Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Friday, June 21, 2013
When We Stand on Guard, Even in Certain Death
“All is fair in love and war.”
. . .
Here is the age old moral dilemma: would you kill one person to save five?
What about this one: would you kill five people to save five?
Of course you could say, these five people I am saving are close and dear to me, I will save them no matter the cost. These five people are incredibly smart and talent and will accomplish great things in life if they had the chance. These five people are fighting for the righteous ideology, the one that will save the world.
What if one of those five was a young earl, born of a military family, eager above all else to fulfill the family tradition and loyal to his country? His charming grace and good manners had won him favorable opinions even from those who did not agree with his position.
What if one of those in the other five was an extremely talented speaker, rallying behind the unshakable ideals of freedom and liberty? Even if his motives were shaky and half his supporters had more practical purposes in mind, were they not noble goals?
As I muster up my virtual troops in an Age-of-Empires-like game readying for the next attack against the “bandit chief,” so, too, must a real general have, throughout the ages, prepared his army for an uncertain fate. Perhaps he did not want to fight the war. Perhaps, more than anything else, he did want to sit by the river and fish with his hookless fishing rod.
But, as with all things history, one must decide. Despite John Rowe’s best efforts at peacekeeping, he could not preserve the fine sanctuary where the regulars dined with him and the townspeople kept on their smuggling trade unhindered. And the one hundred and eight heroic warriors forced to leave their hometowns and band together defying an unjust government? They could not hide in their mountain base forever, whiling away the days.
Their leader decided to obey the emperor in the end. Even if it meant one hundred and eight deaths.
Is there really the right decision, the right thing to do?
In twenty years, the right people were the Bostonians who had their Pope Day mobs and overthrew tea into the ocean. History only favors the victorious, and soon their sacrifices are the only ones that matter, their concerns the only ones worth mentioning, their hopes and dreams the only ones to be pursued.
But in the moment, perhaps we can only make the best of two horrible choices and map out our course using the painful moral compass in our hearts.
. . .
I am a horrible decision-maker.
There is no hiding around it. Whenever there are choices to be made, I strive to retain all of them as long as possible. I am the girl who kept multiple bookmarks in her “choose your own adventure” books so she could go back and read every possible ending. I am the girl who has five different variations of the same item that does basically the same thing in a game, because I could not decide which one to pick.
I, too, am the one who always sympathizes with the villain, because what if they had a really good reason for what they did and who am I to judge? I do not want to make anyone unhappy, and yet most of all I do not want to be unhappy.
They say you can’t make everyone in the world happy all the time, but how could I choose who to make happier and whose hopes to crush? Maybe the one who I care about more? But how could I figure that out when all I want to do is curl up and fade away slowly?
If only my misery could bring forth something good.
Then again, I suppose it wouldn’t be called misery, would it?
I know I am hurting everyone in my impasse, but even knowing so I am indecisive as ever.
. . .
The night before Joseph Warren was supposed to take up command as general of a fledgling rebel troop, he stayed up the entire night and fell asleep the next day until noon. Perhaps, even until then, his subconscious was not sure what to do.
But when he woke up, he knew.
He marched up the hill, not as a general, but as a footsoldier, to his death.
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, March 18, 2012
Tentative Steps
On CNN, Kirsten Haglund, the winner of the title Miss America in 2008, says, "I remember the first day I decided to throw away my lunch, and I drank a Coke instead. I felt really good. I remember that day and the choice I made. And it was a choice made out of fear, not logic."
Maybe that is why I took out that bottle of diet coke Khajiit got for free from the vending machine. We are chronic Nestea drinkers, and when we are not drinking it we're drinking Lipton tea, or another latte from Tim Hortons. When I took a sip from the bottle, the fizzy drink caught in my throat and burned. But I kept on going. It is addicting, this heady mix of aspartame and carbonated water.
We have our reasons for choosing the drinks we do. Years ago, Trent Hamm at The Simple Dollar wrote, "My wife and I have both been addicted to soda for many years. On an average day, I would drink six cans of soda and my wife would drink four cans, meaning we would go through ten cans a day at our house." General Duck prefers his soda sparingly, but the bottle in his hand has still become a part of his persona.
For me, picking a drink has much to do with the mood I want to convey in my life. Coffee in those ambivalent preteen years when public transit gave us a freedom I haven't tasted until recently (not surprisingly, I have adopted a new caffeine habit lately as well). Bubble tea to soothe a nostalgia that seeps through the edges of my vision so that there is always something there, something in the corner of my eye.
Hot chocolate? Well, because I wanted to roll up the rim. Not that I won anything.
. . .
Islandtown's metro line is asking people to name their new train. One of the names was related to the Greek god of time, Chronos. I told Khajiit that one of my characters was called Chronos. He said, "Everyone has a character called Chronos."
I have tried to read more lately. I checked out Middlemarch from the library, and Khajiit and I read the first chapter (and a very wordy prelude). There is something special about the way a book can make you laugh, but I had never quite experienced it until now. So I think George Eliot is something special, critics of her other life be damned.
On the radio we hear Adele over and over again. They are tragic songs, completely not fit for a coffeehouse with bright red and yellow banners promoting its new jalapeño and asiago cheese bagels. On her YouTube videos people says things like, "She's pretty inside and out," or, "She's not fat, too many celebrities today are too skinny." They remind me of the "compare her to Marilyn Monroe" posters, of the idea that arguing men like women who are not bone-skinny is still objectifying women, because the standard-holders are still men.
When Adele said she wasn't "some blonde, skinny, fake boob, white teeth" girl, there is something sad in that statement. Something that sits uncomfortably in my stomach, even though I am not sure what it is.
A few nights ago, Veronica and Khajiit were working on our web design company (which reminds me, I need to get going on that), when they came across a photo of a group of students posing for what looked like a case competition. Veronica said, "Those girls look more natural, because girls take more photos of themselves."
Little things like that hurt. They hurt on a personal level, so to me they grate on my heart.
. . .
I stood in front of a class of one hundred on Friday. Made a public announcement about the film my environmental club was screening. I have not done something like this for a long while, especially not when I could see every single face and recognize people in the crowd.
The film itself was a success, if not a haunting one. We saw lovely paintings made of aluminum cans stacked on top of each other and baby albatrosses dead, bellies splayed open to reveal all the plastic inside.
Why must it be so sentimental?
I sleep at night panicked, tossing around, half-starting when I am about to fall asleep. There is something about the night, how still it is, that makes me uneasy. My body is failing me, or I am failing it, whichever one explains the aches and pains and dull anxiety.
Yesterday, in a fit of curiosity-laden panic, I looked up whether our house was likely to flood in 2100. The site says that if it does, it will be because of some harbor in the city near our house, or the beach, or the river. On SMBC, Zach Weiner describes a superior race that falls because of its impeccable ethics. I jaywalked across the street bordering my university today, against my usual rules of strictly following the roads.
. . .
In the depths of my blankets and shaking, I am lonely. I don't fully understand it, because I am not alone—I am far from alone—but I am still lonely.
. . .
When I wake up these days, it is usually to realize I have missed another class, or that it is now late afternoon and I have been sleeping all day. Khajiit, woken by my frantic prodding, would say, "We knew this was going to happen," to our promising ourselves the night before that we would wake up early. Then I would roll over and he would wrap his arm around me, and that would be my favorite part of the day.
These days it has been getting warmer in Islandtown. I pulled out my pair of red tights, paired them with the ridiculously high heels I bought from China, and got out a red shirt I had almost forgotten I owned. The lady at the food court eyed my outfit as I stood up next to her to throw away my cup.
Cosmic Gate is playing on my Pandora station. The other day Khajiit showed me how to set up a proxy so I could access Pandora from his server-in-a-closet. I took a jab at it yesterday and wondered if I had done something wrong when a firewall message popped up. Today, after a few changes to the procedure, I bypassed the firewall prompt. I don't know what triggered it though.
I was reading this very, very sad site that made me almost cry.
Somewhat unrelated, I had always thought that being an activist in one group made you much more likely to sympathize with activists in another group. My university, my city, and my province has proven me otherwise.
. . .
Maybe I have just been cooped up inside for too long.
Maybe that is why I took out that bottle of diet coke Khajiit got for free from the vending machine. We are chronic Nestea drinkers, and when we are not drinking it we're drinking Lipton tea, or another latte from Tim Hortons. When I took a sip from the bottle, the fizzy drink caught in my throat and burned. But I kept on going. It is addicting, this heady mix of aspartame and carbonated water.
We have our reasons for choosing the drinks we do. Years ago, Trent Hamm at The Simple Dollar wrote, "My wife and I have both been addicted to soda for many years. On an average day, I would drink six cans of soda and my wife would drink four cans, meaning we would go through ten cans a day at our house." General Duck prefers his soda sparingly, but the bottle in his hand has still become a part of his persona.
For me, picking a drink has much to do with the mood I want to convey in my life. Coffee in those ambivalent preteen years when public transit gave us a freedom I haven't tasted until recently (not surprisingly, I have adopted a new caffeine habit lately as well). Bubble tea to soothe a nostalgia that seeps through the edges of my vision so that there is always something there, something in the corner of my eye.
Hot chocolate? Well, because I wanted to roll up the rim. Not that I won anything.
. . .
Islandtown's metro line is asking people to name their new train. One of the names was related to the Greek god of time, Chronos. I told Khajiit that one of my characters was called Chronos. He said, "Everyone has a character called Chronos."
I have tried to read more lately. I checked out Middlemarch from the library, and Khajiit and I read the first chapter (and a very wordy prelude). There is something special about the way a book can make you laugh, but I had never quite experienced it until now. So I think George Eliot is something special, critics of her other life be damned.
On the radio we hear Adele over and over again. They are tragic songs, completely not fit for a coffeehouse with bright red and yellow banners promoting its new jalapeño and asiago cheese bagels. On her YouTube videos people says things like, "She's pretty inside and out," or, "She's not fat, too many celebrities today are too skinny." They remind me of the "compare her to Marilyn Monroe" posters, of the idea that arguing men like women who are not bone-skinny is still objectifying women, because the standard-holders are still men.
When Adele said she wasn't "some blonde, skinny, fake boob, white teeth" girl, there is something sad in that statement. Something that sits uncomfortably in my stomach, even though I am not sure what it is.
A few nights ago, Veronica and Khajiit were working on our web design company (which reminds me, I need to get going on that), when they came across a photo of a group of students posing for what looked like a case competition. Veronica said, "Those girls look more natural, because girls take more photos of themselves."
Little things like that hurt. They hurt on a personal level, so to me they grate on my heart.
. . .
I stood in front of a class of one hundred on Friday. Made a public announcement about the film my environmental club was screening. I have not done something like this for a long while, especially not when I could see every single face and recognize people in the crowd.
The film itself was a success, if not a haunting one. We saw lovely paintings made of aluminum cans stacked on top of each other and baby albatrosses dead, bellies splayed open to reveal all the plastic inside.
Why must it be so sentimental?
I sleep at night panicked, tossing around, half-starting when I am about to fall asleep. There is something about the night, how still it is, that makes me uneasy. My body is failing me, or I am failing it, whichever one explains the aches and pains and dull anxiety.
Yesterday, in a fit of curiosity-laden panic, I looked up whether our house was likely to flood in 2100. The site says that if it does, it will be because of some harbor in the city near our house, or the beach, or the river. On SMBC, Zach Weiner describes a superior race that falls because of its impeccable ethics. I jaywalked across the street bordering my university today, against my usual rules of strictly following the roads.
. . .
In the depths of my blankets and shaking, I am lonely. I don't fully understand it, because I am not alone—I am far from alone—but I am still lonely.
. . .
When I wake up these days, it is usually to realize I have missed another class, or that it is now late afternoon and I have been sleeping all day. Khajiit, woken by my frantic prodding, would say, "We knew this was going to happen," to our promising ourselves the night before that we would wake up early. Then I would roll over and he would wrap his arm around me, and that would be my favorite part of the day.
These days it has been getting warmer in Islandtown. I pulled out my pair of red tights, paired them with the ridiculously high heels I bought from China, and got out a red shirt I had almost forgotten I owned. The lady at the food court eyed my outfit as I stood up next to her to throw away my cup.
Cosmic Gate is playing on my Pandora station. The other day Khajiit showed me how to set up a proxy so I could access Pandora from his server-in-a-closet. I took a jab at it yesterday and wondered if I had done something wrong when a firewall message popped up. Today, after a few changes to the procedure, I bypassed the firewall prompt. I don't know what triggered it though.
I was reading this very, very sad site that made me almost cry.
Somewhat unrelated, I had always thought that being an activist in one group made you much more likely to sympathize with activists in another group. My university, my city, and my province has proven me otherwise.
. . .
Maybe I have just been cooped up inside for too long.
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, February 22, 2011
I Haven't Forgotten This Blog Here
It's just that with life going on I kind of put this on the back burner (I think?) while I engaged in other activities such as reading a 150+ pages long play on a silly middle-class guy who wants to be a noble. Which reminds me, there is a new Noblesse update today, and darn it, Yuma, you have me hooked on it so now I cry, "OH WHY ARE YOU SO FICKLE YOU CLIFFHANGERS?!" every Tuesday night.
Not my favorite way to spend any evening. But I'll cope.
Because it is now 11:24pm and I don't have anything immediately interesting to say since act three of Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme has 16 scenes and I am only on the 7th (and I need to finish the entire play by Monday), I will instead pull up old things I have written as an offering to the Blogging Deities tosecretly bribe wish for more posts to come.
HOW TO FIX THE ECONOMY 101:
1. Find “THE ECONOMY.”
2. Whack it with a hammer called “BUBBLE CRASH.”
3. “THE ECONOMY” should now be spiraling into a “RECESSION” which may result in a “DEPRESSION.”
4. Report to higher-ups of the “RECESSION.” Assign all blame to the shortest guy.
5. Watch as higher-ups fire the shortest guy. Propose “SOLUTIONS” to the higher-ups. Do not worry about what kind of “SOLUTIONS” to propose--they do not have to work.
6. Once approval comes from higher-ups, ditch “SOLUTIONS” and instead use money to buy lots of new “LUXURY ITEMS.”
7. The sale of “LUXURY ITEMS” will naturally result in a boost in “THE ECONOMY,” thus kicking it out of the “RECESSION” and sending it off to a new “BUBBLE.”
8. Sit back and receive praise from higher-ups and “MAIN STREET CITIZENS” for your wonderful “SOLUTIONS” to save “THE ECONOMY” from the “RECESSION” and imminent “DEPRESSION.” Everyone will have forgotten that you caused the “BUBBLE CRASH” in the first place because they will be enamored with you and will think you can never cause any harm. (Until the bloggers start picking you apart.)
HOW TO FIX THE ECONOMY THE HARD WAY:
1. Study economics throughout college and into graduate school, poring over numerous volumes of advanced economical studies and historical graphs and assorted other material.
2. Attempt to use knowledge in current circumstances.
3. Realize all is futile because you are the shortest guy in your group of economic advisors. (Decide to hide behind online personas instead.)
HOW TO FIX THE ECONOMY THE LAZY WAY:
1. Watch the “CLEVER ECONOMIST” and the “STUDIOUS ECONOMIST” fix “THE ECONOMY.”
2. Add yourself as a co-author in their final report.
Not my favorite way to spend any evening. But I'll cope.
Because it is now 11:24pm and I don't have anything immediately interesting to say since act three of Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme has 16 scenes and I am only on the 7th (and I need to finish the entire play by Monday), I will instead pull up old things I have written as an offering to the Blogging Deities to
HOW TO FIX THE ECONOMY 101:
1. Find “THE ECONOMY.”
2. Whack it with a hammer called “BUBBLE CRASH.”
3. “THE ECONOMY” should now be spiraling into a “RECESSION” which may result in a “DEPRESSION.”
4. Report to higher-ups of the “RECESSION.” Assign all blame to the shortest guy.
5. Watch as higher-ups fire the shortest guy. Propose “SOLUTIONS” to the higher-ups. Do not worry about what kind of “SOLUTIONS” to propose--they do not have to work.
6. Once approval comes from higher-ups, ditch “SOLUTIONS” and instead use money to buy lots of new “LUXURY ITEMS.”
7. The sale of “LUXURY ITEMS” will naturally result in a boost in “THE ECONOMY,” thus kicking it out of the “RECESSION” and sending it off to a new “BUBBLE.”
8. Sit back and receive praise from higher-ups and “MAIN STREET CITIZENS” for your wonderful “SOLUTIONS” to save “THE ECONOMY” from the “RECESSION” and imminent “DEPRESSION.” Everyone will have forgotten that you caused the “BUBBLE CRASH” in the first place because they will be enamored with you and will think you can never cause any harm. (Until the bloggers start picking you apart.)
HOW TO FIX THE ECONOMY THE HARD WAY:
1. Study economics throughout college and into graduate school, poring over numerous volumes of advanced economical studies and historical graphs and assorted other material.
2. Attempt to use knowledge in current circumstances.
3. Realize all is futile because you are the shortest guy in your group of economic advisors. (Decide to hide behind online personas instead.)
HOW TO FIX THE ECONOMY THE LAZY WAY:
1. Watch the “CLEVER ECONOMIST” and the “STUDIOUS ECONOMIST” fix “THE ECONOMY.”
2. Add yourself as a co-author in their final report.
Friday, January 7, 2011
There Was Snow, White Snow
Five minutes from the heavily anticipated announcement of whether we will have an early dismissal or not, Mr. Littney, who had earlier asked us to discuss all of the books we had read for class thus far, asked, "What would Gregor from Metamorphosis say if he knew that a snow day was coming up?"
We stared at him for a while, not quite understanding his question.
"I think he wouldn't even notice," Mr. Littney went on to say. "I think he would be so entrenched in his routine that he wouldn't even notice there was snow. What about Return of the Soldier?"
"Chris would probably be staring out at the snow and reminiscing some wonderful moment with Margaret," someone said.
For Brave New World, Sonny said, "I think there wouldn't be any snow. They would just make it go away." Some else said, "People couldn't have snowball fights unless they used complicated machinery that increased consumption."
For Hamlet, Cammie said, "Hamlet would probably be the superintendent, trying to decide whether we should have an early dismissal or not." And Mr. Littney added, "Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to have an early dismissal or to suffer until 2:15."
And for Aura, Mr. Littney said, "You look outside at the snow, and it is not snow anymore!" "And cats are burning on the trees," someone else added.
Oh, English.
(At the beginning of class, we had a one-minute discussion of the snow, which included Mr. Littney saying, "This is AP, get nothing and expect even less," in response to the collective groan when he pulled up the blinds so we could better stare at the tantalizing snow falling outside.)
. . .
We had our early dismissal, after all. I came home realizing that if we had not had an early dismissal, I would have had to explain multiple incomplete homeworks. And it wasn't that I had banked on the possibility of a snow day—I went to bed fully prepared to plot out my day according to the plan that there would be a full day of school.
There is lethargy in the air. Scatter-brained.
My back hurts. I thought it was because I sleep in shriveled-up positions, but now that I think about it, perhaps it is more because I had been leaning against unforgiving edges for a prolonged time yesterday. I am not the flexible girl I used to be, the one who could raise her feet to almost behind her head. That was years ago. This is now. This is painful.
I am tired, I am sleepy, and it is but a week since our last break. I slept a ridiculous amount during break, extended, 12+ hours. Sometimes 18. Sometimes more.
Sometimes I want to sleep even more, but it is now painful to lie down on my back, so sleep will, once again, be elusive.
. . .
My dad is talking about one of my cousins, who dated a boy in high school throughout college. The boy went to a better school. My parents often said that was the reason they broke up right at the end of college.
The cousin got a job half a country away, in a factory, and there, she met her future husband. Who cheated on her. She got a divorce and moved back home.
And in China, a divorce is still a huge deal. It is reputation-destroying. You won't ever be the same anymore.
At home, she found someone else, a man with a child.
Which is somehow even worse. These are some values I cannot, cannot agree with. But they are reality. I am not in accord with reality.
My dad does not approve of this relationship (neither does my grandmother, for that matter). He thinks it won't work out. Ever the optimist, he is. He will, most likely, have little say in this matter, but he has a lot of say in other matters closer to home.
. . .
The days are long, and the nights longer. Long Day's Journey into Night. I think I make up for my lack of TV-knowledge with a good deal of literary references. I am not sure if that is any better. If one is inherently better than the other, or if it is merely a change in perspectives and roots.
We stared at him for a while, not quite understanding his question.
"I think he wouldn't even notice," Mr. Littney went on to say. "I think he would be so entrenched in his routine that he wouldn't even notice there was snow. What about Return of the Soldier?"
"Chris would probably be staring out at the snow and reminiscing some wonderful moment with Margaret," someone said.
For Brave New World, Sonny said, "I think there wouldn't be any snow. They would just make it go away." Some else said, "People couldn't have snowball fights unless they used complicated machinery that increased consumption."
For Hamlet, Cammie said, "Hamlet would probably be the superintendent, trying to decide whether we should have an early dismissal or not." And Mr. Littney added, "Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to have an early dismissal or to suffer until 2:15."
And for Aura, Mr. Littney said, "You look outside at the snow, and it is not snow anymore!" "And cats are burning on the trees," someone else added.
Oh, English.
(At the beginning of class, we had a one-minute discussion of the snow, which included Mr. Littney saying, "This is AP, get nothing and expect even less," in response to the collective groan when he pulled up the blinds so we could better stare at the tantalizing snow falling outside.)
. . .
We had our early dismissal, after all. I came home realizing that if we had not had an early dismissal, I would have had to explain multiple incomplete homeworks. And it wasn't that I had banked on the possibility of a snow day—I went to bed fully prepared to plot out my day according to the plan that there would be a full day of school.
There is lethargy in the air. Scatter-brained.
My back hurts. I thought it was because I sleep in shriveled-up positions, but now that I think about it, perhaps it is more because I had been leaning against unforgiving edges for a prolonged time yesterday. I am not the flexible girl I used to be, the one who could raise her feet to almost behind her head. That was years ago. This is now. This is painful.
I am tired, I am sleepy, and it is but a week since our last break. I slept a ridiculous amount during break, extended, 12+ hours. Sometimes 18. Sometimes more.
Sometimes I want to sleep even more, but it is now painful to lie down on my back, so sleep will, once again, be elusive.
. . .
My dad is talking about one of my cousins, who dated a boy in high school throughout college. The boy went to a better school. My parents often said that was the reason they broke up right at the end of college.
The cousin got a job half a country away, in a factory, and there, she met her future husband. Who cheated on her. She got a divorce and moved back home.
And in China, a divorce is still a huge deal. It is reputation-destroying. You won't ever be the same anymore.
At home, she found someone else, a man with a child.
Which is somehow even worse. These are some values I cannot, cannot agree with. But they are reality. I am not in accord with reality.
My dad does not approve of this relationship (neither does my grandmother, for that matter). He thinks it won't work out. Ever the optimist, he is. He will, most likely, have little say in this matter, but he has a lot of say in other matters closer to home.
. . .
The days are long, and the nights longer. Long Day's Journey into Night. I think I make up for my lack of TV-knowledge with a good deal of literary references. I am not sure if that is any better. If one is inherently better than the other, or if it is merely a change in perspectives and roots.
Monday, December 13, 2010
For You, Hamlet
Wednesday is our in-class essay, and the official day we will be spending on Hamlet, so I thought I would like to summarize some of my thoughts after reading this play.
- Action vs. Inaction: what everyone reading the play would think about. Hamlet's soliloquies are all about his inaction when it comes to avenging his father. He is "mirrored" in Laertes, who does not hesitate to take down his father's murderer. But what struck me as odd was why Hamlet is not capable of acting. Is it because he is over-thinking things? After he proves that Claudius is responsible for his father's death, what reason does he have for still hesitating? Perhaps he does not truly believe in revenge, and in fact, he asks, "Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer / The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune / Or to take arms against a sea of troubles / And by opposing end them?" Is he thinking about revenge only because the ghost, who is presumably his father, asked him to do so, because it is the right thing to do according to societal norms, or because he actually believes in it?
- Another character with a striking resemblance to Hamlet's situation is Fortinbras. As the prince of Norway, Fortinbras has also lost his father, and, at least from my reading of the text, is bent on revenge against Denmark. Throughout the play, he never gives up on attacking Denmark, and even uses traveling through Denmark to attack Poland as an excuse after his uncle condemned his actions. Here, both Fortinbras and Hamlet have lost their fathers and are seeking revenge, but they go about different ways of achieving revenge, and arrive at different destinations. Fortinbras, in his fiery impulsiveness and warrior-like thinking, does not hesitate to attack, and in the end he and his country benefits (as he has now gained control of all of Denmark's lands). Hamlet, with his indecisiveness and heavy thought processes, continues to miss opportunities to kill Claudius, and eventually dies amidst the destruction of the Denmark throne.
- Mini-digression: it appears, at least in the Hamlet world, that revenge is highly valued (and the judicial system not so much).
- Ophelia's death (and life): this is what I found the saddest. Yes, Hamlet lost his father and rightfully should be sad, but later on Ophelia loses her father as well. And perhaps her loss is even worse—when her father was still alive, he controlled every aspect of her life, and when he dies, it is as though Ophelia loses her soul. Her insanity is perhaps a reflection of that loss and her newfound lack of direction in life. But what makes Ophelia's life and death sad, at least for me, is not how sad she feels, but how her condition affects others around her. Laertes's "What ceremony else?" almost broke my heart. I can just hear the desolation in his voice as he realizes he is powerless to protect his sister or even make her death better. And Hamlet's "I loved Ophelia: forty thousand brothers / Could not, with all their quantity of love / Make up my sum" is both sad and frustrating. Sad, because Hamlet obviously loved her, and frustrating, because, hey, Hamlet, couldn't you at least have treated her a little better when she was alive?
- Mini-digression #2: William Shakespeare must have either had a really bad day or was at least slightly psycho when he wrote this.
- The whole relationship scene: is completely messed up. Starting with family, we have Claudius, who kills his brother and marries his sister-in-law. I don't think it gets much worse than that. Then there are the friends, or the good friends (Horatio) and the bad friends (Rosencrantz and Guildenstern) who are back-stabbers and suck-ups. The lovers who lie constantly to each other (Hamlet and Ophelia). Not to mention how Hamlet treats his mother (very likely violence, or at least very cutting verbal remarks) and Polonius's absolute control over his daughter. There are some very, very disturbing relationships in this play.
- And of course, the portrayal of women: both Gertrude and Ophelia are rather weak characters. They advance the plot, but they do not develop much as characters, and are often pushed around by the other, male characters. What is also interesting is how Shakespeare, in creating his strong female characters, sometimes have them cross-dress as males, as seen in As You Like It's Rosalind, or Twelfth Night's Violet.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Not Enough Time
I am falling apart at the seams, save me, save me please?
I thought you said you didn’t need saving. Said you could save yourself.
That was before. This is now.
You’re not desperate enough.
[There are some dreams that cannot be salvaged. Because they never existed.]
The steps to 30 Reading Street was covered in filmy moss. When Katie climbed them she almost slipped, but years of subway-riding training gave her the quick reflexes to steady herself and keep on going.
“Careful there,” Nick said. He held out his hand, hovered behind her back.
“Don’t worry about me,” Katie said. “I’m fine.”
She reached over and pressed the doorbell. No sound came from inside, and Katie wondered if she should press it again, or knock on the door. Would it be too rude? She stared at her reflection in the glass.
Perfectly groomed hair. Make-up applied so seamlessly they were dreamy. A neat cardigan over a navy cotton dress and ballerina flats. Her appearance was so youthful and carefree she thought she could almost mask the haunted look in her eyes.
After a few minutes, the door creaked open. Amanda’s weary eyes replaced Katie’s from behind the glass.
“What do you want?” They both said at the same time.
“Am I that predictable?” Amanda asked, a half-smile on her face.
Katie returned it with more optimism than she thought she had. “It is partly my fault. I usually only call on you when I need something.”
“Well then. How are you?”
“Good, good. How are you? How is Nick?”
“He is good,” Amanda and Nick said at the same time. Except this time, Amanda did not react. Katie shot him a dark look before turning back to Amanda.
“I am glad to hear that. You are good too?”
“Yes,” Amanda said. “Yes, I am.”
They stood a while like that, in silence. Katie remotely remembered why she never called upon Amanda. She pulled up a smile again and said, “Want to go get coffee with me some afternoon? I have a really flexible schedule now, and I get most afternoons off.”
“You don’t have a schedule anymore,” Nick said. “You don’t even work anymore.”
Amanda said, “That sounds nice. I am free Wednesday afternoons, and Nick does not get home until late. It is nearing dinner-time today, so maybe next Wednesday?”
“Yes, that would be great,” Katie said. “Absolutely lovely.” Absolutely fucking lovely, but she managed to cut off the curse. Nick should be proud.
The conversation fell into another lull. This time, Amanda smiled. “No hard feelings?”
“No hard feelings,” Katie said.
None at all.
“Yes, no hard feelings,” Nick said, and laughed. That dry, hacking laugh. “Wish her a happy marriage. I dare you.”
“I hope you will be happy with Nick,” Katie said. “You two are perfect for each other.”
“Thank you,” Amanda said. “I was afraid—well, forgive me, but with your history with Nick, I was afraid that you might be upset at the news.”
“No, not at all. I am happy for you.”
“Well, thank you again. I hope you will come to the ceremony? I was going to ask you to be my bridesmaid, but Jessie really wanted—”
“That is not a problem,” Katie said. “I would hate to be so responsible anyway.”
“But the ceremony?”
“Yes, I will. I have to go now, but next Wednesday at Miguel’s café?”
“Of course.”
“Good bye.”
“Good bye.”
The door closed, and Katie was left with her reflection again. The hair still unruffled. The make-up pristine. Her outfit as cheerful and preppy as before. Her eyes just as hollow, but she was glad Amanda was not too perceptive.
Katie went down the steps, taking care not to slip on the moss again. She asked, “Why didn’t you clean this place up?”
“Not my problem,” Nick said. “Amanda can do it if she wanted.”
“She is your fiancée.”
“She is.”
“So what if she slips and falls? What if she gets hurt? You still won’t do it?”
“You were pretty gutsy back there,” Nick said. “I thought you wouldn’t have said it.”
“Don’t change the topic,” Katie said.
“I’m—”
A sky-blue car pulled up in the driveway in front of her. The door opened, and Nick stepped out. He just stood there, staring at Katie, and she could see something in his eyes that she often saw in her own.
“Hey, Nick,” she said.
“Katie,” Nick said. His voice did not have that sardonic tone anymore. It was more subdued, with an edge in it that made Katie’s throat contract. “What are you doing here?”
“I was visiting Amanda. She is my friend, you know.”
Nick cringed, and Katie knew what he was thinking. That drunken night she had called Amanda on a dare, the night she had introduced Nick to her. Because “you don’t have any decent friends,” as Nick had said.
“Yes, she is your friend,” Nick said. “I would have never known that.”
“I had forgotten that,” Nick said. “How are you then?”
“Good. Good enough,” Katie said. “How are you?”
“Good,” Nick said.
“Good,” Nick said.
One with contempt. One with hesitance.
“Amanda invited me to your wedding,” Katie said. “I hope everything goes well. Don’t drink too much—I don’t think she would be happy to wait by the toilet for you to finish throwing up.”
“Thank you.” The other Nick did not say anything.
“You’re welcome.”
All civil. Not a single go to hell, or fuck you. They had grown up, after all. Katie scoffed. If this was what growing up meant, she knew why all the grownups she had known as a child were always so stuck up.
Being grown up meant there were some things you wanted so desperately to say, but never said out loud.
Like, “If I had not called Amanda that night, what would have happened?”
Katied wondered. But she knew the answer already. Had she not called Amanda, Nick would be marrying some other girl. Katie herself would still be on barely-speaking terms with him. They would still find each other in this state, perhaps not at his house, but maybe a coffee place or a supermarket.
Still this awkward. Still hating each other.
And Katie would still hear Nick’s voice wherever she went.
. . .
This is all over the place, I admit. I had other things in mind when I was writing this (Nick was supposed to be perceptive and realize that something was wrong with Katie, for example), but it got long and I knew if I didn't finish this today I will never get to finish it, so I cut it off.
This is a much less morbid version of the other Nick, Katie, and Amanda story I had in mind. That one involves a funeral, and in some ways links to this one, so if I do get to fix it up I'll post it as well.
. . .
I was deferred to Penn. Surprisingly, I am not distraught, nor am I that upset. I think I wanted to get in somewhere early so I could just get it over with, but I am not entirely bought on the whole Penn thing. Maybe I was just persuading myself because I had already said I would do it and I hate to go back on my words.
I still love Penn.
But maybe it's not the one.
What does the one look like? I don't know. But MIT's as good a start as any. And yes, I know it's probably not the one either. But to be honest, I don't think I have to go to any one school, nor do I know what I would want for the next four years right now. In this regard, at least, I agree with Mario.
. . .
In English, someone was going to get cough drops from the nurse's office, and Sergio asked for one as well. Then someone else asked for some tissues.
Mr. Littney then said, "Get Dino a sucker pop as well."
We watched the last scene in Hamlet today. Where [spoiler alert] everyone important dies from poison (or, in Laertes's case, also from falling off a balcony, and, in Claudius's case, also from being squished by a chandelier). And Fortinbras marches his troops into the castle only to find everyone dead on the ground.
What a happy sight.
Apparently Aristotle's view of a tragedy is that after reading (or watching) one, we should have learned something about ourselves from it. So what have I learned? (Except for, as Mr. Littney pointed out, "the inability to shut up gives one longer life," as evidenced by Hamlet having being stabbed with poison first but dying last.)
I would say it's my inability to act. My indecision. My ease of just talking things over and not putting them into action. I am like Hamlet in that aspect. And I am missing out on many opportunities, and I am pushing myself off track with each minute I wait.
I can't decide.
I wrote about that in my EOQR as well, and my portfolio. Of course, in my portfolio, I said I learned how to decide, but I don't think I really did. I still don't have what it takes to stick to one decision and its consequences.
Just like colleges.
Just like Nick.
But that would be linking too many things together into one.
I thought you said you didn’t need saving. Said you could save yourself.
That was before. This is now.
You’re not desperate enough.
[There are some dreams that cannot be salvaged. Because they never existed.]
The steps to 30 Reading Street was covered in filmy moss. When Katie climbed them she almost slipped, but years of subway-riding training gave her the quick reflexes to steady herself and keep on going.
“Careful there,” Nick said. He held out his hand, hovered behind her back.
“Don’t worry about me,” Katie said. “I’m fine.”
She reached over and pressed the doorbell. No sound came from inside, and Katie wondered if she should press it again, or knock on the door. Would it be too rude? She stared at her reflection in the glass.
Perfectly groomed hair. Make-up applied so seamlessly they were dreamy. A neat cardigan over a navy cotton dress and ballerina flats. Her appearance was so youthful and carefree she thought she could almost mask the haunted look in her eyes.
After a few minutes, the door creaked open. Amanda’s weary eyes replaced Katie’s from behind the glass.
“What do you want?” They both said at the same time.
“Am I that predictable?” Amanda asked, a half-smile on her face.
Katie returned it with more optimism than she thought she had. “It is partly my fault. I usually only call on you when I need something.”
“Well then. How are you?”
“Good, good. How are you? How is Nick?”
“He is good,” Amanda and Nick said at the same time. Except this time, Amanda did not react. Katie shot him a dark look before turning back to Amanda.
“I am glad to hear that. You are good too?”
“Yes,” Amanda said. “Yes, I am.”
They stood a while like that, in silence. Katie remotely remembered why she never called upon Amanda. She pulled up a smile again and said, “Want to go get coffee with me some afternoon? I have a really flexible schedule now, and I get most afternoons off.”
“You don’t have a schedule anymore,” Nick said. “You don’t even work anymore.”
Amanda said, “That sounds nice. I am free Wednesday afternoons, and Nick does not get home until late. It is nearing dinner-time today, so maybe next Wednesday?”
“Yes, that would be great,” Katie said. “Absolutely lovely.” Absolutely fucking lovely, but she managed to cut off the curse. Nick should be proud.
The conversation fell into another lull. This time, Amanda smiled. “No hard feelings?”
“No hard feelings,” Katie said.
None at all.
“Yes, no hard feelings,” Nick said, and laughed. That dry, hacking laugh. “Wish her a happy marriage. I dare you.”
“I hope you will be happy with Nick,” Katie said. “You two are perfect for each other.”
“Thank you,” Amanda said. “I was afraid—well, forgive me, but with your history with Nick, I was afraid that you might be upset at the news.”
“No, not at all. I am happy for you.”
“Well, thank you again. I hope you will come to the ceremony? I was going to ask you to be my bridesmaid, but Jessie really wanted—”
“That is not a problem,” Katie said. “I would hate to be so responsible anyway.”
“But the ceremony?”
“Yes, I will. I have to go now, but next Wednesday at Miguel’s café?”
“Of course.”
“Good bye.”
“Good bye.”
The door closed, and Katie was left with her reflection again. The hair still unruffled. The make-up pristine. Her outfit as cheerful and preppy as before. Her eyes just as hollow, but she was glad Amanda was not too perceptive.
Katie went down the steps, taking care not to slip on the moss again. She asked, “Why didn’t you clean this place up?”
“Not my problem,” Nick said. “Amanda can do it if she wanted.”
“She is your fiancée.”
“She is.”
“So what if she slips and falls? What if she gets hurt? You still won’t do it?”
“You were pretty gutsy back there,” Nick said. “I thought you wouldn’t have said it.”
“Don’t change the topic,” Katie said.
“I’m—”
A sky-blue car pulled up in the driveway in front of her. The door opened, and Nick stepped out. He just stood there, staring at Katie, and she could see something in his eyes that she often saw in her own.
“Hey, Nick,” she said.
“Katie,” Nick said. His voice did not have that sardonic tone anymore. It was more subdued, with an edge in it that made Katie’s throat contract. “What are you doing here?”
“I was visiting Amanda. She is my friend, you know.”
Nick cringed, and Katie knew what he was thinking. That drunken night she had called Amanda on a dare, the night she had introduced Nick to her. Because “you don’t have any decent friends,” as Nick had said.
“Yes, she is your friend,” Nick said. “I would have never known that.”
“I had forgotten that,” Nick said. “How are you then?”
“Good. Good enough,” Katie said. “How are you?”
“Good,” Nick said.
“Good,” Nick said.
One with contempt. One with hesitance.
“Amanda invited me to your wedding,” Katie said. “I hope everything goes well. Don’t drink too much—I don’t think she would be happy to wait by the toilet for you to finish throwing up.”
“Thank you.” The other Nick did not say anything.
“You’re welcome.”
All civil. Not a single go to hell, or fuck you. They had grown up, after all. Katie scoffed. If this was what growing up meant, she knew why all the grownups she had known as a child were always so stuck up.
Being grown up meant there were some things you wanted so desperately to say, but never said out loud.
Like, “If I had not called Amanda that night, what would have happened?”
Katied wondered. But she knew the answer already. Had she not called Amanda, Nick would be marrying some other girl. Katie herself would still be on barely-speaking terms with him. They would still find each other in this state, perhaps not at his house, but maybe a coffee place or a supermarket.
Still this awkward. Still hating each other.
And Katie would still hear Nick’s voice wherever she went.
. . .
This is all over the place, I admit. I had other things in mind when I was writing this (Nick was supposed to be perceptive and realize that something was wrong with Katie, for example), but it got long and I knew if I didn't finish this today I will never get to finish it, so I cut it off.
This is a much less morbid version of the other Nick, Katie, and Amanda story I had in mind. That one involves a funeral, and in some ways links to this one, so if I do get to fix it up I'll post it as well.
. . .
I was deferred to Penn. Surprisingly, I am not distraught, nor am I that upset. I think I wanted to get in somewhere early so I could just get it over with, but I am not entirely bought on the whole Penn thing. Maybe I was just persuading myself because I had already said I would do it and I hate to go back on my words.
I still love Penn.
But maybe it's not the one.
What does the one look like? I don't know. But MIT's as good a start as any. And yes, I know it's probably not the one either. But to be honest, I don't think I have to go to any one school, nor do I know what I would want for the next four years right now. In this regard, at least, I agree with Mario.
. . .
In English, someone was going to get cough drops from the nurse's office, and Sergio asked for one as well. Then someone else asked for some tissues.
Mr. Littney then said, "Get Dino a sucker pop as well."
We watched the last scene in Hamlet today. Where [spoiler alert] everyone important dies from poison (or, in Laertes's case, also from falling off a balcony, and, in Claudius's case, also from being squished by a chandelier). And Fortinbras marches his troops into the castle only to find everyone dead on the ground.
What a happy sight.
Apparently Aristotle's view of a tragedy is that after reading (or watching) one, we should have learned something about ourselves from it. So what have I learned? (Except for, as Mr. Littney pointed out, "the inability to shut up gives one longer life," as evidenced by Hamlet having being stabbed with poison first but dying last.)
I would say it's my inability to act. My indecision. My ease of just talking things over and not putting them into action. I am like Hamlet in that aspect. And I am missing out on many opportunities, and I am pushing myself off track with each minute I wait.
I can't decide.
I wrote about that in my EOQR as well, and my portfolio. Of course, in my portfolio, I said I learned how to decide, but I don't think I really did. I still don't have what it takes to stick to one decision and its consequences.
Just like colleges.
Just like Nick.
But that would be linking too many things together into one.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Hi, My Name Is Awkwardsauce
My new favorite sound is "uuuuuggghhhhhhhhh." I like to say it until I run out of air and all that's left is a clicky sound that escapes from my throat (before I turn blue and gasp for oxygen).
But first things first. In English today, we were reading the next part of Hamlet, when we came upon this line by Hamlet, "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio / Than are dreamt of in your philosophy." After much analysis, Mr. Littney said, "When you guys go off to college, you'll meet these kids who have never been outside their home state before, and you can say to them, 'There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy,' and they will hate you even more."
I don't know how he says these things with a straight face.
Also, the movie makes the ghost's appearance so weird, awkward, and freaky all at the same time. And the blood oozing out of the king's ear? I'm beginning to think this is an R-rated movie.
Oh, and, Cammie had fabulous purple shoes today. I love all of her shoes, although I have to admit I loved the sequined one better. It made the floor sparkle.
I would like to expand further on the title of this post, but that would involve revealing secrets I am probably not at liberty to say, so just trust me on this one. I am extremely awkward. And did I mention I am awful at maintaining my balance? Absolutely awful.
But I am pretty good at alliterations.
That is good.
I also now have a functional scanner, so I am able to scan in my art and possibly post them on here, instead of relying on my utexas-trained mouse-drawing skills. I mean, you can only get so far if your main objects of practice are free-body diagrams.
So maybe you'll get to see picture-logs of stuff that happens in my day soon. Maybe. Maaaybe.
But first things first. In English today, we were reading the next part of Hamlet, when we came upon this line by Hamlet, "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio / Than are dreamt of in your philosophy." After much analysis, Mr. Littney said, "When you guys go off to college, you'll meet these kids who have never been outside their home state before, and you can say to them, 'There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy,' and they will hate you even more."
I don't know how he says these things with a straight face.
Also, the movie makes the ghost's appearance so weird, awkward, and freaky all at the same time. And the blood oozing out of the king's ear? I'm beginning to think this is an R-rated movie.
Oh, and, Cammie had fabulous purple shoes today. I love all of her shoes, although I have to admit I loved the sequined one better. It made the floor sparkle.
I would like to expand further on the title of this post, but that would involve revealing secrets I am probably not at liberty to say, so just trust me on this one. I am extremely awkward. And did I mention I am awful at maintaining my balance? Absolutely awful.
But I am pretty good at alliterations.
That is good.
I also now have a functional scanner, so I am able to scan in my art and possibly post them on here, instead of relying on my utexas-trained mouse-drawing skills. I mean, you can only get so far if your main objects of practice are free-body diagrams.
So maybe you'll get to see picture-logs of stuff that happens in my day soon. Maybe. Maaaybe.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Obviously, It's The Mustache
This is why Ophelia loves Hamlet so much, even though she knows Hamlet, as the prince of Denmark, will most likely marry one of his cousins instead of a "commoner" like her (she can be an aristocrat to some extent, though, as her father serves the King).
Because Hamlet has such a hot mustache.
At least that was the reason Mr. Littney gave us, as we were watching our version of Hamlet today (it's apparently the best DVD version that adheres to the text, although I am not sure which version it is except that the guy who plays Hamlet also plays Iago in the version of Othello that I watched last year).
I have to say, the whole premise of Hamlet requires a lot of willingness to accept otherwise rather ridiculous events. It does make the play rather humorous, and maybe Shakespeare was aiming for that, but honestly I would never believe it if someone told me, "Hey, that ghost won't talk to me, but he'll probably talk to the other guy."
Also, I saw way too many sex scenes from the movie for my comfort. Way too many.
I still love my English class. We had bagels yesterday, thanks to the wonderful efforts of Tabby and someone else (I forgot who). Food is always good, especially in the mornings, and especially bagels.
Plus, talking about whether Gertrude is an idiot or a whore is always fascinating (I think that she would have had no choice in the matter of her marriage, especially if she wanted to stay alive, although it can be argued that if she hated her situation she could have gotten Hamlet to just kill the king, so I don't know).
I would love to talk about my English class all day, but I did promise I will be productive, so I shall have to go back to work.
Because Hamlet has such a hot mustache.
At least that was the reason Mr. Littney gave us, as we were watching our version of Hamlet today (it's apparently the best DVD version that adheres to the text, although I am not sure which version it is except that the guy who plays Hamlet also plays Iago in the version of Othello that I watched last year).
I have to say, the whole premise of Hamlet requires a lot of willingness to accept otherwise rather ridiculous events. It does make the play rather humorous, and maybe Shakespeare was aiming for that, but honestly I would never believe it if someone told me, "Hey, that ghost won't talk to me, but he'll probably talk to the other guy."
Also, I saw way too many sex scenes from the movie for my comfort. Way too many.
I still love my English class. We had bagels yesterday, thanks to the wonderful efforts of Tabby and someone else (I forgot who). Food is always good, especially in the mornings, and especially bagels.
Plus, talking about whether Gertrude is an idiot or a whore is always fascinating (I think that she would have had no choice in the matter of her marriage, especially if she wanted to stay alive, although it can be argued that if she hated her situation she could have gotten Hamlet to just kill the king, so I don't know).
I would love to talk about my English class all day, but I did promise I will be productive, so I shall have to go back to work.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Here Is To NaNoWriMo And Math Meet
Math meet today! The second math meet of the—do we call it a season?—started with me missing the last fifteen minutes of Middle East (which is such a boring class, although now I know what a caliph is, finally). I went downstairs and saw Tea and Gretchen coming the other way, and we all got on the bus (and eventually everyone else got on the bus as well).
Obviously, per math meet tradition, we talked about random things. I don't remember much of the conversation, because I was attempting to read the last 15+ pages of Metamorphosis on the bus, and then proceeded to get really nauseated. Not good. (Tybalt remarked that our bus ride was extremely bumpy—more so than usual—which I believe may have contributed to the cause.)
Off the bus (and into Spearheadville), we went into the cafeteria and were going to our usual table in the banished corner when some random girl said, "Is this the nerd conference?"
That comment aside, the pre-math-rounds-math-meet-time went really well. There was lots of food, lots of fun, and lots of hysteria in general, except I believe that either Gretchen or Tea may have better things to say about this because I was rather, uh... anyway.
I will comment on the rounds though. Round 3 was really straightforward, except I did 36 - 8 in my head and got 24. No idea how that happened. Round 5 was also okay except the last question, and we did not have to know sin 75, although I do know it rather well (for the time being) thanks to Bryant's wonderfully descriptive circle (read: circle with four dots). Round 6 was also okay, although I probably flunked out on the math because I got the second question wrong.
But I'm on B-team, so who cares?
Also, while going into round 3, I waited outside for a while with a bunch of Treeburg people who were extremely tall. In matching hoodies. Argon suggested that we really should get hoodies for math team. Uh-huh. Keep on dreaming, Argon.
This is the end of my math meet recount. Someone else pick up from here?
. . .
P.s.: The 2010 midterm election results are out! But they were close to expected, so not too much surprise there.
. . .
And, of course, I mentioned NaNoWriMo, and I have been seeing it around plenty of times, so I suppose I could take part in it too. Except mine will probably be NaReallyShortAndDisjointedNoWriHalfMo, if that makes any sense. I'm sure it did.
I was supposed to have an outline and notes jotted down before November began to give me a head start or something, but since I have my characters already (yay for recycling) and I only really write about one plot, that is not extremely necessary.
So this is the first edition of my ReallyShortAndDisjointedNovel. AlsoKnownAsALongShortStory. NotEdited.
In the morning, I came upon the cliff my brother used to call "Judgment's Edge."
Or, if he was feeling creative, he would call it, "The place where all the moping people come to mope and all the idiots come to make stupid poetry about things they'll never understand."
He was never a creative one. It was either plain and straightforward, or he did not bother with it. And I never knew how he put up with the stories we learned as little kids, but something must have stuck, because he remembered Judgment's Edge from a book our mother had read to us back when she still read. The book was about a boy and his two sisters, that was all I remembered. A boy and his two sisters, just like my brother Ciel, and my sister Celeste, and me.
I am not named after the sky. I am not a skychild. But in the book, the older brother and sister loved their youngest sister. They adored her. And that is all I remember from the book, aside from the ledge they called Judgment's Edge, where the brother and sisters went to pray for their mother's health.
Back then, we did not have to pray for our mother's health. These days, I did not have to either. I wondered if I had ever prayed for her.
I knew Ciel never prayed. Skychildren did not pray. They performed miracles because they were children of the sky. The ones who could survive anything. But Ciel did not pray, not because he believed himself invincible, but because he thought it was pointless. Or maybe the idea of it was too complex, too reliant on a faith he did not possess.
Faith brought me to here, I knew. A faith Ciel never took part in. The same faith—or lack thereof—that created this world.
Anna Marie.
I was in Anna Marie now. Kaniol. A hundred thousand worlds away from Nephria.
I was on Judgment's Edge, looking down on the glistening rooftops of the buildings of Anna Marie. The tall, pointy tower of the Sovereign's Castle. The sprawling gardens Seria Deshen took so much pride in maintaining. The grand magnolias of the DiGrant's front lawn. The town square. The bell tower of the library. The winding Crescentia that flowed through the east end of the city and sparkled under the morning sun.
It was beautiful. I wished I knew why Ciel wanted to leave here so badly.
To be continued next time I have something interesting to say.
Obviously, per math meet tradition, we talked about random things. I don't remember much of the conversation, because I was attempting to read the last 15+ pages of Metamorphosis on the bus, and then proceeded to get really nauseated. Not good. (Tybalt remarked that our bus ride was extremely bumpy—more so than usual—which I believe may have contributed to the cause.)
Off the bus (and into Spearheadville), we went into the cafeteria and were going to our usual table in the banished corner when some random girl said, "Is this the nerd conference?"
That comment aside, the pre-math-rounds-math-meet-time went really well. There was lots of food, lots of fun, and lots of hysteria in general, except I believe that either Gretchen or Tea may have better things to say about this because I was rather, uh... anyway.
I will comment on the rounds though. Round 3 was really straightforward, except I did 36 - 8 in my head and got 24. No idea how that happened. Round 5 was also okay except the last question, and we did not have to know sin 75, although I do know it rather well (for the time being) thanks to Bryant's wonderfully descriptive circle (read: circle with four dots). Round 6 was also okay, although I probably flunked out on the math because I got the second question wrong.
But I'm on B-team, so who cares?
Also, while going into round 3, I waited outside for a while with a bunch of Treeburg people who were extremely tall. In matching hoodies. Argon suggested that we really should get hoodies for math team. Uh-huh. Keep on dreaming, Argon.
This is the end of my math meet recount. Someone else pick up from here?
. . .
P.s.: The 2010 midterm election results are out! But they were close to expected, so not too much surprise there.
. . .
And, of course, I mentioned NaNoWriMo, and I have been seeing it around plenty of times, so I suppose I could take part in it too. Except mine will probably be NaReallyShortAndDisjointedNoWriHalfMo, if that makes any sense. I'm sure it did.
I was supposed to have an outline and notes jotted down before November began to give me a head start or something, but since I have my characters already (yay for recycling) and I only really write about one plot, that is not extremely necessary.
So this is the first edition of my ReallyShortAndDisjointedNovel. AlsoKnownAsALongShortStory. NotEdited.
Allie's All About Apathy (note the alliteration?)
In the morning, I came upon the cliff my brother used to call "Judgment's Edge."
Or, if he was feeling creative, he would call it, "The place where all the moping people come to mope and all the idiots come to make stupid poetry about things they'll never understand."
He was never a creative one. It was either plain and straightforward, or he did not bother with it. And I never knew how he put up with the stories we learned as little kids, but something must have stuck, because he remembered Judgment's Edge from a book our mother had read to us back when she still read. The book was about a boy and his two sisters, that was all I remembered. A boy and his two sisters, just like my brother Ciel, and my sister Celeste, and me.
I am not named after the sky. I am not a skychild. But in the book, the older brother and sister loved their youngest sister. They adored her. And that is all I remember from the book, aside from the ledge they called Judgment's Edge, where the brother and sisters went to pray for their mother's health.
Back then, we did not have to pray for our mother's health. These days, I did not have to either. I wondered if I had ever prayed for her.
I knew Ciel never prayed. Skychildren did not pray. They performed miracles because they were children of the sky. The ones who could survive anything. But Ciel did not pray, not because he believed himself invincible, but because he thought it was pointless. Or maybe the idea of it was too complex, too reliant on a faith he did not possess.
Faith brought me to here, I knew. A faith Ciel never took part in. The same faith—or lack thereof—that created this world.
Anna Marie.
I was in Anna Marie now. Kaniol. A hundred thousand worlds away from Nephria.
I was on Judgment's Edge, looking down on the glistening rooftops of the buildings of Anna Marie. The tall, pointy tower of the Sovereign's Castle. The sprawling gardens Seria Deshen took so much pride in maintaining. The grand magnolias of the DiGrant's front lawn. The town square. The bell tower of the library. The winding Crescentia that flowed through the east end of the city and sparkled under the morning sun.
It was beautiful. I wished I knew why Ciel wanted to leave here so badly.
To be continued next time I have something interesting to say.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Without A Doubt
I am confused. Not that I had not been before, but I am increasingly more so. It is a tricky, entangling path to go down, especially now. With everything going on, college and everything. Everything now is about college. In fact, I should be writing my college essays right now, or at least do something productive, but instead (and as I have done so for pretty much every one of my free-writes in English), I'm trying to figure things out in hopes of not being plagued by all of these thoughts when I should be working.
But first. I'm going to have to say that, in the past few days (note: 10 +/-3 days with a 95% confidence level), I have read all 1300+ PHD comics. I'd show you some of my favorites, but I don't remember the links to them. I did show them all to Yuma though, so if anyone's interested, I can pull up our chat logs and search for them (among all the other links/sources of procrastination we shared).
Basically, I haven't gotten as much work as I'd like done. Although I have been really productive in getting homework done, surprisingly. I have most of next week's homework done by now (of those that I know, anyway). It's just that when I stare at my essays, I don't want to write them. At all.
Yuma too, actually. We've been talking about getting our essays done (he's writing his Caltech one, and I'm working on my new Chicago one), and it's been a rather pitiful struggle.
But I don't like talking about college stuff. So, in other news:
I am on disc 5 of my 12-disc audio book, Loving Frank. It's rather fast-paced, and I can't think of anything to describe it better than to say that [spoiler alert] in these four discs I've heard so far, the protagonist goes from Chicago to Boulder, Colorado, to Germany to France. Plus she falls in love with another married man and both her husband and the guy's wife know about this affair, and by the end of the fourth disc, pretty much everyone she knows (i.e. the entire city of Chicago) knows as well.
I wonder what the next 8 discs will be about?
The abstract says that it's based on a real story, and the guy was a pretty famous architect too (he's mentioned in this other book or something I read the other day), so I think if I wiki'd them, I'd get the plot of the entire story. But Mr. Littney says we should be focusing on the listening process, so I have a good ten hours or so more to go through. He also said we should have this done in the next two weeks. It's taken me a month to listen to four discs.
Fun. Very fun. You'll probably see me walking around the halls with my headphones more often now.
But of course, I have to go back to my confusion topic, because that was mostly why I started writing this (and also because I've been neglecting my reader-base of five these days). And since it's late, and I really should get to work, I'll make it simple.
I'd like to know how people think about me. Especially a certain few people. But since I can't figure it out (maybe my lack of sleep has something to do with it—I've been staying up to the wee hours lately doing little), and since I don't particular know if I want to know (I'm treading this line where everything is nice right now and I don't want more, but I'm afraid that the balance is going to tip soon), I guess it'll remain an open question.
One day. Maybe. But for now I'm going to focus on my essays.
But first. I'm going to have to say that, in the past few days (note: 10 +/-3 days with a 95% confidence level), I have read all 1300+ PHD comics. I'd show you some of my favorites, but I don't remember the links to them. I did show them all to Yuma though, so if anyone's interested, I can pull up our chat logs and search for them (among all the other links/sources of procrastination we shared).
Basically, I haven't gotten as much work as I'd like done. Although I have been really productive in getting homework done, surprisingly. I have most of next week's homework done by now (of those that I know, anyway). It's just that when I stare at my essays, I don't want to write them. At all.
Yuma too, actually. We've been talking about getting our essays done (he's writing his Caltech one, and I'm working on my new Chicago one), and it's been a rather pitiful struggle.
But I don't like talking about college stuff. So, in other news:
I am on disc 5 of my 12-disc audio book, Loving Frank. It's rather fast-paced, and I can't think of anything to describe it better than to say that [spoiler alert] in these four discs I've heard so far, the protagonist goes from Chicago to Boulder, Colorado, to Germany to France. Plus she falls in love with another married man and both her husband and the guy's wife know about this affair, and by the end of the fourth disc, pretty much everyone she knows (i.e. the entire city of Chicago) knows as well.
I wonder what the next 8 discs will be about?
The abstract says that it's based on a real story, and the guy was a pretty famous architect too (he's mentioned in this other book or something I read the other day), so I think if I wiki'd them, I'd get the plot of the entire story. But Mr. Littney says we should be focusing on the listening process, so I have a good ten hours or so more to go through. He also said we should have this done in the next two weeks. It's taken me a month to listen to four discs.
Fun. Very fun. You'll probably see me walking around the halls with my headphones more often now.
But of course, I have to go back to my confusion topic, because that was mostly why I started writing this (and also because I've been neglecting my reader-base of five these days). And since it's late, and I really should get to work, I'll make it simple.
I'd like to know how people think about me. Especially a certain few people. But since I can't figure it out (maybe my lack of sleep has something to do with it—I've been staying up to the wee hours lately doing little), and since I don't particular know if I want to know (I'm treading this line where everything is nice right now and I don't want more, but I'm afraid that the balance is going to tip soon), I guess it'll remain an open question.
One day. Maybe. But for now I'm going to focus on my essays.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Turn On The Sun, Please
[Title concept from Pickles author/artist Brian Crane.]
Mrs. Leon complained today that I always leave before class officially starts, so I promised her I'll stay for third lunch next week (hopefully, but as previously mentioned, I'm not too good with promises). Maybe I will be there in time for sonnet readings. I don't know what else I could do with an extra half-hour of English class, especially since I'm probably not reading the same things (although my class is starting Brave New World, which Mrs. Leon's class has already read).
(Additionally, Clay told me he read nearly 150 pages of BNW in around two hours. Since it's, so far, taken me five days, more or less, I will probably need to dedicate a lot more time to reading. I'm past the first part—if there are any more, I don't know yet—of the everyone-is-talking-at-once pages right now.)
Other things of interest: I went over 10 pages of metabolism bio notes last night at around midnight (so also technically this morning), and have now come up with a really condensed, analogy-ladened version of metabolism, which I will add to the end of this, because I think I want to make more of these to prepare for the midterms (Mme Pottery mentioned midterms today, which set off a wave of panic).
Also, despite the cold, and the wind, and the general misery, there was frisbee today. There is another girl now, and she is pretty good at frisbee too (a great catcher, even in this wind). I ran around too (which almost never happens, mind you), but then my stomach started hurting, so I sat down and borrowed both Yuma's and Cameron's jackets (I wanted to borrow Tobey's too, since he wasn't wearing it at first, but by the time I'd gotten around to being too cold he was cold too and took the jacket) and tried to read more books (especially my LitEx book, which I have barely started).
Then a golden retriever came along and proceeded to sit on me despite my protests. Someone called out, "Be careful, he's a pervert," and with that the dog turned around and tackled me to the ground.
On that note, here is my version of metabolism:
Mrs. Leon complained today that I always leave before class officially starts, so I promised her I'll stay for third lunch next week (hopefully, but as previously mentioned, I'm not too good with promises). Maybe I will be there in time for sonnet readings. I don't know what else I could do with an extra half-hour of English class, especially since I'm probably not reading the same things (although my class is starting Brave New World, which Mrs. Leon's class has already read).
(Additionally, Clay told me he read nearly 150 pages of BNW in around two hours. Since it's, so far, taken me five days, more or less, I will probably need to dedicate a lot more time to reading. I'm past the first part—if there are any more, I don't know yet—of the everyone-is-talking-at-once pages right now.)
Other things of interest: I went over 10 pages of metabolism bio notes last night at around midnight (so also technically this morning), and have now come up with a really condensed, analogy-ladened version of metabolism, which I will add to the end of this, because I think I want to make more of these to prepare for the midterms (Mme Pottery mentioned midterms today, which set off a wave of panic).
Also, despite the cold, and the wind, and the general misery, there was frisbee today. There is another girl now, and she is pretty good at frisbee too (a great catcher, even in this wind). I ran around too (which almost never happens, mind you), but then my stomach started hurting, so I sat down and borrowed both Yuma's and Cameron's jackets (I wanted to borrow Tobey's too, since he wasn't wearing it at first, but by the time I'd gotten around to being too cold he was cold too and took the jacket) and tried to read more books (especially my LitEx book, which I have barely started).
Then a golden retriever came along and proceeded to sit on me despite my protests. Someone called out, "Be careful, he's a pervert," and with that the dog turned around and tackled me to the ground.
On that note, here is my version of metabolism:
- metabolism = energy vs. matter
- pathways: catapults tear down for boten anna to build up
- enzymes just float around for fun
- laws of thermodynamics:
- energy is immortal;
- entropy reproduces like bunnies
- ⌂G (free energy) = ♥
- likes to roll down hills and pull on wheelbarrows full of stuff
- must push it to make it go up hills
- said hill is a step-ladder hill
- In this analogy, "guy" is the substrate:
- guy wants to go over hill
- hill too high, guy too lazy, doesn't happen
- enzyme bulldozes hill, guy goes over
- enzyme only falls in love with one guy & his clones
- enzyme thus only bulldozes hills for guy & his clones
- when going over hill, enzyme and guy link hands
- their hands fit together like gloves
- at the top, enzyme pulls hard in excitement
- guy's arm falls off
- new products = guy + arm!
- then enzyme says, "eww, wtf?"
- enzyme ditches guy for clone #1209841
- other little-known facts of enzyme-drama:
- if guy is too hot/cold or brings H2SO4/HCl/HNO3, he gets slapped, enzyme says, "Get lost," and no hills are bulldozed
- cofactors/coenzymes: the bulldozer (the machine)
- inhibitors: the 3rd wheel
- either steals enzyme away (competitive)
- or kills enzyme and laughs maniacally (noncompetitive)
- allosteric site: door for 3rd wheel, except 3rd wheel is guy's arm
- arm can help or hurt
- too many arms will distract enzyme and result in no more bulldozed hills
- cooperativity: guy1 holds hands = guy2 can hold hands too
- many enzymes + many hills + many bulldozers = metabolic pathway (multi-enzyme complex)
- all these pathways come together to form . . . THE METABOLISM WORLD.
- dun dun dunnn...
Monday, October 11, 2010
Where the Heart Is
I may or may not have already titled a post like this. It is because I have read a book of the same title, and therefore I do not remember if I have taken the name unwittingly. But it came to mind again, so I think I should talk about my heart, if not entirely, then only partially (because my writing is always rather drained when I've just finished a college essay).
. . .
This is about college. Not about where I want to go, not this time, but why. There is a practical part of me that says, "I want to accomplish something in my life," and I am listening to that part right now. There are doubts, of course—I have talked about them semi-extensively with Yuma, about the sheer random nature of my field of preference, and whether I can always find the right answers—but those are still practical doubts. Doubts stemmed from questions such as, "Will I be successful?" or "Will this work?" The practical side is my source of motivation, why I even bother doing my homework, or sitting through my French class (a language I love, but a teaching method and class enthusiasm—or lack thereof—I don't).
Then there is the wistful part, the part that says, "I've only got one life to live, I might as well." This is echoed in my stories—the constant travelling, the myriad of decisions, the utter lack of concern for "opportunity costs" and "marginal benefits." It is the side that remembers alt-127 is ⌂, and alt-15 is ☼. The voice that whispers, "It's now, or never," and then I find myself half out my bedroom window, the screen thrown up, staring at the blinking night sky with my foot dangling a foot above the ground.
So close. Yet not close enough.
I could go to college. In fact, it is to be expected. What I do out of college, that is a little more hazy, but everyone from my parents to my aunts-twice-removed think they know the answer. It is a systematic answer, in a systematic world, where one day's furious pencil-scratching can mean a future of joy (or misery). It is even formulated by systematic ways—reliability, profits, incentives, then last of all or not at all personal enjoyment.
And yes, this is also in part a rant against my cousin, who took art classes so he could get into college because they lower requirements for art schools, when my parents always made up some excuse or another. But it is not entirely that, and especially not because now he is not doing anything art-related.
It is mostly about my reasons for going to college. A good education. With tens of thousands of dollars, I would hope it's a good education. A chance to expand my horizons, so to speak, a chance to do the really exciting things that really make a difference, and not just high school textbook material.
Yes, the practical side wants that, craves that, is excited to go to school because of that (and because of the people, but that is the wistful side). It is content with the way things are going right now—it is not saying, "Don't plant your roots too deep, because there are still so many more places to be."
That voice is haunting me. Not a lot, because it is not extremely big and it is spread over many, many topics, but it lingers. It makes me wonder if this is really what I want—and sometimes, it makes me wonder if I am missing something I would rather have so much more.
A very Nick thing to think, but I have not edited and shared that story yet, so that allusion does not make sense.
. . .
This is about the past. I do not have a very long past—seventeen years, more or more. But I have discovered that the past comes swinging by, in odd yet rhythmic intervals, especially when the mood is not proper. Happy pasts in sombre moments. Sad pasts in celebrations.
Then again, I may as well name names. Here is to Dray, whom I am thinking about as I ponder the situation. Dray who drudged up a past I was not yet ready to confront, who still visits at times, such as now, and disappears at others. And here, I may confess, he is but a figment of my imagination, and it would be half-truth and half-lie, because he exists, yes, but not in the way I refer to him.
He has either created, or is the product of (or both), my series of mishaps with things that concern the heart. The wrong place, the wrong time, the wrong reasons. And the regrets, although they fade with time, and the stupid mistakes, those stay for longer. Maybe it's because I never learn from my mistakes. Maybe it's because I haven't found the rights yet.
Maybe it is all unpredictable, with a confidence interval of 50% and a confidence level that is not really confident anymore. Maybe I am smiling too much and thinking too little, or vice versa, or both.
Ah, my smiles. I don't ever smile when I'm really happy—I have laughter for that. So smiles are superfluous, usually reserved for moments that are not happy but supposed to be happy. A little masquerade I hold, although some days are more real than others.
So I try not to smile, this strange philosophy of mine. But I break it all the time, to be polite, or to put up a pretense, or to just react to the past.
Because reacting to the past is the only time I would ever smile and be happy. Not really, extremely, absolutely happy, but merely happy. And perhaps it makes little sense, but it is the truth, and the truth rarely makes sense.
. . .
This is about love. The other oft-lamented less-oft-well-lamented topic, aside from death. And once again I could name names but that would be too ridiculous, the pace I am naming and labeling him. So I will talk about the general, perhaps, and then maybe the details if I am so obliged.
The first character I'd ever come up with (that fitted the scene, of course) was Reine. It means "queen" in French, "la reine." But Reine is a prince, haphazardly turned king, with none of the composure or cunning, either or, that would make him a good king. He was subject to whims, fits of rage, an over-simplistic view of things, and most of all disconnected to the outside world. He does not care for being a king, and thus came the second character, Keno, who was, if not the most benevolent, then at least smart enough to prevent a coup d'etat. Smart and strong-willed. His younger brothers (twins, so there was no third and fourth, only next) left all the politics to him. Keit and Fate.
I mention this because I wanted to talk about Keit. The once-upon-a-time-was-a-wide-eyed-boy who got lost in the marketplace and reached out to a small, cold hand. Who gazed into a pair of blood-red eyes and set forth a tragedy that left so many people in despair. Who kept on searching for "the one who got away," and never realized he was intent on a memory, not a physical person.
But of course, this is a tragedy because I write awful comedies. With seriousness comes a lack of need for wit and dry humor, and so makes it easier to write. So I mention Keit not for his tragic elements, but for his ability to affect so many lives with only one gesture. A millisecond of his life in exchange for entire souls. That, I think, is the true power of love. The dangerous power that is not often praised because it does not always end happily, but is there, nonetheless.
That is the closest I'll come to the general without sounding trite. There are better words, I know, but I don't know exactly what they are yet. So onto the details.
With every event there is a "How did that ever happen?" moment. How it began. The roots. The date does not really matter, although I suppose it did, since it was a Thursday. That was how it sort of began, but not entirely. It does not account for the precise seating arrangement on that day, or my meeting in the social studies department, or my sudden urge to risk being late for an important affair just to call out his name. That was how it began, I think, but it was also the Thursday, or the calc test assigned prior, or, if you put it that way, arena on that fateful June day.
Or, perhaps, the day I decided I would drop my art class for biology. And was told I could not have middle east during my art class period. That could also have been it, but I think that is pushing it, stretching the connections until they become frayed strings.
But the thing about these moments is that you don't have prior knowledge to what will come out of them. Keit never knew grabbing onto that hand would result in a world split into two. I could quote The God of Small Things, and say that Estha never knew being prepared would lead to his family torn apart, or, for that matter, going to see a musical would lead to his obsession with being prepared. And I don't know what will come out of this, but I am also happy not knowing. Happy to keep it a suspense until the moment comes.
Because it is just as well for the journey, not for the destination.
. . .
This is about the future.
But I have nothing to say about the future, because it is something to be experienced, not said. So long as I have hope, I think there will be a future. A place to store my anticipations and excitements and all of the good things that are not happening right now, and maybe even some of the good things that are happening right now.
I am an optimist, yes. But more so, I am a believer of the present.
. . .
This is about college. Not about where I want to go, not this time, but why. There is a practical part of me that says, "I want to accomplish something in my life," and I am listening to that part right now. There are doubts, of course—I have talked about them semi-extensively with Yuma, about the sheer random nature of my field of preference, and whether I can always find the right answers—but those are still practical doubts. Doubts stemmed from questions such as, "Will I be successful?" or "Will this work?" The practical side is my source of motivation, why I even bother doing my homework, or sitting through my French class (a language I love, but a teaching method and class enthusiasm—or lack thereof—I don't).
Then there is the wistful part, the part that says, "I've only got one life to live, I might as well." This is echoed in my stories—the constant travelling, the myriad of decisions, the utter lack of concern for "opportunity costs" and "marginal benefits." It is the side that remembers alt-127 is ⌂, and alt-15 is ☼. The voice that whispers, "It's now, or never," and then I find myself half out my bedroom window, the screen thrown up, staring at the blinking night sky with my foot dangling a foot above the ground.
So close. Yet not close enough.
I could go to college. In fact, it is to be expected. What I do out of college, that is a little more hazy, but everyone from my parents to my aunts-twice-removed think they know the answer. It is a systematic answer, in a systematic world, where one day's furious pencil-scratching can mean a future of joy (or misery). It is even formulated by systematic ways—reliability, profits, incentives, then last of all or not at all personal enjoyment.
And yes, this is also in part a rant against my cousin, who took art classes so he could get into college because they lower requirements for art schools, when my parents always made up some excuse or another. But it is not entirely that, and especially not because now he is not doing anything art-related.
It is mostly about my reasons for going to college. A good education. With tens of thousands of dollars, I would hope it's a good education. A chance to expand my horizons, so to speak, a chance to do the really exciting things that really make a difference, and not just high school textbook material.
Yes, the practical side wants that, craves that, is excited to go to school because of that (and because of the people, but that is the wistful side). It is content with the way things are going right now—it is not saying, "Don't plant your roots too deep, because there are still so many more places to be."
That voice is haunting me. Not a lot, because it is not extremely big and it is spread over many, many topics, but it lingers. It makes me wonder if this is really what I want—and sometimes, it makes me wonder if I am missing something I would rather have so much more.
A very Nick thing to think, but I have not edited and shared that story yet, so that allusion does not make sense.
. . .
This is about the past. I do not have a very long past—seventeen years, more or more. But I have discovered that the past comes swinging by, in odd yet rhythmic intervals, especially when the mood is not proper. Happy pasts in sombre moments. Sad pasts in celebrations.
Then again, I may as well name names. Here is to Dray, whom I am thinking about as I ponder the situation. Dray who drudged up a past I was not yet ready to confront, who still visits at times, such as now, and disappears at others. And here, I may confess, he is but a figment of my imagination, and it would be half-truth and half-lie, because he exists, yes, but not in the way I refer to him.
He has either created, or is the product of (or both), my series of mishaps with things that concern the heart. The wrong place, the wrong time, the wrong reasons. And the regrets, although they fade with time, and the stupid mistakes, those stay for longer. Maybe it's because I never learn from my mistakes. Maybe it's because I haven't found the rights yet.
Maybe it is all unpredictable, with a confidence interval of 50% and a confidence level that is not really confident anymore. Maybe I am smiling too much and thinking too little, or vice versa, or both.
Ah, my smiles. I don't ever smile when I'm really happy—I have laughter for that. So smiles are superfluous, usually reserved for moments that are not happy but supposed to be happy. A little masquerade I hold, although some days are more real than others.
So I try not to smile, this strange philosophy of mine. But I break it all the time, to be polite, or to put up a pretense, or to just react to the past.
Because reacting to the past is the only time I would ever smile and be happy. Not really, extremely, absolutely happy, but merely happy. And perhaps it makes little sense, but it is the truth, and the truth rarely makes sense.
. . .
This is about love. The other oft-lamented less-oft-well-lamented topic, aside from death. And once again I could name names but that would be too ridiculous, the pace I am naming and labeling him. So I will talk about the general, perhaps, and then maybe the details if I am so obliged.
The first character I'd ever come up with (that fitted the scene, of course) was Reine. It means "queen" in French, "la reine." But Reine is a prince, haphazardly turned king, with none of the composure or cunning, either or, that would make him a good king. He was subject to whims, fits of rage, an over-simplistic view of things, and most of all disconnected to the outside world. He does not care for being a king, and thus came the second character, Keno, who was, if not the most benevolent, then at least smart enough to prevent a coup d'etat. Smart and strong-willed. His younger brothers (twins, so there was no third and fourth, only next) left all the politics to him. Keit and Fate.
I mention this because I wanted to talk about Keit. The once-upon-a-time-was-a-wide-eyed-boy who got lost in the marketplace and reached out to a small, cold hand. Who gazed into a pair of blood-red eyes and set forth a tragedy that left so many people in despair. Who kept on searching for "the one who got away," and never realized he was intent on a memory, not a physical person.
But of course, this is a tragedy because I write awful comedies. With seriousness comes a lack of need for wit and dry humor, and so makes it easier to write. So I mention Keit not for his tragic elements, but for his ability to affect so many lives with only one gesture. A millisecond of his life in exchange for entire souls. That, I think, is the true power of love. The dangerous power that is not often praised because it does not always end happily, but is there, nonetheless.
That is the closest I'll come to the general without sounding trite. There are better words, I know, but I don't know exactly what they are yet. So onto the details.
With every event there is a "How did that ever happen?" moment. How it began. The roots. The date does not really matter, although I suppose it did, since it was a Thursday. That was how it sort of began, but not entirely. It does not account for the precise seating arrangement on that day, or my meeting in the social studies department, or my sudden urge to risk being late for an important affair just to call out his name. That was how it began, I think, but it was also the Thursday, or the calc test assigned prior, or, if you put it that way, arena on that fateful June day.
Or, perhaps, the day I decided I would drop my art class for biology. And was told I could not have middle east during my art class period. That could also have been it, but I think that is pushing it, stretching the connections until they become frayed strings.
But the thing about these moments is that you don't have prior knowledge to what will come out of them. Keit never knew grabbing onto that hand would result in a world split into two. I could quote The God of Small Things, and say that Estha never knew being prepared would lead to his family torn apart, or, for that matter, going to see a musical would lead to his obsession with being prepared. And I don't know what will come out of this, but I am also happy not knowing. Happy to keep it a suspense until the moment comes.
Because it is just as well for the journey, not for the destination.
. . .
This is about the future.
But I have nothing to say about the future, because it is something to be experienced, not said. So long as I have hope, I think there will be a future. A place to store my anticipations and excitements and all of the good things that are not happening right now, and maybe even some of the good things that are happening right now.
I am an optimist, yes. But more so, I am a believer of the present.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Confessions, In General
Warning: this may be gossipy in nature, written only because I'll probably never be able to talk about it as freely (or coherently, and remember everything I wanted to include). Read at your own risk.
Autumn is my favorite season, not because of anything it intrinsically is (although the leaves are pretty, and the sky is a perfect shade of far-away). I love autumn above every other season because I hate spring, and autumn is the farthest away from spring. One day I just realized that. Sat up and thought, so this is why. And said a few more philosophical words, perhaps, and left it at that.
At night, I like to imagine things. Really outlandish things. Like getting lost in a jungle and cracking complicated codes (but it’ll probably just be ugly bruteforce) and then swinging swords around to squish evil bunnies. Sometimes there are other people with me. I am not sure what happens to them in the end. By the time my dreams roll around, they are gone, replaced by more people who randomly appear in my dreams. (Last night, I dreamed about being Aaron’s girlfriend while we walked by really small, square-shaped houses. It was weird.)
I love to read comedies, and love to write tragedies. That I may have established prior. I am a huge D. Gray-man fanfiction fan, because they have just the right mix of comedy and tragedy in them with easily manipulated characters that I don’t feel as though I am reading tragedies. Not unless they are labeled as such. But lately I haven’t been reading fictional things (unless you count English assignments). I’ve mostly been reading Liane Bonin’s Project Runway recaps, because I don’t have the time (or the justification, usually) to watch the show. And because it’s fun to read the cynical remarks.
But most importantly, and the reason for all of these confessions: I lied about Bryant.
If I were completely honest, I would say that I didn’t really lie about him, but rather I jumped to conclusions too quickly. There is a part of me that knows there is something there, maybe. But I think it is not entirely, concretely real, and that while I do find his I-can-read-your-mind stares, uh, hypnotic, he is probably (most likely) the rebound guy. I realized it when I found myself stealing glances at Dino during English. Realized that perhaps I had not really gotten over Dino.
It was a bit frustrating, because a part of me was over him (and a part of me never liked him in the first place, but before it was in the minority). I should probably learn from Vincent, though. I mean, he’s found a girlfriend within a week of, well. Okay, not going in-depth with that one.
So I was (and still am) pleasantly surprised that I don’t care (more than normal, that is) about Dino these days. I don’t notice him coming or going anymore (especially not during math team—I only noticed he wasn’t there a couple hours later). He still has wonderful hair, I must admit (perhaps the hairspray killed it, though), but that is all.
And, most wretchedly, someone else is making my heart speed up more than normal (something Bryant hasn’t really done for me, so I guess that’s another sign). I think it’s the hormones or something. Really. At least he’s nicer than Dino (but since we’re comparing to Dino, I’m not sure if that says anything). And he has a really nice smile and a normal laugh (and I think he has nice hair too, although I haven’t tried it yet).
But enough about me. More about the homework I’m supposed to do.
Autumn is my favorite season, not because of anything it intrinsically is (although the leaves are pretty, and the sky is a perfect shade of far-away). I love autumn above every other season because I hate spring, and autumn is the farthest away from spring. One day I just realized that. Sat up and thought, so this is why. And said a few more philosophical words, perhaps, and left it at that.
At night, I like to imagine things. Really outlandish things. Like getting lost in a jungle and cracking complicated codes (but it’ll probably just be ugly bruteforce) and then swinging swords around to squish evil bunnies. Sometimes there are other people with me. I am not sure what happens to them in the end. By the time my dreams roll around, they are gone, replaced by more people who randomly appear in my dreams. (Last night, I dreamed about being Aaron’s girlfriend while we walked by really small, square-shaped houses. It was weird.)
I love to read comedies, and love to write tragedies. That I may have established prior. I am a huge D. Gray-man fanfiction fan, because they have just the right mix of comedy and tragedy in them with easily manipulated characters that I don’t feel as though I am reading tragedies. Not unless they are labeled as such. But lately I haven’t been reading fictional things (unless you count English assignments). I’ve mostly been reading Liane Bonin’s Project Runway recaps, because I don’t have the time (or the justification, usually) to watch the show. And because it’s fun to read the cynical remarks.
But most importantly, and the reason for all of these confessions: I lied about Bryant.
If I were completely honest, I would say that I didn’t really lie about him, but rather I jumped to conclusions too quickly. There is a part of me that knows there is something there, maybe. But I think it is not entirely, concretely real, and that while I do find his I-can-read-your-mind stares, uh, hypnotic, he is probably (most likely) the rebound guy. I realized it when I found myself stealing glances at Dino during English. Realized that perhaps I had not really gotten over Dino.
It was a bit frustrating, because a part of me was over him (and a part of me never liked him in the first place, but before it was in the minority). I should probably learn from Vincent, though. I mean, he’s found a girlfriend within a week of, well. Okay, not going in-depth with that one.
So I was (and still am) pleasantly surprised that I don’t care (more than normal, that is) about Dino these days. I don’t notice him coming or going anymore (especially not during math team—I only noticed he wasn’t there a couple hours later). He still has wonderful hair, I must admit (perhaps the hairspray killed it, though), but that is all.
And, most wretchedly, someone else is making my heart speed up more than normal (something Bryant hasn’t really done for me, so I guess that’s another sign). I think it’s the hormones or something. Really. At least he’s nicer than Dino (but since we’re comparing to Dino, I’m not sure if that says anything). And he has a really nice smile and a normal laugh (and I think he has nice hair too, although I haven’t tried it yet).
But enough about me. More about the homework I’m supposed to do.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
The Long-Awaited Math Team Runoffs (Again)
There are so many little froshies at math team this year! I don’t know how long they’ll last (I’m hoping they’ll stick it out until at least states roll around), but it’s still very exciting. They’re so itty-bitty-small and semi-adorable! I don’t know their personality, so I can’t say completely adorable though.
Other than that, we had our expected run-offs. I did rounds 3, 5, and 6, as expected, and I have at least 10 points. Well, at least I passed! And since I’m doing harder rounds this year, that is a vast improvement. I attribute this to the lack of algebra. Algebra is weird (no matter what you say, Tea). Geometry is awesome.
Argon and I had a talk about how we never talk anymore, except during math team. This is an extremely sad situation. I need to remedy that pronto. On the other hand, I am seeing much more of Joss (who thinks he will be on the C team by himself), most likely because we share econ together and he is often with Reese, who I am trying to see more of as well. The end of HUSH has done horrors for keeping up with my sophomore/now-junior friends.
I do have some reservations about our “goal of the year,” which is, as always, “beat Treeburg.” Without Irving, this may get harder, but who knows? Maybe Treeburg has lost three of their really mathy people, and so we have a better shot this year.
But enough about math team. I’m sure next Wednesday will be even more exciting, so I’ll leave this for now. Oh, and, I now know how Mr. Booth got his nickname, thanks to ScriptShadow (my newest blog obsession that reviews movie scripts).
Interesting things of today:
Other than that, we had our expected run-offs. I did rounds 3, 5, and 6, as expected, and I have at least 10 points. Well, at least I passed! And since I’m doing harder rounds this year, that is a vast improvement. I attribute this to the lack of algebra. Algebra is weird (no matter what you say, Tea). Geometry is awesome.
Argon and I had a talk about how we never talk anymore, except during math team. This is an extremely sad situation. I need to remedy that pronto. On the other hand, I am seeing much more of Joss (who thinks he will be on the C team by himself), most likely because we share econ together and he is often with Reese, who I am trying to see more of as well. The end of HUSH has done horrors for keeping up with my sophomore/now-junior friends.
I do have some reservations about our “goal of the year,” which is, as always, “beat Treeburg.” Without Irving, this may get harder, but who knows? Maybe Treeburg has lost three of their really mathy people, and so we have a better shot this year.
But enough about math team. I’m sure next Wednesday will be even more exciting, so I’ll leave this for now. Oh, and, I now know how Mr. Booth got his nickname, thanks to ScriptShadow (my newest blog obsession that reviews movie scripts).
Interesting things of today:
- We did the coffee filter drag force lab today in physics! Really exciting, except for the fact that it's really hard to measure motion when the coffee filter is really light and drifty. Ali wanted Bryant to be in her group (less work for all those involved except Bryant), but Bryant flipped a coin (or maybe he flipped a coin in his calculator, not sure) and decided to go with Dan's group instead. Emmeline had a free before physics, so she made a really cool data chart and it was so exciting to fill it in (not so exciting to drop a coffee filter 45 times though).
- In bio we killed algae! Okay, so we left three bottles of algae alive (but two are wrapped up in foil and mesh, so I'm not sure how long they'll live either), but the last bottle we fixed with sulfates and all those cool chemicals that fix oxygen and burns the hand and so obviously have destroyed the poor little algae cells.
- For French, we went downstairs to listen to the violin guy (Alexander something? I forgot) in the library. As I was listening (and turning away when the sounds got too screeching), I spotted Mario. He now sports a very, very ugly hairstyle. As I was telling Gretchen, it seems that haircuts work opposite for girls and guys. For girls, haircuts usually mean prettier. For guys, they usually mean uglier. I'm not sure why that is. Maybe they need to train haircutters (that's not a word, I know) to learn better boy-hair styles.
- In econ, Mr. Wollen wasn't here, and Yuma, Joss and I drew on the whiteboard, creating quite an (xkcd-inspired) adventure. With chess pieces falling from the sky, nuclear clouds, and lots of angels with big, bouncy heads. There was also an integral composed of smiley faces, flowers, double-square-roots, and brains. Julie got a picture of that one on her phone.
Monday, August 23, 2010
All Sentimental
I am in a classroom, that I am sure of. There are rows of wooden desks and chairs—plank-like chairs that wobble and should not be chairs, should be a bookshelf instead, or a makeshift lock for backyard glass doors—and for a moment I think I am in China, because that is where I had seen plank chairs before. But it cannot be, because I see Paperclip people around me, Hank and one of his perverted, awkward teenage boy friends, and there is Dino, and Sonny, and I strain to see my friends, but I cannot find any.
So instead I walk up to Dino, and Sonny (as an afterthought, perhaps), and I say, "Hello."
My vowels are crisp. I say my "hello" with the "eh" and not as "hullo," and it somehow matters. My way of saying things, that is close, but not quite what I want it to be.
I do not remember if Dino says anything back. Sonny does, though. "Hi." Maybe a "how are you doing?" but that would be pushing it, I think. We are not that close.
We talk, the three of us, about things that do not matter, and I am talking just because I want to talk. Because I am running away from what I really should be doing, things that do matter, and I think Sonny senses it, because he asks me, "Should you be doing something?"
"Like what?" I ask, pretending to be coy.
"I don't know."
And this honesty shocks me, this admitting that he only knew a fleeting moment, but not anything substantial. And it makes Dino laugh, his cruel, monotone laugh, and I think that it is this laugh that I have fallen in love with, not his hair, or his eyes, or his back, or whatever else I have proclaimed it to be.
"There is a competition," I say, "French. I won, but I haven't gotten the scholarship yet. Haven't gone to pick it up."
It is a silly thing to hide. Silly me. Silly running away, not facing the truth. I do not know why it was so important that I not go and get what should be mine.
"Well, you should go, then," Sonny says.
I shook my head. "I don't want to," I say, while looking at Dino. I wanted him to be chivalrous, for once, and say, "I'll go with you."
Instead, it is Sonny who says that, while Dino just shrugs and laughs again. Sonny who pulls me into his arms, hugging me so tightly I am reminded of Vincent, remotely, and I hug him back, all calmed down, ready to tackle this apparently difficult task of grabbing for what really, really should be mine.
. . .
Then there are gender-bending moments, and I am a guy, and Sonny—or I think it is still him—is now a girl. We are a little cute, the two of us, together, wandering the halls, and I am not sure we know exactly where it is we are going. There are rooms, yes. Lots of offices. People. I ask for directions, and I get answers, but I forget them immediately and instead I try out every room until I think I have the right one. And then I forget what it is I am asking for, and I try to think of anything French, and I say Le petit prince, although that cannot be the right answer, and I know it even as I say it out loud.
Then my mom is calling me. She is. She says, "Ginny," although of course she does not really say Ginny, but my Chinese nickname instead. I think I responded, but I must have forgotten to, because she calls my name again.
And I wake up, and it is all gone. The hallway, the French, Sonny, the plank-chairs.
I can still feel Sonny's arms around me though, even if I know he is not a hugging kind of person. I cannot imagine Sonny hugging anyone, at least not now, and when he does it will probably be someone who is cheerful, and innocent, and not full of unspoken mysteries and little not-necessary lies. I am a little sad that I will not be able to know what his arms are like, but only a little. Barely there.
. . .
I am reading Anne Enright's The Gathering right now. The story itself has some mad quality to it, some dream-like appearance that is real but not reality. The reality is strange, detached, almost unreal, and the only things that are concrete are the blasphemies that were never real to begin with.
A softening of reality's jarring edges.
I have written before that I do not like reality, because it is too painful, and I do not like pain. I am constantly running away from pain, and maybe this is a wake-up call, that I am a hypocrite, because running away from pain and running toward Dino and his cruel laughs and this dream of golden blue are two very contradicting things. He is he and I am I, and in my dreams, at least, I am—despite my little not-necessary lies—as straightforward and innocent as I ever will be. In my dreams, I am capable of accepting someone who genuinely cares. In my dreams, I am able to stare into Sonny's eyes and not think about Dino, not think about how I wish everything were different.
In my dreams, I am content. And it is not reality, but it is real. Real enough, for me.
. . .
School is starting in over a week. On Wednesday. I still remember the first day of summer vacation, or the first half-day, anyway. I went to arena, got all the classes I wanted, then waited outside the front doors for an hour, talking to the people who came in and out, learning about the different schedules and feeling happy that everything, for me, anyway, worked out.
Then I walked over to the middle school, where I was meeting Argon, and I had taken off my shoes and was twirling in my white skirt, bare-footed, flip-flops on the side, and I felt the cool ground against my soles.
We were talking about math team. Gretchen was there, as was Mario, and Dino. I hated to admit it, but Mario and Dino did most of the introducing, the information-giving, and I thought to myself, "I am not really necessary here."
And then I thought about Matt and Kyle and Trevor, and Elaine, and all of the seniors, and I think, "They are not really necessary, either." They can be here, but if they were never here to begin with I do not think any of us would miss them. I think someone would have replaced them easily, and we would never miss them until we know of their existence. I, for one, do not yearn for someone who does not yet exist. Someone so real in another world, perhaps, he does exist.
Of course, that was exactly two months ago. This will probably be my last post before school starts, and when it does, I will probably go back to what I have been blogging about all along, except perhaps with a lot more college things and a lot less ranting about junior year and research papers, because that is in the past. There will be busy weeks, and not so busy weeks where I am constantly writing things and not doing things, and where words, for once, speak louder than actions.
Somewhere along the way, I know I want to realize dreams. I know I will want to find my way through the tangled half-truths and sticky, snarling pieces of memories, and of course, there is also the farewell, but I do not like to think about that yet. Not yet. It is not time yet. And I should be most familiar with this path, this last year of forlornness and realizing and complicatedness that will invariably snake its way into my decisions and leave me regretting some small thing or another ten years from now, until I do not remember what it was and only remember the regret. But not yet.
. . .
Veronica Hegarty has to—and it is not a whiny, hopefully-will-be but an absolutely-must-be—fall in love with everyone she has sex with. I, in turn, have to fall in love with everyone who loves me. It is as though I have no choice in the matter. Of course, that is not true. I can fall in love with people who do not love me back, who will never love me back. But I absolutely-must-be have to fall in love with anyone who loves me. No exceptions.
This has, I suppose, made me brazen at times. A daring I-don't-give-a-damn-about-you that has propelled me into worlds I am not supposed to trespass, but I have broken far more rules than I care about. I have long ago blurred that fine line between love and affection, because it is impossible to love so many people at once without having to spread myself somewhat, to say "I love you," and make all the gestures, but to be unable to say, "I'll do anything for you," because there are way too many of you and only one of me.
And I am happy. I think I am, and that is all that matters, not whether I am actually happy or not. I think I am happy, and I will be.
As long as Sonny never reads this. That would be difficult to explain.
So instead I walk up to Dino, and Sonny (as an afterthought, perhaps), and I say, "Hello."
My vowels are crisp. I say my "hello" with the "eh" and not as "hullo," and it somehow matters. My way of saying things, that is close, but not quite what I want it to be.
I do not remember if Dino says anything back. Sonny does, though. "Hi." Maybe a "how are you doing?" but that would be pushing it, I think. We are not that close.
We talk, the three of us, about things that do not matter, and I am talking just because I want to talk. Because I am running away from what I really should be doing, things that do matter, and I think Sonny senses it, because he asks me, "Should you be doing something?"
"Like what?" I ask, pretending to be coy.
"I don't know."
And this honesty shocks me, this admitting that he only knew a fleeting moment, but not anything substantial. And it makes Dino laugh, his cruel, monotone laugh, and I think that it is this laugh that I have fallen in love with, not his hair, or his eyes, or his back, or whatever else I have proclaimed it to be.
"There is a competition," I say, "French. I won, but I haven't gotten the scholarship yet. Haven't gone to pick it up."
It is a silly thing to hide. Silly me. Silly running away, not facing the truth. I do not know why it was so important that I not go and get what should be mine.
"Well, you should go, then," Sonny says.
I shook my head. "I don't want to," I say, while looking at Dino. I wanted him to be chivalrous, for once, and say, "I'll go with you."
Instead, it is Sonny who says that, while Dino just shrugs and laughs again. Sonny who pulls me into his arms, hugging me so tightly I am reminded of Vincent, remotely, and I hug him back, all calmed down, ready to tackle this apparently difficult task of grabbing for what really, really should be mine.
. . .
Then there are gender-bending moments, and I am a guy, and Sonny—or I think it is still him—is now a girl. We are a little cute, the two of us, together, wandering the halls, and I am not sure we know exactly where it is we are going. There are rooms, yes. Lots of offices. People. I ask for directions, and I get answers, but I forget them immediately and instead I try out every room until I think I have the right one. And then I forget what it is I am asking for, and I try to think of anything French, and I say Le petit prince, although that cannot be the right answer, and I know it even as I say it out loud.
Then my mom is calling me. She is. She says, "Ginny," although of course she does not really say Ginny, but my Chinese nickname instead. I think I responded, but I must have forgotten to, because she calls my name again.
And I wake up, and it is all gone. The hallway, the French, Sonny, the plank-chairs.
I can still feel Sonny's arms around me though, even if I know he is not a hugging kind of person. I cannot imagine Sonny hugging anyone, at least not now, and when he does it will probably be someone who is cheerful, and innocent, and not full of unspoken mysteries and little not-necessary lies. I am a little sad that I will not be able to know what his arms are like, but only a little. Barely there.
. . .
I am reading Anne Enright's The Gathering right now. The story itself has some mad quality to it, some dream-like appearance that is real but not reality. The reality is strange, detached, almost unreal, and the only things that are concrete are the blasphemies that were never real to begin with.
A softening of reality's jarring edges.
I have written before that I do not like reality, because it is too painful, and I do not like pain. I am constantly running away from pain, and maybe this is a wake-up call, that I am a hypocrite, because running away from pain and running toward Dino and his cruel laughs and this dream of golden blue are two very contradicting things. He is he and I am I, and in my dreams, at least, I am—despite my little not-necessary lies—as straightforward and innocent as I ever will be. In my dreams, I am capable of accepting someone who genuinely cares. In my dreams, I am able to stare into Sonny's eyes and not think about Dino, not think about how I wish everything were different.
In my dreams, I am content. And it is not reality, but it is real. Real enough, for me.
. . .
School is starting in over a week. On Wednesday. I still remember the first day of summer vacation, or the first half-day, anyway. I went to arena, got all the classes I wanted, then waited outside the front doors for an hour, talking to the people who came in and out, learning about the different schedules and feeling happy that everything, for me, anyway, worked out.
Then I walked over to the middle school, where I was meeting Argon, and I had taken off my shoes and was twirling in my white skirt, bare-footed, flip-flops on the side, and I felt the cool ground against my soles.
We were talking about math team. Gretchen was there, as was Mario, and Dino. I hated to admit it, but Mario and Dino did most of the introducing, the information-giving, and I thought to myself, "I am not really necessary here."
And then I thought about Matt and Kyle and Trevor, and Elaine, and all of the seniors, and I think, "They are not really necessary, either." They can be here, but if they were never here to begin with I do not think any of us would miss them. I think someone would have replaced them easily, and we would never miss them until we know of their existence. I, for one, do not yearn for someone who does not yet exist. Someone so real in another world, perhaps, he does exist.
Of course, that was exactly two months ago. This will probably be my last post before school starts, and when it does, I will probably go back to what I have been blogging about all along, except perhaps with a lot more college things and a lot less ranting about junior year and research papers, because that is in the past. There will be busy weeks, and not so busy weeks where I am constantly writing things and not doing things, and where words, for once, speak louder than actions.
Somewhere along the way, I know I want to realize dreams. I know I will want to find my way through the tangled half-truths and sticky, snarling pieces of memories, and of course, there is also the farewell, but I do not like to think about that yet. Not yet. It is not time yet. And I should be most familiar with this path, this last year of forlornness and realizing and complicatedness that will invariably snake its way into my decisions and leave me regretting some small thing or another ten years from now, until I do not remember what it was and only remember the regret. But not yet.
. . .
Veronica Hegarty has to—and it is not a whiny, hopefully-will-be but an absolutely-must-be—fall in love with everyone she has sex with. I, in turn, have to fall in love with everyone who loves me. It is as though I have no choice in the matter. Of course, that is not true. I can fall in love with people who do not love me back, who will never love me back. But I absolutely-must-be have to fall in love with anyone who loves me. No exceptions.
This has, I suppose, made me brazen at times. A daring I-don't-give-a-damn-about-you that has propelled me into worlds I am not supposed to trespass, but I have broken far more rules than I care about. I have long ago blurred that fine line between love and affection, because it is impossible to love so many people at once without having to spread myself somewhat, to say "I love you," and make all the gestures, but to be unable to say, "I'll do anything for you," because there are way too many of you and only one of me.
And I am happy. I think I am, and that is all that matters, not whether I am actually happy or not. I think I am happy, and I will be.
As long as Sonny never reads this. That would be difficult to explain.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
My Dear, I Don't Give a Damn
About trying to figure out what I want anymore. The past few days has gotten me thinking, I suppose, and suddenly I'm tired of thinking. Instead, I want to write. Mindlessly, because heaven knows how much thinking I've been doing lately (especially since some of it concerns heaven).
. . .
"I don't really talk to the old people anymore," Nora told me over the phone.
I nodded, but she couldn't see anyway. I knew who she was talking about. JJ and Clover, and maybe even Stella, although she and Stella were never really close anyway. My most vivid memory of them was the time they fought over who I should follow. I went with Stella that time, and Nora had been mad at me for weeks.
"I've got my boyfriend," she went on to say. "That's all I need now."
Clover told me later that Nora was a "changed girl." I mentioned the boyfriend. Clover had scoffed and asked, "Which one?"
"It's more than I can say," I said. Nora had changed, but so had Clover. So had the city.
But that was later. Right then, all I said was, "I'll call you later, Nora. When I get the time."
Which I never did, rather unfortunately.
But that was all later.
. . .
I did not know her, although my mom did, and that was all that mattered these days. She swirled her coffee-flavoured bubbled tea, just as I sipped on my taro one, and for a moment I could not imagine why anyone would drink anything other than taro-flavoured bubble tea. That it was an acquired taste, even for me.
The small things. The God of Small Things.
"If you don't find a boyfriend before you're out of college," she was saying to my mom, "you'll be doomed to be single for the rest of your life."
"It can't be that bad," my mom said.
"Yes, it is, for the girls it is. In Canada, anyway. Everywhere you go, you see single ladies. Even the ugly guys get snatched up like candy."
I would not have described him as candy. Sunshine, maybe. Not candy. Candy was for other things, things boys had no right to.
Sunshine and skies and marbles and metal posts and oh, yes, the Small Things, they were his. Things I would not—could not let go, because everything else I had to.
. . .
The green I knew well. Too well. It was bitter. I hated it because it was bitter.
Almost as much as I hated pain, as much as I hated raw tomatoes without sugar because they were so unforgivingly sour despite their intentions.
"You're going to Harvard, aren't you?" The man my mom knew as well asked me. I imagined it in a Boston drawl, although he did not know Bostonians had a separate accent. As far as he was concerned, there were only two accents of English. Proper English, and improper English. Foreigner English.
Harvard was a sharp edge on the borders of my carefully constructed dream world. It was too real, too out of reach to be real. It was what everyone wanted but me. Or was it?
I hated pain, hated sourness and bitterness, because they were sharp, cutting, unforgiving of anything soft and surreal. By definition, I should have hated Harvard too. I couldn't.
It is far from love, though.
. . .
University of Toronto, however, is not love, but close. I would not have said it without buildings like those of Trinity, but there are so many of them that I can only, in my analogies, describe it as lust.
I had Brent as an excuse for McGill, and buildings and grounds and pure beauty as excuses for the others. They were not the "legitimate" reasons, no. What about their research facilities? What about their teachers? What about their policies? What about their affordability?
The "proper" reasons. They were the ones that did not matter, it seemed.
University of Toronto was, for my purposes, anyway, just as good as Harvard. As one of the best schools (for the most part) in Canada, it had everything any other school could offer.
So then came the trivial reasons.
What is the campus like? Is it large? Urban? Can I get intoxicated in its buzzing aura?
How is the reputation?
What will the others say? Those back home?
Small Things. How could I forget?
. . .
We stood under the blaring white lights, fixated on even more flashing lights. The scene was oddly familiar. Like ghosts that came back to haunt old roosts. Like déjà vu, although technically the expression is missing a verb.
Clover is to one side. Sandy and Carren on the other end. We lift up our iPads, waving them furiously around. Plants vs. Zombies. It is nighttime. No more sunflowers. The mushrooms will have to do. How many mines can you plant? What about the big walnuts? Spikes? You can only choose six.
We left to watch Despicable Me (not The Sorcerer's Apprentice, because "those movies you can watch on Tuesdays, for half price"). It had me laughing and crying, hiding my tears in the darkness. The 3D glasses over my own was dizzying, but it was worth it. I should have brought a water bottle.
I thought I heard Tea there, and Bryant, and Tybalt, but not the Egg. I thought about him when I mentioned that Ariadne had an iPad. He was definitely there.
. . .
No, I would rather not have a smoothie, I thought. I hate smoothies. I don't know why.
"I'd like a peach and strawberry smoothie, please," I told the person behind the counter. She scooped the fruit into a cup, added a dollop of yoghurt, and put them in the blender. With apple juice.
I now knew why I hated smoothies. Maybe. I hate apple juice. I only like two fruits anyway. Peaches and strawberries.
I took the smoothie. "And a chocolate ice cream, please? In a cup."
The ice cream was for another friend of my mom's. I just took the smoothie. Peach and strawberry and yoghurt and apple juice.
Not taro.
. . .
The Apple reminds me of Möhre's hair, bright, blood red. We passed by the Apple every time. Commented on it. Said we'd go there.
We did.
They don't sell apples. They sell candied apples, and apple candy, and apple bread, but mostly they sold pies. Apple crumble pies and traditional pies and cherry and blueberry pies. Strawberry pies.
We took the maple apple pie. Maple, laughable. We were leaving and we took the one thing that could tie us back.
I had never tasted a maple apple pie before. It tastes just like any other pie. Better crust, I suppose. The Apple crust.
Red as the bloody mountain sunset red. Möhre's hair.
. . .
She did not hear anything he said, except that he loved her, but not anymore. Rhett loved her. Waited out for her. So afraid of being hurt that he destroyed himself. But it was Scarlett he dealt with. Perhaps he had reason. Ashley was attractive. Well-bred.
Created a suit, and he fit the model.
Ashley and his sunshine hair. His stormy-colored eyes, although he would never be stormy. He was too calm, too well-bred for that.
A suit.
After all, tomorrow was another day. I may not be here anymore, I once said. He was a suit.
Suits have parts. Coats. Lapels. Pants. Shirts. Fake shirts, in Johnny's case. Ties. Maybe a hat.
Big, intangible, but with parts. Small Things. But it ends there.
. . .
I never did call Nora. Later.
. . .
Rover was fine. "What's her name?" I asked. "Lavender," she said, tugging on the leash. "L-A-V-E-N-D-E-R."
I went back to Luke and told him of my findings. We now knew all the names of the dogs.
I wonder what it would be like if I had known Luke in Paperclip. He was in my grade. Home-schooled, though. Would he know me as me? Would he have some sort of preconception? How would I have reacted, seeing someone I knew? Silly me. I might not have known him.
He might not have been with Rover if he went to Paperclip.
Never question Fate, that's what Allison always says. Fate is a grand master. Allison is his queen. It makes Prescott a king. Dark or light? I'm tempted to say light. But he loves the dark queen.
Never tempt Fate. That's another thing Allison would say.
. . .
"I don't really talk to the old people anymore," Nora told me over the phone.
I nodded, but she couldn't see anyway. I knew who she was talking about. JJ and Clover, and maybe even Stella, although she and Stella were never really close anyway. My most vivid memory of them was the time they fought over who I should follow. I went with Stella that time, and Nora had been mad at me for weeks.
"I've got my boyfriend," she went on to say. "That's all I need now."
Clover told me later that Nora was a "changed girl." I mentioned the boyfriend. Clover had scoffed and asked, "Which one?"
"It's more than I can say," I said. Nora had changed, but so had Clover. So had the city.
But that was later. Right then, all I said was, "I'll call you later, Nora. When I get the time."
Which I never did, rather unfortunately.
But that was all later.
. . .
I did not know her, although my mom did, and that was all that mattered these days. She swirled her coffee-flavoured bubbled tea, just as I sipped on my taro one, and for a moment I could not imagine why anyone would drink anything other than taro-flavoured bubble tea. That it was an acquired taste, even for me.
The small things. The God of Small Things.
"If you don't find a boyfriend before you're out of college," she was saying to my mom, "you'll be doomed to be single for the rest of your life."
"It can't be that bad," my mom said.
"Yes, it is, for the girls it is. In Canada, anyway. Everywhere you go, you see single ladies. Even the ugly guys get snatched up like candy."
I would not have described him as candy. Sunshine, maybe. Not candy. Candy was for other things, things boys had no right to.
Sunshine and skies and marbles and metal posts and oh, yes, the Small Things, they were his. Things I would not—could not let go, because everything else I had to.
. . .
The green I knew well. Too well. It was bitter. I hated it because it was bitter.
Almost as much as I hated pain, as much as I hated raw tomatoes without sugar because they were so unforgivingly sour despite their intentions.
"You're going to Harvard, aren't you?" The man my mom knew as well asked me. I imagined it in a Boston drawl, although he did not know Bostonians had a separate accent. As far as he was concerned, there were only two accents of English. Proper English, and improper English. Foreigner English.
Harvard was a sharp edge on the borders of my carefully constructed dream world. It was too real, too out of reach to be real. It was what everyone wanted but me. Or was it?
I hated pain, hated sourness and bitterness, because they were sharp, cutting, unforgiving of anything soft and surreal. By definition, I should have hated Harvard too. I couldn't.
It is far from love, though.
. . .
University of Toronto, however, is not love, but close. I would not have said it without buildings like those of Trinity, but there are so many of them that I can only, in my analogies, describe it as lust.
I had Brent as an excuse for McGill, and buildings and grounds and pure beauty as excuses for the others. They were not the "legitimate" reasons, no. What about their research facilities? What about their teachers? What about their policies? What about their affordability?
The "proper" reasons. They were the ones that did not matter, it seemed.
University of Toronto was, for my purposes, anyway, just as good as Harvard. As one of the best schools (for the most part) in Canada, it had everything any other school could offer.
So then came the trivial reasons.
What is the campus like? Is it large? Urban? Can I get intoxicated in its buzzing aura?
How is the reputation?
What will the others say? Those back home?
Small Things. How could I forget?
. . .
We stood under the blaring white lights, fixated on even more flashing lights. The scene was oddly familiar. Like ghosts that came back to haunt old roosts. Like déjà vu, although technically the expression is missing a verb.
Clover is to one side. Sandy and Carren on the other end. We lift up our iPads, waving them furiously around. Plants vs. Zombies. It is nighttime. No more sunflowers. The mushrooms will have to do. How many mines can you plant? What about the big walnuts? Spikes? You can only choose six.
We left to watch Despicable Me (not The Sorcerer's Apprentice, because "those movies you can watch on Tuesdays, for half price"). It had me laughing and crying, hiding my tears in the darkness. The 3D glasses over my own was dizzying, but it was worth it. I should have brought a water bottle.
I thought I heard Tea there, and Bryant, and Tybalt, but not the Egg. I thought about him when I mentioned that Ariadne had an iPad. He was definitely there.
. . .
No, I would rather not have a smoothie, I thought. I hate smoothies. I don't know why.
"I'd like a peach and strawberry smoothie, please," I told the person behind the counter. She scooped the fruit into a cup, added a dollop of yoghurt, and put them in the blender. With apple juice.
I now knew why I hated smoothies. Maybe. I hate apple juice. I only like two fruits anyway. Peaches and strawberries.
I took the smoothie. "And a chocolate ice cream, please? In a cup."
The ice cream was for another friend of my mom's. I just took the smoothie. Peach and strawberry and yoghurt and apple juice.
Not taro.
. . .
The Apple reminds me of Möhre's hair, bright, blood red. We passed by the Apple every time. Commented on it. Said we'd go there.
We did.
They don't sell apples. They sell candied apples, and apple candy, and apple bread, but mostly they sold pies. Apple crumble pies and traditional pies and cherry and blueberry pies. Strawberry pies.
We took the maple apple pie. Maple, laughable. We were leaving and we took the one thing that could tie us back.
I had never tasted a maple apple pie before. It tastes just like any other pie. Better crust, I suppose. The Apple crust.
Red as the bloody mountain sunset red. Möhre's hair.
. . .
She did not hear anything he said, except that he loved her, but not anymore. Rhett loved her. Waited out for her. So afraid of being hurt that he destroyed himself. But it was Scarlett he dealt with. Perhaps he had reason. Ashley was attractive. Well-bred.
Created a suit, and he fit the model.
Ashley and his sunshine hair. His stormy-colored eyes, although he would never be stormy. He was too calm, too well-bred for that.
A suit.
After all, tomorrow was another day. I may not be here anymore, I once said. He was a suit.
Suits have parts. Coats. Lapels. Pants. Shirts. Fake shirts, in Johnny's case. Ties. Maybe a hat.
Big, intangible, but with parts. Small Things. But it ends there.
. . .
I never did call Nora. Later.
. . .
Rover was fine. "What's her name?" I asked. "Lavender," she said, tugging on the leash. "L-A-V-E-N-D-E-R."
I went back to Luke and told him of my findings. We now knew all the names of the dogs.
I wonder what it would be like if I had known Luke in Paperclip. He was in my grade. Home-schooled, though. Would he know me as me? Would he have some sort of preconception? How would I have reacted, seeing someone I knew? Silly me. I might not have known him.
He might not have been with Rover if he went to Paperclip.
Never question Fate, that's what Allison always says. Fate is a grand master. Allison is his queen. It makes Prescott a king. Dark or light? I'm tempted to say light. But he loves the dark queen.
Never tempt Fate. That's another thing Allison would say.
