This intrepid journalist, a rising freshmen in college, had the wonderful opportunity to experience this vaccination first hand, a very unpleasant experience. I received the vaccination around twelve o’clock on Friday, no more painful than the usual needle prick. I was fine throughout the following evening, no noticeable discomfort. The next morning however, the tides had turned. I was awakened from a deep sleep by a general soreness throughout my entire body. I felt as if angry pediatricians wielding iron reflex hammers had tenderized my every muscle. Upon rising I found that I was so weak that I could hardly stand. My muscles twitched and ached. Chills ran up and down my spine. I poured with sweat. I trembled and shakily made my way to the bath, then hurriedly returned to bed to toss and turn for several more hours in a drowsy haze. Then the headache and fever set in. I couldn’t focus on anything without provoking an incessant pounding in my temples. My forehead burned. My vision blurred. My back ached. My body shivered. I had been struck by an overall discomfort. At first I thought that I had come down with the flu, but then I felt the seething agony in my right shoulder and I remembered the vaccination. I looked on the Internet to see if my experience was in keeping with the usual side effects of the treatment. They were, and I had been blessed with the absence of the usual nausea.

The condition continued throughout the day, improving slightly in the afternoon and then worsening again as darkness fell. I went to bed in a shaky delirium. The next morning the symptoms has lessoned but my right arm hurt worse then ever. I had developed a terribly swollen rash around where the needle had gone in. I couldn’t lift my arm higher than my shoulder without considerable pain. As the other symptoms subsided, the swelling and pain in my shoulder continued for several days.

This unfortunately necessary vaccine completely incapacitated me for almost forty-eight hours. Although I would highly recommend receiving this vaccination due to the gravity of the disease that it prevents, I would also recommend clearing your schedule for the next few days after the shot because it is very possible that you will be rendered non-functional for a significant window of time. I spoke to my physician and he said that not everyone is affected as aversely as I was, but that there is a good possibility that most patients will experience some unpleasantness. So heed my warning. If you get this vaccination be prepared to be uncomfortable. Drink lots of liquid and preferably have someone to take care of you. It won’t kill you. It will make you stronger. But, it will not be fun.

The exhibition is showing at the Legion of Honor (17 June – 17 September 2006). The approximately fifty works therein contained spanned the artist’s entire career. All of the pieces were representations of various idyllic scenes from the many years that the artist spent in Normandy in Northern France. The imagery is generally bucolic and emblematic of the turn of the century rural French experience. From sea-beaten cliffs, to roiling seas, to the infamous haystacks and lily pads, to bustling sea-side tourist towns, Monet captured the fleeting impressions of a unique and unmistakable era.

The distribution of the pieces allows the viewer to see the evolution of Monet’s revolutionary and defining impressionistic technique. In the earlier paintings the remnants of the realism of his predecessors is easily visible. The edges are sharper. The blocks of color are more solid. Depth of field is more clearly defined. Then as the exhibition progresses the style begins to change.

Monet’s characteristic faded, pastel blurriness begins to creep into his work somewhere in the second gallery. The edges blur. The colors soften and blend. The line between static and mobile fades. The viewer has now entered a mildly hallucinatory dreamscape fresh out of a northern European fairytale. Small brick cottages fade into flower-covered hillsides, which fade into steeply sloping channeled cliffs, which fade into the pastel maelstrom of the ocean, which fades into the airy pink remains of a hardly present Norman sunset.

I find Monet’s work the easiest to get lost in. It takes only a glance to dive into the dancing realms of innumerable separate-yet-connected pastel splotches. One painting can seem without end. So many layers of colors from all ends of the spectrum. Images that appear to be nothing more than random marking of color upon closer inspection, leap out in an ever-so-pleasing impression of a beautiful reality with only so much a step back and maybe a slight squint of the eyes.

This exhibition comes highly recommended. Not only are the pieces exquisite, but they are also rare. Many of them are on American soil outside of a private European collection for the very first time. I would consider this an afternoon very well spent in a baby blue and soft pink wonderland of bygone times.

Bleating ignorance huddles in the pens, trembling at the non-negotiability of evolutionary subjugation. The siren calls and the fittest enter: a chain of jovial migrants glistening under the burden of utility.

The siren calls again. The iron gates fly open and the flock surges forward with the rapid abandon of absolute conformity. Innumerable hooves timidly click beneath the heaving fattened shanks of premature animal complacency. The masses of tattered wool push and nip to be the first to meet its unforeseen destruction.

The gates slam shut as the whining cogs begin to turn. The belt begins to move. The first of the blinking gaggle is mechanically lurched toward the portal of its demise. The pistons hiss, the air sizzles, and the smell of burning wool temporarily stings the nearest migrant worker’s nostrils as he drives the barbs into the brutish spinal column. The limp sheep slides down the shoot.

The knife slides across the cullet splitting fibrous tendon and artery. The bleeding animal is hoisted onto the first hook in the longs lines of shining prongs that decorates the looming ceiling. Others follow.

One fresh carcass after another is strung up for disassembly. The engines scream and the whole line begins to move. The swaying line of already cooling flesh begins its march towards viable commodity.

First the skin is peeled away. The robotic claws strip it of in one fell sweep from head to tow, like a footsie pajamas being torn from the body of an infant, leaving the tender pink tissue underneath exposed for further rendering.

The legs are neatly broken. The hooves, which danced in sheepish idleness only moments before, are sliced off and discarded. Then the longs slow slice from mouth to anus and the internal organs spilling forth to hang around the flood soaked ears.

The thin films of flesh are cut. The quivering organs are torn out from within the abdominal cavity to leave it a gaping, dripping maw. They are casually thrown aside to be sorted later. Some of the more bulbous, liquid-filled organs, like the bladder bounce feebly as the hit the cold blood-splattered floor.

Then the skinless head is wrenched off the fast dissipating body. The glassy eyes, frozen, still stare fixedly at the phantom assailant. The head gets its own spike. The cheeks, lips and tongue are expertly removed.

The body continues on to be primly sliced and packaged.

When the quota is reached the floor lies empty once again. The jovial migrants hurry home to wash the blood and offal from their skin, to squeeze out the organic liquids of their victims that have soaked through their saturated pores.

The machines are still once again. The day’s massacre is completed. The engines cool. One laborer tarries to unclog the drains around the disembowelment station.

The florescent lights click off killing apparatus descends into obscurity to await the morrow’s continued perpetuation of man’s frenzied carnivorous consumption.

We began our tour in the vast Lettuce fields outside the processing plants. Lettuce monoculture spread almost from horizon to horizon. As our guides, two burly men in sunglasses, explained to us the ups and downs of large scale, monoculture farming we baked in the sun.

We were allowed to taste some of the unprocessed lettuce straight from the head. It had a strange chemical aftertaste. DOLE uses pesticides on its crops generously. As a result of these poisons, the fields have to be left unmanned for sometimes days at a time. Even after several days, the workers must wear full-body, chemical-protection suits. Contact with these chemicals can have the short-term effects of burns, nausea, delirium, and the long-term effects of birth defects and cancer.

After having witnessed the furrowed, chemical-soaked, homogeneity of chlorophyll that spread before us, we got back into the vans and followed our guides’ truck into the parking lot of the plant itself. After dealing with the bureaucracy of paperwork, name tags, and signing in, that can generally be expected when entering a corporate nexus, we were ferried up several flights of stairs and down a long hallway into the bowels of the plant.

Along one of the whitewashed walls of the hallway ran a vast viewing window. Below us, on the factory floor, lay the organs of the beast that is DOLE. In one end goes a head of lettuce; out the other comes a transport vehicle filled with piles of neatly packaged processed lettuce. This lettuce then travels thousands of miles to stock the shelves of all manner of distributors, from corner stores to Albertsons.

On the floor giant machines, filled with conveyor belts and turbines, hummed and whirred. Workers dressed in white swarmed around it. Some stuck to their prospective stations while others busied themselves with general adjustments and calibrations. Our guides told us that the workers toil at their stations for up to nine hours a day. Below us lay what was basically a highly mechanized assembly line. But the product of this assembly line was by no means the Model T Ford, but rather a ready-made salad packaged and prepped to be shipped across the nation.

The Lettuce began by being chopped and separated. Then it began its extensive washing and sterilization process. Chemicals must both be added and removed before the Lettuce can be considered a product ready-for-sale. It ran along conveyor belts, was sprayed with water, was shot through tubes, was shaken and tossed, and was sprayed again. Portions of the machine resembled a long and multi-chambered washing machine.

After the lettuce has been cleaned it is weighed and portioned out into several sizes of plastic bags. It is manually sorted and loaded into cardboard boxes. The cardboard boxes are stacked onto a forklift that then deposits them into a moving van. They are then shipped to your local purveyor of food to wait on the shelf for your convenience.

To the somewhat objective and unfamished witness, the whole process seemed somewhat overemphasized and distasteful. The lettuce seemed to take a certain amount of abuse as it made its way through the machine. Also the fact that this packaged lettuce is that which is too unsightly to be sold whole is somewhat stomach turning. After having witnessed this industrial salad packing, I will think twice before I buy another instant Caesar from our good friends at DOLE.

How singular the human life,
So briefly held afloat by its own ambition.

A single self-conscious convex lens,
Tossed atop the tides of change,

Peering inward through the blinding rain
To catch an illuminated glimpse of its own continuum.

The sole weary wanderer
Of the rolling byways of experience.

Yet how rich the winding turns,
How rife with fleeting meaning.

Constructed contrast bears the senses
Through interminable vaults of connotation.

But even when the veil of difference is pulled aside
A staid-fast implication still resides.

The inherent presence that remains
Can still captivate attention.

For the significance of that which does not fall away
Is constant in self-evidence.

The Brick Testament is shining example of religious dedication, plus lots of free time, plus the apotheosis of a well-known childhood pastime. Created by the Reverend Brendan Powell Smith, the Brick Testament illustrates the Bible, from Genesis through the Epistles through the eyes of generation after generation of the iconic, mobile figurines of childhood playtime. Each episode is presented one passage at a time, with a Lego illustration for each passage. The translation is loose. The text is slightly abridged and modernized, but the general gist of the timeless tales comes across full force through the sequential poses of the little plastic actors.

The manner in which the Reverend chooses to illustrate the stories contained within the Good Book can be a tad off color at times. From depictions of gang rape (naked Legos stacked on top of each other), to those of dismemberment (Lego bodies torn limb from limb and strewn about with small red squares to represent copious amounts of blood), the behavior of the little Lego men can be both jarring and arousing. I get the sense that certain upholders of the faith might vehemently disagree with the graphic manner in which their scriptures have been rendered. However, for the modern reader, the Brick Testament may provide a more realistic glimpse into the world of Man that the Bible explores. In the way that Mel Gibson’s stomach-turning film about the crucifixion opened the eyes of the faithful to an unpleasant visual truth that they may have preferred not to think about, the Brick Testament spreads the word of God in a highly realistic (despite the format) and unapologetic fashion.

Some might argue that this representation of the Bible is blasphemous, or at least disrespectful. But I believe it to be an invaluable resource for believers, heathens, and tolerant liberals alike. The Brick Testament provides a charming, accessible, unpretentious, at times comic, at times moving retelling of a great work whose message is deeply rooted within the Western World’s collective consciousness. It can adequately fulfill the needs of both casual curiosity and religious fervor. It can provide a means to learn about this deeply established cultural institution for the scholars, and a means to easily indoctrinate small children with any form of familiarity with the modern world. I consider the Brick Testament to be a superb example of dedication, creativity, and the generous sharing of information.

Some of us have only just arrived, while some of us have been here for our whole lives. But regardless the duration of our stay, we are all here for the same reason: to live free of the bonds of anything that is not the most basic necessity of persistence. We do not bother ourselves with the outside world because it only breeds dissatisfaction.

There is nothing to be gained from a sense of gain. Any concept of anything larger than the immediate necessities is extraneous. We strive to experience life in its true and unadulterated form, free of constructs, concepts, and relative perceptions. Our only goal is to live in perfect harmony with our own instinctual nature.

On occasion others, from the outside, come to visit us and experience our way of life. A few of them choose to stay but most of them are too attached to the transient pleasures of the outside world. They get bored. They do not understand that true fulfillment arises from not seeking fulfillment in the first place. All of the answers lie right in front of us.

In these modern times, fraught with petty attachment and undirected passion, it’s hard for people to see the value of the way that we live. They always demand some kind of explanation. They do not understand that the existential platform on which we rest is one of self-evidence.

They always crave something "more" than what they actually need without realizing that nothing "more" will help to fill the gaping voids within them. All their arguments are baseless, and all their priorities unfounded. They do not realize this. We, of course, do. If all arguments are baseless then do not argue. If all cares are unfounded then caring will only lead to frustration. So do not care.

Sometimes the people who erringly choose to cut their visit short accuse us of delusion. Fools. They cannot possibly see that they are the ones living in delusion. They say that we are missing out on many "fundamental aspects of the human experience." How can they truly believe that their shallow and superfluous endeavors are vital to the process of life?

We do not let ourselves be swayed by such confused prattle. For we know that ours is the only way to liberation. Why involve one’s self with silly social interactions when all that they lead to is pain and suffering? They are the ones who are missing out by insisting on pulling the wool over their own eyes. They are wrong. We are right. So let them go their foolish ways while we remain in constancy.

Powaqqatsi, "Life in Transformation," the second installment of the Qatsi trilogy, consists of one long montage of emotionally stimulating footage of human toil and endeavor. Plotless and scriptless, the film consists of a myriad of images of human construction all over the world spliced all together in a semi-coherent sequence. From sweeping city skylines, to arduous manual labor, to sacred religious ceremonies, to impoverished children, to funereal processions, this film attempts to visually span the breadth of the human journey.

But the images themselves would not have amounted to what they did without the throbbing auditory backdrop. Glass organized an eclectic ensemble including four keyboards, horns galore, and a middle-eastern cantor. His pulsing melodies are somewhat repetitive at times, but the escalating repetition of uplifting rips and cadences works in the context of the rhythms and vibratos of life that the film tries to capture. I found Glass’ repertoire to be lacking in terms of percussion. I thought that he could have more accurately captured the beat of the human struggle with heavier bass and more time spent on the snare. I also found there was too much build up and not enough climax. It felt as if the tempo and volume would increase and then just die down without reaching the epic paroxysm that it so falsely promised. However these flaws were minor in contrast to the excellence of the general whole.

Overall I found this to be an immensely inspiring experience, disregarding the somewhat disappointing music. I found myself almost moved to tears by images as mundane as a Vietnamese farmer carrying a bundle of sticks across a river. The visual overload awakened sentiments of both joy and sorrow within me. The images constantly reminded me of the absurd brevity and fruitless, yet meaningful, striving of the human condition. My friend and I emerged from the auditorium in silence, breathless. It took us several minutes to regain speech, and when we did we remained speechless. There was not that much more to be said although nothing had been said at all. Powaqqatsi makes a very worthy attempt at the insurmountable task of encapsulating the human experience, as a whole, through the eyes of music and cinema.

Chuck close is known primarily for his "graphical realism." Looking at one of his paintings is like being subjected to one of Descartes’ nightmares. Close produces his images through the use of innumerable, color-filled squares. His process involves the imposition of a meticulous grid onto the canvas. The squares of the grid are then painstakingly filled in with colors corresponding to the light values of the image that he trying to reproduce. For example, the shadows in the furrows of Close’s prominent brow might be represented by a collection of squares filled with dark purples, greens, and grays, while the highlights on the bridge of his nose might be combinations of white, pink, orange and yellow.

The exposition consists of many examples of this well-defined style, as well as preliminary sketches, photographs and works from his earlier forays into photorealism. Surprisingly I found his most striking work to be one of the photorealistic pieces and not one of the championed grids. This piece is one of the earliest portraits that the show presented, produced prior to the crippling disability that Close suffered later in his career. It is a massive portrait of Close as an angry young man, stubble-faced, with erratic black hair, a patronizing squint, and the butt of a cigarette hanging defiantly out of the corner of his mouth. This piece very effectively brings across both the actual appearance of the subject as well as the attitude that the subject is trying to convey. However, this one piece did not save the experience of the show as a whole.

Even though I know that Close has produced many portraits of many other people throughout his career, I couldn’t help but find a collection composed exclusively of self-portraits to be both pretentious and annoying. Being an artist already requires a certain degree of narcissism, and having the sole subject matter of a show be one’s narcissistic self felt like a bit of an affront to me: the general public.

I am not suggesting that I do not find Close’s technique and execution to be both original and expertly produced, I merely saying that I found his choice of subject somewhat one-track and uninteresting. I went to the exhibit expecting to be blown away by originality and mastery. But the originality just seemed to have burnt out by the time I had entered the second gallery, as had the mastery. It seems to me that Close’s work could be better appreciated in contrast to the less original and less masterful productions of other artists rather that in contrast to itself.

All in all I found myself fairly unimpressed and unprovoked. Does this make me a philistine? Is my inability to appreciate the work of a man hailed as one of the paragons of contemporary art and as a shining affirmation of the human endurance of creative spirit an indication of my own lack of sophistication? Or, is it just plain boring to look at a bunch of large pixilated representations of an aging celebrity?