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.
Showing posts with label essay. Show all posts
Showing posts with label essay. Show all posts
Friday, December 31, 2010
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.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Why X? Part II
To continue on from the previous list, with the disclaimer, once again, that this is merely a parody and not to be taken too seriously:
But my reason for choosing Cornell rests on one simple fact: when I visited the electrical engineering labs, I saw xkcd on one of the doors. Now I know that xkcd is probably the most over-quoted webcomic for any engineering department, but to actually see it on a door? Wow. (We will ignore the fact that the only other engineering buildings I have seen are Princeton's and Penn's, and I have not entered any of these buildings.)
The two-story white library with the teahouse by the side was also nice. I mean, there is only one college library in the entire world that looks like the library in Harry Potter, right? Right? What other school could have possibly come up with such an original idea? Impossible! I also really liked the green armchairs. Except I didn't like their color. Oh, wait, that's one of the official colors of Dartmouth. Never mind, I really liked the green armchairs.
Aside from that I must regrettably say that I have not been on campus, not even once. And that I know relatively little about Duke. As in, I know it is called Duke, and it has a tower, and it offers limited financial assistance to international students, but that is all. I don't even know how many tulips are on campus, although I should know, because that is the other (non-blown-up) picture of campus I have from the brochures and after staring at that for over five times I should probably just start counting the flowers.
I also love the sheer size of McGill. With over 25,000 undergrads to make you feel your significance. And 8,000 grads. Although honestly that is nothing compared to University of Toronto, which has over 55,000 undergrads and 13,000 grads. Now that is huge.
Why Cornell?Despite many, many failed attempts, I have finally managed to visit your campus (although I did, unfortunately, miss the tour). And I must say, Cornell must have my favorite campus by far. What is not to love about a campus that looks like it copied from architectural styles from all over the continent and dumped them all into one plot of land? Especially when you have Victorian-Gothic (please spare me the Harry Potter references), Neo-Classical, and sheets-of-glass-glued-together-modern all within walking distance.
But my reason for choosing Cornell rests on one simple fact: when I visited the electrical engineering labs, I saw xkcd on one of the doors. Now I know that xkcd is probably the most over-quoted webcomic for any engineering department, but to actually see it on a door? Wow. (We will ignore the fact that the only other engineering buildings I have seen are Princeton's and Penn's, and I have not entered any of these buildings.)
Why Dartmouth?I have to say, when I first visited the campus I was instantly drawn in by the Green. Or more like I thought, "This grass is kept in pretty good shape considering it's probably covered under snow for half the year." My lawn, in comparison, looks exactly the same except it receives much less snow (and probably more sunlight). I love grass. Grass is so good for rolling around in and getting bugs in your hair to freak out your mother.
The two-story white library with the teahouse by the side was also nice. I mean, there is only one college library in the entire world that looks like the library in Harry Potter, right? Right? What other school could have possibly come up with such an original idea? Impossible! I also really liked the green armchairs. Except I didn't like their color. Oh, wait, that's one of the official colors of Dartmouth. Never mind, I really liked the green armchairs.
Why Duke?I love all the brochures Duke sends me, especially those with that one picture of the tower during sunrise or sunset or whatever it is. Since I don't really have any other blown-up pictures of campus I will assume that the rest of the campus is just as magnificent, because Duke doesn't have anything to hide, right? They just thought I would enjoy staring at the tower five or ten times, right?
Aside from that I must regrettably say that I have not been on campus, not even once. And that I know relatively little about Duke. As in, I know it is called Duke, and it has a tower, and it offers limited financial assistance to international students, but that is all. I don't even know how many tulips are on campus, although I should know, because that is the other (non-blown-up) picture of campus I have from the brochures and after staring at that for over five times I should probably just start counting the flowers.
Why Harvard?I am not applying to Harvard, nor does Harvard require a "Why Harvard?" essay, so this is not necessary. I am putting it in here solely because otherwise I would be jumping directly to M and I felt the gap was too wide.
Why McGill?I have previously mentioned that there is a cute red-head at McGill who is also extremely nice and helpful, but Yuma might not appreciate that as a reason for why I want to go to McGill. So instead I will talk about the over-ten-stories tall buildings on campus that are not dorms but, well, instructional buildings. Nothing like a skyscraper-like chem building to make me feel like I'm in the city. Especially when four or five firetrucks pull up right underneath it, sirens all blaring.
I also love the sheer size of McGill. With over 25,000 undergrads to make you feel your significance. And 8,000 grads. Although honestly that is nothing compared to University of Toronto, which has over 55,000 undergrads and 13,000 grads. Now that is huge.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Why X? Part I
From my personal experience, colleges like to ask, "Why -insert relevant school name here-?" Supposedly to weed out the students who have absolutely no idea why they want to go to a certain school and just picked it arbitrarily.
Well, I'm sorry to say this, but I am such a student. I mean, yes, I know why, say, I want to go to Penn or MIT, but why Williams? Why Dartmouth? Why University of Narnia?
(Okay, I would attend the University of Narnia for obvious reasons. But I digress.)
Anyway, I thought I might answer this question for a few schools that come to mind. To, well, get my brain flowing and to get these thoughts out of the way. (Disclaimer: None of these are exactly true. They are merely exaggerations and parodies.)
Don't get me wrong, I am all for views—I am a budding artist, you see, but I am a bit nearsighted. If I painted things that were close enough for clarity for most people but not close enough for me, my paintings would be all blurry and people would think I am an Impressionist, which I am not and never will be. But if it is far away enough, then everyone sees the view blurred and my poor eyesight is only a private matter between you, me, and the rest of the blogosphere.
I also absolutely adore (note the alliteration?) Brown's brick red walls that scream, "Hey, look, we want you to drown in this color that is the worst for your eyes!" Because I wear glasses and feel rather self-conscious about it, and would prefer it if everyone else could wear glasses along with me (although I suppose contacts would defy the point).
Aside from that, Chicago also has the most unique essay questions ever, which must be a representation of how unique the school is as a whole. And Chicago does not have an engineering school, so I can successfully crush my parents' dreams that I will become a second-generation engineer by attending this school and pursuing a major in caffeine studies instead.
The fact that if you walk for five minutes you will reach the other end of the campus is also a good thing. When I have hit the snooze button for the twentieth time in the morning and realize that I only have ten minutes to get to class, I would rather be able to spend five minutes putting on my make-up and five minutes dashing to class instead of all ten minutes dashing to class. It's always good to be prepared and look your best, right?
Well, I'm sorry to say this, but I am such a student. I mean, yes, I know why, say, I want to go to Penn or MIT, but why Williams? Why Dartmouth? Why University of Narnia?
(Okay, I would attend the University of Narnia for obvious reasons. But I digress.)
Anyway, I thought I might answer this question for a few schools that come to mind. To, well, get my brain flowing and to get these thoughts out of the way. (Disclaimer: None of these are exactly true. They are merely exaggerations and parodies.)
Why Amherst?From the moment I heard about your "thousand acre view"—and yes, it is a "thousand acre view," not a "thousand acre playground for all to use"—I have realized that Amherst is the perfect school for me. What other school could possibly provide me with a small campus and a view that I will most likely never experience up-front?
Don't get me wrong, I am all for views—I am a budding artist, you see, but I am a bit nearsighted. If I painted things that were close enough for clarity for most people but not close enough for me, my paintings would be all blurry and people would think I am an Impressionist, which I am not and never will be. But if it is far away enough, then everyone sees the view blurred and my poor eyesight is only a private matter between you, me, and the rest of the blogosphere.
Why Brown?I love Brown's idea that as eighteen and nineteen year olds, we can be responsible enough to choose our own futures. I mean, it's not like we're the bunch of kids who routinely binge-drink and throw up for fun, right? I love this sense of trust placed into me. I am all for trust. Trust is good because then no one ever suspects me when something bad happens.
I also absolutely adore (note the alliteration?) Brown's brick red walls that scream, "Hey, look, we want you to drown in this color that is the worst for your eyes!" Because I wear glasses and feel rather self-conscious about it, and would prefer it if everyone else could wear glasses along with me (although I suppose contacts would defy the point).
Why Chicago?Chicago has got to be the most unique school ever. It has coffee shops on campus! I cannot survive without my daily coffee in the morning. There is this annoying guy who always tries to harass me in the mornings but when he sees coffee in my hand he somehow thinks that I will dump it on him (which I could, but I am not that mean) and therefore runs away. So coffee is vital, and I am glad there will be plenty available on campus.
Aside from that, Chicago also has the most unique essay questions ever, which must be a representation of how unique the school is as a whole. And Chicago does not have an engineering school, so I can successfully crush my parents' dreams that I will become a second-generation engineer by attending this school and pursuing a major in caffeine studies instead.
Why Columbia?I love Columbia's miniature campus! Mini-things are all the rage these days, and the fact that Columbia's campus is so small will be such a hit! When I go to parties and people start bragging about their small campuses, I will only have to say, "I go to Columbia," and everyone will hush in awe and jealousy.
The fact that if you walk for five minutes you will reach the other end of the campus is also a good thing. When I have hit the snooze button for the twentieth time in the morning and realize that I only have ten minutes to get to class, I would rather be able to spend five minutes putting on my make-up and five minutes dashing to class instead of all ten minutes dashing to class. It's always good to be prepared and look your best, right?
Monday, November 1, 2010
It's Been A While
Since I've written anything. I have been busy with a lot things, such as college applications (most obviously), but also homework and general procrastination. Very, very busy, so much so that I missed the last day to post in October and must now start in November.
What a tragedy.
Anyway, since I have fuzzy memory I will recount things in reverse order. Bear with me as we travel back in warped time.
Tuesday, Nov. 2nd:
Election day! Which means three things: a) no school tomorrow; b) going over to Tea's house to bake donuts with Yuma; and c) checking out how accurate Nate Silver's predictions are. Excitement levels in that order. My mom had no idea there was no school tomorrow, so I wonder what would have happened if I went out at 6:50 and walked to the library and spent my day there? Oh well, she knows now, so that's not possible.
Also, I am very excited to see how baked donuts will look like. And taste like, too. I am so glad I subscribed to, uh... around 109293874 food blogs while I was working on my college essays (i.e. procrastinating), because I would never have found the recipe without it.
Then, of course, actual election results! That, too, is exciting, but I guess it's not as exciting as listening to PM-wannabes dissing each other in French and gluing their hands into their pockets. But I suppose that is a purely Canadian thing.
Monday, Nov. 1st:
ED/EA applications are due today, and guess what? I don't have to worry about them, because I finished them! Yay! Other than that, the day went by fairly boringly. Oh, right, I fell asleep in French today, which was bad, because I was in the middle of a listening test. Luckily, I got through the first trial effectively, and I couldn't understand most of it anyway, so I guess a second listen-through wouldn't have helped much.
But I told my partner-in-crime-in-the-business-of-staying-up-late that I should probably set a bedtime, and he suggested, "11pm?"
Then I told him that I fell asleep in class, so he immediately changed it to 9pm.
Haha. As if. I barely get any work done before 9pm. But I do need to get to bed earlier, and preferably not spend half an hour trying to say "goodbye" in Welsh. Or Portuguese. Or Macedonian. Anyway, now we've set it at around 10-11pmish, which is a good time, I suppose. If only I can remember that, along with the fact that I need to bring lunch money (and money I owe Tea).
Also, NaNoWriMo is starting today! Anyone interested in starting a full-fledged novel (or, really, does anyone have the time to do that)?
Sunday, Oct. 31st:
Halloween! My parents and I went out to buy a printer/fax/scanner/copier/whatever-else-is-there machine. We went to Best Buy, and once there, my mom told me, "Can you look for some whiteout?"
"Mom, we're at Best Buy. Why would there be whiteout here?"
"Why not?" My mom said. "I'm sure they have some."
No, mom, they don't. I asked the guy at the front desk anyway, and he said he has never seen whiteout in the store. Ever.
Then I went to check out the iPads, and started playing Plants vs. Zombies, which is my favorite game of all iPad games. My dad came over and checked out the MacBook Pro to the side. I must say, I'm not a fan. Seriously, Apple. You were great a couple years ago with all those really colorful computers, but these days you're all white and black and silver. So monochrome. Even shuffles have color. Why not laptops?
Anyway, we also checked out several Sony laptops, and we wanted to see a few Lenovo ones too, but Best Buy didn't have any. Oh well. I'm hoping to get a new laptop soon, if only because I'm really, really tired of all the white (yeah, this laptop's white too) and I want to be able to bring it in to school to work on stuff.
Saturday, Oct. 30th:
We (my parents and I) went to the border early this morning (read: we left at around midnight) to sort out our visas, once again. It was fairly successful, and I even finished a lot of my reading/listening homework. Very productive. Then we came back and went to a Chinese supermarket in West Hartford, where I discovered supermarket-porn.
Well, okay, not really porn, but they were selling the herbal version of Viagra, except they call it deer's tail, so I had no idea what it was, and when I looked at the pictures they showed people in very... fascinating positions.
Ahem. Yeah.
When I came home I worked on my Chicago app, and I finished very late into the night (around 9pm, I believe). But Cammie's birthday/Halloween party was today, so I went over and shared in the movie-watching (Moulin Rouge), gossip-sharing fun with everyone else there.
Where, yes, major stuff were revealed, but at least on this blog that is as far as I'll go with it.
And in the morning (which is technically the next day, but oh well) there was chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream! Yay!
Monday, Oct. 25th to Friday, Oct. 29th:
I don't remember what happened here, except for a haze of college apps and late-night chatting with Yuma and maybe other things, such as, oh, Clay repeatedly asking Yuma and me whether we were going to frisbee. I got the message on Wednesday, thank you very much. I didn't really need the reminders on Thursday and Friday as well. But I think I'm just snappy because I am so exhausted by college apps and not sleeping nearly enough.
But that is all I remember, and all I can recall right now. Time to do homework and maybe, maybe, catching up on some sleep.
What a tragedy.
Anyway, since I have fuzzy memory I will recount things in reverse order. Bear with me as we travel back in warped time.
Tuesday, Nov. 2nd:
Election day! Which means three things: a) no school tomorrow; b) going over to Tea's house to bake donuts with Yuma; and c) checking out how accurate Nate Silver's predictions are. Excitement levels in that order. My mom had no idea there was no school tomorrow, so I wonder what would have happened if I went out at 6:50 and walked to the library and spent my day there? Oh well, she knows now, so that's not possible.
Also, I am very excited to see how baked donuts will look like. And taste like, too. I am so glad I subscribed to, uh... around 109293874 food blogs while I was working on my college essays (i.e. procrastinating), because I would never have found the recipe without it.
Then, of course, actual election results! That, too, is exciting, but I guess it's not as exciting as listening to PM-wannabes dissing each other in French and gluing their hands into their pockets. But I suppose that is a purely Canadian thing.
Monday, Nov. 1st:
ED/EA applications are due today, and guess what? I don't have to worry about them, because I finished them! Yay! Other than that, the day went by fairly boringly. Oh, right, I fell asleep in French today, which was bad, because I was in the middle of a listening test. Luckily, I got through the first trial effectively, and I couldn't understand most of it anyway, so I guess a second listen-through wouldn't have helped much.
But I told my partner-in-crime-in-the-business-of-staying-up-late that I should probably set a bedtime, and he suggested, "11pm?"
Then I told him that I fell asleep in class, so he immediately changed it to 9pm.
Haha. As if. I barely get any work done before 9pm. But I do need to get to bed earlier, and preferably not spend half an hour trying to say "goodbye" in Welsh. Or Portuguese. Or Macedonian. Anyway, now we've set it at around 10-11pmish, which is a good time, I suppose. If only I can remember that, along with the fact that I need to bring lunch money (and money I owe Tea).
Also, NaNoWriMo is starting today! Anyone interested in starting a full-fledged novel (or, really, does anyone have the time to do that)?
Sunday, Oct. 31st:
Halloween! My parents and I went out to buy a printer/fax/scanner/copier/whatever-else-is-there machine. We went to Best Buy, and once there, my mom told me, "Can you look for some whiteout?"
"Mom, we're at Best Buy. Why would there be whiteout here?"
"Why not?" My mom said. "I'm sure they have some."
No, mom, they don't. I asked the guy at the front desk anyway, and he said he has never seen whiteout in the store. Ever.
Then I went to check out the iPads, and started playing Plants vs. Zombies, which is my favorite game of all iPad games. My dad came over and checked out the MacBook Pro to the side. I must say, I'm not a fan. Seriously, Apple. You were great a couple years ago with all those really colorful computers, but these days you're all white and black and silver. So monochrome. Even shuffles have color. Why not laptops?
Anyway, we also checked out several Sony laptops, and we wanted to see a few Lenovo ones too, but Best Buy didn't have any. Oh well. I'm hoping to get a new laptop soon, if only because I'm really, really tired of all the white (yeah, this laptop's white too) and I want to be able to bring it in to school to work on stuff.
Saturday, Oct. 30th:
We (my parents and I) went to the border early this morning (read: we left at around midnight) to sort out our visas, once again. It was fairly successful, and I even finished a lot of my reading/listening homework. Very productive. Then we came back and went to a Chinese supermarket in West Hartford, where I discovered supermarket-porn.
Well, okay, not really porn, but they were selling the herbal version of Viagra, except they call it deer's tail, so I had no idea what it was, and when I looked at the pictures they showed people in very... fascinating positions.
Ahem. Yeah.
When I came home I worked on my Chicago app, and I finished very late into the night (around 9pm, I believe). But Cammie's birthday/Halloween party was today, so I went over and shared in the movie-watching (Moulin Rouge), gossip-sharing fun with everyone else there.
Where, yes, major stuff were revealed, but at least on this blog that is as far as I'll go with it.
And in the morning (which is technically the next day, but oh well) there was chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream! Yay!
Monday, Oct. 25th to Friday, Oct. 29th:
I don't remember what happened here, except for a haze of college apps and late-night chatting with Yuma and maybe other things, such as, oh, Clay repeatedly asking Yuma and me whether we were going to frisbee. I got the message on Wednesday, thank you very much. I didn't really need the reminders on Thursday and Friday as well. But I think I'm just snappy because I am so exhausted by college apps and not sleeping nearly enough.
But that is all I remember, and all I can recall right now. Time to do homework and maybe, maybe, catching up on some sleep.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
I Am Not You
Christine O'Donnell, Republican (and Tea Party) candidate for the 2010 Delaware Senate special election, has a series of political ads where she says, "I'm not *insert whatever it is she says she's not*, I'm you."
Well, you know what, dad? I'm not Christine O'Donnell. I'm not you.
This comes after my dad's latest rejection of my common app essay. Basically, his logic is, "If I don't like this essay, then you're not submitting it." Which is fine, I suppose, since he's paying for the application fee, but it's not fine when his idea of an acceptable essay happens to only look like one thing.
He even said, "It's all right if you copy my words, as long as they're good."
No, dad, it's not all right. I'm not translating your work. I'm writing my damn college essay, and I'd like it to be about me, thank you very much. Which means, if you don't quite grasp it yet, that I'd like to use my own words to write about things that I feel are important to me.
I think he's more worked up about this whole process than I am. Like in Death of a Salesman. Pushing all of his dreams and hopes onto me, except I'm a loser-ish kind of daughter, and not the perfect overachiever he'd hoped for. But I'm still his daughter, I suppose, and his only one, so he alternates between life-is-all-good gushy happiness and what-the-hell-you're-such-an-idiot rage moments. Seriously, he has mood swings. And I know it's a bit ridiculous, but I'm rather glad he's in Florida right now. Because then I can turn down the volume on the phone and not listen to him scream when he does fall into his all-hell-has-broken-loose persona.
I am so close to just telling him I won't do any of this. Like, not apply to any school that requires an essay. Basically, any school in Canada. And just not putting up with all of this crap.
But it's my future, and I rather like Penn, so I want to do this. And I kind of hate him for making it come down to this, but I guess it's a life lesson in some ways. We can't all have what we want, and there are always the over-controlling supervisors (or so I've heard), and I need to learn how to deal with this so I don't get heart attacks in the future.
(Plus, I can't really hate him, because after all he's my dad and he's not always awful, just sometimes. But I digress.)
Also, my parents believe I must have learned some really great life lesson from all of my moving and such. They want me to write about it, and they think I can write something really great about it. I don't know what to tell them. "No, mom, I didn't really learn that if I work hard I'll always achieve my dreams even in adversity. I just learned that if you didn't belong to begin with you'll always feel like you don't really belong." I also learned that there is no such thing as forever, gee isn't that optimistic? I didn't learn those standard, heart-rending things they want me to talk about.
I've learned to survive, yes. But that is different depending on the person. My version of survival is living in the present. Their version is striving for success. I am okay with drifting. They are not.
I am searching for something, that is it. I am searching, perhaps for that ever elusive home, perhaps for an identity, perhaps just for a sense of peace and freedom. And it's stupid, because my going to college is against what I really want right now, and especially my following what my parents want me to do. But I don't know what to do otherwise. I am at a loss, and with no physical survival skills whatsoever, I am afraid to take that step.
I'm not you, yes, but I'm not me either.
I don't know who I am.
Well, you know what, dad? I'm not Christine O'Donnell. I'm not you.
This comes after my dad's latest rejection of my common app essay. Basically, his logic is, "If I don't like this essay, then you're not submitting it." Which is fine, I suppose, since he's paying for the application fee, but it's not fine when his idea of an acceptable essay happens to only look like one thing.
He even said, "It's all right if you copy my words, as long as they're good."
No, dad, it's not all right. I'm not translating your work. I'm writing my damn college essay, and I'd like it to be about me, thank you very much. Which means, if you don't quite grasp it yet, that I'd like to use my own words to write about things that I feel are important to me.
I think he's more worked up about this whole process than I am. Like in Death of a Salesman. Pushing all of his dreams and hopes onto me, except I'm a loser-ish kind of daughter, and not the perfect overachiever he'd hoped for. But I'm still his daughter, I suppose, and his only one, so he alternates between life-is-all-good gushy happiness and what-the-hell-you're-such-an-idiot rage moments. Seriously, he has mood swings. And I know it's a bit ridiculous, but I'm rather glad he's in Florida right now. Because then I can turn down the volume on the phone and not listen to him scream when he does fall into his all-hell-has-broken-loose persona.
I am so close to just telling him I won't do any of this. Like, not apply to any school that requires an essay. Basically, any school in Canada. And just not putting up with all of this crap.
But it's my future, and I rather like Penn, so I want to do this. And I kind of hate him for making it come down to this, but I guess it's a life lesson in some ways. We can't all have what we want, and there are always the over-controlling supervisors (or so I've heard), and I need to learn how to deal with this so I don't get heart attacks in the future.
(Plus, I can't really hate him, because after all he's my dad and he's not always awful, just sometimes. But I digress.)
Also, my parents believe I must have learned some really great life lesson from all of my moving and such. They want me to write about it, and they think I can write something really great about it. I don't know what to tell them. "No, mom, I didn't really learn that if I work hard I'll always achieve my dreams even in adversity. I just learned that if you didn't belong to begin with you'll always feel like you don't really belong." I also learned that there is no such thing as forever, gee isn't that optimistic? I didn't learn those standard, heart-rending things they want me to talk about.
I've learned to survive, yes. But that is different depending on the person. My version of survival is living in the present. Their version is striving for success. I am okay with drifting. They are not.
I am searching for something, that is it. I am searching, perhaps for that ever elusive home, perhaps for an identity, perhaps just for a sense of peace and freedom. And it's stupid, because my going to college is against what I really want right now, and especially my following what my parents want me to do. But I don't know what to do otherwise. I am at a loss, and with no physical survival skills whatsoever, I am afraid to take that step.
I'm not you, yes, but I'm not me either.
I don't know who I am.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Without A Doubt
I am confused. Not that I had not been before, but I am increasingly more so. It is a tricky, entangling path to go down, especially now. With everything going on, college and everything. Everything now is about college. In fact, I should be writing my college essays right now, or at least do something productive, but instead (and as I have done so for pretty much every one of my free-writes in English), I'm trying to figure things out in hopes of not being plagued by all of these thoughts when I should be working.
But first. I'm going to have to say that, in the past few days (note: 10 +/-3 days with a 95% confidence level), I have read all 1300+ PHD comics. I'd show you some of my favorites, but I don't remember the links to them. I did show them all to Yuma though, so if anyone's interested, I can pull up our chat logs and search for them (among all the other links/sources of procrastination we shared).
Basically, I haven't gotten as much work as I'd like done. Although I have been really productive in getting homework done, surprisingly. I have most of next week's homework done by now (of those that I know, anyway). It's just that when I stare at my essays, I don't want to write them. At all.
Yuma too, actually. We've been talking about getting our essays done (he's writing his Caltech one, and I'm working on my new Chicago one), and it's been a rather pitiful struggle.
But I don't like talking about college stuff. So, in other news:
I am on disc 5 of my 12-disc audio book, Loving Frank. It's rather fast-paced, and I can't think of anything to describe it better than to say that [spoiler alert] in these four discs I've heard so far, the protagonist goes from Chicago to Boulder, Colorado, to Germany to France. Plus she falls in love with another married man and both her husband and the guy's wife know about this affair, and by the end of the fourth disc, pretty much everyone she knows (i.e. the entire city of Chicago) knows as well.
I wonder what the next 8 discs will be about?
The abstract says that it's based on a real story, and the guy was a pretty famous architect too (he's mentioned in this other book or something I read the other day), so I think if I wiki'd them, I'd get the plot of the entire story. But Mr. Littney says we should be focusing on the listening process, so I have a good ten hours or so more to go through. He also said we should have this done in the next two weeks. It's taken me a month to listen to four discs.
Fun. Very fun. You'll probably see me walking around the halls with my headphones more often now.
But of course, I have to go back to my confusion topic, because that was mostly why I started writing this (and also because I've been neglecting my reader-base of five these days). And since it's late, and I really should get to work, I'll make it simple.
I'd like to know how people think about me. Especially a certain few people. But since I can't figure it out (maybe my lack of sleep has something to do with it—I've been staying up to the wee hours lately doing little), and since I don't particular know if I want to know (I'm treading this line where everything is nice right now and I don't want more, but I'm afraid that the balance is going to tip soon), I guess it'll remain an open question.
One day. Maybe. But for now I'm going to focus on my essays.
But first. I'm going to have to say that, in the past few days (note: 10 +/-3 days with a 95% confidence level), I have read all 1300+ PHD comics. I'd show you some of my favorites, but I don't remember the links to them. I did show them all to Yuma though, so if anyone's interested, I can pull up our chat logs and search for them (among all the other links/sources of procrastination we shared).
Basically, I haven't gotten as much work as I'd like done. Although I have been really productive in getting homework done, surprisingly. I have most of next week's homework done by now (of those that I know, anyway). It's just that when I stare at my essays, I don't want to write them. At all.
Yuma too, actually. We've been talking about getting our essays done (he's writing his Caltech one, and I'm working on my new Chicago one), and it's been a rather pitiful struggle.
But I don't like talking about college stuff. So, in other news:
I am on disc 5 of my 12-disc audio book, Loving Frank. It's rather fast-paced, and I can't think of anything to describe it better than to say that [spoiler alert] in these four discs I've heard so far, the protagonist goes from Chicago to Boulder, Colorado, to Germany to France. Plus she falls in love with another married man and both her husband and the guy's wife know about this affair, and by the end of the fourth disc, pretty much everyone she knows (i.e. the entire city of Chicago) knows as well.
I wonder what the next 8 discs will be about?
The abstract says that it's based on a real story, and the guy was a pretty famous architect too (he's mentioned in this other book or something I read the other day), so I think if I wiki'd them, I'd get the plot of the entire story. But Mr. Littney says we should be focusing on the listening process, so I have a good ten hours or so more to go through. He also said we should have this done in the next two weeks. It's taken me a month to listen to four discs.
Fun. Very fun. You'll probably see me walking around the halls with my headphones more often now.
But of course, I have to go back to my confusion topic, because that was mostly why I started writing this (and also because I've been neglecting my reader-base of five these days). And since it's late, and I really should get to work, I'll make it simple.
I'd like to know how people think about me. Especially a certain few people. But since I can't figure it out (maybe my lack of sleep has something to do with it—I've been staying up to the wee hours lately doing little), and since I don't particular know if I want to know (I'm treading this line where everything is nice right now and I don't want more, but I'm afraid that the balance is going to tip soon), I guess it'll remain an open question.
One day. Maybe. But for now I'm going to focus on my essays.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Again With The Emails
This is significantly less interesting than the last time, but bears mentioning because I don't want to write my Cornell essay right now.
Anyway, after much consideration (or I think it's much consideration, anyway), and much disappointment after learning that we (mostly Tea) had stolen Dr. Cans for Science Bowl on the same day as Chess Club (the conversation between Sonny, Livny, and me on this topic is appendixed below), Sonny decided to resume Chess Club once again. He sent out an email earlier, with the following message:
How delightful. I think that is also the first meeting (for new members) for Science Bowl. And since our room is in 1228, we'll be... an awkward two rooms away. So I emailed him (and everyone else, sort of accidentally) with the suggestion that he move the room to 1232, because then there will only be the chem office between the two rooms, and so they'll be connected (via the doors that lead from the office to the classrooms). Sonny agreed to that.
A few minutes later, Livny replied (to everyone):
Appendix:
1) Conversation/Telling Sonny Dr. Cans is no longer a "full-time" advisor for Chess Club (or what I remember, anyway, since some parts of it is fuzzy):
Me: Hey, Sonny, so it just so happens that Tea and Gretchen and I and some other people have started this Science Bowl club, and we got Dr. Cans as our advisor—
Sonny: Uh-huh.
Me: And our schedules were such that it could only work out on Thursdays. So Chess Club might not have an advisor anymore.
Sonny: Wait, what?
Me: We're extremely sorry about that.
Sonny: But—but—
Livny: Don't worry about it. He'll be all right. I mean, it's only been his dream for who knows how long to start a chess club, and all you're doing is crushing all of his hopes. No big deal. He'll get over it.
Sonny: Wait, but—
Livny: Hey, look, just because you've wanted this for such a long time, and it's been the only thing you've ever thought about, and it's almost as important as your life, doesn't mean—obviously, Science Bowl is much more important.
2) My chess game with Sonny during Club Rush:
After a good fifteen minutes or so, I have lost all of my pieces except a couple pawns, a bishop, and a king. Sonny has a few pawns, two rooks, and a king. He is on offense, with his rooks ready to kill my bishop and even threaten my king.
In the next five minutes (with much foot-stomping on my part because he just won't hurry up and I had to go print out stuff for English soon), we both have the same number of pawns on the board, and a king each. And nothing else.
Anyway, after much consideration (or I think it's much consideration, anyway), and much disappointment after learning that we (mostly Tea) had stolen Dr. Cans for Science Bowl on the same day as Chess Club (the conversation between Sonny, Livny, and me on this topic is appendixed below), Sonny decided to resume Chess Club once again. He sent out an email earlier, with the following message:
Thanks for your interest in the Chess Club! We will be holding our first meeting Thursday, October 21 after school in room 1234. I hope to see you there. It will be fun, and there will be candy! If you are interested in the club, but Thursday is not convenient, please e-mail me and we can try to work around everyone's schedule. See you next week!
How delightful. I think that is also the first meeting (for new members) for Science Bowl. And since our room is in 1228, we'll be... an awkward two rooms away. So I emailed him (and everyone else, sort of accidentally) with the suggestion that he move the room to 1232, because then there will only be the chem office between the two rooms, and so they'll be connected (via the doors that lead from the office to the classrooms). Sonny agreed to that.
A few minutes later, Livny replied (to everyone):
Thursday is not convenient.Well, there goes the rest of Sonny's plans. Maybe there still will be candy? Or maybe someone else will object that they're allergic to glucose and the club might as well just self-combust.
Appendix:
1) Conversation/Telling Sonny Dr. Cans is no longer a "full-time" advisor for Chess Club (or what I remember, anyway, since some parts of it is fuzzy):
Me: Hey, Sonny, so it just so happens that Tea and Gretchen and I and some other people have started this Science Bowl club, and we got Dr. Cans as our advisor—
Sonny: Uh-huh.
Me: And our schedules were such that it could only work out on Thursdays. So Chess Club might not have an advisor anymore.
Sonny: Wait, what?
Me: We're extremely sorry about that.
Sonny: But—but—
Livny: Don't worry about it. He'll be all right. I mean, it's only been his dream for who knows how long to start a chess club, and all you're doing is crushing all of his hopes. No big deal. He'll get over it.
Sonny: Wait, but—
Livny: Hey, look, just because you've wanted this for such a long time, and it's been the only thing you've ever thought about, and it's almost as important as your life, doesn't mean—obviously, Science Bowl is much more important.
2) My chess game with Sonny during Club Rush:
After a good fifteen minutes or so, I have lost all of my pieces except a couple pawns, a bishop, and a king. Sonny has a few pawns, two rooks, and a king. He is on offense, with his rooks ready to kill my bishop and even threaten my king.
In the next five minutes (with much foot-stomping on my part because he just won't hurry up and I had to go print out stuff for English soon), we both have the same number of pawns on the board, and a king each. And nothing else.
Where the Heart Is
I may or may not have already titled a post like this. It is because I have read a book of the same title, and therefore I do not remember if I have taken the name unwittingly. But it came to mind again, so I think I should talk about my heart, if not entirely, then only partially (because my writing is always rather drained when I've just finished a college essay).
. . .
This is about college. Not about where I want to go, not this time, but why. There is a practical part of me that says, "I want to accomplish something in my life," and I am listening to that part right now. There are doubts, of course—I have talked about them semi-extensively with Yuma, about the sheer random nature of my field of preference, and whether I can always find the right answers—but those are still practical doubts. Doubts stemmed from questions such as, "Will I be successful?" or "Will this work?" The practical side is my source of motivation, why I even bother doing my homework, or sitting through my French class (a language I love, but a teaching method and class enthusiasm—or lack thereof—I don't).
Then there is the wistful part, the part that says, "I've only got one life to live, I might as well." This is echoed in my stories—the constant travelling, the myriad of decisions, the utter lack of concern for "opportunity costs" and "marginal benefits." It is the side that remembers alt-127 is ⌂, and alt-15 is ☼. The voice that whispers, "It's now, or never," and then I find myself half out my bedroom window, the screen thrown up, staring at the blinking night sky with my foot dangling a foot above the ground.
So close. Yet not close enough.
I could go to college. In fact, it is to be expected. What I do out of college, that is a little more hazy, but everyone from my parents to my aunts-twice-removed think they know the answer. It is a systematic answer, in a systematic world, where one day's furious pencil-scratching can mean a future of joy (or misery). It is even formulated by systematic ways—reliability, profits, incentives, then last of all or not at all personal enjoyment.
And yes, this is also in part a rant against my cousin, who took art classes so he could get into college because they lower requirements for art schools, when my parents always made up some excuse or another. But it is not entirely that, and especially not because now he is not doing anything art-related.
It is mostly about my reasons for going to college. A good education. With tens of thousands of dollars, I would hope it's a good education. A chance to expand my horizons, so to speak, a chance to do the really exciting things that really make a difference, and not just high school textbook material.
Yes, the practical side wants that, craves that, is excited to go to school because of that (and because of the people, but that is the wistful side). It is content with the way things are going right now—it is not saying, "Don't plant your roots too deep, because there are still so many more places to be."
That voice is haunting me. Not a lot, because it is not extremely big and it is spread over many, many topics, but it lingers. It makes me wonder if this is really what I want—and sometimes, it makes me wonder if I am missing something I would rather have so much more.
A very Nick thing to think, but I have not edited and shared that story yet, so that allusion does not make sense.
. . .
This is about the past. I do not have a very long past—seventeen years, more or more. But I have discovered that the past comes swinging by, in odd yet rhythmic intervals, especially when the mood is not proper. Happy pasts in sombre moments. Sad pasts in celebrations.
Then again, I may as well name names. Here is to Dray, whom I am thinking about as I ponder the situation. Dray who drudged up a past I was not yet ready to confront, who still visits at times, such as now, and disappears at others. And here, I may confess, he is but a figment of my imagination, and it would be half-truth and half-lie, because he exists, yes, but not in the way I refer to him.
He has either created, or is the product of (or both), my series of mishaps with things that concern the heart. The wrong place, the wrong time, the wrong reasons. And the regrets, although they fade with time, and the stupid mistakes, those stay for longer. Maybe it's because I never learn from my mistakes. Maybe it's because I haven't found the rights yet.
Maybe it is all unpredictable, with a confidence interval of 50% and a confidence level that is not really confident anymore. Maybe I am smiling too much and thinking too little, or vice versa, or both.
Ah, my smiles. I don't ever smile when I'm really happy—I have laughter for that. So smiles are superfluous, usually reserved for moments that are not happy but supposed to be happy. A little masquerade I hold, although some days are more real than others.
So I try not to smile, this strange philosophy of mine. But I break it all the time, to be polite, or to put up a pretense, or to just react to the past.
Because reacting to the past is the only time I would ever smile and be happy. Not really, extremely, absolutely happy, but merely happy. And perhaps it makes little sense, but it is the truth, and the truth rarely makes sense.
. . .
This is about love. The other oft-lamented less-oft-well-lamented topic, aside from death. And once again I could name names but that would be too ridiculous, the pace I am naming and labeling him. So I will talk about the general, perhaps, and then maybe the details if I am so obliged.
The first character I'd ever come up with (that fitted the scene, of course) was Reine. It means "queen" in French, "la reine." But Reine is a prince, haphazardly turned king, with none of the composure or cunning, either or, that would make him a good king. He was subject to whims, fits of rage, an over-simplistic view of things, and most of all disconnected to the outside world. He does not care for being a king, and thus came the second character, Keno, who was, if not the most benevolent, then at least smart enough to prevent a coup d'etat. Smart and strong-willed. His younger brothers (twins, so there was no third and fourth, only next) left all the politics to him. Keit and Fate.
I mention this because I wanted to talk about Keit. The once-upon-a-time-was-a-wide-eyed-boy who got lost in the marketplace and reached out to a small, cold hand. Who gazed into a pair of blood-red eyes and set forth a tragedy that left so many people in despair. Who kept on searching for "the one who got away," and never realized he was intent on a memory, not a physical person.
But of course, this is a tragedy because I write awful comedies. With seriousness comes a lack of need for wit and dry humor, and so makes it easier to write. So I mention Keit not for his tragic elements, but for his ability to affect so many lives with only one gesture. A millisecond of his life in exchange for entire souls. That, I think, is the true power of love. The dangerous power that is not often praised because it does not always end happily, but is there, nonetheless.
That is the closest I'll come to the general without sounding trite. There are better words, I know, but I don't know exactly what they are yet. So onto the details.
With every event there is a "How did that ever happen?" moment. How it began. The roots. The date does not really matter, although I suppose it did, since it was a Thursday. That was how it sort of began, but not entirely. It does not account for the precise seating arrangement on that day, or my meeting in the social studies department, or my sudden urge to risk being late for an important affair just to call out his name. That was how it began, I think, but it was also the Thursday, or the calc test assigned prior, or, if you put it that way, arena on that fateful June day.
Or, perhaps, the day I decided I would drop my art class for biology. And was told I could not have middle east during my art class period. That could also have been it, but I think that is pushing it, stretching the connections until they become frayed strings.
But the thing about these moments is that you don't have prior knowledge to what will come out of them. Keit never knew grabbing onto that hand would result in a world split into two. I could quote The God of Small Things, and say that Estha never knew being prepared would lead to his family torn apart, or, for that matter, going to see a musical would lead to his obsession with being prepared. And I don't know what will come out of this, but I am also happy not knowing. Happy to keep it a suspense until the moment comes.
Because it is just as well for the journey, not for the destination.
. . .
This is about the future.
But I have nothing to say about the future, because it is something to be experienced, not said. So long as I have hope, I think there will be a future. A place to store my anticipations and excitements and all of the good things that are not happening right now, and maybe even some of the good things that are happening right now.
I am an optimist, yes. But more so, I am a believer of the present.
. . .
This is about college. Not about where I want to go, not this time, but why. There is a practical part of me that says, "I want to accomplish something in my life," and I am listening to that part right now. There are doubts, of course—I have talked about them semi-extensively with Yuma, about the sheer random nature of my field of preference, and whether I can always find the right answers—but those are still practical doubts. Doubts stemmed from questions such as, "Will I be successful?" or "Will this work?" The practical side is my source of motivation, why I even bother doing my homework, or sitting through my French class (a language I love, but a teaching method and class enthusiasm—or lack thereof—I don't).
Then there is the wistful part, the part that says, "I've only got one life to live, I might as well." This is echoed in my stories—the constant travelling, the myriad of decisions, the utter lack of concern for "opportunity costs" and "marginal benefits." It is the side that remembers alt-127 is ⌂, and alt-15 is ☼. The voice that whispers, "It's now, or never," and then I find myself half out my bedroom window, the screen thrown up, staring at the blinking night sky with my foot dangling a foot above the ground.
So close. Yet not close enough.
I could go to college. In fact, it is to be expected. What I do out of college, that is a little more hazy, but everyone from my parents to my aunts-twice-removed think they know the answer. It is a systematic answer, in a systematic world, where one day's furious pencil-scratching can mean a future of joy (or misery). It is even formulated by systematic ways—reliability, profits, incentives, then last of all or not at all personal enjoyment.
And yes, this is also in part a rant against my cousin, who took art classes so he could get into college because they lower requirements for art schools, when my parents always made up some excuse or another. But it is not entirely that, and especially not because now he is not doing anything art-related.
It is mostly about my reasons for going to college. A good education. With tens of thousands of dollars, I would hope it's a good education. A chance to expand my horizons, so to speak, a chance to do the really exciting things that really make a difference, and not just high school textbook material.
Yes, the practical side wants that, craves that, is excited to go to school because of that (and because of the people, but that is the wistful side). It is content with the way things are going right now—it is not saying, "Don't plant your roots too deep, because there are still so many more places to be."
That voice is haunting me. Not a lot, because it is not extremely big and it is spread over many, many topics, but it lingers. It makes me wonder if this is really what I want—and sometimes, it makes me wonder if I am missing something I would rather have so much more.
A very Nick thing to think, but I have not edited and shared that story yet, so that allusion does not make sense.
. . .
This is about the past. I do not have a very long past—seventeen years, more or more. But I have discovered that the past comes swinging by, in odd yet rhythmic intervals, especially when the mood is not proper. Happy pasts in sombre moments. Sad pasts in celebrations.
Then again, I may as well name names. Here is to Dray, whom I am thinking about as I ponder the situation. Dray who drudged up a past I was not yet ready to confront, who still visits at times, such as now, and disappears at others. And here, I may confess, he is but a figment of my imagination, and it would be half-truth and half-lie, because he exists, yes, but not in the way I refer to him.
He has either created, or is the product of (or both), my series of mishaps with things that concern the heart. The wrong place, the wrong time, the wrong reasons. And the regrets, although they fade with time, and the stupid mistakes, those stay for longer. Maybe it's because I never learn from my mistakes. Maybe it's because I haven't found the rights yet.
Maybe it is all unpredictable, with a confidence interval of 50% and a confidence level that is not really confident anymore. Maybe I am smiling too much and thinking too little, or vice versa, or both.
Ah, my smiles. I don't ever smile when I'm really happy—I have laughter for that. So smiles are superfluous, usually reserved for moments that are not happy but supposed to be happy. A little masquerade I hold, although some days are more real than others.
So I try not to smile, this strange philosophy of mine. But I break it all the time, to be polite, or to put up a pretense, or to just react to the past.
Because reacting to the past is the only time I would ever smile and be happy. Not really, extremely, absolutely happy, but merely happy. And perhaps it makes little sense, but it is the truth, and the truth rarely makes sense.
. . .
This is about love. The other oft-lamented less-oft-well-lamented topic, aside from death. And once again I could name names but that would be too ridiculous, the pace I am naming and labeling him. So I will talk about the general, perhaps, and then maybe the details if I am so obliged.
The first character I'd ever come up with (that fitted the scene, of course) was Reine. It means "queen" in French, "la reine." But Reine is a prince, haphazardly turned king, with none of the composure or cunning, either or, that would make him a good king. He was subject to whims, fits of rage, an over-simplistic view of things, and most of all disconnected to the outside world. He does not care for being a king, and thus came the second character, Keno, who was, if not the most benevolent, then at least smart enough to prevent a coup d'etat. Smart and strong-willed. His younger brothers (twins, so there was no third and fourth, only next) left all the politics to him. Keit and Fate.
I mention this because I wanted to talk about Keit. The once-upon-a-time-was-a-wide-eyed-boy who got lost in the marketplace and reached out to a small, cold hand. Who gazed into a pair of blood-red eyes and set forth a tragedy that left so many people in despair. Who kept on searching for "the one who got away," and never realized he was intent on a memory, not a physical person.
But of course, this is a tragedy because I write awful comedies. With seriousness comes a lack of need for wit and dry humor, and so makes it easier to write. So I mention Keit not for his tragic elements, but for his ability to affect so many lives with only one gesture. A millisecond of his life in exchange for entire souls. That, I think, is the true power of love. The dangerous power that is not often praised because it does not always end happily, but is there, nonetheless.
That is the closest I'll come to the general without sounding trite. There are better words, I know, but I don't know exactly what they are yet. So onto the details.
With every event there is a "How did that ever happen?" moment. How it began. The roots. The date does not really matter, although I suppose it did, since it was a Thursday. That was how it sort of began, but not entirely. It does not account for the precise seating arrangement on that day, or my meeting in the social studies department, or my sudden urge to risk being late for an important affair just to call out his name. That was how it began, I think, but it was also the Thursday, or the calc test assigned prior, or, if you put it that way, arena on that fateful June day.
Or, perhaps, the day I decided I would drop my art class for biology. And was told I could not have middle east during my art class period. That could also have been it, but I think that is pushing it, stretching the connections until they become frayed strings.
But the thing about these moments is that you don't have prior knowledge to what will come out of them. Keit never knew grabbing onto that hand would result in a world split into two. I could quote The God of Small Things, and say that Estha never knew being prepared would lead to his family torn apart, or, for that matter, going to see a musical would lead to his obsession with being prepared. And I don't know what will come out of this, but I am also happy not knowing. Happy to keep it a suspense until the moment comes.
Because it is just as well for the journey, not for the destination.
. . .
This is about the future.
But I have nothing to say about the future, because it is something to be experienced, not said. So long as I have hope, I think there will be a future. A place to store my anticipations and excitements and all of the good things that are not happening right now, and maybe even some of the good things that are happening right now.
I am an optimist, yes. But more so, I am a believer of the present.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
We're In High School Now
Math meet recount! This technically starts earlier, around lunch-time, when we had the third installment of club rush, and math team was scheduled to recruit new members for the year. I think the new addition of froshies has made that goal not so urgent anymore, so no one even bothered setting up a table for math team for the first 15 minutes. Then I suppose Tybalt and Bryant decided that, as captains, they should take on some responsibilities, so they grabbed an empty table and put out a sheet of paper with no posters or other things advertising their intent.
They managed to get a bunch of people's friends and Jesus Christ to sign up. No one even kept track of the paper when it was time to go to class.
Then I worked my way through the rest of my classes, all the while eager for the math meet to start. First was extended multi, which was nice and always fast even though it's a long period. Then Yuma and I went to the math learning center to do our multi homework, and—yes, Tea—I did see Clay there. Big surprise. He sat at the table in front of us while he took a calc test (limits and discontinuities, very fun stuff), so I had a nice view of his side. But that was all. Really. (Well, okay, so we also talked, but that's normal and I think Dino's the only one who sometimes outright tells me not to talk to him.)
I had middle east after that, which was kind of boring because I was so eager to leave. Every math meet Wednesday I can never sit through all of my classes. The excitement is just too much. Although we did learn a bit more about Afghanistan, and also why Osama bin Laden hates us. I missed the rest of the Afghanistan powerpoint, though. Pity.
Which segues into the next, more exciting topic, math meet!
On the bus ride to Spearheadville, everyone sat towards the back, and we discussed a wide variety of things, including hair (it's always a discussion point), math problems (well, only Tybalt and Bryant were doing them), and other things that must have not been very interesting (in the long-term-interest-retaining way) because I don't remember them. When we got to our tables (in the corner, again), Tybalt, Bryant and Dino sat with us. I guess a lack of now-graduated-seniors has made sitting by themselves too lonely (that, and the only other option is the froshie table).
We ate lots of food while Tybalt and Bryant went over more math problems. Tea attempted to (re)learn Grob's name, but much to our dismay he just ignored us. Yuma and I played a short game of go, in which Yuma once again beat me (by a lot of stones, even though I had a 4-stone handicap), and then Tybalt and I went upstairs for the geometry round. Which, by the way, was a near total failure, until Tybalt realized that his approximations gave him the right answer for the last question, and so he, in that round alone, beat almost everyone else.
Which also goes to show how awful the questions were for the most part, I suppose. Round 5 was easy, and round 6? That was insane. Even Bryant didn't get any points, and that's saying something, because he was most definitely practicing the entire way there (unlike me, who fiddled around with one question and then got bus-sick and/or distracted).
Then, as we waited for the team round (or maybe after, there was so much waiting), everyone (except me) checked their IPRs. Dino got really upset because he got a B in Spanish, even though he did well in all of the tests. Despite much persuasion that: a) it was probably a mistake, and b) he should just talk to his Spanish teacher and stop moping, he did exactly that. Moping, that is. As if a B was going to kill him or something.
He's ridiculous.
Anyway, then team round came around, and there were more weird questions. I was pretty sure I had the geometry question right, but it was worded so weirdly that we got it wrong anyway (which I still think is an error on their part, not ours). Besides, it was a geometry question. Why was there percents?!
Then I figured out a question that Bryant got wrong (even after consulting me on some of the properties). It was a kind of miraculous moment. But I guess he was having a bad day (he was close on a lot of questions but not quite there).
We also found that Grob(I chose the weird name because I don't really like him) accidentally put his middle school name in the high school space. So naturally we called him by the middle school for the rest of the evening (not that we talked to him, though).
On the ride home, Tea and Gretchen tried to figure out what happened with Clay and me. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. But they wouldn't believe that. And then Argon and Joss apparently wanted to join in on the gossip fun, because Argon started whispering to Joss about something that, when questioned, he refused to tell us.
We (Tea, Gretchen, and I) concluded that it was probably something highly inappropriate. Which is weird, because I don't think Argon is ever really inappropriate, although he does laugh at inappropriate things his friends say.
And that ends this math meet recount. I've got to go finish my essays now.
They managed to get a bunch of people's friends and Jesus Christ to sign up. No one even kept track of the paper when it was time to go to class.
Then I worked my way through the rest of my classes, all the while eager for the math meet to start. First was extended multi, which was nice and always fast even though it's a long period. Then Yuma and I went to the math learning center to do our multi homework, and—yes, Tea—I did see Clay there. Big surprise. He sat at the table in front of us while he took a calc test (limits and discontinuities, very fun stuff), so I had a nice view of his side. But that was all. Really. (Well, okay, so we also talked, but that's normal and I think Dino's the only one who sometimes outright tells me not to talk to him.)
I had middle east after that, which was kind of boring because I was so eager to leave. Every math meet Wednesday I can never sit through all of my classes. The excitement is just too much. Although we did learn a bit more about Afghanistan, and also why Osama bin Laden hates us. I missed the rest of the Afghanistan powerpoint, though. Pity.
Which segues into the next, more exciting topic, math meet!
On the bus ride to Spearheadville, everyone sat towards the back, and we discussed a wide variety of things, including hair (it's always a discussion point), math problems (well, only Tybalt and Bryant were doing them), and other things that must have not been very interesting (in the long-term-interest-retaining way) because I don't remember them. When we got to our tables (in the corner, again), Tybalt, Bryant and Dino sat with us. I guess a lack of now-graduated-seniors has made sitting by themselves too lonely (that, and the only other option is the froshie table).
We ate lots of food while Tybalt and Bryant went over more math problems. Tea attempted to (re)learn Grob's name, but much to our dismay he just ignored us. Yuma and I played a short game of go, in which Yuma once again beat me (by a lot of stones, even though I had a 4-stone handicap), and then Tybalt and I went upstairs for the geometry round. Which, by the way, was a near total failure, until Tybalt realized that his approximations gave him the right answer for the last question, and so he, in that round alone, beat almost everyone else.
Which also goes to show how awful the questions were for the most part, I suppose. Round 5 was easy, and round 6? That was insane. Even Bryant didn't get any points, and that's saying something, because he was most definitely practicing the entire way there (unlike me, who fiddled around with one question and then got bus-sick and/or distracted).
Then, as we waited for the team round (or maybe after, there was so much waiting), everyone (except me) checked their IPRs. Dino got really upset because he got a B in Spanish, even though he did well in all of the tests. Despite much persuasion that: a) it was probably a mistake, and b) he should just talk to his Spanish teacher and stop moping, he did exactly that. Moping, that is. As if a B was going to kill him or something.
He's ridiculous.
Anyway, then team round came around, and there were more weird questions. I was pretty sure I had the geometry question right, but it was worded so weirdly that we got it wrong anyway (which I still think is an error on their part, not ours). Besides, it was a geometry question. Why was there percents?!
Then I figured out a question that Bryant got wrong (even after consulting me on some of the properties). It was a kind of miraculous moment. But I guess he was having a bad day (he was close on a lot of questions but not quite there).
We also found that Grob
On the ride home, Tea and Gretchen tried to figure out what happened with Clay and me. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. But they wouldn't believe that. And then Argon and Joss apparently wanted to join in on the gossip fun, because Argon started whispering to Joss about something that, when questioned, he refused to tell us.
We (Tea, Gretchen, and I) concluded that it was probably something highly inappropriate. Which is weird, because I don't think Argon is ever really inappropriate, although he does laugh at inappropriate things his friends say.
And that ends this math meet recount. I've got to go finish my essays now.
Monday, October 4, 2010
October: A Prelude
I have found it increasingly harder to write about things that haven't happened at all, and much easier to write about things that have at least happened in part. I am not sure why—the other day, I was trying to write a story to keep my mind off upcoming college essays (because that is all I think about now), and I just couldn't do it. The beginning sounded weird, and I just couldn't go on from there.
I am exhausted, too, from all the work. I had a test in bio (yay for organelles), which took half an hour, and for the next fifteen minutes it was so hard to focus. It could also be because I don't have my chapter 7 notes, or that I just find it hard to focus in bio in general. The powerpoints make me drowsy, and there is so little math right now (I don't know if this will change). Also, I wish that this one girl in my class would just stop asking questions. I mean, I know, questions are good, but a question every other slide? Is that really necessary?
I also find it really hard to focus in econ, but I think I can manage bursts of attentiveness, so I use the lapses in-between to doodle on Yuma's or Joss's (again with the possessives) notebook. It has so far worked out really well. I am also participating a lot more, so I think Mr. Wollen has not realized my periodic lack of attention.
Anyway, I mentioned all of this (with every paragraph starting with an "I") to state what I think will be the pace for the rest of October. So, yes, I am mostly done with my common app, I am mostly done with my Penn essay, and I am half done with my Chicago essays, but there is still so much more to do. Plus I have to remember that I have two umbrellas left in my locker. I keep forgetting them.
There are, of course, happy bits stuck in-between. Relaxing times. There is math team (first meet of the year this Wednesday! can't wait), and science bowl is very, very exciting too. There is all this stuff that I can get done in my free, even though I have so much fun too. I am reading my daily dose of webcomics (both nerdy and not). Following tons of blogs. Reading lots of Middle East news (the class is doing wonders for my awareness of the area).
(This list of "relaxing" things is probably not very relaxing to many people.)
Regardless. I think I'm having a lot of fun. If I were metaphorical (and I am, but I'm not very good with music so I can't think of much to connect this back to the "prelude"), I would be talking about some musical piece right now. About how the sad, solemn pieces are broken apart by franticly happy parts. Or maybe my music of life is just set at a really fast tempo right now. Reminds me of that tango music we played back in grade eight (the one with all that plucking that gave my thumb blisters). Or maybe even "Amadeus." Don't remember much, though. I was rather glad to be rid of my music classes.
And amidst all of these musical analogies, let's hope Thursdays come by quickly. (Well, I'm also hoping 1st semester never ends, but I don't think many people hold that same hope.)
I am exhausted, too, from all the work. I had a test in bio (yay for organelles), which took half an hour, and for the next fifteen minutes it was so hard to focus. It could also be because I don't have my chapter 7 notes, or that I just find it hard to focus in bio in general. The powerpoints make me drowsy, and there is so little math right now (I don't know if this will change). Also, I wish that this one girl in my class would just stop asking questions. I mean, I know, questions are good, but a question every other slide? Is that really necessary?
I also find it really hard to focus in econ, but I think I can manage bursts of attentiveness, so I use the lapses in-between to doodle on Yuma's or Joss's (again with the possessives) notebook. It has so far worked out really well. I am also participating a lot more, so I think Mr. Wollen has not realized my periodic lack of attention.
Anyway, I mentioned all of this (with every paragraph starting with an "I") to state what I think will be the pace for the rest of October. So, yes, I am mostly done with my common app, I am mostly done with my Penn essay, and I am half done with my Chicago essays, but there is still so much more to do. Plus I have to remember that I have two umbrellas left in my locker. I keep forgetting them.
There are, of course, happy bits stuck in-between. Relaxing times. There is math team (first meet of the year this Wednesday! can't wait), and science bowl is very, very exciting too. There is all this stuff that I can get done in my free, even though I have so much fun too. I am reading my daily dose of webcomics (both nerdy and not). Following tons of blogs. Reading lots of Middle East news (the class is doing wonders for my awareness of the area).
(This list of "relaxing" things is probably not very relaxing to many people.)
Regardless. I think I'm having a lot of fun. If I were metaphorical (and I am, but I'm not very good with music so I can't think of much to connect this back to the "prelude"), I would be talking about some musical piece right now. About how the sad, solemn pieces are broken apart by franticly happy parts. Or maybe my music of life is just set at a really fast tempo right now. Reminds me of that tango music we played back in grade eight (the one with all that plucking that gave my thumb blisters). Or maybe even "Amadeus." Don't remember much, though. I was rather glad to be rid of my music classes.
And amidst all of these musical analogies, let's hope Thursdays come by quickly. (Well, I'm also hoping 1st semester never ends, but I don't think many people hold that same hope.)
Monday, September 20, 2010
Decisions, decisions...
I am deciding between two topics for my common app essay. I have one that I have already shown Gretchen (or the basic framework of it anyway), and that one is about my physical journey from China to the US to Canada to China to Canada to the US again. This is what I shall henceforth call the “concrete” one, because, well, you’ll see.
Halfway through this essay, and many “this is bad you should change it this-way-and-that-way” remarks from my parents later, I started on my Chicago extended essay. The weird one. I chose the first prompt, “Find x,” and I wrote something that used a road trip as a metaphor for life. I really like this one as well, so I’m calling it the “abstract.” And of course, I am not sure which one I should go with, because both have their merits and, of course, their pitfalls.
The concrete is my experiences, and it is physically real, but it is also somewhat complicated (because life is complicated, I know) and somewhat too serious and grandiose for my liking. I feel like I am trying to say, “This is what I went through, this is what happened as a result of that, and this is who I am now.” That is, of course, part of the point, but it seems too focused on things I am not focused on, because although my past is important, I would rather look to the future.
The abstract captures that part of me, the future. It has plenty of really cool metaphors (or so I think, anyway), and there is a lot of self-searching and adventure-trekking. It, however, does not speak much about my past except for one line about how many places I have lived in or visited, and so it may seem not quite rooted in reality. It was, after all, originally my essay for Chicago and therefore based on the assumption that whoever reads this essay has read my common app essay as well.
Of course, being the indecisive person I am, I couldn’t decide. I asked Dino if he would choose the concrete or the abstract (in those exact words, without mentioning my essay), and he said, “I’m a big concrete fan. Like 2+2=4 all the time.” Not surprising, coming from him.
So that is—
Concrete: 1
Abstract: 0
Any other votes? A sample size of one is definitely too small for any tests of statistical importance.
Halfway through this essay, and many “this is bad you should change it this-way-and-that-way” remarks from my parents later, I started on my Chicago extended essay. The weird one. I chose the first prompt, “Find x,” and I wrote something that used a road trip as a metaphor for life. I really like this one as well, so I’m calling it the “abstract.” And of course, I am not sure which one I should go with, because both have their merits and, of course, their pitfalls.
The concrete is my experiences, and it is physically real, but it is also somewhat complicated (because life is complicated, I know) and somewhat too serious and grandiose for my liking. I feel like I am trying to say, “This is what I went through, this is what happened as a result of that, and this is who I am now.” That is, of course, part of the point, but it seems too focused on things I am not focused on, because although my past is important, I would rather look to the future.
The abstract captures that part of me, the future. It has plenty of really cool metaphors (or so I think, anyway), and there is a lot of self-searching and adventure-trekking. It, however, does not speak much about my past except for one line about how many places I have lived in or visited, and so it may seem not quite rooted in reality. It was, after all, originally my essay for Chicago and therefore based on the assumption that whoever reads this essay has read my common app essay as well.
Of course, being the indecisive person I am, I couldn’t decide. I asked Dino if he would choose the concrete or the abstract (in those exact words, without mentioning my essay), and he said, “I’m a big concrete fan. Like 2+2=4 all the time.” Not surprising, coming from him.
So that is—
Concrete: 1
Abstract: 0
Any other votes? A sample size of one is definitely too small for any tests of statistical importance.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Never Make Promises You Can't Keep
Or, in my case, never make promises, period. Apparently I'm really good at attracting last-minute change in plans, because this has happened to me quite often in the past week. There was Tuesday, when I promised to get math packets for Summer and Cheryl, and then conveniently Ms. Sherbert ran out of packets. Then today, when I told Zephy that: a) I can go to fashion/jewelry/whatever-it-is-now club on Wednesday, and b) I'll be able to give her a ride home tomorrow.
Guess what?
My dad has a dentist's appointment tomorrow, all the way in New York (the state), and it's in the afternoon and my mom is going as well, so they're coming back later at night. If the weather's nice tomorrow, though, I won't mind walking. It's just—
My mom also told me today that we're going all the way up to Vermont on Wednesday to get our visas straightened out (since my dad is planning to move to Florida and everything). That is going to be fun. I'll be missing extended multi, which is rather sad, but I'll also be missing crucial review-day-before-first-test physics, which is not good at all since I'm aiming for that pencil. And I'll be missing a bio lab, which is also not good, because I am rather bad at reading bio labs. The actual labs themselves make sense. The boggy text, not so much.
But enough about my future. Today, in econ, we talked about the classic guns and butter, otherwise known as the production possibilities frontier. It was pretty easy to understand (especially the part about cows making guns), and I loved the graphs. Graphs are so nice when I don't have to draw them by hand. After econ was French, and since that was uneventful (my French teacher is almost always late to class, probably because she has to go from the first floor to the third floor, so I spend the extra time trying to look into Mrs. Cumulonimbus's class), then I went to English. Cammie wasn't here today, and we had an in-class essay.
I was freaking out (a little) about the in-class essay, because I usually don't finish those on time (or I write not so much compared to other people), but this time I actually finished ahead of time with a neat conclusion and everything. So I am surprised and not quite sure where this newfound skill in essay-writing came from, but I will assume it's because we're writing more in class now (we get free-write minutes before every class, which is really cool).
Then, on the bus, I discussed the chem test with Yuma (something about X and F, and I remember that remotely but definitely not enough to know the answer without doing the question out). I still miss chem. A lot. I wish there was a period 7 chem class, so I can drop by and say hi and everything. Oh well. Can't have everything in life.
Guess what?
My dad has a dentist's appointment tomorrow, all the way in New York (the state), and it's in the afternoon and my mom is going as well, so they're coming back later at night. If the weather's nice tomorrow, though, I won't mind walking. It's just—
My mom also told me today that we're going all the way up to Vermont on Wednesday to get our visas straightened out (since my dad is planning to move to Florida and everything). That is going to be fun. I'll be missing extended multi, which is rather sad, but I'll also be missing crucial review-day-before-first-test physics, which is not good at all since I'm aiming for that pencil. And I'll be missing a bio lab, which is also not good, because I am rather bad at reading bio labs. The actual labs themselves make sense. The boggy text, not so much.
But enough about my future. Today, in econ, we talked about the classic guns and butter, otherwise known as the production possibilities frontier. It was pretty easy to understand (especially the part about cows making guns), and I loved the graphs. Graphs are so nice when I don't have to draw them by hand. After econ was French, and since that was uneventful (my French teacher is almost always late to class, probably because she has to go from the first floor to the third floor, so I spend the extra time trying to look into Mrs. Cumulonimbus's class), then I went to English. Cammie wasn't here today, and we had an in-class essay.
I was freaking out (a little) about the in-class essay, because I usually don't finish those on time (or I write not so much compared to other people), but this time I actually finished ahead of time with a neat conclusion and everything. So I am surprised and not quite sure where this newfound skill in essay-writing came from, but I will assume it's because we're writing more in class now (we get free-write minutes before every class, which is really cool).
Then, on the bus, I discussed the chem test with Yuma (something about X and F, and I remember that remotely but definitely not enough to know the answer without doing the question out). I still miss chem. A lot. I wish there was a period 7 chem class, so I can drop by and say hi and everything. Oh well. Can't have everything in life.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Not Now, Professor Snape
Harry, Ron, and Hermione are in a room that looks suspiciously like my living room, except with more red cushions scattered everywhere. They are discussing something, but I (if I even exist, at this point) can’t hear what they are saying. No matter. Snape to the rescue! He barges into the room and asks, “Where is your wand, Potter?”
“Here, Professor,” Harry says, while pulling out something that looks like the end (that you hold) of those wooden things people use with honey. I’m not sure what they are called. Ron and Hermione both pull out these weird wooden rods as well.
“What are these?” Snape asks. I am surprised he has not exploded and docked 100 points each from Gryffindor for their insolence.
“They’re wands, Professor,” Hermione says, as though it were the most obvious thing since the Basilisk killed people. “We bought them. There’s even a review questionnaire we can fill out on how well these wands work.”
“So do they work?”
Hermione used her wand and tapped at the paper. Nothing happened. “Well,” she says, “it sometimes works if you tilt it the right angle. But the makers respect customers’ privacy, so we gave it an F+.”
“It doesn’t work,” Snape says. “I’m giving it an F-. But how will you protect yourselves when the Death Eaters come?”
“Oh, we have a plan.”
And they call out some white-haired girl, and Snape is about to ask, “How is she going to help you?” But the Death Eaters come at this moment, and they shout, “YOU TRAITOR, SNAPE!!!”
Well. I don’t think he’s going to be asking many questions right now.
They run up to punch Snape (uh, what about wands, people?) but the white-haired girl does some really cool magic trick (finally! magic...) and repels the Death Eaters. Snape sighs in relief. And then—
I woke up. Yeah. Not too exciting anymore. I hate it when I wake up right in the middle of some really cool action. But I guess it’s out of my control. REM periods are only so long.
Anyway, I have decided upon a new approach for my Penn essay (this one is actually going well), and while I was doing research, I came across their food vendor’s map. Below, they have notes on where to find different restaurants and such, and I saw:
3. Original Le Anh Chinese Food,
and
5. The Real Le Anh Chinese Food.
Gee. I never knew Le Anh Chinese Food was so popular. Does that mean that #3 is a fake and #5 is a copycat that copied #3? But that would be a paradox, because then #5 wouldn’t be real either, so it’s not “The Real” anymore. And if it’s not “The Real” anymore, then #3 wouldn’t have to be fake, and then #5 wouldn’t have to be fake either, and—
Complicated. I am so glad #3 Fruit Salad and #4 Fruit Salad did not decide to add prefixes as well.
“Here, Professor,” Harry says, while pulling out something that looks like the end (that you hold) of those wooden things people use with honey. I’m not sure what they are called. Ron and Hermione both pull out these weird wooden rods as well.
“What are these?” Snape asks. I am surprised he has not exploded and docked 100 points each from Gryffindor for their insolence.
“They’re wands, Professor,” Hermione says, as though it were the most obvious thing since the Basilisk killed people. “We bought them. There’s even a review questionnaire we can fill out on how well these wands work.”
“So do they work?”
Hermione used her wand and tapped at the paper. Nothing happened. “Well,” she says, “it sometimes works if you tilt it the right angle. But the makers respect customers’ privacy, so we gave it an F+.”
“It doesn’t work,” Snape says. “I’m giving it an F-. But how will you protect yourselves when the Death Eaters come?”
“Oh, we have a plan.”
And they call out some white-haired girl, and Snape is about to ask, “How is she going to help you?” But the Death Eaters come at this moment, and they shout, “YOU TRAITOR, SNAPE!!!”
Well. I don’t think he’s going to be asking many questions right now.
They run up to punch Snape (uh, what about wands, people?) but the white-haired girl does some really cool magic trick (finally! magic...) and repels the Death Eaters. Snape sighs in relief. And then—
I woke up. Yeah. Not too exciting anymore. I hate it when I wake up right in the middle of some really cool action. But I guess it’s out of my control. REM periods are only so long.
Anyway, I have decided upon a new approach for my Penn essay (this one is actually going well), and while I was doing research, I came across their food vendor’s map. Below, they have notes on where to find different restaurants and such, and I saw:
3. Original Le Anh Chinese Food,
and
5. The Real Le Anh Chinese Food.
Gee. I never knew Le Anh Chinese Food was so popular. Does that mean that #3 is a fake and #5 is a copycat that copied #3? But that would be a paradox, because then #5 wouldn’t be real either, so it’s not “The Real” anymore. And if it’s not “The Real” anymore, then #3 wouldn’t have to be fake, and then #5 wouldn’t have to be fake either, and—
Complicated. I am so glad #3 Fruit Salad and #4 Fruit Salad did not decide to add prefixes as well.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Raining Down
This is way too long to be anything near my Williams supplement essay (nor is it going to be anything near what my final essay will look like in terms of subject, because this is not really reality), but it is a start. I have not (extensively) proofread this, and there definitely will be mistakes. This is merely my exploratory take on the subject, because exploratory works are all the rage lately.
. . .
My fingers are millimeters away from the rain.
I can feel their coolness on the tips of my fingers, feel them drip past my skin, into my bones. A trickling sensation. Spatter-spatter-splot. I hear the drumming of the raindrops and hear them against my skin. Goodness rain.
Outside, the grass is a saturated green. Long, wispy strands reaching out to a solemn grey sky. “Do you know the time?” The grass asks. “Five-after-two,” the sky replies.
The grass nods. Happy. The rain splashes on. They are singing some tune, a drum affair, with a scattering of xylophone notes and the occasional flute. I trace the rain as they dance across the sky, their footsteps light. A free-style salsa in a funeral. With only harmony and no melody, or only rhythm without harmony.
I reach out, trying to bridge the last few millimeters, and everything turns mute. The rain is merely a humming now. The green washed with silvery-grey. The cold, the wind, it is all gone, except for the vents blowing cold air into my elbows.
It is ten-after-two, or fifteen-after-two. I do not know—I cannot know unless I turn the key in the ignition, and if I do that then I will lose the quiet. And as I think that, I know I have already lost it. I am back where I was. In a Ford Taurus station-wagon at some service area on Interstate 90. Behind the windshield, overlooking the rain, the grass, and the cars zooming past, ghosts of what they are.
I do not know how I had missed the cars before. They are there, in the parking lot, blues and reds and blacks. People running by under umbrellas, under coats, under backpacks slung over their heads. And I do not know how I had missed the people. They are going somewhere, with their iced coffees and Happy Meals and cigarettes soaked through the box but only damp inside. They are turning keys. Lights. Motors. Plates from Tennessee and Ohio and Pennsylvania and Indiana. The rare one from New Hampshire. The one from Florida that is everywhere. The bright red California—no, that is a Massachusetts.
I sit in my car, my feet cold from the rain, my arms cold from the air conditioning. The key is in my hand, waiting to settle. It is at least fifteen-after-two now. I should be leaving. It is late.
The grass shouts, “You do not belong here.” The sky agrees. “You have places to be. Things to see. People to meet.” Their voices are muted. Muffled screaming.
I know. I know.
I am on the crossroads. I came from a past of wandering, of staking out new territories and discovering new adventures. Years of searching and floating, fleeting “Hi how are you?” and “Sorry I have to go.” And now I am driving. I am in control of the steering wheel, with twenty bottles of water in the trunk and a box of energy bars on the backseat. A small bag with two sets of clothes. Toothbrushes, toothpaste. Soap. Shampoo. An umbrella thrown in that I will probably never use except to poke at things stacked on tall ledges.
Goodness rain. I am almost there.
Ten years of waiting. Of plotting. Of knowing I want to go somewhere, wherever it is.
I want a coffee. I suddenly want a coffee so badly I shove the keys into my pocket and grab a few dollars’ worth of change. One third coffee, one third cream, and one third milk and hot cocoa. Cinnamon hazelnut coffee. With a sprinkle of oatmeal, and tapioca pearls too, if possible. But I am okay with just the coffee and cream and milk and hot cocoa.
I am about to leave when my cell rings. I pick it up. Private caller. “Hello?”
“Hi, Ginny, it’s me,” my mother says. “Where are you now?”
Somewhere. Nowhere. In the middle of nowhere. “I’m on I-90 right now,” I say. “At some service area.”
“How much further?” Because I have a destination. Somewhere. I look at the map sprawled on the seat next to me. Count the increments. Ten miles. Twenty. Fifty.
“Sixty miles,” I say. “I think. I don’t really remember what the last sign said.”
“You’re only there?”
“I stopped for lunch,” I said. I did not mention that I went off the highway for an hour, driving through town after town in the misty rain, trying to envision a destination somewhere in the heart of this land.
“Oh, okay,” my mother says. “Don’t drive too fast.” Her way of saying, “Drive safely.”
As she hangs up I put my hand against the glass, fingers splayed. It is half-past-two. I remember I have more clothes in the trunk. An entire suitcase of them. My mother and I had packed them a few days ago, before she left for China with my father and I left for wherever it is I am going. I have other things, too. A blanket. Two pillows. Several bedsheets. Some books salvaged from the tag sale.
And I remember. I have a destination. I am going somewhere. Not nowhere. Sixty miles away.
I am going off to college. Going, going. To be places, see things, meet people. Break through this windshield-mute. Listen to the rain on my hands, on my nose, on my lips. Drumming. Coolness seeping into my bones. Soaking into my blood.
I think I am ready.
. . .
Or not. I don’t think I am ready. Not yet, anyway, although I will have to be soon. Meadow’s Walk (I don’t really know her real name) has a blog, in which she said yesterday, “Remember when you were a freshman in high school, you walked down the hall in a blur of strangers, lost in the wilderness? And remember when you were a senior, and you could not go 5 steps without saying hi to someone you knew. Then you knew it was time to move on. It's like that.”
It really is like that. I can’t go by a single hallway without knowing someone, and in passing time alone, I’ll be able to talk with someone while I’m walking to my classes, all the time. I still remember my sophomore year (because I missed out on the whole freshman experience) when I didn’t know anyone, and I really thought I’d get lost in so huge a school, and now I know where I’m going without even thinking about it. I know where I’m going and I know how long it’ll take me and I know how much time I have to linger out in the halls, talking with people before class.
So it’s time to move on, almost, but not yet, and I’ll be damned if I let some college essay stop me from enjoying my last year of high school.
. . .
My fingers are millimeters away from the rain.
I can feel their coolness on the tips of my fingers, feel them drip past my skin, into my bones. A trickling sensation. Spatter-spatter-splot. I hear the drumming of the raindrops and hear them against my skin. Goodness rain.
Outside, the grass is a saturated green. Long, wispy strands reaching out to a solemn grey sky. “Do you know the time?” The grass asks. “Five-after-two,” the sky replies.
The grass nods. Happy. The rain splashes on. They are singing some tune, a drum affair, with a scattering of xylophone notes and the occasional flute. I trace the rain as they dance across the sky, their footsteps light. A free-style salsa in a funeral. With only harmony and no melody, or only rhythm without harmony.
I reach out, trying to bridge the last few millimeters, and everything turns mute. The rain is merely a humming now. The green washed with silvery-grey. The cold, the wind, it is all gone, except for the vents blowing cold air into my elbows.
It is ten-after-two, or fifteen-after-two. I do not know—I cannot know unless I turn the key in the ignition, and if I do that then I will lose the quiet. And as I think that, I know I have already lost it. I am back where I was. In a Ford Taurus station-wagon at some service area on Interstate 90. Behind the windshield, overlooking the rain, the grass, and the cars zooming past, ghosts of what they are.
I do not know how I had missed the cars before. They are there, in the parking lot, blues and reds and blacks. People running by under umbrellas, under coats, under backpacks slung over their heads. And I do not know how I had missed the people. They are going somewhere, with their iced coffees and Happy Meals and cigarettes soaked through the box but only damp inside. They are turning keys. Lights. Motors. Plates from Tennessee and Ohio and Pennsylvania and Indiana. The rare one from New Hampshire. The one from Florida that is everywhere. The bright red California—no, that is a Massachusetts.
I sit in my car, my feet cold from the rain, my arms cold from the air conditioning. The key is in my hand, waiting to settle. It is at least fifteen-after-two now. I should be leaving. It is late.
The grass shouts, “You do not belong here.” The sky agrees. “You have places to be. Things to see. People to meet.” Their voices are muted. Muffled screaming.
I know. I know.
I am on the crossroads. I came from a past of wandering, of staking out new territories and discovering new adventures. Years of searching and floating, fleeting “Hi how are you?” and “Sorry I have to go.” And now I am driving. I am in control of the steering wheel, with twenty bottles of water in the trunk and a box of energy bars on the backseat. A small bag with two sets of clothes. Toothbrushes, toothpaste. Soap. Shampoo. An umbrella thrown in that I will probably never use except to poke at things stacked on tall ledges.
Goodness rain. I am almost there.
Ten years of waiting. Of plotting. Of knowing I want to go somewhere, wherever it is.
I want a coffee. I suddenly want a coffee so badly I shove the keys into my pocket and grab a few dollars’ worth of change. One third coffee, one third cream, and one third milk and hot cocoa. Cinnamon hazelnut coffee. With a sprinkle of oatmeal, and tapioca pearls too, if possible. But I am okay with just the coffee and cream and milk and hot cocoa.
I am about to leave when my cell rings. I pick it up. Private caller. “Hello?”
“Hi, Ginny, it’s me,” my mother says. “Where are you now?”
Somewhere. Nowhere. In the middle of nowhere. “I’m on I-90 right now,” I say. “At some service area.”
“How much further?” Because I have a destination. Somewhere. I look at the map sprawled on the seat next to me. Count the increments. Ten miles. Twenty. Fifty.
“Sixty miles,” I say. “I think. I don’t really remember what the last sign said.”
“You’re only there?”
“I stopped for lunch,” I said. I did not mention that I went off the highway for an hour, driving through town after town in the misty rain, trying to envision a destination somewhere in the heart of this land.
“Oh, okay,” my mother says. “Don’t drive too fast.” Her way of saying, “Drive safely.”
As she hangs up I put my hand against the glass, fingers splayed. It is half-past-two. I remember I have more clothes in the trunk. An entire suitcase of them. My mother and I had packed them a few days ago, before she left for China with my father and I left for wherever it is I am going. I have other things, too. A blanket. Two pillows. Several bedsheets. Some books salvaged from the tag sale.
And I remember. I have a destination. I am going somewhere. Not nowhere. Sixty miles away.
I am going off to college. Going, going. To be places, see things, meet people. Break through this windshield-mute. Listen to the rain on my hands, on my nose, on my lips. Drumming. Coolness seeping into my bones. Soaking into my blood.
I think I am ready.
. . .
Or not. I don’t think I am ready. Not yet, anyway, although I will have to be soon. Meadow’s Walk (I don’t really know her real name) has a blog, in which she said yesterday, “Remember when you were a freshman in high school, you walked down the hall in a blur of strangers, lost in the wilderness? And remember when you were a senior, and you could not go 5 steps without saying hi to someone you knew. Then you knew it was time to move on. It's like that.”
It really is like that. I can’t go by a single hallway without knowing someone, and in passing time alone, I’ll be able to talk with someone while I’m walking to my classes, all the time. I still remember my sophomore year (because I missed out on the whole freshman experience) when I didn’t know anyone, and I really thought I’d get lost in so huge a school, and now I know where I’m going without even thinking about it. I know where I’m going and I know how long it’ll take me and I know how much time I have to linger out in the halls, talking with people before class.
So it’s time to move on, almost, but not yet, and I’ll be damned if I let some college essay stop me from enjoying my last year of high school.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
August Is A Good Month
For stocks, anyway, and only historically. At least that was what CNBC said. Their explanation was because numerous U.S. government officials take extended leaves during August, which is apparently good for investors in general. I am not quite sure why that is, and so far this month's data does not support that theory, although there is definitely not enough data to make any substantial conclusion.
[Don't even get me started on that commentary about Paul the Octopus and the atrocious claim that an 80% success rate meant if you succeeded four times, you have to fail your fifth time. It makes me shudder every time I think about it.
Also, on a related note, I talked with Argon after he came back from his trip to Spain, and he mention—or more like hinted at—the craziness when Spain won the World Cup.]
For me, August doesn't mean stocks. It means: a) I am endangering numerous people/properties/roads because I now have my permit and am testing the waters, if you will (it would be cool to drive through water someday); and b) the Common Application is out. I know I have been asked by Tea to not remind her about this, so, Tea, if you're reading this, just skip pretty much the rest of the post. Sorry.
So far I have added the list of colleges I'm applying to ("definitely Penn, and MIT, and Princeton, and, uh, do I want Duke?"), filled out all the little details about myself, my parents ("wait, the schools my parents went to don't have CEEB codes"), my academia-related adventures ("how do I fill out my course load for next year when I don't even know it for sure yet?"), and my possible career future ("undecided, or more commonly known as anything-that-involves-statistical-math-and-neurobiology-and-chemistry-and-maybe-psychology-and-philosophy-and-I-would-like-some-economics-as-well-and-what-do-you-mean-that's-impossible"). I haven't filled out my extracurriculars yet ("next to none, ouch"), nor have I explained how I spent my past two summers catching up on classwork and otherwise not doing stuff like finding the cure to cancer or ending world hunger (but of course, I can't do that yet, because curing cancer is Penn's ticket to becoming as "famed" as Wharton, who apparently, but don't quote me on it, loathes to associate with Penn).
All in all, it's good. Now to churn out around twenty essays and short answers, and I will be all peachy. Thank the College Admissions God (henceforth known as the CAG) that the Canadian schools don't require any essays (nor do they look for any intellectual exploration outside of school). Washington University (the St. Louis one) doesn't either, but their scholarships do.
I guess there truly is no such thing as a free-of-supplementary-essays application.
Basically this is me wasting brain cells writing something admissions people will never see instead of writing my essay. I think I should really make an alternate copy of my common application and add my blog address into the "additional information" section, and submit it to some impossible school (I'm thinking Harvard, it doesn't require a supplement essay). I mean, this blog is probably more indicative of my personality and life than any over-250-and-under-1000-words essay I can ever write.
Alas, life doesn't work that way. (Also, Harvard would probably not appreciate the fact that I'm considering Penn over it.)
So I should probably end this now and get back to staring at my application essay instead.
[Don't even get me started on that commentary about Paul the Octopus and the atrocious claim that an 80% success rate meant if you succeeded four times, you have to fail your fifth time. It makes me shudder every time I think about it.
Also, on a related note, I talked with Argon after he came back from his trip to Spain, and he mention—or more like hinted at—the craziness when Spain won the World Cup.]
For me, August doesn't mean stocks. It means: a) I am endangering numerous people/properties/roads because I now have my permit and am testing the waters, if you will (it would be cool to drive through water someday); and b) the Common Application is out. I know I have been asked by Tea to not remind her about this, so, Tea, if you're reading this, just skip pretty much the rest of the post. Sorry.
So far I have added the list of colleges I'm applying to ("definitely Penn, and MIT, and Princeton, and, uh, do I want Duke?"), filled out all the little details about myself, my parents ("wait, the schools my parents went to don't have CEEB codes"), my academia-related adventures ("how do I fill out my course load for next year when I don't even know it for sure yet?"), and my possible career future ("undecided, or more commonly known as anything-that-involves-statistical-math-and-neurobiology-and-chemistry-and-maybe-psychology-and-philosophy-and-I-would-like-some-economics-as-well-and-what-do-you-mean-that's-impossible"). I haven't filled out my extracurriculars yet ("next to none, ouch"), nor have I explained how I spent my past two summers catching up on classwork and otherwise not doing stuff like finding the cure to cancer or ending world hunger (but of course, I can't do that yet, because curing cancer is Penn's ticket to becoming as "famed" as Wharton, who apparently, but don't quote me on it, loathes to associate with Penn).
All in all, it's good. Now to churn out around twenty essays and short answers, and I will be all peachy. Thank the College Admissions God (henceforth known as the CAG) that the Canadian schools don't require any essays (nor do they look for any intellectual exploration outside of school). Washington University (the St. Louis one) doesn't either, but their scholarships do.
I guess there truly is no such thing as a free-of-supplementary-essays application.
Basically this is me wasting brain cells writing something admissions people will never see instead of writing my essay. I think I should really make an alternate copy of my common application and add my blog address into the "additional information" section, and submit it to some impossible school (I'm thinking Harvard, it doesn't require a supplement essay). I mean, this blog is probably more indicative of my personality and life than any over-250-and-under-1000-words essay I can ever write.
Alas, life doesn't work that way. (Also, Harvard would probably not appreciate the fact that I'm considering Penn over it.)
So I should probably end this now and get back to staring at my application essay instead.
