<p>Hello there. I’m looking to apply to a few of the Ivies as well as other schools. My stats are decent (enough) but I don’t know how my essay will play out (I still have some major editing to do…) Anyway, please read and feel free to leave any constructive criticisms. Thanks for all your help! </p>
<p>(once like a spark)
if strangers meet
life begins-
not poor not rich
(only aware)
kind neither
nor cruel
(only complete)
i not not you
not possible;
only truthful
-truthfully,once
if strangers(who
deep our most are
selves)touch:
forever
(and so to dark)</p>
<p>e.e. cummings, once like a spark </p>
<p>He stands everyday on the corner of Foster Road and 86th Avenue hoping to catch the number 14 Tri-Met city bus. The door panels of the bus shut behind him as he boards and inches through a rather congested aisle of grocery bags, baby strollers and pointing shoes. Below, his legs cautiously navigate the placing of his feet while above, his head and upper torso agilely dodge the flying elbows of raging businessmen on their cell phones. It is a Friday afternoon and Phil is caught in the midst of the pre-weekend craze as he searches for a vacant seat. Indulging the chaos around me, I sit there holding a library copy of David Sedaris Naked on my lap, brushing my fingers against its soft and worn pages, but unwilling to crack it open for an actual read. I was overly engrossed in listening to the playful banter between a mother and child, the tedious screed of a business transaction, and the delightful shrills of Japanese tourists to concentrate on anything else. In the frenzied ambience however, I glance over to check up on the ever-so-content sixty-three year old Phil. His eyes closed and wrinkles loose, Phil seemed to have conveniently immersed himself into a world free from all the upheaval. And I admired that greatly about him. Untainted by the stressful commotion on the bus, Phil lived his life in perfect harmony, keeping a steady beat against the blazing tempo of society. There in lies my favorite part en route to Portland State University. Across the Hawthorne Bridge, in the vicinity of the Mark O. Hatfield Courthouse and a newly renovated McDonalds, the ruckus from inside unleashes onto the historic waterfront, restoring just enough peace to get Phil talking. Although he only reserved his comments and stories for his good pal Bob the bus driver, I unconsciously tuned in anyway. Phil was modest, sincere and his diction was that of Steve McQueen as he spoke about his first trip to Disneyland at sixteen, his first visit to Vietnam at thirty, and his innate love for e.e. cummings fine, innovative and a bit eccentric poetry. Indeed, Phil was the most fascinating and intellectually elevated individual I have met. He was like a grandfather figure in some aspects but a stranger nevertheless. However, I have learned from Phil that it is in the interaction with strangers exists the possibility of grasping the true potential of understanding one another. When he speaks, even the slightest amount of discord seizes as I attach myself to his world, following his rhythm. I may not always remember what I learned at Portland State much less what courses I took, but I will never forget how I got there, listening to Phils stories. And I am inspired to endure six more months of classes just so I can hear them again.</p>