a 96 on my second essay for English 101.
YAHH TRICK YAHH.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
It's a 10-week course and I've lost 4 weeks.
Four years.
That's how long it's been since I've made something less than a B- on a paper.
And then I hit a brick wall.
Not the Berlin Wall. Nor the Great Wall of China. This one is called English 1o1.
Seriously? I've done perfectly fine on each paper I've completed in college. Sociology, psychology, foreign relations, global politics, American lit, biology. All great grades on written work. And English 101 is the course that brings me down?
... Seriously?
If the purpose of 101 is to teach you how to write so you properly complete assignment in your other classes, I don't think it's working.
That's how long it's been since I've made something less than a B- on a paper.
And then I hit a brick wall.
Not the Berlin Wall. Nor the Great Wall of China. This one is called English 1o1.
Seriously? I've done perfectly fine on each paper I've completed in college. Sociology, psychology, foreign relations, global politics, American lit, biology. All great grades on written work. And English 101 is the course that brings me down?
... Seriously?
If the purpose of 101 is to teach you how to write so you properly complete assignment in your other classes, I don't think it's working.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
"Sarah, I love you like a hounddog loves his puppies."
A lesson in pick-up lines: Compare your love to someone to a dog. Think it doesn't work? Take a look at my grandparents, married now for almost 50 years.
They have some amazing stories. My grandfather is a talker. And it's why my grandmother fell in love with him -- or so she says. I think the hounddog similie won her over.
I found out tonight what exactly happened at the Homecoming dance. My grandmother, Sarah, was "dating three or four men at the time. [Looking shocked at our shock.] What? That's how it was done then! It might have been five... or six." She had met my grandfather, John, three years earlier at a gathering put on by their respective churches. She wasn't impressed. According to him, he was -- and, also according to him, so was she. And then, during their senior year at ECU, after three years of having not seen each other since that one unimpressive meeting, they met again. My grandfather "took a number at her dorm -- sometimes I was six, sometimes I was one." He fought to the front of the line one night, after he had delivered her safely to the house mother. She looked out the window at his car. Fourty-five minutes later, it was still there. She later learned he had "met up with Hugh," my grandmother's other man, who had the intentions of taking her to Homecoming. That meeting consisted of my grandfather convincing Hugh to switch dates. "Any man who switches his date is not a real man." Hugh consented and instead took Merle to Homecoming. My grandmother watched them dance from the bleachers as my grandfather was part of the Homecoming band. "You know the term 'twiddling your fingers?'" Weeks later, Hugh asked Sarah to marry him; she declined. Hugh then proposed to Merle, who accepted.
"Hugh was a putz," my grandfather said.
"Hugh was a nice man," my grandmother said. "But you were funny. That's why I married you."
"I'm nice, too."
"You're funny and you've got initiative."
"And that means I can't be nice, right?"
Here they are today, arguing about Hugh the successful banker who wouldn't know how to fish and whether my grandmother was wooed over by the hounddog reference.
They have some amazing stories. My grandfather is a talker. And it's why my grandmother fell in love with him -- or so she says. I think the hounddog similie won her over.
I found out tonight what exactly happened at the Homecoming dance. My grandmother, Sarah, was "dating three or four men at the time. [Looking shocked at our shock.] What? That's how it was done then! It might have been five... or six." She had met my grandfather, John, three years earlier at a gathering put on by their respective churches. She wasn't impressed. According to him, he was -- and, also according to him, so was she. And then, during their senior year at ECU, after three years of having not seen each other since that one unimpressive meeting, they met again. My grandfather "took a number at her dorm -- sometimes I was six, sometimes I was one." He fought to the front of the line one night, after he had delivered her safely to the house mother. She looked out the window at his car. Fourty-five minutes later, it was still there. She later learned he had "met up with Hugh," my grandmother's other man, who had the intentions of taking her to Homecoming. That meeting consisted of my grandfather convincing Hugh to switch dates. "Any man who switches his date is not a real man." Hugh consented and instead took Merle to Homecoming. My grandmother watched them dance from the bleachers as my grandfather was part of the Homecoming band. "You know the term 'twiddling your fingers?'" Weeks later, Hugh asked Sarah to marry him; she declined. Hugh then proposed to Merle, who accepted.
"Hugh was a putz," my grandfather said.
"Hugh was a nice man," my grandmother said. "But you were funny. That's why I married you."
"I'm nice, too."
"You're funny and you've got initiative."
"And that means I can't be nice, right?"
Here they are today, arguing about Hugh the successful banker who wouldn't know how to fish and whether my grandmother was wooed over by the hounddog reference.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Reasons I loathe rubber neckers.
Today, as I was driving back from school, traffic began to slow to snail pace.
Why?
Skipping a long lead-in, which even I expect of myself -- a wreck.
Where?
On the other side of the road.
It's nonsensical, you say, for Wendover Avenue to turn into a snail race in the middle of the day because an accident has happened on the other side of the road.
And you say it for good reason. It makes no sense.
What is it about wrecks? People see the flashing police lights and, like really ADD moths, are drawn to the sight? Or are we just programmed to look at someone else's tragedy?
Well, neither. People are just morons.
I got to thinking as I sat in traffic so others could get a nice long look at the fender-bender on the other side of the lane. The reason I hate these people so greatly is because I've seen, first hand, the effects of rubber necking.
It was two years ago, and I was laboriously driving la macchina to high school. IB English 12. Ms. Rozelman. Oh, the days. Anyway, as I was sitting at a light on Friendly Ave, the lady behind me had got it into her head that the light was green, and immediately set her foot on the accelerator. She plummeted into me. She had only one contact in because my car interrupted her in the middle of her morning multi-tasking usual. Anyway, we got out, she was mad (she didn't have insurance, though she worked at an insurance agency), I started crying, my bumper started falling off, et cetera et cetera. All of Friendly was there to see. And that's a damn busy road in the morning.
About 15 minutes into the ordeal, a car in the right-hand lane (we're in the median nearer to the left-hand lane) smashes into two cars in front of it. I get out of the driver's seat to look and, literally a second later, a truck in the left-hand lane -- which is going fairly fast for the morning commute -- runs into the car in front of him, propelling it forward.
Obviously, I started crying again.
Seven cars on the side of the road: Five of which as a result of rubber necking; all of which as a result of drivers directing their attention to someone (or something) else rather than the task at hand. Now, I felt kind of bad for the truck driver; I'd probably be a bit startled for a second, too, if I'd just seen three cars hit each other on my right and a stagnant accident on my other side. The driver of the car he hit seemed to be amiable about the whole thing, which makes me think he wasn't rubber necking, just thrown off.
That situation was ridiculous. My accident wasn't bad. We pulled to the side of the road, in no one's way, and waited until someone came to get all the information. I understand human nature. It's not as annoying when there are multiple ambulances surrounding a wreck that looks awful. You want to see if the people involved are OK. In some cases, you want to see if you can help. I don't know, though, whether slow-moving and highly concentrated traffic would be better or worse for ambulance drivers. But when there's an accident on the other side of the road, or a fender-bender on your side, to slow down to such an extent that traffic is at almost a standstill until the miraculous barrier is lifted once you pass the accident is awful. It's unnecessary. There is a happy medium between gaging your surroundings, settling your natural desire to look, and driving safely.
It's only a slight annoyance.
Obviously.
Why?
Skipping a long lead-in, which even I expect of myself -- a wreck.
Where?
On the other side of the road.
It's nonsensical, you say, for Wendover Avenue to turn into a snail race in the middle of the day because an accident has happened on the other side of the road.
And you say it for good reason. It makes no sense.
What is it about wrecks? People see the flashing police lights and, like really ADD moths, are drawn to the sight? Or are we just programmed to look at someone else's tragedy?
Well, neither. People are just morons.
I got to thinking as I sat in traffic so others could get a nice long look at the fender-bender on the other side of the lane. The reason I hate these people so greatly is because I've seen, first hand, the effects of rubber necking.
It was two years ago, and I was laboriously driving la macchina to high school. IB English 12. Ms. Rozelman. Oh, the days. Anyway, as I was sitting at a light on Friendly Ave, the lady behind me had got it into her head that the light was green, and immediately set her foot on the accelerator. She plummeted into me. She had only one contact in because my car interrupted her in the middle of her morning multi-tasking usual. Anyway, we got out, she was mad (she didn't have insurance, though she worked at an insurance agency), I started crying, my bumper started falling off, et cetera et cetera. All of Friendly was there to see. And that's a damn busy road in the morning.
About 15 minutes into the ordeal, a car in the right-hand lane (we're in the median nearer to the left-hand lane) smashes into two cars in front of it. I get out of the driver's seat to look and, literally a second later, a truck in the left-hand lane -- which is going fairly fast for the morning commute -- runs into the car in front of him, propelling it forward.Obviously, I started crying again.
Seven cars on the side of the road: Five of which as a result of rubber necking; all of which as a result of drivers directing their attention to someone (or something) else rather than the task at hand. Now, I felt kind of bad for the truck driver; I'd probably be a bit startled for a second, too, if I'd just seen three cars hit each other on my right and a stagnant accident on my other side. The driver of the car he hit seemed to be amiable about the whole thing, which makes me think he wasn't rubber necking, just thrown off.
That situation was ridiculous. My accident wasn't bad. We pulled to the side of the road, in no one's way, and waited until someone came to get all the information. I understand human nature. It's not as annoying when there are multiple ambulances surrounding a wreck that looks awful. You want to see if the people involved are OK. In some cases, you want to see if you can help. I don't know, though, whether slow-moving and highly concentrated traffic would be better or worse for ambulance drivers. But when there's an accident on the other side of the road, or a fender-bender on your side, to slow down to such an extent that traffic is at almost a standstill until the miraculous barrier is lifted once you pass the accident is awful. It's unnecessary. There is a happy medium between gaging your surroundings, settling your natural desire to look, and driving safely.
It's only a slight annoyance.
Obviously.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Truisms
"The will to blog is a complicated thing, somewhere between inspiration and compulsion. It can feel almost like a biological impulse. You see something, or an idea occurs to you, and you have to share it with the Internet as soon as possible. What I didn’t realize was that those ideas and that urgency — and the sense of self-importance that made me think anyone would be interested in hearing what went on in my head — could just disappear."
Sunday, May 18, 2008
A lesson on overstaying your welcome.
An excerpt from Proper Etiquette, page 23.
Once upon a time, there lived a snake. He was a handsome-looking snake, a King at that!, with a sprightly gate. Black he was, and marked on his stomach. Handsome as can be.
He came upon a house, on Jessup Grove Road, a house directly across from where Ricky Proehl, a washed-up football played from the Carolina Panthers and St. Louis Rams, decided to destroy a naturally green piece of land with a completely unnecessary baseball/soccer/REALLY BRIGHT LIGHTS ON ALL THE TIME park "for the needy kids," and charge $75 a month. Because poor kids can afford $75 a month. And, somehow, get transportation to the edge of Greensboro. OK. There are also a million other baseball and soccer parks around, and they're completely free to use. He dubbed this monstrosity "Proehlific Park," and yeah there's a red line under Proehlific because Mac knows it is neither spelled correctly nor pertinent at all.
Removed from his native lands across the street, King Snake decided to move in with the family across the way. They'd see him scurrying across the drive way, diving playfully into the recycling bins, and curling under their cars. They laughed and frolicked with him, and the youngest sister even named him: Bociefus, a very manly name to fit his manly charge.
And then one day, as the youngest sister was readying herself to visit a beautiful horse on the outskirts of town, Boceifus, upon thinking he had been invited to dine with the family, came "a bit too close for comfort." The sister opened the door and screamed: he was right there.
The elder sister and father, who happened to be standing nearby, came to see how close Boceifus was to the house. The elder sister looked on the ground and under the cars in the car park, but didn't see Boceifus. No, it wasn't until she looked up and saw Bo's head poking halfway up the door frame, and inside it at that. The elder sister screamed, and the elder father also screamed and shut the door in Bo's face. Luckily, his head was not smashed, but just confused at the slight.
Bo skulked back to the cabinet beside the door, on which he was perched and which allowed him such access to the doorway. The elder father ran out the side door, and the two sisters followed him, the elder begging her father not to kill Bo and the younger assuring that he would not.
With much effort on the younger sister's part and not so much at all on the elder's, the trio caught Bo in a box. The younger sister acted in a snake-catching way only Steve Irwin could truly appreciate, and lifted him, situated safely inside the cardboard box, into a large plastic container with a secured lid.
The elder sister and father hopped quickly in the car, with Bo sitting in the trunk; not because he was unwelcome, but because trunks are the preferred sitting places of most snakes (with the exception of pythons, who would rather be situated around your torso eating your head).
The duo took Bo to a location near a lake, four miles away from the homestead. They walked down through a forest in a very secretive manner, hoping no one would mistake the snake inside for a dead body. Once they got far enough in that Bo would most likely not want to slither into the road, they grew wary of Bo's wrath.
"I wish I'd thought to bring a broom," elder father said to his daughter (or the snake), "so we could defend ourselves if he's a bit too feisty."
But elder daughter, accustomed to forests since her early days of Girl Scouts, smartly looked around. What are brooms made of, she thought. And in a forest as they were, with ample amounts of kindle and branches, she grabbed one, breaking off the unnessecary length and twigs, and skillfully tossed it to elder father. Equipped with a weapon, in case Boceifus was too rowdy from his entrapment and uninvitation from the house, he opened the lid. Bo slithered out, quickly, from the case; he stopped for a second, orienting himself to his surroundings; then he climbed on a tree and ate them both.
When Warner Bros. studio learned of the escapade, they decided to make a movie -- one that would both serve as a true-life warning to all, and be a sequel to the Bill Murray movie of the early 90's -- entitled What About Boceifus?
Not really, to both the head-eating and the movie deal (the family would never sell rights to that movie). But the lesson there was: making someone (or some thing) think they would be welcomly invited into your house is just as bad as actually inviting them, even if the whole invitation is a delusion.
As the elder father and daughter climbed the forest's hill and returned to the car, the elder daughter, clutching two plucked flowers in her hands, called out to the handsome intruder.
"Good-bye, Boceifus!"
But the elder father, who discerned that it was the naming of the snake that had made him feel he had an invitation to dine inside the house, cautioned her against it.
"He doesn't know we named him," elder daughter said. "He thinks it's the same as if I'm talking to you."
She thought this was the truth, until one night she awoke to a slithering sound; Boceifus' face inches from her own; his snake mouth was open; his eyes were glaring in the way of the hunter about to catch his prey.
And then he bit her head off.
Once upon a time, there lived a snake. He was a handsome-looking snake, a King at that!, with a sprightly gate. Black he was, and marked on his stomach. Handsome as can be.
He came upon a house, on Jessup Grove Road, a house directly across from where Ricky Proehl, a washed-up football played from the Carolina Panthers and St. Louis Rams, decided to destroy a naturally green piece of land with a completely unnecessary baseball/soccer/REALLY BRIGHT LIGHTS ON ALL THE TIME park "for the needy kids," and charge $75 a month. Because poor kids can afford $75 a month. And, somehow, get transportation to the edge of Greensboro. OK. There are also a million other baseball and soccer parks around, and they're completely free to use. He dubbed this monstrosity "Proehlific Park," and yeah there's a red line under Proehlific because Mac knows it is neither spelled correctly nor pertinent at all.
Removed from his native lands across the street, King Snake decided to move in with the family across the way. They'd see him scurrying across the drive way, diving playfully into the recycling bins, and curling under their cars. They laughed and frolicked with him, and the youngest sister even named him: Bociefus, a very manly name to fit his manly charge.
And then one day, as the youngest sister was readying herself to visit a beautiful horse on the outskirts of town, Boceifus, upon thinking he had been invited to dine with the family, came "a bit too close for comfort." The sister opened the door and screamed: he was right there.
The elder sister and father, who happened to be standing nearby, came to see how close Boceifus was to the house. The elder sister looked on the ground and under the cars in the car park, but didn't see Boceifus. No, it wasn't until she looked up and saw Bo's head poking halfway up the door frame, and inside it at that. The elder sister screamed, and the elder father also screamed and shut the door in Bo's face. Luckily, his head was not smashed, but just confused at the slight.Bo skulked back to the cabinet beside the door, on which he was perched and which allowed him such access to the doorway. The elder father ran out the side door, and the two sisters followed him, the elder begging her father not to kill Bo and the younger assuring that he would not.
With much effort on the younger sister's part and not so much at all on the elder's, the trio caught Bo in a box. The younger sister acted in a snake-catching way only Steve Irwin could truly appreciate, and lifted him, situated safely inside the cardboard box, into a large plastic container with a secured lid.
The elder sister and father hopped quickly in the car, with Bo sitting in the trunk; not because he was unwelcome, but because trunks are the preferred sitting places of most snakes (with the exception of pythons, who would rather be situated around your torso eating your head).
The duo took Bo to a location near a lake, four miles away from the homestead. They walked down through a forest in a very secretive manner, hoping no one would mistake the snake inside for a dead body. Once they got far enough in that Bo would most likely not want to slither into the road, they grew wary of Bo's wrath.
"I wish I'd thought to bring a broom," elder father said to his daughter (or the snake), "so we could defend ourselves if he's a bit too feisty."
But elder daughter, accustomed to forests since her early days of Girl Scouts, smartly looked around. What are brooms made of, she thought. And in a forest as they were, with ample amounts of kindle and branches, she grabbed one, breaking off the unnessecary length and twigs, and skillfully tossed it to elder father. Equipped with a weapon, in case Boceifus was too rowdy from his entrapment and uninvitation from the house, he opened the lid. Bo slithered out, quickly, from the case; he stopped for a second, orienting himself to his surroundings; then he climbed on a tree and ate them both.
When Warner Bros. studio learned of the escapade, they decided to make a movie -- one that would both serve as a true-life warning to all, and be a sequel to the Bill Murray movie of the early 90's -- entitled What About Boceifus?
Not really, to both the head-eating and the movie deal (the family would never sell rights to that movie). But the lesson there was: making someone (or some thing) think they would be welcomly invited into your house is just as bad as actually inviting them, even if the whole invitation is a delusion.
As the elder father and daughter climbed the forest's hill and returned to the car, the elder daughter, clutching two plucked flowers in her hands, called out to the handsome intruder.
"Good-bye, Boceifus!"
But the elder father, who discerned that it was the naming of the snake that had made him feel he had an invitation to dine inside the house, cautioned her against it.
"He doesn't know we named him," elder daughter said. "He thinks it's the same as if I'm talking to you."
She thought this was the truth, until one night she awoke to a slithering sound; Boceifus' face inches from her own; his snake mouth was open; his eyes were glaring in the way of the hunter about to catch his prey.
And then he bit her head off.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Near, far, wherever you are.
I am far-sighted.
Slightly.
And more so in my left eye, which I find strange since they look so alike.
I got glasses.
And had a poor reaction to the eye drops that make your pupils dilate unnaturally. Sight from my right eye is still kind of fuzzy.
In other news, I'm moving to Burlington Sunday for two weeks, until the 31, when I can move into the apartment. So so so so excited!
It's a good thing my grandparents' neighbors have wireless Internet, and that you can basically only steal access it from the room I stay in, otherwise I'd be screwed.
Slightly.
And more so in my left eye, which I find strange since they look so alike.
I got glasses.
And had a poor reaction to the eye drops that make your pupils dilate unnaturally. Sight from my right eye is still kind of fuzzy.
In other news, I'm moving to Burlington Sunday for two weeks, until the 31, when I can move into the apartment. So so so so excited!
It's a good thing my grandparents' neighbors have wireless Internet, and that you can basically only steal access it from the room I stay in, otherwise I'd be screwed.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
LAST TIME I CHECKED THE WRITTEN WORD WAS STILL ALIVE.
My grandmother e-mailed some relative of hers, who, by association, makes him a relative of mine, to ask about something-or-other in Raleigh. She gets very concerned that I'm down here alone, so she takes comfort in knowing this relative is, or was, also in Raleigh. She's sweet; he's not.
For your reading pleasure.
For your reading pleasure.
"Yikes, going to NCSU and majoring in English. That's a good start for a hobby, what about a career?"
Oh my God, journalism's a hobby! Wow. Hey, all you silly people writing articles all across the world, you can stop now. What you're actually doing isn't a job, despite those omniscient monthly funds you receive that seem to resemble and perform the functions of paychecks. Woodward and Bernstein? They were actually on their way to make some clay pots when they happened upon a small scandal within the Nixon administration, so they decided to jot some notes down. Go get a real job, you fools, and stop wasting time at those hobby stores you call the New York Times, Wall Street Journal and News & Observer. And to think, I was heading toward that lifestyle. OK, relative, what advice do you have for me to amend this macabre mistake? With your degree in engineering, you're obviously well in your realm of expertise to offer suggestions about journalism, just as NASA would be the first to call me about engine trouble.
"Does she read Mike Adams (www.dradams.org), Walter Williams or Thomas Sowell? That would help with journalistic ethics not likely to be taught in college."
Mike Adams is not likely to be taught in college because he doesn't preach ethics, just right-wing political drivel that deals not with journalism, but with insanity.
So what should I do with my life?
"If she is concerned about the environment and politics, I suggest she get a Chemical Engineering Degree so she can be one of the ones actually finding alternative energy sources and not talking about it. Besides, it pays very well and is in very high demand."
Wow. I had never thought of that! Getting a degree in... science. Because that's one of my best subjects. No, really. Chemistry? Well the last time I took it was in high school and I made a C. A B, really, but it was technically a C, I just did well on the EOG so my teacher upped my grade. No, I'm really good at math and science. I'll go ahead and change my major.
And about the money -- I'm going into journalism. I've already resigned myself to living in poverty the rest of my life, so money's not really going to be a big pull in career decisions. I'm fighting the urge to reply. It would be just rude. And considering one of his good friends is Professor Sopher, who teaches communications, I don't think my enraged reply would alter his opinion or even make him think my career choice isn't a hobby. A hobby. Yeah, that's what I spend a million years doing at Technician. It's spare time I spend up at the office. Same as growing a garden, making a hemp bracelet for a friend or baking some cookies. It's all the same thing, right? A hobby.
kthx cousin 21 times removed.
P.S. Just to clarify, I'd be writing about alternative energy sources.
P.P.S. I do understand the difference between holing myself up in my room and writing the next Great American Novel and a securing a job in writing. It's a hobby until you do something with it, like get published. Oh, wait. I think that's what newspapers do -- publish their writers. And pays them, to boot!
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Gang life in Walker, Texas Ranger probably isn't indicative of how it really is.
Camp Lejeune, N.C.It's a long, four-and-a-half hour drive back from Atlantic Beach. But about halfway through you hit what I can only imagine to be the town near Camp Lejeune. Every time I pass this town, the roads are riddled with green-and-brown tinted Jeep/Hummer cars, the soldiers driving with their elbows sticking inches out their windows. Hell, if I were a soldier, I'd revel in the drive, too. When I was passing a caravan the other day, I fleetingly estimated how much longer they had to drive, and hoped, still half-consciously, that they could just keep on driving forever. Today, though, there were no caravans. The evidence of the war (or war, sans article, or 'security' for you patriots out there) was in the air -- literally. There were these amazing planes, which resembled even more the birds that were flying around, diving in front of my car, than regular planes. They were diving up, down, into nothing, and then leveling out to, I assume, land. There were others, too, but I don't think they were the same kind. A bit more boxy, they flew in groups of two.
So I have a new mission: Fly a jet fighter plane. Imagine how amazing it would be. There are some schools in Charlotte that look legit. If I can't fly a jet -- and I'm not really willing to join the Marines, although if I did have to join the armed forces, the Marines would be my first choice -- I can at least fly a plane.
I've never really understood why these types of ideas or dreams were deemed crazy. When else will I be able to fly?
So I have a new mission: Fly a jet fighter plane. Imagine how amazing it would be. There are some schools in Charlotte that look legit. If I can't fly a jet -- and I'm not really willing to join the Marines, although if I did have to join the armed forces, the Marines would be my first choice -- I can at least fly a plane.
I've never really understood why these types of ideas or dreams were deemed crazy. When else will I be able to fly?
In other other news, I've got an eye exam Wednesday. The only time I've needed glasses was in 6th grade, when I faked the exam to get a pair. And then I lost them. Or left them in the backyard? I don't know. Anyway, I do want some now. But I don't know if I'll have to fake the exam.
Oh! Poll time.
Which glasses should I get, should I need to, and provided it's after June 1 so the frames won't break my bank account.
One, in green or brown
Two, in copper
Three, in brown
Four, in tortoise
Sweet. I hope I need glasses now, or that whole search will be very disappointing.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
'If only, if only,' the woodpecker sighed.
Ayres.
That's that my middle name could have been.
Granted, "Davis" is the only part of my three-part name people can spell correctly. When I was in elementary school, my teachers (or one of them, I can't truly remember) spelled, so often, my name "Allison Harmon" that I started to spell it that way, too. I was a really smart kid. When my dad found out, he was endlessly furious. I remember that argument. I think it's one of the only memories from when I was that young that I remember without pictures or family lore -- besides taking turns walking on the hill in front of Lindley with my dad's glasses, eyes glued to the ground. The step-in-fake-holes effect. Anyway, he was furious, I didn't understand why, the usual. But the point of my story is this: For 20 years (yes, even as a small baby!) I suffered with the manliness of my name. Alison Davis Harman. Boy Boy Man. Convinced, as I was, that my parents had wanted a son (and very in tune to the Russian style of the obvious but hidden meaning of one's name) it was saddening, every time I thought about it.
But Ayres (pronounced Airs) would have been wonderfully 1940s Poirot. Yeah, I would have spelled it horribly for a while, resulting in a hippy both Cartman from Southpark and my own sister would have loathed, but that kind of happened anyway and I grew out of it... in practice.
Dinner's almost ready. It's 3:57 p.m. My grandfather starts asking for dinner about 3:30.
That's that my middle name could have been.
Granted, "Davis" is the only part of my three-part name people can spell correctly. When I was in elementary school, my teachers (or one of them, I can't truly remember) spelled, so often, my name "Allison Harmon" that I started to spell it that way, too. I was a really smart kid. When my dad found out, he was endlessly furious. I remember that argument. I think it's one of the only memories from when I was that young that I remember without pictures or family lore -- besides taking turns walking on the hill in front of Lindley with my dad's glasses, eyes glued to the ground. The step-in-fake-holes effect. Anyway, he was furious, I didn't understand why, the usual. But the point of my story is this: For 20 years (yes, even as a small baby!) I suffered with the manliness of my name. Alison Davis Harman. Boy Boy Man. Convinced, as I was, that my parents had wanted a son (and very in tune to the Russian style of the obvious but hidden meaning of one's name) it was saddening, every time I thought about it.
But Ayres (pronounced Airs) would have been wonderfully 1940s Poirot. Yeah, I would have spelled it horribly for a while, resulting in a hippy both Cartman from Southpark and my own sister would have loathed, but that kind of happened anyway and I grew out of it... in practice.
Dinner's almost ready. It's 3:57 p.m. My grandfather starts asking for dinner about 3:30.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
"Do you like sushi?"
"Your uncle Johnny likes it. Me, I like my fish cooked. I don't think it's a meal if you jump into the ocean and bite one." My grandfather
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Amongst the creepers and cuties
The library is a labyrinth. I think maybe the one Hercules fought the lion in. The exact same one. I realized that walking from the East Wing to the second floor on Tuesday, and the theory was reinforced today, right now, in the "Media Center," which is up the stairs, to the left, down some stairs, through a hall that has the nation's newspapers (who knew?!) up some stairs, to the right, and bam! you've found one of the strangest rooms on campus. There is a line of desks, each of which has a video tape player, a dvd player, and a small panasonic tv with headphones. The kind where you can adjust the volume level of each ear. And you've also got the creepers, who I think come up here to have fun. Or, like me, end up vowing to return many times in the coming weeks to see the cute boy with huge glasses and nice, full hair.
This also happens to be where they store the newspapers. File cabinets are everywhere. If the labyrinth and From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler had a love child, this is it.
I'm here watching Stalker, a very Russian, very existentialist, very, very slow film. Imagine the thickest Russian accent you've heard mixed with that guy who can go on mile-long tangents,
and throw in some doubt about life and being and happiness and existence. Eksistence? Oh god I don't know.
This movie is so weird.
Maggie just came to visit and we walked around this square hall for a million years and an hour, chatting about exams and work and future work (painting houses?!) We couldn't find a job painting houses. Maybe we could start our own house-painting company. Maggie and Alison go to Paintingtown & Co. Or maybe we could serve that old man who called Housing. I'm good at making scrambled eggs. Maggie's good at old men. Maggie, Alison & Indentured Servitude.
One of the Russians just asked the other if he could really believe in all those fairy tales, following a comment about super-bacteria.
I might as well leave. There are notes on Wikipedia.
New development: Library is labyrinth, without the "nth" and with an extra "r."
And there's a skeleton hand. A skeleton arm. Some red hair. Time to go.
This also happens to be where they store the newspapers. File cabinets are everywhere. If the labyrinth and From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler had a love child, this is it.
I'm here watching Stalker, a very Russian, very existentialist, very, very slow film. Imagine the thickest Russian accent you've heard mixed with that guy who can go on mile-long tangents,
and throw in some doubt about life and being and happiness and existence. Eksistence? Oh god I don't know.This movie is so weird.
Maggie just came to visit and we walked around this square hall for a million years and an hour, chatting about exams and work and future work (painting houses?!) We couldn't find a job painting houses. Maybe we could start our own house-painting company. Maggie and Alison go to Paintingtown & Co. Or maybe we could serve that old man who called Housing. I'm good at making scrambled eggs. Maggie's good at old men. Maggie, Alison & Indentured Servitude.
One of the Russians just asked the other if he could really believe in all those fairy tales, following a comment about super-bacteria.
I might as well leave. There are notes on Wikipedia.
New development: Library is labyrinth, without the "nth" and with an extra "r."
And there's a skeleton hand. A skeleton arm. Some red hair. Time to go.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Friday, April 18, 2008
A bit about lately.
It's been a while since I've sat down and written in this thing. There's not too much to say, really, except that last week I clocked in at only 30 hours. That's down a good 15 from the weekly average of March! It's very exciting.
The weather is lovely. Tomorrow will be quite warm. I'm walking to Cameron Village in the morning to cash my check, since I believe I've got two cents in my bank account. I'm not joking -- I think it's two cents. Hopefully it will also be lovely tomorrow and not windy, and I can go to Starblocks and get some coffee.
Mostly I'm just very excited for this summer. I've got a job, although I don't know the specifics yet. I've got some classes, which will suck. I've got a place to live, which is cute and looks like:
I've got a massive cat to keep in said apartment.
I've got some time to sit down and think about the section. The sister is graduating and giving the poet laureate speech; then she's off to debutanteland!
This summer will be so very wonderful.
Countdown
The weather is lovely. Tomorrow will be quite warm. I'm walking to Cameron Village in the morning to cash my check, since I believe I've got two cents in my bank account. I'm not joking -- I think it's two cents. Hopefully it will also be lovely tomorrow and not windy, and I can go to Starblocks and get some coffee.
Mostly I'm just very excited for this summer. I've got a job, although I don't know the specifics yet. I've got some classes, which will suck. I've got a place to live, which is cute and looks like:
I've got a massive cat to keep in said apartment.
I've got some time to sit down and think about the section. The sister is graduating and giving the poet laureate speech; then she's off to debutanteland!
This summer will be so very wonderful.
Countdown
- Days to go: 15
- Classes: 14
- Exams: Three
- Term papers: Two
- Presentations: One
- Issues: Six
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Job Experience: Technician, Outer Space Beat Reporter
I get to interview an astronaut soon.
Just... let it sit for a second.
An astronaut.
If you had told me last year I would ever be given the chance to interview an astronaut, I would have laughed in your face and resumed my nap. Hey remember when I took naps? Remember when I lived in Avent Ferry? If taking naps positively correlated to living in Avent Ferry, to hell with naps.
Anyway. Astronaut. What am I going to ask an astronaut?
I can see it now:
Actual script of Alison Harman's April 12 interview with Rick Linnehan, NASA. Asterisks indicate moments in which Harman paused awkwardly for extensive amount of time. The amount of asterisks correlates with exactly how extensively awkward the pause was.
Harman: So what was it like? Going up in space? I mean, oh my god. SPACE. Tell me. What. It was. Like.
Linnehan: [pauses] Well, it was breathtaking and, at the same time, scary as hell. You never realize how --
Harman: YEAH. I read something about that, about how the space men, you know, feel all this stuff but really it's just the nerves and then they get up into space and it's just like ** wow.
Linnehan: ... Yeah.
Harman: Oh yes. ************** Well, what was it like then? Did anything really bad happen?
Linnehan: I can't really talk about that. You know, top-secret NASA stuff.
Harman: Oh my god, I forgot you worked for NASA. What? How could I forget that!! I've always wanted to work for NASA. If you read my blog, you'd know that. But of course you don't, you're too bust flying up into space! Also, I'm not good at math at all so I'd be a real awful astronaut. Are you good at math? I'm not. Also, I want to work writing about NASA. For NASA, writing about NASA. So basically what I'm doing now, but all about NASA, and also I'd get paid more. Do you think I'd be good at that????
It would be a really wonderful interview.
Just... let it sit for a second.
An astronaut.
If you had told me last year I would ever be given the chance to interview an astronaut, I would have laughed in your face and resumed my nap. Hey remember when I took naps? Remember when I lived in Avent Ferry? If taking naps positively correlated to living in Avent Ferry, to hell with naps.
Anyway. Astronaut. What am I going to ask an astronaut?
I can see it now:
Actual script of Alison Harman's April 12 interview with Rick Linnehan, NASA. Asterisks indicate moments in which Harman paused awkwardly for extensive amount of time. The amount of asterisks correlates with exactly how extensively awkward the pause was.
Harman: So what was it like? Going up in space? I mean, oh my god. SPACE. Tell me. What. It was. Like.
Linnehan: [pauses] Well, it was breathtaking and, at the same time, scary as hell. You never realize how --
Harman: YEAH. I read something about that, about how the space men, you know, feel all this stuff but really it's just the nerves and then they get up into space and it's just like ** wow.
Linnehan: ... Yeah.
Harman: Oh yes. ************** Well, what was it like then? Did anything really bad happen?
Linnehan: I can't really talk about that. You know, top-secret NASA stuff.
Harman: Oh my god, I forgot you worked for NASA. What? How could I forget that!! I've always wanted to work for NASA. If you read my blog, you'd know that. But of course you don't, you're too bust flying up into space! Also, I'm not good at math at all so I'd be a real awful astronaut. Are you good at math? I'm not. Also, I want to work writing about NASA. For NASA, writing about NASA. So basically what I'm doing now, but all about NASA, and also I'd get paid more. Do you think I'd be good at that????
It would be a really wonderful interview.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
ladybug
So, while in the health center to get a flu test, this wonderful lady comes into the room.
"OK Alison Harman, we're going to do a flu test. Now what I'm going to have you do, ladybug, is [blah blah blah, flu tests are slightly gross and uncomfortable.]"
But so wonderful. 'Ladybug' was a recurring theme. Then she gave me orange juice.
I highly recommend the health center on a Saturday. Much more lovely than usual.
"OK Alison Harman, we're going to do a flu test. Now what I'm going to have you do, ladybug, is [blah blah blah, flu tests are slightly gross and uncomfortable.]"
But so wonderful. 'Ladybug' was a recurring theme. Then she gave me orange juice.
I highly recommend the health center on a Saturday. Much more lovely than usual.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Longest travel ever
I have been awake for 32 and a half hours. And it's been that long since I've showered. EW EW.
GNVSDNCZXVKBFMDLW:AK NLBFVFMLWDQ:S.
Events:
March 7th, Switzerland
11.00 Wake up, pack, say goodbye to cute Leo and Emma.
3.47 Catch train to Zurich
4.30 Arrive in Zurich, buy a baby iPod for the ride back.
6.00 Eat at Hiltl, which, opened in 1898, is Europe's oldest vegetarian restaurant. YEAH.
8.30 Meet Cary's friends and go to a pub called the "Twist," short for Oliver Twist. A very tall guy in a green shirt fell on me and sat there for a moment. Another not very drunk guy accidentally spilled beer on my new boots. Some drink called a "Snake bite" is aptly named. A British guy named Francis wore a starched white dress shirt, striped vest and pants, red tie and PEARL EARRINGS. Yeah, earrings.
March 8th, Switzerland, London, Boston, Raleigh
12.30 Catch a train to the airport
12.45 to 5.00 a.m. Spend the night in the creepy airport. This deserves its own timeline.
12.45 Creepy
1.00 Find a set of chairs to sleep on
1.30 After hearing Spice Girls, Lou Bega, that Venus song from the commercial, Britney Spears and N'Sync, we figure the airport personnel are attempting to make us leave.
2.00 Walk into the women's bathroom and see two people ***about*** to have sex. awwwwwkward.
2.15 Relocate to another part of the airport, plug in the computer in the chapel, download and watch Mean Girls.
5.00 Walk upstairs to check in, flight is cancelled.
6.00 Get a new flight, sit in the terminal.
7.10 a.m to 6.55 p.m. (plus six hours because of the time difference) TRAVEL
No Country For Old Men was playing on the plane. And it was edited, so I could watch it. YES. Though, really, I liked the book a lot better. I guess that's how it's supposed to be.
Travel in pictures
GNVSDNCZXVKBFMDLW:AK NLBFVFMLWDQ:S.
Events:
March 7th, Switzerland
11.00 Wake up, pack, say goodbye to cute Leo and Emma.
3.47 Catch train to Zurich
4.30 Arrive in Zurich, buy a baby iPod for the ride back.
6.00 Eat at Hiltl, which, opened in 1898, is Europe's oldest vegetarian restaurant. YEAH.
8.30 Meet Cary's friends and go to a pub called the "Twist," short for Oliver Twist. A very tall guy in a green shirt fell on me and sat there for a moment. Another not very drunk guy accidentally spilled beer on my new boots. Some drink called a "Snake bite" is aptly named. A British guy named Francis wore a starched white dress shirt, striped vest and pants, red tie and PEARL EARRINGS. Yeah, earrings.
March 8th, Switzerland, London, Boston, Raleigh
12.30 Catch a train to the airport
12.45 to 5.00 a.m. Spend the night in the creepy airport. This deserves its own timeline.
12.45 Creepy
1.00 Find a set of chairs to sleep on
1.30 After hearing Spice Girls, Lou Bega, that Venus song from the commercial, Britney Spears and N'Sync, we figure the airport personnel are attempting to make us leave.
2.00 Walk into the women's bathroom and see two people ***about*** to have sex. awwwwwkward.
2.15 Relocate to another part of the airport, plug in the computer in the chapel, download and watch Mean Girls.
5.00 Walk upstairs to check in, flight is cancelled.
6.00 Get a new flight, sit in the terminal.
7.10 a.m to 6.55 p.m. (plus six hours because of the time difference) TRAVEL
No Country For Old Men was playing on the plane. And it was edited, so I could watch it. YES. Though, really, I liked the book a lot better. I guess that's how it's supposed to be.
Travel in pictures
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Heagline goes here
Although I am most definitely in Europe, it hardly feels like it. Except that the z and the y are switched on the keyboard and it's really quite strange.
But I have done some things that are very Euro.
Here is a list for your reading pleasure:
Changed clothes in a graffiti-ridden train bathroom.
Jumped onto a train track and under a train so I could retreive my book.
Stayed in a hostel, which is so not like the movie.
Had a Thai beer in a Swiss-Thai restaurant.
Had gross cider in a creepy under-hostel bar thing.
Bought flat, brown boots.
Bought a loaf of bread and some cheese for lunch and ate it at a train station.
Here is a list of why I haven't realized my full Euro potential:
I do not speak a word of German, so I am forced to be one of those annoying American tourists who expects everyone to know English. Which they all do. But still.
I cannot ski, so while my stepsister is skiing the Alps, I am here, in the Happy Inn hostel, blogging.
Being over here makes me hate America for its ugliness and refusal to conserve land and energy. Also, for being stubborn and not instilling a popular, functional train system. Everyone here uses trains. All the time. Why don't we have them?!
There is a mountain in Interlaken called "Grindelwald." ZES!
But I have done some things that are very Euro.
Here is a list for your reading pleasure:
Changed clothes in a graffiti-ridden train bathroom.
Jumped onto a train track and under a train so I could retreive my book.
Stayed in a hostel, which is so not like the movie.
Had a Thai beer in a Swiss-Thai restaurant.
Had gross cider in a creepy under-hostel bar thing.
Bought flat, brown boots.
Bought a loaf of bread and some cheese for lunch and ate it at a train station.
Here is a list of why I haven't realized my full Euro potential:
I do not speak a word of German, so I am forced to be one of those annoying American tourists who expects everyone to know English. Which they all do. But still.
I cannot ski, so while my stepsister is skiing the Alps, I am here, in the Happy Inn hostel, blogging.
Being over here makes me hate America for its ugliness and refusal to conserve land and energy. Also, for being stubborn and not instilling a popular, functional train system. Everyone here uses trains. All the time. Why don't we have them?!
There is a mountain in Interlaken called "Grindelwald." ZES!
Friday, February 29, 2008
Carbon dioxide is the new oxygen
I am sitting in the New York JFK airport and it is mid-day department store sketchy, so I bought Internet connection for $7.95.
Here is a conversation with Helen.
Helen: also the boy next door is BLASTING some REALLY AWESOME JAMZ
ahahhaa
Alison: hahahah
I LEFT MY HEADPHONES
AND I AM FORCED
TO LISTEN TO ThiS
JUNGLE MUSIC
Helen: OHHHH MY GOSH NO HEADPHONES!!!!
you need to buy some!
while in flight!
tax free!
Alison: i'm broke!
OH!
they provide them!
Helen: SERIOUSLY alison
headphones = carbon dioxide
or whatever we breathe
Alison: HAHA
HAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAH
HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH
CARBON
Helen: I DONT EVEN KNOW WHAT WE BREATHE
Alison: DIOXIDE
IS
POISONOUS
Helen: AHAHAHAHAHA CRAPPP!!!
CRAP!
CRAP!
what do we breathe, then???
Alison: HAHAHAHAHAHAH
OXYGEN?!?!
Helen: OH YEAH THATS RIGHT
AHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA
Alison: lawd
HELEN
Helen: i am SO DUMB
i am cracking up
Alison: I AM LAUGHING SO MUCH
Helen: AHAHAHAHA A GERMAN MAN IS ENJOYING IT
hahahahahhaaha
goddddddddddddd
i am so ridiculous
Here is a conversation with Helen.
Helen: also the boy next door is BLASTING some REALLY AWESOME JAMZ
ahahhaa
Alison: hahahah
I LEFT MY HEADPHONES
AND I AM FORCED
TO LISTEN TO ThiS
JUNGLE MUSIC
Helen: OHHHH MY GOSH NO HEADPHONES!!!!
you need to buy some!
while in flight!
tax free!
Alison: i'm broke!
OH!
they provide them!
Helen: SERIOUSLY alison
headphones = carbon dioxide
or whatever we breathe
Alison: HAHA
HAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAH
HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH
CARBON
Helen: I DONT EVEN KNOW WHAT WE BREATHE
Alison: DIOXIDE
IS
POISONOUS
Helen: AHAHAHAHAHA CRAPPP!!!
CRAP!
CRAP!
what do we breathe, then???
Alison: HAHAHAHAHAHAH
OXYGEN?!?!
Helen: OH YEAH THATS RIGHT
AHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA
Alison: lawd
HELEN
Helen: i am SO DUMB
i am cracking up
Alison: I AM LAUGHING SO MUCH
Helen: AHAHAHAHA A GERMAN MAN IS ENJOYING IT
hahahahahhaaha
goddddddddddddd
i am so ridiculous
Friday, February 22, 2008
Monday, February 18, 2008
Just My Luck
Last week, a series of unlucky events plagued Maggie's days. First there was the chocolate milk vs. purse incident, then the unfortunate ordering circumstance. The list went on, and every time she related a new one I could not stop laughing. Literally, I just kept laughing.Here's why: every one of my weeks is composed of very unlucky things. They happen so often that I don't even think of them. Last week, however, was somewhat peaceful. Things went smoothly, I didn't die of stress, I was less clumsy than usual. It was glorious.
The conclusion: I got Maggie's luck for a week. Unfortunately, she took it back Saturday night/early Sunday. I could tell because everything I touched just about broke.
Here are some unfortunate things that have happened, just today:
- I got three hours of sleep because I didn't have time to study for my LA history test, and I'm having to do it now.
- I tried to brush my hair with my toothbrush.
- I put my hairbrush under the faucet because I thought it was my toothbrush, even though the two are clearly different.
- I spent an hour reading 10 pages of my LA history book that I didn't even need to study. It's the part about colonies gaining independence. Hello, my test is about independence and beyond.
- People here are sneezing a lot, and listening to really bad music very loudly.
- Had an awkward run-in with an ex-writer.
- Who thinks it's a good idea to sort out their personal life in the library? I hate you.
- I had to leave the library because it was too loud. The LIBRARY. Then I went and sat in a freezing cold classroom and studied.
- I failed my Italian quiz, I know it.
- My cell phone went off in Latin. Very, very loudly. It took forever to find it, and then I pulled it out just in time for the line, "I got raging drunk with --". The guy sitting next to me laughed [at me].
- Oh hi, AT&T. Thanks for dropping my interview with the director of admissions -- twice.
- I'd forgotten what it was like to BS essays -- I haven't written any in so long!
- Identify and give the significance for the War in the Pacific.
- Oh hell, I've never heard of that. I'm guessing it was on the Pacific coast. Here is what I wrote: The War in the Pacific, like so many other events, caused a rift in Latin American trade. Commerce was almost brought to a halt, as in Brazil, where farmers stopped growing crops. There was little trade among the Pacific coast as well as from the Pacific coast to Europe.
- "Like so many other events"?? WHAT.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Updating for the sake of updating
Top songs of the week
Independent -- some rapper
Hallelujah -- Jeff Buckley
Halloweenhead -- Ryan Adams
The Mariner's Revenge Song -- The Decemberists
Mirror, Mirror -- Whiskeytown
Boyz -- M.I.A.
I Remember; Seahorse -- Devendra Banhart
Bigmouth Strikes Again -- The Smiths
Wilco is lovely because they're one of those bands you can identify on the spot because of the lead singer.
AIM log; 2:24 a.m.
Maggie: is abby asleep?
Alison: yes
Maggie: are you watching her sleep?
Alison: no weirdo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
HAHAHAH
so weird
Maggie:hahahah
i just thought you WOULD do that
Sometimes I wonder just what kind of vibe I give off.
Independent -- some rapper
Hallelujah -- Jeff Buckley
Halloweenhead -- Ryan Adams
The Mariner's Revenge Song -- The Decemberists
Mirror, Mirror -- Whiskeytown
Boyz -- M.I.A.
I Remember; Seahorse -- Devendra Banhart
Bigmouth Strikes Again -- The Smiths
Wilco is lovely because they're one of those bands you can identify on the spot because of the lead singer.
AIM log; 2:24 a.m.
Maggie: is abby asleep?
Alison: yes
Maggie: are you watching her sleep?
Alison: no weirdo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
HAHAHAH
so weird
Maggie:hahahah
i just thought you WOULD do that
Sometimes I wonder just what kind of vibe I give off.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Global Village: my third home
Today marks my second day in a week that I've not been able to sleep at all. It's somewhat horrible, but in some ways marvelous.Because of not sleeping, I can say I've done a few things that I've never done before:
- Been the second customer of the day at Global Village. I was beat by just a few seconds. I've got first dibs on the corner seat, and now I can look at everything that's going on outside. Some people might call that strange; I prefer the term "involved."
- Walked up Hillsborough Street in the very, very early morning. It's strikingly lovely, really, when no one else is around. The campus, I mean -- not the street, though it is strange-looking.
- I was one of the only people in Tompkins this morning. I bet you didn't know it smells like Pine-sol, floor wax and old vacuum cleaners at 7:04 a.m.
A woman just walked in wearing a fedora. North Carolina is wonderful.
YES. They're playing Elvis Costello. I want to break out into song but that would be taking it beyond strange.
What is so funny about peace, love and understanding? Lord, the man can sing.
I'm supposed to be meeting Saja here so we can work on our paper things. However, this was decided at about 2:30 a.m. and I've already finished my paper. When you don't sleep, you have a surprising amount of time to devote to things you should have done earlier. At any rate, I decided I didn't have anything better to do, might as well head to gvill and wake up -- is that the right terminology? Let's go with "stay awake."
I've decided I'm becoming a philosopher. The lists will read like the following:
Aristotle
Rene Descartes
Thomas Aquinas
Friedrich Nietzsche
Albert Camus
Soren Kierkegaard
Alison Harman
Seems a perfectly logical sequence. I mean, all these guys probably started thinking, writing, because they were freaked out by something. Whatever it was -- religion, economics, existence, thought -- it freaked the hell out of them. They sat down, thought a bit, and started writing.
Oh!!!!!! A Greyhound bus just passed heading to New York. That is completely amazing. I want to drop everything, buy a ticket and leave right now. Not because I don't like it here... just because I think it would be a wonderful experience.
This must be a Scottish mix. It's now on that song about Bonnie lass.
I'm doing this. I've started my rantings. When I talk about my fears to others, most look at me like I'm mad. But hello, I'm sure they looked at Nietzsche like he was a mad man. Hell, he probably was.
I wonder if blogs will be the post-humus text publishers will print once we're dead. Instead of some hidden manuscript, it'll be online copy.
Earlier this week, I learned I'm not the only one who is perpetually living in fear of an imagined world. The philosophy is actually called true idealism. Just think (for really, isn't that the only thing you know you're doing?): we have no proof we're living, walking, breathing in the world we think we are. I could be {in} a world (not necessarily a world; more like a state of... being?) totally opposite from what someone else is in. I don't know how to aptly explain it.
Imagine you lose all your senses. You've got no physical sense of being. It's just you (though what is that?) and your mind. You're free to imagine the world around you, to create societies and colors and conversations, to conjure up interactions between people. It would be a real world, except it would all be ideal; what you see you're not really seeing, what you're touching is not tangible. You think it is, but what else do you have? You've got a brain and nothing else. It'd be easy to fool yourself into believing you're living in a world you've created.
My biggest fear is that this is true.
Now all that's left for me to do is come up with proofs that the world we ALL know exists; proofs that we're all living in the same world, that it's not one person 'dreamliving' in a world and another person doing the same in something totally different. I'll work on it.
Although, I have learned one thing from Kierkegaard: truth is subjective (which goes along, scarily, with my theory). It's not what you know, but how you know it -- how you believe, your inward reflection. Not knowing gives us faith, for if we knew everything we wouldn't have to believe; we'd just have to know. And that would suck.
So perhaps I just have to have faith that this world is real, that I'm not living solely in my mind. Maybe that's the answer.
I kind of doubt it's that simple.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
I'm wide awake, it's morning
"Friedmann was fascinated by Einstein's theory and threw himself into studying it with his usual intensity. 'I am an ignoramus,' he used to say. 'I don't know anything. I have to sleep less and not allow myself any distractions, because all this so-called 'life' is a complete waste of time.'"
This quote epitomizes one half of my feelings on life. It's completely absurd -- we can contribute to our given society, sure, but if society weren't here to begin with the world would be just as well off. You're thrown into needs, desires, oxygen and water. You're not given a reason. You have about 80 years, if you're lucky, to "do something" with your life. Might as well work like hell, eh?
But another part of me wants to block out the "haves" and "needs" and focus on what feels right in the moment. Or at least embrace society's chokehold and twirl it around in a waltz. I want to be carefree and superexciting. I always think of two people when contemplating this type of life: Carrie (from Sex & the City) and M.I.A. Laugh all you want, but they wear great clothes, lead great lives and, generally, are just really great.
So I could sit in the middle of these paradigms. Seems like an easy solution, and one I think most follow. However, the middle of drastically driven and drastically carefree is averagely normal, and we're back to where we started.
I could probably contemplate life for my whole lifetime. I wonder what that could contribute.
But maybe we're all going about this wrong. Maybe we're not here to make contributions. The universe is millions upon fucking millions upon millions of years old. I can't fathom it. Surely there have been societies before our known society, and in places other than Earth. They've been destroyed, recreated, reinvented, reached their peaks, destroyed. Maybe we're just here for the ride. No reason, no necessity -- just to be here.
There are some really smart old men sitting at the other table. They're throwing out Mark Twain and "arbeit mach frei," Jane Austen, the Wall Street Journal and cooling off with a nice baseball talk.
The second table in Global Village is a wonderful place to people watch.
It's also a nice place to down double espressos like it's your job, and then chase them with chai.
It's a nicer place, still, to contemplate life and blog about it.
This quote epitomizes one half of my feelings on life. It's completely absurd -- we can contribute to our given society, sure, but if society weren't here to begin with the world would be just as well off. You're thrown into needs, desires, oxygen and water. You're not given a reason. You have about 80 years, if you're lucky, to "do something" with your life. Might as well work like hell, eh?
But another part of me wants to block out the "haves" and "needs" and focus on what feels right in the moment. Or at least embrace society's chokehold and twirl it around in a waltz. I want to be carefree and superexciting. I always think of two people when contemplating this type of life: Carrie (from Sex & the City) and M.I.A. Laugh all you want, but they wear great clothes, lead great lives and, generally, are just really great.
So I could sit in the middle of these paradigms. Seems like an easy solution, and one I think most follow. However, the middle of drastically driven and drastically carefree is averagely normal, and we're back to where we started.
I could probably contemplate life for my whole lifetime. I wonder what that could contribute.
But maybe we're all going about this wrong. Maybe we're not here to make contributions. The universe is millions upon fucking millions upon millions of years old. I can't fathom it. Surely there have been societies before our known society, and in places other than Earth. They've been destroyed, recreated, reinvented, reached their peaks, destroyed. Maybe we're just here for the ride. No reason, no necessity -- just to be here.
There are some really smart old men sitting at the other table. They're throwing out Mark Twain and "arbeit mach frei," Jane Austen, the Wall Street Journal and cooling off with a nice baseball talk.
The second table in Global Village is a wonderful place to people watch.
It's also a nice place to down double espressos like it's your job, and then chase them with chai.
It's a nicer place, still, to contemplate life and blog about it.
More about Ms. Eaglin
As I lie in bed, trying to go to sleep, obviously the first thing that pops into my head is how to decline the verb "I am" -- in Latin.
"Sum, es, est, sumus, estis, sunt -- come on, Kiser, block that punt!"
That is how we learned the declension. Kiser was my middle school/jail.
Also, at the Latin conventions, instead of teaching us the lame song about Latin, she told us to mouth "watermelon," which apparently will blend itself in to any song you sing.
Before all the football games, she would hand out green M&M's (our school color was green) and say "fac bene" to the players who passed by. "Fac bene" means "do well" in Latin, but of course it sounds like "fuck Benny" in English.
And she knew it, too. I think that's probably 97% why she did it.
"Sum, es, est, sumus, estis, sunt -- come on, Kiser, block that punt!"
That is how we learned the declension. Kiser was my middle school/jail.
Also, at the Latin conventions, instead of teaching us the lame song about Latin, she told us to mouth "watermelon," which apparently will blend itself in to any song you sing.
Before all the football games, she would hand out green M&M's (our school color was green) and say "fac bene" to the players who passed by. "Fac bene" means "do well" in Latin, but of course it sounds like "fuck Benny" in English.
And she knew it, too. I think that's probably 97% why she did it.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Precious: 1994-2008
7:45 a.m.-- "Hey, Precious isn't doing well. I think we're going to have to take her..."
7:50 a.m. -- What do you wear to put your dog to sleep? Do you wear something bright and cheerful, for her, or something dark, to show your grief? There I was, staring at the pile of clothes on my bed for a good five minutes.
It started snowing as we were walking into the vet's. She really loves snow. It stopped once we were inside, which seems fitting.
It was so hard to sit with her while they did it, while she was staring at us, needing us. And when her heart stopped beating I couldn't help but think she was going to stand up, walk out with us, jump in the car, be youthful again.
I just wish there was something we could have done. I don't understand death. How do you just -- stop? How are you just not there anymore? I don't understand the soul, nor the brain, nor the brain/soul. I wish they could just take whatever it is that makes you you and implant it in another, healthy, body. I suppose that's what ghosts are, essentially. Or, you know, ethereally.
There was a beautiful, white Persian cat on the mat when we walked out of that room. I like to think he was an angel cat. Although I don't really believe in angels or anything, I do believe in signs and symbolism.
One time, my mom took her to Hanging Rock. Precious ran alongside my mom while she rode her bike. Apparently, she rode a good five miles and forgot Precie was running with her. When they came home, Precious hopped up on the couch and there she stayed for a good three days.
Also, one time they were hiking and she came upon a bee hive. She soon discovered her mouth wasn't the best place for a bee hive, and ran all the way back to the car.
She always hopped in the bath tub when it was thundering.
When I was little, I would give her a bit of my laundry to carry back to the washer. She'd hold it in her mouth, and I think she probably thought she'd get to bury it outside. I'd wrench it from her mouth and we'd go back for another load.
God. That dog has been my best friend for 14 years. I don't know what I'll do the next time I come home and she's not sitting at the door, looking outside.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Sometimes planes they smash up in the sky, and sometimes lonely hearts they just get lonlier
By the numbers1 -- percent of deep ocean we've explored
4 - 15 -- times the mass of the Sun that a massive black hole is
10 -- billion times the mass of the Sun that a super-massive black hole is
300 - 500 -- wrecks within the Bermuda Triangle
infinite -- number of black holes within the Milky Way
I love the History Channel.
Every galaxy, including the Milky Way, has sitting in its center a massive black hole. And though it's inactive, its size correlates with the speed at which objects around it -- including our solar system as a whole -- orbit.
"In deep space, when stars reach the end of their lives, the remaining particles collapse in on themselves and create a dense mass -- one so strong that nothing nearby can escape its gravitational pull. Even light, traveling at 186,000 miles a second, is sucked into the vortex."
I love the History Channel. Thanks for explaining black holes in a way that doesn't make my head want to explode.
Now they've sent scientists out into the Bermuda Triangle in an attempt to detect an in terra/mare black hole? Oh God, that would be, at the same time, marvelous and dread-inducing.
P.S. I'm a space nerd. I readily admit it.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
8:30 a.m. is a wonderful time to think about the purpose of life
Yesterday in existentialism professor Marina Byovka passed around a sheet on
which we were to sign up for a topic and date for a presentation we have to do.
Luckily I had decided to sit in the second row, close to the windows, since the
50-odd class freaks me out a little when I'm sitting in the back. The light
streaming in from the windows means, at least, there is some kind of escape.
She'd talked a bit about the presentations earlier, and had mentioned a bit
about Dostoyevsky's Brothers Karamazov being one of the options. So as the
sheet was going around -- there were about 10 people ahead of me -- I could
not stop worrying someone would steal my presentation spot. It was pure dread.
Anguish. Two more people came in to class late, one of whom sat behind me,
and I vowed to kill him if he stole my topic.
Then it dawned on me: no one is going to steal that. Only very strange people
have an obsession with the Russian authors.
'I'm safe,' I thought.
And I was. Thank goodness for strange obsessions.
Here is an excerpt from my notes. Camus, I love you. You've solved my problems,
for although you didn't give me one bit of information that would help me better
understand life, you've made me realize that I can't.
In addition, I'm loving Latin. Expect the dangling participles to return!
Here are a few videos Abby and I found. I'm slightly encharmed.
No one else thought this was funny. Everyone kind of thought I was a freak for
laughing at this kid's loinal pain.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Can anyone tell me why I decided, ever so smartly, to undertake Latin again?
Scenario # 1: Embarrassment
"And the next person [me], can you tell me what the verb is?"
"Um. Um. Pendentem?"
"No, that's a participle. La la la. It's adiuvistis."
"Oh."
"Can you give me the number and order?"
"Um. Um. Well, it's obviously singular. And, um..."
"No, it's actually plural. La la la, genitives tis, la la la."
"Oh."
"Can you translate it for me?"
"No, I can't."
A+ for effort, don't you think? I should have gone with my first instinct, which was that it meant 'to help' [which it did]. Oh well. It's no wonder the language died; it's utterly incomprehensible. The rules only apply half the time, the verb is at the end of the sentence and you don't translate the first part of the sentence first, you use the verb and then find the object and then find the participle and then find the subject and then find the subject modifier and by the time you're done translating a sentence you're 80 years old and eating mushy peas.
Which brings me to two points: one, Latin royally screwed my writing for two years. I'd end up putting clauses and clauses into my sentences, putting the verb in the middle, and then continuing on. I got great grades in my English 12 class because, I think, my teacher thought my writing was so complex it was over her head. In fact, it was just wrong and confusing. Anyway, my American lit professor last year called me out on it, so it doesn't even work with everyone.
And two: Latin teachers are crazy. You have to be to dedicate your time not only to a dead language, but to one that doesn't make any sense whatsoever.
Example: Ms. Eaglin, my sixth and seventh grade Latin teacher. She had deranged white hair and this lopsided smile. She promised to teach us "Latin swear words" when we got to eighth grade [she left the year before, so we never got to learn them] and had this shirt with a map of the Mediterranean on it.
"You can remember where Rome and Greece are because Rome is on the left nipple and Greece is on the right."
She'd stand on her desk and tell us stories about her childhood. I think one day she was changing on the desk, the type of changing where you slip on your clothes under your clothes -- and she fell. This was in another class. Anyway, they had to use the speaker things to call someone to help. Because she was changing on a desk. Ms. Eaglin was the most wonderful teacher in the world.
Then there was Ms. Perry-Hill, who I think was a bit more sane than Ms. Eaglin. But that's not saying much. All I remember from her class is watching The Princess Bride because it's an epic, and fighting with light-sabers with my classmates. So let's move on to high school.
Ms. Eller was fantastic. She was off the wall and completely tangential. If we hadn't done our homework we would get her talking about her kid or her ex-husband, with whom she was in this massive custody battle. He was dating some 20-year-old or something named Kitty, or Barbie, or something like that. She would get so emotional, but she was really very sweet and we offered to egg her ex's house. We learned Catullus and Ovid and Virgil, who I loathed and still do.
Catullus is wonderful. If you ever get a chance to read his poems, please do. He was a nutter.
A few favorites
In other news, Existentialism is creeping me out. My very Russian professor -- who pronounces her v's like w's and is masculine and scary, but nice -- told us existentialists believe in the freedom to define themselves. We have unlimited freedom to act, wish and think as we want. Wizard. We've been taught, since childhood, that we can't do this, or that, and we must do this. While they also realize there are consequences for our actions, what she said freaked me out. Obviously, I know we have freedom. But literally -- we're free. There is nothing stopping us from doing anything; we are not bound, we are not forced. Yes yes, morality, yes, religion, yes, money. It's not so much what we can do that scares me; it's that we can do it. Maybe I was just very closed-minded until now, but I am genuinely... afraid.
Additionally, she posed this question: what is the purpose of living when we're only working toward death?
In some respects, I prefer simplicity and ignorance. I can't handle this.
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