something short...
“and what’s it even mean to you,” she said, steadying her glass of wine with her many-ringed fingers, “if you fail? What’s that even mean?”
I sat there. I hesitated. It seemed so simple. Why’s she even asking? It is simple. I fail if I… and put into the conditional, it’s no longer simple. I can’t explain it any more. I don’t have the words to explain it.
“I fail if I… I fail if I end up doing something I hate.”
She took a sip of her wine, and with her free hand, she made circular gestures in the air. My answer wasn’t good enough.
“Okay, okay,” she said. The wine stuck in her throat. “Give me a second.” She cleared her throat violently. “Continue.”
I sat there again. I hesitated. I fail if I…
“Maybe it’s… it’s more abstract, you know?” I offered.
“No, I don’t. Explain.” Another sip of wine.
“Like, maybe it’s more than, I don’t know, a singular action. Maybe it’s a whole bunch of things.”
She smiled, “OK, OK, amusing, my friend. So you’re saying there are a whole slew of things that constitute failure, right?”
“Yes,”
“and you’re worried about all of them coming together. Lining up, so to speak. Like a slot machine?”
“I guess so.”
She laughed, violently. “that’s great. That is so great. You know, people walk around waiting for some string of lucky things to happen… finding some great guy or girl, having a child, getting a scholarship, getting a great job… but not you. You wait for all the unlucky things. You wait for them to line up, like a slot machine.”
I felt stupid. It wasn’t that simple... But how could I express that?
“It’s not that simple,” I offered pathetically.
She laughed again. Another sip of wine.
Suddenly, filled with courage, I grabbed her hand. I lifted upward, inspecting it. I adjusted one of her rings. It was a plain silver band, with some worn-off inscription.
“You got some cute allegory to share, for your rings, too, huh?” I asked, angrily.
“What?” she was still laughing. I wasn’t laughing. She looked at me straight in the eyes. In a second her expression sobered up. “Really, what are you saying?” she asked again.
“I don’t know. I’m not as poetic, I guess. Are these rings symbolic of all the things lining up too? All the unlucky things I’m waiting for?”
She half-smiled. “Don’t be so dramatic, okay? I’m just showing you how ridiculous your fears are. Your fear of failure. You don’t even know what it is. You can’t tell me. That’s all I’m saying.”
I dropped her hand, and it fell limp between her legs. She took another sip of wine and shook her head.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Directions (Dichotomy of thought)
I've been rediscovering the genius of Joanna Newsom lately. I can't stop listening to her music... listening to this strange music and pondering my self-indulgent little life.
OVERLY-POETIC PONDERING: I feel this growing restlessness inside of me. I feel lucidity returning to me. I’m still confused, of course. When aren’t I? but there is still clarity. A million things which were once so cosmic and illogical become somewhat reasonable upon further inspection. There is still mystery. There is always mystery. Without mystery, life would not be worth living. But I can understand things, a bit better.
And it’s not so much about being remembered forever, but about dedicating your life to something. Dedicating this undirected energy, this passionate love, to some singular object. And perhaps recognition comes naturally. And if it doesn’t, I’m not sure if I care. A million people kill themselves and others trying to climb across the sweaty backs of the human herd. But to step away from the herd; to work quietly and diligently in the forest, who can hold that against you? Anyone can become famous; Hollywood has taught us that well. Talent, intelligence, kindness, love--these traits we value most--are not necessary to become recognized.
But that is besides the point. What is more satisfying than chasing a passion endlessly? Than dedicating every atom of energy to some object in mind?
Perhaps passion and recognition, they coincide, as I’ve said before. But the latter doesn’t even matter, don’t you understand?
Look at van Gogh, at Emily Dickinson, at Jane Austen. These people weren’t properly recognized for their genius in their time. But that didn’t deter any of them.
And no, this is not another declaration about misunderstood genius, or about posthumous fame. All I'm saying is that true passion is infinitely more important than recognition. Many people are recognized for their achievements; far fewer understand true passion.
And if only I could find that singular object worthy of all my energies--physical, intellectual, creative. I will eventually. I hope. If I don’t, I fail. This is failure--not merely to chase a passion only to find out it is not your true passion, but to never find a passion in the first place. To me, this is an even greater failure than simply making a mistake, because you couldn't let go of your pride for one instant to explore, to go out on a limb, to experience failure temporarily. You couldn't just step aside and say "I'm not sure yet;" you had to put up the front of the eternal over-achiever, full of the typical pretentious affectations, full of typical "well-rounded" talents and abilities.
REALISTIC SIDE NOTE: Sometimes this whole passionate "Soul-searching" reminds me an awful lot of the dating scene itself... You spend some time with a field. You invest yourself into it. You try to imagine the rest of your life with it. and then, upon deciding it's not for you, you might feel regret and fear.
and maybe once, you find some field that you are absolutely in love with, and so you pour all your time, energy, and money into it, only to find that for some reason, it doesn't work--you can't get a job with it; it's full of superficial people; you're not wanted. It "rejects" you, so to speak.
and then you imagine spending the rest of your Thanksgivings alone and sad inside Johnny V's... well, maybe that last bit is something that only happens in the dating scene. (or at least in my own brain) but you get the picture...
OVERLY-POETIC PONDERING: I feel this growing restlessness inside of me. I feel lucidity returning to me. I’m still confused, of course. When aren’t I? but there is still clarity. A million things which were once so cosmic and illogical become somewhat reasonable upon further inspection. There is still mystery. There is always mystery. Without mystery, life would not be worth living. But I can understand things, a bit better.
And it’s not so much about being remembered forever, but about dedicating your life to something. Dedicating this undirected energy, this passionate love, to some singular object. And perhaps recognition comes naturally. And if it doesn’t, I’m not sure if I care. A million people kill themselves and others trying to climb across the sweaty backs of the human herd. But to step away from the herd; to work quietly and diligently in the forest, who can hold that against you? Anyone can become famous; Hollywood has taught us that well. Talent, intelligence, kindness, love--these traits we value most--are not necessary to become recognized.
But that is besides the point. What is more satisfying than chasing a passion endlessly? Than dedicating every atom of energy to some object in mind?
Perhaps passion and recognition, they coincide, as I’ve said before. But the latter doesn’t even matter, don’t you understand?
Look at van Gogh, at Emily Dickinson, at Jane Austen. These people weren’t properly recognized for their genius in their time. But that didn’t deter any of them.
And no, this is not another declaration about misunderstood genius, or about posthumous fame. All I'm saying is that true passion is infinitely more important than recognition. Many people are recognized for their achievements; far fewer understand true passion.
And if only I could find that singular object worthy of all my energies--physical, intellectual, creative. I will eventually. I hope. If I don’t, I fail. This is failure--not merely to chase a passion only to find out it is not your true passion, but to never find a passion in the first place. To me, this is an even greater failure than simply making a mistake, because you couldn't let go of your pride for one instant to explore, to go out on a limb, to experience failure temporarily. You couldn't just step aside and say "I'm not sure yet;" you had to put up the front of the eternal over-achiever, full of the typical pretentious affectations, full of typical "well-rounded" talents and abilities.
REALISTIC SIDE NOTE: Sometimes this whole passionate "Soul-searching" reminds me an awful lot of the dating scene itself... You spend some time with a field. You invest yourself into it. You try to imagine the rest of your life with it. and then, upon deciding it's not for you, you might feel regret and fear.
and maybe once, you find some field that you are absolutely in love with, and so you pour all your time, energy, and money into it, only to find that for some reason, it doesn't work--you can't get a job with it; it's full of superficial people; you're not wanted. It "rejects" you, so to speak.
and then you imagine spending the rest of your Thanksgivings alone and sad inside Johnny V's... well, maybe that last bit is something that only happens in the dating scene. (or at least in my own brain) but you get the picture...
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
The nervous system
People think writing is so easy. You just think the words in your head and put them on paper--as opposed to, say, visual art, in which you must first dream up a visual image and then summon complex, intricate muscle movements to bring it to actualization. In simpler words, people assume that in writing, there is no middle-man; that it is a simple input-output equation.
But in reality, it’s never that simple. Because in my brain I don’t always just think in words or complete phrases; there are complex feelings and colors and sounds and tastes that resonate in my skull and ask for translation onto paper. It’s sort of like the reverse of the nervous system. Normally, colors and sounds and tastes exist as energy in the external world, and your nervous system translates this energy into chemical messages for your brain to understand. In my case, I become the nervous system for the outside world. Inside my head, colors and images and sounds and moments and phrases echo back and forth as meaningless pieces of energy and electric impulses; but it is my task, as a writer, to translate these things into coherent verbal information.
I guess this is a roundabout way of saying that for some reason, I haven’t been writing as much as possible. I used to merely get the impulse and write immediately, even if it was a worthless whining poem or an over-intellectualized essay (like this). I have so many things I wish to write about, but it’s going to take some intense concentration and organization to write coherently. So many things pass through my periphery, and I want to write them all. But it takes time. I’m unworried. I am starting to feel more confidence in myself as a writer, though the struggle and the fear still persist. The struggle to make my brain sit still and write; the fear that I don’t have the talent to write. I battle them; they battle me; they battle each other. It will take time, like everything else. It’s taken hundreds and hundreds of blog entries and journal scribblings and awful teenage poems to reach the lucidity I claim now. I don’t regret a single angst-filled line, because every time I wrote, I understood something new about myself and the world; and ultimately, it’s made me a better writer.
The future is huge and luminescent. Anxiety is omnipresent.
But in reality, it’s never that simple. Because in my brain I don’t always just think in words or complete phrases; there are complex feelings and colors and sounds and tastes that resonate in my skull and ask for translation onto paper. It’s sort of like the reverse of the nervous system. Normally, colors and sounds and tastes exist as energy in the external world, and your nervous system translates this energy into chemical messages for your brain to understand. In my case, I become the nervous system for the outside world. Inside my head, colors and images and sounds and moments and phrases echo back and forth as meaningless pieces of energy and electric impulses; but it is my task, as a writer, to translate these things into coherent verbal information.
I guess this is a roundabout way of saying that for some reason, I haven’t been writing as much as possible. I used to merely get the impulse and write immediately, even if it was a worthless whining poem or an over-intellectualized essay (like this). I have so many things I wish to write about, but it’s going to take some intense concentration and organization to write coherently. So many things pass through my periphery, and I want to write them all. But it takes time. I’m unworried. I am starting to feel more confidence in myself as a writer, though the struggle and the fear still persist. The struggle to make my brain sit still and write; the fear that I don’t have the talent to write. I battle them; they battle me; they battle each other. It will take time, like everything else. It’s taken hundreds and hundreds of blog entries and journal scribblings and awful teenage poems to reach the lucidity I claim now. I don’t regret a single angst-filled line, because every time I wrote, I understood something new about myself and the world; and ultimately, it’s made me a better writer.
The future is huge and luminescent. Anxiety is omnipresent.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
stable song
Time for the final bow
Rows of deserted houses
All our stable mates highway bound
I logged onto Facebook just a while ago, and I noticed that my friend Sara from Madison had posted these lyrics as her status a few days ago. I thought about how appropriate it was, at the end of the semester... everybody in Turner House packing up and moving away... but I had already done so, back in December. and my disappearance had already evaporated and faded into the old cracked walls; it would go unmourned during the final move-out.
and for a second, I think back to the first day at Madison... the sweaty, confusing bustle of things. all the mysterious people whose faces and names blended into each other. how awkward I was--perhaps we all were. the first conversations. the "ice-breakers" and the first look around. the first laughs, jokes. the awkward meetings between the parents... noticing someone else with the same futon as you, same guitar, same T-shirt...
for some reason, it just left me feeling so nostalgic and poignant, and I again started to consider all the people I had loved and lost in my life. it made me kind of sad, and now I start to wonder if I've done something wrong. if perhaps I've pushed people away because they didn't meet my expectations... my cinematic, overly-romantic visions of comradery and friendship.
perhaps my life was just bound to take on a lonelier path after that first fateful semester in Fall. who knows.
I just feel kind of sad, I do honestly miss the friendships I had in Turner House. I do regret that I didn't stay and see what could have bloomed.
but there were other reasons. I needed to come to Milwaukee. I needed to dissolve the image of it being the picture-perfect city for me, of it being the picture-perfect college for me. I needed to come here and find out that no, it was not all it was cracked up to be.
but then again, what really is? and I just seem to be approaching circular thinking here, running into that irritating old adage: "the grass is always greener..."
words can't really express what I'm trying to get at here, and if I keep rambling, I'll only lose the beauty and the fragility of the true emotion. I'm just filled with this sort of awe and this heavy sense of nostalgia. a longing for the perfect past... yes, always the perfect past... flaws become insignificant or invisible from a distance.
Rows of deserted houses
All our stable mates highway bound
I logged onto Facebook just a while ago, and I noticed that my friend Sara from Madison had posted these lyrics as her status a few days ago. I thought about how appropriate it was, at the end of the semester... everybody in Turner House packing up and moving away... but I had already done so, back in December. and my disappearance had already evaporated and faded into the old cracked walls; it would go unmourned during the final move-out.
and for a second, I think back to the first day at Madison... the sweaty, confusing bustle of things. all the mysterious people whose faces and names blended into each other. how awkward I was--perhaps we all were. the first conversations. the "ice-breakers" and the first look around. the first laughs, jokes. the awkward meetings between the parents... noticing someone else with the same futon as you, same guitar, same T-shirt...
for some reason, it just left me feeling so nostalgic and poignant, and I again started to consider all the people I had loved and lost in my life. it made me kind of sad, and now I start to wonder if I've done something wrong. if perhaps I've pushed people away because they didn't meet my expectations... my cinematic, overly-romantic visions of comradery and friendship.
perhaps my life was just bound to take on a lonelier path after that first fateful semester in Fall. who knows.
I just feel kind of sad, I do honestly miss the friendships I had in Turner House. I do regret that I didn't stay and see what could have bloomed.
but there were other reasons. I needed to come to Milwaukee. I needed to dissolve the image of it being the picture-perfect city for me, of it being the picture-perfect college for me. I needed to come here and find out that no, it was not all it was cracked up to be.
but then again, what really is? and I just seem to be approaching circular thinking here, running into that irritating old adage: "the grass is always greener..."
words can't really express what I'm trying to get at here, and if I keep rambling, I'll only lose the beauty and the fragility of the true emotion. I'm just filled with this sort of awe and this heavy sense of nostalgia. a longing for the perfect past... yes, always the perfect past... flaws become insignificant or invisible from a distance.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
temps perdu
I've come home to Muskego for the weekend, and I am on the verge of another "Proustian" epiphany. I feel something akin to happiness inside of me, but I won't allow myself to recognize it as such... Or, more accurately, the logical half of my brain won't allow me to recognize it as such. It wants to rehash and recount all the things that are indelibly wrong with my life. My self-consciousness, my uncertain future, the thoughts of my peers, society's endless flaws, the depravity of mankind... but for a moment, I forget it.
It is lost in the scent of spring, in the beautiful onset of summer. Yesterday I was walking down the sidewalk near my high school, just as it began to rain. and all around me life smelled so beautiful... I probably looked insane, taking in huge gulps of air through my mouth and my nostrils, trying to absorb the fragrance as much as possible. The smell of the rain, the smell of spring...
and here at home, scents of a spring gone past greet me everywhere; hiding in corners, in window sills, in liquid soaps on the bathroom counter top. I actually brought my hands to my face after washing them, just to savor the smell of the soap... because this soap reminds me of last summer, of writing folk songs in my room, and performing them at Potbelly... because this gust of wind reminds me of the freedom of last summer... because this juice in the fridge reminds me of some other ancient memory... and more and more my involuntary memory envelops me in waves and waves of epochs gone by.
again, I look out the window, and take in another huge gulp of air. and still, I feel something akin to happiness within me... the sounds of my family, my mother's infinite selflessness, the sun, the suburban streets...
I think I really need to read Remembrance of Things Past in its entirety.
It is lost in the scent of spring, in the beautiful onset of summer. Yesterday I was walking down the sidewalk near my high school, just as it began to rain. and all around me life smelled so beautiful... I probably looked insane, taking in huge gulps of air through my mouth and my nostrils, trying to absorb the fragrance as much as possible. The smell of the rain, the smell of spring...
and here at home, scents of a spring gone past greet me everywhere; hiding in corners, in window sills, in liquid soaps on the bathroom counter top. I actually brought my hands to my face after washing them, just to savor the smell of the soap... because this soap reminds me of last summer, of writing folk songs in my room, and performing them at Potbelly... because this gust of wind reminds me of the freedom of last summer... because this juice in the fridge reminds me of some other ancient memory... and more and more my involuntary memory envelops me in waves and waves of epochs gone by.
again, I look out the window, and take in another huge gulp of air. and still, I feel something akin to happiness within me... the sounds of my family, my mother's infinite selflessness, the sun, the suburban streets...
I think I really need to read Remembrance of Things Past in its entirety.
Monday, April 19, 2010
"Finally there is clarity; this tiny life is making sense..."
Hola, Blog.
Life is going swell. I have no philosophical or esoteric outpourings for today. Just simple facts. (at least, that's my plan. somehow I always end up writing some prolonged dissertation on my absurd little life...)
So, I've finally made a firm decision:
I am NOT becoming an RA. but I am, however, going to work at Captel, :) which is a phone-captioning service for hard-of-hearing folks--and coincidentally, a company that provides employment for a large percentage of the student body at UWM. It's been a rough and tumultuous decision, but overall, it makes the most sense. My parents had already offered to pay for housing for my first two years. A majority of one's compensation as an RA is free housing (around a $5000 value)... the rest consisting of a free meal plan and a monthly stipend of $250. This is excellent, but if my parents offered to pay, why not take advantage of it? My dad told me that he would not necessarily be able to help in future years, to make up for the money he saved while I was an RA. The risk didn't seem worth it... Besides, working at Captel, I can actually begin to save money for the future. I can't "save" my free housing for the future...
I may still become an RA in the future (even though I've become pretty disgusted with the behavior of my fellow residents).
It all depends.
As far as majors, things are clearing up a bit.
Basically, I have it narrowed down to two broad categories:
either language or music.
This helps, but it still doesn't remove the gravity of the decision. I'm still conflicted. but at least the options aren't as staggering as they once were.
My most grandiose dream is this:
to major in French and Applied Linguistics, and then become a teacher of English in France. that would be incredible... whether or not it's plausible, I'm not sure.
last Monday, as my father was driving me back to school, I was talking about majors again. something slipped out of my mouth which inadvertently clarified things:
"I wouldn't mind remaining in academia for the rest of my life."
it's strange, once I put that feeling into words, my existence felt a bit more clear... as though I had finally chosen a path.
For a long time, I wanted to admit that being a professor and basically remaining in school forever would be a pretty fantastic thing. I wouldn't admit it, because I was so caught up in doing something "tangible" for the world. and who can blame me? my father's an engineer. Every time I brought up majoring in something abstract like Literature or a foreign language or Linguistics, he'd always raise an eyebrow, and question the validity of such degrees.
But I just know that I have an undying passion for learning, and that I really do want to learn for the rest of my life. and, the best way to continue learning is by teaching.
so, perhaps, I've come full circle.
but who really knows what the future holds for me?
all I have is my passion and my curiosity. As long as I have that, I'm set.
"This is the true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap; the being a force of Nature instead of a feverish selfish little clod of grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy."
-Bernard Shaw
ALSO: MAY I JUST REITERATE HOW UPSET I AM when I find that my posts are spammed by weird Asian websites?!?! I get so excited, because I see that one of my posts has a comment. unfortunately, I just get a weird message in characters that I can't understand, directing me to some porn website... :(
Life is going swell. I have no philosophical or esoteric outpourings for today. Just simple facts. (at least, that's my plan. somehow I always end up writing some prolonged dissertation on my absurd little life...)
So, I've finally made a firm decision:
I am NOT becoming an RA. but I am, however, going to work at Captel, :) which is a phone-captioning service for hard-of-hearing folks--and coincidentally, a company that provides employment for a large percentage of the student body at UWM. It's been a rough and tumultuous decision, but overall, it makes the most sense. My parents had already offered to pay for housing for my first two years. A majority of one's compensation as an RA is free housing (around a $5000 value)... the rest consisting of a free meal plan and a monthly stipend of $250. This is excellent, but if my parents offered to pay, why not take advantage of it? My dad told me that he would not necessarily be able to help in future years, to make up for the money he saved while I was an RA. The risk didn't seem worth it... Besides, working at Captel, I can actually begin to save money for the future. I can't "save" my free housing for the future...
I may still become an RA in the future (even though I've become pretty disgusted with the behavior of my fellow residents).
It all depends.
As far as majors, things are clearing up a bit.
Basically, I have it narrowed down to two broad categories:
either language or music.
This helps, but it still doesn't remove the gravity of the decision. I'm still conflicted. but at least the options aren't as staggering as they once were.
My most grandiose dream is this:
to major in French and Applied Linguistics, and then become a teacher of English in France. that would be incredible... whether or not it's plausible, I'm not sure.
last Monday, as my father was driving me back to school, I was talking about majors again. something slipped out of my mouth which inadvertently clarified things:
"I wouldn't mind remaining in academia for the rest of my life."
it's strange, once I put that feeling into words, my existence felt a bit more clear... as though I had finally chosen a path.
For a long time, I wanted to admit that being a professor and basically remaining in school forever would be a pretty fantastic thing. I wouldn't admit it, because I was so caught up in doing something "tangible" for the world. and who can blame me? my father's an engineer. Every time I brought up majoring in something abstract like Literature or a foreign language or Linguistics, he'd always raise an eyebrow, and question the validity of such degrees.
But I just know that I have an undying passion for learning, and that I really do want to learn for the rest of my life. and, the best way to continue learning is by teaching.
so, perhaps, I've come full circle.
but who really knows what the future holds for me?
all I have is my passion and my curiosity. As long as I have that, I'm set.
"This is the true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap; the being a force of Nature instead of a feverish selfish little clod of grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy."
-Bernard Shaw
ALSO: MAY I JUST REITERATE HOW UPSET I AM when I find that my posts are spammed by weird Asian websites?!?! I get so excited, because I see that one of my posts has a comment. unfortunately, I just get a weird message in characters that I can't understand, directing me to some porn website... :(
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Fancy words, cyclical thoughts.
Decide.
It’s a much harsher word than you expect. Originates from Latin. The “-cide” ending basically indicates some kind of cutting off or “killing.” You’ll note it in other words such as “suicide,” (killing oneself) “homocide,” (killing someone else) “parricide,” (killing one’s parents)… the list goes on and on. So how does it apply to our harmless little verb “decide”? Good question. When combined with the prefix “-de,” (a French preposition meaning “from”) the etymological meaning of the word runs something like “to choose from,” or “to cut off from.” The actual action of “deciding” is interpreted as choosing one destiny by cutting off (“killing”) the other. It sounds pretty drastic, but, on the whole of it, it’s pretty damn accurate. It makes that harmless little verb so much more difficult and scary. I am not merely picking one option over another; I am in fact killing off the other path, so that it can never live again! How frightening! I don’t want to burn all bridges; I want to make one decision in hopes that, if necessary, some other decision may be brought to life. I can’t kill it off completely! How drastic!
But then again, this is all cyclical, and points back to my desire for everything, my love of life, my ceaseless curiosity. Last night I was lying in bed, thinking about all the things I want. The list was endless… I can’t have everything. I must kill some destinies, let them lie sleeping forever. Some were never meant to be.
But I can’t! I can’t make a decision! I want to always have the freedom! I want a little bit of everything. No, I want a lot of everything. I want it all…
And thus, my conundrum…
I am still reconsidering the RA position, despite having turned in the acceptance form. I can still back out, but I’m afraid of the repercussions. It may mean not being hired by University Housing in the future. But I can’t say that for sure. Some friends have told me that they’ll appreciate my ability to step down, and to understand that perhaps I should not, at this point in my life, have this job.
I wish I could list all the pros and cons, but I’ve done so endlessly, and concretely outlining them doesn’t seem to have any intrinsic value. It would just heighten the confusion. I know this isn’t as huge of a deal as choosing a major (don’t even get me started on that), but it’s just another example of my inability to make firm decisions. The second I have chosen something, I second-guess it ad nauseum, until I question what I even wanted in the first place. It’s sickening. I don’t need help doing the things I do. I do many things very well. I just need help choosing what to do. Sometimes I long for the days when everything was in fact spelled out for you… you would do what your father did, on the same land, in the same place, forever. It sounds so terrible now, but the infinite choices are sometimes just as scary. I love the freedom. It’s nice to be able to choose whatever I want. At the same time, it’s overwhelming.
It’s a much harsher word than you expect. Originates from Latin. The “-cide” ending basically indicates some kind of cutting off or “killing.” You’ll note it in other words such as “suicide,” (killing oneself) “homocide,” (killing someone else) “parricide,” (killing one’s parents)… the list goes on and on. So how does it apply to our harmless little verb “decide”? Good question. When combined with the prefix “-de,” (a French preposition meaning “from”) the etymological meaning of the word runs something like “to choose from,” or “to cut off from.” The actual action of “deciding” is interpreted as choosing one destiny by cutting off (“killing”) the other. It sounds pretty drastic, but, on the whole of it, it’s pretty damn accurate. It makes that harmless little verb so much more difficult and scary. I am not merely picking one option over another; I am in fact killing off the other path, so that it can never live again! How frightening! I don’t want to burn all bridges; I want to make one decision in hopes that, if necessary, some other decision may be brought to life. I can’t kill it off completely! How drastic!
But then again, this is all cyclical, and points back to my desire for everything, my love of life, my ceaseless curiosity. Last night I was lying in bed, thinking about all the things I want. The list was endless… I can’t have everything. I must kill some destinies, let them lie sleeping forever. Some were never meant to be.
But I can’t! I can’t make a decision! I want to always have the freedom! I want a little bit of everything. No, I want a lot of everything. I want it all…
And thus, my conundrum…
I am still reconsidering the RA position, despite having turned in the acceptance form. I can still back out, but I’m afraid of the repercussions. It may mean not being hired by University Housing in the future. But I can’t say that for sure. Some friends have told me that they’ll appreciate my ability to step down, and to understand that perhaps I should not, at this point in my life, have this job.
I wish I could list all the pros and cons, but I’ve done so endlessly, and concretely outlining them doesn’t seem to have any intrinsic value. It would just heighten the confusion. I know this isn’t as huge of a deal as choosing a major (don’t even get me started on that), but it’s just another example of my inability to make firm decisions. The second I have chosen something, I second-guess it ad nauseum, until I question what I even wanted in the first place. It’s sickening. I don’t need help doing the things I do. I do many things very well. I just need help choosing what to do. Sometimes I long for the days when everything was in fact spelled out for you… you would do what your father did, on the same land, in the same place, forever. It sounds so terrible now, but the infinite choices are sometimes just as scary. I love the freedom. It’s nice to be able to choose whatever I want. At the same time, it’s overwhelming.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Memories, Missed Stops, and Woolf
I was trying to remember what I thought Kath’s apartment would look like. I was sitting on the bus, rummaging through old, long-forgotten items in my brain, trying to remember my preconceptions about Kath’s apartment… it was a night of heavy snow-fall… all around there was beautiful white. And I kept calling my parents, trying to convince them that I would be completely fine, and that they had nothing to worry about! But my dad had been watching the news or listening to some radio station, and he was telling me about all the accidents on the freeway. He demanded that I come home immediately… and now, ah, yes, the memories resurface of their own accord, without my effort… I was in the midst of doing some last-minute Christmas shopping… if memory serves, it was the day before Christmas Eve…
And so I used this as a spring-board for some elaborate lie: I told him I would finish up my shopping as soon as possible, and then I was “going to my friend Katie’s in West Allis,” since I was already “in that direction.” (if you only knew my father, or the Milwaukee metropolitan area for that matter, you would know what a consolation this was to him; it sounded infinitely better than saying “I’m going to take the 8-94 all the way down to the east side to visit my friend Kath’s apartment…” Couple with that the fact that my father was always leery about my extraneous visits to the east side.) so, little by little, I got my parents’ consent, and with that, I was off to Kath’s apartment on the east side.
On the way there, I remember speaking with Josalyn on the phone… and she was telling me how they were assembling a TV stand and hanging up posters… and that Kath’s apartment was very dear and “quaint,” and that I would really love seeing it…
And, consequently, today, as I sat on the bus, I tried to remember what I thought about when Josalyn told me this… yes, a rather absurd detail of memory, but I wanted to bring it to the surface anyway; these bizarre recollections and musings are one of the many reasons I love taking the bus… one never knows what interesting thoughts may surface…
So what did I think it looked like? I think I remember relating it to Cheryl’s apartment, probably because I really haven’t been to very many apartments… It didn’t register in my mind that Josalyn had told me it was a one-bedroom studio apartment, and that it was going to be much different from what I had thought.
All I remember is that my preconceptions were much different from Kath’s actual apartment. And obviously, not in a bad way; I love Kath’s apartment, and already, I have so many beautiful memories attached to it.
But, for some reason, this thought just clung to my brain… I needed to remember the exact image I had conceived before seeing the actual apartment… Maybe there was a living space with white carpeting, and a tiny little bedroom, and maybe--
“Excuse me,” shouted a petite woman adjacent from me, thoroughly disrupting my thought-flow, “this is my stop!” A few other riders seemed to laugh casually.
Yes, yes, he had missed it. I remember watching her pull the cord immediately after we left the last stop, so as to make her intentions very clear… but for some reason, the bus driver completely missed it. Perhaps his brain had not taken notice of the bell, or the “STOP REQUESTED” sign. Or maybe he just made a very human mistake. It was completely forgivable, I think. But evidently not to this woman.
At that point, I was trying to recollect whether or not this type of instance had ever happened to me. But I couldn’t remember any such instance…
“Ah, you should have said something earlier…” the bus driver casually mused, meaning no real harm… probably just speaking straight out of his mind.
“I pulled the cord right away, loser.” The sting in this woman’s words was both clear and deliberate. There were some low, apologetic “ou’s” from the crowd… a few laughs… someone else muttering, “oh, come on, now ‘loser?’ ” it sounded extremely similar to the din of a studio audience at a sit-com… or like the spiritless canned laughter on television…
And I realized that my thoughts had been completely turned by this bizarre incident, and that I would truly never be able to remember my preconceptions of Kath’s apartment… and from there my thoughts ran absurdly and illogically… documenting the bus-driver’s increased velocity after the incident (or at least, I had perceived an increase in velocity; perhaps he had been driving quickly the whole time…) yes, yes, we were driving maniacally fast! And I was thinking about writing all these thoughts down in some haphazard journal, and that I would be like a perfect Woolf, in her bizarre little short story “An Unwritten Novel.” and then I was thinking that it would be a very different story indeed, because it would be based on actual events, not on an interesting fabrication of my own imagination. And from there I wondered if I could ever truly be a legitimate writer, because I “put so much of myself into” the craft. Especially when Woolf, Wilde, and many others, had talked about completely removing one’s emotional mind from his or her art… otherwise he or she was “selling-out,” or something. Objectivity. And realism. No romantic subjectivity… but which was I really aiming for anyway? And wasn’t I writing realistically?
After that my thoughts flew back to the incident, and I thought about thinking about the incident. And I thought about thinking about writing about the incident. And I thought about thinking about thinking about writing the incident. And from there I wondered what a sad end I would come to, if the bus driver got us all killed in some terrible accident… with me thinking about writing and writers and bizarre interpersonal incidents…
And so I used this as a spring-board for some elaborate lie: I told him I would finish up my shopping as soon as possible, and then I was “going to my friend Katie’s in West Allis,” since I was already “in that direction.” (if you only knew my father, or the Milwaukee metropolitan area for that matter, you would know what a consolation this was to him; it sounded infinitely better than saying “I’m going to take the 8-94 all the way down to the east side to visit my friend Kath’s apartment…” Couple with that the fact that my father was always leery about my extraneous visits to the east side.) so, little by little, I got my parents’ consent, and with that, I was off to Kath’s apartment on the east side.
On the way there, I remember speaking with Josalyn on the phone… and she was telling me how they were assembling a TV stand and hanging up posters… and that Kath’s apartment was very dear and “quaint,” and that I would really love seeing it…
And, consequently, today, as I sat on the bus, I tried to remember what I thought about when Josalyn told me this… yes, a rather absurd detail of memory, but I wanted to bring it to the surface anyway; these bizarre recollections and musings are one of the many reasons I love taking the bus… one never knows what interesting thoughts may surface…
So what did I think it looked like? I think I remember relating it to Cheryl’s apartment, probably because I really haven’t been to very many apartments… It didn’t register in my mind that Josalyn had told me it was a one-bedroom studio apartment, and that it was going to be much different from what I had thought.
All I remember is that my preconceptions were much different from Kath’s actual apartment. And obviously, not in a bad way; I love Kath’s apartment, and already, I have so many beautiful memories attached to it.
But, for some reason, this thought just clung to my brain… I needed to remember the exact image I had conceived before seeing the actual apartment… Maybe there was a living space with white carpeting, and a tiny little bedroom, and maybe--
“Excuse me,” shouted a petite woman adjacent from me, thoroughly disrupting my thought-flow, “this is my stop!” A few other riders seemed to laugh casually.
Yes, yes, he had missed it. I remember watching her pull the cord immediately after we left the last stop, so as to make her intentions very clear… but for some reason, the bus driver completely missed it. Perhaps his brain had not taken notice of the bell, or the “STOP REQUESTED” sign. Or maybe he just made a very human mistake. It was completely forgivable, I think. But evidently not to this woman.
At that point, I was trying to recollect whether or not this type of instance had ever happened to me. But I couldn’t remember any such instance…
“Ah, you should have said something earlier…” the bus driver casually mused, meaning no real harm… probably just speaking straight out of his mind.
“I pulled the cord right away, loser.” The sting in this woman’s words was both clear and deliberate. There were some low, apologetic “ou’s” from the crowd… a few laughs… someone else muttering, “oh, come on, now ‘loser?’ ” it sounded extremely similar to the din of a studio audience at a sit-com… or like the spiritless canned laughter on television…
And I realized that my thoughts had been completely turned by this bizarre incident, and that I would truly never be able to remember my preconceptions of Kath’s apartment… and from there my thoughts ran absurdly and illogically… documenting the bus-driver’s increased velocity after the incident (or at least, I had perceived an increase in velocity; perhaps he had been driving quickly the whole time…) yes, yes, we were driving maniacally fast! And I was thinking about writing all these thoughts down in some haphazard journal, and that I would be like a perfect Woolf, in her bizarre little short story “An Unwritten Novel.” and then I was thinking that it would be a very different story indeed, because it would be based on actual events, not on an interesting fabrication of my own imagination. And from there I wondered if I could ever truly be a legitimate writer, because I “put so much of myself into” the craft. Especially when Woolf, Wilde, and many others, had talked about completely removing one’s emotional mind from his or her art… otherwise he or she was “selling-out,” or something. Objectivity. And realism. No romantic subjectivity… but which was I really aiming for anyway? And wasn’t I writing realistically?
After that my thoughts flew back to the incident, and I thought about thinking about the incident. And I thought about thinking about writing about the incident. And I thought about thinking about thinking about writing the incident. And from there I wondered what a sad end I would come to, if the bus driver got us all killed in some terrible accident… with me thinking about writing and writers and bizarre interpersonal incidents…
Monday, March 29, 2010
a morning worth noting
The freeway grows and shrinks and wraps around itself in fantastic shapes. Primordial in simplicity… elegant in its vitality… like blood vessels… and the little people in their cars. (and, where are they all going?)
But this morning it doesn’t matter where they’re going, because I have the soothing chatter of the radio, because I hear the deep, faceless laughs and the endless conversation about politics and pop culture. This morning I’m not filled with a philosophical inquiry about my fellow man; I don’t question why or what he is. I only know that he is. I only know that he has purpose.
And next to me, my father talks about the best routes to take, the definitions of “interchanges,” and the confused logic of graveyard plots. And with him, there has always been this sort of awe at logic. This sort of awed expression at mathematical beauty… logic, reason, rationalization, equations. And when I was younger and more immature, I never understood this beauty. I found his ideas sterile and generally inhumane. I flocked to my mother’s love of literature and the written word, of language and spoken beauty. And, in my youth, I considered this beauty superior. But only now, as I am riding peacefully along the freeway with my father, finally escaping anxiety and contrived fears, do I understand my father’s sense of mathematical beauty. This beauty of logic and of reason.
He wonders aloud how cemeteries are able to keep up with landscaping and other expenses, since the patrons only pay once. And what happens when they run out of space? But to him, there seems to be no wonder or fear at the absurdity of death; only a gentle wonder at the absence of financial logic, perhaps. There is no fear of absurdity, no questions about our ritual of putting the dead underground, in enormous, non-specifying groups… tombstones and markers, bearing the family name… and family names blending into one, and eventually, entire cemeteries becoming one distinct being… becoming the home of the Dead, not of Christopher So-and-So, or Mary This-or-That. Yes, in my father there is only a quiet speculation about the gruff exterior of things. And, for the first time, perhaps, I am able to see the beautiful order in this.
But, of course, this ideology unwittingly fails in so many situations, when life truly does become absurd. Because I must ask, how does this type of person address the Holocaust? Hiroshima and Nagasaki? Innocent deaths, meaningless lives, failed dreams? How do they address the World Trade Center collapsing on itself? The people jumping out the windows, choosing the lesser of two hells?
Perhaps, in numbers. Perhaps in calculations and slow steady reflections. Perhaps in historical perfection--in attempting to memorize all the facts exactly as they happened (but any fool knows this is completely impossible!) Perhaps in polite conversation, in gentle awe?
I can’t tell. But I long to ask.
There is a different smell to everything. A different feel. My dorm room seems welcoming and clean.
“It smells clean in here,” I remark. The groceries in their bags, the books stowed away in my backpack, the shoes lined up… Yes, there is a renewed beauty to everything. And if only I read Proust every morning! If only his beautiful writing echoed through my head at all hours, giving beauty to otherwise unnoticeable figures.
The city is still the same. The skyline is the same. The smokestacks are the same. But there is a renewed sense of beauty and calm to them.
I walk to class. There is still the smell of cigarettes… the wakening smell of spring… the sponginess of the grass. And subtly, suddenly, old feelings return to me, as though slowly awakening from a pleasant dream… the enormous columns of Golda Meir. The bike racks. The people all crammed inside the library. And I want to know that they’re being as productive as they look… that they’re not all sitting on Facebook and delaying some other important task… the Gothic windows on Chapman Hall, bringing with them an era long-since passed… an era where my idealistic visions of education are fancily floating about; an era where I am certain I belong, or should belong. And slowly, the old feelings return to me…
The anxiety and the contrived fears that I had forgotten on the car ride here start to call me again… “and what are you really doing? I think you’re wasting your time… hurry up, decide!” and I start running through endless pros and cons… start considering endless majors… My heart stretches out in twenty different directions. And I remember why I feel so tired all the time.
And the constant concern for my own health. The gentle fear underneath my skin… the worry slowly destroying the lining of my stomach, altering the beating of my heart. The red and sundry marks on my body… analyzing each one, coming up with a disease more horrible each time. The physical pain I truly feel. My mind races with worst-case scenarios. I’ve become so deft at imagining worst-case scenarios in a matter of seconds. I can analyze a situation and immediately come up with the worst possible outcome… because if I have imagined the worst, I cannot be surprised by it… nor can I be surprised by the bad, or the somewhat bad… and how thrilled I will be if it actually turns out good!
And now the same creeping sense of exhaustion arises. And my futon looks more and more enticing. And the anxiety seems more and more worth forgetting… worth drowning in the peaceful, unthinking bliss of sleep.
But, before I surrender my body to temporal relief, I recall, with happy fondness, the beauty of this morning. The unhurried, whimsical manner of life. The beautiful words I have read. I remember feeling happy and complacent in the car with my logical father. I remember feeling happy at my desk reading Proust, underlining my favorite passages. I remember feeling happy in my French class, sharply identifying the difference between quelle heure est-il? and quel temps fait-il? I remember the beauty and sad profundity of Chopin. I remember the beauty of my friends and of times long-since passed.
And then I rest my head. Not attempting to escape fear and anxiety, but to surrender to a quiet exhaustion. (or, at least, these should be my ideal motives… anxiety is always present, of course…)
But this morning it doesn’t matter where they’re going, because I have the soothing chatter of the radio, because I hear the deep, faceless laughs and the endless conversation about politics and pop culture. This morning I’m not filled with a philosophical inquiry about my fellow man; I don’t question why or what he is. I only know that he is. I only know that he has purpose.
And next to me, my father talks about the best routes to take, the definitions of “interchanges,” and the confused logic of graveyard plots. And with him, there has always been this sort of awe at logic. This sort of awed expression at mathematical beauty… logic, reason, rationalization, equations. And when I was younger and more immature, I never understood this beauty. I found his ideas sterile and generally inhumane. I flocked to my mother’s love of literature and the written word, of language and spoken beauty. And, in my youth, I considered this beauty superior. But only now, as I am riding peacefully along the freeway with my father, finally escaping anxiety and contrived fears, do I understand my father’s sense of mathematical beauty. This beauty of logic and of reason.
He wonders aloud how cemeteries are able to keep up with landscaping and other expenses, since the patrons only pay once. And what happens when they run out of space? But to him, there seems to be no wonder or fear at the absurdity of death; only a gentle wonder at the absence of financial logic, perhaps. There is no fear of absurdity, no questions about our ritual of putting the dead underground, in enormous, non-specifying groups… tombstones and markers, bearing the family name… and family names blending into one, and eventually, entire cemeteries becoming one distinct being… becoming the home of the Dead, not of Christopher So-and-So, or Mary This-or-That. Yes, in my father there is only a quiet speculation about the gruff exterior of things. And, for the first time, perhaps, I am able to see the beautiful order in this.
But, of course, this ideology unwittingly fails in so many situations, when life truly does become absurd. Because I must ask, how does this type of person address the Holocaust? Hiroshima and Nagasaki? Innocent deaths, meaningless lives, failed dreams? How do they address the World Trade Center collapsing on itself? The people jumping out the windows, choosing the lesser of two hells?
Perhaps, in numbers. Perhaps in calculations and slow steady reflections. Perhaps in historical perfection--in attempting to memorize all the facts exactly as they happened (but any fool knows this is completely impossible!) Perhaps in polite conversation, in gentle awe?
I can’t tell. But I long to ask.
There is a different smell to everything. A different feel. My dorm room seems welcoming and clean.
“It smells clean in here,” I remark. The groceries in their bags, the books stowed away in my backpack, the shoes lined up… Yes, there is a renewed beauty to everything. And if only I read Proust every morning! If only his beautiful writing echoed through my head at all hours, giving beauty to otherwise unnoticeable figures.
The city is still the same. The skyline is the same. The smokestacks are the same. But there is a renewed sense of beauty and calm to them.
I walk to class. There is still the smell of cigarettes… the wakening smell of spring… the sponginess of the grass. And subtly, suddenly, old feelings return to me, as though slowly awakening from a pleasant dream… the enormous columns of Golda Meir. The bike racks. The people all crammed inside the library. And I want to know that they’re being as productive as they look… that they’re not all sitting on Facebook and delaying some other important task… the Gothic windows on Chapman Hall, bringing with them an era long-since passed… an era where my idealistic visions of education are fancily floating about; an era where I am certain I belong, or should belong. And slowly, the old feelings return to me…
The anxiety and the contrived fears that I had forgotten on the car ride here start to call me again… “and what are you really doing? I think you’re wasting your time… hurry up, decide!” and I start running through endless pros and cons… start considering endless majors… My heart stretches out in twenty different directions. And I remember why I feel so tired all the time.
And the constant concern for my own health. The gentle fear underneath my skin… the worry slowly destroying the lining of my stomach, altering the beating of my heart. The red and sundry marks on my body… analyzing each one, coming up with a disease more horrible each time. The physical pain I truly feel. My mind races with worst-case scenarios. I’ve become so deft at imagining worst-case scenarios in a matter of seconds. I can analyze a situation and immediately come up with the worst possible outcome… because if I have imagined the worst, I cannot be surprised by it… nor can I be surprised by the bad, or the somewhat bad… and how thrilled I will be if it actually turns out good!
And now the same creeping sense of exhaustion arises. And my futon looks more and more enticing. And the anxiety seems more and more worth forgetting… worth drowning in the peaceful, unthinking bliss of sleep.
But, before I surrender my body to temporal relief, I recall, with happy fondness, the beauty of this morning. The unhurried, whimsical manner of life. The beautiful words I have read. I remember feeling happy and complacent in the car with my logical father. I remember feeling happy at my desk reading Proust, underlining my favorite passages. I remember feeling happy in my French class, sharply identifying the difference between quelle heure est-il? and quel temps fait-il? I remember the beauty and sad profundity of Chopin. I remember the beauty of my friends and of times long-since passed.
And then I rest my head. Not attempting to escape fear and anxiety, but to surrender to a quiet exhaustion. (or, at least, these should be my ideal motives… anxiety is always present, of course…)
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Reader beware:
Every once and a while, I write something so intensely emotional and realistic that I'm afraid to show it to anyone... I'm afraid for others to see the wild chaos of my brain... the pretentiousness, the inferiority, the gross thoughts and observations. but, I have already revealed myself in an earlier post, so here goes. This is a mess of pretentious horse-chatter that I wrote out of frustration with my current situation. I have no idea where my life is going. I spend most of my days in anxiety for the future... reconsidering my past, wondering if I have made some celestial mistake somewhere. in this little piece, I claim to have found the mistake... it's vulgar, pretentious, and kind of scary.
Here goes...
I feel like my life is going nowhere. I feel like I had this moment of prime beauty and intellect, and I squandered it. Squandered it with careless glee. Let it drift away like meaningless bits of newspaper. And now I’m trying to pick them up again--to put it all back together… but it’s nearly impossible. I could maybe reassemble the headlines, at best…
And there I was, in all the glory of my junior and senior years. I had a rigorous “well-rounded” schedule. I studied music in the afternoon, and calculus and physics in the morning.
I became a machine in the name of standardized testing. I went manic with the ACT scores of my peers… she got a 28... He got a 24, how pathetic!… she got a 34; dear God, she is brilliant. I could never do that!… and he got a 30. A very respectable score. I could have accurately reported the score of any given person walking down the hallway. And then testing season came around. And I prepared by playing guitar and writing songs in my room, studying test prep books before sleep. And yes, yes, yes, there I was! The brilliant senior! I got fours and fives on all my AP exams! I understood calculus. It understood me. We were one soul. I made art late in the day… pots and pans, scrapbooks, drawings. The freshman were in awe of my work. I took up piano again. I went to state for my solo--Claire de Lune. I began songwriting more and more. I impressed the student body with my singing voice. Yes, yes, yes! The prodigy child! In extreme mania, I was finally embodying him!! And those moments of hideous fear and inferiority, well, we need not remember them. Because from a distance, these moments all sound so sublimely beautiful. And you really would think I was so incredibly brilliant then… standing on stage, being congratulated on my class ranking… number six, oh yes, me. Number six…
And I was supposed to be applying to all the wonderful universities in this country. But I applied to only one--UW-Madison, whose giant arms embraced me within weeks of applying. I found no need to apply elsewhere: this was it, this was it. The supernova of the UW system. The “flagship” of the UW system… with its giant research institutions and thousands of brilliant students and its “selectivity,” it was the place for me. All those brilliant shining faces… and we would all just work together under the sun… under the sun and the moon on Bascom Hill, showing our brilliance to the world. Yes, yes, yes! This was it! This was it!!
And I never thought to apply to any of the Ivy League schools. I thought it pointless. I analogized it with the idea of purchasing expensive, brand-name foods. I was convinced that the off-brands would taste just the same. Yes, oh yes, how sure I was! Those stupid, high-falutin’ ninnies! They knew nothing more about art or intellect than I! I was brilliant! I was brilliant, and I didn’t even think of them!
Only now do I seriously consider them. Now, when I am doomed. When I am trapped inside this stupid state with stupid people who don’t care. Trapped with stupid tools with backwards hats and faux-diamond stud earrings. With stupid orange sluts whose stupidity is exceeded only by their alcohol consumption. Yes, here I am. Trapped in the “four-year bacchanal” when I should be off with genius professors studying the classics… studying Latin and Greek, philosophizing, experimenting, thinking. Yes, I have wasted myself. I have wasted my talent. I was too engrossed in becoming a well-rounded student. I was too engrossed in myself to think about my future. And here I am. I pay the full price. I can be nothing more than a mediocre piece of scum now.
I have a 3.625 GPA from Madison, and a bunch of Humanties/Arts classes in progress here at the lovely University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. I have nothing to show for my work in high school. No one cares anymore. No one cares about the musicals, the rehearsals, the drawings, the calculus tests, the Latin translations, the piano-playing, the perfect 4.0, the class ranking. No one! No one! It’s all bullshit now. It may as well not have even happened. I cannot transfer to an exceptional university at this point.
“We accept 18 to 35 transfers out of 800 applicants.” Ha! Ha Ha Ha Ha! What a fucking joke! And they want a 3.8 college GPA as well. Ha! What a joke! I’m not going to have that. Even if I ace all these stupid, unchallenging classes at Milwaukee! And even if I did, they won’t care! I took one difficult course in my college career--Chemistry, and I only got a B. They don’t care about that!
I’m trapped. I’m trapped. I’m trapped. I had it all and I wasted it. I had it all and I just threw it in the garbage. It’s timing. It’s all timing. Life is all about timing. Success is all about timing. Oh, if only I’d realized this earlier.
Or, perhaps, I was never as brilliant as I had imagined in the first place…
What becomes of me? Will I really amount to precious little more than mediocre scum?
These classes are not challenging. They just make me sleep. All I do is sleep now. I have no reason to be awake, aside from my own personal scholarship and learning… for which I am only occasionally active.
I am trapped! I am trapped!
Oh you fucking douche bag with sagging pants! No one cares about your faux-diamond stud earrings! No one cares about the orange girl you fucked last night! No one cares about how you snuck past the monitors “totally wasted as fuck” last night!
Why are you here? A hundred years ago, your kind would not be anywhere near a university. You would be despicable tavern scum. Which is, I think, what you still are. Unfortunately now, you must bear the same title as me (what a disgrace to my accomplishments and my abilities!): undergraduate. Yes. We’re all undergraduates together. The orange girls and the douche bag boys and the indifferent sluts. Yes, we’re all undergraduates. And they don’t give a shit’s worth about literature or knowledge or philosophy or Shakespeare or Plato or anything even REMOTELY intelligent. So long as they’ve got some beer and some stupid easy slut to take home at night! What a fucking joke! This whole institution is a joke! How can anyone take themselves seriously here! This is the most tragic of comedies! And I, the principal actor! Oh, the irony! Fuck this, fuck this all! I just want to run away from everything, because I have messed up so celestially… messed up so celestially that there is no hope for redemption… none….
Here goes...
I feel like my life is going nowhere. I feel like I had this moment of prime beauty and intellect, and I squandered it. Squandered it with careless glee. Let it drift away like meaningless bits of newspaper. And now I’m trying to pick them up again--to put it all back together… but it’s nearly impossible. I could maybe reassemble the headlines, at best…
And there I was, in all the glory of my junior and senior years. I had a rigorous “well-rounded” schedule. I studied music in the afternoon, and calculus and physics in the morning.
I became a machine in the name of standardized testing. I went manic with the ACT scores of my peers… she got a 28... He got a 24, how pathetic!… she got a 34; dear God, she is brilliant. I could never do that!… and he got a 30. A very respectable score. I could have accurately reported the score of any given person walking down the hallway. And then testing season came around. And I prepared by playing guitar and writing songs in my room, studying test prep books before sleep. And yes, yes, yes, there I was! The brilliant senior! I got fours and fives on all my AP exams! I understood calculus. It understood me. We were one soul. I made art late in the day… pots and pans, scrapbooks, drawings. The freshman were in awe of my work. I took up piano again. I went to state for my solo--Claire de Lune. I began songwriting more and more. I impressed the student body with my singing voice. Yes, yes, yes! The prodigy child! In extreme mania, I was finally embodying him!! And those moments of hideous fear and inferiority, well, we need not remember them. Because from a distance, these moments all sound so sublimely beautiful. And you really would think I was so incredibly brilliant then… standing on stage, being congratulated on my class ranking… number six, oh yes, me. Number six…
And I was supposed to be applying to all the wonderful universities in this country. But I applied to only one--UW-Madison, whose giant arms embraced me within weeks of applying. I found no need to apply elsewhere: this was it, this was it. The supernova of the UW system. The “flagship” of the UW system… with its giant research institutions and thousands of brilliant students and its “selectivity,” it was the place for me. All those brilliant shining faces… and we would all just work together under the sun… under the sun and the moon on Bascom Hill, showing our brilliance to the world. Yes, yes, yes! This was it! This was it!!
And I never thought to apply to any of the Ivy League schools. I thought it pointless. I analogized it with the idea of purchasing expensive, brand-name foods. I was convinced that the off-brands would taste just the same. Yes, oh yes, how sure I was! Those stupid, high-falutin’ ninnies! They knew nothing more about art or intellect than I! I was brilliant! I was brilliant, and I didn’t even think of them!
Only now do I seriously consider them. Now, when I am doomed. When I am trapped inside this stupid state with stupid people who don’t care. Trapped with stupid tools with backwards hats and faux-diamond stud earrings. With stupid orange sluts whose stupidity is exceeded only by their alcohol consumption. Yes, here I am. Trapped in the “four-year bacchanal” when I should be off with genius professors studying the classics… studying Latin and Greek, philosophizing, experimenting, thinking. Yes, I have wasted myself. I have wasted my talent. I was too engrossed in becoming a well-rounded student. I was too engrossed in myself to think about my future. And here I am. I pay the full price. I can be nothing more than a mediocre piece of scum now.
I have a 3.625 GPA from Madison, and a bunch of Humanties/Arts classes in progress here at the lovely University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. I have nothing to show for my work in high school. No one cares anymore. No one cares about the musicals, the rehearsals, the drawings, the calculus tests, the Latin translations, the piano-playing, the perfect 4.0, the class ranking. No one! No one! It’s all bullshit now. It may as well not have even happened. I cannot transfer to an exceptional university at this point.
“We accept 18 to 35 transfers out of 800 applicants.” Ha! Ha Ha Ha Ha! What a fucking joke! And they want a 3.8 college GPA as well. Ha! What a joke! I’m not going to have that. Even if I ace all these stupid, unchallenging classes at Milwaukee! And even if I did, they won’t care! I took one difficult course in my college career--Chemistry, and I only got a B. They don’t care about that!
I’m trapped. I’m trapped. I’m trapped. I had it all and I wasted it. I had it all and I just threw it in the garbage. It’s timing. It’s all timing. Life is all about timing. Success is all about timing. Oh, if only I’d realized this earlier.
Or, perhaps, I was never as brilliant as I had imagined in the first place…
What becomes of me? Will I really amount to precious little more than mediocre scum?
These classes are not challenging. They just make me sleep. All I do is sleep now. I have no reason to be awake, aside from my own personal scholarship and learning… for which I am only occasionally active.
I am trapped! I am trapped!
Oh you fucking douche bag with sagging pants! No one cares about your faux-diamond stud earrings! No one cares about the orange girl you fucked last night! No one cares about how you snuck past the monitors “totally wasted as fuck” last night!
Why are you here? A hundred years ago, your kind would not be anywhere near a university. You would be despicable tavern scum. Which is, I think, what you still are. Unfortunately now, you must bear the same title as me (what a disgrace to my accomplishments and my abilities!): undergraduate. Yes. We’re all undergraduates together. The orange girls and the douche bag boys and the indifferent sluts. Yes, we’re all undergraduates. And they don’t give a shit’s worth about literature or knowledge or philosophy or Shakespeare or Plato or anything even REMOTELY intelligent. So long as they’ve got some beer and some stupid easy slut to take home at night! What a fucking joke! This whole institution is a joke! How can anyone take themselves seriously here! This is the most tragic of comedies! And I, the principal actor! Oh, the irony! Fuck this, fuck this all! I just want to run away from everything, because I have messed up so celestially… messed up so celestially that there is no hope for redemption… none….
Friday, February 19, 2010
Oh instincts are misleading. You shouldn't think what you're feeling
sometimes I think I want to sleep indefinitely. or to sleep for an indefinite period of time. and then I realize that that is basically the same thing as dying. yet I'm terrified of dying. so I might just be a hypocrite... I think what I want, more accurately, is just to sleep for the next 15 years. and then awake with a brand new, beautiful perspective.
today I ate half a bag of Lays and took an hour nap.
I need to stop being so anxious, because it just makes me exhausted.
in positive news, I've been songwriting like crazy since this semester started. I have around 10 videos on my camera of various songs I've been working on, (I use my camera because I have no other reliable means to record) and tons of other snippets of songs, verses, or refrains floating around in my brain. I always freak out about my relative creative output. I always think that I'm not doing enough, or not doing anything substantial, but I've realized that it just sort of happens. and I end up not even thinking about it too much.
but I just have tons and tons of ideas about songs. I record videos all the time, of just some silly little riff or refrain in my head. and then I start inventing harmonies while I'm listening. and I think about all the different layering I could do, if only I had the right equipment...
sigh, I don't know.
ah, and since I have Death Cab lyrics as my title, I might add a little tidbit I read about Ben Gibbard here.
I remember reading some interview where Ben was asked what he would be doing if he wasn't doing music. He didn't answer with any pretense. He was completely straightforward. He just said, "I'd wonder what went wrong."
that clear-eyed determination is beautiful. in a way, I envy artists who express themselves with only one medium. it makes things simpler. it clarifies things.
I think I'm approaching this sort of certainty. maybe. At the very least, I'm starting to realize where I do NOT belong.
today I ate half a bag of Lays and took an hour nap.
I need to stop being so anxious, because it just makes me exhausted.
in positive news, I've been songwriting like crazy since this semester started. I have around 10 videos on my camera of various songs I've been working on, (I use my camera because I have no other reliable means to record) and tons of other snippets of songs, verses, or refrains floating around in my brain. I always freak out about my relative creative output. I always think that I'm not doing enough, or not doing anything substantial, but I've realized that it just sort of happens. and I end up not even thinking about it too much.
but I just have tons and tons of ideas about songs. I record videos all the time, of just some silly little riff or refrain in my head. and then I start inventing harmonies while I'm listening. and I think about all the different layering I could do, if only I had the right equipment...
sigh, I don't know.
ah, and since I have Death Cab lyrics as my title, I might add a little tidbit I read about Ben Gibbard here.
I remember reading some interview where Ben was asked what he would be doing if he wasn't doing music. He didn't answer with any pretense. He was completely straightforward. He just said, "I'd wonder what went wrong."
that clear-eyed determination is beautiful. in a way, I envy artists who express themselves with only one medium. it makes things simpler. it clarifies things.
I think I'm approaching this sort of certainty. maybe. At the very least, I'm starting to realize where I do NOT belong.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
My Neck, My Back... My Future and My Goals?
I feel like "My Neck, My Back" by Khia is permanently stuck in my head. Obviously it's a wonderful song--that goes without saying. But I just don't understand why IT'S ALWAYS IN MY HEAD. I go to bed at night and I hear "All you ladiez pop yo p***y like this." I walk onto the elevator and I hear "Right now, lick it good, suck this p***y just like you should." As I walk around on campus, it still echoes in my head.
I have no idea why.
Oh well.
At any rate, I decided to post a different sort of blog. Upon reviewing some of my more recent ones, I've noticed a slowly-evolving trend. Each blog seems to deal with confusion about the future, fear, and disillusionment. A sort of "woe-is-me-what-am-I-doing-with-my-life?!?!" tone. and I suppose that if the point of journaling is to document one's thoughts, then I have accomplished something. in that sense, they're accurate, since my fear of the future is something I think of an AWFUL LOT.
The other day, however, I sat down in my dorm room with a nice hot chai, and I had the most philosophical and enlightening conversation... with myself... you might call me pathetic or neurotic, but it actually helped a lot. (plus, I've read somewhere that talking to oneself is the highest form of intelligence... hmmmmm ;] ) ANYWAY, I sort of came to the conclusion that I expend ENTIRELY too much mental energy stressing out about the future. and yes, it is a very important thing to think about. I don't think I should completely disregard it. but it's just come to the point where it's not even fruitful anymore. it's just pointless and self-pitying and self-centered.
The little metaphor I came up with to help myself understand the situation was this:
stressing out about what my major will be is like wishing to change the content of a letter after it's already been mailed... "oh, if only I would have changed this word or that!"
"I wish I could have it back, just to erase that mark..."
Basically, I realized that at this point in time, it's unrealistic to drop classes or add any, so I might as well stick with the ones I've got and let it be. I realized that I have not been not committing to my classes as much as I should have. Regardless of whether or not the classes I'm taking now will lead to my major or career, I still need to work hard in them. I'll never know if I'm truly passionate about something until I give it my 100%.
Additionally, I have decided to apply to be a Resident Assistant (RA) in the dorms here at UW-Milwaukee! I'm very excited... and stressed. right now I'm working on assembling my Reference Forms. I need to have all the necessary materials in by Monday, and I'm kinda stressin'. I'm really hoping my two references are able to pull through for me. If not, I'll be legitimately screwed. I actually contacted three different people, when only two are required.
I think that I shouldn't stress about it too much. My friends here tell me that Milwaukee Housing is pretty desperate for RA's, so in the terrible, terrible event that I'd have to turn in a reference form late, I might still get picked. but I don't know. that's not guaranteed. and I really don't want to risk that...
Oh well, it should all hopefully fall into place.
I'm excited. I think being an RA would be awesome, albeit stressful. and yes, it would probably take a significant chunk out of my social life, but that's fine. I have entirely too much free time now.
Plus, it'll be a resume builder.
Arrivederci, blog.
I have no idea why.
Oh well.
At any rate, I decided to post a different sort of blog. Upon reviewing some of my more recent ones, I've noticed a slowly-evolving trend. Each blog seems to deal with confusion about the future, fear, and disillusionment. A sort of "woe-is-me-what-am-I-doing-with-my-life?!?!" tone. and I suppose that if the point of journaling is to document one's thoughts, then I have accomplished something. in that sense, they're accurate, since my fear of the future is something I think of an AWFUL LOT.
The other day, however, I sat down in my dorm room with a nice hot chai, and I had the most philosophical and enlightening conversation... with myself... you might call me pathetic or neurotic, but it actually helped a lot. (plus, I've read somewhere that talking to oneself is the highest form of intelligence... hmmmmm ;] ) ANYWAY, I sort of came to the conclusion that I expend ENTIRELY too much mental energy stressing out about the future. and yes, it is a very important thing to think about. I don't think I should completely disregard it. but it's just come to the point where it's not even fruitful anymore. it's just pointless and self-pitying and self-centered.
The little metaphor I came up with to help myself understand the situation was this:
stressing out about what my major will be is like wishing to change the content of a letter after it's already been mailed... "oh, if only I would have changed this word or that!"
"I wish I could have it back, just to erase that mark..."
Basically, I realized that at this point in time, it's unrealistic to drop classes or add any, so I might as well stick with the ones I've got and let it be. I realized that I have not been not committing to my classes as much as I should have. Regardless of whether or not the classes I'm taking now will lead to my major or career, I still need to work hard in them. I'll never know if I'm truly passionate about something until I give it my 100%.
Additionally, I have decided to apply to be a Resident Assistant (RA) in the dorms here at UW-Milwaukee! I'm very excited... and stressed. right now I'm working on assembling my Reference Forms. I need to have all the necessary materials in by Monday, and I'm kinda stressin'. I'm really hoping my two references are able to pull through for me. If not, I'll be legitimately screwed. I actually contacted three different people, when only two are required.
I think that I shouldn't stress about it too much. My friends here tell me that Milwaukee Housing is pretty desperate for RA's, so in the terrible, terrible event that I'd have to turn in a reference form late, I might still get picked. but I don't know. that's not guaranteed. and I really don't want to risk that...
Oh well, it should all hopefully fall into place.
I'm excited. I think being an RA would be awesome, albeit stressful. and yes, it would probably take a significant chunk out of my social life, but that's fine. I have entirely too much free time now.
Plus, it'll be a resume builder.
Arrivederci, blog.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
"the inner-machinations of my mind are an enigma"
I don't think Architecture is for me. At least not yet. I'm not completely deciding yet. I'm waiting til the end of semester at least.
It isn't something that completely consumes me... that manipulates my thoughts and words at all levels of consciousness. When reading Kath's blog about how film consumed her, I couldn't quite point to a similar feeling in myself for Architecture. Now, granted I haven't gotten into the nitty-gritty of it yet, so it's hard to judge. but she hasn't gotten into the nitty-gritty of film either. (I hope it's okay that I referenced you, Kath. lol ;) )
Before falling asleep, sometimes I conjugate verbs in French. Or in Latin, if I still remember them. when I wake up, in the dullest and most obscure moments of consciousness, I still continue to do so. it's as if the language is becoming an indelible part of me... latching onto every fiber, mingling with my blood and tissue. I used to do the same thing for chord progressions. While lying in bed, I used to map out a simple series of chords in my head, repeatedly. I, IV, V, and V7 resolves to I... or I'd think of songs that I had memorized and then I'd try to analyze them theoretically. and it, too, was one of those things that continued even when I awoke. and, occasionally, continued on into my sleep.
To me, I think this is passion. Not entirely of course: true passion manifests itself in action. but I believe that these half-conscious thought processes are simple manifestations of passion. something that consumes you at all hours... even when you're not completely capable of understanding.
but then again, what do I know of passion or of art? I've become complacent and satisfied. when is the last time I've struggled for something?
It isn't something that completely consumes me... that manipulates my thoughts and words at all levels of consciousness. When reading Kath's blog about how film consumed her, I couldn't quite point to a similar feeling in myself for Architecture. Now, granted I haven't gotten into the nitty-gritty of it yet, so it's hard to judge. but she hasn't gotten into the nitty-gritty of film either. (I hope it's okay that I referenced you, Kath. lol ;) )
Before falling asleep, sometimes I conjugate verbs in French. Or in Latin, if I still remember them. when I wake up, in the dullest and most obscure moments of consciousness, I still continue to do so. it's as if the language is becoming an indelible part of me... latching onto every fiber, mingling with my blood and tissue. I used to do the same thing for chord progressions. While lying in bed, I used to map out a simple series of chords in my head, repeatedly. I, IV, V, and V7 resolves to I... or I'd think of songs that I had memorized and then I'd try to analyze them theoretically. and it, too, was one of those things that continued even when I awoke. and, occasionally, continued on into my sleep.
To me, I think this is passion. Not entirely of course: true passion manifests itself in action. but I believe that these half-conscious thought processes are simple manifestations of passion. something that consumes you at all hours... even when you're not completely capable of understanding.
but then again, what do I know of passion or of art? I've become complacent and satisfied. when is the last time I've struggled for something?
Saturday, February 6, 2010
leave the novelist in his daydream tomb.
So, things have become complicated yet again. Coming to Milwaukee, everything was so simple:
I was going to become a wonderful architect. I was going to satisfy both my artistic and intellectual needs. I was going to design lots of sweet buildings, and aid in the construction and beautification of cities. Maybe I'd form a band in my (limited) spare time. or just continue to write.
because I needed that added qualification (the architect) attached to my name to be a worthwhile writer. to be a worthwhile human being.
My "Intro to Architectural Drawing" Class is insane. It isn't properly named, in my opinion. Perhaps this would be a more suitable title:
"Intro to Architectural Drawing: Drawing/Sketching Amazing Things in Short Periods of Time with Limited Instruction"
yep. sounds about right.
Don't get me wrong, I was excited for this class. when the Prof got up there and started spitting out this wonderful philosophy about our pencils being "wands;" and when he yelled us for sitting on our computers and cell phones too much; and when he told us that we were living in a world designed by other people, and that now WE must take over; WE must become the designers; We would not simply cop out in AutoCad; We would not use rulers or protractors; No, it would be just us. Just us with our pencils and sketchbook--when he said all these wonderful things, I was so excited. I was excited to become a "legit" designer.
It sounded so beautiful and lovely.
I was so incredibly excited... Until I remembered that my experience with observational drawing has been limited to sketching the shape of my hand during religion class.
I have never sat on a street corner and legitimately tried to sketch what I saw. The only drawing class I took never emphasized this. (but it was a high school-level class, so maybe that's understandable)
much of that class focused on technique, on copying other artists' preconceived ideas.
and so, now, there is me, sitting at random places throughout the UWM campus, slowly realizing that I am pretty bad at observational drawing!
My sketchbook probably has about eh... 8 pages or so filled. I am proud of only two or three sketches.
The only sketches that I am proud of are not even pictures of buildings. One's of my chair in my dorm room. Another is of two different shapes of my left hand.
Oops.
By Monday, I am required to have 6 sketches of various buildings throughout Milwaukee. I have completed about... 1.5.
Neither of which I am particularly proud of... in the least.
I was seriously considering dropping this class yesterday. Which is terrible. which is totally pussying-out. which is totally the opposite of everything I stand for.
but I was just so frustrated. There are some incredibly talented young artists in that class. I will be competing against these people for jobs later on. If they already show such promise, I would be doomed.
and I know, such thoughts were a bit over-dramatic and fatalistic. but there's definitely some truth in them.
I am continually bopping back and forth:
do I tough it out, continue on with Architectural courses? that was one of my primary reasons for coming to Milwaukee; it seems foolish to give up so quickly...
but sometimes when you know, you know.
I started looking at the admissions process for the Music program here at UWM. ah yes, back to music...
I am so capricious. I feel so fickle. and I know, a lot of college students ARE very indecisive. I mean, this is the REST of my life we're talking about here. I'd like to know that I made a good decision.
I guess, my main purpose for writing here today was to express some doubts I have about my once-perfect solution of studying Architecture.
I don't regret coming here or signing up for this class. It was all a learning experience. and as I've said once before, I barely scratched the surface of visual art in high school, so I guess I'm trying to find a final consensus on it. I think it is too early to tell, despite the fact that I've been absolutely panic-stricken about these fucking drawings, and that I almost dropped the class yesterday.
It's worth a try, as cliche as that sounds.
My observational drawing skills will have to improve over this semester, if I put in the time and effort.
the question will not be CAN I do this, but do I WANT to do this.
(ah, I am so pithy tonight. maybe I should write some cheap little self-help book...)
if this doesn't work out, I will return to music. and there I'll stay. I've talked about studying music SO much, and I've written extensively about my feelings toward it.
I want to, very greatly. I've just had so many doubts about it. and I've had doubts about finding a career with a degree in music.
but, as I've said, only time will tell. maybe I'm just off to a rough start in my Architectural studies. who knows.
tomorrow holds lots and lots and lots of drawing. and freezing. freezing all my appendages.
wonderful.
our Prof wants us to be drawing drawing drawing all the time. it's just going to take time to form a habit of it.
he told us, explicitly, that he wants to "eat up all our free time" with drawing.
which means I should really focus on trying to spend less time on this damn computer.
ah well. I think my scatter-brained post is finished. glad I ended on a halfway positive note
goodnight,
:)
I was going to become a wonderful architect. I was going to satisfy both my artistic and intellectual needs. I was going to design lots of sweet buildings, and aid in the construction and beautification of cities. Maybe I'd form a band in my (limited) spare time. or just continue to write.
because I needed that added qualification (the architect) attached to my name to be a worthwhile writer. to be a worthwhile human being.
My "Intro to Architectural Drawing" Class is insane. It isn't properly named, in my opinion. Perhaps this would be a more suitable title:
"Intro to Architectural Drawing: Drawing/Sketching Amazing Things in Short Periods of Time with Limited Instruction"
yep. sounds about right.
Don't get me wrong, I was excited for this class. when the Prof got up there and started spitting out this wonderful philosophy about our pencils being "wands;" and when he yelled us for sitting on our computers and cell phones too much; and when he told us that we were living in a world designed by other people, and that now WE must take over; WE must become the designers; We would not simply cop out in AutoCad; We would not use rulers or protractors; No, it would be just us. Just us with our pencils and sketchbook--when he said all these wonderful things, I was so excited. I was excited to become a "legit" designer.
It sounded so beautiful and lovely.
I was so incredibly excited... Until I remembered that my experience with observational drawing has been limited to sketching the shape of my hand during religion class.
I have never sat on a street corner and legitimately tried to sketch what I saw. The only drawing class I took never emphasized this. (but it was a high school-level class, so maybe that's understandable)
much of that class focused on technique, on copying other artists' preconceived ideas.
and so, now, there is me, sitting at random places throughout the UWM campus, slowly realizing that I am pretty bad at observational drawing!
My sketchbook probably has about eh... 8 pages or so filled. I am proud of only two or three sketches.
The only sketches that I am proud of are not even pictures of buildings. One's of my chair in my dorm room. Another is of two different shapes of my left hand.
Oops.
By Monday, I am required to have 6 sketches of various buildings throughout Milwaukee. I have completed about... 1.5.
Neither of which I am particularly proud of... in the least.
I was seriously considering dropping this class yesterday. Which is terrible. which is totally pussying-out. which is totally the opposite of everything I stand for.
but I was just so frustrated. There are some incredibly talented young artists in that class. I will be competing against these people for jobs later on. If they already show such promise, I would be doomed.
and I know, such thoughts were a bit over-dramatic and fatalistic. but there's definitely some truth in them.
I am continually bopping back and forth:
do I tough it out, continue on with Architectural courses? that was one of my primary reasons for coming to Milwaukee; it seems foolish to give up so quickly...
but sometimes when you know, you know.
I started looking at the admissions process for the Music program here at UWM. ah yes, back to music...
I am so capricious. I feel so fickle. and I know, a lot of college students ARE very indecisive. I mean, this is the REST of my life we're talking about here. I'd like to know that I made a good decision.
I guess, my main purpose for writing here today was to express some doubts I have about my once-perfect solution of studying Architecture.
I don't regret coming here or signing up for this class. It was all a learning experience. and as I've said once before, I barely scratched the surface of visual art in high school, so I guess I'm trying to find a final consensus on it. I think it is too early to tell, despite the fact that I've been absolutely panic-stricken about these fucking drawings, and that I almost dropped the class yesterday.
It's worth a try, as cliche as that sounds.
My observational drawing skills will have to improve over this semester, if I put in the time and effort.
the question will not be CAN I do this, but do I WANT to do this.
(ah, I am so pithy tonight. maybe I should write some cheap little self-help book...)
if this doesn't work out, I will return to music. and there I'll stay. I've talked about studying music SO much, and I've written extensively about my feelings toward it.
I want to, very greatly. I've just had so many doubts about it. and I've had doubts about finding a career with a degree in music.
but, as I've said, only time will tell. maybe I'm just off to a rough start in my Architectural studies. who knows.
tomorrow holds lots and lots and lots of drawing. and freezing. freezing all my appendages.
wonderful.
our Prof wants us to be drawing drawing drawing all the time. it's just going to take time to form a habit of it.
he told us, explicitly, that he wants to "eat up all our free time" with drawing.
which means I should really focus on trying to spend less time on this damn computer.
ah well. I think my scatter-brained post is finished. glad I ended on a halfway positive note
goodnight,
:)
Thursday, February 4, 2010
O, my Genius-lover, what fills thy dreams? (thought-flow of bizarre proportions)
Sometimes human beings rehash incidents in their heads over and over again for the express purpose of making themselves feel worse.
Is it something I do as an artist? Am I just seeking inspiration? Am I just avoiding the plague of my own mediocrity, or am I acknowledging it fully?
I was almost in love once.
But, “in love” is such a vague term. It could mean lots of things.
It could mean having sex with a modelesque young man, and listening to his snoring intently. And listening for the patterns in his breath. And then remembering my own place. And the ensuing horribleness that followed… that flooded through my veins like caffeine. And lying there with eyes wide… listening to the music.
“so I take one of them home, to see how I feel…”
And, o, my Genius-lover, what fills thy dreams?
What doth send the quiver through your spine,
And the trembling breath through your nose?
What ancient philosophy are you carrying
In that old weathered bag?
Is it Plato, or Aristotle, or Socrates?
And what will you say to me,
When I confuse the syllables?
I’m joining the soccer team.
Talent…
“Write me a haiku.”
“I don’t know how; I’ve never written one before.”
“Look it up. I’m sure it tells you how online.”
“I don’t want to. What’s the point? Why do you want a haiku?”
“Because they are beautiful and I like them.”
“I’ll read you The Tempest.”
“I want a haiku.”
“…but it’s Shakespeare.”
“But I want a haiku.”
And, o, my Genius-lover, what fills thy dreams?
What doth send the blue-green waves through the brine,
And the coral-shaped water bubbles in the hose?
I wanted to love you.
Is that legitimate enough?
You were reading Oscar Wilde to me. And trying to teach me about art. You said you put nothing of yourself into your art--for that is “selling out.”
But I don’t understand what you’re saying.
I can’t make art anyway.
What is art but a series of instances, or colors, or words? A pair of bodies on a stage, an empty chest inside a cage?
(ensuring emptiness)
And everything you ever did is bundled up inside a little packet of nerves inside your brain. And everything you ever said is bundled up inside a little packet of nerves inside your brain. And who you loved and who you fucked and who you spilled your guts out for… it’s all stored inside little packets of nerves inside your brain.
And then you’ll die. And they’ll remember his name. and they’ll forget yours.
(they can’t. they can’t… it isn’t fair. He didn’t follow any of the rules. I did. I tried to… more or less… but how I smiled at myself when I broke them. But he broke them all the time. And how I was impressed. And the smell of cologne and sweat on his chest. And how he’d deny the crime. And how it was really all my fault.)
And all the rhyming teenage poetry about “hills and pills and merry-old chills” was ringing in my head as I walked into your apartment. And I’d seen it before, in some distant and long-forgotten dream. And the breathe you breathed, drenched with tobacco (and genius).
(but o, genius-lover, what is genius?)
And my obsession with greatness. But I didn’t know it then. Because I knew no one would be great. And if they were I would just beat them. But then you beat me. You beat me and I stood there with your stench on my skin and your tobacco smoke in my hair.
The diner at night. The patrons… cigarettes on their lips. The crude mustaches. The ill-trimmed goatees. And the careless dresses. And the waitress. How sweet was she. And writing “have a good night!” on the Styrofoam box we didn’t use. And you cringing as I carved the words with my fork. (and later how I cringed as you drew the “broken hallelujah” from my lips. And later how you cringed to Stravinsky) but I jump too far ahead. And the reader, he must certainly be confused. But no one can ever read this. These are words of desperation and fear. Not of art. (or are they art?)
I am no Woolf or Joyce. Their words must have been carefully and ingeniously plotted. (or were they?)
… I can’t quite tell. They were ingeniously plotted, no doubt. But carefully?
But I am no Woolf or Joyce.
And then Cheryl’s apartment. And how we quizzed her on all the appetizers at TGIF. And the feeling of my leg against your leg, your chest against my chest. And the moment on the veranda, overlooking the courtyard of apartments. And how you adjusted my tie and smiled. And brought me forward. And implanted the first kiss.
And the euphoria. And how we talked of Bach and Beethoven. And how you detested Bach. And how I thought you must have been a farce if you hated Bach. But I didn’t care; you were an artist of some unknown degree. You had your reasons, somewhere, I’m sure.
And I loved Bach. Even if I didn’t always understand him. And even if I wasn’t always able to play his music. I could appreciate his genius and his perfection. And you couldn’t. only Stravinsky with his horrifying chords and snake-like melodies. Only Bartok with his atonal dances.
(but what is tonality, really, but a mere human conception? Sounds exist at random pitches. There is no “B-Flat Major” scale in the wind blowing across the trees. There is no “Fully diminished seventh” in a car crash. There is noise. And there is pitch. But tonality? A mere human invention. Perhaps the atonalists were the greatest artists of all. …or at least, that’s what you thought)
But I digress, I digress, I digress. I need to remember the shape of your chest and the feel of your hands. The open-mouthed kisses we shared on Cheryl’s floor. And the tone in Cheryl’s voice as she whispered “Can you guys please… be quiet?”
I need to remember the elated feeling in my bones. I need to remember how you said you were enamored with me. Yes, I remember the vocabulary. I remember it full well. You weren’t merely crushing on me, or infatuated with me. No, you had to be enamored with me.
I’m sure you’re no linguistic expert, and I’m certain you didn’t fully think through the etymology of your words as you texted me. (who really does, anyway?)
No one is really careful of his or her words. We just say what we think sounds right. But sometimes I think it’s necessary to be careful. To monitor what falls out of our mouth so blatantly. Especially when another’s feelings are involved.
(but I’m sure I’m just being over-dramatic… though it’s not everyday a person says he’s “enamored” with me… hm, in retrospect, it never happened before then. And it still hasn’t happened since.)
But then again, maybe I really am being over-dramatic. Or just jealous. Jealous that the genius fucked me and left me. But what is genius, really? What is creativity? What is art but a series of instances, or colors, or words? (or sounds?)
But I am not like other people. It’s terrifying to think that the genius fucked me and left me. It makes me terrified. (but why, you vain fool! You vain, cowardly fool! Get your head out of your ass!)
But yes, I am back on track now. No more musical digressions. What do I know of music anyway? I speak as a learned person of that art form; but as of right now, I’m a mere amateur. I must have degrees and doctorates attached to my name before I can produce a true opinion. (at least, an opinion that will be valued by society. Society seems to forget the flawed nature of education.)
And, o, dear Genius-lover, what fills thy dreams?
Is it wealth or fame, sand or land, reveries or revelations?
Health and happiness, joy and peace?
a brand new California home, at frightful elevations?
Is it something I do as an artist? Am I just seeking inspiration? Am I just avoiding the plague of my own mediocrity, or am I acknowledging it fully?
I was almost in love once.
But, “in love” is such a vague term. It could mean lots of things.
It could mean having sex with a modelesque young man, and listening to his snoring intently. And listening for the patterns in his breath. And then remembering my own place. And the ensuing horribleness that followed… that flooded through my veins like caffeine. And lying there with eyes wide… listening to the music.
“so I take one of them home, to see how I feel…”
And, o, my Genius-lover, what fills thy dreams?
What doth send the quiver through your spine,
And the trembling breath through your nose?
What ancient philosophy are you carrying
In that old weathered bag?
Is it Plato, or Aristotle, or Socrates?
And what will you say to me,
When I confuse the syllables?
I’m joining the soccer team.
Talent…
“Write me a haiku.”
“I don’t know how; I’ve never written one before.”
“Look it up. I’m sure it tells you how online.”
“I don’t want to. What’s the point? Why do you want a haiku?”
“Because they are beautiful and I like them.”
“I’ll read you The Tempest.”
“I want a haiku.”
“…but it’s Shakespeare.”
“But I want a haiku.”
And, o, my Genius-lover, what fills thy dreams?
What doth send the blue-green waves through the brine,
And the coral-shaped water bubbles in the hose?
I wanted to love you.
Is that legitimate enough?
You were reading Oscar Wilde to me. And trying to teach me about art. You said you put nothing of yourself into your art--for that is “selling out.”
But I don’t understand what you’re saying.
I can’t make art anyway.
What is art but a series of instances, or colors, or words? A pair of bodies on a stage, an empty chest inside a cage?
(ensuring emptiness)
And everything you ever did is bundled up inside a little packet of nerves inside your brain. And everything you ever said is bundled up inside a little packet of nerves inside your brain. And who you loved and who you fucked and who you spilled your guts out for… it’s all stored inside little packets of nerves inside your brain.
And then you’ll die. And they’ll remember his name. and they’ll forget yours.
(they can’t. they can’t… it isn’t fair. He didn’t follow any of the rules. I did. I tried to… more or less… but how I smiled at myself when I broke them. But he broke them all the time. And how I was impressed. And the smell of cologne and sweat on his chest. And how he’d deny the crime. And how it was really all my fault.)
And all the rhyming teenage poetry about “hills and pills and merry-old chills” was ringing in my head as I walked into your apartment. And I’d seen it before, in some distant and long-forgotten dream. And the breathe you breathed, drenched with tobacco (and genius).
(but o, genius-lover, what is genius?)
And my obsession with greatness. But I didn’t know it then. Because I knew no one would be great. And if they were I would just beat them. But then you beat me. You beat me and I stood there with your stench on my skin and your tobacco smoke in my hair.
The diner at night. The patrons… cigarettes on their lips. The crude mustaches. The ill-trimmed goatees. And the careless dresses. And the waitress. How sweet was she. And writing “have a good night!” on the Styrofoam box we didn’t use. And you cringing as I carved the words with my fork. (and later how I cringed as you drew the “broken hallelujah” from my lips. And later how you cringed to Stravinsky) but I jump too far ahead. And the reader, he must certainly be confused. But no one can ever read this. These are words of desperation and fear. Not of art. (or are they art?)
I am no Woolf or Joyce. Their words must have been carefully and ingeniously plotted. (or were they?)
… I can’t quite tell. They were ingeniously plotted, no doubt. But carefully?
But I am no Woolf or Joyce.
And then Cheryl’s apartment. And how we quizzed her on all the appetizers at TGIF. And the feeling of my leg against your leg, your chest against my chest. And the moment on the veranda, overlooking the courtyard of apartments. And how you adjusted my tie and smiled. And brought me forward. And implanted the first kiss.
And the euphoria. And how we talked of Bach and Beethoven. And how you detested Bach. And how I thought you must have been a farce if you hated Bach. But I didn’t care; you were an artist of some unknown degree. You had your reasons, somewhere, I’m sure.
And I loved Bach. Even if I didn’t always understand him. And even if I wasn’t always able to play his music. I could appreciate his genius and his perfection. And you couldn’t. only Stravinsky with his horrifying chords and snake-like melodies. Only Bartok with his atonal dances.
(but what is tonality, really, but a mere human conception? Sounds exist at random pitches. There is no “B-Flat Major” scale in the wind blowing across the trees. There is no “Fully diminished seventh” in a car crash. There is noise. And there is pitch. But tonality? A mere human invention. Perhaps the atonalists were the greatest artists of all. …or at least, that’s what you thought)
But I digress, I digress, I digress. I need to remember the shape of your chest and the feel of your hands. The open-mouthed kisses we shared on Cheryl’s floor. And the tone in Cheryl’s voice as she whispered “Can you guys please… be quiet?”
I need to remember the elated feeling in my bones. I need to remember how you said you were enamored with me. Yes, I remember the vocabulary. I remember it full well. You weren’t merely crushing on me, or infatuated with me. No, you had to be enamored with me.
I’m sure you’re no linguistic expert, and I’m certain you didn’t fully think through the etymology of your words as you texted me. (who really does, anyway?)
No one is really careful of his or her words. We just say what we think sounds right. But sometimes I think it’s necessary to be careful. To monitor what falls out of our mouth so blatantly. Especially when another’s feelings are involved.
(but I’m sure I’m just being over-dramatic… though it’s not everyday a person says he’s “enamored” with me… hm, in retrospect, it never happened before then. And it still hasn’t happened since.)
But then again, maybe I really am being over-dramatic. Or just jealous. Jealous that the genius fucked me and left me. But what is genius, really? What is creativity? What is art but a series of instances, or colors, or words? (or sounds?)
But I am not like other people. It’s terrifying to think that the genius fucked me and left me. It makes me terrified. (but why, you vain fool! You vain, cowardly fool! Get your head out of your ass!)
But yes, I am back on track now. No more musical digressions. What do I know of music anyway? I speak as a learned person of that art form; but as of right now, I’m a mere amateur. I must have degrees and doctorates attached to my name before I can produce a true opinion. (at least, an opinion that will be valued by society. Society seems to forget the flawed nature of education.)
And, o, dear Genius-lover, what fills thy dreams?
Is it wealth or fame, sand or land, reveries or revelations?
Health and happiness, joy and peace?
a brand new California home, at frightful elevations?
Nicorette patches and new perspectives
I'm on hiatus from Facebook. I've realized that it's somewhat dominating my life. Not dramatically... not to the extent that it's spoiling any real-life relationships.
but it is spoiling my perspective on life and my productivity.
Our Drawing prof asked us on the first day to list how many hours we spent on the computer each day. he then asked us to list how many hours we spent drawing a day. the difference was disparaging.
imagine, if all those hours I spent of Facebook, I was instead reading or writing or drawing or merely thinking. imagine how much greater my creative output could be!
so, reasoning thus, I decided to take a break from Facebook. ... which, I guess is kind of why I'm on Blogspot right now.
In reality, I should be taking a break from the internet in general. However, I think this website is not nearly as addicting or harmful as Facebook. Plus, I'm doing something productive: I'm writing, even if it's about the most mundane events. It's still writing.
I guess, for this moment, Blogspot is sort of like my Nicorette patch. :)
haha, how pathetic.
a demain! there is much to be done. life is short.
but it is spoiling my perspective on life and my productivity.
Our Drawing prof asked us on the first day to list how many hours we spent on the computer each day. he then asked us to list how many hours we spent drawing a day. the difference was disparaging.
imagine, if all those hours I spent of Facebook, I was instead reading or writing or drawing or merely thinking. imagine how much greater my creative output could be!
so, reasoning thus, I decided to take a break from Facebook. ... which, I guess is kind of why I'm on Blogspot right now.
In reality, I should be taking a break from the internet in general. However, I think this website is not nearly as addicting or harmful as Facebook. Plus, I'm doing something productive: I'm writing, even if it's about the most mundane events. It's still writing.
I guess, for this moment, Blogspot is sort of like my Nicorette patch. :)
haha, how pathetic.
a demain! there is much to be done. life is short.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Something short.
Life is beautiful, as cliche as that sounds. It's just so incredibly terrifying sometimes.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Qu'est-ce que vous faites dans la vie?
So my mom just got a Happy New Year e-mail from her sister in Europe. Whenever anything remotely related to my mother's culture is brought up, I get really, really excited. I grabbed the e-mail and tried to translate it myself. Unfortunately, "Serbo-Croatian" is not exactly a Romance language, so there are very few English cognates. What I mean is that it's nothing like Spanish or French. Even if you've ever taken a year of either, you can look at a text and get a vague idea as to what is being discussed.
But with Serbo-Croatian (or more simply, Serbian) there are fewer such words. It's a Slavic language, so if anything it would have lots of Russian cognates.
I could still get a very vague idea as to what SOME of the sentences meant.
Anyway, so my mom and I just got to talking about cultures and languages as we often do. She was saying that she'd love for the whole family to head over to Serbia someday to visit other relatives there. I thought that would be an amazing experience.
and then I myself got to thinking about what an amazing experience it would be to see Europe at all. I've never left the United States. Ever.
Except for one trip to Niagra Falls in years beyond remembrance. So realistically, to my own knowledge and memory, I've never left.
Honestly, sometimes all I want to do is just learn tons and tons of languages and live in different cities. And maybe as a job I could just translate some scripts, or novels, or letters, or God knows what else. And maybe I could write in my spare time.
That would be fantastic for me.
To me, I think it is so amazing that we have hundreds of ways to express ourselves as human beings. There are so many languages out there. And to me, it seems like such a sad thought that a creature would go from cradle to casket knowing only one language.
Sometimes when I write blogs like this, I wonder why the fuck I am not going into Cultural Anthropology, or History, or Linguistics, or SOMETHING, because clearly anything relating to human culture fascinates me to no end.
And, to be completely honset, a part of me wants to just completely throw caution to the wind, and book some flights and hotels to Europe this summer.
The only reason I wouldn't do so is because I need to save up for college... because education is the most important thing right?
but at the same time, I wonder how true that is.
sometimes I just feel like my education is getting in the way of my actual learning, which is kind of a horrifying thought.
sometimes the thought of just saying "FUCK YOU COLLEGE" and running away to do my own thing (whatever that "thing" happens to be at the time) is exhilarating. liberating. amazing.
part of the reason I can't do this is because I've lived my entire life trying to uphold the ideal that education is the most important thing in human endeavors. and realisitically, it is. Knowledge acquisition is the most important and amazing thing about our own existence, in my opinion. just the way we go about it varies from individual to individual.
I can honestly say that my first semester at Madison was not all it was cracked up to be. Academically speaking of course. (perhaps socially too, who knows...)
I feel like I've learned infinitely more in five minutes of a high school English class than I did in endless hours of college lectures.
the only knowledge that I know will stick with me was from my French class. and I don't need to go to college to learn a language.
I don't know. I kind of feel like a heretic or a rebel for talking down about education.
I'm just really confused.
Qu'est-ce que vous faites dans la vie?
What do you do in life?
a question that has stuck in my head so vividly this past semester... so many decisions.
I know that I have time to figure things out. but I just wish I had clear direction now... I don't want to wait. I want my life to begin... I want to start working toward something tangible.
But with Serbo-Croatian (or more simply, Serbian) there are fewer such words. It's a Slavic language, so if anything it would have lots of Russian cognates.
I could still get a very vague idea as to what SOME of the sentences meant.
Anyway, so my mom and I just got to talking about cultures and languages as we often do. She was saying that she'd love for the whole family to head over to Serbia someday to visit other relatives there. I thought that would be an amazing experience.
and then I myself got to thinking about what an amazing experience it would be to see Europe at all. I've never left the United States. Ever.
Except for one trip to Niagra Falls in years beyond remembrance. So realistically, to my own knowledge and memory, I've never left.
Honestly, sometimes all I want to do is just learn tons and tons of languages and live in different cities. And maybe as a job I could just translate some scripts, or novels, or letters, or God knows what else. And maybe I could write in my spare time.
That would be fantastic for me.
To me, I think it is so amazing that we have hundreds of ways to express ourselves as human beings. There are so many languages out there. And to me, it seems like such a sad thought that a creature would go from cradle to casket knowing only one language.
Sometimes when I write blogs like this, I wonder why the fuck I am not going into Cultural Anthropology, or History, or Linguistics, or SOMETHING, because clearly anything relating to human culture fascinates me to no end.
And, to be completely honset, a part of me wants to just completely throw caution to the wind, and book some flights and hotels to Europe this summer.
The only reason I wouldn't do so is because I need to save up for college... because education is the most important thing right?
but at the same time, I wonder how true that is.
sometimes I just feel like my education is getting in the way of my actual learning, which is kind of a horrifying thought.
sometimes the thought of just saying "FUCK YOU COLLEGE" and running away to do my own thing (whatever that "thing" happens to be at the time) is exhilarating. liberating. amazing.
part of the reason I can't do this is because I've lived my entire life trying to uphold the ideal that education is the most important thing in human endeavors. and realisitically, it is. Knowledge acquisition is the most important and amazing thing about our own existence, in my opinion. just the way we go about it varies from individual to individual.
I can honestly say that my first semester at Madison was not all it was cracked up to be. Academically speaking of course. (perhaps socially too, who knows...)
I feel like I've learned infinitely more in five minutes of a high school English class than I did in endless hours of college lectures.
the only knowledge that I know will stick with me was from my French class. and I don't need to go to college to learn a language.
I don't know. I kind of feel like a heretic or a rebel for talking down about education.
I'm just really confused.
Qu'est-ce que vous faites dans la vie?
What do you do in life?
a question that has stuck in my head so vividly this past semester... so many decisions.
I know that I have time to figure things out. but I just wish I had clear direction now... I don't want to wait. I want my life to begin... I want to start working toward something tangible.
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