Stat 110
At its pinnacle, art deconstructs the fluid fabric of time, elevating experience into a zenith of inescapable infinitude, elucidating the contours of inexpressible minds and wafting a billowing fog of crystallized tears towards the ineffable laughter of a soul slipping into the abyss beneath the dawn. This class is not art.
SLS 20
With tests transcending the steepest precipice of compassion and leaping towards the gaping, withered zeitgeist of the dust bowl, SLS 20 is a tour de farcical force that spares no student. Preparation, as in all things in life, from love to war to solitude, is key, and the key, as in all things in life, is preparation. Gilbert does not go gentle into that good night, doubting, dreaming, writing questions that no mortal ever dared to write before.
EC10
Every now and again, a class reawakens an implicit grasp of just why you take each belabored breath. Those are SLS classes. This class, daresay I, is adulterated and mitigated by the transactional treason of profit. Art is a bird, comprised of lesser birds, that flaps its wings once to alight and twice to soar above the clouds like a spirit with no obligation except that to its own tortured hopes. This class is a stone, comprised of cold igneous rock, unable to take flight even if one catapulted it from the highest mountain towards the lowest valley on the most continent-y-est continent.
CS50
Malan gives a popular but populist performance, contriving to contradict the stereotype of the tortured engineer drowning in an oasis of opportunity. The visual blocking is strong and the music provides nice continuity, but the message is vapidly corporate with little to offer outside a comfortable yet discomfiting t-shirt and a promise unrealized.
And I cried. Wept. Sobbed. Guffaws of emotion viciously forced from my body as if I knew the wisdom of the weeping willow. This was my experience. This will be your experience. It is this very experience that marks us as human, milks us as humane, makes us arraign the insane, but yet mocks us to maintain the profane germane disdain of our brain.
