely beyond everywhere else I need to go. It’s also the center of my minor, where everything violin oriented I do is. I only had a combination locker one year, 8th grade, and I had forgotten how nice it feels to have the tumblers fall into place. My walk through squires is one I’ve slowly perfected through use of back stairwells and unused hallways. Sometimes it’s a teensy bit thrilling, to sneak around breaking into such things. (90)

V is for Violent

a moment of anticipation, photograph and text, nov. 19

Figure 20. Half of the sky is still light, while the other has been overtaken by dark gray clouds.

There is a violence brewing on the horizon, a rolling like an avalanche, burying us all under its darkness. I love this part of the storm cycle, when its not yet covered everything and there is still light to see it in all of its entirety. The wind here is much stronger and much more biting than what I’m used to at home. When I travel to the bus stop every morning, I have to be wary of the neck, the same wind that blows in the clouds trying to sneak its cold fingers down my back. My headphones always cover my ears, providing a respite, but there’s only so much my jacket can do. It’s all worth it anyway, to get those great swirls and crests in the clouds above, like some great wave just waiting to break upon the rocks. It tosses the birds around carelessly, throwing them about even as they try to fly. It is as unforgiving as it is uncaring, not a drop of maliciousness to be found. I think we both enjoy these storms. (180)

W is for weight

a shot of my mother, photograph and text, oct. 18

Figure 21. a woman is posed at the base of a large tilted stone, almost appearing as if she is holding it up.

In my family, my father is not the one known for often groan-worthy jokes; that title goes to my mom. We think alike in many ways, and when we both saw this stone on our hike, I could tell almost immediately what she wanted. She was excited, handing me her phone, and I think that’s very visible in the picture. The hike definitely wasn’t part of my every day route, but neither was having my family come to visit. Sometimes you need to step away from that weight of monotony. (90)

X is for Xenogenesis

an attempt, photograph and text, dec. 1

Figure 22. A poorly folded squirrel languishes in a hand. Its tail droops and its its head looks vaguely like an armadillo.

Defined as “the fancied production of an organism altogether and permanently unlike the parent”, I have attempted my own Xenogenesis, in the form of an origami squirrel. I am not very good at origami, though I tried to capture the feeling of a squirrel. I see them everywhere, no matter where I walk, and no matter what time I am walking. They often escape my notice, and are deemed unimportant, so I thought I would produce an animal out of a sheet of paper, to represent these poor neglected fellows. (90)

Y is for Yellow

a familiar sort of sky, photograph and text, dec. 1

Figure 23. A sunset captured above maroon loop, with clouds like wispy trails across the sky.

The sky is a canvas today, not 3d like I normally see it. It appears flat, but no less beautiful for it. The sun is yellow, its harsh white light softened by the horizon. There are strips of white where it touches the blue, blurring it further. It resembles nothing so much as a great fried egg suspended in the sky. To me, it looks like the person trying to flip it has failed miserably, and now has an egg bordering on scrambled. This problem I have faced many times. (90)

Z for Zeitgeist

a moment for thought, photograph and text, dec. 1

Figure 24. A number of colorful murals decorate the walls of the center for the arts.

Zeitgeist, as was defined to me in my first semester at college, is the ghost of the time, or the feeling of a certain era, as prescribed by the (usually young) people living in that era. This mural reminds me of that, of how things have changed throughout the years. Nowadays, public art is much more abstract than it has ever been. I snatched this pic on the outside of the center for the arts, previously known as the Moss arts center. It was far outside my usual walking patterns, and I only saw it because I was making my way to the bus stop with a friend after lunch. It felt like a hidden scene, tucked away for students to find in an otherwise drab area. I couldn’t help but appreciate it, even as I pondered on its style. We live in a world more concerned with showing strict correctness than in our past. This means that, instead of yet another mural of the same type white man, we get pleasing colors and patterns with no particular political leaning. (180)