Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes.
Summer is half over now that my circuits class is done with, and not a moment sooner. Each day I had spent half awake, promising myself that after this, I would get to sleep more than five hours a night, and in a bed too. Sometime before then my cat foiled my plans by chewing apart my phone charger, although to be honest if the only thing that can lure me home is the promise that I will still get to talk to the people I would normally talk to online then maybe I would have come up with some other excuse why I should sleep in a moldy chair in a poorly ventilated basement rather than in a bed, in my even messier, smelly apartment.
This summer I had gone to Boston, the first since I last visited Yuma. We took the train into the city and saw the statues remembering civil war soldiers and the red brick paths meant to be historic. We took a detour from the Freedom Trail into a cafe tucked away in the North End, then stopped by Paul Revere's house, where we saw the bells he casted and the fine silverware he made. We had the obligatory trip to the aquarium, which was under construction and so much neater because they had the sharks, stingrays, and other big fish in the area where they normally kept the penguins, and you could see the daily shrimp feeding much clearer. There was also the trip to Chinatown, the long dinner of hotpot and inappropriate jokes, and the subsequent stay in Cambridge.
I had thought to visit old friends but I had not contacted them in so long I did not know if they were still in Boston or had gone home already. And of course, what would I say? "Hello, I haven't talked to you in over a year, yes, yes, well you know me, I never stay in touch with anyone." That is not strictly true, because once I mailed a letter back to a friend who had somehow found my address, although she never contacted me again and I left it at that.
In a few weeks I will go south, to where Khajiit is, to where another friend of mine now lives, to where my parents eagerly await me. I have not called them in a while now, first because of exams and then because my phone died, but mostly because I am putting things off again. If I did not need to perhaps I would slowly set my parents aside too, like my other once-upon-a-time friends. The thought is unsettling only because it seems true.
Between then and now I do not know. There are tentative plans for visits to the Old Port, maybe some horse carriage rides, a visit to the gallery that never made sense to me, figuring out whether to go to the cathedral or basilica of the same name (and which one is which), a glance at the overpriced touristy cafes and restaurants catering to the old yet not quite old French way. Maybe we will climb the mountain that is really a stumped volcano. Maybe we will see the stadium that is now full of plants and animals. Maybe we will even see fireworks, red and white and glittering bright.
But emotionally I do not know what will happen. If I am prepared, at all, or if I would rather confine myself to my stale basement and microwaved food and the occasional venture above ground to feed the cat that both brings me back and sends me away.
She is oblivious as ever.
Showing posts with label trips. Show all posts
Showing posts with label trips. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Push Or Knock; Or Roundabout Gone
Some things I wish I felt more comfortable talking about, out of principle, because I know part of my inability to talk about them stems from a societal prejudice: my mental state, sex, and my inner dialogues. One of my favorite bloggers of late, The Bloggess, does all of these perfectly, so if I were completely honest with myself it's not just societal prejudice but also me.
Then again, how many of us are brave enough to talk about sex in a public forum?
The other two are harder to write about, for me, but they are easier to hint at. To skirt around the edges, like in Fragonard's The Swing, which I drew once as a book cover for my French textbook. Both rococo and romanticism I learned from my European history class from sophomore year.
The other thing I remember from sophomore year was a hazy mix of staring out windows and anonymous crowds rushing past. I wrote about it a lot before, things I kept locked up in the depths of my laptop and hid for two years before I showed some of them to Yuma.
. . .
There is an old Chinese legend (one thing the Chinese have no lacking of) that a poet, late at night, could not decide whether to use "push" or "knock" in his poem to describe his character's internal battle when opening the door.
These days, the two words together mean deliberation.
When I was younger, around seven or eight, I always wondered how people remembered all of these proverbs and legends and folk lores and idioms. It wasn't merely enough to know a saying, you had to know the story behind it too. There were entire books dedicated to the formal four-word proverbs and their origins that schoolchildren my age were required to know.
That, added to the pictorial nature of Chinese words, and you have to wonder: why is it not fading away in favor of something much easier to learn?
I like to cite the poetic nature of it—because, to me, no language is better suited for poetry as Chinese is—down to each word imbued with meaning, but who am I to say? I am neither a poet nor am I a proficient writer of Chinese.
. . .
Khajiit says the younger generation of French people are slowly abandoning the rigid structures their language imposes upon them in favor of their own blend of French. What the equivalent would be for Chinese I do not know, but I hope it does not happen.
Because it is a language of thousands of years' worth of stories, legends, and lore, and there is a part of me that finds peace in allegories.
. . .
Writing for many people is ultimately a cathartic process. Haruki Murakami speaks of writing as a poison, and writing to overcome that poison. Natalie Goldberg believes you should write "what disturbs you, what you fear, what you have not been willing to speak about." Tim O'Brien uses his writing of a fictitious yet real world to make sense of the absurd yet very real world he had to live in. Andre Aciman repeatedly writes about place as a cover to what he really wants to write about.
For me, writing is about making sense of the past. It is about digging up what I have buried in the past—what I have been afraid to face—and putting them in front of me to finally digest after all this time.
I have been told many times, by many people, that I do not have the courage to face reality. That I am weak, that I do not have the determination. Writing is a cheap alternative, a way to pacify those claims without having to make any painful progress. I can say that writing has helped me to name my demons, but in the end, didn't Seymour Glass still shoot himself? How far can you go with writing when your demon is reality itself?
. . .
It is now six in the morning. This far north, the sun has already risen, although I wouldn't know sitting here in the basement of the tallest building on campus. I woke up yesterday morning at 8:25AM, with ten minutes to spare for my morning class, and with an apathy that has set in lately, told myself it didn't matter and fell back to sleep. The next time I woke up—fully, truly awake—it was already getting dark.
On the bus from New York, I thought about how I used to tie myself to the road. The music I listen to, the colors I love, they all have one trait in common: they're hollow. This emptiness inspired historical fictions, with Vermont and their Green Mountain Boys being my favorite, although any road could evoke endless stretches of fields and the nonchalant wind mussing up my hair.
This is my American dream. The loneliness is only a requisite.
For some people, a vacation is a relaxing break, and when they get back from their far-fetched locations they can settle down and work another half year in their fascinating fields. I am from a family fueled by wanderlust—my father, who cannot settle in any one place for long, no matter how tempting the place; or my mother, who takes to trips as other people take to hobbies.
I can stay in one place for a very, very long time if I had to, and if it were the only option in front of me. I would be okay with an entire year without vacations if it meant a regular schedule and the expectation that this is it. But once I am on the road, no amount of travelling will satisfy me. I have been on day-long trips, and week-long trips, and month-long trips, and it is all the same. If I start, I cannot stop.
. . .
Deep in the nights, we talk frankly. Khajiit about his cuts, me about my panicked nature. He tells me to take a deep breath. We talk frankly but nothing much meaningful ever comes out of it. We revert to the same conversations.
My parents say I never write about anything truly meaningful. It could be because I do not show them the extent of what I write, or because I have not, in their eyes, suffered. I have not lived an entire year on pickled radishes and plain rice because I could not afford anything else. I have not woken up before sunrise and come home way after midnight working in a lab to sustain a meagre way of life. Compared to that, I have lived a life of luxury.
I think it is more than that. When Khajiit and I give someone on the streets a dollar, I wonder where our moralities lie. When we talk so frankly of being nineteen-year-olds and of the world giving us more responsibilities than we can handle (Khajiit more so than me, obviously), of, as he calls it, "Everything conspiring against me," I wonder if we truly know ourselves.
Through this year of tumult, political and personal, can I claim that I know myself?
. . .
The first time I formally learned about allegories was also in sophomore year, when my English class read Lord of the Flies. There is something to be said about things coming full circle.
Then again, how many of us are brave enough to talk about sex in a public forum?
The other two are harder to write about, for me, but they are easier to hint at. To skirt around the edges, like in Fragonard's The Swing, which I drew once as a book cover for my French textbook. Both rococo and romanticism I learned from my European history class from sophomore year.
The other thing I remember from sophomore year was a hazy mix of staring out windows and anonymous crowds rushing past. I wrote about it a lot before, things I kept locked up in the depths of my laptop and hid for two years before I showed some of them to Yuma.
. . .
There is an old Chinese legend (one thing the Chinese have no lacking of) that a poet, late at night, could not decide whether to use "push" or "knock" in his poem to describe his character's internal battle when opening the door.
These days, the two words together mean deliberation.
When I was younger, around seven or eight, I always wondered how people remembered all of these proverbs and legends and folk lores and idioms. It wasn't merely enough to know a saying, you had to know the story behind it too. There were entire books dedicated to the formal four-word proverbs and their origins that schoolchildren my age were required to know.
That, added to the pictorial nature of Chinese words, and you have to wonder: why is it not fading away in favor of something much easier to learn?
I like to cite the poetic nature of it—because, to me, no language is better suited for poetry as Chinese is—down to each word imbued with meaning, but who am I to say? I am neither a poet nor am I a proficient writer of Chinese.
. . .
Khajiit says the younger generation of French people are slowly abandoning the rigid structures their language imposes upon them in favor of their own blend of French. What the equivalent would be for Chinese I do not know, but I hope it does not happen.
Because it is a language of thousands of years' worth of stories, legends, and lore, and there is a part of me that finds peace in allegories.
. . .
Writing for many people is ultimately a cathartic process. Haruki Murakami speaks of writing as a poison, and writing to overcome that poison. Natalie Goldberg believes you should write "what disturbs you, what you fear, what you have not been willing to speak about." Tim O'Brien uses his writing of a fictitious yet real world to make sense of the absurd yet very real world he had to live in. Andre Aciman repeatedly writes about place as a cover to what he really wants to write about.
For me, writing is about making sense of the past. It is about digging up what I have buried in the past—what I have been afraid to face—and putting them in front of me to finally digest after all this time.
I have been told many times, by many people, that I do not have the courage to face reality. That I am weak, that I do not have the determination. Writing is a cheap alternative, a way to pacify those claims without having to make any painful progress. I can say that writing has helped me to name my demons, but in the end, didn't Seymour Glass still shoot himself? How far can you go with writing when your demon is reality itself?
. . .
It is now six in the morning. This far north, the sun has already risen, although I wouldn't know sitting here in the basement of the tallest building on campus. I woke up yesterday morning at 8:25AM, with ten minutes to spare for my morning class, and with an apathy that has set in lately, told myself it didn't matter and fell back to sleep. The next time I woke up—fully, truly awake—it was already getting dark.
On the bus from New York, I thought about how I used to tie myself to the road. The music I listen to, the colors I love, they all have one trait in common: they're hollow. This emptiness inspired historical fictions, with Vermont and their Green Mountain Boys being my favorite, although any road could evoke endless stretches of fields and the nonchalant wind mussing up my hair.
This is my American dream. The loneliness is only a requisite.
For some people, a vacation is a relaxing break, and when they get back from their far-fetched locations they can settle down and work another half year in their fascinating fields. I am from a family fueled by wanderlust—my father, who cannot settle in any one place for long, no matter how tempting the place; or my mother, who takes to trips as other people take to hobbies.
I can stay in one place for a very, very long time if I had to, and if it were the only option in front of me. I would be okay with an entire year without vacations if it meant a regular schedule and the expectation that this is it. But once I am on the road, no amount of travelling will satisfy me. I have been on day-long trips, and week-long trips, and month-long trips, and it is all the same. If I start, I cannot stop.
. . .
Deep in the nights, we talk frankly. Khajiit about his cuts, me about my panicked nature. He tells me to take a deep breath. We talk frankly but nothing much meaningful ever comes out of it. We revert to the same conversations.
My parents say I never write about anything truly meaningful. It could be because I do not show them the extent of what I write, or because I have not, in their eyes, suffered. I have not lived an entire year on pickled radishes and plain rice because I could not afford anything else. I have not woken up before sunrise and come home way after midnight working in a lab to sustain a meagre way of life. Compared to that, I have lived a life of luxury.
I think it is more than that. When Khajiit and I give someone on the streets a dollar, I wonder where our moralities lie. When we talk so frankly of being nineteen-year-olds and of the world giving us more responsibilities than we can handle (Khajiit more so than me, obviously), of, as he calls it, "Everything conspiring against me," I wonder if we truly know ourselves.
Through this year of tumult, political and personal, can I claim that I know myself?
. . .
The first time I formally learned about allegories was also in sophomore year, when my English class read Lord of the Flies. There is something to be said about things coming full circle.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Down The River Valley
It seems so long ago. The other day I painted Khajiit's nails a gorgeous sonic bloom color, although I have no idea what a sonic bloom is (I think it's a type of flower). We brought my rice cooker to the office, along with some canned food, and at the meeting Khajiit pointed to the rice cooker.
"Don't do that," our chair said. "Your nails, when you wave your hands. It's so distracting."
Something about sexism came to mind, sexism against men in this case but also against women, because who is to say nail polish (or anything "feminine") has to be for women? At the very least it is stifling, if not borderline deriding the practice not worthy for men. But I am not as brave in a group as I am alone, so it went unsaid.
Later, Sarah brought her bag of nail products. She plopped down in front of a computer and looked up rental cars. We sat around as she made the calls.
"What's the minimum age for car rentals? —Oh, okay. Yeah, no problem. Thanks. Good bye."
Khajiit started looking up buses. His dad had called earlier. We could have five in our party. There are talks about seeing musicals—"The Book of Mormon," for Sarah, who is Mormon—and buying shoes—Veronica is a shoe addict. We considered contacting the guy behind the sketchy van that left for the city every week.
It is so surreal. Only two weeks ago, I was in another office three doors down listening to a Veronica I barely knew cry about her relationship problems. The next day, Sarah confessed that she was really stressed out because of school troubles. As Khajiit puts it, "We're all failures." That was the day I slept through most of my classes. Somewhere amongst the snarky, angry jabs at ex-boyfriends, we decided to go to Khajiit's house over spring break.
We are a group of teenagers, Veronica included. I once remarked that Khajiit, in the car, suddenly possessed teenage qualities he lacked out of the car. On the streets, or in a room, or when we are sipping lattes at the coffee shop across the road, he is either a middle-schooler or an adult. But in the car, he is a teenager. This impromptu decision on all of our parts make us all reckless to some degree. When I signed up for college I did not think I would be signing up for this.
It's an exhilarating sort of freedom, one that has me up at three in the morning in a sketchy corner of the city where people have been known to be stabbed, drinking white hot chocolate from a mug and eating ranch-flavored potato chips. The buses at Islandtown run all night, one every hour or so, in a grid-like pattern. Khajiit and I took one that snaked through the northern part of the city. We sat in the back seat, munching on rainbow rice krispies and drinking iced lemon tea, and joked about staying at seedy motels because we were so tired.
We are always tired these days, sleep-deprived, because I have my games and Khajiit has his games (to program). Late at night we do crazy things, like walk in sub-freezing temperatures just so we can sleep on a futon instead of a single bed, or go to the coffee shop we always frequent late at night, so often that the night shift cashier greets us with, "Hey, it's you guys again."
The next day is sometimes full of regret. Why did we stay up so late? Why did we go to the apartment half an hour away from campus, when we had another one five minutes away? Khajiit regretted his bright red nails and took them off with acetone, although he painted them again in dark blue. A more "manly" color, he claimed. Some guy we didn't know with access to the office said, "Nice nails."
"Don't do that," our chair said. "Your nails, when you wave your hands. It's so distracting."
Something about sexism came to mind, sexism against men in this case but also against women, because who is to say nail polish (or anything "feminine") has to be for women? At the very least it is stifling, if not borderline deriding the practice not worthy for men. But I am not as brave in a group as I am alone, so it went unsaid.
Later, Sarah brought her bag of nail products. She plopped down in front of a computer and looked up rental cars. We sat around as she made the calls.
"What's the minimum age for car rentals? —Oh, okay. Yeah, no problem. Thanks. Good bye."
Khajiit started looking up buses. His dad had called earlier. We could have five in our party. There are talks about seeing musicals—"The Book of Mormon," for Sarah, who is Mormon—and buying shoes—Veronica is a shoe addict. We considered contacting the guy behind the sketchy van that left for the city every week.
It is so surreal. Only two weeks ago, I was in another office three doors down listening to a Veronica I barely knew cry about her relationship problems. The next day, Sarah confessed that she was really stressed out because of school troubles. As Khajiit puts it, "We're all failures." That was the day I slept through most of my classes. Somewhere amongst the snarky, angry jabs at ex-boyfriends, we decided to go to Khajiit's house over spring break.
We are a group of teenagers, Veronica included. I once remarked that Khajiit, in the car, suddenly possessed teenage qualities he lacked out of the car. On the streets, or in a room, or when we are sipping lattes at the coffee shop across the road, he is either a middle-schooler or an adult. But in the car, he is a teenager. This impromptu decision on all of our parts make us all reckless to some degree. When I signed up for college I did not think I would be signing up for this.
It's an exhilarating sort of freedom, one that has me up at three in the morning in a sketchy corner of the city where people have been known to be stabbed, drinking white hot chocolate from a mug and eating ranch-flavored potato chips. The buses at Islandtown run all night, one every hour or so, in a grid-like pattern. Khajiit and I took one that snaked through the northern part of the city. We sat in the back seat, munching on rainbow rice krispies and drinking iced lemon tea, and joked about staying at seedy motels because we were so tired.
We are always tired these days, sleep-deprived, because I have my games and Khajiit has his games (to program). Late at night we do crazy things, like walk in sub-freezing temperatures just so we can sleep on a futon instead of a single bed, or go to the coffee shop we always frequent late at night, so often that the night shift cashier greets us with, "Hey, it's you guys again."
The next day is sometimes full of regret. Why did we stay up so late? Why did we go to the apartment half an hour away from campus, when we had another one five minutes away? Khajiit regretted his bright red nails and took them off with acetone, although he painted them again in dark blue. A more "manly" color, he claimed. Some guy we didn't know with access to the office said, "Nice nails."
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Overloaded
I knew, going into this semester, that taking six classes was going to be a hefty amount of work. That, along with my commitments to all of my other activities, should have taken up most of my time. If I were being completely logical with my time-budgeting and I adhered to the schedule, I probably wouldn't have time to write here right now.
But I'm here right now, while my Java code runs through its cycle comparing 1,000,000-sized lists, so technically I am doing work. What I really should be doing is finish my base-conversion assignment, or get started on my integrate-acceleration-into-velocity program, or really a thousand other things than this.
At least I'm getting some work done, which is more than what Khajiit can say, because he is currently sitting in an armchair with his headphones on reading My Little Pony fanfiction. A fanfiction that uses underlines for emphasis, rather than italics.
My dad said I should be involved in only one extracurricular activity, or at most two. It makes a lot of sense, but I'm just getting to the good parts of programming for the robot (although it is basically a netbook on a fancy frame so it's not that ultra-fancy), and I got approved for my funding application for the environmental documentary that we'll now be screening in March, so I'll definitely have to work more on that, and I've signed up for at least three hours' worth of office hours commitment to the computer club, plus the new environmental committee that I am half-heading which will definitely be exciting.
How could I possibly choose?
So I am going into this semester with so much work, already, and I have been barely maintaining above that 3.7 I needed for my scholarship (thanks to linear algebra), and there will be so much more to do. But I am postponing all of that because I have just been tempted with at least $100 worth of Lego products, and so I will instead go to New York this weekend (among other things, likely possibly visiting Paperclip, although that is rather tenuous right now).
Also, I have been drinking so much Nestea and lattes. I need to find new sugary drinks to replace them before I grow tired of them and run out of suitable water-replacements.
But I'm here right now, while my Java code runs through its cycle comparing 1,000,000-sized lists, so technically I am doing work. What I really should be doing is finish my base-conversion assignment, or get started on my integrate-acceleration-into-velocity program, or really a thousand other things than this.
At least I'm getting some work done, which is more than what Khajiit can say, because he is currently sitting in an armchair with his headphones on reading My Little Pony fanfiction. A fanfiction that uses underlines for emphasis, rather than italics.
My dad said I should be involved in only one extracurricular activity, or at most two. It makes a lot of sense, but I'm just getting to the good parts of programming for the robot (although it is basically a netbook on a fancy frame so it's not that ultra-fancy), and I got approved for my funding application for the environmental documentary that we'll now be screening in March, so I'll definitely have to work more on that, and I've signed up for at least three hours' worth of office hours commitment to the computer club, plus the new environmental committee that I am half-heading which will definitely be exciting.
How could I possibly choose?
So I am going into this semester with so much work, already, and I have been barely maintaining above that 3.7 I needed for my scholarship (thanks to linear algebra), and there will be so much more to do. But I am postponing all of that because I have just been tempted with at least $100 worth of Lego products, and so I will instead go to New York this weekend (among other things, likely possibly visiting Paperclip, although that is rather tenuous right now).
Also, I have been drinking so much Nestea and lattes. I need to find new sugary drinks to replace them before I grow tired of them and run out of suitable water-replacements.
Monday, December 26, 2011
Capitalism And Outer Space
We were going to go to the Space Center today, and it would definitely have been neat. The last time I went to one, it was in Florida, and I remember looking over my head and pointing out the rusty orange and white rockets. That year I was seven, maybe not even.
Sometimes I think about being a third-generation engineer, and being in a family of engineers. It's like being born in a family of bakers, or cobblers or blacksmiths or tailors, except without a long term of apprenticeships. I was born predisposed to math, to science, born with my parents expecting that I follow their footsteps, if not completely then at least partially, into the scientific world.
My dad is lying on the bed now, snoring. A while after I got off the plane, maybe when we were in the car coming back from the airport, he turned to me and said, "It's still not too late if you want to change your mind and be a doctor." My mom says this sometimes too, in that joking yet all the same serious tone, "Are you sure you don't want to be a doctor?"
I tell them, "Yes, I'm sure. I want to be an engineer."
For people who come from this life they are not satisfied with it. They have worked hard, all their lives, fought against the waves of unfair disadvantages at an age where they should have had things under control and relaxed a little. They see people around them in seemingly easier lives, people who earn more (and money has always been an issue in our house), and they want that life for me, whether directly or vicariously.
. . .
These days, my dad spends a lot more. We went to the mall today, everywhere we go we look at the dazzling new clothes and bags and jewelry. He picks something out of the pile, points at it and asks, "What do you think?"
I shake my head. It is the wrong color, the wrong texture, or something, any excuse. He goes over to the stands of watches, stoops down and try to find the same style as the one on his wrist. That one he bought a few days ago. The strap is still too loose; it hangs low. He smiles when he realizes it is more expensive than the one he bought.
I am happy for him, proud, almost, that he is finally achieving the middle-class lifestyle he always wanted, yet also sad. There is something about the way he walks, shorter than ever before, that scares me. I am afraid that he won't be happy, I am afraid that he might lose this, I am afraid that after all these years of struggles he will look back and think, "What have I done with my life?"
And come up empty. I am afraid for him, even though he himself is not afraid. I am being paranoid again.
He walks up to the cosmetics counter. I watch as he talks with the sales lady, the two of them discussing the new brand of anti-aging cream available. He looks at the price and chuckles, shakes his head. "It's too expensive." And we leave. I wonder if he ever wishes he could afford this, for his wife, if he ever laments his inability to buy everything he wants for his family. I wonder if anyone will, in the future, do the same for me.
. . .
He woke up just now. Held my hand. Earlier today he had said, "The days pass by really quickly." He is going back in less than a week, to the misty southwestern Chinese city, while my mom stays with her parents until after Chinese New Years.
I am not sure what I want. In a few days I will be leaving too, heading back to icy Islandtown by myself. But in a few days I will be a few more days closer until Khajiit comes back. Those last few days, however, will be void of both, and they will be long and torturous.
. . .
In a few days, we will be headed somewhere. To the Gulf, maybe, or to Dallas or Austin, we are not sure yet. I am supposed to be the one planning all of this, but I have been way too distracted. When I wake up in the morning, I add up the hours to see if Khajiit will be awake, then I call him, and we cycle between being awake and being away and all of the other complicatedness of us being in different continents.
For example, right now, it is 8pm here, which means it is 3am over there, and way too early to call him.
He sent me photos of Paris today, and I really liked them, especially the one of the details on the Eiffel Tower, and the one where he is eating smoked salmon. Smoked salmon has other connotations for me, it reminds me of a summer that could have been had there not been other obligations, other obstacles.
They are all of the past now, although I still have the souvenirs. I still have a lot more I need to clean through before all the vestiges are gone, if that is even possible. I took out the wallet photo the other day. I had already changed the lockscreen image on my phone.
There are some clothes that need to be exchanged, photos returned, books taken back. We had really tried to make ourselves part of each other's lives, even though (and maybe even more so because) we could not be involved in person. I look at the calendar I now share with Khajiit, and it is almost empty, and that does not make me wonder because I know he will be with me, and those days he will not be are not for long.
. . .
My dad is considering moving back to the US again. My mom will surely follow him if he does. I may see them more often now. Maybe one day they will even settle, and I will visit them, just as other people visit their parents, without the hassle of trying to remember where they have ended up this time around. Although I will miss seeing new airports. I have seen many airports in my life and I am hoping to see more.
Sometimes I think about being a third-generation engineer, and being in a family of engineers. It's like being born in a family of bakers, or cobblers or blacksmiths or tailors, except without a long term of apprenticeships. I was born predisposed to math, to science, born with my parents expecting that I follow their footsteps, if not completely then at least partially, into the scientific world.
My dad is lying on the bed now, snoring. A while after I got off the plane, maybe when we were in the car coming back from the airport, he turned to me and said, "It's still not too late if you want to change your mind and be a doctor." My mom says this sometimes too, in that joking yet all the same serious tone, "Are you sure you don't want to be a doctor?"
I tell them, "Yes, I'm sure. I want to be an engineer."
For people who come from this life they are not satisfied with it. They have worked hard, all their lives, fought against the waves of unfair disadvantages at an age where they should have had things under control and relaxed a little. They see people around them in seemingly easier lives, people who earn more (and money has always been an issue in our house), and they want that life for me, whether directly or vicariously.
. . .
These days, my dad spends a lot more. We went to the mall today, everywhere we go we look at the dazzling new clothes and bags and jewelry. He picks something out of the pile, points at it and asks, "What do you think?"
I shake my head. It is the wrong color, the wrong texture, or something, any excuse. He goes over to the stands of watches, stoops down and try to find the same style as the one on his wrist. That one he bought a few days ago. The strap is still too loose; it hangs low. He smiles when he realizes it is more expensive than the one he bought.
I am happy for him, proud, almost, that he is finally achieving the middle-class lifestyle he always wanted, yet also sad. There is something about the way he walks, shorter than ever before, that scares me. I am afraid that he won't be happy, I am afraid that he might lose this, I am afraid that after all these years of struggles he will look back and think, "What have I done with my life?"
And come up empty. I am afraid for him, even though he himself is not afraid. I am being paranoid again.
He walks up to the cosmetics counter. I watch as he talks with the sales lady, the two of them discussing the new brand of anti-aging cream available. He looks at the price and chuckles, shakes his head. "It's too expensive." And we leave. I wonder if he ever wishes he could afford this, for his wife, if he ever laments his inability to buy everything he wants for his family. I wonder if anyone will, in the future, do the same for me.
. . .
He woke up just now. Held my hand. Earlier today he had said, "The days pass by really quickly." He is going back in less than a week, to the misty southwestern Chinese city, while my mom stays with her parents until after Chinese New Years.
I am not sure what I want. In a few days I will be leaving too, heading back to icy Islandtown by myself. But in a few days I will be a few more days closer until Khajiit comes back. Those last few days, however, will be void of both, and they will be long and torturous.
. . .
In a few days, we will be headed somewhere. To the Gulf, maybe, or to Dallas or Austin, we are not sure yet. I am supposed to be the one planning all of this, but I have been way too distracted. When I wake up in the morning, I add up the hours to see if Khajiit will be awake, then I call him, and we cycle between being awake and being away and all of the other complicatedness of us being in different continents.
For example, right now, it is 8pm here, which means it is 3am over there, and way too early to call him.
He sent me photos of Paris today, and I really liked them, especially the one of the details on the Eiffel Tower, and the one where he is eating smoked salmon. Smoked salmon has other connotations for me, it reminds me of a summer that could have been had there not been other obligations, other obstacles.
They are all of the past now, although I still have the souvenirs. I still have a lot more I need to clean through before all the vestiges are gone, if that is even possible. I took out the wallet photo the other day. I had already changed the lockscreen image on my phone.
There are some clothes that need to be exchanged, photos returned, books taken back. We had really tried to make ourselves part of each other's lives, even though (and maybe even more so because) we could not be involved in person. I look at the calendar I now share with Khajiit, and it is almost empty, and that does not make me wonder because I know he will be with me, and those days he will not be are not for long.
. . .
My dad is considering moving back to the US again. My mom will surely follow him if he does. I may see them more often now. Maybe one day they will even settle, and I will visit them, just as other people visit their parents, without the hassle of trying to remember where they have ended up this time around. Although I will miss seeing new airports. I have seen many airports in my life and I am hoping to see more.
Friday, December 23, 2011
The First More-Than-Five-Hours Of Consecutive Sleep In A Long Long While
Also the first very long title in a long long while. I used to do this a lot and then title habits changed. Did anyone notice the comma streak I had a while back? Things like that happen here. I need to blog more.
Anyway, I thought I wouldn't have wifi here, because I have always been used to cheap hotels, but this one is actually really nice. My dad and I got a two-bed room, which also happened to be a two-bedroom suite, with televisions and phones in each room (and the living room), a full-sized kitchen, and two bathrooms. Two real bathrooms. Now all we need is a decent view.
But as I was saying, wifi, which means: a) I can finally go on Pandora again, and b) I can now chat with Khajiit all day long (also his name makes me miss Skyrim).
Yesterday's plane rides were pretty bumpy, or so I heard from the captain, but I fell asleep for most of it. On the first one, I woke up when the attendant came with drinks, asked for a cup of water, drank some, and fell right back to sleep. Trying to stay awake during the connection time was really, really hard. Good thing I was also really hungry, and in my 6am sleepiness I forgot to bring any US money.
But! I got off the airport, got picked up by my dad (after a while of him calling me trying to figure out where I was), and then he sent me off to a sushi buffet place while he went back to make conference calls to his workplace back in China. I got to eat a creme brulee for the first time!
Not much else happened though. I talked to Khajiit more, and today too, and now I'll be going out, as my dad says, to "see places," which upon further probing is going to be "Best Buy and maybe Walmart."
Shopping time!
Anyway, I thought I wouldn't have wifi here, because I have always been used to cheap hotels, but this one is actually really nice. My dad and I got a two-bed room, which also happened to be a two-bedroom suite, with televisions and phones in each room (and the living room), a full-sized kitchen, and two bathrooms. Two real bathrooms. Now all we need is a decent view.
But as I was saying, wifi, which means: a) I can finally go on Pandora again, and b) I can now chat with Khajiit all day long (also his name makes me miss Skyrim).
Yesterday's plane rides were pretty bumpy, or so I heard from the captain, but I fell asleep for most of it. On the first one, I woke up when the attendant came with drinks, asked for a cup of water, drank some, and fell right back to sleep. Trying to stay awake during the connection time was really, really hard. Good thing I was also really hungry, and in my 6am sleepiness I forgot to bring any US money.
But! I got off the airport, got picked up by my dad (after a while of him calling me trying to figure out where I was), and then he sent me off to a sushi buffet place while he went back to make conference calls to his workplace back in China. I got to eat a creme brulee for the first time!
Not much else happened though. I talked to Khajiit more, and today too, and now I'll be going out, as my dad says, to "see places," which upon further probing is going to be "Best Buy and maybe Walmart."
Shopping time!
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Airplanes Again
Last year, when we were dropping my dad off at the airport, I remember wanting so badly to get off the car and blend into the busy, busy crowds looking to catch their next flights. I have an affinity for the air, half satisfied when my parents and I went on our first ever plane trip to the western half of the US, and half satisfied by my own trip back to China.
This time, Khajiit is going on the plane to go to France, and I will soon be taking one (or two, actually, if not three) to Texas. It is his, what now? Thirtieth time to France? And it is my first, to Texas, although anywhere in the South makes me smile. I am excited to see my dad again, after all this time, and I'm hoping that he'll take me around places during the holidays. I have always wanted to see what Texas was like, and another coastline state (maybe Louisiana too, if we're lucky) to my "been-to" collection is always nice as well.
By the time I get back to Islandtown, Khajiit will be in New York again, so the time zone won't be as much of an issue. I wonder how much I'll miss him though. I'll also get to spend a few days in Islandtown picking my life back together again, especially my schoolwork, and planning for the computer club's green committee events. It will definitely be busy next semester, but exciting too, and hopefully I won't make the same mistakes I made this semester.
Also I don't know if Zephy still reads this but I just remembered how she wants more tags so I'll tag her in here as well. I should email her too, along with Argon, and see how their fall semester went and how their lives are right now.
This time, Khajiit is going on the plane to go to France, and I will soon be taking one (or two, actually, if not three) to Texas. It is his, what now? Thirtieth time to France? And it is my first, to Texas, although anywhere in the South makes me smile. I am excited to see my dad again, after all this time, and I'm hoping that he'll take me around places during the holidays. I have always wanted to see what Texas was like, and another coastline state (maybe Louisiana too, if we're lucky) to my "been-to" collection is always nice as well.
By the time I get back to Islandtown, Khajiit will be in New York again, so the time zone won't be as much of an issue. I wonder how much I'll miss him though. I'll also get to spend a few days in Islandtown picking my life back together again, especially my schoolwork, and planning for the computer club's green committee events. It will definitely be busy next semester, but exciting too, and hopefully I won't make the same mistakes I made this semester.
Also I don't know if Zephy still reads this but I just remembered how she wants more tags so I'll tag her in here as well. I should email her too, along with Argon, and see how their fall semester went and how their lives are right now.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
It's Winter, But We Pretend Otherwise
I usually turn to Google for these types of things, because who else could I talk to? Who else would not judge me and still be impartial? But this phrase is too clunky to search, and even though I have broken it up into two chunks it is still not exactly what I was looking for.
The empty pocky wrappers lie crinkled in my trashbag. I have the remains of a bus ticket, snappy sorbet nail polish, and a rubber duckie to remind me of what once was, what I could have had and the neverending dreams. In my dreams they are eternal, and the objects mere crags to be avoided. They are faded souvenirs of a past life, a past lie.
I am at a crossroads now, more than ever, and decisions have always frightened me. I wrote my college app essay on road trips, on crossroads, and on choosing my path, but when it comes down to it I am a coward. I have lost my power to dream like I used to, and this upcoming trip to somewhere warm and nostalgic might be just what I need to bring some of that magic back.
A smile and a bit of panic. The past few days, I have been wavering, wondering, reconstructing my thoughts until they become tangled messes of strings. There are consequences to this. Whether I want to keep on dreaming or if I want to fall back into routine. The idealistic or the practical. Which one is which, I am not sure anymore.
I was once told to make up my mind. I was once told to focus on my goals. They are easy words to say but I have been trying to act them out and it is harder than I ever imagined. And now, as a coward, I am looking for that sense of security, that knowledge that if I take this step I will not fall. And what then? What if I do receive it?
Is it what I really want?
The empty pocky wrappers lie crinkled in my trashbag. I have the remains of a bus ticket, snappy sorbet nail polish, and a rubber duckie to remind me of what once was, what I could have had and the neverending dreams. In my dreams they are eternal, and the objects mere crags to be avoided. They are faded souvenirs of a past life, a past lie.
I am at a crossroads now, more than ever, and decisions have always frightened me. I wrote my college app essay on road trips, on crossroads, and on choosing my path, but when it comes down to it I am a coward. I have lost my power to dream like I used to, and this upcoming trip to somewhere warm and nostalgic might be just what I need to bring some of that magic back.
A smile and a bit of panic. The past few days, I have been wavering, wondering, reconstructing my thoughts until they become tangled messes of strings. There are consequences to this. Whether I want to keep on dreaming or if I want to fall back into routine. The idealistic or the practical. Which one is which, I am not sure anymore.
I was once told to make up my mind. I was once told to focus on my goals. They are easy words to say but I have been trying to act them out and it is harder than I ever imagined. And now, as a coward, I am looking for that sense of security, that knowledge that if I take this step I will not fall. And what then? What if I do receive it?
Is it what I really want?
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Stories Of The Past
German, to me, is a true foreign language.
Whereas I can converse perfectly well in English, slightly less so in Chinese, much less so in French, and barely so in Spanish, I know not a phrase of German. I could not go up to someone in Germany and say, "Hello," in their own language, although I am sure if I said it in English there will still be people who understand me.
I know almost nothing of the German culture as well, and I am sure the bastardization of Oktoberfest that our university pushes out as a feeble excuse to drink (like they ever need one) is not a good representative. There is so much about the land I do not know, cannot ever know because I was not born and raised there. Even if, as a 20-something-year-old, I decide to move to Germany for the rest of my life, I will never know everything that a native German will know.
It is the subtle things. I am not sure I know all of those even in America, in Canada, much less in China. There are so many stories, so many faint traces of the past, that the Chinese value subconsciously, and that I am no longer a part of despite my Chinese heritage.
All I have are the visible things.
. . .
In Vermont, the mountains loom tall.
Not as tall as the Rockies, but mountains have no comparison. They are loners standing their ground. In Vermont, these mountains have seen through a revolution. They have weathered blood and rain. They have stood by as promises were made and vows broken and lives betrayed and dreams born.
As the car drives by, I look out the window. The lush trees of summer belie no hint of what Vermont is to most people, maple syrup and snow. I have told people Vermont is more than that, to many confused looks. I tell them it is a dairy state, perhaps not as famous as Wisconsin but a dairy state just as well. I tell them the history, the Green Mountains and their boys, Ethan Allen, Benedict Arnold.
This is their land. And the land never lies.
Vermont now is a peaceful state, or as peaceful as it can ever be. The green pastures and overarching trees lull people into a sense of nostalgia. It is the old East, and it still retains its dark past and poisonous shadows, but for now it is peaceful.
We stop at the rest area we always stop at. There is something to be said here, about habits, about coincidences, about many things in life that fit into convenient stories.
But we get off, stretch our legs, go inside and look at the map tacked onto the wall as if it were the first time we were seeing it. We take our hands and measure the distance we have traveled, and how much more we still have to go. We, too, are re-enacting history. We are forging our own terra incognita and charting them to fit the terrains of our hearts.
. . .
Our family is a family built upon road trips.
Ever since we got a car, back in 1999, every trip I had made that did not involve going somewhere half a world away were road trips. I have a special attachment to the land, to the roads. They are what I grew up on, like some kids grow up on sunshine and lemonade and backyard gossip circles.
We were living the American Dream, in a silly, distorted way. We would walk the sidewalk paved in gold and drive down every road. We went out west, we tried our hands at the "work hard and strike it rich" model. We walked out with resilient, optimistic spirits and an oddly-formed humor and our own shot at the American middle class, along with red knots hung on our doors and plastic bags stuffed inside our dishwasher for later use.
I built my dreams on the road. Trips were no longer about the destination, but about the journey in its most literal way. I hated it when the car slowed to a stop, because that meant the journey was over and the destination was here.
And once the destination was here, it would be over all too soon.
The first time we traveled to somewhere not half a world away in a plane, we went to Las Vegas. We hopped out of the plane and onto another car and headed straight for Grand Canyon. We were on the road, the only thing I was familiar with. Arizona roads are not anything like Massachusetts roads, but they are still roads. The desert sings its own song too, one of pioneers and settlers and miracles and tragedies and thousands of years of heritage shuffling in the wind.
But the destination.
The destination was different. The Grand Canyon was something beyond my imagination, beyond even my appropriations of its grandeur.
This was the first trip where we wanted to come back immediately, and the first trip where we were not driving all the time, where we had time to sit and watch the snow drift down without shivering in a car.
. . .
We read an interview of Murakami by Spiegel in class a few weeks ago. Peter said that Murakami was arrogant. He cited the two places where Murakami was asked about other people's books, and once he replied, "It's boring," and the other, of J. D. Salinger and his book Catcher in the Rye, "He did not win his fight against his poison," or something like that. He definitely mentioned the poison.
I do not remember the book as much as I would like to, but I do remember the poison part. I remember Holden Caulfield saying everyone was phony and thinking, that is true, that is very true. I have still not forgiven the backs.
I, too, write from my poison. I draw my sources from the darkest tortures of my mind and place them on paper. The pen is my sword, the page my battlefield, and I am waging war, against my past, against my fears, against my madness.
What that says about me, and about the stories I write, I am not sure. I write about death, even though I have never experienced death that hit too close. Is that symbolic of something? What of Katie when she sees Nick's ghost haunting her mind? Is that symbolic of something?
. . .
Pain is always close to me. So is separation.
Jessica asked me the other day how I dealt with it. The whole long-distance relationship thing. She was missing her ex-boyfriend. I told her we set aside time for each other. And as I was saying those words I felt the hypocrisy inside me.
Over the weekend, I went on a trip with our university's queer group to a cabin in a rural part of the area. One of the nights, we had a talent show, and one guy sat in front of the keyboard while another sang Coldplay's "The Scientist." I heard the words, "Nobody said it would be easy," and I could not stop the tears.
I had not spoke of the late night calls, when we would both be so exhausted and yet so mad at the other and so frustrated with ourselves. I had not spoke of the boxes of tissues lying in my garbage bin, the tear stains still on my laptop, the ribbon tied precariously on the ladder, the coins strewn on a grassy field near the river. Some nights I think I must be psychotic, to know how much this hurts me and yet still hang on.
I still wear the half of the ring, even though I know he does not wear the other half anymore. The other day someone in my English class saw it and asked, "Are you married? Are you engaged?"
I wish I knew the answer, but I am not so sure it is all that I need anymore. Yuma once said he was living through things day by day. I am not that kind of person. If I let things fall day by day, I will eventually lose it. It is what I do with everything.
Here, yet again, it is the journey, not the destination. I must remind myself that, and yet the destination blurs with each day.
. . .
I do not actually know much about my past.
For the past sixteen or so years, I have gone around piecing together my identity. Where do I belong? There is that generic statement of my heritage, what am I in terms of Chinese or American or Canadian or some mix of the three. But for me, this question is personal. It is tied with my longing for the road, my sense of safety among the land.
It is a question of where I belong, physically, not in terms of ethnicity or some arbitrary, culturally-entrenched definition.
If there is a past for me, it is a constant search for a place I can call home. Somewhere along the way, I have lost it, and I am now on the trek to rediscover it. Everything else is blurry. What places I have been to, what people I have talked with, they are constantly replaced with the new places I go to and the new people I talk with. I remember snippets, like Polaroids pasted in a scrapbook.
But this time, I do not want to let go. I do not want to forget. There is something here that is worth hanging onto, something that vaguely reminds me of what I never had.
Something not visible.
Whereas I can converse perfectly well in English, slightly less so in Chinese, much less so in French, and barely so in Spanish, I know not a phrase of German. I could not go up to someone in Germany and say, "Hello," in their own language, although I am sure if I said it in English there will still be people who understand me.
I know almost nothing of the German culture as well, and I am sure the bastardization of Oktoberfest that our university pushes out as a feeble excuse to drink (like they ever need one) is not a good representative. There is so much about the land I do not know, cannot ever know because I was not born and raised there. Even if, as a 20-something-year-old, I decide to move to Germany for the rest of my life, I will never know everything that a native German will know.
It is the subtle things. I am not sure I know all of those even in America, in Canada, much less in China. There are so many stories, so many faint traces of the past, that the Chinese value subconsciously, and that I am no longer a part of despite my Chinese heritage.
All I have are the visible things.
. . .
In Vermont, the mountains loom tall.
Not as tall as the Rockies, but mountains have no comparison. They are loners standing their ground. In Vermont, these mountains have seen through a revolution. They have weathered blood and rain. They have stood by as promises were made and vows broken and lives betrayed and dreams born.
As the car drives by, I look out the window. The lush trees of summer belie no hint of what Vermont is to most people, maple syrup and snow. I have told people Vermont is more than that, to many confused looks. I tell them it is a dairy state, perhaps not as famous as Wisconsin but a dairy state just as well. I tell them the history, the Green Mountains and their boys, Ethan Allen, Benedict Arnold.
This is their land. And the land never lies.
Vermont now is a peaceful state, or as peaceful as it can ever be. The green pastures and overarching trees lull people into a sense of nostalgia. It is the old East, and it still retains its dark past and poisonous shadows, but for now it is peaceful.
We stop at the rest area we always stop at. There is something to be said here, about habits, about coincidences, about many things in life that fit into convenient stories.
But we get off, stretch our legs, go inside and look at the map tacked onto the wall as if it were the first time we were seeing it. We take our hands and measure the distance we have traveled, and how much more we still have to go. We, too, are re-enacting history. We are forging our own terra incognita and charting them to fit the terrains of our hearts.
. . .
Our family is a family built upon road trips.
Ever since we got a car, back in 1999, every trip I had made that did not involve going somewhere half a world away were road trips. I have a special attachment to the land, to the roads. They are what I grew up on, like some kids grow up on sunshine and lemonade and backyard gossip circles.
We were living the American Dream, in a silly, distorted way. We would walk the sidewalk paved in gold and drive down every road. We went out west, we tried our hands at the "work hard and strike it rich" model. We walked out with resilient, optimistic spirits and an oddly-formed humor and our own shot at the American middle class, along with red knots hung on our doors and plastic bags stuffed inside our dishwasher for later use.
I built my dreams on the road. Trips were no longer about the destination, but about the journey in its most literal way. I hated it when the car slowed to a stop, because that meant the journey was over and the destination was here.
And once the destination was here, it would be over all too soon.
The first time we traveled to somewhere not half a world away in a plane, we went to Las Vegas. We hopped out of the plane and onto another car and headed straight for Grand Canyon. We were on the road, the only thing I was familiar with. Arizona roads are not anything like Massachusetts roads, but they are still roads. The desert sings its own song too, one of pioneers and settlers and miracles and tragedies and thousands of years of heritage shuffling in the wind.
But the destination.
The destination was different. The Grand Canyon was something beyond my imagination, beyond even my appropriations of its grandeur.
This was the first trip where we wanted to come back immediately, and the first trip where we were not driving all the time, where we had time to sit and watch the snow drift down without shivering in a car.
. . .
We read an interview of Murakami by Spiegel in class a few weeks ago. Peter said that Murakami was arrogant. He cited the two places where Murakami was asked about other people's books, and once he replied, "It's boring," and the other, of J. D. Salinger and his book Catcher in the Rye, "He did not win his fight against his poison," or something like that. He definitely mentioned the poison.
I do not remember the book as much as I would like to, but I do remember the poison part. I remember Holden Caulfield saying everyone was phony and thinking, that is true, that is very true. I have still not forgiven the backs.
I, too, write from my poison. I draw my sources from the darkest tortures of my mind and place them on paper. The pen is my sword, the page my battlefield, and I am waging war, against my past, against my fears, against my madness.
What that says about me, and about the stories I write, I am not sure. I write about death, even though I have never experienced death that hit too close. Is that symbolic of something? What of Katie when she sees Nick's ghost haunting her mind? Is that symbolic of something?
. . .
Pain is always close to me. So is separation.
Jessica asked me the other day how I dealt with it. The whole long-distance relationship thing. She was missing her ex-boyfriend. I told her we set aside time for each other. And as I was saying those words I felt the hypocrisy inside me.
Over the weekend, I went on a trip with our university's queer group to a cabin in a rural part of the area. One of the nights, we had a talent show, and one guy sat in front of the keyboard while another sang Coldplay's "The Scientist." I heard the words, "Nobody said it would be easy," and I could not stop the tears.
I had not spoke of the late night calls, when we would both be so exhausted and yet so mad at the other and so frustrated with ourselves. I had not spoke of the boxes of tissues lying in my garbage bin, the tear stains still on my laptop, the ribbon tied precariously on the ladder, the coins strewn on a grassy field near the river. Some nights I think I must be psychotic, to know how much this hurts me and yet still hang on.
I still wear the half of the ring, even though I know he does not wear the other half anymore. The other day someone in my English class saw it and asked, "Are you married? Are you engaged?"
I wish I knew the answer, but I am not so sure it is all that I need anymore. Yuma once said he was living through things day by day. I am not that kind of person. If I let things fall day by day, I will eventually lose it. It is what I do with everything.
Here, yet again, it is the journey, not the destination. I must remind myself that, and yet the destination blurs with each day.
. . .
I do not actually know much about my past.
For the past sixteen or so years, I have gone around piecing together my identity. Where do I belong? There is that generic statement of my heritage, what am I in terms of Chinese or American or Canadian or some mix of the three. But for me, this question is personal. It is tied with my longing for the road, my sense of safety among the land.
It is a question of where I belong, physically, not in terms of ethnicity or some arbitrary, culturally-entrenched definition.
If there is a past for me, it is a constant search for a place I can call home. Somewhere along the way, I have lost it, and I am now on the trek to rediscover it. Everything else is blurry. What places I have been to, what people I have talked with, they are constantly replaced with the new places I go to and the new people I talk with. I remember snippets, like Polaroids pasted in a scrapbook.
But this time, I do not want to let go. I do not want to forget. There is something here that is worth hanging onto, something that vaguely reminds me of what I never had.
Something not visible.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
The Past Few Weeks
I have been going to my classes every other class. Sometimes it is intentional, like today, when I skipped my linear algebra class to attend a soldering tutorial that was probably more informative and productive than any single lecture I have gone to for linalg. (I stripped wires and made pretty twists with them and soldered them together with decent speed! That has to be one of the more productive hours I have ever spent in a long time).
Other times it is accidental, like today (again), when I woke up in the morning and it was 9:45 and my java class started at 9:35, and I was groggy and on the top bunk without any proper outdoors clothes on or any breakfast in my stomach, and the earliest I can have all of that done would be by 10, and then 5-10 minutes of walking to class would leave me with 15 minutes of lecture time left. So I promptly fell back asleep.
I asked Jessica later on about what the prof talked about in class today, and she said, "Calling a private property in another class with a public method." Which is, well, what we learned on Monday. I even have rather nice notes for that day.
I think it was on Monday, too, that I left my java class and, after buying yogurt and granola for breakfast, hurried to my linalg class and read the part in the textbook where I thought we had gone over the class before. And I went into class an hour later and proceeded to hear about the same things I had just read.
As Yuma puts it, "Why are your classes so useless?"
I like to believe that it is only so because I am in this limbo mode right now where I can't actually take the exciting classes. But I do have some neat classes next semester, like intro to computer engineering and engineering economy, as well as differential equations which I've heard is actually tough (or maybe they are making it up just like they are making up how difficult linear algebra was going to be). Also I will have no more English classes next semester and, as long as my 93% fixed schedule (based on rough approximations) is not changed by the higher beings who design the electrical engineering curriculum here, I will never have an official English class again.
Or maybe they do this English thing at grad school too. Who knows. I think they should do it every year but I suppose the workload (essay-writing) does add up.
. . .
I found a couple of tunnels under my school. This would sound so much cooler if I also put in, "I sneaked past -insert integer here- security guards and ducked under the camera and picked the lock on the grate and lowered myself into the tunnels," but alas, that was not the case. These tunnels are university-sanctioned, opened for the special purpose of allowing us to get to our classes without freezing ourselves to death when it is -40 degrees Celsius outside and the snow is piled higher than your head.
On the bright side, some of these are steam tunnels, which means they'll be extra-cozy in winter. On the not so bright side, they have operating hours, unlike the buildings themselves, so any late-night cramming session during finals time will necessarily involve walking through the snow.
I am not sure if our school has drains, which I have heard is also a good place to explore in the winter, but those are definitely not sanctioned and will require a lot of time and effort and luck to discover.
Roofs, however, are open (free?) to people who find the doors open at the right time. It is apparently not a rare occurrence. I have yet to be on a roof but that should be fun too.
. . .
Boys are weird creatures. I am sure this has been stated before (I vaguely remember this particular statement or a variation of it on my blog, and possibly on Kathrya's blog too although I can't remember if either is true), and I am aware it is a gross generalization, so I will restate this. Some of the boys I have encountered lately are weird.
The other day I went to the basement of the math and science building, and these two guys were selling white coffee to fundraise for some student group (I think it was Malaysian or some other Southeast Asian group, the guys told me but I don't quite remember). I asked them what white coffee was, and one of the guys explained (different coffee brewing process + condensed milk), and then took off the "$1" sign and said that they were running low anyway, so he gave me a free sample. Then they packed up so quickly and left the table before I even left.
Today, as I was walking down the escalator, one of the guys in my class walked past me, obviously in a hurry. He then held the door open for me, even though I was not even close to the door, so I half-ran to get the door so he wouldn't wait too long.
Maybe the midterms are addling with their brains.
I would love to extend this to girls too so this doesn't resemble a gender stereotype, but unfortunately I am not meeting enough previously-not-well-known-and-probably-will-never-know-well girls to have any concrete examples.
. . .
Thanksgiving weekend was good. It involved lots of fish (alive, raw, microwaved, hot-potted, stuffed-toy-ified), a trip to the depths of Chinatown, friend-visiting, mall-bridge-hopping, movies (some good, some dreadfully slow), and a variety of other things that may or may not be appropriate to put on here. A blackboard was acquired, kitties were petted, and a bunch of pretty much useless RAMs and hard drives were lugged back up the hill.
I might write about it, but definitely not from my perspective and not with any clear-defined names.
And we can also definitely glaze over the late-night drunk on deliriousness hours of insanity.
It was apparently also Denise's birthday on Thanksgiving weekend. It was a rather sad event for her, at least on the day of her birthday, because none of us were there (Sam went to her cottage, other people were otherwise occupied with their families) and she was sick. To make matters worse she spent the weekend at the studio working on one of her many, many projects.
Sam organized a belated celebration for her by taking her to a dumpling place (and inviting all of us). They were really good dumplings (I haven't really had a vegetarian dumpling in a long while, and the ones there were delicious), and Denise and Sam ate two platefuls. I would have ordered a plate myself, but earlier that day I had gone to the-dorm-with-a-good-caf and had gotten myself onion rings and cheesecake and chicken and noodles and broccoli and iced tea, and normally I could have dealt with the main meal but the combo of onion rings and cheesecake was rather filling already, so I was stuffed by the end of the meal.
So not many dumplings for me. So sad.
. . .
I am really tired now. I slept at 4 in the morning, because I wanted Yuma to read me a chapter from a story and he didn't want to, so I stayed up doing silly things. This is probably directly related to my inability to attend my java class this morning, which apparently was pretty silly too, so it all balances out.
I bought four books from the book fair yesterday, all on math and science, and I can't wait to read them. I also signed up for about a million email lists from various clubs around my school, and plotted them all on my calendar in hopes that by virtue of them being there, I will do them.
So far I have not gone to the computer-recycling club, nor the outdoors excursions club, but I have asked Jessica about the two competitions I was interested in (both require teams).
Maybe if I sleep more...
Other times it is accidental, like today (again), when I woke up in the morning and it was 9:45 and my java class started at 9:35, and I was groggy and on the top bunk without any proper outdoors clothes on or any breakfast in my stomach, and the earliest I can have all of that done would be by 10, and then 5-10 minutes of walking to class would leave me with 15 minutes of lecture time left. So I promptly fell back asleep.
I asked Jessica later on about what the prof talked about in class today, and she said, "Calling a private property in another class with a public method." Which is, well, what we learned on Monday. I even have rather nice notes for that day.
I think it was on Monday, too, that I left my java class and, after buying yogurt and granola for breakfast, hurried to my linalg class and read the part in the textbook where I thought we had gone over the class before. And I went into class an hour later and proceeded to hear about the same things I had just read.
As Yuma puts it, "Why are your classes so useless?"
I like to believe that it is only so because I am in this limbo mode right now where I can't actually take the exciting classes. But I do have some neat classes next semester, like intro to computer engineering and engineering economy, as well as differential equations which I've heard is actually tough (or maybe they are making it up just like they are making up how difficult linear algebra was going to be). Also I will have no more English classes next semester and, as long as my 93% fixed schedule (based on rough approximations) is not changed by the higher beings who design the electrical engineering curriculum here, I will never have an official English class again.
Or maybe they do this English thing at grad school too. Who knows. I think they should do it every year but I suppose the workload (essay-writing) does add up.
. . .
I found a couple of tunnels under my school. This would sound so much cooler if I also put in, "I sneaked past -insert integer here- security guards and ducked under the camera and picked the lock on the grate and lowered myself into the tunnels," but alas, that was not the case. These tunnels are university-sanctioned, opened for the special purpose of allowing us to get to our classes without freezing ourselves to death when it is -40 degrees Celsius outside and the snow is piled higher than your head.
On the bright side, some of these are steam tunnels, which means they'll be extra-cozy in winter. On the not so bright side, they have operating hours, unlike the buildings themselves, so any late-night cramming session during finals time will necessarily involve walking through the snow.
I am not sure if our school has drains, which I have heard is also a good place to explore in the winter, but those are definitely not sanctioned and will require a lot of time and effort and luck to discover.
Roofs, however, are open (free?) to people who find the doors open at the right time. It is apparently not a rare occurrence. I have yet to be on a roof but that should be fun too.
. . .
Boys are weird creatures. I am sure this has been stated before (I vaguely remember this particular statement or a variation of it on my blog, and possibly on Kathrya's blog too although I can't remember if either is true), and I am aware it is a gross generalization, so I will restate this. Some of the boys I have encountered lately are weird.
The other day I went to the basement of the math and science building, and these two guys were selling white coffee to fundraise for some student group (I think it was Malaysian or some other Southeast Asian group, the guys told me but I don't quite remember). I asked them what white coffee was, and one of the guys explained (different coffee brewing process + condensed milk), and then took off the "$1" sign and said that they were running low anyway, so he gave me a free sample. Then they packed up so quickly and left the table before I even left.
Today, as I was walking down the escalator, one of the guys in my class walked past me, obviously in a hurry. He then held the door open for me, even though I was not even close to the door, so I half-ran to get the door so he wouldn't wait too long.
Maybe the midterms are addling with their brains.
I would love to extend this to girls too so this doesn't resemble a gender stereotype, but unfortunately I am not meeting enough previously-not-well-known-and-probably-will-never-know-well girls to have any concrete examples.
. . .
Thanksgiving weekend was good. It involved lots of fish (alive, raw, microwaved, hot-potted, stuffed-toy-ified), a trip to the depths of Chinatown, friend-visiting, mall-bridge-hopping, movies (some good, some dreadfully slow), and a variety of other things that may or may not be appropriate to put on here. A blackboard was acquired, kitties were petted, and a bunch of pretty much useless RAMs and hard drives were lugged back up the hill.
I might write about it, but definitely not from my perspective and not with any clear-defined names.
And we can also definitely glaze over the late-night drunk on deliriousness hours of insanity.
It was apparently also Denise's birthday on Thanksgiving weekend. It was a rather sad event for her, at least on the day of her birthday, because none of us were there (Sam went to her cottage, other people were otherwise occupied with their families) and she was sick. To make matters worse she spent the weekend at the studio working on one of her many, many projects.
Sam organized a belated celebration for her by taking her to a dumpling place (and inviting all of us). They were really good dumplings (I haven't really had a vegetarian dumpling in a long while, and the ones there were delicious), and Denise and Sam ate two platefuls. I would have ordered a plate myself, but earlier that day I had gone to the-dorm-with-a-good-caf and had gotten myself onion rings and cheesecake and chicken and noodles and broccoli and iced tea, and normally I could have dealt with the main meal but the combo of onion rings and cheesecake was rather filling already, so I was stuffed by the end of the meal.
So not many dumplings for me. So sad.
. . .
I am really tired now. I slept at 4 in the morning, because I wanted Yuma to read me a chapter from a story and he didn't want to, so I stayed up doing silly things. This is probably directly related to my inability to attend my java class this morning, which apparently was pretty silly too, so it all balances out.
I bought four books from the book fair yesterday, all on math and science, and I can't wait to read them. I also signed up for about a million email lists from various clubs around my school, and plotted them all on my calendar in hopes that by virtue of them being there, I will do them.
So far I have not gone to the computer-recycling club, nor the outdoors excursions club, but I have asked Jessica about the two competitions I was interested in (both require teams).
Maybe if I sleep more...
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Weekends
Last weekend (it seems so far away even though it's only Tuesday), I went on a camping trip with a group of fellow engineers (and other people, who were mainly engineers' girlfriends/boyfriends). We left on what must be one of the most awful days to leave for a camping trip: it was rainy and cold. But luckily, we had plenty of firewood (and people bought even more after they got drunk), lots of food, and enough alcohol to put a liquor store to shame (we had plenty of cases of all sorts of beer, and other things people brought like rum and gin and vodka, and our coordinator brought boxes of wine).
I was probably one of the few (if not only) people who did not drink, but the food was really good. Our coordinator made chili, and we roasted spider weenies over the fire (and accidentally dropped what was probably an entire pack of hot dogs into the fire) and made s'mores until we ran out of chocolate and biscuits. Someone even roasted a pepper (and said, "It smells really good!" so everyone took turns smelling it).
I had way too much food for the night (I think maybe 4 or 5 hot dogs plus a ton of marshmallows and a tub of chili), but it was so good I couldn't stop eating. I probably burned all of the excess calories off during the night though, when I was freezing so badly I had a blanket wrapped around me, a down jacket on, and was still shivering through much of the night.
We talked about a bunch of silly things, like previous trips the other people had gone on, air force experience (a lot of people in our group had been in the army in some way), and generally Islandtown and other places. Then people started making up really dirty limericks and singing lewd songs, and cigars got passed around. I didn't like the smoke, plus I had drank too much lemonade, so I joined the bathroom excursion.
We hiked down the road, through many, many puddles (my boots are all disgusting now), and arrived at the bathrooms. When we got out, we saw that there was a playground nearby, so our temporarily appointed VP Acquisitions (we had VPs for almost everything, from VP Fire to VP Innuendo) decided it was a great idea to steal two of the kiddie cars in the playground (apparently the goal of VP Acquisitions was to get a golf cart, but that was too difficult), so two of the girls hauled the cars to our campfire.
I spent the rest of the night warming myself by the fire and stopping myself from eating more food. So obviously when I got up in the morning I went right back to the fire and, as the bacon was the only thing ready, I ate bacon. We had all forgotten to turn off the propane stove the night before, so we only had a little bit of propane left. Someone suggested we cook bacon over the fire, so we did that (in a pan and not on a stick, sadly). There was also instant oatmeal made in such huge batches that it looked almost homemade.
I must have ate 8 strips of bacon. So. Much. Food.
Then the group of girls I shared a tent with (and one of their friends and her boyfriend) decided to take a walk to the lake, and when we got there we wanted to walk around the lake. So we hiked through mountains of trash and sand and long reeds, and got to see the lake from all angles. When we got back, there was spaghetti cooking on the fire (food was definitely one of our themes), and it was delicious too. Too bad we had to leave soon after, but not before we finished the rest of the marshmallows, all of the beer, and someone roasted a banana.
On our way back, we talked about more trips (including a skiing trip that I'd love to go on), deteriorating bridges ("please don't stop under the bridge!"), and people who drank too much beer and needed to go to the bathroom (one guy was almost desperate enough to emulate Mario). If it were any warmer and drier I would have wished it lasted longer. As it were though, I was plenty glad to return to my warm, cozy room and actually sleep on a proper bed.
. . .
Next weekend I am going on another trip, except this time I am going to Beavertown (I had bought the tickets last weekend, and I am so excited). I already have my outfits planned out, because, obviously, this is the most important part. Well, also because Yuma said he would be in charge of planning the events, so that does not leave me with much left to plan for.
I told this to a guy I had met online a couple weeks ago (who knew about my situation with Yuma), and he said, "Bring pepper spray."
I hope I won't ever have to use that.
That aside, I am really, really excited. I'm hoping I will finish all of my homework before Friday, and then maybe skip out of my last class on Friday so I don't need to be at the bus station at 12 in the morning (although that is also a feasible option, if I had to), and then I'll skip my Tuesday tutorial so I can have three and a half days (and four nights!) in Beavertown.
But that means I have to work now, so off I'll be.
I was probably one of the few (if not only) people who did not drink, but the food was really good. Our coordinator made chili, and we roasted spider weenies over the fire (and accidentally dropped what was probably an entire pack of hot dogs into the fire) and made s'mores until we ran out of chocolate and biscuits. Someone even roasted a pepper (and said, "It smells really good!" so everyone took turns smelling it).
I had way too much food for the night (I think maybe 4 or 5 hot dogs plus a ton of marshmallows and a tub of chili), but it was so good I couldn't stop eating. I probably burned all of the excess calories off during the night though, when I was freezing so badly I had a blanket wrapped around me, a down jacket on, and was still shivering through much of the night.
We talked about a bunch of silly things, like previous trips the other people had gone on, air force experience (a lot of people in our group had been in the army in some way), and generally Islandtown and other places. Then people started making up really dirty limericks and singing lewd songs, and cigars got passed around. I didn't like the smoke, plus I had drank too much lemonade, so I joined the bathroom excursion.
We hiked down the road, through many, many puddles (my boots are all disgusting now), and arrived at the bathrooms. When we got out, we saw that there was a playground nearby, so our temporarily appointed VP Acquisitions (we had VPs for almost everything, from VP Fire to VP Innuendo) decided it was a great idea to steal two of the kiddie cars in the playground (apparently the goal of VP Acquisitions was to get a golf cart, but that was too difficult), so two of the girls hauled the cars to our campfire.
I spent the rest of the night warming myself by the fire and stopping myself from eating more food. So obviously when I got up in the morning I went right back to the fire and, as the bacon was the only thing ready, I ate bacon. We had all forgotten to turn off the propane stove the night before, so we only had a little bit of propane left. Someone suggested we cook bacon over the fire, so we did that (in a pan and not on a stick, sadly). There was also instant oatmeal made in such huge batches that it looked almost homemade.
I must have ate 8 strips of bacon. So. Much. Food.
Then the group of girls I shared a tent with (and one of their friends and her boyfriend) decided to take a walk to the lake, and when we got there we wanted to walk around the lake. So we hiked through mountains of trash and sand and long reeds, and got to see the lake from all angles. When we got back, there was spaghetti cooking on the fire (food was definitely one of our themes), and it was delicious too. Too bad we had to leave soon after, but not before we finished the rest of the marshmallows, all of the beer, and someone roasted a banana.
On our way back, we talked about more trips (including a skiing trip that I'd love to go on), deteriorating bridges ("please don't stop under the bridge!"), and people who drank too much beer and needed to go to the bathroom (one guy was almost desperate enough to emulate Mario). If it were any warmer and drier I would have wished it lasted longer. As it were though, I was plenty glad to return to my warm, cozy room and actually sleep on a proper bed.
. . .
Next weekend I am going on another trip, except this time I am going to Beavertown (I had bought the tickets last weekend, and I am so excited). I already have my outfits planned out, because, obviously, this is the most important part. Well, also because Yuma said he would be in charge of planning the events, so that does not leave me with much left to plan for.
I told this to a guy I had met online a couple weeks ago (who knew about my situation with Yuma), and he said, "Bring pepper spray."
I hope I won't ever have to use that.
That aside, I am really, really excited. I'm hoping I will finish all of my homework before Friday, and then maybe skip out of my last class on Friday so I don't need to be at the bus station at 12 in the morning (although that is also a feasible option, if I had to), and then I'll skip my Tuesday tutorial so I can have three and a half days (and four nights!) in Beavertown.
But that means I have to work now, so off I'll be.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Busy, Busy Days
I went to the tech fair this week, and talked to several companies about internships and such. I had printed out 15 CVs, because Yuma had told me to print 40, and I think I still have 6 or 7 left. Thank goodness I didn't print 40. I would probably need a few more for the volunteering/exchange expo this weekend, if that, but otherwise I wouldn't need them until winter, and by then I hope to add a few more things on there.
I still need to research these internships I've learned about though. Maybe tonight, or tomorrow, if I get the chance.
Tomorrow I am going to buy tickets to Beavertown, unless my dad plans a spontaneous visit, which I hope he won't, and if he does I can always say that I will be out that weekend with friends. Which is technically true, if you discard the notion that Beavertown is so far away. Then I'll take the metro to the expo, because it is apparently along the route, and then I'll come back to Fish Wings to go on a camping trip sponsored by my department that will last half the weekend. Apparently this is the first time our department has done anything like this, and we're going to a place that even the coordinators have never heard of before they organized the trip.
In Yuma's words (sort of), if anyone died they would never host something like this again.
Yesterday I went to the SWE-like-group's committee meeting, and we agreed on a potluck dinner/drinks/karaoke night some time next month. And today I got a nomination form for class rep (I need 25 people to back me up), and signed up to take notes for other people in my class. I also emailed a group about being a math tutor, and another group about participating in their robot team.
Jessica, who has also signed up for all of these things (well, in the sense of plenty, not the sense of exactly the same), was wondering if she wanted to take on any more or if it would be too much for her to handle.
It does seem like there aren't enough hours in the day, although my classes are still going by as slow as ever. I can't believe a month has passed and I really can't believe how little I learned in linear algebra.
But there is linear algebra homework due on Sunday, and a debate I need to research for on Monday, so I will need to get most of it done before I go on the camping trip tomorrow. Less blogging, more working.
I still need to research these internships I've learned about though. Maybe tonight, or tomorrow, if I get the chance.
Tomorrow I am going to buy tickets to Beavertown, unless my dad plans a spontaneous visit, which I hope he won't, and if he does I can always say that I will be out that weekend with friends. Which is technically true, if you discard the notion that Beavertown is so far away. Then I'll take the metro to the expo, because it is apparently along the route, and then I'll come back to Fish Wings to go on a camping trip sponsored by my department that will last half the weekend. Apparently this is the first time our department has done anything like this, and we're going to a place that even the coordinators have never heard of before they organized the trip.
In Yuma's words (sort of), if anyone died they would never host something like this again.
Yesterday I went to the SWE-like-group's committee meeting, and we agreed on a potluck dinner/drinks/karaoke night some time next month. And today I got a nomination form for class rep (I need 25 people to back me up), and signed up to take notes for other people in my class. I also emailed a group about being a math tutor, and another group about participating in their robot team.
Jessica, who has also signed up for all of these things (well, in the sense of plenty, not the sense of exactly the same), was wondering if she wanted to take on any more or if it would be too much for her to handle.
It does seem like there aren't enough hours in the day, although my classes are still going by as slow as ever. I can't believe a month has passed and I really can't believe how little I learned in linear algebra.
But there is linear algebra homework due on Sunday, and a debate I need to research for on Monday, so I will need to get most of it done before I go on the camping trip tomorrow. Less blogging, more working.
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, August 1, 2010
PPS: Perhaps This Is The (Perfect) One
[The much awaited "proof post" about my immense, often irrational love for Penn.]
Continuing on my analogy on love: I think I've mentioned this before plenty of times, but I can't say it enough. Penn is my first love. I come from a college-conscious family; my parents come from an era in China where college graduates were considered "the only future," and the government fully funded all such education. My second aunt on my dad's side bought books on the Chinese "Harvard Girl," hoping my cousin would follow in those footsteps. If you asked any of my family's friends about which colleges were "good," they would answer, in a similar order, "MIT, Stanford, UC Berkeley, Caltech, Cornell." Harvard. Yale. Big names. I knew about the prestige, but not much about where I really wanted to attend.
Falling in love with Penn is much similar to the usual way I fall in love. Something catches my curiosity, and slowly, I become so entangled in its mysteries that I find myself irrevocably in love. Maybe it's not love, but rather an enormous interest, bordering on obsession, but I like to compare it to love.
(Ironically, Owen's going to Penn.)
The first time I'd heard of Penn was in a newspaper crossword. The clue was, "How do University of Pennsylvania students usually refer to their school?" The word was five letters long, so I guessed, "UPenn."
It was the answer, but it wasn't true, although I did not learn that until much later.
Sometime after that, I had the notion that I wanted to learn more about this school. It was in Philadelphia, one of my favorite cities (aside from Toronto, obviously, and Boston, and Chicago), and I was definitely a city girl. My parents talked with me about business, about a math career, and they brought up Wharton. It was like Penn was the perfect, perfect school.
Well, my parents and I went on a one-day trip to Philadelphia some Saturday prior (more like, an eternity ago), and our main destination was, of course, Penn. My first impression of Penn (physically) and of University City was the huge metal bridge with Penn's crest printed upon it. That, and it was raining. It was raining so hard that when I got out of the car, there was a small, gushing river between the edge of the car and the curb.
The actual information session I did not remember much. I do remember it was in a huge room, and there were many, many people, from all sorts of places. Some aspects of the admissions process was talked about, mostly on what Penn was looking for, and I remember lots of mention on the dual-degree programs.
The tour, on the other hand, was quite a spectacular event. It was still raining, and we went around with umbrellas, but I could catch glimpses of lush green leaves and beautiful, castle-like buildings. It was not as exquisite as Princeton, but it had its own charm. And when I walked into Huntsman Hall, I think I really stopped breathing for a moment.
I think, at that moment, I decided that I would start wooing Penn with my love letters (i.e. application material).
We went to downtown Philadelphia next, where my mom said I would have no problem finding adequate Chinese food in case I craved some, and we saw the Liberty Bell. We also saw numerous Chinese school-kids (elementary to middle school) who were here as part of a summer camp program.
The rain had cleared up by now, and we set out for Swarthmore, as suggested by Reese. I do not understand why Reese is so excited by the possibility (which, by the way, is very unlikely, if anything) that I may be attending Swat. We drove behind a trolley car for half an hour, into what was definitely a small town, and there was Swarthmore, tucked away.
I realize most of my readers have never been to Swarthmore. If I had only two words to describe it, I would use "botanical paradise." Literally, the campus is a huge garden, from Parrish Beach to all the labeled plants (and there are a lot of them) to the outdoor amphitheater that's cloaked in an ambient green. It's amazing. I understand why Reese likes it so much.
Now if they only were less stingy about their financial aid to foreign students. I guess that's the price I've got to pay for an outdoor wonderland like Swat (come to think of it, Stanford, which is also gorgeous, is also not need-blind toward foreign students).
When the mosquitoes started biting, we left. My parents wanted to see Princeton anyway, so we went there next. I've talked about Princeton before, in which I said Princeton was absolutely stunning and perfect. It still is. I love Penn, but I've got to be honest. Princeton is amazing. Its buildings, its campus, everything. There is a sense of wholeness at Princeton, a majestic entity bestowed upon this world.
Well. Anyway. Time for my summaries of the three schools, then.
Penn:
Despite the rain, we got to see a lot, including above decent architecture (better than Dartmouth, Cornell, and Columbia, on par with inner-Brown and parts of Yale, which I will need to talk about later), great Locust Walk, and a small enough campus that I won't worry too much about transportation (although if you're talking small you can't beat Columbia). Close to downtown, which by the way is gorgeous—even NYC's got nothing on Philly. Also close to not-so-decent areas (run-down houses), and of course my parents are concerned about campus safety.
Swarthmore:
Half an hour away from Philly, it's relaxing and has a soothing beauty to it. Buildings—average. Admissions office is the only great building. Decent size, lots of cool plants, and bunnies! Always a plus. When you leave campus, there's a plaza right outside, so it's not too inconvenient. Not for me, though. I hate isolated places, and although Swat's not as bad as, say, Middlebury, it's still too quiet for me.
Princeton:
I've done this before, so I won't do it again, except to say that we also went to this fountain place (on the engineering and more science/tech side of campus) and it's really nice. The buildings are more modern, not as nice as the main part of campus, but it's integrated nicely, unlike Cornell (that place is a planning disaster).
As for my perfect school?
I think you know already.
Continuing on my analogy on love: I think I've mentioned this before plenty of times, but I can't say it enough. Penn is my first love. I come from a college-conscious family; my parents come from an era in China where college graduates were considered "the only future," and the government fully funded all such education. My second aunt on my dad's side bought books on the Chinese "Harvard Girl," hoping my cousin would follow in those footsteps. If you asked any of my family's friends about which colleges were "good," they would answer, in a similar order, "MIT, Stanford, UC Berkeley, Caltech, Cornell." Harvard. Yale. Big names. I knew about the prestige, but not much about where I really wanted to attend.
Falling in love with Penn is much similar to the usual way I fall in love. Something catches my curiosity, and slowly, I become so entangled in its mysteries that I find myself irrevocably in love. Maybe it's not love, but rather an enormous interest, bordering on obsession, but I like to compare it to love.
(Ironically, Owen's going to Penn.)
The first time I'd heard of Penn was in a newspaper crossword. The clue was, "How do University of Pennsylvania students usually refer to their school?" The word was five letters long, so I guessed, "UPenn."
It was the answer, but it wasn't true, although I did not learn that until much later.
Sometime after that, I had the notion that I wanted to learn more about this school. It was in Philadelphia, one of my favorite cities (aside from Toronto, obviously, and Boston, and Chicago), and I was definitely a city girl. My parents talked with me about business, about a math career, and they brought up Wharton. It was like Penn was the perfect, perfect school.
Well, my parents and I went on a one-day trip to Philadelphia some Saturday prior (more like, an eternity ago), and our main destination was, of course, Penn. My first impression of Penn (physically) and of University City was the huge metal bridge with Penn's crest printed upon it. That, and it was raining. It was raining so hard that when I got out of the car, there was a small, gushing river between the edge of the car and the curb.
The actual information session I did not remember much. I do remember it was in a huge room, and there were many, many people, from all sorts of places. Some aspects of the admissions process was talked about, mostly on what Penn was looking for, and I remember lots of mention on the dual-degree programs.
The tour, on the other hand, was quite a spectacular event. It was still raining, and we went around with umbrellas, but I could catch glimpses of lush green leaves and beautiful, castle-like buildings. It was not as exquisite as Princeton, but it had its own charm. And when I walked into Huntsman Hall, I think I really stopped breathing for a moment.
I think, at that moment, I decided that I would start wooing Penn with my love letters (i.e. application material).
We went to downtown Philadelphia next, where my mom said I would have no problem finding adequate Chinese food in case I craved some, and we saw the Liberty Bell. We also saw numerous Chinese school-kids (elementary to middle school) who were here as part of a summer camp program.
The rain had cleared up by now, and we set out for Swarthmore, as suggested by Reese. I do not understand why Reese is so excited by the possibility (which, by the way, is very unlikely, if anything) that I may be attending Swat. We drove behind a trolley car for half an hour, into what was definitely a small town, and there was Swarthmore, tucked away.
I realize most of my readers have never been to Swarthmore. If I had only two words to describe it, I would use "botanical paradise." Literally, the campus is a huge garden, from Parrish Beach to all the labeled plants (and there are a lot of them) to the outdoor amphitheater that's cloaked in an ambient green. It's amazing. I understand why Reese likes it so much.
Now if they only were less stingy about their financial aid to foreign students. I guess that's the price I've got to pay for an outdoor wonderland like Swat (come to think of it, Stanford, which is also gorgeous, is also not need-blind toward foreign students).
When the mosquitoes started biting, we left. My parents wanted to see Princeton anyway, so we went there next. I've talked about Princeton before, in which I said Princeton was absolutely stunning and perfect. It still is. I love Penn, but I've got to be honest. Princeton is amazing. Its buildings, its campus, everything. There is a sense of wholeness at Princeton, a majestic entity bestowed upon this world.
Well. Anyway. Time for my summaries of the three schools, then.
Penn:
Despite the rain, we got to see a lot, including above decent architecture (better than Dartmouth, Cornell, and Columbia, on par with inner-Brown and parts of Yale, which I will need to talk about later), great Locust Walk, and a small enough campus that I won't worry too much about transportation (although if you're talking small you can't beat Columbia). Close to downtown, which by the way is gorgeous—even NYC's got nothing on Philly. Also close to not-so-decent areas (run-down houses), and of course my parents are concerned about campus safety.
Swarthmore:
Half an hour away from Philly, it's relaxing and has a soothing beauty to it. Buildings—average. Admissions office is the only great building. Decent size, lots of cool plants, and bunnies! Always a plus. When you leave campus, there's a plaza right outside, so it's not too inconvenient. Not for me, though. I hate isolated places, and although Swat's not as bad as, say, Middlebury, it's still too quiet for me.
Princeton:
I've done this before, so I won't do it again, except to say that we also went to this fountain place (on the engineering and more science/tech side of campus) and it's really nice. The buildings are more modern, not as nice as the main part of campus, but it's integrated nicely, unlike Cornell (that place is a planning disaster).
As for my perfect school?
I think you know already.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Brown: We Can't All Be Odysseus
Although I would like to be him, to an extent.
On Saturday my parents decided we should go to Brown, because it's not moderately far away like Penn (which is where I'd like to go, even if I get accepted everywhere else, except maybe MIT if everyone else is also there), or really, really far away like WashU, which I don't know if I even want to go in the first place.
I had already heard stories about Brown, both good and bad, so I wasn't sure what to expect. (I never considered it one of the schools on my "list" though, those selectively few that meet my slew of criteria.)
My first opinion of Brown as we drove into campus to find MacMillan Hall was that it was in the middle of Providence, and therefore very crowded and frantic. Providence isn't by far the most frantic city I've been to, and being a city girl myself, I don't mind cities at all (and in fact, I like them better), but something about the way Brown was structured (maybe the buildings themselves, I wasn't sure) put me off. The buildings I saw were mostly brick red, relatively tall, and I was reminded a lot of Williams by the way it spilled into the city.
Then we found the "auditorium," which was really just a large lecture room (and, coincidentally, a chemistry room). We listened in on the hour-long information session (really just 45 minutes, with a 15-minute Starbucks break—at least there's coffee readily available), which included an Odysseus analogy, and how Brown students are explorers who are motivated by curiosity rather than material goods. Then we went outside, where we saw the huge, huge group of people and the small, small group of tour guides.
So instead of shuffling along in the tour, we got a map of campus and walked around ourselves.
Inside Brown, it's really different from the red-brick-hectic side I had seen earlier. This Brown was, in a way, like Princeton, with its greens and wrought-iron gates and pretty stone and brick buildings. It was secluded, maybe even meditative, and it was really nice in general.
Well, in general, I'm unlikely to consider Brown, since it's more stringent towards international students who apply for financial aid, which is what I am. But it's a nice place, I have to admit, even if it's probably not the place for me.
On a separate note, Newport, RI, where we went next as a side trip (as all of these college visits apparently require side trips to make up for their faraway distance and the effort we made to go there), is filled with huge houses and this one school (Salve? Regina? I can't remember) that overlooks the ocean. We didn't investigate further, but my parents concluded that "you can't possibly learn there with so many distractions."
Also, I have finally collected my letter of ineligibility from the SSA, and two different forms of ID. Now just for the mail addressed to me and to actually know the rules of driving.
(Extra mention to Allison Saint-Cross because he's making my taglist look icky, and I won't be talking about him for a while, at least not that I think so.)
On Saturday my parents decided we should go to Brown, because it's not moderately far away like Penn (which is where I'd like to go, even if I get accepted everywhere else, except maybe MIT if everyone else is also there), or really, really far away like WashU, which I don't know if I even want to go in the first place.
I had already heard stories about Brown, both good and bad, so I wasn't sure what to expect. (I never considered it one of the schools on my "list" though, those selectively few that meet my slew of criteria.)
My first opinion of Brown as we drove into campus to find MacMillan Hall was that it was in the middle of Providence, and therefore very crowded and frantic. Providence isn't by far the most frantic city I've been to, and being a city girl myself, I don't mind cities at all (and in fact, I like them better), but something about the way Brown was structured (maybe the buildings themselves, I wasn't sure) put me off. The buildings I saw were mostly brick red, relatively tall, and I was reminded a lot of Williams by the way it spilled into the city.
Then we found the "auditorium," which was really just a large lecture room (and, coincidentally, a chemistry room). We listened in on the hour-long information session (really just 45 minutes, with a 15-minute Starbucks break—at least there's coffee readily available), which included an Odysseus analogy, and how Brown students are explorers who are motivated by curiosity rather than material goods. Then we went outside, where we saw the huge, huge group of people and the small, small group of tour guides.
So instead of shuffling along in the tour, we got a map of campus and walked around ourselves.
Inside Brown, it's really different from the red-brick-hectic side I had seen earlier. This Brown was, in a way, like Princeton, with its greens and wrought-iron gates and pretty stone and brick buildings. It was secluded, maybe even meditative, and it was really nice in general.
Well, in general, I'm unlikely to consider Brown, since it's more stringent towards international students who apply for financial aid, which is what I am. But it's a nice place, I have to admit, even if it's probably not the place for me.
On a separate note, Newport, RI, where we went next as a side trip (as all of these college visits apparently require side trips to make up for their faraway distance and the effort we made to go there), is filled with huge houses and this one school (Salve? Regina? I can't remember) that overlooks the ocean. We didn't investigate further, but my parents concluded that "you can't possibly learn there with so many distractions."
Also, I have finally collected my letter of ineligibility from the SSA, and two different forms of ID. Now just for the mail addressed to me and to actually know the rules of driving.
(Extra mention to Allison Saint-Cross because he's making my taglist look icky, and I won't be talking about him for a while, at least not that I think so.)
Monday, May 31, 2010
McGill: Metropolitan; Middlebury: Many Dorms?
Remember in year 12905120348BC I once said that I would do almost anything (taking out huge student loans not included) to go to a school in the US, and not in Canada? Well, my parents and I went up to Montreal to visit McGill this weekend (after an hour-long wait in customs), and now I can sufficiently say I have changed my mind. I wouldn't mind going to McGill either, even if it's not very high on my list of priorities.
(The really cute red-haired guy with those dark green-blue eyes that reminded me of Brent Tarleton may have something to do with it. Maybe.)
Before this college-visit-and-all-around-trip thing, I'd been to Princeton (with Tea and Avon), Dartmouth, and Amherst. All three of them are pretty secluded schools, in small towns that are a good distance away from the nearest city. McGill—not so much the case. While it's not located in the heart of Montreal (which, judging from where a lot of the souvenir shops are located, would be in Old Montreal), it's pretty much downtown. A blown-up map of the downtown section has the campus at the edge, and when you look out the gates, you see tall skyscrapers, bustling streets, and lots of people.
Another thing that's different. McGill (like many, if not most, other Canadian schools) has a lot of students. While University of Toronto probably claims the most-populated-school title (to my knowledge, anyway), McGill has some 30,000 people, more or less. That's a lot of people, in a campus that is not particularly big. So the buildings, although not taking up a lot of space, are pretty high.
We were going to go to the Welcome Centre, where we could pick up self-guided tours, but the doors were locked. So I asked around a bit, and finally, whom I shall call Brent from now on told me that the bookstore might have some information, and he pointed us towards what we later found out was a library (the bookstore was behind the library). I got a map of the campus, and thus, we began our self-guided tour (because real tours won't start until June, and we're impatient).
On the right of the campus (if you look in from the front gates) are the science buildings—chemistry, physics, geoscience, environmental, and an anatomy/dentistry building. We mostly walked along there (skipping all the art/music/English buildings, because I only had five minutes to copy down which building was what, and so I skipped them). When we were walking away from the chemistry building, a couple of fire trucks came along, sirens blaring, and stopped in front of said building. We watched for a while, trying to figure out if a lab was on fire, but we couldn't figure anything out, so we went to the medical "wing." This was an oddly shaped (it resembles a drumstick) building, tucked behind the biology block, with mostly glass walls. Really pretty.
I don't think we ever figured out where the math department was, which was a pity. Our self-guided tour of McGill ended somewhere after the med/bio sector. The next day, we drove up Mont-Royal (much less exciting because I'd been there once before), then we wanted to go to the Jardin Botanique, but we couldn't stay for long, so we left for Williams, which was our next destination.
Since we wanted to see the islands between New York and Vermont, on our way to Williams we took Route 2 (and the ferry) across to Grand Isle, then onto the bridge and down Route 7 in Vermont, which leads straight to Williamstown. I got a map of Vermont on the island, and it was because of the map that we discovered that Middlebury was along the route as well, and so we made a detour there first.
(Somewhere here, we passed by this motorcycle parade filled with hundreds of motorcycles—and motorcyclists—whirring past us. It was really spectacular.)
Middlebury is probably the stark opposite of McGill. Whereas McGill was in the middle of a busy cosmopolitan city, with tall, modern buildings and the vibe of a city, Middlebury was calm, quiet, and sombre, with its grey stone buildings protruding from the ground in a neat pattern. We got a self-guide brochure from the admissions office, and followed along the route they told us to go.
The entire conversation of the tour basically went like this (all additional commentary are removed):
"Hey, what's this?"—"Dorms."—"Another dorm."—"Another dorm."—"Dining hall."—"Dorm."—"Dorm."—"That's a pretty building."—"It's another dorm."—"Oh! Science building!"—"What's that?"—"Another dorm."
(I can't type "dorm" now without thinking that it looks weird.)
We did find the academic buildings near the end of the tour (and we ended with the library, but it closed half an hour ago), and then we saw the athletic fields, including a small paddle-tennis court and a golf course. I thought the stone buildings were a bit drab, but they were very elegant, even if more than half of them were dorm buildings.
After Middlebury, we went (on track) to Williams. Compared to Middlebury, most of Williams' buildings are made of red brick, and instead of Middlebury's near-complete seclusion, the structure of the campus just flows into the town itself, with two major roads cutting through the middle of campus. It was somewhat difficult to navigate through campus and figure out what each building was supposed to be (we had a map, but it was not very informative), and after walking through two campuses, I was a bit tired. Nonetheless, I did like the small-town feel of Williams, even if it's not my favorite.
(We also saw two Memorial Day parades, and they were really fascinating to watch. I'm sad I missed our town's parade though. I got an email from Mrs. MacDonald asking for people to hold some banner of some sort? Does any of you know who did it?)
We went mountain-climbing as well, up Mt. Greylock, and up the tower on the summit. It was very fun, mostly because we rode the car up the mountain, as opposed to hiking up the side, so it was much less tiring on such a hot, sunny day. I also collected a lot of maps and brochures, which will be fun to read.
Which reminds me, I still have to read two acts of Othello for tomorrow. I was going to read it over the weekend, but as you can see, I was very distracted.
Also, my visited campuses ranking list thus far:
1. Princeton (what a surprise...)
2. Amherst
3. Middlebury
4. McGill
5. Williams
6. Dartmouth
(The really cute red-haired guy with those dark green-blue eyes that reminded me of Brent Tarleton may have something to do with it. Maybe.)
Before this college-visit-and-all-around-trip thing, I'd been to Princeton (with Tea and Avon), Dartmouth, and Amherst. All three of them are pretty secluded schools, in small towns that are a good distance away from the nearest city. McGill—not so much the case. While it's not located in the heart of Montreal (which, judging from where a lot of the souvenir shops are located, would be in Old Montreal), it's pretty much downtown. A blown-up map of the downtown section has the campus at the edge, and when you look out the gates, you see tall skyscrapers, bustling streets, and lots of people.
Another thing that's different. McGill (like many, if not most, other Canadian schools) has a lot of students. While University of Toronto probably claims the most-populated-school title (to my knowledge, anyway), McGill has some 30,000 people, more or less. That's a lot of people, in a campus that is not particularly big. So the buildings, although not taking up a lot of space, are pretty high.
We were going to go to the Welcome Centre, where we could pick up self-guided tours, but the doors were locked. So I asked around a bit, and finally, whom I shall call Brent from now on told me that the bookstore might have some information, and he pointed us towards what we later found out was a library (the bookstore was behind the library). I got a map of the campus, and thus, we began our self-guided tour (because real tours won't start until June, and we're impatient).
On the right of the campus (if you look in from the front gates) are the science buildings—chemistry, physics, geoscience, environmental, and an anatomy/dentistry building. We mostly walked along there (skipping all the art/music/English buildings, because I only had five minutes to copy down which building was what, and so I skipped them). When we were walking away from the chemistry building, a couple of fire trucks came along, sirens blaring, and stopped in front of said building. We watched for a while, trying to figure out if a lab was on fire, but we couldn't figure anything out, so we went to the medical "wing." This was an oddly shaped (it resembles a drumstick) building, tucked behind the biology block, with mostly glass walls. Really pretty.
I don't think we ever figured out where the math department was, which was a pity. Our self-guided tour of McGill ended somewhere after the med/bio sector. The next day, we drove up Mont-Royal (much less exciting because I'd been there once before), then we wanted to go to the Jardin Botanique, but we couldn't stay for long, so we left for Williams, which was our next destination.
Since we wanted to see the islands between New York and Vermont, on our way to Williams we took Route 2 (and the ferry) across to Grand Isle, then onto the bridge and down Route 7 in Vermont, which leads straight to Williamstown. I got a map of Vermont on the island, and it was because of the map that we discovered that Middlebury was along the route as well, and so we made a detour there first.
(Somewhere here, we passed by this motorcycle parade filled with hundreds of motorcycles—and motorcyclists—whirring past us. It was really spectacular.)
Middlebury is probably the stark opposite of McGill. Whereas McGill was in the middle of a busy cosmopolitan city, with tall, modern buildings and the vibe of a city, Middlebury was calm, quiet, and sombre, with its grey stone buildings protruding from the ground in a neat pattern. We got a self-guide brochure from the admissions office, and followed along the route they told us to go.
The entire conversation of the tour basically went like this (all additional commentary are removed):
"Hey, what's this?"—"Dorms."—"Another dorm."—"Another dorm."—"Dining hall."—"Dorm."—"Dorm."—"That's a pretty building."—"It's another dorm."—"Oh! Science building!"—"What's that?"—"Another dorm."
(I can't type "dorm" now without thinking that it looks weird.)
We did find the academic buildings near the end of the tour (and we ended with the library, but it closed half an hour ago), and then we saw the athletic fields, including a small paddle-tennis court and a golf course. I thought the stone buildings were a bit drab, but they were very elegant, even if more than half of them were dorm buildings.
After Middlebury, we went (on track) to Williams. Compared to Middlebury, most of Williams' buildings are made of red brick, and instead of Middlebury's near-complete seclusion, the structure of the campus just flows into the town itself, with two major roads cutting through the middle of campus. It was somewhat difficult to navigate through campus and figure out what each building was supposed to be (we had a map, but it was not very informative), and after walking through two campuses, I was a bit tired. Nonetheless, I did like the small-town feel of Williams, even if it's not my favorite.
(We also saw two Memorial Day parades, and they were really fascinating to watch. I'm sad I missed our town's parade though. I got an email from Mrs. MacDonald asking for people to hold some banner of some sort? Does any of you know who did it?)
We went mountain-climbing as well, up Mt. Greylock, and up the tower on the summit. It was very fun, mostly because we rode the car up the mountain, as opposed to hiking up the side, so it was much less tiring on such a hot, sunny day. I also collected a lot of maps and brochures, which will be fun to read.
Which reminds me, I still have to read two acts of Othello for tomorrow. I was going to read it over the weekend, but as you can see, I was very distracted.
Also, my visited campuses ranking list thus far:
1. Princeton (what a surprise...)
2. Amherst
3. Middlebury
4. McGill
5. Williams
6. Dartmouth
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Rhett Says We're On Everest
Eighty-something pages into Gone With the Wind, I've finally met Rhett (officially), and I have to say, he is a bit of a disappointment. He has a weird mustache, and he's over thirty years old, when Scarlett's only sixteen. It was acceptable back then, and in some places, still acceptable today, but I don't attach any romantic inclinations towards men over twice my age with mustaches and appear "cool" (I'm pretty sure this "cool" does not have the connotations it has now) looking.
However, he's got a cool (modern definition) name, and with a name like Rhett, I will forgive his other faults so far. For the time being. Besides, I do want to see how the drunk Tarleton twins will handle Scarlett's new fancy (if she gets over the cousin-marrying fiend first, that is).
On a more personal level, yesterday, Zephy and I started from Base Camp (our school) and hiked up Mt. Everest to arrive at the peak (our homes). Along the way, we scaled numerous icy paths and lumpy rocks, and made a pit stop at one of the camps along the way.
Zephy rang the doorbell (sophisticated technology), and after a while, Vincent opened the door.
So we went in, took a rest, and watched some adorable mountain critters (kittens) play with each other and running away from us. That last part was kind of sad, but at least one of them liked us, so we mostly played with him while dangling the cat toy (a good distance away from us) for the others to play.
I've also not updated for some time, so a brief recap of things that happened before my outlandish hike up the ever-daunting Everest. Wednesday there was a lab in chem, whereupon we played with super-concentrated HCl (6M, which is half the strength of stock HCl) and vaporized magnesium strips (technically, the magnesium was not vaporized, it merely ionized into Mg+2 and the gas given off was hydrogen, but it sure does look like the magnesium was vaporized). The next day, Argon and Reese and I had a discussion about Reese's awful lab skills, mainly pouring chemicals (which he claims is "in the family," as his sister was awful at that as well). We were all glad that Reese did not participate in the lab I had the day before, because, as Mr. Coffee had said, "One drop of this stuff on your hand, you'll feel fine, and then after a while, you'll say, 'owww.' More than one drop, and you're in serious trouble."
On Thursday, my SAT scores also came out! I'd been waiting for them for, uh, pretty much since I got them over with, and I did way better than I thought I would, so I'm happy. No more icky SATs (not even SAT IIs anymore). I also ran the mile run, with more than a minute over the "health" limit, and half a minute more than what I had accomplished last year, but I blame my current non-activity in health class, instead of gym, as the main culprit.
Today (and tomorrow), all the state parks open for free (most of them are free anyway, as I later realized), so my parents and I went upstate to a place with mountains, streams (with fish), and lots of campsites. We watched a few people fishing for a while, then we went nearby to a waterfall. All in all, it was an eventful day. Plus, I found a few more nice songs from a playlist someone else compiled, so I'm going to listen to those while writing my multiple perspective narrative. (Argon had trouble with the "creative" writing part, so I tried to explain with a complex system of where the input from the surroundings spurred personal output, which altered the environment and thus creates more input, and so the cycle goes on. I think this made it more logical than creative, but oh well.)
MID—
Rhett: 0.5
Scarlett: 1
However, he's got a cool (modern definition) name, and with a name like Rhett, I will forgive his other faults so far. For the time being. Besides, I do want to see how the drunk Tarleton twins will handle Scarlett's new fancy (if she gets over the cousin-marrying fiend first, that is).
On a more personal level, yesterday, Zephy and I started from Base Camp (our school) and hiked up Mt. Everest to arrive at the peak (our homes). Along the way, we scaled numerous icy paths and lumpy rocks, and made a pit stop at one of the camps along the way.
Zephy rang the doorbell (sophisticated technology), and after a while, Vincent opened the door.
So we went in, took a rest, and watched some adorable mountain critters (kittens) play with each other and running away from us. That last part was kind of sad, but at least one of them liked us, so we mostly played with him while dangling the cat toy (a good distance away from us) for the others to play.
I've also not updated for some time, so a brief recap of things that happened before my outlandish hike up the ever-daunting Everest. Wednesday there was a lab in chem, whereupon we played with super-concentrated HCl (6M, which is half the strength of stock HCl) and vaporized magnesium strips (technically, the magnesium was not vaporized, it merely ionized into Mg+2 and the gas given off was hydrogen, but it sure does look like the magnesium was vaporized). The next day, Argon and Reese and I had a discussion about Reese's awful lab skills, mainly pouring chemicals (which he claims is "in the family," as his sister was awful at that as well). We were all glad that Reese did not participate in the lab I had the day before, because, as Mr. Coffee had said, "One drop of this stuff on your hand, you'll feel fine, and then after a while, you'll say, 'owww.' More than one drop, and you're in serious trouble."
On Thursday, my SAT scores also came out! I'd been waiting for them for, uh, pretty much since I got them over with, and I did way better than I thought I would, so I'm happy. No more icky SATs (not even SAT IIs anymore). I also ran the mile run, with more than a minute over the "health" limit, and half a minute more than what I had accomplished last year, but I blame my current non-activity in health class, instead of gym, as the main culprit.
Today (and tomorrow), all the state parks open for free (most of them are free anyway, as I later realized), so my parents and I went upstate to a place with mountains, streams (with fish), and lots of campsites. We watched a few people fishing for a while, then we went nearby to a waterfall. All in all, it was an eventful day. Plus, I found a few more nice songs from a playlist someone else compiled, so I'm going to listen to those while writing my multiple perspective narrative. (Argon had trouble with the "creative" writing part, so I tried to explain with a complex system of where the input from the surroundings spurred personal output, which altered the environment and thus creates more input, and so the cycle goes on. I think this made it more logical than creative, but oh well.)
MID—
Rhett: 0.5
Scarlett: 1
