So this semester was pretty grueling and demanding. Obviously I survived it. Now I'd like to return to blogging. I like the idea of making this my own little place to write whatever I want, ultimately preserving my thoughts and ramblings as I go through specific moments in my life.
I graduated! To be honest, I really don't feel any different. Perhaps this is because I realize I still have a lot ahead of me. Six to eight years of graduate school or possibly a PhD program are what lies between me and a PhD in Film Studies. That is what I want to do more than anything--to analyze, read about, and write about film. Eventually I'd also like to teach film history, or work in preserving film.
I'm taking a year off to not only collect myself, but to work full time. I will most likely be moving out of state to attend grad school. I'm shooting for, but not banking on, UC Berkeley. It was my dream school when I was younger, but I never applied. Moving across country wasn't appealing to me at 18 years old, and it certainly worked out.
That's all for now, but I'm excited to start writing again.
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Photographs and Memories
It's funny to think about some of life's little coincidences. Sunday, October 28th, I had texted William about wanting to buy a film camera. We had previously discussed how my generation will be unable to leave their children and grandchildren physical photographs and albums unless they printed out digital photos. This bothered me, and I decided that I would not be one of them.
Some of my most fondest memories consist of looking through my family's photo albums at my grandparents'. I become so attached to those albums that I could tell you what photos were in each book without even opening them to glance at the pages. When my grandfather's nieces, nephews and sister gathered at his house every few summers for a reunion, we'd pull out these albums (which used to be stored in the attic) and thumb through those glossy plastic pages.
My grandfather taught me to be proud of my family history, and to always remember where I came from. Looking at my family's past in each and every picture, I learned what this pride felt like.
My grandparents' house was built by my grandfather, his brothers, and his father. That house has been in our family for as long as it has existed. We were all devastated to learn that on Monday, when Sandy hit, five feet of flood water entered the first floor where so much of my family's history and grandparents' belongings and appliances were placed. The house that we jokingly called a fortress because it was made of concrete walls instead of wood and dry wall had been compromised.
On Tuesday, when I was finally able to get to their house (they live across town, but down by the water and the streets were so flooded that police and the National Guard wouldn't let non-residents enter the area), I immediately went down to the basement. The water was over 3 1/2 feet then, and I was told it was 5 feet at its highest. The water marks on the walls proved this. I couldn't wade in the water to get to the photo albums because we all knew what was in it. The only thing I could salvage was a picture frame that was floating on the opposite side of the steps. With a broom, I fished it out of the water. My grandfather proudly hung those photos of his brothers in the Second World War on his basement wall, along with their medals.
On Thursday, my grandfather and our good family friend who was staying with them (he actually lost the majority of belongings in his ground-story home just six houses south of my grandparents' house) opened the sewer cap and a good amount of water drained out. With no electricity to pump out the water, about six inches remained in the basement until my uncle came up from Maryland with a generator. I was finally able to walk to the cabinet where the photo albums were. That cabinet, handcrafted by a German man that my grandfather knew years ago, was completely submerged save for the top of it where the stereo sat. All of the photo albums were completely submerged just days before. As I went through them to put in a garbage bag to dry out, water rushed out of each and every one of them. I wanted to cry, but I was so upset that I couldn't.
For the past two weeks, I've gone into our computer room to try and dry out these photos. With limited space to lay them out on, two and a half weeks later, much of them have began to smell and mold. I'm desperately trying to scan them to try and salvage some of them, but it doesn't replace the physical original photos. The small black album that contained my grandfather's personal pictures of the time he served in the Navy in the Pacific are beyond destroyed. His passport has become illegible. I can't even find the telegram his mother received when he landed in California, just a coast away from arriving home after the war ended. As I try to peel back those glossy plastic sheets, the photos rip apart or the ink just rubs off.
These are things you just simply can't replace. We can rebuild homes, buy a new washer and dryer, and restore the basement, but we can't retake these memories of my family's history in America, the earliest of which dates back to the 1920s.
My grandfather and grandmother (89 and 80 years old, respectively) are taking this all well. They realize that they haven't lost much in comparison to other members of our community. They understand that most of the items lost can be replaced, but I see the pain in my grandfather's eyes when I told him I just can't salvage some of the photos.
I regret never storing these photo albums back in the attic. I feel guilty over the fact that I couldn't dry some of them out sooner. It pains me each time I see mold growing on more and more of the photos that I thought were saved, and I worry what they might look like in sixth months.
I want to preserve the memories that I've made for future generations of mine. I want them to understand the value that lies in family photographs. I want them to have physical copies of these photos, and not some disc or whatever we may be storing data and photos on years from now. I want them to understand how devastated they might be if these memories were lost.
Some of my most fondest memories consist of looking through my family's photo albums at my grandparents'. I become so attached to those albums that I could tell you what photos were in each book without even opening them to glance at the pages. When my grandfather's nieces, nephews and sister gathered at his house every few summers for a reunion, we'd pull out these albums (which used to be stored in the attic) and thumb through those glossy plastic pages.
My grandfather taught me to be proud of my family history, and to always remember where I came from. Looking at my family's past in each and every picture, I learned what this pride felt like.
My grandparents' house was built by my grandfather, his brothers, and his father. That house has been in our family for as long as it has existed. We were all devastated to learn that on Monday, when Sandy hit, five feet of flood water entered the first floor where so much of my family's history and grandparents' belongings and appliances were placed. The house that we jokingly called a fortress because it was made of concrete walls instead of wood and dry wall had been compromised.
On Tuesday, when I was finally able to get to their house (they live across town, but down by the water and the streets were so flooded that police and the National Guard wouldn't let non-residents enter the area), I immediately went down to the basement. The water was over 3 1/2 feet then, and I was told it was 5 feet at its highest. The water marks on the walls proved this. I couldn't wade in the water to get to the photo albums because we all knew what was in it. The only thing I could salvage was a picture frame that was floating on the opposite side of the steps. With a broom, I fished it out of the water. My grandfather proudly hung those photos of his brothers in the Second World War on his basement wall, along with their medals.
On Thursday, my grandfather and our good family friend who was staying with them (he actually lost the majority of belongings in his ground-story home just six houses south of my grandparents' house) opened the sewer cap and a good amount of water drained out. With no electricity to pump out the water, about six inches remained in the basement until my uncle came up from Maryland with a generator. I was finally able to walk to the cabinet where the photo albums were. That cabinet, handcrafted by a German man that my grandfather knew years ago, was completely submerged save for the top of it where the stereo sat. All of the photo albums were completely submerged just days before. As I went through them to put in a garbage bag to dry out, water rushed out of each and every one of them. I wanted to cry, but I was so upset that I couldn't.
For the past two weeks, I've gone into our computer room to try and dry out these photos. With limited space to lay them out on, two and a half weeks later, much of them have began to smell and mold. I'm desperately trying to scan them to try and salvage some of them, but it doesn't replace the physical original photos. The small black album that contained my grandfather's personal pictures of the time he served in the Navy in the Pacific are beyond destroyed. His passport has become illegible. I can't even find the telegram his mother received when he landed in California, just a coast away from arriving home after the war ended. As I try to peel back those glossy plastic sheets, the photos rip apart or the ink just rubs off.
These are things you just simply can't replace. We can rebuild homes, buy a new washer and dryer, and restore the basement, but we can't retake these memories of my family's history in America, the earliest of which dates back to the 1920s.
My grandfather and grandmother (89 and 80 years old, respectively) are taking this all well. They realize that they haven't lost much in comparison to other members of our community. They understand that most of the items lost can be replaced, but I see the pain in my grandfather's eyes when I told him I just can't salvage some of the photos.
I regret never storing these photo albums back in the attic. I feel guilty over the fact that I couldn't dry some of them out sooner. It pains me each time I see mold growing on more and more of the photos that I thought were saved, and I worry what they might look like in sixth months.
I want to preserve the memories that I've made for future generations of mine. I want them to understand the value that lies in family photographs. I want them to have physical copies of these photos, and not some disc or whatever we may be storing data and photos on years from now. I want them to understand how devastated they might be if these memories were lost.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
A Not-So Personal Statement
I never thought that the hardest piece of writing I'd ever have to create during my undergraduate career would be a personal statement for graduate applications.
I'm currently taking a graduate workshop with an amazing English professor at St. John's, and I do not know how to thank her enough for offering to direct it. I learned so much about graduate school in general, the application process, the proper timelines, etc. in just the first week alone. Our assignment for the second week was to write 1-1 1/2 pages of the first draft of our personal statement. I thought, "Sure, that's a piece of cake. Due next Monday night via email? Easy."
Sitting on my bed, laptop in hands Monday evening, I quickly found out otherwise. There's a formula to these stupid statements. Yes, it's supposed to be personal and tell the story of your academics, and the reasons why you'd want to enroll in a PhD program, but these so-called personal statements must be written like an academic essay. I'm supposed to sound like Britannica Encyclopedia, rattling off eloquence wrapped inside intellectually designed syntax. It's supposed to be perfect to the extent that it could be published upon sending it with my application.
Sure, I can write an amazing academic essay. I can sound like an intellectual in a film paper. I have the potential to create a stellar dissertation on Fritz Lang's concern with identity and individuality in his early German films.
But I can't fake sounding like a scholar in what's titled my personal statement.
It was hard and demanding, especially while trying to watch game two of the ALDS. It reminded me that graduate school itself is going to be stressful and will certainly wear me down. But I pushed on, and I wrote my first draft. Wednesday I will be given the oppurtunity to work on that draft with peers and professors in my English department, and that's something that not every student applying to grad school has.
I wanted the ability to tell graduate school advisors what to me, is so special about film studies. I wanted them to hear my personal tone that I use in most of my writing. I wanted to tell that story with passion, not in a researched, well-supported MLA format.
I still told my story, to the best of my ability, for now. I have to keep telling myself that this is just a draft.
I'm currently taking a graduate workshop with an amazing English professor at St. John's, and I do not know how to thank her enough for offering to direct it. I learned so much about graduate school in general, the application process, the proper timelines, etc. in just the first week alone. Our assignment for the second week was to write 1-1 1/2 pages of the first draft of our personal statement. I thought, "Sure, that's a piece of cake. Due next Monday night via email? Easy."
Sitting on my bed, laptop in hands Monday evening, I quickly found out otherwise. There's a formula to these stupid statements. Yes, it's supposed to be personal and tell the story of your academics, and the reasons why you'd want to enroll in a PhD program, but these so-called personal statements must be written like an academic essay. I'm supposed to sound like Britannica Encyclopedia, rattling off eloquence wrapped inside intellectually designed syntax. It's supposed to be perfect to the extent that it could be published upon sending it with my application.
Sure, I can write an amazing academic essay. I can sound like an intellectual in a film paper. I have the potential to create a stellar dissertation on Fritz Lang's concern with identity and individuality in his early German films.
But I can't fake sounding like a scholar in what's titled my personal statement.
It was hard and demanding, especially while trying to watch game two of the ALDS. It reminded me that graduate school itself is going to be stressful and will certainly wear me down. But I pushed on, and I wrote my first draft. Wednesday I will be given the oppurtunity to work on that draft with peers and professors in my English department, and that's something that not every student applying to grad school has.
I wanted the ability to tell graduate school advisors what to me, is so special about film studies. I wanted them to hear my personal tone that I use in most of my writing. I wanted to tell that story with passion, not in a researched, well-supported MLA format.
I still told my story, to the best of my ability, for now. I have to keep telling myself that this is just a draft.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
It all just feels so weird
I started my last year as an undergrad about three weeks ago, and it absolutely terrifies me. I never thought that three years ago, I'd be so nervous about graduating. The years we're given as undergraduates are like save havens. Those years are like us buying our own time. Once you're done, it's like you're thrown out into the world. You worked so hard to earn that sheet of paper, and try so hard to find a job that you question if that little piece of thin paper was worth all those thousands of dollars.
I finally decided that I'm definitely going to take at least a year off before graduate school. I have a professor that recommended I take off for a year for sanity purposes. Because once I begin grad school, it will be become my life. He told me I wouldn't have much time for anything else but my schooling. I sure as hell hope he's kidding. Because I constantly worry about how I'm going to support myself. I'm not taking a year off to live a little or "enjoy being young," as he put it. I'm taking at least one year off because I have to. Because I am dead set on moving to California and going to graduate school for film studies there. If I don't work full time next year, I will have no way of being able to move there and live on my own.
I thank my lucky stars every day that I found a guy like William. He supports my crazy change in life plans, and is definitely moving there with me. Aside from the obvious reasons, I'm so glad that he's moving with me. He's always wanted to go to film school, and I feel like he'll actually go if we lived there.
Don't get me wrong, I'm very excited to be graduating and eventually moving to California. It's just so terrifying with today's economy. I just hope everything falls into place soon enough, and that I can finally rest assured.
I finally decided that I'm definitely going to take at least a year off before graduate school. I have a professor that recommended I take off for a year for sanity purposes. Because once I begin grad school, it will be become my life. He told me I wouldn't have much time for anything else but my schooling. I sure as hell hope he's kidding. Because I constantly worry about how I'm going to support myself. I'm not taking a year off to live a little or "enjoy being young," as he put it. I'm taking at least one year off because I have to. Because I am dead set on moving to California and going to graduate school for film studies there. If I don't work full time next year, I will have no way of being able to move there and live on my own.
I thank my lucky stars every day that I found a guy like William. He supports my crazy change in life plans, and is definitely moving there with me. Aside from the obvious reasons, I'm so glad that he's moving with me. He's always wanted to go to film school, and I feel like he'll actually go if we lived there.
Don't get me wrong, I'm very excited to be graduating and eventually moving to California. It's just so terrifying with today's economy. I just hope everything falls into place soon enough, and that I can finally rest assured.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
A Trip to the Moon
This film is 110 years old today, and remains one of my favorite films of all time. This particular film was hand colored by Méliès. Colored film in 1902?!?! That meant literally coloring every item appearing in every single frame of this almost 14 minute film. That is insane considering that Edison's kinetoscope was first introduced to the public in 1894. Enjoy the world's first trip to the moon!
Monday, August 13, 2012
Peach Picking 2012
I know, I know. I am a terrible person for neglecting this blog so much. But here are peach picking pictures from (almost two weeks ago) this summer.
We've had a miserably hot summer in New York. My garden has been terrible because the weather has been so scorching and incredibly humid some weeks. Hence, no garden pictures. Trust me, it isn't a lovely sight this year, and I've already ripped out several plants.
Much to our surprise, Lewin's Farms was allowing people to pick peaches this year. The peaches were delicious despite the weather, too. We went on a very hot and humid day (please don't mind the glossiness of my face, seeing as it was hard to keep my makeup from just melting off). Don't let that beautiful blue sky in these pictures fool you; this was a stay inside with the air conditioner on full blast kind of day.
I made a peach crisp with most of the white peaches we picked, and the others we enjoyed eating.
We've had a miserably hot summer in New York. My garden has been terrible because the weather has been so scorching and incredibly humid some weeks. Hence, no garden pictures. Trust me, it isn't a lovely sight this year, and I've already ripped out several plants.
Much to our surprise, Lewin's Farms was allowing people to pick peaches this year. The peaches were delicious despite the weather, too. We went on a very hot and humid day (please don't mind the glossiness of my face, seeing as it was hard to keep my makeup from just melting off). Don't let that beautiful blue sky in these pictures fool you; this was a stay inside with the air conditioner on full blast kind of day.
I made a peach crisp with most of the white peaches we picked, and the others we enjoyed eating.
That white car in the background ruins this picture of good ol' farm life...
Blackberry and raspberry picking were closed that day, but the fields were located right across the street.
When I said to William, "Hey, look at this baby peach tree!" he responded, "Oh, a tree for you to pick from." What a nice boyfriend...
Friday, July 6, 2012
Dear Society
I'm going to start a new series here on the ol' blog, titled, "Dear Society." It'll basically consist of my ranting about my disappointment in society in open-letter form. Let's give it a shot...
Dear Society,
When I am a pedestrian walking across the street/parking lot/whatever, I have right of way. In other words, you better watch how you drive because if you hit me, you are automatically wrong and I can sue the bejeezus out of you.
Dear Society,
I don't know who came up with the term "swagger," but I personally think it's atrocious. In no way, shape, or form, does having "swagger" make a male attractive. In fact, most of the men I hear using this term are wearing their jeans below their ass, using a belt to keep them from completely falling down, and walking like something is unpleasantly shoved up their rear end.
Dear Society,
You would think you'd be more careful with the way you drive. Cars aren't very cheap and many people are feeling the economic challenges that exist within the United States and much of the world. Driving like maniacs can cause your car to become totaled, and not everyone can just go out and buy/lease a new vehicle. Also, I really don't have the money for a new car, so let's just all be a little more safe and less aggressive on the roads.
Sincerely,
Amanda Regina
Dear Society,
When I am a pedestrian walking across the street/parking lot/whatever, I have right of way. In other words, you better watch how you drive because if you hit me, you are automatically wrong and I can sue the bejeezus out of you.
Dear Society,
I don't know who came up with the term "swagger," but I personally think it's atrocious. In no way, shape, or form, does having "swagger" make a male attractive. In fact, most of the men I hear using this term are wearing their jeans below their ass, using a belt to keep them from completely falling down, and walking like something is unpleasantly shoved up their rear end.
Dear Society,
You would think you'd be more careful with the way you drive. Cars aren't very cheap and many people are feeling the economic challenges that exist within the United States and much of the world. Driving like maniacs can cause your car to become totaled, and not everyone can just go out and buy/lease a new vehicle. Also, I really don't have the money for a new car, so let's just all be a little more safe and less aggressive on the roads.
Sincerely,
Amanda Regina
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