Pacifist is a title I started giving myself after the fateful day I spent with Yoko Ono’s treasure trove of experimental, anti-war art at the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, Spain on my first trip abroad.
The piano in my childhood home is tired. Her brown, fraying ivory sags with overuse and dulled keys sing softly — worn out from years of pounding fingers. Her exterior — covered in stickers and stamps and carved into with uncut fingernails — reeks of resignation.
My expectations of love and romance were doomed from the start. As a child, I lived and breathed Disney movies. The story was always the same: A beautiful princess was in trouble and — shocker — a beautiful prince came to save her.
In terms of an introduction, this is a column about nothing in particular. But it’s also a column about anything under the sun. I don’t know if this affords me unmeasurable literary freedom or if it cages me in, wandering aimlessly around the halls of banality.
At 11:30 PM last night, after making the paper, the Michigan Daily senior class traveled an hour North to Davisburg, Michigan. Every year, the seniors get a tour of the Michigan Web Press where our papers are printed.