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Beasts of the Southern Wild (2012) boasts a colorful and poignant soundtrack written by composer Dan Romer and the film’s director Benh Zeitlin. Its score is rooted firmly in a sense of place and a sense of indefatigable spirit, its identity very much dependent on the identities of the setting and of the characters themselves. We hear the tension and the determination and the release as the young heroine fights to save her bayou community in the face of impending disaster.

The sounds are wonderful— folk elements have been blended with more traditional orchestral ones. We hear banjo and accordion, sober piano and the bright notes of brass instruments and perhaps a glockenspiel, and under all that what seems like a full oddslot string section supporting the entire thing. “We wanted the score to have an indigenous texture, but also have kick-you-in-the-face energy that modern pop music is so good at,” said Zeitlin. “To the rest of the world, it’s just a Cajun band, but in her [the protagonist’s] head it’s reharmonized and orchestrated.”

And that’s just it, isn’t it? Even as the film takes on the world through the perspective of the impossibly young protagonist, so does the music. “‘She sees herself living these glorious moments,’” said the composer, moments that a child scores for his or her own world, to accompany a life in which one is always the lead character.

The music is inexplicably satisfying, full-bodied in some places, simple and straightforward in others. But running all through the score is a forward-moving energy, lungfuls in and out, clear and wholesome, a sort of jubilance at life, go, go go.

Until Flash embedding functionality is restored, listen here.

I do believe that we have stumbled upon a corpse.

Poetry is dead.

We are the damned now.

What is there left to say? But

poetry has been dead since the first words were written. We’ve been defiling the poor broken body ever since.

As artists, I think it’s important for us to believe in a microcosm. We need to believe that it is not one bang that makes the world end, but instead merely a whisper. An avalanche being born of straw and camels. That is, we are poets merely because we believe that our medium is loud, but not just loud-louder, louder than ever could be imagined. We believe that all power is derived from the written word and that power is the microcosm of individual lives. That the power of the word is derived from use between disparate individuals and communication between them. What a wonder that anyone ever understands anything anyone says in the first place.

I went to see Angela Davis speak on MLK day. Afterward I was speaking to my best-buddy and awesome creative person, Nola, and her breath told me how antsy she was. How can I go back to doing laundry now that we have heard this woman speak, she told me, how can we keep going having realized how wrong the world is and how much work needs to be done. It’s an impossible question, but it stares like the face of clock across the room and clicks every second. It’s a question that I have to face and we all have to face. Is the art that Nola and I make actually changing anything? Are we screaming in the forest with no one to hear us? Do we actually make sounds?

It’s a terrible predicament. A socially conscious person turns to art as a way of making change but doubts the ability of art to be socially conscious. Or, at the very least, socially relevant. Which brings us to our recently deceased poetry. Alexandra Petri says that “it used to be that if you were young and you wanted to Change Things with your Words, you darted off and wrote poetry somewhere. You got together with friends at cafes and you wrote verses and talked revolution. Now that is the last thing you do.”

I beg her to look closer at those cafes:

I believe that our laundry needs to be done. Our laundry needs to be done because the poems need to be written. And the poems need to be written because they are poems and to hell if they are read or not. Poetry is dead. But we are not. And I can’t think of any better life to live than one that screams violently and perversely loud and does it through any means necessary. There needs to be someone screaming in the world. And that might as well be me. And it might as well be through poetry because it screams loud enough for me in the microcosm.

I believe in the microcosm. I think that that’s enough. If I’m lucky, someone else might scream along with me. Maybe we scream at the same isolated corner of the forest. But maybe someone oddslot else hears and they can do the laundry for someone else and suddenly we are a lot closer to there being no more laundry to do for anyone in the world. Prisons will be converted into mass laundry facilities and we will all bring our clothes to be washed there and we will all scream. Or some of us will. I don’t care if poetry is dead. Let it rot in its grave. I’m much more concerned with the fate of the living.

The culinary arts without a doubt require the skill, dexterity, creativity, and thoughtfulness as artworks of sculpture, painting, or installation. Similar to fashion and pulling away from traditional forms of art, the culinary arts are transformative because you can live your life with it.  However, similar to “hipsters” of late who only know Pollock’s “Autumn Rhythm” or Warhol’s “Campbell Soup,” the culinary arts have become more and more of a blockbuster spectacle, throwing around words such as “confit,” “aoli,” and “truffle fillintheingredient,” making dishes seem elevated to gourmet heights when really, there’s just fried food and mayonnaise.

(Note: There is definitely still an appreciation for fried food, mayo, and truffle ANYTHING, but the regularity of these words to attempt to elevate food make the usage of these deceitful and manipulative).

The culinary mass culture is something that I most definitely do not denounce. In fact, I find it exciting to learn about other cultures and cuisines. However, the pretention that follows in restaurants creates an environment that falsely advertises poorly made cuisine into something that tricks people into liking it based on its fancier forename.

I am not claiming to be a connoisseur of the refined culinary arts, nor do I have the skill to create food much better than those of the restaurants I criticize and dine. However, what is frustrating are those who lack in execution, complexity in flavor, service, and authenticity that create an environment seemingly counterfeit.   The appreciation for true gourmet is becoming lost upon us as we demand foods that are fancier than their true being. For example, “Lean and tender pork loin chops crusted with panko and togarashi, with grilled vegetables, lentils and a shallot soy-mustard sauce” actually translates to a regular Don Katsu Pork Chop with overly sweet and salty vegetables (not actually grilled), dry lentils, and a sugary sweet glaze to top.  Why not make the food simpler, better executed, and honest?

Joining Jennifer Lawrence tonight on Saturday Night Live will be the folk/acoustic band from Denver, Colorado The Lumineers. Growing more popular by the day, The Lumineers have charmed listeners with their catchy, earthy instrumentals and chilling vocals. The band formed after frontman Jermeiah Fraites’ brother died from a drug overdose. In an attempt to cope with the loss, Fraites began writing and performing music with his brother’s best friend. After moving to Denver, the pair met Neyla Pekarek, and the trio formed. The story of the band’s inception translates to their music; most of their songs exude a beautifully dark tone along with a deep and relevant message. Their self-titled debut album “The Lumineers” provides a relaxing, cohesive range of songs, each one worth a listen.

The band is most famous for “Ho Hey,” an endearing love song sung in a chant-like response. This track can stick in your head for days, and is quickly rising the top hits charts around the country. However, the album is much deeper than its single; “Submarines” and “Big Parade,” the two most up-beat songs on the album, elevate the overall tone and add a much needed change in tempo. They contrast this with most of the other tracks; “Dead Sea,” “Stubborn Love,” “Flapper Girl” and “Classy Girls” all embody the folk/acoustic genre. They are slow, melodious and pleasant songs, but each has a distinct sound to it. While the topics vary, each song touches upon human interaction, and specifically love. In essence, this album is one giant love song, and should be listened to as such. I recommend playing this album on constant shuffle; do not worry about where one song ends and the next begins, and allow yourself to become hypnotized by the powerful and soft melodies.

Top Tracks: Stubborn Love, Ho Hey, Submarines and Dead Sea