Final thoughts

I'm braindead. I believe I've mentioned the fact that I've been short on time at least four times in the past two hours, and that's stupid. You don't care; you care that you're short on time and that you're wasting time repeating how you have no time, and how that's stupid, too.

Have a good vacation, enjoy your free time. Students, try not to stress over applications and school and time. Teacher, try not to stress over grading and supervisors and time. Anyone else, try to find something better to do than read a random classroom blog.

I feel this has nothing to do with English, but it has every reason to be discussed. I have completed the last first semester of high school, and already I can't count the number of times my mother has cried. Yes, time is short, but it's also gone. Lots of it. So, might as well make the best of what we have left.

Let the break begin.

quick rant

Throughout high school, I set my sights on Massachusetts Institute of Technology. I was going to be a great engineer and do great, incredible things. I was told time and time again I wouldn't make it. My own best friend shirked any mention of MIT to hide her obvious doubt in my capabilities. Aptitude tests pushed me towards customer service and international business, telling me I didn't have the mind of a mathematician. I was determined to prove them wrong.

Thursday, my early application was deferred to regular admissions. Basically, I wasn't good enough this round.

What is so upsetting was my contentment; I told all who asked I would be pushed back. There was no burning fire of rage and anger; inside, the voices of disbelief and pessimism whispered cooly, "You knew this was coming. Why get ruffled up about it?"


Hey, Doubt: shut up. If MIT doesn't want me, fine. I don't need MIT, but, more than anything, I don't need you.

book bindings and heartstrings

I miss reading. Even though it hasn't been a long separation, I yearn for the company of a good book, one that will sweep me away to a distant life. I wish I read quicker so I may experience everything; I wish I had an uncanny talent for selecting good books so I may at least experience the best of everything.

I wonder what a person's favorite book says about their character. If you like daring heroes, are you brave, relishing the valiant qualities you hold so dearly, or are you cowardly, clinging to stories in order to fill what you lack? If you favor fantasy, is your imagination blossoming or fed by the mind of another?

Soon, I might scavenge the family bookshelves to find a work I've not yet read. Maybe I'll discover something new in myself, something exciting and wonderful!
Or maybe I'll just enjoy a good story.

Author/Character Connection

My favorite essay I've ever written was about a homeless girl who uses sexuality as her redemption. Even though I was on a time crunch, I had fun stepping into a completely separate personality. The narrator is a young partier who uses sex and sarcasm as means of escaping homelessness and desparity. The author is an upper middle-class virgin nerd who has no fear of ever falling into such an unfortunate state. The best part was how easy it felt to slip into character.

When approached with the prompt, I was excited and clueless; how was I supposed to have any idea how to write from the point of view of a homeless person? I considered many options: suicide, generational poverty, begging. No, that wasn't what I was looking for. After a weekend of contemplation, I settled on a character unlike any I'd ever heard of but something that seemed so logical: a young woman, too proud and stupid to call home, who uses her femininity to her greatest advantage. Now, I'm far from that girl, but her vulnerability was universal, showing the subtle connections all humans have in common if we took the time to dig for it.

People always say write what you know--it's more authentic. I say write what you don't--it shows the authenticity you wouldn't expect.

Facebook envy

I wish I was Facebook.

Everyone would skip class to come hang out with me.
Everyone would tell me their problems,
and it's only official if it comes through me.
My games wouldn't have to be fun;
people would still want to play anyway.
I would always be invited to the coolest events.
I'd have an ongoing stream of photo memories, never to be forgotten.
You're only cool if you're my friend;
you're even cooler if you snuck behind your parents back to do so.
You're bound to like me sooner or later,
and we'd always have lots of common interests.
I'd know every language,
and I'd travel the world on a daily basis.
I could change time zones to fit my need,
and I could endorse whatever I wanted.

If I was Facebook,
this would be a note, not a blog.

Repetitive Admiration

I admire people who cry, especially people who cry in front of other people. It takes guts to expose your heart enough to feel immense pain. It means you care; you feel something. You don't just mosey on down the path of life, content with whatever happens.

I admire people who create, especially people who are brave enough to share their creations with other people. It takes brains to conjure something new, something perhaps revolutionary. It means you're paying attention; you're learning from the world. You don't just accept things as-is, expecting life to mix things up for you when you're feeling bored.

I admire people who don't back down, especially people who don't back down to other people who don't back down. It takes soul to stand your ground, to stick to your beliefs even in the deepest trouble. It means you're brilliant; you're living the life you've chosen. You don't just sigh at each setback, determined to keep determination from making waves.


I admire you.

Slammed

For a brief period, I visited the Belton Art Slam down at Bodega Bean, and I was incredibly impressed. Instantly, I had trouble parking, alerting me to the startling popularity of tonight's downtown area. The enclosed space was packed; people sat in the floor as chairs filled up. The array of artists was marvelous: I heard original compositions, marveled at astounding work, and stood with mouth ajar, dumbfounded and inspired.

What I believe I enjoyed most was the audience. I saw jocks and geeks and teachers and parents. I heard laughter and sighs and discomfort and joy. The group set out to encourage beauty in our community; incidentally, they also promoted unity and learning and strength and passion. The audience was a blend of individuals who, I believe, could have only been brought together by a force so encompassing as beauty.

Beauty alone cannot save the world, but beauty can bring together those who can.

Late last minute thoughts

So, these next eight blogs are a few hours late. We'll see what happens.

It's funny how quickly time flies by. I feel like I haven't had one day where I'm not constantly doing something or I need to be constantly doing something. Even with the holiday break, my head and heart feel the heavy pressures of deadlines and missed opportunities. Even with these blogs, a simple writing exercise to connect us to our classmates, I feel overwhelmed. Yes, I put them off until the last minute, but every other minute was in use!

Every winter, my parents expect a wish list detailing my desires. After three hours, my efforts were rewarded with a measly product; my wants were intangible. I considered asking for a Time Turner replica, the hourglass pendant necklace featured in Harry Potter, but I feel that would only act as a sick reminder of how my moments are slipping by at an alarming rate.


Goodbye, sweet time. I miss thee, and I pray thee soon slows down.

Insomnia Thoughts

So, I woke up about an hour ago, at three o' clock in the morning. Might as well make this sleeplessness productive.

I visited UT Austin Friday, and I have to say I'm pretty surprised at my reaction. Alison Simerly recently told me about an interdisciplinary program at UT, Plan II Honors, a completely different major than my thoughts of engineering. After countless discussions in Calculus class (to the dismay of Mr. Meyer, I'm sure), I applied to UT with Plan II as one of my top two choices for a major. Friday, I visited both Plan II and Cockrell School of Engineering, and I could have never expected the events which unfolded.

The Plan II meeting was at ten in the morning, and my mother and I were running late due to a little oversleeping. (I was out until at least three that morning due to one amazing little show called Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part One. This is the time where Warner Bros. slips me a little cash to tell you how wonderful it was. It was fantastic. Go see it.) Upon arrival, we were kindly greeted by two fashionable students, one of which complimented my mother's boots as she led us to the informational meeting. I sat at a grand table with the other prospective students while my mother sat in the back of the moderately-sized room with the rest of the prospective tuition-payers. A slideshow was displayed on the wall, but the presenter seemed oblivious to her bullet points. She discussed what she felt interesting or necessary, even poking fun at my late arrival.

The format of Plan II is... different. They promote double majoring and successful writing and studying abroad and exploring your interests and well-roundedness. Students are required to take "signature classes," courses devoted to random topics taught by experts. (One of the classes focused on captial punishment and was taught by a man who has successfully argued against the issue three times in Supreme Court. Putting political opinions aside, you have to admit that's pretty cool.) Plan II focuses on Renaissance-style learning, where students become knowledgeable in a wide breadth of studies and become incredible problem-solvers and communicators. For a girl who just really likes school and has no idea what she wants to do with the rest of her life, that basically sounds like Heaven.

After about an hour of pure sit-and-talk-about-what-Plan-II-does, prospective students saw what Plan II does. One of the students my mother and I met in our haste to find the meeting led all of the high schoolers to another side of campus where the Plan II World Literature classes met, leaving the parents to discuss the program more intimately with the director. The six applicants were divided into two groups, and my set of three were sent to visit Professor Garrison. After a quick introduction, we took our seats on the side of the classroom on a moderately comfortable couch. As the students filled into the small classroom (all sixteen or so sat at one oversized oak table), a movie began playing, excerpts of a book they have been discussing. The book was Boccaccio's The Decameron, a collection of stories which I knew nothing about. As the movie played, I soon got the gist. The Decameron is about (or at least features) lots of sex. So, for the next hour, my class talked about sex between nuns and gardeners and priests and young girls. Boccaccio had quite a sense of humor.

Despite the shocking nature of the subject, the students all participated in the discussion very maturely. Yes, there were several jokes thrown out, but they were witty and appropriate (given the audience and subject matter). I even heard my own thoughts lending themselves to the discussion--I didn't feel uncomfortable in the least! As they discussed the wit and taboo, I studied the classroom dynamic. Professor Garrison prompted questions, but he only asked two students to share by-name. (In their preparedness, I think they knew they would be called upon, or they're just superb students.) The rest of the students could be as talkative or silent as they pleased. The student closest to me sent a few secret text messages and got up from his seat several times throughout the discussion. One boy seemed very interested in his iPad, while one girl really enjoyed her gourmet coffee. Two of the young men displayed some sort of dislike for one another, a shared competitiveness, an underlying distaste for whatever the other had to say. In spite of all of these distractions, no one showed any disrespect towards one another (even the the two guys fighting for alpha male-status). The class was just a collection of people genuinely interested in everyone's ideas.

In case you couldn't tell, I loved the program. Of course, I still had another meeting that afternoon at Cockrell School of Engineering. We arrived early to this one, determined not to make the same mistake. We were led to a nearby building, my pink shirt ablaze in the pack of awkward teenage boys. Ah, yes, I was one of two girls in attendance (the other one arriving quite a bit late), and nobody looked friendly or charismatic. My mother and I spent another hour in an auditorium, and my mom had to remove herself in the second half of the meeting before she fell asleep.

It was awful. The presenter was boring and monotone. The engineering students just talked about all of their job opportunities, not about the interesting things they were developing or learning or working towards. In comparison to the Plan II meeting only a few hours before, the engineering program just didn't stand a chance. My parents didn't even pretend to hide their enjoyment as I announced UT's prominence in my college choices.

Of course, if I'm not accepted into the Plan II program, I don't know how I'll be happy in Austin. I feel it would be as if I poured my heart out to some guy and he promptly told me he was interested in someone else. I can't continue being lab partners with him! I have to relocate myself halfway across the room, never to let my little heart be trampled on again. (No, that's not some weird, bitter story I'm trying to vent about. It's just a crappy analogy I'm making at five in the morning.)

Once again, college has swarmed my thoughts. Hope your applications are going well, and you're having a great Thanksgiving break. I'm going back to bed. Good morning.


"A ruffled mind makes a restless pillow." --Charlotte Brontë

last-minute thoughts

So, right now, I'm sitting in class and thanking God for whoever invented my phone. I completely forgot that I had a blog due until, well, a few minutes ago.

Then, I couldn't think of what to write about. I thought about making more comments on "Under The Dome" (because I truly miss reading that book), but everything in that book is depressing. Then I thought, "Most things we read are depressing."

Why is that? Why are we so attracted to the gloom in doom, the drab and droll? Naturally, humans pay close attention to the "bad" in order to prepare for conflict; it is our instinctive defense. But why do we rejoice in others' pain?

Maybe the safety of a book also prepares us. Our pain in reality is sharp and precise; the kindness of literature's atrocities is that we can close it at any time. Trauma is always detailed: you remember every bit of bitterness, every heartache, every headache, every tearshed... you savor it. If we first live our disappointments through our favorite characters, the piercing sting of reality fades to a dull ache. There is comfort in knowing you are not alone, and it is only human nature to seek comfort.


"Books are humanity in print." --Barbara W. Tuchman

Making Sense of Outside Reading

Segwaying from my last blog, I have chosen to postpone reading Stephen King's Under the Dome until further notice. I have over 750 pages left to read and not enough time in the week to do it. So, instead, I'm going to read Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five since it is already laying on my bookshelf and the novel in its entirety is less than a third of my remainder of Under the Dome.

The moment is bittersweet: though I love Stephen King's book, I am intrigued by this new one. All I can currently remember about it is Dresden Bombings and space porn stars; that alone is enough to perk someone's interest.

Hopefully I can make my way through this novel quickly and happily this weekend; this week will be devoted to Crime and Punishment, which I have not been able to pick up once outside of class. I read too slowly and too for-pleasure-ly for this amount of literature.

"She is too fond of books, and it has turned her brain." --Louisa May Alcott

my grammatically-correct rant and Rally for Sanity

Whoever said senior year was easy didn't go to college.

For a few hours Saturday and Sunday, I sat on the couch and watched whatever football game my dad was interested in. It was the first time in what feels like forever I could relax and return to my natural state of teenage laziness. (Of course, I am now behind on my homework because I didn't take advantage of those few precious hours.)

During the practice AP test, I took my time reading about the Now and Laters. Honestly, I loved it; I felt people could relate to both sides--particularly seniors who want to take it easy their last year of high school yet want to make sure they've had the full "high school experience." Unfortuantely, these past eight weeks have all been NOW, NOW, NOW; any Later results in some major catastrophe.

My biggest Later catastrophe: college applications.

Can't we have a day in school where all college-bound students are pulled out of class and made to work on their applications? We'd have a plethora of English teachers and peer editors, a student body urging us forward with each tedious question, and counselors at our disposal for questions and psychological help for any break downs. For anyone who has finished all of their applications: let them do homework or read Under the Dome--that will suck their time.

Perhaps, since the school district would really never consider my last paragraph, we, being you, whoever else reads this, and me, should camp out in some WiFi-clad coffeehouse and just get to work--we could have our own Rally for Sanity. We wouldn't have a bunch of English teachers and counselors, but we would have a well-rounded collection of acquaintences willing to answer questions or look for spelling mistakes.


The irony of this blog is, six paragraphs and twenty-five minutes later, I've wasted quite a bit of time. Good luck with those applications you've been putting off.

What Makes Me Believe In Domes

This weekend, I was a murderer, a pacemaker-clad police chief, a self-mutilating priest, an evil car salesman, a soon-to-be-dead girl, a soldier, a widower, a drugged-up lesbian, a father, a woodchuck, and a republican. Stephen King's Under the Dome took me on a whirlwind adventure through the lives (and final moments) of the residents of Chester's Mill, Maine.

I think, by far, my favorite rhetorical technique King has used throughout the book is his point of view--each character (no matter of importance or life span) was allotted his or her own narrative style, tricking the reader into believing the event relayed to them first-hand instead of the typical third-person POV King uses. The "true" Christians were given a protective bubble, free of curse words; the sweet little old lady who was sent flying through her windshield was described with the same kindly simplicity as if she were instead knitting a sweater. The intensity of a headache pounds on every syllable, and the beauty of love caresses every letter. King's storytelling is so personal, so real, it makes believable the random barrier popping up one afternoon, massacring a third of the town's population who just so happened to be on or near the city limit.

I won't say much about the actual plot in case anybody wants to read it, but I will commend King (as if he were worried about my literary criticism) on his successful duty of dispelling disbelief.

What Your Bookshelf Really Means:

This week, while browsing Borders for my outside reading selection, I considered the various genres available: fiction, non-fiction, mystery and thriller, young adult, self-help, relationships, religious studies, etc. Then, as I was checking out, a good-ol'-boy type of man approached the cashier, asking if they had any books written by a romance novelist. I was shocked.

Turns out, he was looking for his girlfriend (who had already found the book she was searching for a few rows over), but I contemplated my prejudice. I believe people's literature define them; personally, I have an entire row on my bookshelf devoted to books I feel most accurately reflect my heart and mind. My favorite books dissect the deepest truths of humanity; in my constant strive for truth and intimacy, literature has satisfied me with what I fail to receive from reality.

(Side note: I sound as if I'm oozing with teenage angst; sorry about that. I really feel fine, and I apologize if this blog comes across as some melodramatic "the world hates me, and the only things that loves me are my books" crap.)

So, Constant Reader (guess which author I chose for outside reading!), what's your favorite book, and what does it say about you?



"Sometimes, I read a book, and I think I am the people in the book." -Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower

"We Read Stuff" by A.P. Student

"We Real Cool" by Gwendolyn Brooks


We real cool. We
Left school. We


Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We


Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We


Jazz June. We
Die soon.

"We Old Dudes" by Joan Murray

We old dudes. We

White shoes. We

Golf ball. We

Eat mall. We

Soak teeth. We

Palm Beach; We

Vote red. We

Soon dead.

I took the juxtaposition of these two poems as someone looking back on their

Life. I think he (whoever "he" is) was a troublemaker as a kid, but now he's just an lame old

Dude. (Yes, "vote red" was a factor in deciding the guy was 

Lame.) It makes you question how you'll look back on

Things. (I, for one, think I'll grow up to be about the same person I am now, but who

Knows?) However, I think it was interesting that I ended up analyzing Bedford more than the

Poems. Had Bedford placed them in separate chapters, I would have never achieved the full

Effect. I suppose the book would be pretty unhelpful otherwise.

Lastly, I have found a new appreciation for the authors' style because it is incredibly annoying to immitate.

Oh, the situational irony.

I enjoyed the irony this week while we were editing someone else's opinion on bias.

I also explored the types of conflict during my tennis matches. (Man vs. Man- my opponent. Man vs. Weather- the random wind and rain. Man vs. Self- my increasingly irritated thoughts with my opponent, the wind, and the rain.)

I also contemplated symbolism of everyday things, graphed the three-act structure of my weekend, and thoroughly considered what my thoughts would look like if they had a font.

Literature is no longer simply part of my life; my life is simply part of literature. Technically, we didn't discuss the takeover of literary analysis in class--more so, I've been discussing class with myself all week.

Throughout your day, just see how quickly your thoughts are consumed and modeled around the techniques which weigh down our backpacks in 4.3 pounds of pure Bedford.


Though this blog is short, I feel it's sufficient. I've already written enough this week.


“Literature adds to reality, it does not simply describe it. It enriches the necessary competencies that daily life requires and provides; and in this respect, it irrigates the deserts that our lives have already become.”
-C.S. Lewis

Your Perspective Sucks, But I Respect It

I've read "The Story of an Hour" before. In fact, I read it just last year. However, I never once read the story from a different perspective.

In Kate Chopin's "The Story of an Hour," the author reveals the protagonist as a young woman who believes she has just become a widow. After initial shock, her overwhelming joy of freedom was quickly contrasted by her husband's return home and her heart failure. I read the story of an oppressive husband, smothering his poor wife and stifling her rights as an individual.

However, in class, there was quite a debate over who the true victim was: the husband or wife. The battle was evenly matched (boys vs. girls) and quickly became heated. Though I wouldn't say the men of second period changed my mind, I will admit I had a cheesy Veggie Tale-esque learning experience.

We've always been told to respect other people's opinions, but, honestly, I think humans (or maybe just "I") naturally struggle at it. I was raised by a sweet-hearted mother, who fervently preaches open-mindedness, and an egocentric father, whose favorite phrase is "moral superiority". With that strange combination, I wholeheartedly respect other point of views but hardly ever bend my ways. In Poisonwood Bible, I often wanted to skip Rachel's chapters because she frustrated me so much. She was oblivious to her surroundings and ignorant of true beauty and had an annoyingly incorrect vocabulary. However, (here comes the moral of the story) I knew that, had I ignored Rachel's thoughts and feelings, I would have never understood the full truth.

To summarize, in life and in storytelling, you must consider and respect all points of view in order to fully uncover the truth. It may be easier to assume Chopin's protagonist is the victim of a cruel relationship, but, in doing so, we forget to pity the man whom was never really loved.

Luke Skywalker: Why didn't you tell me? You told me Vader betrayed and murdered my father.
Obi-Wan Kanobe: Your father... was seduced by the Dark Side of the Force. He ceased to be Anakin Skywalker and became Darth Vader. When that happened, the good man who was your father was destroyed. So what I told you was true... from a certain point of view.
-Star Wars: Episode VI - Return of the Jedi

I tell stories, therefor I am...

Storytelling, in a sense, is the only way to pass along information. It affects all parts of our lives; history is simply the story of the world, while biology is the story of life. Storytelling, fact or fiction, is the way humans interact with one another. The most incredible thing about storytelling, however, is the way each and every story is unique. Stories are told from person to person with exaggerations and fabrications and additional information. Even written stories (from a children's bedtime storybook to a murder-mystery novel) are unique to each reader; no two people will experience the words the same way. Happiness. What did you think of? In my mind, I thought of a "warm gun" and a split-second history of The Beatles. You, on the other hand, thought of your loved ones, your puppy, Christmas, or the fact that you just finished your homework. I told you a story all your own.

Storytelling is a connection, and humans at their core desire no more than intimacy.

"I think that instinct, that storytelling instinct, rescued me most of my life." - Armistead Maupin