In keeping with my theme of taking titles from literature, poetry, or various foreign languages, tonight's entry comes from Emily Dickinson, with whom I am only now becoming familiar. I do believe she's growing on me, although deciphering some of her themes may prove difficult for Am. Lit.

On Friday night I saw a performance of The Vagina Monologues at Cal Poly Pomona with a good friend; I must say that it was not what I had been expecting. No, unlike some confused frat boys who undoubtedly misconstrued the premise of the play, I did not go hoping to see some amateur pornography. (I can just imagine their reaction: "Hey, what the fuck!? She's just talkin' about 'em!") I had seen snippets of it on HBO last year, and thought it was merely a glorification of the female body, which is fine and dandy, but not nearly what the actual performance encompasses.

The Vagina Monologues are, partly, a celebration of the female body that encourages women to think of themselves as beautiful whether they meet society's exacting standards of beauty or not; however, a much more sobering theme is conveyed: that tragedy daily befalls millions of women the world round, be it female genital mutilation (cliterodectomy in parts of Africa and Asia, for example, which, as its name suggests, involves excising the clitoris in order to discourage masturbation and sexual promiscuity), rape (a woman is raped every six minutes), domestic abuse, or general degradation (e.g. the burqa, which dehumanises and physically destroys women).

Personally, I was very deeply moved by this performance; it was simply so powerful that many times throughout the play I was overwhelmed with emotion, and had to fight back tears. Despite the comic relief (including a raucous and billingsgate tirade on the mistreatment of vaginas, mainly people trying to clean them or stuff things up them; and a monologue of a "woman who loved to make vaginas happy," which culminated in various forms of orgasmic moans), its more poignant message is tragic. To think that women are subjected to these atrocities at all is lamentable; to know that it happens on a regular basis, in spite of the progress women have made, is heartbreaking. I would highly recommend The Vagina Monologues to anyone—yes, that means you, too, guys—it made me laugh, it made me cry, and, most importantly, it made me think. Ignorance may be bliss, but only for those not suffering at its hands; enlighten yourself, broaden your horizons, and do your part to prevent further tragedy.

In other news, over the past two or three weeks I have been conducting an experiment on the effects of severe sleep deprivation on the human body, without extensive use of stimulants: 4-5 hours a night, no coffee, and very little caffeinated soda (I mainly drink root beer). I must say that getting approximately half the sleep the average teenager "needs" a night (nine-and-one-half hours) is an interesting sensation. My body clock is now completely askew—although I do, of course, get tired, it's always in the morning and early afternoon. By the time I get home from class, I'm either utterly exhausted and take a nap (sometimes involuntarily), thus throwing off my circadian cycle; or I'm wide awake, and stay up until 4:30 a.m. of my own accord. I suppose that's the price I pay for being a midnight scholar who does his most creative work in the wee bairn hours of the morning, when the only illumination in the room is my small desk lamp, and I can lose myself in words and music. Below is a lovely sonnet by John Keats that beautifully articulates the allure of sleep, and likens it to Death (Keats, who died tragically young from "The Consumption" [read: tuberculosis] at the age of 26, always sensed his time on Earth was short).

[Exit Orpheum.]