According to MIT, this whole application process is supposed to be a way to "reflect and learn something about yourself." Or something like that. I am too lazy and time-pressed to search up the actual quote. In fact I make up half the quotes I use in this blog, especially the quotes that people say, rather than write. Because I really can't remember what you happened to mumble twenty hours ago, although it must have sounded pretty funny at the time or else I wouldn't be quoting you.
In honor of the last day of 2010 (when I'm writing this, anyway, and when I'll be dating this, mind you), I will sum up the year with all of the absolute crap that I've written for applications, and what I really mean by them. Just so we start the year with a fresh, new slate. Hopefully with more honesty, but I won't make any promises. Or resolutions.
Dartmouth is the perfect school for me because . . .
Actually, Dartmouth does not require a "Why Dartmouth" essay, or any essay, for that matter; nor am I applying to Dartmouth. Which is why I chose it for this example. But really, this sentence is pretty much set up for falseness, so maybe I shouldn't even begin this way. Perfect, for me anyway, insinuates "the one," and I don't think that's quite the same as "one of the ten other ones just like it."
I will use my multicultural skills . . .
To realize that Pad Thai is delicious, even if it is not made by someone from Thailand. And instead is made by a Chinese chef who most likely have never even been to Thailand. But I digress.
This will be important in helping me solve real-life problems . . .
Because all of the problems I've been solving are not real. I don't know about you, but having a knot in my hair is a very real problem. As are other things, such as missing the bus in the mornings, sleeping through the one class during the week where we actually learned stuff, and figuring out how not to get lost in the subway system of NYC. Granted, they really just impact me, but they are problems nonetheless, and real (and in life, or my life at least).
I have leadership skills . . .
Are you kidding me? I have following skills. I can follow directions like a beast. No, really. Subordinate beasts follow the alpha-whatever really well. But leadership skills? Most people are better off following a calculator's probability simulator than following me, because I'll be using that anyway.
Through all of my experiences, I have learned a lot . . .
About how life is unfair. Among other things, such as the very handy fact that I do not like horseradish at all (maybe this can also count under "multicultural skills"). But I have not at all learned about "the importance of -insert great life lesson here-." Because all of my "great life lessons" I have learned through tripping up my life, and those aren't exactly the "experiences" I wrote about in my essays.
I have always loved math and science . . .
Okay. This one is 100% true.
Yes. This is what I really think. As for what I think about that MIT quote? Reflect? Learn something about yourself? Ha. More like, learn something about how controlling your parents are over the whole application process, for better or for worse. I don't know about you, but I sure learned a lot.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Monday, December 27, 2010
Terra Incognita
Is the first poem I fell in love with. I forgot the exact reason why—perhaps it was the sirens that haunt my dreams as well, perhaps it was the ship sailing, perhaps it was simply the words "uncharted waters."
Uncharted. I fell in love with that uncertainty.
I have tried to recreate that mood, but without much success. Something about it did not sound right, and so I gave up poetry, because what good was poetry if it could not express my uncharted waters?
Whatever they were. I am not sure I know what they are to me.
. . .
Going back to my old stories, I can find a couple recurring characters. Nate, Allison, and of course Syrena. She of the sirens. I had not realized that when I first named her. Her name came from Syreille, which itself was some blend of French and inspiration.
Syreille and Carenallie. Some mismatch, and there was Syrena. My siren. Who was a hymn angel, who sang, who could bend wills with her songs.
That I realized she was a siren in disguise was much, much later.
It was the same with Allison Carter. I realized he was a musician after I realized every piece I wrote about him described him either in a band or playing an instrument. A guitar. He played the guitar. There was no intention, these Allison Carters were not supposed to be exactly the same, but they were. They were all guitarists, and I only realized that after three stories.
Some characters are real, even if they are not rooted in reality.
. . .
I drew yesterday. Started out with what I knew worst, hands. I drew a hand and changed it into a glove, because I did not have the courage to add the arm.
Eyes. Turned into a mask worthy of any masquerade. Pearl necklace with a nautical-themed charm. Sea shells. Feathers. Perfume in a bottle, tickets to some unknown world, rope in a noose burning on one end.
Lipstick. Powder. Camera and ink, pens and pencils and pencil shavings. Nail polish. A photo of the past, earphones and an iPod. Knife with blood. An eraser.
"I love you, and I know you love me. But I can't stay. I'm sorry."
. . .
Absurd. All absurd.
No more turning back.
Uncharted. I fell in love with that uncertainty.
I have tried to recreate that mood, but without much success. Something about it did not sound right, and so I gave up poetry, because what good was poetry if it could not express my uncharted waters?
Whatever they were. I am not sure I know what they are to me.
. . .
Going back to my old stories, I can find a couple recurring characters. Nate, Allison, and of course Syrena. She of the sirens. I had not realized that when I first named her. Her name came from Syreille, which itself was some blend of French and inspiration.
Syreille and Carenallie. Some mismatch, and there was Syrena. My siren. Who was a hymn angel, who sang, who could bend wills with her songs.
That I realized she was a siren in disguise was much, much later.
It was the same with Allison Carter. I realized he was a musician after I realized every piece I wrote about him described him either in a band or playing an instrument. A guitar. He played the guitar. There was no intention, these Allison Carters were not supposed to be exactly the same, but they were. They were all guitarists, and I only realized that after three stories.
Some characters are real, even if they are not rooted in reality.
. . .
I drew yesterday. Started out with what I knew worst, hands. I drew a hand and changed it into a glove, because I did not have the courage to add the arm.
Eyes. Turned into a mask worthy of any masquerade. Pearl necklace with a nautical-themed charm. Sea shells. Feathers. Perfume in a bottle, tickets to some unknown world, rope in a noose burning on one end.
Lipstick. Powder. Camera and ink, pens and pencils and pencil shavings. Nail polish. A photo of the past, earphones and an iPod. Knife with blood. An eraser.
"I love you, and I know you love me. But I can't stay. I'm sorry."
. . .
Absurd. All absurd.
No more turning back.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
My Favorite Songs, Part I
Here is a list of my favorite songs on Pandora. I would link the station, but it doesn't always give my favorite songs (the ones I've checked), and besides, I have over 100 songs I've "liked." I don't remember clicking the button that many times.
- All Hail the High Seas, Eye Alaska
- See Through, Megan McCauley
- I See Right Through to You, D.J. Encore
- Boston, Augustana
- Nothing in My Way, Keane
- Ghost, Jes
- If I Could Fly, Oceanlab
- Move for Me, Kaskade + deadmau5
- Miracle, Oceanlab
- In My Dreams, Noemi
- Before the Worst, The Script
- All Good Things (Come to an End), Nelly Furtado
- Half Acre, Hem
- Just a Dream, Carrie Underwood
- Hey There Delilah, Plain White T’s
- I Remember, deadmau5 + Kaskade
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Ring Around The Rosie
A pocket full of posies,
Ashes, ashes,
We all fall down.
We all fall down.
I saw ghosts of cars today. In the reflection of the bus windows. Car ghosts running head on and crashing into their originals. The car themselves come out unscathed. The car ghosts disappeared.
Did the cars know they were driving into their haunted selves? Did the car ghosts know they were driving into their demises?
Did they know?
Did they care?
Yuma took me to the orchestra room today, and played Imogen Heap's Speeding Cars on the piano. He sang too. I had looked at the lyrics once before but had not noticed them. This time, I realized it was talking about suicide.
Suicide. Such an easy word to say, such a hard word to swallow.
In my dreams—or are they nightmares?—I have been chased many times. I have been on the run many times, from presumed enemies, to win a race, or for the sake of running.
But I have never fallen. Not once. Falling dreams are the ones that haunt my daydreams.
I am suddenly in possession of objects I would deem too dangerous for me to hold. Too dangerous for someone who has such a strong morbid fascination with these objects. But I accepted them with as much grace as I could muster.
What will it be like?
Do I want to know?
My scarf obsession started in fifth grade. Or grade five, as I used to say, before someone pointed it out to me and I subconsciously changed the way I spoke.
My youngest cousin and I were on the streets, with my aunt. We had finished shopping for something, and I cannot remember what it was, but it must have been important because why else would we be out at night in one of the coldest winters I could remember?
My cousin spotted a hat she wanted. We went over, and I, in classic little sibling manner despite the fact I was an only child, decided I wanted a hat as well.
She bought one for herself and one for me. I, in turn, bought the matching scarves and rabbit hair gloves.
My aunt later asked me, “Why aren't you wearing your scarf?”
“It's too short,” I told her.
So she got me another scarf, a long chocolatey caramel vanilla ice cream scarf. And perhaps that was what went wrong. I should never have two frivolous items, because what else could I do with them but want more?
I still remember the Fairweather scarf.
The tube scarf.
And every scarf that caught my eye afterwards.
I gave Yuma the chocolatey caramel vanilla ice cream scarf. It is one of four scarves I still have. He looks nice in it, I think. And anyway, he should have something for his throat, because sore throats are awful, especially for a singing throat.
We shared our favorite songs before. And found out how different our musical tastes are.
I am a melancholy-lyrical-rhythm dependent girl. One who grasps onto the melody and threads it through the lyrics in a silk weave. I do not know how he likes to describe himself musically.
Perhaps not as I describe myself.
The other day I was walking down the street and the trees seemed like plastic toys. The sky was so low it bordered surreal. I remember the air as biting cold, as it always is in December. I had only one year of warm December, where the snow fell as light dustings and winter was just as rainy as it was snowy.
The houses were some laborious decoration. Not real.
I walk alone from the mailbox to my door. No one walks down that path with me, except for Yuma sometimes, and even he does not reach my door.
On that stretch of road, I can be anything. Anyone.
I can twirl the air and pretend I am holding onto Lillian. Slash slash jump. I pretend Prescott is there, and I am telling him off yet again. I even sing sometimes. I start off with songs I know and twist the lyrics to my liking. Then I change the tune.
Then I reach my door, and halt the show.
As I write, I wonder, will I ever be well known for my writing? If I will be, will they who read my other, more famous works look back on these simple thoughts and try to assign some deeper meaning to them? Will they think, “Now here is a real thoughtful piece, here it reflects some profound theme.”
Death. Life. And everything in between.
But perhaps there is no real reason for this piece. It is not a statement, nor is it a message. It is merely an expression, a method to consolidate musings.
It is, after all, what came to mind first. And as I am listening to Speeding Cars right now, and re-imagining the car ghosts yet again, I wonder if they are at peace. Ghosts freed of their curses, free to go wherever they want.
Ashes, ashes,
We all fall down.
We all fall down.
I saw ghosts of cars today. In the reflection of the bus windows. Car ghosts running head on and crashing into their originals. The car themselves come out unscathed. The car ghosts disappeared.
Did the cars know they were driving into their haunted selves? Did the car ghosts know they were driving into their demises?
Did they know?
Did they care?
Yuma took me to the orchestra room today, and played Imogen Heap's Speeding Cars on the piano. He sang too. I had looked at the lyrics once before but had not noticed them. This time, I realized it was talking about suicide.
Suicide. Such an easy word to say, such a hard word to swallow.
In my dreams—or are they nightmares?—I have been chased many times. I have been on the run many times, from presumed enemies, to win a race, or for the sake of running.
But I have never fallen. Not once. Falling dreams are the ones that haunt my daydreams.
I am suddenly in possession of objects I would deem too dangerous for me to hold. Too dangerous for someone who has such a strong morbid fascination with these objects. But I accepted them with as much grace as I could muster.
What will it be like?
Do I want to know?
My scarf obsession started in fifth grade. Or grade five, as I used to say, before someone pointed it out to me and I subconsciously changed the way I spoke.
My youngest cousin and I were on the streets, with my aunt. We had finished shopping for something, and I cannot remember what it was, but it must have been important because why else would we be out at night in one of the coldest winters I could remember?
My cousin spotted a hat she wanted. We went over, and I, in classic little sibling manner despite the fact I was an only child, decided I wanted a hat as well.
She bought one for herself and one for me. I, in turn, bought the matching scarves and rabbit hair gloves.
My aunt later asked me, “Why aren't you wearing your scarf?”
“It's too short,” I told her.
So she got me another scarf, a long chocolatey caramel vanilla ice cream scarf. And perhaps that was what went wrong. I should never have two frivolous items, because what else could I do with them but want more?
I still remember the Fairweather scarf.
The tube scarf.
And every scarf that caught my eye afterwards.
I gave Yuma the chocolatey caramel vanilla ice cream scarf. It is one of four scarves I still have. He looks nice in it, I think. And anyway, he should have something for his throat, because sore throats are awful, especially for a singing throat.
We shared our favorite songs before. And found out how different our musical tastes are.
I am a melancholy-lyrical-rhythm dependent girl. One who grasps onto the melody and threads it through the lyrics in a silk weave. I do not know how he likes to describe himself musically.
Perhaps not as I describe myself.
The other day I was walking down the street and the trees seemed like plastic toys. The sky was so low it bordered surreal. I remember the air as biting cold, as it always is in December. I had only one year of warm December, where the snow fell as light dustings and winter was just as rainy as it was snowy.
The houses were some laborious decoration. Not real.
I walk alone from the mailbox to my door. No one walks down that path with me, except for Yuma sometimes, and even he does not reach my door.
On that stretch of road, I can be anything. Anyone.
I can twirl the air and pretend I am holding onto Lillian. Slash slash jump. I pretend Prescott is there, and I am telling him off yet again. I even sing sometimes. I start off with songs I know and twist the lyrics to my liking. Then I change the tune.
Then I reach my door, and halt the show.
As I write, I wonder, will I ever be well known for my writing? If I will be, will they who read my other, more famous works look back on these simple thoughts and try to assign some deeper meaning to them? Will they think, “Now here is a real thoughtful piece, here it reflects some profound theme.”
Death. Life. And everything in between.
But perhaps there is no real reason for this piece. It is not a statement, nor is it a message. It is merely an expression, a method to consolidate musings.
It is, after all, what came to mind first. And as I am listening to Speeding Cars right now, and re-imagining the car ghosts yet again, I wonder if they are at peace. Ghosts freed of their curses, free to go wherever they want.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Feelings, How Fickle You Are
If you asked me a week ago, I would have said I wanted to go to Penn. Unequivocally.
Did I believe it?
Deep down, I have always wondered if I was ready to choose one path and stick with it yet. I don't think I'm cut for med school because I can't say, right here and right now, "I want to be a doctor. Nothing else." I can't do that. I have vague ideas, but nothing solid.
So why Penn?
Luckily, Penn deviated from its traditional "Why Penn?" essay two years ago. Now, it asks for specifics. The small things. I can say those, even if they may not be necessarily true. I made a journal of my future day at Penn and included all of the things I wanted to do.
But what would make me choose Penn over another school?
What would make me choose Chicago over another school?
Chicago's decisions come out tomorrow. I want to know, in a perverse, curious way. I do not care for the school—I applied because it was an early action choice and because it was in Chicago. I hold ties to places I have lived in before. The land calls out to me and stirs within me some sentimental frivolity. So I applied to Chicago.
Am I going to be accepted?
I want to know because I want a definite answer, because I don't want to wait, because it is so close. And while I was so calm going into Penn's decisions, I am strangely anxious. Is it because I have been deferred once? Or is it because I just want to be accepted by Chicago? If it is the former, why wasn't I nervous before, even though I knew I didn't really have a chance at Penn? If it is the latter, why do I want to be accepted to a school that attracts me only because of its location?
Am I lying to myself? Do I even know what I want?
Maybe on some subconscious level, I want Chicago for whatever reason I have long since forgotten. Returning to past lands is always a reason, but then I could apply to Northwestern and be even closer. Is there something else?
I don't know.
What would make me choose Chicago over another school? Or, more precisely, what would make me choose Chicago over McGill?
Is it because some stubborn, vain part of me does not wish to return to Canada, because it would seem like such a defeat, if I came out here for three years only to go back again. I am not applying to Toronto for that reason. I would feel so much regret I don't think I would be able to truly enjoy my first few months there.
So what about McGill?
What about McGill?
It is a good school. Has a program I really want (joint major in biology and mathematics). One of the best med school in Canada. In the beautiful city of Montreal. Lovely, lovely school. I can even practice my French there.
So what about McGill?
If I am accepted at Chicago, or anywhere else that is not in Canada, what will I do?
The knee-jerk reactions is, "I'll go there. I'm not going to McGill if I can go somewhere else."
Really? Is that what I want?
Chicago doesn't have an engineering school. But it does have a strong economics department. McGill is not best known for that—Queens is, UBC is. It is not best known for engineering either—Toronto is, Waterloo is.
So I guess it should come down to what I want to do with my life. Going back to the med school statement, I don't know if I can make a decision yet.
Should.
Why am I so eager to choose Chicago over McGill then?
Is Chicago that lovely? Yes, it is. Of course it is. Is that my only reason? No, it is not. It cannot possibly be the only reason.
Is it because I am afraid of the huge class sizes at McGill? Is it because I am afraid I will not be able to compete against so many people? Is it because I feel as though I deserve so much more than McGill?
Do I? Do I really? Do I even deserve McGill, or is it the more relaxed system towards US high school students?
This is all stupid. I will know if I am accepted, deferred, or rejected soon enough. Tomorrow. And then I can say what I will choose based on what I am given. But if I could choose any school, I don't know what the triggering factor is that would make me instantly pick Chicago over McGill.
Did I believe it?
Deep down, I have always wondered if I was ready to choose one path and stick with it yet. I don't think I'm cut for med school because I can't say, right here and right now, "I want to be a doctor. Nothing else." I can't do that. I have vague ideas, but nothing solid.
So why Penn?
Luckily, Penn deviated from its traditional "Why Penn?" essay two years ago. Now, it asks for specifics. The small things. I can say those, even if they may not be necessarily true. I made a journal of my future day at Penn and included all of the things I wanted to do.
But what would make me choose Penn over another school?
What would make me choose Chicago over another school?
Chicago's decisions come out tomorrow. I want to know, in a perverse, curious way. I do not care for the school—I applied because it was an early action choice and because it was in Chicago. I hold ties to places I have lived in before. The land calls out to me and stirs within me some sentimental frivolity. So I applied to Chicago.
Am I going to be accepted?
I want to know because I want a definite answer, because I don't want to wait, because it is so close. And while I was so calm going into Penn's decisions, I am strangely anxious. Is it because I have been deferred once? Or is it because I just want to be accepted by Chicago? If it is the former, why wasn't I nervous before, even though I knew I didn't really have a chance at Penn? If it is the latter, why do I want to be accepted to a school that attracts me only because of its location?
Am I lying to myself? Do I even know what I want?
Maybe on some subconscious level, I want Chicago for whatever reason I have long since forgotten. Returning to past lands is always a reason, but then I could apply to Northwestern and be even closer. Is there something else?
I don't know.
What would make me choose Chicago over another school? Or, more precisely, what would make me choose Chicago over McGill?
Is it because some stubborn, vain part of me does not wish to return to Canada, because it would seem like such a defeat, if I came out here for three years only to go back again. I am not applying to Toronto for that reason. I would feel so much regret I don't think I would be able to truly enjoy my first few months there.
So what about McGill?
What about McGill?
It is a good school. Has a program I really want (joint major in biology and mathematics). One of the best med school in Canada. In the beautiful city of Montreal. Lovely, lovely school. I can even practice my French there.
So what about McGill?
If I am accepted at Chicago, or anywhere else that is not in Canada, what will I do?
The knee-jerk reactions is, "I'll go there. I'm not going to McGill if I can go somewhere else."
Really? Is that what I want?
Chicago doesn't have an engineering school. But it does have a strong economics department. McGill is not best known for that—Queens is, UBC is. It is not best known for engineering either—Toronto is, Waterloo is.
So I guess it should come down to what I want to do with my life. Going back to the med school statement, I don't know if I can make a decision yet.
Should.
Why am I so eager to choose Chicago over McGill then?
Is Chicago that lovely? Yes, it is. Of course it is. Is that my only reason? No, it is not. It cannot possibly be the only reason.
Is it because I am afraid of the huge class sizes at McGill? Is it because I am afraid I will not be able to compete against so many people? Is it because I feel as though I deserve so much more than McGill?
Do I? Do I really? Do I even deserve McGill, or is it the more relaxed system towards US high school students?
This is all stupid. I will know if I am accepted, deferred, or rejected soon enough. Tomorrow. And then I can say what I will choose based on what I am given. But if I could choose any school, I don't know what the triggering factor is that would make me instantly pick Chicago over McGill.
Monday, December 13, 2010
For You, Hamlet
Wednesday is our in-class essay, and the official day we will be spending on Hamlet, so I thought I would like to summarize some of my thoughts after reading this play.
- Action vs. Inaction: what everyone reading the play would think about. Hamlet's soliloquies are all about his inaction when it comes to avenging his father. He is "mirrored" in Laertes, who does not hesitate to take down his father's murderer. But what struck me as odd was why Hamlet is not capable of acting. Is it because he is over-thinking things? After he proves that Claudius is responsible for his father's death, what reason does he have for still hesitating? Perhaps he does not truly believe in revenge, and in fact, he asks, "Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer / The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune / Or to take arms against a sea of troubles / And by opposing end them?" Is he thinking about revenge only because the ghost, who is presumably his father, asked him to do so, because it is the right thing to do according to societal norms, or because he actually believes in it?
- Another character with a striking resemblance to Hamlet's situation is Fortinbras. As the prince of Norway, Fortinbras has also lost his father, and, at least from my reading of the text, is bent on revenge against Denmark. Throughout the play, he never gives up on attacking Denmark, and even uses traveling through Denmark to attack Poland as an excuse after his uncle condemned his actions. Here, both Fortinbras and Hamlet have lost their fathers and are seeking revenge, but they go about different ways of achieving revenge, and arrive at different destinations. Fortinbras, in his fiery impulsiveness and warrior-like thinking, does not hesitate to attack, and in the end he and his country benefits (as he has now gained control of all of Denmark's lands). Hamlet, with his indecisiveness and heavy thought processes, continues to miss opportunities to kill Claudius, and eventually dies amidst the destruction of the Denmark throne.
- Mini-digression: it appears, at least in the Hamlet world, that revenge is highly valued (and the judicial system not so much).
- Ophelia's death (and life): this is what I found the saddest. Yes, Hamlet lost his father and rightfully should be sad, but later on Ophelia loses her father as well. And perhaps her loss is even worse—when her father was still alive, he controlled every aspect of her life, and when he dies, it is as though Ophelia loses her soul. Her insanity is perhaps a reflection of that loss and her newfound lack of direction in life. But what makes Ophelia's life and death sad, at least for me, is not how sad she feels, but how her condition affects others around her. Laertes's "What ceremony else?" almost broke my heart. I can just hear the desolation in his voice as he realizes he is powerless to protect his sister or even make her death better. And Hamlet's "I loved Ophelia: forty thousand brothers / Could not, with all their quantity of love / Make up my sum" is both sad and frustrating. Sad, because Hamlet obviously loved her, and frustrating, because, hey, Hamlet, couldn't you at least have treated her a little better when she was alive?
- Mini-digression #2: William Shakespeare must have either had a really bad day or was at least slightly psycho when he wrote this.
- The whole relationship scene: is completely messed up. Starting with family, we have Claudius, who kills his brother and marries his sister-in-law. I don't think it gets much worse than that. Then there are the friends, or the good friends (Horatio) and the bad friends (Rosencrantz and Guildenstern) who are back-stabbers and suck-ups. The lovers who lie constantly to each other (Hamlet and Ophelia). Not to mention how Hamlet treats his mother (very likely violence, or at least very cutting verbal remarks) and Polonius's absolute control over his daughter. There are some very, very disturbing relationships in this play.
- And of course, the portrayal of women: both Gertrude and Ophelia are rather weak characters. They advance the plot, but they do not develop much as characters, and are often pushed around by the other, male characters. What is also interesting is how Shakespeare, in creating his strong female characters, sometimes have them cross-dress as males, as seen in As You Like It's Rosalind, or Twelfth Night's Violet.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Not Enough Time
I am falling apart at the seams, save me, save me please?
I thought you said you didn’t need saving. Said you could save yourself.
That was before. This is now.
You’re not desperate enough.
[There are some dreams that cannot be salvaged. Because they never existed.]
The steps to 30 Reading Street was covered in filmy moss. When Katie climbed them she almost slipped, but years of subway-riding training gave her the quick reflexes to steady herself and keep on going.
“Careful there,” Nick said. He held out his hand, hovered behind her back.
“Don’t worry about me,” Katie said. “I’m fine.”
She reached over and pressed the doorbell. No sound came from inside, and Katie wondered if she should press it again, or knock on the door. Would it be too rude? She stared at her reflection in the glass.
Perfectly groomed hair. Make-up applied so seamlessly they were dreamy. A neat cardigan over a navy cotton dress and ballerina flats. Her appearance was so youthful and carefree she thought she could almost mask the haunted look in her eyes.
After a few minutes, the door creaked open. Amanda’s weary eyes replaced Katie’s from behind the glass.
“What do you want?” They both said at the same time.
“Am I that predictable?” Amanda asked, a half-smile on her face.
Katie returned it with more optimism than she thought she had. “It is partly my fault. I usually only call on you when I need something.”
“Well then. How are you?”
“Good, good. How are you? How is Nick?”
“He is good,” Amanda and Nick said at the same time. Except this time, Amanda did not react. Katie shot him a dark look before turning back to Amanda.
“I am glad to hear that. You are good too?”
“Yes,” Amanda said. “Yes, I am.”
They stood a while like that, in silence. Katie remotely remembered why she never called upon Amanda. She pulled up a smile again and said, “Want to go get coffee with me some afternoon? I have a really flexible schedule now, and I get most afternoons off.”
“You don’t have a schedule anymore,” Nick said. “You don’t even work anymore.”
Amanda said, “That sounds nice. I am free Wednesday afternoons, and Nick does not get home until late. It is nearing dinner-time today, so maybe next Wednesday?”
“Yes, that would be great,” Katie said. “Absolutely lovely.” Absolutely fucking lovely, but she managed to cut off the curse. Nick should be proud.
The conversation fell into another lull. This time, Amanda smiled. “No hard feelings?”
“No hard feelings,” Katie said.
None at all.
“Yes, no hard feelings,” Nick said, and laughed. That dry, hacking laugh. “Wish her a happy marriage. I dare you.”
“I hope you will be happy with Nick,” Katie said. “You two are perfect for each other.”
“Thank you,” Amanda said. “I was afraid—well, forgive me, but with your history with Nick, I was afraid that you might be upset at the news.”
“No, not at all. I am happy for you.”
“Well, thank you again. I hope you will come to the ceremony? I was going to ask you to be my bridesmaid, but Jessie really wanted—”
“That is not a problem,” Katie said. “I would hate to be so responsible anyway.”
“But the ceremony?”
“Yes, I will. I have to go now, but next Wednesday at Miguel’s café?”
“Of course.”
“Good bye.”
“Good bye.”
The door closed, and Katie was left with her reflection again. The hair still unruffled. The make-up pristine. Her outfit as cheerful and preppy as before. Her eyes just as hollow, but she was glad Amanda was not too perceptive.
Katie went down the steps, taking care not to slip on the moss again. She asked, “Why didn’t you clean this place up?”
“Not my problem,” Nick said. “Amanda can do it if she wanted.”
“She is your fiancée.”
“She is.”
“So what if she slips and falls? What if she gets hurt? You still won’t do it?”
“You were pretty gutsy back there,” Nick said. “I thought you wouldn’t have said it.”
“Don’t change the topic,” Katie said.
“I’m—”
A sky-blue car pulled up in the driveway in front of her. The door opened, and Nick stepped out. He just stood there, staring at Katie, and she could see something in his eyes that she often saw in her own.
“Hey, Nick,” she said.
“Katie,” Nick said. His voice did not have that sardonic tone anymore. It was more subdued, with an edge in it that made Katie’s throat contract. “What are you doing here?”
“I was visiting Amanda. She is my friend, you know.”
Nick cringed, and Katie knew what he was thinking. That drunken night she had called Amanda on a dare, the night she had introduced Nick to her. Because “you don’t have any decent friends,” as Nick had said.
“Yes, she is your friend,” Nick said. “I would have never known that.”
“I had forgotten that,” Nick said. “How are you then?”
“Good. Good enough,” Katie said. “How are you?”
“Good,” Nick said.
“Good,” Nick said.
One with contempt. One with hesitance.
“Amanda invited me to your wedding,” Katie said. “I hope everything goes well. Don’t drink too much—I don’t think she would be happy to wait by the toilet for you to finish throwing up.”
“Thank you.” The other Nick did not say anything.
“You’re welcome.”
All civil. Not a single go to hell, or fuck you. They had grown up, after all. Katie scoffed. If this was what growing up meant, she knew why all the grownups she had known as a child were always so stuck up.
Being grown up meant there were some things you wanted so desperately to say, but never said out loud.
Like, “If I had not called Amanda that night, what would have happened?”
Katied wondered. But she knew the answer already. Had she not called Amanda, Nick would be marrying some other girl. Katie herself would still be on barely-speaking terms with him. They would still find each other in this state, perhaps not at his house, but maybe a coffee place or a supermarket.
Still this awkward. Still hating each other.
And Katie would still hear Nick’s voice wherever she went.
. . .
This is all over the place, I admit. I had other things in mind when I was writing this (Nick was supposed to be perceptive and realize that something was wrong with Katie, for example), but it got long and I knew if I didn't finish this today I will never get to finish it, so I cut it off.
This is a much less morbid version of the other Nick, Katie, and Amanda story I had in mind. That one involves a funeral, and in some ways links to this one, so if I do get to fix it up I'll post it as well.
. . .
I was deferred to Penn. Surprisingly, I am not distraught, nor am I that upset. I think I wanted to get in somewhere early so I could just get it over with, but I am not entirely bought on the whole Penn thing. Maybe I was just persuading myself because I had already said I would do it and I hate to go back on my words.
I still love Penn.
But maybe it's not the one.
What does the one look like? I don't know. But MIT's as good a start as any. And yes, I know it's probably not the one either. But to be honest, I don't think I have to go to any one school, nor do I know what I would want for the next four years right now. In this regard, at least, I agree with Mario.
. . .
In English, someone was going to get cough drops from the nurse's office, and Sergio asked for one as well. Then someone else asked for some tissues.
Mr. Littney then said, "Get Dino a sucker pop as well."
We watched the last scene in Hamlet today. Where [spoiler alert] everyone important dies from poison (or, in Laertes's case, also from falling off a balcony, and, in Claudius's case, also from being squished by a chandelier). And Fortinbras marches his troops into the castle only to find everyone dead on the ground.
What a happy sight.
Apparently Aristotle's view of a tragedy is that after reading (or watching) one, we should have learned something about ourselves from it. So what have I learned? (Except for, as Mr. Littney pointed out, "the inability to shut up gives one longer life," as evidenced by Hamlet having being stabbed with poison first but dying last.)
I would say it's my inability to act. My indecision. My ease of just talking things over and not putting them into action. I am like Hamlet in that aspect. And I am missing out on many opportunities, and I am pushing myself off track with each minute I wait.
I can't decide.
I wrote about that in my EOQR as well, and my portfolio. Of course, in my portfolio, I said I learned how to decide, but I don't think I really did. I still don't have what it takes to stick to one decision and its consequences.
Just like colleges.
Just like Nick.
But that would be linking too many things together into one.
I thought you said you didn’t need saving. Said you could save yourself.
That was before. This is now.
You’re not desperate enough.
[There are some dreams that cannot be salvaged. Because they never existed.]
The steps to 30 Reading Street was covered in filmy moss. When Katie climbed them she almost slipped, but years of subway-riding training gave her the quick reflexes to steady herself and keep on going.
“Careful there,” Nick said. He held out his hand, hovered behind her back.
“Don’t worry about me,” Katie said. “I’m fine.”
She reached over and pressed the doorbell. No sound came from inside, and Katie wondered if she should press it again, or knock on the door. Would it be too rude? She stared at her reflection in the glass.
Perfectly groomed hair. Make-up applied so seamlessly they were dreamy. A neat cardigan over a navy cotton dress and ballerina flats. Her appearance was so youthful and carefree she thought she could almost mask the haunted look in her eyes.
After a few minutes, the door creaked open. Amanda’s weary eyes replaced Katie’s from behind the glass.
“What do you want?” They both said at the same time.
“Am I that predictable?” Amanda asked, a half-smile on her face.
Katie returned it with more optimism than she thought she had. “It is partly my fault. I usually only call on you when I need something.”
“Well then. How are you?”
“Good, good. How are you? How is Nick?”
“He is good,” Amanda and Nick said at the same time. Except this time, Amanda did not react. Katie shot him a dark look before turning back to Amanda.
“I am glad to hear that. You are good too?”
“Yes,” Amanda said. “Yes, I am.”
They stood a while like that, in silence. Katie remotely remembered why she never called upon Amanda. She pulled up a smile again and said, “Want to go get coffee with me some afternoon? I have a really flexible schedule now, and I get most afternoons off.”
“You don’t have a schedule anymore,” Nick said. “You don’t even work anymore.”
Amanda said, “That sounds nice. I am free Wednesday afternoons, and Nick does not get home until late. It is nearing dinner-time today, so maybe next Wednesday?”
“Yes, that would be great,” Katie said. “Absolutely lovely.” Absolutely fucking lovely, but she managed to cut off the curse. Nick should be proud.
The conversation fell into another lull. This time, Amanda smiled. “No hard feelings?”
“No hard feelings,” Katie said.
None at all.
“Yes, no hard feelings,” Nick said, and laughed. That dry, hacking laugh. “Wish her a happy marriage. I dare you.”
“I hope you will be happy with Nick,” Katie said. “You two are perfect for each other.”
“Thank you,” Amanda said. “I was afraid—well, forgive me, but with your history with Nick, I was afraid that you might be upset at the news.”
“No, not at all. I am happy for you.”
“Well, thank you again. I hope you will come to the ceremony? I was going to ask you to be my bridesmaid, but Jessie really wanted—”
“That is not a problem,” Katie said. “I would hate to be so responsible anyway.”
“But the ceremony?”
“Yes, I will. I have to go now, but next Wednesday at Miguel’s café?”
“Of course.”
“Good bye.”
“Good bye.”
The door closed, and Katie was left with her reflection again. The hair still unruffled. The make-up pristine. Her outfit as cheerful and preppy as before. Her eyes just as hollow, but she was glad Amanda was not too perceptive.
Katie went down the steps, taking care not to slip on the moss again. She asked, “Why didn’t you clean this place up?”
“Not my problem,” Nick said. “Amanda can do it if she wanted.”
“She is your fiancée.”
“She is.”
“So what if she slips and falls? What if she gets hurt? You still won’t do it?”
“You were pretty gutsy back there,” Nick said. “I thought you wouldn’t have said it.”
“Don’t change the topic,” Katie said.
“I’m—”
A sky-blue car pulled up in the driveway in front of her. The door opened, and Nick stepped out. He just stood there, staring at Katie, and she could see something in his eyes that she often saw in her own.
“Hey, Nick,” she said.
“Katie,” Nick said. His voice did not have that sardonic tone anymore. It was more subdued, with an edge in it that made Katie’s throat contract. “What are you doing here?”
“I was visiting Amanda. She is my friend, you know.”
Nick cringed, and Katie knew what he was thinking. That drunken night she had called Amanda on a dare, the night she had introduced Nick to her. Because “you don’t have any decent friends,” as Nick had said.
“Yes, she is your friend,” Nick said. “I would have never known that.”
“I had forgotten that,” Nick said. “How are you then?”
“Good. Good enough,” Katie said. “How are you?”
“Good,” Nick said.
“Good,” Nick said.
One with contempt. One with hesitance.
“Amanda invited me to your wedding,” Katie said. “I hope everything goes well. Don’t drink too much—I don’t think she would be happy to wait by the toilet for you to finish throwing up.”
“Thank you.” The other Nick did not say anything.
“You’re welcome.”
All civil. Not a single go to hell, or fuck you. They had grown up, after all. Katie scoffed. If this was what growing up meant, she knew why all the grownups she had known as a child were always so stuck up.
Being grown up meant there were some things you wanted so desperately to say, but never said out loud.
Like, “If I had not called Amanda that night, what would have happened?”
Katied wondered. But she knew the answer already. Had she not called Amanda, Nick would be marrying some other girl. Katie herself would still be on barely-speaking terms with him. They would still find each other in this state, perhaps not at his house, but maybe a coffee place or a supermarket.
Still this awkward. Still hating each other.
And Katie would still hear Nick’s voice wherever she went.
. . .
This is all over the place, I admit. I had other things in mind when I was writing this (Nick was supposed to be perceptive and realize that something was wrong with Katie, for example), but it got long and I knew if I didn't finish this today I will never get to finish it, so I cut it off.
This is a much less morbid version of the other Nick, Katie, and Amanda story I had in mind. That one involves a funeral, and in some ways links to this one, so if I do get to fix it up I'll post it as well.
. . .
I was deferred to Penn. Surprisingly, I am not distraught, nor am I that upset. I think I wanted to get in somewhere early so I could just get it over with, but I am not entirely bought on the whole Penn thing. Maybe I was just persuading myself because I had already said I would do it and I hate to go back on my words.
I still love Penn.
But maybe it's not the one.
What does the one look like? I don't know. But MIT's as good a start as any. And yes, I know it's probably not the one either. But to be honest, I don't think I have to go to any one school, nor do I know what I would want for the next four years right now. In this regard, at least, I agree with Mario.
. . .
In English, someone was going to get cough drops from the nurse's office, and Sergio asked for one as well. Then someone else asked for some tissues.
Mr. Littney then said, "Get Dino a sucker pop as well."
We watched the last scene in Hamlet today. Where [spoiler alert] everyone important dies from poison (or, in Laertes's case, also from falling off a balcony, and, in Claudius's case, also from being squished by a chandelier). And Fortinbras marches his troops into the castle only to find everyone dead on the ground.
What a happy sight.
Apparently Aristotle's view of a tragedy is that after reading (or watching) one, we should have learned something about ourselves from it. So what have I learned? (Except for, as Mr. Littney pointed out, "the inability to shut up gives one longer life," as evidenced by Hamlet having being stabbed with poison first but dying last.)
I would say it's my inability to act. My indecision. My ease of just talking things over and not putting them into action. I am like Hamlet in that aspect. And I am missing out on many opportunities, and I am pushing myself off track with each minute I wait.
I can't decide.
I wrote about that in my EOQR as well, and my portfolio. Of course, in my portfolio, I said I learned how to decide, but I don't think I really did. I still don't have what it takes to stick to one decision and its consequences.
Just like colleges.
Just like Nick.
But that would be linking too many things together into one.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
If I Close My Eyes, Will You Still Be There?
If I pretended you did not exist, would you go away?
That is my philosophy towards any problems I have. Which, mind you, I have plenty, except I tend to ignore them and hope that they will stop bothering me because, obviously, I don't want to be bothered, can't you see?
Except right now my problems are intricately linked to the explosively amazing aspects of my life. I had finally climbed up the cliff and jumped off, and I'm free-falling, just as I always wanted to do. The exhilaration is in my veins, drowning out all other sounds.
But I am also falling. I can't deny that.
What do I do?
Should I open the parachute packet? I will get a soft landing, I will survive, but I will fail. I will land on the ground with a heart full of pain-dulled regrets. But if I don't, I might crash onto the ground, head-first, and die. Or worse.
Things shouldn't go wrong. I am aimed over the ocean. I will—I should—make a spectacular entry into the silk-slippery water. Swim my way up to the top again and shake my hair free of the salty droplets. Everything I had ever wanted in one moment of adrenaline.
If I miss, I will die.
But that is what makes it exciting, isn't it?
. . .
I am sprinting as fast as I can, against the churning of time. And no, I am not able to turn back time, not able to revisit the past or even freeze a special moment. All I can do is extend the time that I have and make everything seem like they would last an eternity.
Eternity. I will love you until the end of eternity.
Nate had said that before.
What happens when eternity ends then? What happens after that? Will Nate stop loving? Will our promises be no more?
But I am running against time, and it is stretching out as far as it can go. Every day is still different from the day before, but somehow magically better, even with the definite promise of an end to eternity eventually.
. . .
The way he plays the piano is breath-taking. Every note perfectly struck, strung together into a melody of soft passion. He is emotional with this, passionate, and it shows in the way he composes himself, in the way he pours his soul into the song.
We sat there, listening to the song resonating in our heads. Watching his slender piano fingers search for the right balance, sometimes feather light, sometimes painfully powerful. The music unwinds from his hands.
Just right. Just right.
The song reaches its finale, and he ends it with a flourish. Stands up, and can't help but to look back at the piano. It is a sleek, black thing, the keys ivory white and beckoning. He loves this piano, it is his soul, and in return the piano depends on him to stay on this dazzling stage often dominated by dancers and singers and actors.
Everyone is applauding, but they do not see the way he is looking at the piano, nor do they see his eyes reflected on the piano's glossy cover.
. . .
It only got worse from there, unless of course you had a different measure of good and bad. The first time they found themselves in the dark, they thought they had finally found the perfect haven. They held hands, confident they could tackle on the world.
Even if they jumped at every noise. Despite the darkness—or perhaps because of it—they had a perpetual fear that the world would find them eventually and drag them back to suffer.
When they fell to the ground, staring into the space where each other's eyes should be, they knew they were not defeated. Defeat meant your heart had given up. They still had each other, they still had reasons to go on.
The second time they found themselves in the dark, they were careful not to trip and fall. The fear was still there. It would probably always be there.
And by the time they grabbed onto each other, they already knew there was no escaping it.
. . .
Penn's ED results out tomorrow. I should be more anxious, but the date's just sort of crept up on me and I'm not extremely nervous right now.
Maybe because I have other, more important things to stress over. I never thought I would say that.
That is my philosophy towards any problems I have. Which, mind you, I have plenty, except I tend to ignore them and hope that they will stop bothering me because, obviously, I don't want to be bothered, can't you see?
Except right now my problems are intricately linked to the explosively amazing aspects of my life. I had finally climbed up the cliff and jumped off, and I'm free-falling, just as I always wanted to do. The exhilaration is in my veins, drowning out all other sounds.
But I am also falling. I can't deny that.
What do I do?
Should I open the parachute packet? I will get a soft landing, I will survive, but I will fail. I will land on the ground with a heart full of pain-dulled regrets. But if I don't, I might crash onto the ground, head-first, and die. Or worse.
Things shouldn't go wrong. I am aimed over the ocean. I will—I should—make a spectacular entry into the silk-slippery water. Swim my way up to the top again and shake my hair free of the salty droplets. Everything I had ever wanted in one moment of adrenaline.
If I miss, I will die.
But that is what makes it exciting, isn't it?
. . .
I am sprinting as fast as I can, against the churning of time. And no, I am not able to turn back time, not able to revisit the past or even freeze a special moment. All I can do is extend the time that I have and make everything seem like they would last an eternity.
Eternity. I will love you until the end of eternity.
Nate had said that before.
What happens when eternity ends then? What happens after that? Will Nate stop loving? Will our promises be no more?
But I am running against time, and it is stretching out as far as it can go. Every day is still different from the day before, but somehow magically better, even with the definite promise of an end to eternity eventually.
. . .
The way he plays the piano is breath-taking. Every note perfectly struck, strung together into a melody of soft passion. He is emotional with this, passionate, and it shows in the way he composes himself, in the way he pours his soul into the song.
We sat there, listening to the song resonating in our heads. Watching his slender piano fingers search for the right balance, sometimes feather light, sometimes painfully powerful. The music unwinds from his hands.
Just right. Just right.
The song reaches its finale, and he ends it with a flourish. Stands up, and can't help but to look back at the piano. It is a sleek, black thing, the keys ivory white and beckoning. He loves this piano, it is his soul, and in return the piano depends on him to stay on this dazzling stage often dominated by dancers and singers and actors.
Everyone is applauding, but they do not see the way he is looking at the piano, nor do they see his eyes reflected on the piano's glossy cover.
. . .
It only got worse from there, unless of course you had a different measure of good and bad. The first time they found themselves in the dark, they thought they had finally found the perfect haven. They held hands, confident they could tackle on the world.
Even if they jumped at every noise. Despite the darkness—or perhaps because of it—they had a perpetual fear that the world would find them eventually and drag them back to suffer.
When they fell to the ground, staring into the space where each other's eyes should be, they knew they were not defeated. Defeat meant your heart had given up. They still had each other, they still had reasons to go on.
The second time they found themselves in the dark, they were careful not to trip and fall. The fear was still there. It would probably always be there.
And by the time they grabbed onto each other, they already knew there was no escaping it.
. . .
Penn's ED results out tomorrow. I should be more anxious, but the date's just sort of crept up on me and I'm not extremely nervous right now.
Maybe because I have other, more important things to stress over. I never thought I would say that.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
This Is Why No Work Ever Gets Done
When I am on the computer. Because really, the computer is my greatest source of procrastination, and that is saying a lot, since I procrastinate a lot.
But here are the computer-related reasons why I haven't been getting any substantial work done lately (these are all approximates):
wasted spent: 1015 minutes, or nearly 17 hours.
But here are the computer-related reasons why I haven't been getting any substantial work done lately (these are all approximates):
- In a mix of marketing genius and sheer cuteness, Mozilla has most likely killed hundreds of thousands of "productivity minutes" by adopting two firefox cubs and, sadly, naming them "cub #1" and "cub #2." I mean, seriously? I know they're temporary names, but still. The overhead cam is by far the best, because you get to see them in their entirety no matter where they happen to drop and nap. [Productivity minutes wasted: 20]
- Every time I see an article (or anything, really) on math that I know a little bit about I get really excited. So guess how I spent a lot of my time? P.S.: That last one I have not read through completely, but it sounds really cool and it also mentions times when other regression models (such as chi-squared) should be used instead, which is really helpful. [Productivity minutes wasted: 250; including the other math and science articles that I have not linked to because there are too many of them]
- After much consideration, I have decided that my next blog will be on food. Or at least taking pictures of food. Because food is so, so good and I don't know how I can ever live without it. Also, Yuma, if you're reading this, can we make the second-to-last recipe? [Productivity minutes wasted: 400]
- There is so much I do not know about Toronto, despite having lived there for three years. Did you know I had never heard of Transit City? But I have to say, if costs were not in consideration (I can't comment on that because I haven't researched into how much either project will cost), I like the idea of Transit City better than Ford's idea of expanded subway lines, if only because I think more light will be good for otherwise already probably pretty frustrated commuters. [Productivity minutes wasted: 120]
- I am a sucker for pretty graphs and other pictures. Always. 100% of the time. [Productivity minutes wasted: 45]
- This blog. [Productivity minutes wasted: 180]
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Generalizations And My Inherent Laziness
When I say "I don't know," half the time I do know, but I feel disinclined to say what I know out loud. It has been a point of contention between my parents and me. They have been trying to get me to say every thought I have, instead of keeping them all within my head.
It doesn't work that way, I want to tell them, but that would require actually saying the words out loud, and that is exactly the problem.
A vicious cycle.
I have been wondering lately if I have been turning this blog into a diary. There are so many "thoughts" posts, and not enough "events" posts or "story" posts. So much inner monologue. Like Hamlet.
So to make amends I will talk about math team, as I have promised (many, many times).
. . .
Since our last math meet was also Argon's birthday, Yuma and I tried out this really cool cake mix and whipped cream cookies recipe. Except it turned out to be more like cake. I think it was because we put all the batter on one tray, because we were running out of time, so the resulting glob of stuff was too thick and therefore did not have cookie chewy/crunchy consistency.
Oh well. It was still really delicious.
On the bus ride to Spearheadville, Bryant, Tybalt, and Dino started talking about college. Which reminds me, Penn's ED results are out next Friday! Can you believe it? Less than a week away! It is both exciting and nerve-wracking at the same time, and I don't know (really) which one is winning right now.
Anyway, college has definitely overtaken our lives. Perhaps things will get better in a month or so?
Once there, we found our normal banished-to-the-corner tables, and started our normal soda-talk, commonly known as, "Did you know there is partially brominated fats in opaque-looking sodas?" And then everyone at the table deciding to drink only the transparent sodas. And then Grob coming over and grabbing the one soda with said fats in it.
We had a short-lived discussion on whether Grob will turn out okay after freshman year, as Micro had. I sure hope so. And maybe he will start taking those headphones out of his ears, because he is missing crucial advice (we did warn him about the soda, but he didn't hear).
Then came the actual competition (and food). I did rather horribly this time, but the questions (matrices aside) were really fun. Team round too, although I didn't really like the geometry question this time. Too much guessing and checking.
I did my French homework after that, so I missed out on lots of conversation (but I did catch Tybalt showing Argon, Reno, and Summer the projectile launch lab—the one with the moving car—because they were doing stationary target launches).
That is all I really remember for now. Oh, and the bus ride home, but that was self-explanatory and I actually don't remember much from it anyway.
It doesn't work that way, I want to tell them, but that would require actually saying the words out loud, and that is exactly the problem.
A vicious cycle.
I have been wondering lately if I have been turning this blog into a diary. There are so many "thoughts" posts, and not enough "events" posts or "story" posts. So much inner monologue. Like Hamlet.
So to make amends I will talk about math team, as I have promised (many, many times).
. . .
Since our last math meet was also Argon's birthday, Yuma and I tried out this really cool cake mix and whipped cream cookies recipe. Except it turned out to be more like cake. I think it was because we put all the batter on one tray, because we were running out of time, so the resulting glob of stuff was too thick and therefore did not have cookie chewy/crunchy consistency.
Oh well. It was still really delicious.
On the bus ride to Spearheadville, Bryant, Tybalt, and Dino started talking about college. Which reminds me, Penn's ED results are out next Friday! Can you believe it? Less than a week away! It is both exciting and nerve-wracking at the same time, and I don't know (really) which one is winning right now.
Anyway, college has definitely overtaken our lives. Perhaps things will get better in a month or so?
Once there, we found our normal banished-to-the-corner tables, and started our normal soda-talk, commonly known as, "Did you know there is partially brominated fats in opaque-looking sodas?" And then everyone at the table deciding to drink only the transparent sodas. And then Grob coming over and grabbing the one soda with said fats in it.
We had a short-lived discussion on whether Grob will turn out okay after freshman year, as Micro had. I sure hope so. And maybe he will start taking those headphones out of his ears, because he is missing crucial advice (we did warn him about the soda, but he didn't hear).
Then came the actual competition (and food). I did rather horribly this time, but the questions (matrices aside) were really fun. Team round too, although I didn't really like the geometry question this time. Too much guessing and checking.
I did my French homework after that, so I missed out on lots of conversation (but I did catch Tybalt showing Argon, Reno, and Summer the projectile launch lab—the one with the moving car—because they were doing stationary target launches).
That is all I really remember for now. Oh, and the bus ride home, but that was self-explanatory and I actually don't remember much from it anyway.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Revisiting The Past, v.infinity
[I have not forgotten about the math meet, not yet. The post for that is sitting in my drafts right now, and I am thinking about writing that as soon as possible, which, knowing me, may take a very, very long time. But now I know how to solve this backlogging!]
If I were honest with myself, I would realize immediately that the reason I keep going to the past is because I want something from it. I am the first to claim that I do not like my past (it is not a subject I would freely talk about in front of other people, anyway), but I also admit I write about it a lot. Something about it is comforting, and it holds something I am seeking, so I keep coming back to it.
Likewise, I keep on holding on to people who I should have let go a long time ago. I think I have forgotten them, but some way or the other I see them again, and I can't help but dredge up the old ties. This is still novel to me. The idea that people can "go way back." So I am still fascinated by it, ridiculous as it is.
And here I am again. Sifting through old emails, and I can't help but search up his name.
How many times have I berated myself for doing this? Why can't I let go? I do not love him anymore, that much I know. Gone are the gut-wrenching days. I would like to say that this is merely curiosity, or habit, a habit reinforced no less than a thousand times.
The thing is, all of this was so, so ridiculous. I was a naive, misguided idiot back then. I had an excuse (no matter how poor). Do I still have that excuse now?
So much can change in three years.
Yet so much can stay the same. My love (and often hate, too) for clichés stayed. As did that illogical avoidance of sunlight and blue skies. This talking about the past, I think that stayed too.
November makes me remember, though. It could be the dreary cold (I have been in more colder places but they received a brighter dose of afternoon sunlight even in the winters). It could be the past coincidences, but that would be too simple, wouldn't it? Something as simple as that could not possibly be causing me so much grief. Or sorrow. Or just quiet reflection, because the color has already seeped out of what I used to feel, and now there is just a faded resemblance of the past.
But it is December now.
A good month. Filled with festive cheer, and a sprinkling of hope. Glittering ice and fluffy snow. The promise of something magnificent transformed within a night. I am entranced by December's charm, the way it takes away the oppressive but clearly resonating autumn with a wave of its hand.
Too surreal. Much too surreal, and that is why I love it so much. Not—oh, how could it?—because it reminds me of the past as well.
There is a part of me that knows I can never truly walk away. That I am still hanging on to the mementos, subconsciously. My means of daily conversation is proof of that. The way I get home. My double-take on first impressions.
It is all there, however vague it needs to be.
. . .
I am working on my LitEx paper, somewhat, although I do not know at all where I want to go with it. I will have to think of something, and soon, because the outline is due Monday morning.
What do I want to write?
Do I even have a thesis?
I said I would talk about the subconsciousness. I think I want to talk about how the subconscious, complete with its host of prejudices and preconceptions and silly past grudges, is more in control of our decisions than our conscious, logical mind. That is arguable, right?
Although you could rarely persuade me otherwise. Because my past is more in control of me than my rationality is. And in truth this is just an expansion of what I believe, except corroborating it with evidence from texts.
Now I need specific evidence, and nonfiction ones at that.
If I were honest with myself, I would realize immediately that the reason I keep going to the past is because I want something from it. I am the first to claim that I do not like my past (it is not a subject I would freely talk about in front of other people, anyway), but I also admit I write about it a lot. Something about it is comforting, and it holds something I am seeking, so I keep coming back to it.
Likewise, I keep on holding on to people who I should have let go a long time ago. I think I have forgotten them, but some way or the other I see them again, and I can't help but dredge up the old ties. This is still novel to me. The idea that people can "go way back." So I am still fascinated by it, ridiculous as it is.
And here I am again. Sifting through old emails, and I can't help but search up his name.
How many times have I berated myself for doing this? Why can't I let go? I do not love him anymore, that much I know. Gone are the gut-wrenching days. I would like to say that this is merely curiosity, or habit, a habit reinforced no less than a thousand times.
The thing is, all of this was so, so ridiculous. I was a naive, misguided idiot back then. I had an excuse (no matter how poor). Do I still have that excuse now?
So much can change in three years.
Yet so much can stay the same. My love (and often hate, too) for clichés stayed. As did that illogical avoidance of sunlight and blue skies. This talking about the past, I think that stayed too.
November makes me remember, though. It could be the dreary cold (I have been in more colder places but they received a brighter dose of afternoon sunlight even in the winters). It could be the past coincidences, but that would be too simple, wouldn't it? Something as simple as that could not possibly be causing me so much grief. Or sorrow. Or just quiet reflection, because the color has already seeped out of what I used to feel, and now there is just a faded resemblance of the past.
But it is December now.
A good month. Filled with festive cheer, and a sprinkling of hope. Glittering ice and fluffy snow. The promise of something magnificent transformed within a night. I am entranced by December's charm, the way it takes away the oppressive but clearly resonating autumn with a wave of its hand.
Too surreal. Much too surreal, and that is why I love it so much. Not—oh, how could it?—because it reminds me of the past as well.
There is a part of me that knows I can never truly walk away. That I am still hanging on to the mementos, subconsciously. My means of daily conversation is proof of that. The way I get home. My double-take on first impressions.
It is all there, however vague it needs to be.
. . .
I am working on my LitEx paper, somewhat, although I do not know at all where I want to go with it. I will have to think of something, and soon, because the outline is due Monday morning.
What do I want to write?
Do I even have a thesis?
I said I would talk about the subconsciousness. I think I want to talk about how the subconscious, complete with its host of prejudices and preconceptions and silly past grudges, is more in control of our decisions than our conscious, logical mind. That is arguable, right?
Although you could rarely persuade me otherwise. Because my past is more in control of me than my rationality is. And in truth this is just an expansion of what I believe, except corroborating it with evidence from texts.
Now I need specific evidence, and nonfiction ones at that.
