Why Ayn Rand Was A Hipster

I am a music snob. Which is the nice way of saying I judge people (sometimes, I'm trying to get better) based on the music they listen to. It's also a nice way of saying that I have really high standards for the music I listen to. And nothing gets under my skin so much as when I discover some underground hidden gem of a band and then suddenly, a few weeks later, every little radio-feeder and her brother is jamming out to it in their car saying OMG OMG I love this song, it's just like sooo good.

That pisses me off.

That, to me, is like if you went down into a mine and you spent hours of your time just chipping away at the stone with your little pick. And you kept coming up with rock after rock after dusty, dirty rock. But then finally. Finally, you found a diamond. And you were so excited, you raced all the way back up into the daylight with your treasure, barely able to contain yourself, only to walk into the local jewlery store, the sweat and dirt of your labors still streaking your face, and find that they're just giving away diamonds. Just like yours. To every single person who walks in the door. Not cool.

Apparently, this makes me a hipster.

Which is cool. I mean, I honestly didn't even really fully understand what a hipster was until I came to college and all of a sudden all these people were telling me that that's what I was, just another hipster. Here I was my whole life thinking I was all original and individualistic, only to discover that there's actually a cliche for people who hate cliches. And that's all I am.

Awesome.

But in all seriousness, despite the fact that there seem to be many negative associations with hipsterism, I truly don't mind being categorized that way. Because it's kinda true. I kind of agree with a lot of what these hipster people seem to subscribe to. And they have cool style. And they listen to awesome music. They are fellow music snobs.

The funny thing is is that I didn't become hipster just to be hipster. I didn't even know what that was. I used to be the only other person I knew who thought this way, who went on these insane, annoying rants about creativity and individuality. So that's really just how I think, I'm not trying to subscribe to some trend or culture. Although it is kind of cool to finally feel like maybe there is a place I belong, even if it's a place that's really weird and the rest of the world seems to hate on.
Not that I'm labelling myself guys. Hipsters don't do that...

So anyway, I got to thinking about all this again yesterday, actually all due to the song "Home" by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. That has been one of my favorite songs for probably about a year now. I found out about Edward Sharpe from my friend and the first song I looked up was 40 Day Dream. And now I love them. Desert Song blows my mind every time I hear it. And Home is just lovely. It's just a lovely, happy song.

But it's also a song that, suddenly, mainstream culture seems to be aware of. People whose taste in music I don't respect, people who don't get a lot of exposure to different bands and who certainly don't go out and search for music themselves: these people know about Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros.

And I hate to admit it but it makes me crazy. I have a totally irrational reaction to that fact. I freak out. Like these people don't deserve to listen to Edward Sharpe, because they only know one song. and their medium of discovery was the radio.

So, let's evaluate. I found out about them through a friend's recommendation and then looked them up on Youtube. I don't have their whole album, and I have about three songs on my iPod. Does this mean I am more worthy of listening to and enjoying them?

No. When I think about it honestly, I don't think it does. In fact, I think all it makes me, is a hypocrite. There are plenty of bands I only own one song from; there are bands I own a handful of songs by but still claim them as a favorite on my facebook page. Is that any more authentic than the radio-feeders (my self-coined term) who just happened to catch a song on a popular radio station?

What is this selfish tendency inside myself to want to hide away my favorite things in life? This even extends beyond music. It still gets me worked up that it's "cool" to like The Office. If Parks and Recreation becomes trendy, I'm probably going to have a breakdown. Just today a friend and I were talking about Jane Austen and how the fact that I love her makes me just another cliche, girly, hormonal, chocolate-consuming English major. It makes me so mad, when other people love the things I love. When I discover something beautiful, real art, I want to keep it for myself and I don't want anyone else to be let in on the secret.

Remind you of someone? I know. When we read The Fountainhead in high school, it might not be a surprise that the character who resonated with me most was Dominique Francon.
And so it makes me wonder: Could Ayn Rand have been a hipster?

I'm not trying to make a literary analysis piece out of this. I don't intend to give you quotes from Rand's novels or support from her personal diaries to try and prove Ayn's identity as the original hipster. (Her clothes might pose a problem with the validity of that thesis...) I just think it's funny, when you think about it, to realize that this idea of superiority in orginality and creativity and all that snobbishness that accompanies that...it's nothing new.

Roark and Dominique did it first. And they probably did it better.

Enamored of the Cage

I would like to know why I am so enamored of my cage?

I knew it was there, for years I knew. I saw it every morning when I woke up, I played and pranced in it all day long till I fell asleep, cradled by its metal walls. It was always such a pretty cage and I felt quite at home. I knew that I was locked up, but I didn't even try to escape. I didn't want to get out.

Oh the walls were guilded, gold and sparkly, so appealing to me. I knew they were just cheap metal, only a shadow of the authentic thing. But the flashy, fake stuff- I wanted it. I admired it. I felt pretty in my enclosure. It was comfortable in there, and it got so that I thought I'd stay there forever. I knew others might consider me foolish. I knew they might tell me that I was locked up, that I needed to break free. But really, I thought, they were the ones imprisoned and not me. They couldn't see that it was I who had achieved a new level of freedom. I had emancipated myself, I had reached a higher place of thinking and it felt so good. It felt so right. My cage was glorious, oh how I loved my cage.

But I soon found that it was lacking in there. I soon discovered that I was locked up. I truly was a prisoner, and I didn't even know how to get out anymore. I didn't want to get out; that was the most twisted part. I was isolating myself from all those who loved me. Most of all, I was isolating myself from my Jesus. He watched me in the cage, fluttering about, basking in all my affected glory, and He wept. He wept for His little bird that did not want the freedom He had sacrificed so much to give. He had opened the door and I had looked the other way.

Now that I know that I am bound, I have decided that I want to get out. But it hasn't been easy. I am timid, I am weak. My wings are broken, my beak not strong. I hop tentatively out into the air, and it smells so good; the breeze ruffles my wings and I want to let myself be carried away. But before long, I run back. I run back to my cage. I turn around and throw myself back in and shut the door behind me.

I am enamored of my cage.

I see it, I know it exists and I can escape. But I want the cage. I liked it there.

Oh God I will never get out on my own. I need You to carry me and smash the cage with Your fist. Forgive this little bird and heal her once again. Don't let her go.

Don't let me go.

Hey, You're Playing With My Delirium

I haven't written in a while, which is funny, because I thought college was going to be the place where I finally began writing. Since, you know, that's my major and all. But no, ever since I got here, I've been like a dried-up well. The words don't come to me anymore. I have a fiction class, where I'm assigned writing, where I'm graded on the material I produce.

And I find myself, for the first time ever, with nothing to say. The little tidbits I produce are stilted and forced and dry and even I, their author, can't bear to read them without getting bored. What happened to the bright-eyed poet whose high school English teacher thought she had so much potential- real, genuine potential?

I don't tell people what she said about me. It was the best compliment I have ever received in my entire life, it is the best compliment I will ever receive in my entire life, but I can't tell anybody that because I'll sound like I'm full of myself. And maybe I am. I try not to be, I try. I have never been a person with a great deal of confidence or a high self-esteem. I have been chastised for my low sense of self-worth. So finally, it felt good, to be proud, to have a superlative attached to my name. It felt good to walk around with that knowledge sitting on my shoulders. So maybe that's why I feel so inadequate now. Maybe I got too big of a head. Maybe I let the compliment get to me.

Is God taking this away from me? I feel that He has taken so much. He has put me through so much. I don't want to pity myself, but. I have been humbled over and over again and yet, still, there is more pride in me, and God wants to tear away the foundation of it that I have built my life on. Everything I love, I want, I am good at, is stripped away. I have struggled with health problems, anxiety, issues of lust and sexuality. My relationships and my personal well-being have all been rocked to the core. And now, my mind. Is he going to take that from me too?

I find myself tired.

I don't want to write. I don't want to try. I find that I am constantly going, going, running, running, and I am tired. I need time to myself, time to rest and recharge and revitalize. I need to be alone, to write, and to think, and to pray. But I have no sense of priority. I give give give and run run run and talk talk talk till I am sick to death of the sound of my own voice. I no longer live in my head, I live in the world. I remember watching a television show where they talked about this woman, who was a writer, and how people thought she was weird because she was always in her own head and it made her a hard person to have a relationship with, and at the time I thought, I'm not like that, I never want to be like that. But I am like that. I don't think it's possible to be a writer and not be like that. People demand my attention and I give it to them and in that giving, I sacrifice my art. I am giving of myself to people instead of writing, which sounds healthy, maybe it is, but it is destroying my craft and I feel useless and annoyed.

I just want to write again. I need to be dark and alone and full of want again, in order to write again.

But I am distracted. Distractions abound and I cannot escape them.

I am at the doctors, at the bank, at the gym. I am cleaning, I am at the boys' dorm, I am doing laundry, I am listening to my roommate, I am skyping, I am texting, I am doing my homework, I am sitting in class, I am eating a meal, I am getting coffee, playing ping pong, keeping up correspondence, I am talking to my counselor, I am everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

Even now, I am being begged, being watched and pulled to come away, come away from yourself and be with me.

It is nice to be wanted but I want myself back. I don't want to be distracted anymore. I don't want to be pulled apart at the limbs.

And most of all, I don't want to spend all my days staring at you, thinking about you, and yet never, not once, even speaking to you.

Freshman Woes

Sitting here on the bed in my new home. My "home" is a college dormitory and it has been my home for two days. Two mornings. Two nights. I am fairly certain I am the only one in her dorm room right now and I don't know why that is the case, nor do I like that it is the case, but it is. I am sitting in my dorm room, entirely alone.

My mother keeps texting me panickedly, reminding me how "special" I am and verifying to make sure that I haven't committed suicide yet.

I spent the greater part of three hours in uncrontrollable, though muffled, tears.

You see for some reason, even though I come from a public high school in Massachusetts, where I have always, without fail, had a best friend, it seems that I no longer possess the social skills required to make friends. No- although everyone else around me seems to have settled into it quite nicely, I am unable to make a single friend worth mentioning.

It has been the most miserable weekend of my life. (Even further humiliating because I'm being such a baby about it. Who have I become? A girl who cries! Because she has no friends! I don't even want to look at myself in the mirror right now...)

Am I socially awkward? I don't think so. There are plenty of socially awkward people here, and they've all seemed to make friends. They run around in socially awkward groups. There are cliques of socially awkward people; the socially awkward people are the ones leaving me out right now. I, who spent the day in my room, under a heap of tissues, wondering if I would ever escape this terrible mess that is currently my life.

I don't know how everyone else managed to make friends so quickly or moreso why I somehow didn't. My sister is a sophomore here, she loves it and has wonderful friends.

I just want to make friends myself.

I want Christian friends, for once in my life. Sweet, funny girls who are firmly rooted in their faith and have high standards for themselves and those close to them. I unfortunately am not skilled at making friends with people who I've never talked to before. I'm not exactly shy, but I'm not open. It takes me a while to feel comfortable with somebody, comfortable enough to be myself. And after today, I don't think I blame these people for not wanting to be my friend. I wouldn't really want to be friends with me either.

I start to question whether I am really this dull? How did I never notice it before? There have been times in my life where I have been convinced that I am charming, funny, totally unique and who wouldn't want to be my friend?

This is not one of those times.

I truly don't remember how I made friends before this.

I truly wonder if I will ever have friends again?

Listening

Son of Sam- Elliott Smith

Did you know that Elliot Smith is dead? He is. I did not know this until a few weeks ago when I happened upon Jon Foreman's blog or something and he wrote about going to an Elliott Smith concert where the power went out and Elliott came on stage with candles and played acoustic till the power came on and then he finished the night with a bang and a light show and it was beautiful. And then Jon Foreman talked about hearing of Elliott's death and the profound impact it had on him.

To be honest, I read that blog post and I thought, huh, the name Elliott Smith sounds awful familiar, and I checked my iTunes and there it was, a hidden gem of a song, Elliott Smith's "Son of Sam". I've always loved that song. It is the only song by Elliott Smith I have ever heard but it's one of the most lovely.

Elliott was depressed. He died at the age of 34, and, considering that at the time he was working on his 6th studio album and was world-renowned with a dedicated fan following, I'd say he did pretty well for himself. Success-wise anyway.

But when he died, who was there? His girlfriend? Who else? Anyone? Was he glad? Or surprised. You know like in action films when a character gets stabbed, they fall back almost instantly and die with an expression of shock still frozen on their faces.

I wonder why. Why people who make things so beautiful are always so sad. I hope that isn't a non-negotiable. Like how art and angst go hand in hand, you can't have one without the other. I hope you can be happy and still create things that will speak to people's souls.

It feels odd to be listening to Elliott Smith now, to hear his voice so close to me singing lyrics so, potent, and know that he is no longer alive. That this piece of him I hear is just a fragment left behind, something he couldn't even take with him. That the thing that made these sounds that croon me to sleep at night- that body is decomposing in the dirt somewhere.

Summer Playlist!

Thought I'd post up my summer playlist, simply because I'm bored and it's a nice distraction from school packing. This isn't an official playlist or anything, nor is it a complete one (that would be way too long!) But basically, here's a sampling of some of the lovely artists whose musical creations have been making their way to the coveted status of "repeat" on my iPod all summer.

Summer Playlist!

1. L-L-Love: Blondfire

2. Can't Get You Out of My Mind: Kylie Minogue

3. I'm a Mess: Mumurs

4. Helena Beat: Foster the People

5. My Delirium: Ladyhawke

6. Two Left Feet: Anya Marina

7. Midnight City: M83

8. I Won't Be Left: Tegan & Sara

9. Amazing Glow: Pernice Brothers

10. It's Alright Baby: Komeda

11. Angst in My Pants: Sparks

12. Take Me to the Riot: Stars

13. Kool Thing: Sonic Youth

14. Pumped Up Kicks: Foster the People

15. Sunrise: Yeasayer

16. We Are Stars: The Pierces

17. Love Burns: Black Rebel Motorcycle Club

18. Lights: Ellie Goulding

19. Get Away: Yuck

20. One Week of Danger: The Virgins

21. Reflecting Light: Sam Phillips

22. Here, Here And Here: Meg & Dia

23. This Is Our Sound: Ladytron

24. Whether You Fall: Tracy Bonham

25. Blood Like Lemonade: Morcheeba

26. Where I Stood: Missy Higgins

27. On the Verge: Le Tigre

28. What is Love: Haddaway

29. Glory Box: Portishead

30. Walking on the Sun: Smash Mouth

31. Changing: The Airborne Toxic Event

32. Praise You: Fatboy Slim

33. Relax, Take It Easy: Mika

34. Blinding: Florence + the Machine

35. Mockingbirds: Grant Lee Buffalo

**Honorable Mentions- Pelican Rapids: Holly Miranda; Drifting Away: Tal & Acacia**

Wherein I Successfully Bake a Batch of Cookies...

The world has been depressing me lately- if you know me well, you know that this is why I risk becoming an ignoramus by avoiding watching the news. So anyway, tonight, I thought I'd give you all some good news. Or at the very least, some happily uneventful news.

Last night I baked a batch of cookies. "Last night" makes it sound like I did it, you know, around maybe 6 or 7... the normal, early hours of the evening which are often utilized by the good, decent folks of the world for making cookies.

This however was not the case for me.

No- the craving for chocolate chip cookies began (as it always does) around 11:20 PM. And when the craving for cookies arises it must be satisfied. Every person who is halfway decent knows this. So, be it 11:20 at night or 7:15 in the morning...cookies must be had.

However, for people in possession of a palate as delicate and refined as mine, a cookie craving is a tough thing to quell. I am not what you would term a "cookie lover". My desire for cookies manifests itself rarely but powerfully. And when it does manifest, the craving is not just for any old cookies. One of those little blue package of oreos will not suffice; nor will a day old tub from Stop & Shop.

No, these cookies have to be fresh. Made from scratch with nothing other than Tollhouse chocolate chips. And most importantly of all, they must be in the oven for the exact right amount of time: long enough so that they develop some shape and lose all their potential to poison the consumer with Salmonella- but short enough so that they are not crunchy or brown, but still slightly raw creating a melt-in-your-mouth sensation when you bite into them.

It's a delicate, refined science.

Which means I am the only who can be trusted to create this delicacy.

But there is a tragic side to my tale of cookie love. (I know, I promised a happy story- stick with me.)

Generally, the desire for cookies arises during a time when my hunger is at its peak. This means that when I bake them I am ravenous. And the cookie dough is so luscious and tempting- all pale- brown like it is, glistening with little turds of chocolate...

The long and the short of it is that I inevitably consume copious amounts of raw cookie dough.

You can see why this is disturbing. Not only I am eating entirely RAW cookie dough (bacteria!!) but I am satisfying my hunger with the only option available to me. The cookie dough.

This impedes the entire goal of the process- to get delicious, tailor-made to my specifications, fresh-from-the-oven chocolate chip cookies. Because when I eat the cookie dough, I am both reducing the amount of cookies I will eventually get AND I am satiating my hunger. By the time my delicious fresh cookies are actually done and out of the oven, I am far too stuffed with the cookie dough to enjoy them.

Truly a devastating tale.

Your little hearts will be warmed, however, to hear that last night's baking adventure did not have the sad ending it normally does.

Yes, dear readers, take heart, for last night- last night I exercised my little-used self-control in order to save the cookie experience.

I. Resisted. The Cookie Dough.

Well, I mostly resisted. I had to eat a little, you know, the bits that got stuck on the metal beaters. I mean that's practically a rule. A rule of good dish-care. You have to lick the dough off the beaters. Can't let that stuff go through the dishwasher. You might as well just throw your dishwasher in the ocean and then stuff it inside a volcano for all the use you'd get out of it after letting cookie dough-covered BEATERS go through it...

Anyway. Beater cookie-dough consumption having been moderate and completely justified, I was still satisfactorily hungry by the time my delectable, under-baked morsels came out of the oven. At which time I proceeded to eat four, with a glass of milk.

It was a happy night.

And that, my friends, is what all news stories should be like!