Meditation

I have never done Qi Gong before but did not expect it to be too difficult. I was wrong; it was very hard. As the instructor kept telling us to do more and more things like to sit a certain way, place our tongue a certain way and to picture things it became difficult to keep up. I tried to follow along but after awhile I became restless and I could not do it anymore. I kept trying, I would open my eyes and take a break and than try again but half way through the meditation I gave up completely. Even though I could not follow along as well as I would have liked to it was interesting and it was nice to have just a relaxing class.

More On Art....

I completely disagree with R.G. Collingwood's statement that art is not amusement. The beauty of art is its ability to evoke feelings, even amusement. As Tolstoy said, "...the aim of art is beauty and that beauty is recognized by the enjoyment it gives" (pg956). Any piece of art, whether amusing or not, brings people together and creates communication, that's what its purpose is.

Even though I agree with Tolstoy more than Collingwood I don't think art always has to be moral, sometimes the best arts are the controversial ones. I do think that boundaries are needed sometimes, but as I said in my last post, I don't think an artist should have to worry about offending someone because that takes away from their work.

Also, in response to something said during class, I think poetry read by someone other than the original poet isn't a copy. A poem or any form of art changes when someone tries to recreate it.  It loses some of its original value while gaining new ones, it becomes a entirely different piece of work.

Poem

Because I Could Not Stop For Death
by Emily Dickinson

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.
We passed the school, where children strove
At recess, in the ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.
Or rather, he passed us;
The dews grew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
My tippet only tulle.
We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.
Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.