My mythology professor likes to be called Dr. Jones, even though he hasn't quite gotten his PhD yet (he's working on it), so whenever we say it, it's in a very Irina Spalko voice. (Or at least an Eastern European accent.) Anyway, he's been showing us Berninis in his slides. They're all excellent. His Apollo and Daphne, which is the origin myth for why laurels are sacred to Apollo, is particularly excellent. Look closely—you can see her toes turning into roots. He's most famous for the Ecstasy of St. Teresa, mainly because of its undertones—I mean, look at the expression on Teresa's face. His best sculpture, though, is The Rape of Persephone, which depicts Hades kidnapping Persephone from Enna.
Now, to appreciate the sculpture, take a look at this closeup.
How amazing is that? Rock made flesh. Things were better back in the old days.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Top Ten Percent
I was not in the top ten percent of my high school graduating class. With a 3.7 GPA, I was in the top seventeen. I always thought my qualifications were pretty good. Senior editor of my newspaper, numerous journalism awards, eight years of orchestra (and a couple of first chair positions), eight AP classes, fours and fives on my AP tests, Latin Club officer, got the Duke TIP state award, went to two Duke TIP writing programs. Got into the summer session.
I'm just glad to be here, I guess. Of course you can argue that top ten means most qualified, and that it brings racial diversity, and that it's just sort of easy for admissions. But for the rest of my life, I'll wonder if I would have gotten into the fall session if the top ten rule hadn't been there. It's really odd when the law affects you so explicitly—and, maybe, negatively.
I'm just glad to be here, I guess. Of course you can argue that top ten means most qualified, and that it brings racial diversity, and that it's just sort of easy for admissions. But for the rest of my life, I'll wonder if I would have gotten into the fall session if the top ten rule hadn't been there. It's really odd when the law affects you so explicitly—and, maybe, negatively.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
IMAX, etc.
My parents just called. Evidently they're on their way to Austin right now! I'd mentioned that I was going to go see Dark Knight on IMAX with Charlyn and a couple of other people, and they're interested. I don't mind. I actually like my parents.
They're going to get here around 3:30, though the movie doesn't start 'till 9:15. We're going to go to Book People, which is literally the best bookstore in the entire world. I've only been there twice—once on a freshman year Latin trip, and last year for ILPC. I mean, this place is better than Barnes & Noble. It has merchandise. I got these adorable flash cards and my THINK: It's not illegal yet t-shirt. Among other things. But I really can't wait to see the store again. It's sad, but I haven't had much of a chance to explore Austin yet. I've been here a ton of times, of course, but I still have a hard time navigating. There only a couple of places that I can get to for sure.
I'm really, really looking forward to spending four years in this beautiful city. Getting to know it. Learning my way around. I already know that this is the best university within a thousand miles. I cannot wait to experience it fully. I guess I should just learn to get off my butt and go explore... rather than do homework.
Tough choice... Sadly, I generally have to choose the homework. Sometimes I hate being a pretty good student.
They're going to get here around 3:30, though the movie doesn't start 'till 9:15. We're going to go to Book People, which is literally the best bookstore in the entire world. I've only been there twice—once on a freshman year Latin trip, and last year for ILPC. I mean, this place is better than Barnes & Noble. It has merchandise. I got these adorable flash cards and my THINK: It's not illegal yet t-shirt. Among other things. But I really can't wait to see the store again. It's sad, but I haven't had much of a chance to explore Austin yet. I've been here a ton of times, of course, but I still have a hard time navigating. There only a couple of places that I can get to for sure.
I'm really, really looking forward to spending four years in this beautiful city. Getting to know it. Learning my way around. I already know that this is the best university within a thousand miles. I cannot wait to experience it fully. I guess I should just learn to get off my butt and go explore... rather than do homework.
Tough choice... Sadly, I generally have to choose the homework. Sometimes I hate being a pretty good student.
Longhorn Confidential
I just got an email about this program called Longhorn Confidential, where you can sign up to be a sort of official UT blogger—it looks awesome! I read about the bloggers in the handbook we got at orientation and then had to go and look them up and it was really interesting and I'm going to email them sometime soon and hope I get selected... As someone from College Station, I would be really proud to actually represent UT. Eight of us would be linked from the main UT site (!!!) and would be required to post one blog a week. I can totally do that. With this blog I post something about once every two days... except for recently, but that's just because I've been rereading Harry Potter. Anyway, I'm deeply excited. But it doesn't seem too likely that I'll get chosen, maybe because it's just such a great opportunity that there's really no way it would ever happen to me. You know that feeling? You want something really, really badly, but you know you're not going to get it, but you're going to try anyway.
Ooh, just reread the email, and they want us to also submit a link to a blog (if we have one). Cool! Hi there!
Currently Reading:
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. I read half of Chamber and all of Azkaban yesterday. I love weekends.
Ooh, just reread the email, and they want us to also submit a link to a blog (if we have one). Cool! Hi there!
Currently Reading:
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. I read half of Chamber and all of Azkaban yesterday. I love weekends.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
The Lake
I drove out to Lake Whitney this weekend to spend time with my dad and mom—and my dad's friends and their wives and children. Lake Whitney has been the source of a large number of childhood memories. I remember either holidays at Lake Whitney or holidays with my best friends, Amy and Joy. (Or school, but that doesn't count.) There was the mudslide. The boat rides. The Cheetos. The bedroom with the bunkbeds and the fan. The tubing. The accidental wine-drinking. (We always had red Dixie cups, and mine used to get lost in the profusion of other red Dixie cups, and a couple of times I'd drink somebody's wine or beer or whiskey. This time, funnily enough, I took a huge gulp of mom's wine and had to spit it out. God, that stuff is disgusting.)
My dad's friends are lake-lovin' good ol' boys, which is weird, because my dad definitely isn't a good ol' boy, though he likes lakes well enough. (You would not believe the amount of fun these guys can have on boats.) He smokes and that's basically it. There's Jimmy, who's big and black-haired with about half a million kids and a divorce and who actually asked one of children, one time, when my dad asked how old the kid was, "Boy? How old're you?" (Think gigantic Texas accent.) He's an aerospace engineer and one of the richest men in Texas. (No. The irony is not lost on me.) There's Donny, a lawyer who's moving to somewhere in Eastern Europe (he works for the government), who has been married either twice or three times (the second time to a babysitter) and has escaped with only two or three kids and a fortune slightly smaller than Jimmy's. There's Robert, who's a track coach extraordinare and who teaches Environmental Science AP and who keeps on getting teacher of the year awards and recognition in state and national competitions for his coaching and how well his runners do. (And he's friends with Mr. Wellmann, meaning that this world is tiny.) And then there's Ross, who's really just Ross. He's a rather Pan-esque character.
It's weird being there, really. I feel like I'm being given access to this society that I am somehow inherently a part of and yet am completely unfamiliar with. They talk about sex and smoking and drinking and hunting. And occasionally they burst out with rants about Nietzche or consumerism or imminent domain. Two of them--Donny and Jimmy--lived in Jester for a couple of semesters. All of them went to A&M at one time or another. And they're all just so happy. And can have so much fun on boats.
Then again, boats are really really really fun to drive. I sort of want one, now. So I guess I know what they mean--and not just about boats.
Currently Reading:
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone
(That's right, Sorcerer's not Philosopher's, because I'm reading the books I read first. The American versions. Which means that excepting the first one I have to read the rest in hardback. Sigh.)
My dad's friends are lake-lovin' good ol' boys, which is weird, because my dad definitely isn't a good ol' boy, though he likes lakes well enough. (You would not believe the amount of fun these guys can have on boats.) He smokes and that's basically it. There's Jimmy, who's big and black-haired with about half a million kids and a divorce and who actually asked one of children, one time, when my dad asked how old the kid was, "Boy? How old're you?" (Think gigantic Texas accent.) He's an aerospace engineer and one of the richest men in Texas. (No. The irony is not lost on me.) There's Donny, a lawyer who's moving to somewhere in Eastern Europe (he works for the government), who has been married either twice or three times (the second time to a babysitter) and has escaped with only two or three kids and a fortune slightly smaller than Jimmy's. There's Robert, who's a track coach extraordinare and who teaches Environmental Science AP and who keeps on getting teacher of the year awards and recognition in state and national competitions for his coaching and how well his runners do. (And he's friends with Mr. Wellmann, meaning that this world is tiny.) And then there's Ross, who's really just Ross. He's a rather Pan-esque character.
It's weird being there, really. I feel like I'm being given access to this society that I am somehow inherently a part of and yet am completely unfamiliar with. They talk about sex and smoking and drinking and hunting. And occasionally they burst out with rants about Nietzche or consumerism or imminent domain. Two of them--Donny and Jimmy--lived in Jester for a couple of semesters. All of them went to A&M at one time or another. And they're all just so happy. And can have so much fun on boats.
Then again, boats are really really really fun to drive. I sort of want one, now. So I guess I know what they mean--and not just about boats.
Currently Reading:
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone
(That's right, Sorcerer's not Philosopher's, because I'm reading the books I read first. The American versions. Which means that excepting the first one I have to read the rest in hardback. Sigh.)
Monday, July 21, 2008
Invisible Acting
Someone in my mythology class (Mark) made a comment about the acting in Dark Knight today—something about it being bad. I thought for a moment. I hadn't noticed any bad acting. Then I remembered that I didn't really understand acting, so I couldn't possibly be a judge of it.
I mean it when I say that I don't understand acting. I'm such a writer. Show me an actor acting a part and I'll say, Oh, okay, so... here's the plot, and here's the character, and etc. You tell me they're a bad actor, and I have no idea how you know that. Because I cannot tell a person apart from their character. Ever. (If they're an actor.) I mean, unless there was original source material or something (Harry Potter for instance; sometimes I can tell bad acting during one of those movies. Sometimes). I just can't see it. Doesn't that actor portray a character in a way that makes the character? How can you judge someone by how well they are someone else if that someone else isn't real? I mean, sure, you can have powerful performances, but isn't that just because the plot of the movie requires that someone go through something... powerful? If you have a man who's just lost his wife then he's going to grieve. If it's the right movie and the right actor then they get an Academy Award. If not, why not? I just can't see how you can reward somebody for having a quality that is basically unjudgeable.
Most of the world disagrees with me on this. That's okay. It's just that I watch people, not the people behind fake people. If you want to show me a tear, I will see a tear, not the forty years of work that went into manufacturing that tear. Want to cry? Go for it. I'm going to sit here and assume your character's situation requires it.
I guess I could never be an actor. But then, I wouldn't want to be. You'd have to be someone other than yourself, someone who you can't be. And no matter how Method you are, you are never that other person. I mean, you make a lot of money and get famous, but there just doesn't seem to be any psychological reason for it.
Eh. Movies are great, though. Just don't ask me about the performances.
I mean it when I say that I don't understand acting. I'm such a writer. Show me an actor acting a part and I'll say, Oh, okay, so... here's the plot, and here's the character, and etc. You tell me they're a bad actor, and I have no idea how you know that. Because I cannot tell a person apart from their character. Ever. (If they're an actor.) I mean, unless there was original source material or something (Harry Potter for instance; sometimes I can tell bad acting during one of those movies. Sometimes). I just can't see it. Doesn't that actor portray a character in a way that makes the character? How can you judge someone by how well they are someone else if that someone else isn't real? I mean, sure, you can have powerful performances, but isn't that just because the plot of the movie requires that someone go through something... powerful? If you have a man who's just lost his wife then he's going to grieve. If it's the right movie and the right actor then they get an Academy Award. If not, why not? I just can't see how you can reward somebody for having a quality that is basically unjudgeable.
Most of the world disagrees with me on this. That's okay. It's just that I watch people, not the people behind fake people. If you want to show me a tear, I will see a tear, not the forty years of work that went into manufacturing that tear. Want to cry? Go for it. I'm going to sit here and assume your character's situation requires it.
I guess I could never be an actor. But then, I wouldn't want to be. You'd have to be someone other than yourself, someone who you can't be. And no matter how Method you are, you are never that other person. I mean, you make a lot of money and get famous, but there just doesn't seem to be any psychological reason for it.
Eh. Movies are great, though. Just don't ask me about the performances.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Ack Dark Knight Ack
Huge freaking big ass holy crap gigantic spoilers. Seriously, don't read this if you EVER want to see it. EVER.
Remember before how I said that what sells me is when things happen unexpectedly? Well, that made me sold on The Dark Knight pretty much constantly while I was watching it—that movie is basically slightly organized chaos, as it should be. I mean, it was excellent as it was, stand-alone, without the Rachel thing.
So let me tell you about the Rachel thing.
Rachel is the love interest; that's basically all you need to know. At the end of the last one, Batman Begins, they made out. Unsurprisingly. Which pissed me off to no end because there was no like actual spark but whatever. Not the point. The point is, you know what happens in this one?
She. Dies.
This is really all I have to say right now. I could not be any happier. Really. Like, even if she hadn't've died, I'd've loved it. But no, she dies. I am officially petitioning for it to win Best Picture.
Oh and Heath was awesome but you knew that.
Pros:
• SHE DIES
Cons:
• I'll probably think of some later
Remember before how I said that what sells me is when things happen unexpectedly? Well, that made me sold on The Dark Knight pretty much constantly while I was watching it—that movie is basically slightly organized chaos, as it should be. I mean, it was excellent as it was, stand-alone, without the Rachel thing.
So let me tell you about the Rachel thing.
Rachel is the love interest; that's basically all you need to know. At the end of the last one, Batman Begins, they made out. Unsurprisingly. Which pissed me off to no end because there was no like actual spark but whatever. Not the point. The point is, you know what happens in this one?
She. Dies.
This is really all I have to say right now. I could not be any happier. Really. Like, even if she hadn't've died, I'd've loved it. But no, she dies. I am officially petitioning for it to win Best Picture.
Oh and Heath was awesome but you knew that.
Pros:
• SHE DIES
Cons:
• I'll probably think of some later
Friday, July 18, 2008
Nitwit...
If you can add three specific words to the title of this post, you are officially awesome.
So dad and I were watching Sorcerer's Stone last night and we realized that we couldn't come up with the third Hallow. We kept repeating, the cloak, the wand, the... the what?? Finally I had to look it up on the Lexicon. The ring. Freakin' obviously. But I'd forgot. There was a piece of Harry Potter trivia that I didn't know.
I am officially rereading the series. Right. Now.
Best Chapter:
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Chapter Nineteen: The Stag
Best Paragraph:
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Chapter Thirty-Six: The Parting of the Ways—Dumbledore's speech to Fudge
Best Book In The Series:
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban
Part During Which I Nearly Died During Reading:
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, page 625
Happiest Part:
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, when they win the Quidditch Cup
So dad and I were watching Sorcerer's Stone last night and we realized that we couldn't come up with the third Hallow. We kept repeating, the cloak, the wand, the... the what?? Finally I had to look it up on the Lexicon. The ring. Freakin' obviously. But I'd forgot. There was a piece of Harry Potter trivia that I didn't know.
I am officially rereading the series. Right. Now.
Best Chapter:
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Chapter Nineteen: The Stag
Best Paragraph:
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Chapter Thirty-Six: The Parting of the Ways—Dumbledore's speech to Fudge
Best Book In The Series:
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban
Part During Which I Nearly Died During Reading:
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, page 625
Happiest Part:
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, when they win the Quidditch Cup
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Such Great Heights
Such Great Heights by The Postal Service, and Such Great Heights by Iron and Wine, the cover.
The Postal Service version is like drinking an oil-cup full of popping, metallic notes that taste like ecstasy tablets feel and have nearly the same soaring effect. The Iron and Wine version is like slow music-sex filled with ripe wooden air you can listen to, all wrapped up in cotton flannel, next to a cedar fire, possibly in a cabin.
Sample Lyrics:
I am thinking
It's a sign
That the freckles in our eyes
Are mirror images
And when we kiss
They're perfectly aligned.
The Postal Service version is like drinking an oil-cup full of popping, metallic notes that taste like ecstasy tablets feel and have nearly the same soaring effect. The Iron and Wine version is like slow music-sex filled with ripe wooden air you can listen to, all wrapped up in cotton flannel, next to a cedar fire, possibly in a cabin.
Sample Lyrics:
I am thinking
It's a sign
That the freckles in our eyes
Are mirror images
And when we kiss
They're perfectly aligned.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Half an Eye
Dude, evolution is the coolest thing ever. We basically evolved from protobions, these tiny little lipid spheres that carried out really really basic metabolism and slowly started to attain other characteristics, and eventually developed into cyanobacteria, and then started releasing oxygen into the atmosphere, and then the protobions had horizontal gene transfer and then suddenly there was archaea and eukarya and bacteria, all three, and eukarya went on to become, well, us. Us! Humans! From little lipid spheres! That is fascinating and excellent.
Did you know that animalia and fungi are more closely related than either is to plantae? We're more kin to mushrooms than flowers. What's amazing is that we're kin to either. We're kin to everything. We're kin to chlamydia, since it's alive. And algae. And pygmy marmosets. And slime molds. Have you heard about slime molds? Those things are awesome. They have both animal and plant forms. They switch between having cell walls and chloroplasts and having plain lipid bilayer membranes and no chloroplasts. Did you know that mitochondria, a really crucial part of your cells, have their own DNA? They were once some sort of bacteria. Now they carry out cellular respiration, which is crazy important. If anything is God, it's either ATP or DNA.
Speaking of DNA—that stuff practically exists to replicate itself. It's basically luck that we evolved around it. DNA has caused everything. It's this little structure made up of cytosine, thymine, guanine, and adenine. RNA runs up and replicates it during mitosis, and there it goes, making itself by giving out instructions, and proteins are built, proteins that tell us to do things like digest and release hormones and endorphins. They are units of heredity. And whenever they mess up, whenever they make the wrong protein, sometimes that mistake becomes... us. We are a mistake. Isn't it beautiful? We are beautiful mistakes. We were not meant to be, and yet we are.
There's this really common anti-evolution argument that goes something along the lines of "Well, how did we develop stuff like wings and eyes? I mean, what can you do with half an eye?" My bio teacher, Dr. Panero (awesome guy), made a cool point. He said that half an eye is much more useful than 49% of an eye, or 1% of an eye, and 51% of an eye is more useful than 50% of an eye. Somewhere back down the line animalia developed little pigmented cells that could basically sense light. They developed—evolution!—and became more and more complex. There's this great diagram in my book about how they came about. It's all so simple, only not. It's all so complex. It's all dictated by purest chance.
Science makes so much sense. Maybe God started it all. Probably not, though. If science can explain the beginning of life, I'm sure it'll eventually be able to explain the beginning of the universe. I don't believe in a God of the Gaps, and I think it's sad that people do.
Did you know that animalia and fungi are more closely related than either is to plantae? We're more kin to mushrooms than flowers. What's amazing is that we're kin to either. We're kin to everything. We're kin to chlamydia, since it's alive. And algae. And pygmy marmosets. And slime molds. Have you heard about slime molds? Those things are awesome. They have both animal and plant forms. They switch between having cell walls and chloroplasts and having plain lipid bilayer membranes and no chloroplasts. Did you know that mitochondria, a really crucial part of your cells, have their own DNA? They were once some sort of bacteria. Now they carry out cellular respiration, which is crazy important. If anything is God, it's either ATP or DNA.
Speaking of DNA—that stuff practically exists to replicate itself. It's basically luck that we evolved around it. DNA has caused everything. It's this little structure made up of cytosine, thymine, guanine, and adenine. RNA runs up and replicates it during mitosis, and there it goes, making itself by giving out instructions, and proteins are built, proteins that tell us to do things like digest and release hormones and endorphins. They are units of heredity. And whenever they mess up, whenever they make the wrong protein, sometimes that mistake becomes... us. We are a mistake. Isn't it beautiful? We are beautiful mistakes. We were not meant to be, and yet we are.
There's this really common anti-evolution argument that goes something along the lines of "Well, how did we develop stuff like wings and eyes? I mean, what can you do with half an eye?" My bio teacher, Dr. Panero (awesome guy), made a cool point. He said that half an eye is much more useful than 49% of an eye, or 1% of an eye, and 51% of an eye is more useful than 50% of an eye. Somewhere back down the line animalia developed little pigmented cells that could basically sense light. They developed—evolution!—and became more and more complex. There's this great diagram in my book about how they came about. It's all so simple, only not. It's all so complex. It's all dictated by purest chance.
Science makes so much sense. Maybe God started it all. Probably not, though. If science can explain the beginning of life, I'm sure it'll eventually be able to explain the beginning of the universe. I don't believe in a God of the Gaps, and I think it's sad that people do.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Comics of the Web
This comic sold me on Dresden Codak, a steampunk SCIENCE! re-imagining of... everything. It's intelligent in a way that walks behind your back and then tunnels through time to get to your wedding day, which it destroys in such a beautifully creative way that you have to love it. Didn't know what I just said? Was intrigued anyway? Go read Dresden Codak.
Questionable Content, however, is my favorite webcomic out there. I've linked it before. I have little to say except that it is amazing and a half.
xkcd is also pure genius of a type difficult to explain. I mainly like it because it captures things perfectly and adores science. (The math component isn't as sexy, but hey, you can't have it all.)
There are more, definitely, but that's later. Right now my neck hurts. From headbanging. At a club.
^__^
Currently reading: ... nothing... school is life...
Questionable Content, however, is my favorite webcomic out there. I've linked it before. I have little to say except that it is amazing and a half.
xkcd is also pure genius of a type difficult to explain. I mainly like it because it captures things perfectly and adores science. (The math component isn't as sexy, but hey, you can't have it all.)
There are more, definitely, but that's later. Right now my neck hurts. From headbanging. At a club.
^__^
Currently reading: ... nothing... school is life...
Friday, July 11, 2008
But more sadly
My grandfather died a year and a half ago from colon cancer. I miss him. I have a picture of him that I've been needing to get a frame for for the longest time. But I think I like having the picture out, so I can just pick it up and look at him. It's a wonderful picture. I remember him either well or not well, I'm not really sure. I don't like not being able to remember, or articulate, his personality. I fell like I woke up, memory and personality-wise, around junior year, so before that is a very odd and selective haze. I guess I can't remember him very well because he was dying for eight months, and so he was so literally a ghost of his formal self. He changed completely.
I can't talk about it any more.
We love the elderly, but we are afraid of them because they represent what we will become. But we are also afraid because we do not want to loose them. We do not want our experiences to become memories and then fade.
Like mine have.
I can't talk about it any more.
We love the elderly, but we are afraid of them because they represent what we will become. But we are also afraid because we do not want to loose them. We do not want our experiences to become memories and then fade.
Like mine have.
Dance, Dance
I just went clubbing!
Man I am so young and immature. But I DANCED! I love dancing. No, really. Like I love dancing like a lot like like like yeah. (I'll never use like in my posts again, I promise. If I do, call me out on it.)
Name of club: Rain.
Location: 4th street.
Status of initial driver post-club: slightly tipsy.
Person driving back to campus: moi.
Meal had at Kerbey Lane: queso, English breakfast tea, French toast, eggs, and bacon.
Mood: partially insane.
Body status: owwwwwwww
Man I am so young and immature. But I DANCED! I love dancing. No, really. Like I love dancing like a lot like like like yeah. (I'll never use like in my posts again, I promise. If I do, call me out on it.)
Name of club: Rain.
Location: 4th street.
Status of initial driver post-club: slightly tipsy.
Person driving back to campus: moi.
Meal had at Kerbey Lane: queso, English breakfast tea, French toast, eggs, and bacon.
Mood: partially insane.
Body status: owwwwwwww
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Oh Dear
So I've been reading Questionable Content for two hours STRAIGHT and am going to speak like Jeph writes in this blog. Okays? Yup.
So (ooh, a pattern!) I impaled myself on a box of graham crackers (yeah, I know) yesterday and my bruise is (I measured it) three inches in diameter. Holy mother of Pope John Paul. It exudes pain.
So I accidentally skipped class today by forgetting what time it was. Oops. This is definitely the only time that will happen. However, it gave me a chance to do all of my homework for the entire week. Kind of nice.
So I should go sleep now since I am experiencing what one would call "sleep madness." I am considering eating a lightbulb and then stalking Alanis Morisette (subliminal message: WATCH DOGMA).
I am so not okay.
So (ooh, a pattern!) I impaled myself on a box of graham crackers (yeah, I know) yesterday and my bruise is (I measured it) three inches in diameter. Holy mother of Pope John Paul. It exudes pain.
So I accidentally skipped class today by forgetting what time it was. Oops. This is definitely the only time that will happen. However, it gave me a chance to do all of my homework for the entire week. Kind of nice.
So I should go sleep now since I am experiencing what one would call "sleep madness." I am considering eating a lightbulb and then stalking Alanis Morisette (subliminal message: WATCH DOGMA).
I am so not okay.
The Return
YAY! I has my computer! And they CLEANED it! It's all white again.
You know how much time it took those guys to do total diagnostics, repair, and cleaning on my little MacBook? About six hours, according to the info sheet I got.
o_O
I'm impressed.
You know how much time it took those guys to do total diagnostics, repair, and cleaning on my little MacBook? About six hours, according to the info sheet I got.
o_O
I'm impressed.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Defying the King
I respect Stephen King. Really I do. His On Writing is a miracle of modern composition. He is witty and has excellent taste in pop culture. I look forward to his columns in Entertainment Weekly as much as Diablo Cody's.
And yet. King is a horror writer. His latest column was about horror movies. I have never liked horror movies. I've only seen three—Gothika when I was about twelve, which wasn't too bad; The Ring when I was thirteen, which was absolutely positively the worst experience of my life; and last Friday, The Birds, which scared me more than I thought possible.
Of Hitchcock's films I'd seen only four: North by Northwest, Rope (the best), Rear Window, and Strangers on a Train, all of which were excellent. I knew The Birds had scary potential. But I thought it'd be a more overt metaphor. Clearly Hitchcock is so subtle as to be nearly subliminal. Sure, I'm now paranoid of birds, but I'm not paranoid of... whatever it was he wanted me to be paranoid of. Other than birds. I hate birds. A lot. I used to like them. Now going outside freaks me out. You think I'm exaggerating? I probably would have been fine if it weren't for the dead bodies. I can even deal with shots of pecked, bloody legs (like Anne's). But when they panned out, that first time, and showed that body propped up against the wall with empty, bleeding sockets—well, I was gone. I was no longer at all pleased with the film I had been watching.
It had started out quite well. Witty banter. Pretty characters. A rather overt tone of looming disaster. The paranoia was going well until Lydia found the damn farmer. Now, I understand that the corpse was Hitchcock's way of saying, "Playtime's over: this is real." But that's it exactly. That is what I don't like about horror movies. There's always (as far as I know, which admittedly isn't far) a moment when they show you the consequences. Generally it's just once. The other bodies are obscured, or the affects are too gruesome to be shown without getting an R or NC-17. But my point is this: why even make a movie in which this shot is necessary? What need is there to detail a story in which a man in a masks kills people with knives? What purpose does it serve? To warn the viewers against—what?—men in masks? I know. I know. I should acknowledge the metaphor of it all. But I don't like violence. Saving Private Ryan, Apocalypse Now, even Schindler's List--those films I find acceptable. War is one thing. But serial killers are another. Do you know a veteran? Probably. Do you know a serial killer? Probably not. Yes, serial killers often lurk creepily in suburbia and may not be overtly identifiable. But if you see a mutilated corpse on the ground outside of your house, you're probably going to think "SERIAL KILLER" even if the movies haven't trained you to do so. I don't watch horror movies because I know the dangers I face living in modern society. So do all of the people who watch horror movies. They watch those films to be afraid. Which leads me to a rather obvious question: why the hell are you volunteering yourself for these movies? I don't like having the shit scared out of me. I don't like not being able to sleep without lights on. I don't like second-glancing every dark-haired, hooded man who stalks by me on campus. Yet those fears are the fears that modern media instills within us.
M. Night Shyamalan said, during a recent NPR interview, that An Inconvenient Truth was the scariest movie ever made. He has a point. But did he have to reinforce it with The Happening? According to him. Alright. I suppose horror films can sometimes get across messages to an audience that wouldn't get them otherwise. But you know what King said in his latest column? I'm paraphrasing: A masked figure stalks a young woman. The woman pleads, "Why are you doing this to us?" The figure replies, "Because you were home."
King's commentary: That's all the explanation a good horror movie needs.
No reason. No plot. No humanity. Just a rising tide of gore and terror. Just a knife caressing your soul for no reason you can see. Just fear, pain, and death, made into an art form.
I do not approve.
And yet. King is a horror writer. His latest column was about horror movies. I have never liked horror movies. I've only seen three—Gothika when I was about twelve, which wasn't too bad; The Ring when I was thirteen, which was absolutely positively the worst experience of my life; and last Friday, The Birds, which scared me more than I thought possible.
Of Hitchcock's films I'd seen only four: North by Northwest, Rope (the best), Rear Window, and Strangers on a Train, all of which were excellent. I knew The Birds had scary potential. But I thought it'd be a more overt metaphor. Clearly Hitchcock is so subtle as to be nearly subliminal. Sure, I'm now paranoid of birds, but I'm not paranoid of... whatever it was he wanted me to be paranoid of. Other than birds. I hate birds. A lot. I used to like them. Now going outside freaks me out. You think I'm exaggerating? I probably would have been fine if it weren't for the dead bodies. I can even deal with shots of pecked, bloody legs (like Anne's). But when they panned out, that first time, and showed that body propped up against the wall with empty, bleeding sockets—well, I was gone. I was no longer at all pleased with the film I had been watching.
It had started out quite well. Witty banter. Pretty characters. A rather overt tone of looming disaster. The paranoia was going well until Lydia found the damn farmer. Now, I understand that the corpse was Hitchcock's way of saying, "Playtime's over: this is real." But that's it exactly. That is what I don't like about horror movies. There's always (as far as I know, which admittedly isn't far) a moment when they show you the consequences. Generally it's just once. The other bodies are obscured, or the affects are too gruesome to be shown without getting an R or NC-17. But my point is this: why even make a movie in which this shot is necessary? What need is there to detail a story in which a man in a masks kills people with knives? What purpose does it serve? To warn the viewers against—what?—men in masks? I know. I know. I should acknowledge the metaphor of it all. But I don't like violence. Saving Private Ryan, Apocalypse Now, even Schindler's List--those films I find acceptable. War is one thing. But serial killers are another. Do you know a veteran? Probably. Do you know a serial killer? Probably not. Yes, serial killers often lurk creepily in suburbia and may not be overtly identifiable. But if you see a mutilated corpse on the ground outside of your house, you're probably going to think "SERIAL KILLER" even if the movies haven't trained you to do so. I don't watch horror movies because I know the dangers I face living in modern society. So do all of the people who watch horror movies. They watch those films to be afraid. Which leads me to a rather obvious question: why the hell are you volunteering yourself for these movies? I don't like having the shit scared out of me. I don't like not being able to sleep without lights on. I don't like second-glancing every dark-haired, hooded man who stalks by me on campus. Yet those fears are the fears that modern media instills within us.
M. Night Shyamalan said, during a recent NPR interview, that An Inconvenient Truth was the scariest movie ever made. He has a point. But did he have to reinforce it with The Happening? According to him. Alright. I suppose horror films can sometimes get across messages to an audience that wouldn't get them otherwise. But you know what King said in his latest column? I'm paraphrasing: A masked figure stalks a young woman. The woman pleads, "Why are you doing this to us?" The figure replies, "Because you were home."
King's commentary: That's all the explanation a good horror movie needs.
No reason. No plot. No humanity. Just a rising tide of gore and terror. Just a knife caressing your soul for no reason you can see. Just fear, pain, and death, made into an art form.
I do not approve.
Goodbye to CollegeBoard
AP scores are in. This is the end of an era.
No more SAT prep, no more AP study sessions or tests. The tension is over. UT has my scores and I'm prepared to negotiate with them for credit. But I'm done with CollegeBoard forever.
The experience was at least an interesting one. I'm slightly partial to the SAT because, like most "gifted" (I hate that word) students, I took it in sixth or seventh grade as part of the Duke TIP program. I did well enough to get some kind of state medal and be invited to participate in TIP's programs, which I did. I took Writer's Workshop I at Kansas University in the summer between 8th and 9th grade. It was a three-week course that I can't remember much of (except for iambic pentameter, bank holidays, ancient Greek, and the Campbellian—or is this from Frazer's Golden Bough?—archetypes). Just this last summer I went to Ghost Ranch (Georgia O'Keefe's sweltering realm of inspiration), New Mexico for what amounted to Writer's Workshop II (though they called it "A Writer's Art"). All in all, that first go-through of the SAT was deeply beneficial. The second time I took it I only did better by 100 points on the math, but by about three hundred on the reading. My scores were amusingly typical. Verbal: 800. Writing: 800. Math (sigh): 560. A third retest rendered my writing score 90 points lower and my math score 10 points higher. Such is life. The same thing happened on the PSAT. I got 99% on both English-styled sections, and barely scraped a 55% on the math. Who needs a National Merit scholarship anyway?
AP, however, I am even more emotionally attached to. Pre-AP started in 9th grade; actual AP classes (at least for me--I didn't take Human Geography until my senior year) began in 11th grade. I slaved away over English Lit, English Lang, Human Geog, Latin Vergil (which I would recommend only to the masochistic), US History, Psych, Government, and Microeconomics. I came out of the experience with impressive amounts of college credit: two threes (Eco and Latin), three fours (English Lang, for reasons incomprehensible to me; Psych; and Gov, see English Lang comment—I am still steaming from this particular insult), and three fives (US History, English Lit, and Geography). Still, the classes mattered more than the scores. All of them were interesting, even if they were at times torturous (see Latin), and they adequately prepared me for college—enough so that the classes I'm taking right now are positively easy.
The best thing about AP, though? Once I claim credit, I'll be something along the lines of a second-semester sophomore. Nothing like exempting basic classes. (And getting right in to the weed-out ones. Sigh.)
Rhetoric Essay Status:
Dear God I don't want to write this kill me now
No more SAT prep, no more AP study sessions or tests. The tension is over. UT has my scores and I'm prepared to negotiate with them for credit. But I'm done with CollegeBoard forever.
The experience was at least an interesting one. I'm slightly partial to the SAT because, like most "gifted" (I hate that word) students, I took it in sixth or seventh grade as part of the Duke TIP program. I did well enough to get some kind of state medal and be invited to participate in TIP's programs, which I did. I took Writer's Workshop I at Kansas University in the summer between 8th and 9th grade. It was a three-week course that I can't remember much of (except for iambic pentameter, bank holidays, ancient Greek, and the Campbellian—or is this from Frazer's Golden Bough?—archetypes). Just this last summer I went to Ghost Ranch (Georgia O'Keefe's sweltering realm of inspiration), New Mexico for what amounted to Writer's Workshop II (though they called it "A Writer's Art"). All in all, that first go-through of the SAT was deeply beneficial. The second time I took it I only did better by 100 points on the math, but by about three hundred on the reading. My scores were amusingly typical. Verbal: 800. Writing: 800. Math (sigh): 560. A third retest rendered my writing score 90 points lower and my math score 10 points higher. Such is life. The same thing happened on the PSAT. I got 99% on both English-styled sections, and barely scraped a 55% on the math. Who needs a National Merit scholarship anyway?
AP, however, I am even more emotionally attached to. Pre-AP started in 9th grade; actual AP classes (at least for me--I didn't take Human Geography until my senior year) began in 11th grade. I slaved away over English Lit, English Lang, Human Geog, Latin Vergil (which I would recommend only to the masochistic), US History, Psych, Government, and Microeconomics. I came out of the experience with impressive amounts of college credit: two threes (Eco and Latin), three fours (English Lang, for reasons incomprehensible to me; Psych; and Gov, see English Lang comment—I am still steaming from this particular insult), and three fives (US History, English Lit, and Geography). Still, the classes mattered more than the scores. All of them were interesting, even if they were at times torturous (see Latin), and they adequately prepared me for college—enough so that the classes I'm taking right now are positively easy.
The best thing about AP, though? Once I claim credit, I'll be something along the lines of a second-semester sophomore. Nothing like exempting basic classes. (And getting right in to the weed-out ones. Sigh.)
Rhetoric Essay Status:
Dear God I don't want to write this kill me now
The Public Sphere
As we speak (so to speak?) I am in a public computer lab. It's very odd. I have never been one for public accommodations—parks, libraries, and stadiums have never been my favorite places. Lacking my laptop (he's been sent for diagnostics and repair at Apple, Inc.), I find my self logging on to a CPU using my UT EID, not my regular old username. It's distinctly unsettling. Not to mention there are about seven people in the room with me. Strange beyond all reason.
Parks are simple to dismiss: they're just too sunny, outdoorsy, and Republican (in the apple-pie flag-waving uber-Christian large-family sense of the word), so I've avoided them with the help of my parents. (Unsurprisingly, I am an only child.) Also, we live on roughly thirty acres of land, so we don't need to head to the park to walk the dogs—back and forth to the forest does just fine. Stadiums are even easier to wave away: sports are simply uninteresting. My dislike of libraries, though, is harder to define. Everything about me screams that I should adore libraries. They are, after all, quiet places (screams, I realize now, was bad diction—sorry) filled with books—and how is that bad? I guess I don't like the concept of it, the basic reason they exist: libraries are for the public. This means that you have to be careful with every book you handle. You have to put them back exactly where you found them. You have to be quiet. You have to return them or get fined. I hang mainly at Barnes and Noble for my intellectual thrills. There, you can purchase forever what you've just perused, and sip coffee to boot, something librarians undoubtedly frown upon. Honestly, I wouldn't know. I've never been in a library long enough to find out.
I didn't think I'd like the still, metro early 2000's coolness of Starbucks, either. They make fine hot chocolate (I don't like coffee), and I've obviously been there a couple of times (try existing and not going to a Starbucks at least once in your whole life), but I've never exactly hung out at one. Tonight, however, I had to wait somewhere for an hour, and there was a Starbucks was close by. Skeptically I settled down in an armchair with a drink. I sipped and read some Strunk and White. Thirty minutes in I realized I liked the atmosphere. The music wasn't Muzak (maybe it was muzik, since it wasn't completely legitimate), the chair was deeply comfortable, the people were nice (and wonderfully quiet), and the temperature was pretty perfect. Plus, the smell of coffee was everywhere. (I can like the smell but not the taste, can't I? Maybe it doesn't make sense, but that's how I am.) I was relaxed, most shockingly, something I rarely am in public.
I guess there is something to be said for social interaction, even if it's mainly observation. Who knew! I'll be spending a lot more time at Starbucks from now on. The computer lab, though, not so much. I can't wait until I get my poor MacBook back.
Currently Reading:
A Scholar of Magics by Caroline Stevermer
"Letter from Birmingham Jail" by MLK
Parks are simple to dismiss: they're just too sunny, outdoorsy, and Republican (in the apple-pie flag-waving uber-Christian large-family sense of the word), so I've avoided them with the help of my parents. (Unsurprisingly, I am an only child.) Also, we live on roughly thirty acres of land, so we don't need to head to the park to walk the dogs—back and forth to the forest does just fine. Stadiums are even easier to wave away: sports are simply uninteresting. My dislike of libraries, though, is harder to define. Everything about me screams that I should adore libraries. They are, after all, quiet places (screams, I realize now, was bad diction—sorry) filled with books—and how is that bad? I guess I don't like the concept of it, the basic reason they exist: libraries are for the public. This means that you have to be careful with every book you handle. You have to put them back exactly where you found them. You have to be quiet. You have to return them or get fined. I hang mainly at Barnes and Noble for my intellectual thrills. There, you can purchase forever what you've just perused, and sip coffee to boot, something librarians undoubtedly frown upon. Honestly, I wouldn't know. I've never been in a library long enough to find out.
I didn't think I'd like the still, metro early 2000's coolness of Starbucks, either. They make fine hot chocolate (I don't like coffee), and I've obviously been there a couple of times (try existing and not going to a Starbucks at least once in your whole life), but I've never exactly hung out at one. Tonight, however, I had to wait somewhere for an hour, and there was a Starbucks was close by. Skeptically I settled down in an armchair with a drink. I sipped and read some Strunk and White. Thirty minutes in I realized I liked the atmosphere. The music wasn't Muzak (maybe it was muzik, since it wasn't completely legitimate), the chair was deeply comfortable, the people were nice (and wonderfully quiet), and the temperature was pretty perfect. Plus, the smell of coffee was everywhere. (I can like the smell but not the taste, can't I? Maybe it doesn't make sense, but that's how I am.) I was relaxed, most shockingly, something I rarely am in public.
I guess there is something to be said for social interaction, even if it's mainly observation. Who knew! I'll be spending a lot more time at Starbucks from now on. The computer lab, though, not so much. I can't wait until I get my poor MacBook back.
Currently Reading:
A Scholar of Magics by Caroline Stevermer
"Letter from Birmingham Jail" by MLK
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Break from the Books
I'm watching Dark Angel right now. It's really not that great, but the concept is cool, the minor characters are amusing, and both Michael Weatherly and Jessica Alba are really hot, so it works. I ought to be doing biology, but really, I know most of it already. Just genetics. And this is a pretty easy biology class. Though maybe I spoke too soon—this is what we're doing next week.
My friend and I made a letter-game-type blog (in the spirit of Stevermer and Wrede). Right now it's crappy. Working on it. Possibly we'll produce a full-length novel? We're both slaving away on something along those lines. I'm heading for a writer/editor career and she's going to be a songwriter (even if she doesn't think she'll be). Also, she's crazy, so we work well together.
I have to go study. Oh, school.... At least it's interesting.
My friend and I made a letter-game-type blog (in the spirit of Stevermer and Wrede). Right now it's crappy. Working on it. Possibly we'll produce a full-length novel? We're both slaving away on something along those lines. I'm heading for a writer/editor career and she's going to be a songwriter (even if she doesn't think she'll be). Also, she's crazy, so we work well together.
I have to go study. Oh, school.... At least it's interesting.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
WOW Moments
Occasionally I'm just sold on something—you know, you're watching a TV show or reading a book and something happens that is simply amazing. In A College of Magics, for instance, what seemed like a pretty straight-and-narrow magic school book, (I'm about to spoil it completely), the main character gets expelled a third of the way through the novel. Expelled! In a book called A College of Magics! That never happens! I fell utterly in love with Caroline Stevermer at that point.
In Firefly, the concept was pretty original and sound. I was in to it just because it was a) created by Joss Whedon and b) had a really really cool setting. But then Mal walks up and headshots the fed. I might have fainted. I mean, who does that? In most TV shows/movies/whatever there's always a long standoff and then death. But no! Mal freaking shoots the guy with no provocation. It was beautiful.
A recent, sudden conversion: a friend gives me Jagged Little Pill—you know, Alanis Morisette's breakthrough album. I sort of took for granted that she was awesome, because I'd never actually listened to her before. So I stick the CD in, and she's singing, and I'm thinking, "Okay, weird voice, good lyrics..." Then I get to that part in "All I Really Want," the very first track, when she goes, "Why are you so petrified of silence?/Here, can you handle this," and plays about two seconds of silence.
Holy crap. That's just so amazing. Ima go make an "ALANIS 4EVA" shirt now. (Not. But STILL!)
Okay I really have to go to class now.
In Firefly, the concept was pretty original and sound. I was in to it just because it was a) created by Joss Whedon and b) had a really really cool setting. But then Mal walks up and headshots the fed. I might have fainted. I mean, who does that? In most TV shows/movies/whatever there's always a long standoff and then death. But no! Mal freaking shoots the guy with no provocation. It was beautiful.
A recent, sudden conversion: a friend gives me Jagged Little Pill—you know, Alanis Morisette's breakthrough album. I sort of took for granted that she was awesome, because I'd never actually listened to her before. So I stick the CD in, and she's singing, and I'm thinking, "Okay, weird voice, good lyrics..." Then I get to that part in "All I Really Want," the very first track, when she goes, "Why are you so petrified of silence?/Here, can you handle this," and plays about two seconds of silence.
Holy crap. That's just so amazing. Ima go make an "ALANIS 4EVA" shirt now. (Not. But STILL!)
Okay I really have to go to class now.
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