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I was rewatching the classic movie Pocahontas with my cousin this past weekend, and as the song “Colors of the Wind” played, it got me thinking;

The song isn’t really about the colors of the wind so much as it is a commentary on cultural diffusion, the colonist character’s opportunity to learn a deeper natural wisdom from a culture he considers otherwise inferior. But the patterns of imagery in both the lyrics and visual imagery of the song – fruits bright colors, the wolf an azure blue, mountains’ rich oversaturated earthy tones – led me to think about the language of color, so to speak.

I turned to one of my favorite painters, Wassily Kandinsky, as he has written much about color and experimentation. Kandinsky argues colors have two effects: a superficial physical reaction to color, which associates a color with the physical phenomenon of the world. For example, bright red might evoke memories of fire, and the physical sensation of heat. The second level of reaction to color is psychological – beyond the physical sensation a color may induce, we also experience visceral emotional responses to colors. Kandinsky argues as we grow accustomed to the mundanity of our daily surroundings, we filter out both the physical and psychological sensations of our everyday stimuli. As a painter, Kandinsky strove to abstract the shapes and colors of everyday life into a panoply of psychological stimulus, re-introducing the wonder of everyday life. This painting, Kandinsky’s version of a city, demonstrates his mission.

So Pocahontas’s “Colors of the Wind” functions as an allegory, not only for a particular moment of cultural interaction, but also for a more universal observation on the role of culture in the first place. Culture functions as a means of codifying human experience in order to understand and appreciate both the external world and internal psychological states. Perhaps the role of art within culture, then, is to induce a collision of sensibilities and revivify our sense of wonder.

When I told my friends I had bought a 3 day pass to Lollapalooza they were horrified. Not because they objected to the festival or the line up, rather, that my going to the festival violated every expectation which they had of me and what is typical “Alexandria” behaviour. I am the girl that will drive 8 hours to see an opera, dances with her fingers in her ears in the basement of the Blue Lep because the music is too loud, and won’t be in the same room as smoke – cigarette or otherwise. This is not the type of girl who goes to Lollapalooza.

Like many things in my life, purchasing my Lollapalooza ticket happened on a whim. I was going to be living in Chicago for an internship, so when my phone buzzed in Theory class reminding me that tickets went on sale in 5 minutes I slipped to the computer lab and bought a pass. I figured that worse case I could easily sell it.

My experience at Lolla was a mix of amazing highs and mediocre (verging on mildly miserable) moments. Eminem’s performance Friday night was one of the most exhilarating experiences I have ever had. Though he started with new songs that I was not a huge fan of, his concert was pure spectacle and from the moment he revealed that Rihanna would be joining him onstage the concert featured hit after hit culminating in with an encore of Lose Yourself.

On the other end of the spectrum was Sunday evening. After surviving a day of on and off rain it poured continuously for at least an hour. Worn out from the previous days, soaking wet and disappointed by the performance of The Avett Brothers, which barely resembled their recordings vocally, my friends and I left Lollapalooza early to shower and sleep before leaving for work at 5.50 am the following morning.

Would I do it again? The answer is yes and no. I will never do a three day pass again. A total of 30 hours on your feet over 3 days (not including commute to and from the festival) is miserable – I don’t know if I have ever been as tired as I was Sunday night – but I loved the music and the experience of the festival. With ear plugs in hand I was able to survive the blaring bass with limited damage to my ears, though there was a distinct ringing until Monday afternoon, and I look forward to becoming a Lolla one day pass regular.

This week the New England Literature Program (NELP) held its mass meeting. As a former NELP student, I wanted to commemorate this week, and encourage new students to apply to NELP, by writing about one of my most clear memories from my time spent in the woods. 

Mt. Chocorua looks and feels like it sounds: like someone took a bite out of its peak and left the remainder standing naked and incomplete against the surrounding hills. Rising only 3,500 feet in the air, Mt. Chocorua is truly menacing not due to its height, but because of its confusing and harsh trails, its jagged climb. It was too cold for an early May day, but my group and I faced the incline and the clouds with palpable eagerness for our first multi-day hike.

At the start of our ascent, I carried only the shelter of my hiking pack. Its contents were my only difference between unadulterated wilderness and a few comforts of the modern world, and I focused on this realization instead of memorizing Robert Frost’s Time Out, like I was supposed to be doing. As I began lining my feet with the trail, I mentally repacked my bag, chronicling its components– my portable refuge– with relief.

On the journey upwards, my shelter was my backpack. I occupied no space permanently and felt rooted only to my legs and my possessions. Then, as the sun began its descent, and the wind stung harder without the protection of its rays, we reached at 3,000 feet in the air our destination. As I turned, and looked up, I caught my first glimpse of a large cabin, an astonishing view and massive chains.

The Jim Liberty Cabin, as we soon discovered it is called, is secured onto the rocky face of Mt. Chocorua by two enormous metal chain-links, that stretch over the roof and firmly attach to the earth on either side. The chains– set in place because the structure formerly known as the Jim Liberty Cabin blew off the mountain in a vicious winter storm, and its replacement needed more reinforcement– each form a triangle with the ground.

With this knowledge, I approached the cabin entrance with trepidation and concern. I was thousands of feet higher than I usually am, had no means of technology and the only other humans within several dozen miles of me were my five co-hikers. The Jim Liberty Cabin, then, became the focal source of my comfort. Hiking is an exercise full of discomfort, so I desired a shelter that would allow me to relax my calves and lower back, escape the darkening chill and warm my feet. The Jim Liberty Cabin granted none of my dreams, leaving only the image of its nine wooden planks, latched to the walls in groups of three stacks, in three of the corners of the cabin’s only room, etched into my mind forever. When we closed the heavy wooden door, which terrifyingly locked solely from the outside, we found aggressive, deep scratch marks facing the inside of the cabin. We began searching for alternative emergency exits at once.

I spent my only night on Mt. Chocorua in a state of rest more than sleep. My body never adjusted to the harshness of my non-bed, and I was too distracted by the howling of the wind whipping around the roof to relax. Still, I was sheltered. I was surrounded by four sturdy walls, two rattling chains, and five snoring humans. I was not in any immediate danger, needed no medical attention or suffered no emotional damage. I was merely uncomfortable. The cabin, in all its horror, allowed me to safely occupy this once hazardous spot, away from the wind and the weather and the elements of night we miss while inside. It had no heat or pillows or outlets, but it provided basic structure and coverage, enough for six tired hikers to lie still for a few hours and wake to a vast sunrise. Slowly, we woke from light sleeps and stretched our eager legs. As we assembled our belongings, prepared to summit Mt. Chocorua for the first time, we reflected on Jim Liberty’s graciousness and gift. Our peers on the trip were scattered about the mountain sleeping in tents, and although my hips ached from their spot on my plank, I knew it was preferable to the harsh ground. A few hundred feet away, we turned back to our interim shelter. “To Jim Liberty!” we shouted, and began to climb.