It's one of the worst places to be. You're in this empty, colorless room with four walls and a ceiling that aren't really there, except they're so tangible it's as if they actually are. And you wait and wait and wait for something to happen because it's either not time yet to proceed in certain directions or you've tried to proceed in others and they haven't worked out and you don't know how to go about trying again. And you feel discouraged from trying again. Except how can you be beaten? You're 22 years old. Are you going to be defeated that easily? You've barely made an impression on life yet and already you feel like you're not going to get anywhere. What happened to being hopeful? What happened to seeing possibilities?
Except it feels like whenever possibilities float up ahead, close enough to see them but too far to touch them, if you try to touch them, they disappear. "Not for you!" they tease as they bounce away. No, not for you.
So then what are you to do? Pick yourself up? But how? Where are you to turn next? You want to get out of this stifling, suffocating waiting room but you just don't know how. You can't stand to wait any longer! You pound on the walls and kick them and beat against them and cry out for someone to show you the way outside, because you've looked but you can't find it. And you sink down in a corner and hide your face, afraid, hiding from the idea that you could be stuck in there forever.
And all along a little voice buzzes in your ear saying, "you have the power to get out, you know." But you swat at it in frustration because you don't know how to have the power to get out. What does that mean? What are you meant to do?
You know that somehow it's your own fault you're stuck there, but you don't know how to fix it. How do you fix it?
Showing posts with label ramblings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ramblings. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
What Happens When...
You have two midterms the day after you get back from Israel?
...Ouch.
There is this odd thrill in going in to take a test without preparing for it. Sure, sure, I've tried to study. I can't focus. My head is too foggy. It's too foggy for me to feel properly stressed, too, which is a good thing. Part of me is still in Israel, part of me is still stuck on an airplane (when you've got two big airplane trips in such close proximity to each other, you just sort of always think you're on an airplane. I thought I was still on the plane today while in the caf. I didn't want to eat anything because I felt too claustrophobic from the plane), and part of me is back in school wondering why I feel so confused and disoriented.
It's sort of like I stepped out of the world for a few days and now I'm back.
Hello everyone!
...Ouch.
There is this odd thrill in going in to take a test without preparing for it. Sure, sure, I've tried to study. I can't focus. My head is too foggy. It's too foggy for me to feel properly stressed, too, which is a good thing. Part of me is still in Israel, part of me is still stuck on an airplane (when you've got two big airplane trips in such close proximity to each other, you just sort of always think you're on an airplane. I thought I was still on the plane today while in the caf. I didn't want to eat anything because I felt too claustrophobic from the plane), and part of me is back in school wondering why I feel so confused and disoriented.
It's sort of like I stepped out of the world for a few days and now I'm back.
Hello everyone!
Monday, December 8, 2008
The Book Of Over-Think
Warning: This post is an inherent contradiction.
Calvin's brought the whole "caring too much about things" thing to an opposite extreme. See, it's not good to over-think a situation, but it's not good not to think at all.
The statement above might sound random to you. That's because I spent way too much time thinking about this post (it's been sitting in the drafts for about a week) and, seeing that there was no way to begin at any sort of beginning, I began in the middle. It's an age-old concept dating back to Homer (or is it Horace? Does it matter?) called in medias res, but if you walk around saying that, people might think you're an intellectual. Now, there's nothing wrong with being an intellectual, per se, but it all depends on how you'd like to come across, and I find that if one is too intellectual and goes around talking about people like Homer and Horace and not getting them all muddled up (not like anyone else'd know the difference) and speaking in Latin - asum thusum - what was I saying, again?
Oh yes. Caring too much. Over-thinking. Theorizing. Thesee-izing (that's coming up with a thesis plus a few to make it plural - or thesi - or thesii - or any neologism thou wishest).
I said something in my Literature and Philosophy class (yes, that is the name of one class, not two, despite the many confusions people have had when I've mentioned it before) which was considered "brilliant" or a "breakthrough" or, if you like, "seeing things our way now." It was this: "When the prejudices of the 'I' get in the way, you're not giving something itself proper attention, you're just giving attention to what you project onto the thing."
The reaction when these words slipped accidentally out of my mouth (although I had written them down on the side of an article beforehand) was that of a cult opening its arms wide and embracing me with an emphatic, "come join our side, soul-that-is-no-longer-wayward!"
And yet, despite my reluctance to join the dark side, I see that it is perhaps not as dark as I would have liked it to be. Because if it truly was that dark, then I'd stand with my hands on my hips in triumph, brandishing my brilliant arguments with pride and always coming out one step above (like on a staircase, which is certainly more prestigious an accomplishment than being one step ahead on a path, which takes much less energy and skill, unless 'twas a rocky path, in which case I shall consent to being one step ahead, although preferrably also above, on a rock, because the higher you are, the more you can see, and the more strategic your position, you know). But since it is not dark at all, but actually quite sensical, I find myself painfully admitting that perhaps I was ***** (for those not used to this game yet, I mean "wrong" but since I'd not like to say it, I won't). According to a philosopher we read in class, and according to the person who wrote about her, "'Something in our soul has a far more violent repugnance for true attention than the flesh has for bodily fatigue.' The repugnance Weil [pronounced 'vay,' not 'whale,' just so you won't sound as stupid saying her name out loud for the first time as I did] has in mind here is the ego's reluctance to engage in scrupulous self-criticism, since such criticism has a tendency to humiliate, to shatter the ego's pride and vanity." So, you know, we don't like to self-criticize because it makes us feel like we're being criticized (gee) and this hurts our ego. Blah blah.
Somehow I'd like to segue into this point:
That one should not approach a situation with a thesis. One should evaluate each situation as its own entity and not try to "figure things out" or "discover anything." People should not be treated as a mystery to be solved, nor should their actions be, nor should any situation one stumbles upon. As a wise person I sometimes come across says, "it is what it is 'cause it is," yeah?
Douglas Adams, in his book Mostly Harmless says, "Anything that happens, happens. Anything that, in happening, causes something else to happen, causes something else to happen. Anything that, in happening, causes itself to happen again, happens again. It doesn't necessarily do it in chronological order, though."
Now, that is odd, because how can all that not happen in chronological order? But perhaps this is not worth philosophizing over because that is not the point at all. The point is that anything that happens, happens, and it happens without being thesis-ized over.
And now, to throw on the cloak of an intellectual, I will say that there is something I cannot understand about Wiggenstien's The Blue Book. He says, "What is the meaning of a word?" Then he explains that to give a word definitions is not necessarily saying what the word means. His example is with a pencil. About a pencil one may say, "this is a pencil" or "this is round" or "this is wood" or "this is one" or "this is hard" and so on and so forth. These are all ways one might define or describe a pencil, but to know what a pencil is is to be able to differentiate it from, for instance, a pen. And to know what to do with it. Etc, etc, etc.
Yet aren't these all intuitive? Don't we understand this concept without having to put it into words and analyze it? What is the real point in this essay? To tell us what we already know?
But yes! Wiggenstien admits in his Philosophical Investigations, "the problems are solved, not by giving new information, but by arranging what we have always known."
My teacher, to quote: Philosophy is not in the business of discovering something new about the world.
HA!
But then why? Why learn philosophy? How is philosophy not synonymous with "over-thinking?"
This conversation with a friend, according to that friend, "was such a Calvin&Hobbes strip," and so we come full circle:
"Calvin": sometimes I wonder if people spend a lot of their lives wasting time mulling over things that are obvious
"Hobbes": you mean like that? :)
"Calvin": oh shut up
Calvin's brought the whole "caring too much about things" thing to an opposite extreme. See, it's not good to over-think a situation, but it's not good not to think at all.
The statement above might sound random to you. That's because I spent way too much time thinking about this post (it's been sitting in the drafts for about a week) and, seeing that there was no way to begin at any sort of beginning, I began in the middle. It's an age-old concept dating back to Homer (or is it Horace? Does it matter?) called in medias res, but if you walk around saying that, people might think you're an intellectual. Now, there's nothing wrong with being an intellectual, per se, but it all depends on how you'd like to come across, and I find that if one is too intellectual and goes around talking about people like Homer and Horace and not getting them all muddled up (not like anyone else'd know the difference) and speaking in Latin - asum thusum - what was I saying, again?
Oh yes. Caring too much. Over-thinking. Theorizing. Thesee-izing (that's coming up with a thesis plus a few to make it plural - or thesi - or thesii - or any neologism thou wishest).
I said something in my Literature and Philosophy class (yes, that is the name of one class, not two, despite the many confusions people have had when I've mentioned it before) which was considered "brilliant" or a "breakthrough" or, if you like, "seeing things our way now." It was this: "When the prejudices of the 'I' get in the way, you're not giving something itself proper attention, you're just giving attention to what you project onto the thing."
The reaction when these words slipped accidentally out of my mouth (although I had written them down on the side of an article beforehand) was that of a cult opening its arms wide and embracing me with an emphatic, "come join our side, soul-that-is-no-longer-wayward!"
And yet, despite my reluctance to join the dark side, I see that it is perhaps not as dark as I would have liked it to be. Because if it truly was that dark, then I'd stand with my hands on my hips in triumph, brandishing my brilliant arguments with pride and always coming out one step above (like on a staircase, which is certainly more prestigious an accomplishment than being one step ahead on a path, which takes much less energy and skill, unless 'twas a rocky path, in which case I shall consent to being one step ahead, although preferrably also above, on a rock, because the higher you are, the more you can see, and the more strategic your position, you know). But since it is not dark at all, but actually quite sensical, I find myself painfully admitting that perhaps I was ***** (for those not used to this game yet, I mean "wrong" but since I'd not like to say it, I won't). According to a philosopher we read in class, and according to the person who wrote about her, "'Something in our soul has a far more violent repugnance for true attention than the flesh has for bodily fatigue.' The repugnance Weil [pronounced 'vay,' not 'whale,' just so you won't sound as stupid saying her name out loud for the first time as I did] has in mind here is the ego's reluctance to engage in scrupulous self-criticism, since such criticism has a tendency to humiliate, to shatter the ego's pride and vanity." So, you know, we don't like to self-criticize because it makes us feel like we're being criticized (gee) and this hurts our ego. Blah blah.
Somehow I'd like to segue into this point:
That one should not approach a situation with a thesis. One should evaluate each situation as its own entity and not try to "figure things out" or "discover anything." People should not be treated as a mystery to be solved, nor should their actions be, nor should any situation one stumbles upon. As a wise person I sometimes come across says, "it is what it is 'cause it is," yeah?
Douglas Adams, in his book Mostly Harmless says, "Anything that happens, happens. Anything that, in happening, causes something else to happen, causes something else to happen. Anything that, in happening, causes itself to happen again, happens again. It doesn't necessarily do it in chronological order, though."
Now, that is odd, because how can all that not happen in chronological order? But perhaps this is not worth philosophizing over because that is not the point at all. The point is that anything that happens, happens, and it happens without being thesis-ized over.
And now, to throw on the cloak of an intellectual, I will say that there is something I cannot understand about Wiggenstien's The Blue Book. He says, "What is the meaning of a word?" Then he explains that to give a word definitions is not necessarily saying what the word means. His example is with a pencil. About a pencil one may say, "this is a pencil" or "this is round" or "this is wood" or "this is one" or "this is hard" and so on and so forth. These are all ways one might define or describe a pencil, but to know what a pencil is is to be able to differentiate it from, for instance, a pen. And to know what to do with it. Etc, etc, etc.
Yet aren't these all intuitive? Don't we understand this concept without having to put it into words and analyze it? What is the real point in this essay? To tell us what we already know?
But yes! Wiggenstien admits in his Philosophical Investigations, "the problems are solved, not by giving new information, but by arranging what we have always known."
My teacher, to quote: Philosophy is not in the business of discovering something new about the world.
HA!
But then why? Why learn philosophy? How is philosophy not synonymous with "over-thinking?"
This conversation with a friend, according to that friend, "was such a Calvin&Hobbes strip," and so we come full circle:
"Calvin": sometimes I wonder if people spend a lot of their lives wasting time mulling over things that are obvious
"Hobbes": you mean like that? :)
"Calvin": oh shut up
Thursday, November 20, 2008
The Perfectionist
Even this, even now, I can't write. There is this blockage to everything I once knew how to do. Because suddenly, one day, I came down with a plague - Perfection. And if it's not perfect, then I'm terrible at it. If a single sentence is extraneous, if something doesn't sound right, if the writing is only okay, if it needs to be edited still further and further and further and further and further and further and--
Then I can't. I can't do it. Then I don't want it. And I know nothing can be perfect. I can never make it perfect. So then I don't want it. Even though I do. I really, really do. But I can't stand it not being perfect. I can't stand the way every single tiny ugly imperfection glares at me, scratches at me screeching like sharp nails on a blackboard, makes me cringe and wince with discomfort because it's so very, very wrong.
Then I can't. I can't do it. Then I don't want it. And I know nothing can be perfect. I can never make it perfect. So then I don't want it. Even though I do. I really, really do. But I can't stand it not being perfect. I can't stand the way every single tiny ugly imperfection glares at me, scratches at me screeching like sharp nails on a blackboard, makes me cringe and wince with discomfort because it's so very, very wrong.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Full Of Contradictions
Today/night I am:
1. Exhausted
2. Too restless to sleep
3. Too hot
4. Kinda chilly
5. Quite thirsty
6. Don't have an appetite to drink anything
And, scarily, for someone who hates taking naps - I took two today.
I am all mixed-up.
1. Exhausted
2. Too restless to sleep
3. Too hot
4. Kinda chilly
5. Quite thirsty
6. Don't have an appetite to drink anything
And, scarily, for someone who hates taking naps - I took two today.
I am all mixed-up.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Man as an island
Do you ever feel like you're an island? That you exist in a world entirely of your own and while other people flit around it, no one else truly enters inside? I feel that way sometimes. Sometimes it's like no one else truly understands me or has faith in who I am. Sometimes it's like no one else really cares, but only acts like they do because that's what people are supposed to act like. Sometimes it's like there are two worlds: the external world in which everyone exists and the internal world, the one inside your head, where the only inhabitant is you. And isn't it so frustrating when you know something about yourself that others misunderstand? And isn't it even more frustrating when others assume things about you that just aren't true? And the absolute worst - when someone you consider a good friend suddenly doesn't act like one (and no, I'm not talking about any of my blog readers that I know about, don't worry!). That's when you feel most like an island, because you invited that person into your world and then they betrayed that relationship and now you are alone again, back to your isolated self, because maybe that's what we all are, at the end of the day. Islands.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
The Not Much Syndrome
We've all got it. The Not Much Syndrome. That socially serious disease which causes us to respond, "not much" every time we're asked, "what's up?"
It's become almost required to begin a conversation:
"Hey!"
"Oh, hey! What's up?"
"Not much, you?"
"Not much."
Pause.
"So anyway,..."
Why do we do it? Why do we say 'not much' when that just can't be true? Something is always up. It may not be something drastic, but it could be something as simple as, "I had an awesome day today" or "I have so much reading to do tonight." Is it out of habit that we simply reply 'not much?' Or is it something else? Is it because we're afraid? Is there this fear that people just don't care about our lives? About the little things that happen to us? Is there an insecurity that we're just not interesting? That something's only 'up' if it's big news?
I say 'not much' all the time, but I want to try to stop. In order to have normal conversations with people, we have to have actual answers for the 'what's up?' question! Simply 'not much' isn't going to do it. I feel like such a boring person every time I answer 'not much.' Last night, Ezzie kept on asking me, "so, what's up?" and every time I said "not much" and he kept asking. After a while, I started searching for real answers. Oh, yes, my teacher canceled class today. That's an answer.
There is always an answer. We don't live our lives in a bubble. We interact. Things happen to us - even little things. But they are all important and, believe it or not, someone who's really your friend does want to hear those little things. It's what keeps the friendship alive and interesting. Not every discussion has to have enormous weight. It can be frivolous, sometimes. It can be simple. It can be about every day events.
I think it's time we broke out of the Not Much Syndrome.
It's become almost required to begin a conversation:
"Hey!"
"Oh, hey! What's up?"
"Not much, you?"
"Not much."
Pause.
"So anyway,..."
Why do we do it? Why do we say 'not much' when that just can't be true? Something is always up. It may not be something drastic, but it could be something as simple as, "I had an awesome day today" or "I have so much reading to do tonight." Is it out of habit that we simply reply 'not much?' Or is it something else? Is it because we're afraid? Is there this fear that people just don't care about our lives? About the little things that happen to us? Is there an insecurity that we're just not interesting? That something's only 'up' if it's big news?
I say 'not much' all the time, but I want to try to stop. In order to have normal conversations with people, we have to have actual answers for the 'what's up?' question! Simply 'not much' isn't going to do it. I feel like such a boring person every time I answer 'not much.' Last night, Ezzie kept on asking me, "so, what's up?" and every time I said "not much" and he kept asking. After a while, I started searching for real answers. Oh, yes, my teacher canceled class today. That's an answer.
There is always an answer. We don't live our lives in a bubble. We interact. Things happen to us - even little things. But they are all important and, believe it or not, someone who's really your friend does want to hear those little things. It's what keeps the friendship alive and interesting. Not every discussion has to have enormous weight. It can be frivolous, sometimes. It can be simple. It can be about every day events.
I think it's time we broke out of the Not Much Syndrome.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Heroism
I really should be getting to bed, but now I'm all inspired to write about this after procrastinating on gchat with Ezzie.
I want to be a hero. I want to be like Frodo Baggins or Harry Potter or Peter Pan or Mikey Walsh or any of them. I want to be the one to brandish my sword at the dragon and steal his horde of treasure and destroy the ring of power and break the spell and kill Voldemort and save the world. I have this naive idealism that there is some way to do it. I never lost this belief that I, Erachet, am going to be the one to destroy evil and save everyone, that I will be exalted as the hero, that I will go on adventures and persevere and restore order to the universe. Because that's what a hero does. A hero goes to a disordered world, has a series of adventures, comes face to face with evil, destroys it and restores order. The hero then returns with a prize of some sort.
I want this to be me.
And why can't it be me? Why can I not do this?
This world is so disorderly - is it even possible to restore order to it?
People say, write letters to the government, go to rallies, recycle, save the whales. But this does not do it for me. None of these things make me, personally, feel like a hero. I want to do something real, something big, something that actually makes a real difference that I can actually see and on a much larger scale.
But I have no ring of power to destroy. I don't know of any dragons. There is no Captain Hook, and even if there was, I am not in a position to be the one to go after him.
I am a regular girl from a regular town and a regular family and I don't possess any special talents or abilities or strengths.
So how can I be a hero? A real hero? Who has adventures and saves the whole world?
Because I really believe that I can. I really believe that I will, one day. But some little voice inside of me is trying to make me see, the world is not that simple. It's not that black and white. And you are not that special.
But I want to be.
I want to be a hero. I want to be like Frodo Baggins or Harry Potter or Peter Pan or Mikey Walsh or any of them. I want to be the one to brandish my sword at the dragon and steal his horde of treasure and destroy the ring of power and break the spell and kill Voldemort and save the world. I have this naive idealism that there is some way to do it. I never lost this belief that I, Erachet, am going to be the one to destroy evil and save everyone, that I will be exalted as the hero, that I will go on adventures and persevere and restore order to the universe. Because that's what a hero does. A hero goes to a disordered world, has a series of adventures, comes face to face with evil, destroys it and restores order. The hero then returns with a prize of some sort.
I want this to be me.
And why can't it be me? Why can I not do this?
This world is so disorderly - is it even possible to restore order to it?
People say, write letters to the government, go to rallies, recycle, save the whales. But this does not do it for me. None of these things make me, personally, feel like a hero. I want to do something real, something big, something that actually makes a real difference that I can actually see and on a much larger scale.
But I have no ring of power to destroy. I don't know of any dragons. There is no Captain Hook, and even if there was, I am not in a position to be the one to go after him.
I am a regular girl from a regular town and a regular family and I don't possess any special talents or abilities or strengths.
So how can I be a hero? A real hero? Who has adventures and saves the whole world?
Because I really believe that I can. I really believe that I will, one day. But some little voice inside of me is trying to make me see, the world is not that simple. It's not that black and white. And you are not that special.
But I want to be.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Perseverance
I love this monologue by Sam Gamgee in The Two Towers movie:
And you can watch it here:
This monologue really wields a sort of power which human beings through the ages have brought forth in order to persevere. This talk of courage, of finding good in the midst of evil, of really having hope that there will be a way to succeed, even if it is not clear today and even if it is not clear tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after. We have to keep fighting, because if we give up, if we give in, then we lose not only in the struggle but in our own faith, our own strength. People sometimes forget, this world can have a bright future. We just have to bring it about. And this applies not only to world struggles but also to our own, personal ones. It applies to everything we have to work for, everything that's a fight, a struggle. We just have to believe that the end is there, it's there somewhere in the future, and every small battle we overcome, every bit of writer's block or sleepless night or bureaucracy that we get past is yet one more step closer toward our goal, toward the end, toward the prize.
But...but I have a problem with this. I like this idea, but in those stories Sam refers to - even in his own story - there's always a way to take away the power of evil. Whether it is melting a witch or killing a pirate or breaking a spell or destroying a magic ring. But today, in real life, there is never just one thing that will fix everything else. There is no ring of power to destroy, there are no horcruxes to demolish, there is no spell to break or witch to melt or magic object to find. The world is so much more complex than that. The problems of the world don't have such easy, black and white answers. So how can we fix them? They are like weeds, you start to cut them down from one side and they spring up in new places that you cannot get to. So what is there to do? Why can we not just have a ring of power and be done with it? Why does it always have to be so complex...and how can Sam's speech apply when we don't have the key to destroying evil the way he and Frodo do?
If I seem to be contradictory here, this is because I like to be rather contrary - or maybe it's because I see both sides and don't know which one to take.
Sam: It’s all wrong. By rights we shouldn’t even be here. But we are. It’s like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo—the ones that really mattered… full of darkness and danger they were. And sometimes you didn’t want to know the end, because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? but in the end, it’s only a passing thing. Even darkness will pass—a new day will come. And when the sun shines, it will shine all the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you and meant something, even if you were too small to understand why. But I think I do understand—I know now. The folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back. Only they didn’t—they kept going, because they were holding onto something.
Frodo: What are we holding onto, Sam?
Sam: That there’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo. And it’s worth fighting for.
And you can watch it here:
This monologue really wields a sort of power which human beings through the ages have brought forth in order to persevere. This talk of courage, of finding good in the midst of evil, of really having hope that there will be a way to succeed, even if it is not clear today and even if it is not clear tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after. We have to keep fighting, because if we give up, if we give in, then we lose not only in the struggle but in our own faith, our own strength. People sometimes forget, this world can have a bright future. We just have to bring it about. And this applies not only to world struggles but also to our own, personal ones. It applies to everything we have to work for, everything that's a fight, a struggle. We just have to believe that the end is there, it's there somewhere in the future, and every small battle we overcome, every bit of writer's block or sleepless night or bureaucracy that we get past is yet one more step closer toward our goal, toward the end, toward the prize.
But...but I have a problem with this. I like this idea, but in those stories Sam refers to - even in his own story - there's always a way to take away the power of evil. Whether it is melting a witch or killing a pirate or breaking a spell or destroying a magic ring. But today, in real life, there is never just one thing that will fix everything else. There is no ring of power to destroy, there are no horcruxes to demolish, there is no spell to break or witch to melt or magic object to find. The world is so much more complex than that. The problems of the world don't have such easy, black and white answers. So how can we fix them? They are like weeds, you start to cut them down from one side and they spring up in new places that you cannot get to. So what is there to do? Why can we not just have a ring of power and be done with it? Why does it always have to be so complex...and how can Sam's speech apply when we don't have the key to destroying evil the way he and Frodo do?
If I seem to be contradictory here, this is because I like to be rather contrary - or maybe it's because I see both sides and don't know which one to take.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
"Just because you've got the emotional range of a teaspoon, Ron, doesn't mean we all have."
Chana wrote in her post, "In other news, I have recently been termed a Litvak, someone's hero and informed that I am a lower junior. Today's been peculiar."
So yesterday, I was called an English Major and I was told I was acting like Hermione. This made me happy because I do love Hermione, except I ALSO love Ron and I ALSO love Ginny and, man, I'd LOVE to be a Weasley! But I supposed Hermione's good, too.
In other random news, I went to Duane Reade to get medicine and this was the bill:
Puffs tissues - $2.59
Vicks 44 cough syrup - $6.49
Nyquil - $7.99
A little tiny bottle of eyedrops - $10.99!?!?!?!?!?!?!
What? Is this country having a shortage of eyedrops or something? THERE IS NO WAY THAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN THE MOST EXPENSIVE THING I BOUGHT TODAY. AND THERE IS NO WAY EYEDROPS SHOULD COST ELEVEN DOLLARS.
End rant.
So yesterday, I was called an English Major and I was told I was acting like Hermione. This made me happy because I do love Hermione, except I ALSO love Ron and I ALSO love Ginny and, man, I'd LOVE to be a Weasley! But I supposed Hermione's good, too.
In other random news, I went to Duane Reade to get medicine and this was the bill:
Puffs tissues - $2.59
Vicks 44 cough syrup - $6.49
Nyquil - $7.99
A little tiny bottle of eyedrops - $10.99!?!?!?!?!?!?!
What? Is this country having a shortage of eyedrops or something? THERE IS NO WAY THAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN THE MOST EXPENSIVE THING I BOUGHT TODAY. AND THERE IS NO WAY EYEDROPS SHOULD COST ELEVEN DOLLARS.
End rant.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Mind the Gap
Mind the Gap.
Everyone is saying it. The subways, the LIRR, the London Underground. And why? Why do they feel this constant need to remind us to mind the gap? Do not be misled - it is not because there is an actual, physical gap between the train and the platform. Oh, no. Not at all.
It is because "mind the gap" is a very important philosophy of life.
Whenever you start something, anything, there is always a gap you must hop across - carefully, of course. There is always a bridge, always a pathway towards your new destination, always a doorway, a threshold, a gap that needs minding.
Always.
You do not simply glide from one experience to the next. You mind gaps. You may think I'm crazy, you may think I'm writing this at two in the morning (uh, well, erm, *cough*), but what I'm saying is truth. TRUTH.
So the next time you're travelling and the voice comes over the intercom and says, "when you exit the train, please mind the gap between the train and the platform," you'll know they're not just talking about the space between, well, the train and the platform. They're talking about all gaps. All thresholds. All intermediary periods along our life-journey where we must grow and adjust and reach and, finally, achieve.
So before I go to sleep, I leave you with this.
MIND THE GAP.
Everyone is saying it. The subways, the LIRR, the London Underground. And why? Why do they feel this constant need to remind us to mind the gap? Do not be misled - it is not because there is an actual, physical gap between the train and the platform. Oh, no. Not at all.
It is because "mind the gap" is a very important philosophy of life.
Whenever you start something, anything, there is always a gap you must hop across - carefully, of course. There is always a bridge, always a pathway towards your new destination, always a doorway, a threshold, a gap that needs minding.
Always.
You do not simply glide from one experience to the next. You mind gaps. You may think I'm crazy, you may think I'm writing this at two in the morning (uh, well, erm, *cough*), but what I'm saying is truth. TRUTH.
So the next time you're travelling and the voice comes over the intercom and says, "when you exit the train, please mind the gap between the train and the platform," you'll know they're not just talking about the space between, well, the train and the platform. They're talking about all gaps. All thresholds. All intermediary periods along our life-journey where we must grow and adjust and reach and, finally, achieve.
So before I go to sleep, I leave you with this.
MIND THE GAP.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Eavesdropper
I am an eavesdropper.
I can't help this about myself. I'm naturally curious. If two people are having a conversation nearby and I can hear every word of it, unless it's something I feel uncomfortable hearing, I don't try to tune it out. I'm interested in other people's lives. Not boring stuff, obviously. But interesting stories. And I'm especially interested in hearing about other people talk about people I know. I guess I'm more interested in that than in random people's lives. It's people I know who I love hearing about. Like, there was one time in high school when I was sitting in the library and a group of girls nearby started talking about my brother. I listened to every word.
It isn't like I go out of my way to eavesdrop. It's just that I don't go out of my way not to. I know that doesn't make it any better, but if I wanted to rationalize it, I could always point out that if they're not being careful about where they're talking or how loudly they're speaking, it isn't my fault I overheard, right?
I know, I know, that's the wrong attitude. I should be more careful, more considerate, more thoughtful. It is one of my weaknesses. I am uncomfortable speaking lashon hara, but I am not as uncomfortable hearing it. I wish I was. I wish I had better self control about these things. I don't like to gossip. I think gossip is a revolting sport. But some part of me enjoys hearing other people gossip. Or not even gossip. Just talk. I like hearing people tell stories about themselves, about other people, things like that.
I don't know what I'm trying to do here - justify it, maybe. But, well, everyone's got some part of themselves they need to work on. This is mine.
I can't help this about myself. I'm naturally curious. If two people are having a conversation nearby and I can hear every word of it, unless it's something I feel uncomfortable hearing, I don't try to tune it out. I'm interested in other people's lives. Not boring stuff, obviously. But interesting stories. And I'm especially interested in hearing about other people talk about people I know. I guess I'm more interested in that than in random people's lives. It's people I know who I love hearing about. Like, there was one time in high school when I was sitting in the library and a group of girls nearby started talking about my brother. I listened to every word.
It isn't like I go out of my way to eavesdrop. It's just that I don't go out of my way not to. I know that doesn't make it any better, but if I wanted to rationalize it, I could always point out that if they're not being careful about where they're talking or how loudly they're speaking, it isn't my fault I overheard, right?
I know, I know, that's the wrong attitude. I should be more careful, more considerate, more thoughtful. It is one of my weaknesses. I am uncomfortable speaking lashon hara, but I am not as uncomfortable hearing it. I wish I was. I wish I had better self control about these things. I don't like to gossip. I think gossip is a revolting sport. But some part of me enjoys hearing other people gossip. Or not even gossip. Just talk. I like hearing people tell stories about themselves, about other people, things like that.
I don't know what I'm trying to do here - justify it, maybe. But, well, everyone's got some part of themselves they need to work on. This is mine.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Privacy: the best policy?
I was thinking recently about the difference between keeping a public blog like this one and keeping a private diary. So many people keep blogs nowadays for the entire cyberspace to stumble upon and read, and there are plenty of pretty private posts out there. I know I've got a few, like the ones I wrote about Dr. Schwebel. So why didn't I just write them in a private diary? Why did I write them for the world to see?
Why does anyone write about their thoughts and feelings in public? Is it because of the hope for replies? Is it because we crave human connection? Because, honestly, although it is the internet, people reveal so much more about their inner selves in writing than they do in person. At least, sometimes. I find that I learn a lot about the way people think by reading what they write.
The draw towards keeping a private diary is, of course, that it is private. There's no need to censor yourself, no fear that someone is going to judge you based on something you write in anger or frustration or pure emotional overload. You can be completely honest with yourself.
But with a private diary, there is no hope for human connection. No one is learning anything about you and no one can offer you comfort, advice, kinship, nothing. So then - is a blog entry a cry for attention? And not in a bad way, but in a way that says, I need a friend right now, please know this about me. Of course, I don't mean non-personal entries. I'm talking about the deep ones, the philosophical ones, the emotional ones. It is like we are saying, please, this is bothering me, let's discuss it. Or, I am upset, please reassure me.
I think we write blog entries when we specifically want people to know what we think, how we are feeling - we are on purpose making them public. We need that human connection. We need to know we are not alone.
And yet sometimes -- sometimes it is better to keep things private. Sometimes certain thoughts and emotions should not be shared with the world. There is definitely a line about what you plaster across the internet, what you share with a few close friends, and what you share only with yourself. And if we find that line, if we find that balance, then that is a very healthy thing.
Why does anyone write about their thoughts and feelings in public? Is it because of the hope for replies? Is it because we crave human connection? Because, honestly, although it is the internet, people reveal so much more about their inner selves in writing than they do in person. At least, sometimes. I find that I learn a lot about the way people think by reading what they write.
The draw towards keeping a private diary is, of course, that it is private. There's no need to censor yourself, no fear that someone is going to judge you based on something you write in anger or frustration or pure emotional overload. You can be completely honest with yourself.
But with a private diary, there is no hope for human connection. No one is learning anything about you and no one can offer you comfort, advice, kinship, nothing. So then - is a blog entry a cry for attention? And not in a bad way, but in a way that says, I need a friend right now, please know this about me. Of course, I don't mean non-personal entries. I'm talking about the deep ones, the philosophical ones, the emotional ones. It is like we are saying, please, this is bothering me, let's discuss it. Or, I am upset, please reassure me.
I think we write blog entries when we specifically want people to know what we think, how we are feeling - we are on purpose making them public. We need that human connection. We need to know we are not alone.
And yet sometimes -- sometimes it is better to keep things private. Sometimes certain thoughts and emotions should not be shared with the world. There is definitely a line about what you plaster across the internet, what you share with a few close friends, and what you share only with yourself. And if we find that line, if we find that balance, then that is a very healthy thing.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Lightening and Thunder and Rain - Oh My!
I love storms. Well, I love rain in general, but I especially love torrential rain with pounding thunder and sharp streaks of lightening. I'm not sure why. I think it's the energy. And while I do love being outside in the rain and enjoying it, what I love most about storms is being warm and cozy inside while all the craziness is happening outside. I love getting into pajamas and a sweatshirt and curling up on the couch with a book or sitting at the table with hot chocolate and...and pancakes! Haha, not really pancakes, but that would be awesome. And, anyway, and basically just enjoying the stormy day and taking it easy and enjoying being warm and dry while the rest of the world is drenched in a deafening tempest. I actually enjoy jumping every time there's a surprise crack of thunder. Okay, not while I'm trying to sleep at night, but if it's early enough - like it was today - and everyone's still awake and we can all laugh at how loud it is outside. Doesn't it sound like Hashem's going bowling up there or something?
And I find blackouts particularly exciting, like the blackout in the city today. Using flashlights, oooh. Bedikat chametz, anyone? Never too early to start looking!!!! Ha! Who am I kidding? I'm a chametz QUEEN. Man, I love bread. And cookies. And--and CEREAL. Yum!
Wait, why am I talking about chametz? Weird.
But I did get rather excited when I heard some subways weren't working. Why did I get excited? Well, maybe it's because I just love excitement (ugh, too much use of that word) and breaks from the day-to-day routine and since I don't have to take the subway anyway....YES. THAT'S RIGHT. I GOT EXCITED AT THE EXPENSE OF EVERYONE ELSE. SO THERE.
Aaaaanyway, yes. So I love storms. They make me happy. The end. =D
And I find blackouts particularly exciting, like the blackout in the city today. Using flashlights, oooh. Bedikat chametz, anyone? Never too early to start looking!!!! Ha! Who am I kidding? I'm a chametz QUEEN. Man, I love bread. And cookies. And--and CEREAL. Yum!
Wait, why am I talking about chametz? Weird.
But I did get rather excited when I heard some subways weren't working. Why did I get excited? Well, maybe it's because I just love excitement (ugh, too much use of that word) and breaks from the day-to-day routine and since I don't have to take the subway anyway....YES. THAT'S RIGHT. I GOT EXCITED AT THE EXPENSE OF EVERYONE ELSE. SO THERE.
Aaaaanyway, yes. So I love storms. They make me happy. The end. =D
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Rising to Potential
In light of Chana's most recent post, I would like to comment on the difference between being thought smart and actually being smart. I don't know how many people have actually thought about this or considered being a part of the thought-smart category, but it's something I know all too well.
When I was in elementary school, I was smart. I was. I can't remember not knowing how to read, but I do remember when the rest of the class was learning. I remember that I already knew how. I didn't need the letter books. I didn't need the readers. I was already reading books at home on my own. In school, I thirsted for chapter books, especially when most of the book in our classroom library were simple picture books. During this time in my life, I always did well in school and I was seen by the other kids as part of the 'smart kids' category. But there was something wrong, something that wounded my pride, that made me feel inadequate, unnoticed, unappreciated, or just plain not good enough. There was an enrichment program originally called Project Extra and then renamed Rise. My good friends were in it. I wasn't. I wanted to be so badly, but never did any of my teachers place me in it. It was like a special club that only the smart kids could be in, but yet I was excluded. I, who was smart, who couldn't make it on my own in the classroom when the rest of my friends were at Rise. It made me secretly resentful of my friends. I hated feeling that way. I hated not being part of it. I hated being smart, but not smart enough. If I was going to be burdened with being a reader, being studious, being quick at learning, then why could I not be rewarded along with my friends? And if I wasn't going to be rewarded, then couldn't I at least be good at whatever the other kids in my class enjoyed to do? So that I could have friends when my other friends weren't in the classroom? So that I could have things to share with other students in the class?
In elementary school, we also had an annual poetry contest. This was something I wanted very badly to win. I entered a poem every year and never did I get to read mine out loud in front of the whole school during the poetry festival. And I was the writer! I was the one constantly writing stories, writing poems, playing make-believe. But I never won. Not once. There was only one moment in elementary school when I felt pride for my writing and that was when we had an actual poet come to our class. It was in fifth grade and the poet told us each to write a paragraph about something, anything we wanted. I wrote about waking up on a Sunday morning and the rush of racing down the stairs to beat my siblings to the television so I could choose what program we would watch. I remember the poet singled my paragraph out. She said it was very good and that a phrase I had written, "I fumbled for my glasses," was just the sort of phrase writers liked to use. She said it showed a sophistication in my writing. I glowed with pride.
But that was my shining moment. My only shining moment.
In sixth grade, I got the biggest shock from a teacher that I had ever gotten before. I got my first C. Now, you have to understand, not only did I not get C's in elementary school, I didn't even get B's. I mean, I was a good student. This was also the year that I'd had hepatitis, so you would think the teacher would be a bit more understanding. We had a country report which included an actual report and an oral presentation. We drew from a hat and, lucky me, I was chosen to present first. I was eleven. I had never seen an oral presentation before. I had no idea what I was supposed to do. The teacher gave a few suggestions, but I had to make most of it up on my own. I worked incredibly hard with my parents building the Eiffel Tower out of a large 3-D puzzle (I had France as my country). I learned how to play La Marseillaise, the French national anthem, on my flute (I played the flute at the time). I made posters, I gave out what I thought were little French yogurts but really ended up being cheese (no one knew until later. It was pretty funny when my mom and I figured it out). And after all that work, the teacher gave me a C on my oral. Why? Yes, many of the other presentations were more impressive than mine, but how could I have known that? I was first. And I was terrified I would do it all wrong. I didn't have the confidence to go first. I remember being horrified. An actual C.
In seventh and eight grade, I was placed in the highest level class of my grade. It was then that I started to do badly in science and not amazingly in history. What was happening to me? I was supposed to be smart! Everyone still thought I was smart. I never shared my unsatisfactory grades with anyone. Let them still think I was smart, that I was capable, that I was up to their level.
In high school, for the first time I wasn't in the honors class. I was in a class right in the middle. While for many, this would be just fine, for me it was a wound to my pride. Again, almost all my friends were in the honors class. In fact, I was barely friends with anyone in my own class. I was miserable in that class. I didn't show it; I'm quite good at hiding my feelings - at least, I like to think I am. But I was in a class with all the jappy girls who didn't want to work. They just wanted to go on tangents with the teacher about her outfit. I admit, those were ideal times for me to get some solid bit of writing done ( I wrote many a story during class in high school) but I wanted to learn. I didn't care where the teacher got her skirt from, or her shoes. And, what was worse, my real friends and I began to have less and less to talk about during school. We were having different high school experiences on a day to day basis. We couldn't study together. We couldn't talk about teachers together. It was awful.
And still, somehow, I was regarded as smart. I don't know if it's because I never goofed off in school or if it's because I sound smart when I spoke (which I highly doubt. I usually become too nervous to actually say anything very coherent. I find it much easier to express myself when I'm writing). But there it was, I was still thought of as smart. There was one time, I was in twelfth grade, when a teacher from the honors class subbed for one of my classes and she and I ended up having an intellectual debate for a good part of the forty minutes we were together. Sometime after class, she came over to me and told me she had no idea I was like that (like what? That I liked to debate? That I liked being intellectually stimulated? I still don't know exactly what she meant) and that she feels like she missed out by not teaching me. That was probably the first time in the entirety of high school that I felt proud of my performance in the classroom. And that was when I was almost up to graduation.
So even now I wonder, did I actually rise to my potential in elementary and high school? Did I really do my best? And if not, could I have been in Rise? Could I have been in the honors class? Could I have, as a result, ended up with more friends and had a better experience? Sometimes I get so angry at myself when I realize that the answer to these questions is, most probably, yes. And I don't know why I ruined it for myself. Laziness? Getting too used to being regarded as smart that I forgot to try my hardest? I don't know. I just know I'm unsatisfied with the way I've performed as a student all this time. I'm smart. I know I'm smart. It's just not as easy for me to rise to my own potential for some reason.
When I was in elementary school, I was smart. I was. I can't remember not knowing how to read, but I do remember when the rest of the class was learning. I remember that I already knew how. I didn't need the letter books. I didn't need the readers. I was already reading books at home on my own. In school, I thirsted for chapter books, especially when most of the book in our classroom library were simple picture books. During this time in my life, I always did well in school and I was seen by the other kids as part of the 'smart kids' category. But there was something wrong, something that wounded my pride, that made me feel inadequate, unnoticed, unappreciated, or just plain not good enough. There was an enrichment program originally called Project Extra and then renamed Rise. My good friends were in it. I wasn't. I wanted to be so badly, but never did any of my teachers place me in it. It was like a special club that only the smart kids could be in, but yet I was excluded. I, who was smart, who couldn't make it on my own in the classroom when the rest of my friends were at Rise. It made me secretly resentful of my friends. I hated feeling that way. I hated not being part of it. I hated being smart, but not smart enough. If I was going to be burdened with being a reader, being studious, being quick at learning, then why could I not be rewarded along with my friends? And if I wasn't going to be rewarded, then couldn't I at least be good at whatever the other kids in my class enjoyed to do? So that I could have friends when my other friends weren't in the classroom? So that I could have things to share with other students in the class?
In elementary school, we also had an annual poetry contest. This was something I wanted very badly to win. I entered a poem every year and never did I get to read mine out loud in front of the whole school during the poetry festival. And I was the writer! I was the one constantly writing stories, writing poems, playing make-believe. But I never won. Not once. There was only one moment in elementary school when I felt pride for my writing and that was when we had an actual poet come to our class. It was in fifth grade and the poet told us each to write a paragraph about something, anything we wanted. I wrote about waking up on a Sunday morning and the rush of racing down the stairs to beat my siblings to the television so I could choose what program we would watch. I remember the poet singled my paragraph out. She said it was very good and that a phrase I had written, "I fumbled for my glasses," was just the sort of phrase writers liked to use. She said it showed a sophistication in my writing. I glowed with pride.
But that was my shining moment. My only shining moment.
In sixth grade, I got the biggest shock from a teacher that I had ever gotten before. I got my first C. Now, you have to understand, not only did I not get C's in elementary school, I didn't even get B's. I mean, I was a good student. This was also the year that I'd had hepatitis, so you would think the teacher would be a bit more understanding. We had a country report which included an actual report and an oral presentation. We drew from a hat and, lucky me, I was chosen to present first. I was eleven. I had never seen an oral presentation before. I had no idea what I was supposed to do. The teacher gave a few suggestions, but I had to make most of it up on my own. I worked incredibly hard with my parents building the Eiffel Tower out of a large 3-D puzzle (I had France as my country). I learned how to play La Marseillaise, the French national anthem, on my flute (I played the flute at the time). I made posters, I gave out what I thought were little French yogurts but really ended up being cheese (no one knew until later. It was pretty funny when my mom and I figured it out). And after all that work, the teacher gave me a C on my oral. Why? Yes, many of the other presentations were more impressive than mine, but how could I have known that? I was first. And I was terrified I would do it all wrong. I didn't have the confidence to go first. I remember being horrified. An actual C.
In seventh and eight grade, I was placed in the highest level class of my grade. It was then that I started to do badly in science and not amazingly in history. What was happening to me? I was supposed to be smart! Everyone still thought I was smart. I never shared my unsatisfactory grades with anyone. Let them still think I was smart, that I was capable, that I was up to their level.
In high school, for the first time I wasn't in the honors class. I was in a class right in the middle. While for many, this would be just fine, for me it was a wound to my pride. Again, almost all my friends were in the honors class. In fact, I was barely friends with anyone in my own class. I was miserable in that class. I didn't show it; I'm quite good at hiding my feelings - at least, I like to think I am. But I was in a class with all the jappy girls who didn't want to work. They just wanted to go on tangents with the teacher about her outfit. I admit, those were ideal times for me to get some solid bit of writing done ( I wrote many a story during class in high school) but I wanted to learn. I didn't care where the teacher got her skirt from, or her shoes. And, what was worse, my real friends and I began to have less and less to talk about during school. We were having different high school experiences on a day to day basis. We couldn't study together. We couldn't talk about teachers together. It was awful.
And still, somehow, I was regarded as smart. I don't know if it's because I never goofed off in school or if it's because I sound smart when I spoke (which I highly doubt. I usually become too nervous to actually say anything very coherent. I find it much easier to express myself when I'm writing). But there it was, I was still thought of as smart. There was one time, I was in twelfth grade, when a teacher from the honors class subbed for one of my classes and she and I ended up having an intellectual debate for a good part of the forty minutes we were together. Sometime after class, she came over to me and told me she had no idea I was like that (like what? That I liked to debate? That I liked being intellectually stimulated? I still don't know exactly what she meant) and that she feels like she missed out by not teaching me. That was probably the first time in the entirety of high school that I felt proud of my performance in the classroom. And that was when I was almost up to graduation.
So even now I wonder, did I actually rise to my potential in elementary and high school? Did I really do my best? And if not, could I have been in Rise? Could I have been in the honors class? Could I have, as a result, ended up with more friends and had a better experience? Sometimes I get so angry at myself when I realize that the answer to these questions is, most probably, yes. And I don't know why I ruined it for myself. Laziness? Getting too used to being regarded as smart that I forgot to try my hardest? I don't know. I just know I'm unsatisfied with the way I've performed as a student all this time. I'm smart. I know I'm smart. It's just not as easy for me to rise to my own potential for some reason.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Mark The World
Does it ever feel like no one ever really knows you? Like you exist physically, but that you don't seem to be making a mark anywhere in the world? You go through the motions of the day, but do people actually know who you are? Do you know who you are? And not just what your label is, but who you really are, what your essence is.
There's so much I feel I don't know about myself. But more than that, or maybe because of that, I feel that people don't really know me. They think they do. They assume things, they decide things for me, "oh, Erachet, you're afraid of everything" "oh, Erachet, I know you, you're funny and cute and amusing" "oh, Erachet, you always slack off your schoolwork."
I guess there's an element of truth in all of those, but it always makes me annoyed when people say things like that. When people think they know me, and so they make statements, but really they only know a small part of me. Yes, I'm afraid of many things, but do you have any idea how many fears I've conquered? How brave I really am? How many times I force myself to do things because I know my fears are just holding me back? Is that being afraid of everything? I'm so much stronger than that, I just know I am. I'm no coward.
Yes, I can say funny things, sometimes even stupidly funny things, and yes, I'm small and some people may find that cute, but I feel so patronized at times. I can be serious. I feel serious quite often. I'm not just some child who happens to be in college. I have grown up. Sometimes people who've known me for a long time think I haven't changed at all since high school. But just look at me! I have changed! My whole perception of the world, of who I am, of who I can see myself with in the future, of what my ideals are - they've all changed to an extent. They've all matured. I've matured.
I've matured in my schoolwork, too. Yes, I'm lazy, yes, I procrastinate all the time, but I actually care about my grades now. It's sort of icky for me since I'm a procrastinator and then get upset over grades lower than what I know I can get, and not that I didn't care in high school, because I did, but I value my efforts so much more now. I'm more organized, I actually use a planner, I actually study for my tests. Old habits die hard, I'm not the most studious that I could be, but I wish I was.
So I wish people would just stop judging me based on who I was some years ago. See me for who I am now.
I wish I could open up and let people see me, really see me. I wish people could really know the true me, all of me. But at the same time, maybe it'd be frightening. I don't even know the true me. I only know bits and pieces of myself. And of those bits and pieces, even smaller bits and pieces actually get shown to the world.
It makes me feel so removed from people sometimes, to only have them know certain tiny fragments of who I really am. It makes me feel like I'm not really making an impression on anyone, let alone in the world in general. I know, I'm young, I have time to actually make my mark on the world. But still. I wish I knew how to open up more and just let myself get closer to other people. I wish I wasn't so afraid of what they'd think of me if they really saw me, the real me, or all that I know of the real me, in any case.
There's so much I feel I don't know about myself. But more than that, or maybe because of that, I feel that people don't really know me. They think they do. They assume things, they decide things for me, "oh, Erachet, you're afraid of everything" "oh, Erachet, I know you, you're funny and cute and amusing" "oh, Erachet, you always slack off your schoolwork."
I guess there's an element of truth in all of those, but it always makes me annoyed when people say things like that. When people think they know me, and so they make statements, but really they only know a small part of me. Yes, I'm afraid of many things, but do you have any idea how many fears I've conquered? How brave I really am? How many times I force myself to do things because I know my fears are just holding me back? Is that being afraid of everything? I'm so much stronger than that, I just know I am. I'm no coward.
Yes, I can say funny things, sometimes even stupidly funny things, and yes, I'm small and some people may find that cute, but I feel so patronized at times. I can be serious. I feel serious quite often. I'm not just some child who happens to be in college. I have grown up. Sometimes people who've known me for a long time think I haven't changed at all since high school. But just look at me! I have changed! My whole perception of the world, of who I am, of who I can see myself with in the future, of what my ideals are - they've all changed to an extent. They've all matured. I've matured.
I've matured in my schoolwork, too. Yes, I'm lazy, yes, I procrastinate all the time, but I actually care about my grades now. It's sort of icky for me since I'm a procrastinator and then get upset over grades lower than what I know I can get, and not that I didn't care in high school, because I did, but I value my efforts so much more now. I'm more organized, I actually use a planner, I actually study for my tests. Old habits die hard, I'm not the most studious that I could be, but I wish I was.
So I wish people would just stop judging me based on who I was some years ago. See me for who I am now.
I wish I could open up and let people see me, really see me. I wish people could really know the true me, all of me. But at the same time, maybe it'd be frightening. I don't even know the true me. I only know bits and pieces of myself. And of those bits and pieces, even smaller bits and pieces actually get shown to the world.
It makes me feel so removed from people sometimes, to only have them know certain tiny fragments of who I really am. It makes me feel like I'm not really making an impression on anyone, let alone in the world in general. I know, I'm young, I have time to actually make my mark on the world. But still. I wish I knew how to open up more and just let myself get closer to other people. I wish I wasn't so afraid of what they'd think of me if they really saw me, the real me, or all that I know of the real me, in any case.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Poemization
To Neologize: To make up a new word or a new definition for an already existing word. It is one of my goals in life to neologize at least one word and have it be in the dictionary. That would be awesome. Anyway, that totally has nothing to do with anything, except that I'm fairly sure that 'poemization' is not a real word. In any case, I have a huge French Revolution final tomorrow morning but I ALSO have to hand in my Latin final tomorrow morning and I just spent THREE HOURS translating part of Cicero's In Catilinam, which is basically a speech about how Catiline is a traitor to Rome and is therefore a very bad person and should get out of Cicero's sight. Basically. There's still a poem I have to translate but, see, since I wasted all day today doing...I'm not even sure what, I ALSO have to study for my French Revolution final tomorrow. So I decided to do that now. See, blogging is part of studying. Uh-huh. Yep. It...erm...it is.
And now, a poem, made up on the spot by, well, me.
Studying is so much fun
It should be done by everyone
Although it takes some energy
At night up keeps it all long me
That word order was out of place
But that's something you'll have to face
I feel like I'm running a race
Writing this at such a fast pace
I cannot come in at last place
For if I do I'll go to space
How many other words have 'ace?'
How long can I keep this thing up?
I think I'm wasting plates and cup
I'm not sure why, but it just rhymed
Why do I feel like this is timed?
This work has gotten very silly
But I'll still do it willy-nilly
Since once I stop I'll have to study
And I don't have a study-buddy
I guess I'll stop this nonsense now
And revolution, pow pow pow
Will have to enter my brain. Ow.
And now, a poem, made up on the spot by, well, me.
Studying is so much fun
It should be done by everyone
Although it takes some energy
At night up keeps it all long me
That word order was out of place
But that's something you'll have to face
I feel like I'm running a race
Writing this at such a fast pace
I cannot come in at last place
For if I do I'll go to space
How many other words have 'ace?'
How long can I keep this thing up?
I think I'm wasting plates and cup
I'm not sure why, but it just rhymed
Why do I feel like this is timed?
This work has gotten very silly
But I'll still do it willy-nilly
Since once I stop I'll have to study
And I don't have a study-buddy
I guess I'll stop this nonsense now
And revolution, pow pow pow
Will have to enter my brain. Ow.
Thursday, May 3, 2007
A Tribute To Today
Today is such a beautiful day! I woke up late this morning and really, really regret it. Precious hours wasted sleeping! Not only did I wake up late, but I had to spend all afternoon preparing for a paper I still have yet to write (though it is due sometime today. Yes, welcome to my life, that of the world's biggest procrastinator). Today would be a perfect day to go for a walk outside. Something I've wanted to do for a while now is to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. I have a friend who did it recently and it's such a good idea on a day like today! But, alas, I am cooped up in my room allegedly working on papers but really writing blog entries instead of said papers. But, oh the joy of today! It is sunny, I don't need a coat, the sky is clear! There are sounds of life outside my window - particularly loudly today due to construction nearby. I admit, I feel a bit plagued by the constant drones, rumbles, growls, and outright ferocious roars of the drill, but still! Tonight, when I am finished with my papers, I must do something to celebrate the beautifulness of a day like today!
I hope you are all having an AMAZING day!!! And if you are not, here is your opportunity to CHEER UP AND SMILE! =D
I hope you are all having an AMAZING day!!! And if you are not, here is your opportunity to CHEER UP AND SMILE! =D
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Up The Beanstalk: Summer Internship meets The Enter Key
I really, really wish it wasn't so hard to get an internship for the summer. Last summer I tried to get one and it didn't work out so I ended up running a backyard daycamp for three-year-olds with a good friend. Admittedly, it was one of the best summers I'd had in a while, but I really don't want to do that again. I REALLY want an internship in either a publishing house or a literary agency or anything along those lines, but nooooo. So now I don't know what to do. It's getting late and there are fewer and fewer places to apply to that I haven't applied to already. I'm just getting so discouraged. I mean, really I'd love to spend my whole summer writing, since I scarcely get the energy and will-power to write decently during school, but I also do need to do something a bit more productive, like something that will either earn me money or experience, or both, if I'm lucky. But so far I haven't been lucky at all. In fact, I'm so unlucky that my blog has stopped responding to the enter key on the keyboard so now you all have to read one long paragraph. Ah well. So on a different note, I have recently become obsessed with naming creative things, 'Up The Beanstalk.' I just thought I'd mention that, since I'm in a bit of a rambly mood. I thought of the name while thinking of a name for a literary journal, and now I'm all like, "oooh, shiny, pretty name. Must name everything 'Up The Beanstalk.' I even wrote a poem inspired by it about fairy tales. Perhaps I'll post it eventually, when I'm back at school and on my laptop and the enter key works again.
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