The Learning Farm
While leading an impromptu tour of the quarter-acre territory, student farm manager Corinne Almquist NR ’16 is the schoolmarm taking attendance: mint, cilantro, Chinese cabbage, a shy sprawling of marigolds atop a lattice to her left, a whole lot of garlic, all present. She runs her fingers through the spiky chives like she’s ruffling the fur of a wet pooch – the class pet, maybe, left out in the rain. There’s slumping bok choy at the rear, and straight-backed dinosaur kale, riddled with acne-like pustules, at the front, the class know-it-all with its handlike leaves raised high. All this classroom really needs is a bell.
The Whims have been singing themselves into Yale tradition for over three decades; the Whiffenpoofs, for over a century. Next on the program, for both groups, is deciding how they will compose the future.
It is the third meeting of the Yale Bee Space at the Center for Engineering, Innovation and Design (CEID), and hive coordinator Fred Rincon ’16 is at the whiteboard with a marker, drawing a beehive.
Sun On My Ridge: WKND gets naked
A relentless pattern; a relentless panting. Thump. Thump. Back and forth. Thrust and groan.
The wind caressed our naked bodies.
Sweat ran down our sun-kissed skin.
Leah heaved. Yuvie squealed. He hit hard.
Jennifer watched from the sidelines.
Shape matters. After the winter holidays I often find myself gnawing the heads off reindeer sugar cookies long fallen out of Santa’s employ, while unformed shortbreads of equal staleness are left to a dignified death in the dumpster. Maybe, though a vegetarian for three years, I’ve a mutinous appetite in need of redress, but there’s a more universal explanation for my discriminatory chow-down. Children, forget what your mothers told you: it’s the outside that counts.
I had run to be impressive, and finally I had impressed. Now, being neither coached nor captained, nor captain of anyone but myself, meant I was free. I could do what I wanted, and what I really wanted was to get my high school body back.
Staring for Science
Hanging in the short hallway entrance to the Cushing/Whitney Medical Library are three pairs of staring matches you might walk through as blithely as a local would a tourist’s family photo.
THEATER REVIEW: In “Blood Will Have Blood,” An Attempt at Sanguine Rebirth
Were Macbeth less ensnared by his violent ambition, he might have discovered that his monologues were just as compelling when sung. Baldwin Giang’s ‘14 “Blood Will Have Blood,” an inspired leap for undergraduate productions, investigates the skeleton of the original work by daring to refit it with new, musical skin.
You could call Richard Prum a birdbrain if you’d like, but only if you meant it in the strictly literal sense.
The Vibrancy of Gray
First fruit had become firearm, and now security guard had become scholar. The guard’s name, he said, was Jerry Gray.
When love was in the air
Glancing over the exhibit, which celebrates the formal opening to research of the Lindberghs’ papers, feels a tad like rummaging through a dry file cabinet. On display is a smattering of maps, missives, postcards and photographs that chart the daring duo’s legacies beyond Charles’ famed solo trans-Atlantic flight from New York to Paris on the Spirit of St. Louis in 1927.