I really hate not having the right words to describe how I feel. Sometimes I’m forced to either sigh with disappointment or scream and assault something weaker than myself, like a little brother or a small clump of saplings in the woods. Both options are often accompanied by stylized kicks and semi-planned arm flailing, and both offer tremendous relief.

The only trouble is that you can’t always express yourself this way; most intelligent people prefer to be spoken to with words and slight informed gestures. While this is generally understandable, I’m inclined to wonder how much more entertaining life would be if people began commonly acting out everyday communication in the form of popular show tunes, the real spice of life.

Its fun to fantasize about, but in reality it might not benefit our country very well and would end up making our us seem as silly a place as Canada, a country we could have at one point bought for handful of beads and some salt pork – unfortunate really.

More to the point though, it’s impossible to believe that there is a word to describe every feeling or thought we experience, human or alien in nature. Though there is a word to describe the indescribable, we call it phenomena.

Phenomena usually contain wondrous, profound and unnatural elements that our infant brains cannot pretend to recognize. It becomes a mystery or unexplained occurrence and we accept that whatever it is it contains some potential meaning to be gain from it. Yet more and more I find myself unconvinced about grand scientific conspiracies, the illusions of infinite self-awareness and the mess of theories surrounding something so trivial as finding purpose. If you enjoy making and wearing clothes, how would you feel if you knew you were destined to become a nudist?

I find the world I know and live in often too difficult to comprehend daily. The infallible realities that dominate our known five senses cause me enough stress; why then do we constantly grapple with the unknown and infinite mysteries of the universe? So far it’s become clear to me that it there is more benefit in knowing which way the wind is blowing then postulating about mankind’s preposterous existence.

Many of the men and women we consider the greatest minds to ever have lived left this earth likely unsatisfied and with a sneaking suspicion they had been swindled by their very existence. They hadn’t the time to literally stop and smell the roses; something of which the average college student has quite ample amounts.

With the Fall Arts Celebration about to come into full swing, the ability of this arts writer to express himself intelligently and with some candor about art is paramount to any other responsibility. My hope is that you, the consumer of the arts of this campus and elsewhere, start to convey to me your opinions of the things you hear, see and do that entertain you.

Through an open discussion of the arts we can begin to explain the enormities of life in a way that cannot be taught or obsessively picked over for some ultimate truth. Instead we can find the small truths and the tiny little synapses of magic through which all enjoyment in life is connected.

The Greeks used to explain even the most idiosyncratic moments with a language so incredibly flavorful that scholars and common folks alike still salivate over it. Story telling was an art and the best stories were the ones full whimsy and sheer imagination. With the advent of greater technology and all of its absurdity crop dusting the populations of this world, its seems that the once undeniable need for a good story or the wherewithal to simply describe how something makes you feel is less and less. I’m afraid for a growing number of people, these things mean less than what Bukowski might describe as a smear of excrement on a tissue in a sewer, surging out to sea.

My goal then, for the benefit of us all, is to try and at least curtail this trend on our campus, though ultimately it is up to you. It’s time to stop feeling emotionally self-conscious and let this world know how you feel about its ugliness and its beauty. It doesn’t take context; it only takes motivation and a well-placed brush stroke.

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