I was supposed to meet Terry at 11 last morning, but I woke up to Damian messaging me at 11 instead... Since I had set my alarm for 9 to get ready on time, naturally I ended up on campus at 1. We met up in the 90s computer lab under the architecture building, where we promptly checked our emails, played Hearthstone, and calculated the minimum grade we'd need on our final to get a C and pass the class. Five years ago, in the final stretches of my senior year of high school (with the same case of senioritis), I would have never imagined myself saying that. I had some lofty plans, misguided maybe, but nevertheless I had only known competitiveness and overachieving so they were my plans.
"Here," I pointed to Terry. "This is where my life took a nosedive."
I was pointing at my transcript, which we had pulled out in our distractions. My second year, first semester, where I had only taken four classes but gotten a C in every single one. I think I even deferred one of the exams. Back then, it was fairly devastating. Now I am just glad it didn't get worse until later.
We finally got around to our lecture slides, and I had just finished reading the first lecture (the introduction), when I got a frantic text from Zach, my lab partner.
"Are you on campus? I'm trying to return the lab kit but I forgot my ID card at home!"
Typical Zach. He'd literally forget his brain if he could, and honestly sometimes it feels like he does.
"Yeah," I texted back. "I'll be there in a bit."
"You have to hurry the office closes in 20 minutes!"
Terry and I had two other lab kits from other classes to return too, so we decided to go together. We practically ran up the hill, and when we get there Zach looks at me sheepishly and says, "Oh, I think they're not closing for another half hour."
We gather up our stuff and the Guardian of Lab Materials (the snarky one, unfortunately, who once asked me where in China I was from and got huffy when I only gave him a vague answer) crossed off each item down the list as we handed them to him. I took out the resistors on our breadboard, the last remnants of the microprocessor lab that had us pull so many all-nighters this semester. We gave back the half-broken breadboard that made our microelectronics lab a nightmare (how does a single resistor oscillate? why did our "ground" have a huge resistance?). I said goodbye to the "graphical programming" torture of NI's myRIO.
It was finally all over.
Zach and I went upstairs to return the last of our parts (by dumping them into the mess already on the table), then we parted ways, probably for the last time. At the beginning of this semester I had had a huge crush on him, which actually finalized my breaking up with my last boyfriend, who I just now realize I had never come up with a nickname for. I kind of knew I wanted to break up with him all along, deep inside my heart, however cruel that sounds. Just like with Yuma, there was that sinking feeling that I didn't want the rest of my life to be like this.
It's a bit hard to explain, but like I had said to JJ, when I'm alone, trying to sleep, I imagine all sorts of adventures and all the flawed, moody, damsel-in-distress (or the male version, anyway) kind of men I'd share these adventures with. Warm, garrulous, sarcastic. All sorts of fantastical situations. With Yuma, with my ex, though in the day they kept me company and kept me distracted, when I settled down for the night I always imagined something more. Something else, something different. I only really realized this after I broke up with Khajiit, that when we were together I didn't dream before I slept.
My ex had asked why I was so determined to break up, why he couldn't change to be the person I want him to be. I couldn't say it back then, and I don't know if I ever can. It really is something intangible, something I can't explain fully but know deep down in my heart.
Well, anyway, back to Zach. At the beginning of the semester I had all sorts of plans to tell him how I felt about him after our lab ended (so that it wasn't awkward). Funny how it all ended up. He is great fun to be with and he really gets my morbid obsession, but knowing him more now I think it's better that it ended up this way.
Terry and I tried to study some more but we soon gave in to our hunger. We texted Seth and met up to check out the smoked meat place he raved about so much. We talked a lot about school, jobs, and girls (for some reason these are always the three topics that come up when we chat).
About school:
"Hey, do you want some ketchup?" Terry said, jabbing at the bottle with his iron ring pinky. Seth was the only one of us not graduating yet, and predictably he faked a dramatic sob.
About jobs:
"You're going to refer me at Big Software Company, right?" Terry asked me. Seth had recently gotten a job offer at the place he's interning at, so now Terry feels left out and discouraged.
About girls:
"Summer is coming," Seth said. "Then I can start dating."
"Why summer?" I asked. "Why not start now?"
"I still need to work out more, I'm not quite there yet."
Our food eventually came (after an order mishap and some extra fries to placate us). I had ordered a smoked meat sandwich with Swiss cheese in a sesame brioche bun, and it was absolutely delicious. Seth also shared some of his barbeque chicken pizza, which was also really good but kind of reminded me of Domino's pizza. The sandwich itself wasn't a lot of food, but after two trays of fries I was absolutely stuffed.
"Let's go get bubble tea after!" I declared.
Terry and Seth agreed, so we set off for our usual bubble tea joint. I usually only get jasmine tea, but lately Terry convinced me to try some new flavors. Last time I had gotten hazelnut, which was pretty good. This time he suggested strawberry, and I gave it a spin, but it was way too sweet even with no extra sugar added and tasted like artificial strawberry syrup. Would not recommend.
We went upstairs to enjoy our drinks, and like typical millennials we all went straight on our phones. Seth had recently bought a new Samsung phone (the one where the screen is a bit curved around the edges, I don't know what it's called), and he downloaded a few games to try. The Google Play store recommended this game called "That Level Again," which ended up being really fun. The three of us spent hours trying to figure out each level, and by the time we finally decided to leave it was already 10.
Technically, we were supposed to study today.
Oops.
Showing posts with label school. Show all posts
Showing posts with label school. Show all posts
Friday, April 22, 2016
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Down The River Valley
It seems so long ago. The other day I painted Khajiit's nails a gorgeous sonic bloom color, although I have no idea what a sonic bloom is (I think it's a type of flower). We brought my rice cooker to the office, along with some canned food, and at the meeting Khajiit pointed to the rice cooker.
"Don't do that," our chair said. "Your nails, when you wave your hands. It's so distracting."
Something about sexism came to mind, sexism against men in this case but also against women, because who is to say nail polish (or anything "feminine") has to be for women? At the very least it is stifling, if not borderline deriding the practice not worthy for men. But I am not as brave in a group as I am alone, so it went unsaid.
Later, Sarah brought her bag of nail products. She plopped down in front of a computer and looked up rental cars. We sat around as she made the calls.
"What's the minimum age for car rentals? —Oh, okay. Yeah, no problem. Thanks. Good bye."
Khajiit started looking up buses. His dad had called earlier. We could have five in our party. There are talks about seeing musicals—"The Book of Mormon," for Sarah, who is Mormon—and buying shoes—Veronica is a shoe addict. We considered contacting the guy behind the sketchy van that left for the city every week.
It is so surreal. Only two weeks ago, I was in another office three doors down listening to a Veronica I barely knew cry about her relationship problems. The next day, Sarah confessed that she was really stressed out because of school troubles. As Khajiit puts it, "We're all failures." That was the day I slept through most of my classes. Somewhere amongst the snarky, angry jabs at ex-boyfriends, we decided to go to Khajiit's house over spring break.
We are a group of teenagers, Veronica included. I once remarked that Khajiit, in the car, suddenly possessed teenage qualities he lacked out of the car. On the streets, or in a room, or when we are sipping lattes at the coffee shop across the road, he is either a middle-schooler or an adult. But in the car, he is a teenager. This impromptu decision on all of our parts make us all reckless to some degree. When I signed up for college I did not think I would be signing up for this.
It's an exhilarating sort of freedom, one that has me up at three in the morning in a sketchy corner of the city where people have been known to be stabbed, drinking white hot chocolate from a mug and eating ranch-flavored potato chips. The buses at Islandtown run all night, one every hour or so, in a grid-like pattern. Khajiit and I took one that snaked through the northern part of the city. We sat in the back seat, munching on rainbow rice krispies and drinking iced lemon tea, and joked about staying at seedy motels because we were so tired.
We are always tired these days, sleep-deprived, because I have my games and Khajiit has his games (to program). Late at night we do crazy things, like walk in sub-freezing temperatures just so we can sleep on a futon instead of a single bed, or go to the coffee shop we always frequent late at night, so often that the night shift cashier greets us with, "Hey, it's you guys again."
The next day is sometimes full of regret. Why did we stay up so late? Why did we go to the apartment half an hour away from campus, when we had another one five minutes away? Khajiit regretted his bright red nails and took them off with acetone, although he painted them again in dark blue. A more "manly" color, he claimed. Some guy we didn't know with access to the office said, "Nice nails."
"Don't do that," our chair said. "Your nails, when you wave your hands. It's so distracting."
Something about sexism came to mind, sexism against men in this case but also against women, because who is to say nail polish (or anything "feminine") has to be for women? At the very least it is stifling, if not borderline deriding the practice not worthy for men. But I am not as brave in a group as I am alone, so it went unsaid.
Later, Sarah brought her bag of nail products. She plopped down in front of a computer and looked up rental cars. We sat around as she made the calls.
"What's the minimum age for car rentals? —Oh, okay. Yeah, no problem. Thanks. Good bye."
Khajiit started looking up buses. His dad had called earlier. We could have five in our party. There are talks about seeing musicals—"The Book of Mormon," for Sarah, who is Mormon—and buying shoes—Veronica is a shoe addict. We considered contacting the guy behind the sketchy van that left for the city every week.
It is so surreal. Only two weeks ago, I was in another office three doors down listening to a Veronica I barely knew cry about her relationship problems. The next day, Sarah confessed that she was really stressed out because of school troubles. As Khajiit puts it, "We're all failures." That was the day I slept through most of my classes. Somewhere amongst the snarky, angry jabs at ex-boyfriends, we decided to go to Khajiit's house over spring break.
We are a group of teenagers, Veronica included. I once remarked that Khajiit, in the car, suddenly possessed teenage qualities he lacked out of the car. On the streets, or in a room, or when we are sipping lattes at the coffee shop across the road, he is either a middle-schooler or an adult. But in the car, he is a teenager. This impromptu decision on all of our parts make us all reckless to some degree. When I signed up for college I did not think I would be signing up for this.
It's an exhilarating sort of freedom, one that has me up at three in the morning in a sketchy corner of the city where people have been known to be stabbed, drinking white hot chocolate from a mug and eating ranch-flavored potato chips. The buses at Islandtown run all night, one every hour or so, in a grid-like pattern. Khajiit and I took one that snaked through the northern part of the city. We sat in the back seat, munching on rainbow rice krispies and drinking iced lemon tea, and joked about staying at seedy motels because we were so tired.
We are always tired these days, sleep-deprived, because I have my games and Khajiit has his games (to program). Late at night we do crazy things, like walk in sub-freezing temperatures just so we can sleep on a futon instead of a single bed, or go to the coffee shop we always frequent late at night, so often that the night shift cashier greets us with, "Hey, it's you guys again."
The next day is sometimes full of regret. Why did we stay up so late? Why did we go to the apartment half an hour away from campus, when we had another one five minutes away? Khajiit regretted his bright red nails and took them off with acetone, although he painted them again in dark blue. A more "manly" color, he claimed. Some guy we didn't know with access to the office said, "Nice nails."
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Getting My Head Out Of This Haze
I read about 6.001 today, the MIT course on Scheme, and in essence abstract programming. Is it a bad thing that I instantly thought of 6.01?
I once promised myself, on the campus no less, that I would never go back until I was there by my own merits. I never knew how true that would turn out. There was once upon a time I would say, "Oh, yeah, he's at MIT, no big deal." And I said it out of jealousy, because I really, really want to be there. Being related to something always hurts more, because you are so close, yet not there. Not quite good enough, or, in my case, not quite smart enough or special enough or whatever else it was.
The people around me have different goals. They want to get into the best med school possible. But it's similar, isn't it? And if I focused enough, I should be able to do this. But it means a kind of dedication and work ethic I haven't been able to muster up in a long, long while. I have been relishing in my newfound independence but I haven't been putting up much effort. This past semester has been a few months of rehashing things I have already learned and scrambling to put together things I haven't.
I have some good plans for next semester. I need to schedule them into my calendar, and more importantly, I need to follow my calendar more strictly, rather than just putting things on there. I think I can block out times when I will be able to get work done without being disturbed, and then fill them in week by week. After that, I'll also schedule in all the application work I need to get done, and studying, and it should work out nicely.
Other people can make it work. I don't believe I'm any worse than them.
So this is my next few months. Maybe I can even fit blogging in.
I once promised myself, on the campus no less, that I would never go back until I was there by my own merits. I never knew how true that would turn out. There was once upon a time I would say, "Oh, yeah, he's at MIT, no big deal." And I said it out of jealousy, because I really, really want to be there. Being related to something always hurts more, because you are so close, yet not there. Not quite good enough, or, in my case, not quite smart enough or special enough or whatever else it was.
The people around me have different goals. They want to get into the best med school possible. But it's similar, isn't it? And if I focused enough, I should be able to do this. But it means a kind of dedication and work ethic I haven't been able to muster up in a long, long while. I have been relishing in my newfound independence but I haven't been putting up much effort. This past semester has been a few months of rehashing things I have already learned and scrambling to put together things I haven't.
I have some good plans for next semester. I need to schedule them into my calendar, and more importantly, I need to follow my calendar more strictly, rather than just putting things on there. I think I can block out times when I will be able to get work done without being disturbed, and then fill them in week by week. After that, I'll also schedule in all the application work I need to get done, and studying, and it should work out nicely.
Other people can make it work. I don't believe I'm any worse than them.
So this is my next few months. Maybe I can even fit blogging in.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Airplanes Again
Last year, when we were dropping my dad off at the airport, I remember wanting so badly to get off the car and blend into the busy, busy crowds looking to catch their next flights. I have an affinity for the air, half satisfied when my parents and I went on our first ever plane trip to the western half of the US, and half satisfied by my own trip back to China.
This time, Khajiit is going on the plane to go to France, and I will soon be taking one (or two, actually, if not three) to Texas. It is his, what now? Thirtieth time to France? And it is my first, to Texas, although anywhere in the South makes me smile. I am excited to see my dad again, after all this time, and I'm hoping that he'll take me around places during the holidays. I have always wanted to see what Texas was like, and another coastline state (maybe Louisiana too, if we're lucky) to my "been-to" collection is always nice as well.
By the time I get back to Islandtown, Khajiit will be in New York again, so the time zone won't be as much of an issue. I wonder how much I'll miss him though. I'll also get to spend a few days in Islandtown picking my life back together again, especially my schoolwork, and planning for the computer club's green committee events. It will definitely be busy next semester, but exciting too, and hopefully I won't make the same mistakes I made this semester.
Also I don't know if Zephy still reads this but I just remembered how she wants more tags so I'll tag her in here as well. I should email her too, along with Argon, and see how their fall semester went and how their lives are right now.
This time, Khajiit is going on the plane to go to France, and I will soon be taking one (or two, actually, if not three) to Texas. It is his, what now? Thirtieth time to France? And it is my first, to Texas, although anywhere in the South makes me smile. I am excited to see my dad again, after all this time, and I'm hoping that he'll take me around places during the holidays. I have always wanted to see what Texas was like, and another coastline state (maybe Louisiana too, if we're lucky) to my "been-to" collection is always nice as well.
By the time I get back to Islandtown, Khajiit will be in New York again, so the time zone won't be as much of an issue. I wonder how much I'll miss him though. I'll also get to spend a few days in Islandtown picking my life back together again, especially my schoolwork, and planning for the computer club's green committee events. It will definitely be busy next semester, but exciting too, and hopefully I won't make the same mistakes I made this semester.
Also I don't know if Zephy still reads this but I just remembered how she wants more tags so I'll tag her in here as well. I should email her too, along with Argon, and see how their fall semester went and how their lives are right now.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Some Old Things In Drafts
"I know there's something in the wake of your smile, I get a notion from the look in your eyes, yeah."—Listen to Your Heart, Roxette
Molly Lambert has an interesting way of writing. She starts out with something ordinary, like telephone lines against a sunset, and expands it into something seemingly unrelated, like Hamlet, and then wraps it up with a post title and a link title that are completely different. And the pictures too. They make every post something special, something worth reading (it helps too that the pictures break up the dense text).
I wanted to clear out my drafts because the number of total posts was misleading (some of them will probably never, ever see the light of day) and also because I reread this the other day and remembered Molly. She is something special. She has since left "This Recording," but she was the reason I read through all of those wordy posts even though I knew I had assignments of my own due the next day.
There are days I wish I could write like her. But that takes skill. That takes discipline, tremendous amounts of it. And with my brain addled with lack of sleep and the instantaneous skimming I have acquired by reading through my collection of food blogs, I don't have that quite yet.
It is the difference between the good writers and the great writers, although I am not either yet, and perhaps at this rate never will be.
I still remember this particular post. Telephone lines breaking up the sky. Some sort of strange irony that they are not at odds but instead harmonious. I stared at two pigeons today in the middle of campus, watched them squeeze under the wrought-iron fence, their heads bobbing. I did not know pigeons bobbed their heads before "Pooch Café." Even though I must have seen a hundred pigeons before, if not more.
What else have I never known?
Yuma asked me today if I had read Tea's latest blog post, and of course I have. I am subscribed to her in my RSS feed, I cannot escape it. He said it reminded him of me. What were his exact words? Something about being angsty, and it not being the point that I refuted him with the concrete fact that I was not hurt.
But he is more often right than I am. Yesterday a boy in my English class (for engineers) walked with me to my next classroom, and told me he was going to go to the engineering library. He had taken the long way by walking with me, but he said the shortcut was closed. Yuma said he was "hitting on me," but he has been saying that about almost every boy I have talked with. Is he really right, or is he being insecure?
We are reading The Tale of Despereaux right now. Or rather, Yuma is reading it to me, chapter by chapter, on nights when we can both fulfill our promises. We are on the chapter where Despereaux's mother says, "Adieu." It is a sad chapter. There are more sad chapters following it.
I told him, "When we get to the happily ever after we will be able to live happily ever after as well."
His answer was, "We'll see." It is his answer for the future, for our future. He is living it day by day, that is his way of coping. I am living it by focusing on the end. That is my way of coping.
I told Nyx today that I might be visiting Beavertown during my Thanksgiving, and that if I do I would like to see her before I go back. She asked, "Are you going to see Yuma?"
And then said, "I heard you guys broke it off."
Have we?
Yuma introduced me last night to his going-to-forbidden-places-and-physics buddy as "my ex." He signed off one of his chats to me today as "my lovely." Maybe this is his double life, his way of separating what he feels and what he wants to feel. But I am assuming now. I am taking a literary book off the shelf and remarking on its symbolism without going inside the head of the author.
When he read my blog the other night Yuma said, "I always get nervous when you write about me. I don't know what you are going to say."
Maybe that is part of the problem. There is a part of me I do not speak of, a part I only write of. No matter how much we talk and how much he asks me, he will never know my true impression of him. Sometimes I do not know either. The words come out and they are just right, they hint at something I otherwise would never have guessed. Or they are not right, and I erase them, and try again and again.
One of my other drafts was about an airport terminal. Maybe I will post it some day when I have the chance. It is silly now, because I have fulfilled my flying dream, I have seen the vast blue sky at an altitude above the meanest rain cloud.
Here is an excerpt of it, of one of the very last paragraphs I wrote before I got distracted by something else:
I have not been imagining things for a very long time now. It is because of content—when I am happy, I tend not to want to escape through my mind. At least I thought I was happy. In many ways, I am. I love being able to lean back and knowing that someone will catch me before I fall. I love skipping down the halls and not being alone. I have had one too many solitary hopscotch games.
But there is a part of me that is the loner in the rain, the one who is perfectly happy to be cold and drenched and with no one else to reach out with a hand. The one who can watch snow drift for hours and be at peace, because there is not a soul to take this away. Not a soul to break the news of reality.
It is silly to mention this now. Yuma says there are boys here who will make me happy. Who I can cuddle with and not feel lonely. I always stop listening before he goes on.
Tea said I should only chase after him if I am absolutely, 100% dedicated. And I see why now. It is extremely frustrating to reach out every time and be rebuffed, to want to be upset but knowing it would only weaken my stance. On the bright side I will probably be much better at sales pitches by the end of this.
I am all out of milk now, although not yet out of cereal. I was going to buy milk this morning, or maybe Tuesday morning, but when you go to bed in the not-so-early morning you wake up in the almost-not-morning morning. And other things happen. Like today I went to a roundtable discussion with several other engineers from other years and with some company reps from this oil and gas company, and they have all been mentioning internships and Jessica and I are left with wondering what we should do.
"My GPA will be so good this semester," Jessica said. "I am going to get straight As because the classes are so easy."
I am going to get straight As too, or at least I have to, or else I will not have the 3.7 GPA I need to keep my scholarship. It is a scary proposition, but I have heard it is do-able. At least for this semester, which means I will at least have the money for next semester, and maybe I can live it out that way, or maybe I can just learn to the best I can and not worry about grades, because those things come naturally after learning.
And lots and lots of work. Which means lots and lots of time.
Yuma has repeatedly mentioned that I should just do the things I want to do and not worry about conforming to his schedule. But I cannot do that. Because if he is unwilling to compromise then the only way I will get to talk with him is by compromising myself. It is silly, it is hard, and it is taking its toll on my preferred bedtime.
I suppose that is inevitable.
Molly Lambert has an interesting way of writing. She starts out with something ordinary, like telephone lines against a sunset, and expands it into something seemingly unrelated, like Hamlet, and then wraps it up with a post title and a link title that are completely different. And the pictures too. They make every post something special, something worth reading (it helps too that the pictures break up the dense text).
I wanted to clear out my drafts because the number of total posts was misleading (some of them will probably never, ever see the light of day) and also because I reread this the other day and remembered Molly. She is something special. She has since left "This Recording," but she was the reason I read through all of those wordy posts even though I knew I had assignments of my own due the next day.
There are days I wish I could write like her. But that takes skill. That takes discipline, tremendous amounts of it. And with my brain addled with lack of sleep and the instantaneous skimming I have acquired by reading through my collection of food blogs, I don't have that quite yet.
It is the difference between the good writers and the great writers, although I am not either yet, and perhaps at this rate never will be.
I still remember this particular post. Telephone lines breaking up the sky. Some sort of strange irony that they are not at odds but instead harmonious. I stared at two pigeons today in the middle of campus, watched them squeeze under the wrought-iron fence, their heads bobbing. I did not know pigeons bobbed their heads before "Pooch Café." Even though I must have seen a hundred pigeons before, if not more.
What else have I never known?
Yuma asked me today if I had read Tea's latest blog post, and of course I have. I am subscribed to her in my RSS feed, I cannot escape it. He said it reminded him of me. What were his exact words? Something about being angsty, and it not being the point that I refuted him with the concrete fact that I was not hurt.
But he is more often right than I am. Yesterday a boy in my English class (for engineers) walked with me to my next classroom, and told me he was going to go to the engineering library. He had taken the long way by walking with me, but he said the shortcut was closed. Yuma said he was "hitting on me," but he has been saying that about almost every boy I have talked with. Is he really right, or is he being insecure?
We are reading The Tale of Despereaux right now. Or rather, Yuma is reading it to me, chapter by chapter, on nights when we can both fulfill our promises. We are on the chapter where Despereaux's mother says, "Adieu." It is a sad chapter. There are more sad chapters following it.
I told him, "When we get to the happily ever after we will be able to live happily ever after as well."
His answer was, "We'll see." It is his answer for the future, for our future. He is living it day by day, that is his way of coping. I am living it by focusing on the end. That is my way of coping.
I told Nyx today that I might be visiting Beavertown during my Thanksgiving, and that if I do I would like to see her before I go back. She asked, "Are you going to see Yuma?"
And then said, "I heard you guys broke it off."
Have we?
Yuma introduced me last night to his going-to-forbidden-places-and-physics buddy as "my ex." He signed off one of his chats to me today as "my lovely." Maybe this is his double life, his way of separating what he feels and what he wants to feel. But I am assuming now. I am taking a literary book off the shelf and remarking on its symbolism without going inside the head of the author.
When he read my blog the other night Yuma said, "I always get nervous when you write about me. I don't know what you are going to say."
Maybe that is part of the problem. There is a part of me I do not speak of, a part I only write of. No matter how much we talk and how much he asks me, he will never know my true impression of him. Sometimes I do not know either. The words come out and they are just right, they hint at something I otherwise would never have guessed. Or they are not right, and I erase them, and try again and again.
One of my other drafts was about an airport terminal. Maybe I will post it some day when I have the chance. It is silly now, because I have fulfilled my flying dream, I have seen the vast blue sky at an altitude above the meanest rain cloud.
Here is an excerpt of it, of one of the very last paragraphs I wrote before I got distracted by something else:
I have not been imagining things for a very long time now. It is because of content—when I am happy, I tend not to want to escape through my mind. At least I thought I was happy. In many ways, I am. I love being able to lean back and knowing that someone will catch me before I fall. I love skipping down the halls and not being alone. I have had one too many solitary hopscotch games.
But there is a part of me that is the loner in the rain, the one who is perfectly happy to be cold and drenched and with no one else to reach out with a hand. The one who can watch snow drift for hours and be at peace, because there is not a soul to take this away. Not a soul to break the news of reality.
It is silly to mention this now. Yuma says there are boys here who will make me happy. Who I can cuddle with and not feel lonely. I always stop listening before he goes on.
Tea said I should only chase after him if I am absolutely, 100% dedicated. And I see why now. It is extremely frustrating to reach out every time and be rebuffed, to want to be upset but knowing it would only weaken my stance. On the bright side I will probably be much better at sales pitches by the end of this.
I am all out of milk now, although not yet out of cereal. I was going to buy milk this morning, or maybe Tuesday morning, but when you go to bed in the not-so-early morning you wake up in the almost-not-morning morning. And other things happen. Like today I went to a roundtable discussion with several other engineers from other years and with some company reps from this oil and gas company, and they have all been mentioning internships and Jessica and I are left with wondering what we should do.
"My GPA will be so good this semester," Jessica said. "I am going to get straight As because the classes are so easy."
I am going to get straight As too, or at least I have to, or else I will not have the 3.7 GPA I need to keep my scholarship. It is a scary proposition, but I have heard it is do-able. At least for this semester, which means I will at least have the money for next semester, and maybe I can live it out that way, or maybe I can just learn to the best I can and not worry about grades, because those things come naturally after learning.
And lots and lots of work. Which means lots and lots of time.
Yuma has repeatedly mentioned that I should just do the things I want to do and not worry about conforming to his schedule. But I cannot do that. Because if he is unwilling to compromise then the only way I will get to talk with him is by compromising myself. It is silly, it is hard, and it is taking its toll on my preferred bedtime.
I suppose that is inevitable.
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.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Matters of the Heart
My faithful readers, I have a confession to make. I don't know how my heart works (okay, this is very obvious, I admit). I am also an awkwardness magnet, or, as Faith from Sparknotes said, "full of awkwardsauce." In more practical terms, I (and this is a rather open admission to a sea of who-knows-who Internet readers—I mean, who are you, really, Java reader? I'd like to know) happen to not really like any guy who seems to like me.
This, of course, is problematic. And I, of course, have no solution whatsoever.
So I don't know why I'm writing this, except to basically put this out there and get it over with.
Anyway, today was really nice. I learned another month of calculus in one day, some more basic chem, and discussed our (Cammie and my) discovery that the "Welcome Home, Our Sophie Mol" play is remarkably similar to the musical the twins went to see (they both started out happy, happened because of Sophie Mol, had something tragic happen in-between, and never truly ended). Well, we had also tried really hard not to say, "It's interesting that..." whenever we're talking about something interesting, and that didn't really work (Mr. Littney also happened to write "interesting" on Cammie's poem thesis). And, of course, multi was really fun and, as always, too short. After multi, I saw Argon (who just had calc), and he asked me, "When is the pace of the class the fastest?" To which I replied, "All the time." I guess I should have added "before May 5th," or whatever the new AP day is, but I think he got the general idea.
I think I can conclude that I like Fridays. Thursdays too, those are nice. And so are Tuesdays, and Wednesdays. And, well, I'm sure Mondays are fantastic too. And I don't know if there's a day in the week I don't like anymore, and that is a little unnerving but I guess it can't be bad.
Also, I have less homework this year than I did last year (so far), so I've been spending lots of time reading random things, such as this NYT article that makes me think my habit of procrastinating (and therefore studying in various corners of the school) is actually more productive than I thought it would be. Who would've guessed?
This, of course, is problematic. And I, of course, have no solution whatsoever.
So I don't know why I'm writing this, except to basically put this out there and get it over with.
Anyway, today was really nice. I learned another month of calculus in one day, some more basic chem, and discussed our (Cammie and my) discovery that the "Welcome Home, Our Sophie Mol" play is remarkably similar to the musical the twins went to see (they both started out happy, happened because of Sophie Mol, had something tragic happen in-between, and never truly ended). Well, we had also tried really hard not to say, "It's interesting that..." whenever we're talking about something interesting, and that didn't really work (Mr. Littney also happened to write "interesting" on Cammie's poem thesis). And, of course, multi was really fun and, as always, too short. After multi, I saw Argon (who just had calc), and he asked me, "When is the pace of the class the fastest?" To which I replied, "All the time." I guess I should have added "before May 5th," or whatever the new AP day is, but I think he got the general idea.
I think I can conclude that I like Fridays. Thursdays too, those are nice. And so are Tuesdays, and Wednesdays. And, well, I'm sure Mondays are fantastic too. And I don't know if there's a day in the week I don't like anymore, and that is a little unnerving but I guess it can't be bad.
Also, I have less homework this year than I did last year (so far), so I've been spending lots of time reading random things, such as this NYT article that makes me think my habit of procrastinating (and therefore studying in various corners of the school) is actually more productive than I thought it would be. Who would've guessed?
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Raining Down
This is way too long to be anything near my Williams supplement essay (nor is it going to be anything near what my final essay will look like in terms of subject, because this is not really reality), but it is a start. I have not (extensively) proofread this, and there definitely will be mistakes. This is merely my exploratory take on the subject, because exploratory works are all the rage lately.
. . .
My fingers are millimeters away from the rain.
I can feel their coolness on the tips of my fingers, feel them drip past my skin, into my bones. A trickling sensation. Spatter-spatter-splot. I hear the drumming of the raindrops and hear them against my skin. Goodness rain.
Outside, the grass is a saturated green. Long, wispy strands reaching out to a solemn grey sky. “Do you know the time?” The grass asks. “Five-after-two,” the sky replies.
The grass nods. Happy. The rain splashes on. They are singing some tune, a drum affair, with a scattering of xylophone notes and the occasional flute. I trace the rain as they dance across the sky, their footsteps light. A free-style salsa in a funeral. With only harmony and no melody, or only rhythm without harmony.
I reach out, trying to bridge the last few millimeters, and everything turns mute. The rain is merely a humming now. The green washed with silvery-grey. The cold, the wind, it is all gone, except for the vents blowing cold air into my elbows.
It is ten-after-two, or fifteen-after-two. I do not know—I cannot know unless I turn the key in the ignition, and if I do that then I will lose the quiet. And as I think that, I know I have already lost it. I am back where I was. In a Ford Taurus station-wagon at some service area on Interstate 90. Behind the windshield, overlooking the rain, the grass, and the cars zooming past, ghosts of what they are.
I do not know how I had missed the cars before. They are there, in the parking lot, blues and reds and blacks. People running by under umbrellas, under coats, under backpacks slung over their heads. And I do not know how I had missed the people. They are going somewhere, with their iced coffees and Happy Meals and cigarettes soaked through the box but only damp inside. They are turning keys. Lights. Motors. Plates from Tennessee and Ohio and Pennsylvania and Indiana. The rare one from New Hampshire. The one from Florida that is everywhere. The bright red California—no, that is a Massachusetts.
I sit in my car, my feet cold from the rain, my arms cold from the air conditioning. The key is in my hand, waiting to settle. It is at least fifteen-after-two now. I should be leaving. It is late.
The grass shouts, “You do not belong here.” The sky agrees. “You have places to be. Things to see. People to meet.” Their voices are muted. Muffled screaming.
I know. I know.
I am on the crossroads. I came from a past of wandering, of staking out new territories and discovering new adventures. Years of searching and floating, fleeting “Hi how are you?” and “Sorry I have to go.” And now I am driving. I am in control of the steering wheel, with twenty bottles of water in the trunk and a box of energy bars on the backseat. A small bag with two sets of clothes. Toothbrushes, toothpaste. Soap. Shampoo. An umbrella thrown in that I will probably never use except to poke at things stacked on tall ledges.
Goodness rain. I am almost there.
Ten years of waiting. Of plotting. Of knowing I want to go somewhere, wherever it is.
I want a coffee. I suddenly want a coffee so badly I shove the keys into my pocket and grab a few dollars’ worth of change. One third coffee, one third cream, and one third milk and hot cocoa. Cinnamon hazelnut coffee. With a sprinkle of oatmeal, and tapioca pearls too, if possible. But I am okay with just the coffee and cream and milk and hot cocoa.
I am about to leave when my cell rings. I pick it up. Private caller. “Hello?”
“Hi, Ginny, it’s me,” my mother says. “Where are you now?”
Somewhere. Nowhere. In the middle of nowhere. “I’m on I-90 right now,” I say. “At some service area.”
“How much further?” Because I have a destination. Somewhere. I look at the map sprawled on the seat next to me. Count the increments. Ten miles. Twenty. Fifty.
“Sixty miles,” I say. “I think. I don’t really remember what the last sign said.”
“You’re only there?”
“I stopped for lunch,” I said. I did not mention that I went off the highway for an hour, driving through town after town in the misty rain, trying to envision a destination somewhere in the heart of this land.
“Oh, okay,” my mother says. “Don’t drive too fast.” Her way of saying, “Drive safely.”
As she hangs up I put my hand against the glass, fingers splayed. It is half-past-two. I remember I have more clothes in the trunk. An entire suitcase of them. My mother and I had packed them a few days ago, before she left for China with my father and I left for wherever it is I am going. I have other things, too. A blanket. Two pillows. Several bedsheets. Some books salvaged from the tag sale.
And I remember. I have a destination. I am going somewhere. Not nowhere. Sixty miles away.
I am going off to college. Going, going. To be places, see things, meet people. Break through this windshield-mute. Listen to the rain on my hands, on my nose, on my lips. Drumming. Coolness seeping into my bones. Soaking into my blood.
I think I am ready.
. . .
Or not. I don’t think I am ready. Not yet, anyway, although I will have to be soon. Meadow’s Walk (I don’t really know her real name) has a blog, in which she said yesterday, “Remember when you were a freshman in high school, you walked down the hall in a blur of strangers, lost in the wilderness? And remember when you were a senior, and you could not go 5 steps without saying hi to someone you knew. Then you knew it was time to move on. It's like that.”
It really is like that. I can’t go by a single hallway without knowing someone, and in passing time alone, I’ll be able to talk with someone while I’m walking to my classes, all the time. I still remember my sophomore year (because I missed out on the whole freshman experience) when I didn’t know anyone, and I really thought I’d get lost in so huge a school, and now I know where I’m going without even thinking about it. I know where I’m going and I know how long it’ll take me and I know how much time I have to linger out in the halls, talking with people before class.
So it’s time to move on, almost, but not yet, and I’ll be damned if I let some college essay stop me from enjoying my last year of high school.
. . .
My fingers are millimeters away from the rain.
I can feel their coolness on the tips of my fingers, feel them drip past my skin, into my bones. A trickling sensation. Spatter-spatter-splot. I hear the drumming of the raindrops and hear them against my skin. Goodness rain.
Outside, the grass is a saturated green. Long, wispy strands reaching out to a solemn grey sky. “Do you know the time?” The grass asks. “Five-after-two,” the sky replies.
The grass nods. Happy. The rain splashes on. They are singing some tune, a drum affair, with a scattering of xylophone notes and the occasional flute. I trace the rain as they dance across the sky, their footsteps light. A free-style salsa in a funeral. With only harmony and no melody, or only rhythm without harmony.
I reach out, trying to bridge the last few millimeters, and everything turns mute. The rain is merely a humming now. The green washed with silvery-grey. The cold, the wind, it is all gone, except for the vents blowing cold air into my elbows.
It is ten-after-two, or fifteen-after-two. I do not know—I cannot know unless I turn the key in the ignition, and if I do that then I will lose the quiet. And as I think that, I know I have already lost it. I am back where I was. In a Ford Taurus station-wagon at some service area on Interstate 90. Behind the windshield, overlooking the rain, the grass, and the cars zooming past, ghosts of what they are.
I do not know how I had missed the cars before. They are there, in the parking lot, blues and reds and blacks. People running by under umbrellas, under coats, under backpacks slung over their heads. And I do not know how I had missed the people. They are going somewhere, with their iced coffees and Happy Meals and cigarettes soaked through the box but only damp inside. They are turning keys. Lights. Motors. Plates from Tennessee and Ohio and Pennsylvania and Indiana. The rare one from New Hampshire. The one from Florida that is everywhere. The bright red California—no, that is a Massachusetts.
I sit in my car, my feet cold from the rain, my arms cold from the air conditioning. The key is in my hand, waiting to settle. It is at least fifteen-after-two now. I should be leaving. It is late.
The grass shouts, “You do not belong here.” The sky agrees. “You have places to be. Things to see. People to meet.” Their voices are muted. Muffled screaming.
I know. I know.
I am on the crossroads. I came from a past of wandering, of staking out new territories and discovering new adventures. Years of searching and floating, fleeting “Hi how are you?” and “Sorry I have to go.” And now I am driving. I am in control of the steering wheel, with twenty bottles of water in the trunk and a box of energy bars on the backseat. A small bag with two sets of clothes. Toothbrushes, toothpaste. Soap. Shampoo. An umbrella thrown in that I will probably never use except to poke at things stacked on tall ledges.
Goodness rain. I am almost there.
Ten years of waiting. Of plotting. Of knowing I want to go somewhere, wherever it is.
I want a coffee. I suddenly want a coffee so badly I shove the keys into my pocket and grab a few dollars’ worth of change. One third coffee, one third cream, and one third milk and hot cocoa. Cinnamon hazelnut coffee. With a sprinkle of oatmeal, and tapioca pearls too, if possible. But I am okay with just the coffee and cream and milk and hot cocoa.
I am about to leave when my cell rings. I pick it up. Private caller. “Hello?”
“Hi, Ginny, it’s me,” my mother says. “Where are you now?”
Somewhere. Nowhere. In the middle of nowhere. “I’m on I-90 right now,” I say. “At some service area.”
“How much further?” Because I have a destination. Somewhere. I look at the map sprawled on the seat next to me. Count the increments. Ten miles. Twenty. Fifty.
“Sixty miles,” I say. “I think. I don’t really remember what the last sign said.”
“You’re only there?”
“I stopped for lunch,” I said. I did not mention that I went off the highway for an hour, driving through town after town in the misty rain, trying to envision a destination somewhere in the heart of this land.
“Oh, okay,” my mother says. “Don’t drive too fast.” Her way of saying, “Drive safely.”
As she hangs up I put my hand against the glass, fingers splayed. It is half-past-two. I remember I have more clothes in the trunk. An entire suitcase of them. My mother and I had packed them a few days ago, before she left for China with my father and I left for wherever it is I am going. I have other things, too. A blanket. Two pillows. Several bedsheets. Some books salvaged from the tag sale.
And I remember. I have a destination. I am going somewhere. Not nowhere. Sixty miles away.
I am going off to college. Going, going. To be places, see things, meet people. Break through this windshield-mute. Listen to the rain on my hands, on my nose, on my lips. Drumming. Coolness seeping into my bones. Soaking into my blood.
I think I am ready.
. . .
Or not. I don’t think I am ready. Not yet, anyway, although I will have to be soon. Meadow’s Walk (I don’t really know her real name) has a blog, in which she said yesterday, “Remember when you were a freshman in high school, you walked down the hall in a blur of strangers, lost in the wilderness? And remember when you were a senior, and you could not go 5 steps without saying hi to someone you knew. Then you knew it was time to move on. It's like that.”
It really is like that. I can’t go by a single hallway without knowing someone, and in passing time alone, I’ll be able to talk with someone while I’m walking to my classes, all the time. I still remember my sophomore year (because I missed out on the whole freshman experience) when I didn’t know anyone, and I really thought I’d get lost in so huge a school, and now I know where I’m going without even thinking about it. I know where I’m going and I know how long it’ll take me and I know how much time I have to linger out in the halls, talking with people before class.
So it’s time to move on, almost, but not yet, and I’ll be damned if I let some college essay stop me from enjoying my last year of high school.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
A New Beginning
I think this was the title to one of my blog posts. Not this one, of course, but one of my WordPress blogs, or something similar, back when I was still a careless blogger and my blogs had fewer than four posts in total.
So. First day of school. Semantics, really (as compared to syntax, which requires more careful thought, but I think comparing school to linguistic terms would probably draw plenty of blank eyes). A lot of "this is what we're going to teach you," and a lot more of "this is what we expect from you." I have four syllabi (which is not a word, according to Blogger spellcheck) already, all pretty much useless because I will never, ever refer to them, ever.
And even if I did, I would do so online, not flip through several sheets of paper. But that is another story.
My French class went well (as well as it can go when I was only there for the last 15 minutes), and so did physics, which is right next door to my French classroom. I saw Dino as I went in, and he said, "Ginny," to which I responded, "Bonjour," because I was still in a French mindset (plus I was kind of shocked he was talking to me—he usually doesn't do that unless necessary). Nyx is across the hall from me (during French, that is), and so we both have very short distances to travel when going to physics, but alas that won't happen anymore because periods 1 and 7 have switched. Pity. (At least we can still walk together from multi on Thursdays.)
All of my other classes were also pretty good as well. Lots of people I know for most of my classes (I don't know about biology or middle east yet), and Yuma is in my free for the entire year! So I guess even with the not-so-good arena time, all of my classes are splendid, and I am so excited about the rest of the year. Especially because I don't have lab lunches anymore. I love regular lunches.
On the other spectrum (the one oft talked about and most dreaded), I talked with Mrs. MacDonald today, and we'll have to be talking soon about teacher recs. That means I have to hunt down Mrs. Tallchief as well, unless I want to ask someone else (I'm still not sure yet). Fun. Not really.
Well, at least I finished most of my homework (I still have to read and annotate the Aciman article for English—or at least I think it's that article, I didn't really hear Mr. Littney that clearly), and all my binders are (so far) organized, which is a good start.
I'll hope for the best.
So. First day of school. Semantics, really (as compared to syntax, which requires more careful thought, but I think comparing school to linguistic terms would probably draw plenty of blank eyes). A lot of "this is what we're going to teach you," and a lot more of "this is what we expect from you." I have four syllabi (which is not a word, according to Blogger spellcheck) already, all pretty much useless because I will never, ever refer to them, ever.
And even if I did, I would do so online, not flip through several sheets of paper. But that is another story.
My French class went well (as well as it can go when I was only there for the last 15 minutes), and so did physics, which is right next door to my French classroom. I saw Dino as I went in, and he said, "Ginny," to which I responded, "Bonjour," because I was still in a French mindset (plus I was kind of shocked he was talking to me—he usually doesn't do that unless necessary). Nyx is across the hall from me (during French, that is), and so we both have very short distances to travel when going to physics, but alas that won't happen anymore because periods 1 and 7 have switched. Pity. (At least we can still walk together from multi on Thursdays.)
All of my other classes were also pretty good as well. Lots of people I know for most of my classes (I don't know about biology or middle east yet), and Yuma is in my free for the entire year! So I guess even with the not-so-good arena time, all of my classes are splendid, and I am so excited about the rest of the year. Especially because I don't have lab lunches anymore. I love regular lunches.
On the other spectrum (the one oft talked about and most dreaded), I talked with Mrs. MacDonald today, and we'll have to be talking soon about teacher recs. That means I have to hunt down Mrs. Tallchief as well, unless I want to ask someone else (I'm still not sure yet). Fun. Not really.
Well, at least I finished most of my homework (I still have to read and annotate the Aciman article for English—or at least I think it's that article, I didn't really hear Mr. Littney that clearly), and all my binders are (so far) organized, which is a good start.
I'll hope for the best.
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.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Blogger has Analytics built in now!
I was checking out my dashboard today when I saw a link that said "stats," so obviously, I clicked on it. And guess what? It's a mini version of Google Analytics, without the cash-geared "goals" or some of the beta- or more complicated features, but all the basic things (such as traffic source, OS/browser info, country-stalking) are all there. So no more having to keep in mind not to delete that tracker in my templates whenever I switch to a new one! Now it's all there.
Anyway, I filled out an application to volunteer at the public library a while back, and a few days later one of the children's librarians, Cindy, called me back. She asked if I could help out in this Reading to Rover program they had on Wednesday, and I agreed.
Reading to Rover is this really cool program where little kids (around four to seven years old) come and read to mid- to large-sized dogs for ten minutes. It's to help them appreciate and hopefully even love reading, and also to practice reading in front of others, as the dogs won't judge like people might. I got to meet some really, really cool dogs and lots of kids who were amazing readers. I've been asked to go back next week as well, and I can't wait. Dogs and kids together are absolutely adorable.
Grades are also out, as I discovered yesterday when my dad called me in the middle of the day and informed me. I'm absolutely happy with my grades (did better in US and English than I thought I would, judging from the awfulness I had third and fourth quarter), and I guess that's one less thing to worry about when college applications come along. Which reminds me, I've checked out the common app site, and it's quite a bit of work, I guess. So I'll have to find some time to fill those out, but not until later in August, because that's when the online version come out.
I have also started reading The God of Small Things, our AP Lit reading requirement, and so far it's really confusing. I can't quite understand if Rahel and Estha are somehow connected, and I'm not sure if there are supernatural elements to the story, or if it's like The Things They Carried in that it doesn't have to be real as long as it conveys the idea. Also, I'm not sure if I'm getting how my idea on narrative is being challenged. But I still have the rest of the book to read. I hope I'll understand, at least somewhat, by then.
Also, it is Julie's birthday today. Happy birthday, Julie!
P.S.: I am thinking of updating once a week over the summer so as not to get distracted by blog updates instead of reading my biology book (which reminds me, why do I still have a chem textbook as well?), so apologies ahead of time if I seem rather, well, laconic. Summer usually isn't as interesting to talk about anyway as it is to experience.
Anyway, I filled out an application to volunteer at the public library a while back, and a few days later one of the children's librarians, Cindy, called me back. She asked if I could help out in this Reading to Rover program they had on Wednesday, and I agreed.
Reading to Rover is this really cool program where little kids (around four to seven years old) come and read to mid- to large-sized dogs for ten minutes. It's to help them appreciate and hopefully even love reading, and also to practice reading in front of others, as the dogs won't judge like people might. I got to meet some really, really cool dogs and lots of kids who were amazing readers. I've been asked to go back next week as well, and I can't wait. Dogs and kids together are absolutely adorable.
Grades are also out, as I discovered yesterday when my dad called me in the middle of the day and informed me. I'm absolutely happy with my grades (did better in US and English than I thought I would, judging from the awfulness I had third and fourth quarter), and I guess that's one less thing to worry about when college applications come along. Which reminds me, I've checked out the common app site, and it's quite a bit of work, I guess. So I'll have to find some time to fill those out, but not until later in August, because that's when the online version come out.
I have also started reading The God of Small Things, our AP Lit reading requirement, and so far it's really confusing. I can't quite understand if Rahel and Estha are somehow connected, and I'm not sure if there are supernatural elements to the story, or if it's like The Things They Carried in that it doesn't have to be real as long as it conveys the idea. Also, I'm not sure if I'm getting how my idea on narrative is being challenged. But I still have the rest of the book to read. I hope I'll understand, at least somewhat, by then.
Also, it is Julie's birthday today. Happy birthday, Julie!
P.S.: I am thinking of updating once a week over the summer so as not to get distracted by blog updates instead of reading my biology book (which reminds me, why do I still have a chem textbook as well?), so apologies ahead of time if I seem rather, well, laconic. Summer usually isn't as interesting to talk about anyway as it is to experience.
