I haven't ever tried to write sports commentary, but it's hard to blog and not comment on sports when that's all you do in a day. I mean, I played racquetball early this morning, but that doesn't count because anything you do on a Saturday before noon is bonus activity. I ended up stopping by Andrew's dorm at 2 and he said he had just woken up.
After my morning extra credit awake time, I picked up my Chinese friend Yang from his apartment to introduce him to the aspect of American college culture called "tailgating." First I had to explain what tailgating was as he carefully documented the experience with his camera.
"Those people in purple and yellow are LSU fans," I said, pointing out some already-toasted Louisiana State supporters. "I hope we beat them."
"Me too," Yang said. "Is it okay if I take picture them?"
"You want to take a picture of them? Sure, go ahead."
He leaned out the window like the foreigner I used to be when I was in China and snapped a shot before we drove away. I introduced him to so many Americans when we got to the RUF tailgate that he gave up on any hope of remembering people's names and loosened up a bit talking about himself. We also worked out a system where I would introduce him to someone. When the person said his/her name, I would repeat it in really clear English so he would hear it better. I started doing that after one guy's name was Chuck, which Yang thought sounded identical to the word "truck." (They don't have the "tr" sound in Chinese.)
Yang and I tailgated for a while, and then when he left I stopped by the Cru tailgate and hung out with more people. Then tonight was the game we had been getting all pepped up for.
I can't decide whether I like the Associated Press summary of it or the concise, straight-up version from ESPN. Regardless, UF played an amazing game. This was an important game, since we've already lost once this season and if we had lost again tonight our season would've been over. On the other hand, LSU was ranked #3 so winning would seriously boost our pitiful 11th place. And then we won, and won by enough that Tim Tebow could sit out our last few offensive plays and let the second-string quarterback try to bring the ball in for a touchdown.
Understanding football strategy is a large part of your football experience. People who know things about football can get outraged at a ref far better than we normal fans. For them, when the ref blows the whistle for a penalty, they already know what the ref is going to call and are shouting about how it can't be true because we saw it and because we're UF and UF doesn't deserve penalties because we're awesome.
Sometimes their rhetoric gets a little shaky, but that's why we have a band who drowns them out with honor and distracts everyone until the next play with our cheers.
It's taken me several years of coming to UF games to let my mood be influenced by a football game. Now, though, if we lose I feel like I've lost, and when we won tonight I felt like I deserved to go to sleep because we had just done a great job.
Great job, Will. Now let's get some sleep.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Thursday, October 9, 2008
The Gay Guy and the Fat Girl
Today's theme is contentious, so I start with an anecdote.
I had dinner with April tonight and she asked how I was doing. "Pretty good," I said. "I late-added a Chinese class, then dropped that and another class to be able to adjust back to America better."
"I know," she said. "I read your blog."
It's tricky, this blogging thing, trying to be interesting but not so much that I'm boring in real life. I have to think deeper for people who read my blog. Just wait till you get a fake name from me, April.
Take, for example, my friend I'll call Ron. I imagine he'd be shy about hearing his real name because he this is a story about rejection, and he isn't used to it. I, on the other hand, am rejection's right hand man. Fresh off rejection, it always helps to go back to the basics, so Ron and I have been theorizing about how relationships develop. Or don't develop.
It sucks to realize that the girl you're interested in doesn't even have you on her radar. Ron and I have decided to call this being the gay guy: a different kind of male to girls. One who can be confided in, one who is nonthreatening, unarousing, removed. It's like a girl clapping for Pinocchio's performance and then laughingly skipping away with a brawny man while Pinocchio is left protesting with wooden lips, "But I'm a real boy!"
Don't take me to mean that I expect girls to flirt with every straight guy they know. I just mean that it's nice to be on a list even if you don't want to be selected. For example, consider this dialogue:
"I'm so mad at Francine."
"What for?"
"She didn't invite me to her party."
"Sharon, you're out of town that weekend."
"Yeah, but she still should have invited me."
Ron and I phrased it differently, but with the same message: each country must have some kind of a list of how much any other country is a threat. Would a country want to be a threat? Of course not, but you at least want to be considered. And even if you've had a summit at which you decide that you're not a huge threat, and are just going to be friends, at least you earned a meeting. Guys don't want to be human Switzerlands.
Then Ron and I realized that guys do it, too, stereotypically to the fat girl: you just expect her to know that she's out of the running and treat her like a bystander in the great race for a spouse. She's less than a girl.
I remember in junior high there was a girl I liked who was way too cool for me. She liked one of my friends, and I would ask her to tell me about it because I'd rather hear her talk about liking someone and pretend it was me than not hear about it and puff myself up to thinking I was under consideration.
I'm not sure if I chose the best path. Currently dispassionate me would say neither approach was good and I should've just gotten over her. But if you could just get over someone, you wouldn't need to invent explanations like Ron and I have for why it hurts.
I had dinner with April tonight and she asked how I was doing. "Pretty good," I said. "I late-added a Chinese class, then dropped that and another class to be able to adjust back to America better."
"I know," she said. "I read your blog."
It's tricky, this blogging thing, trying to be interesting but not so much that I'm boring in real life. I have to think deeper for people who read my blog. Just wait till you get a fake name from me, April.
Take, for example, my friend I'll call Ron. I imagine he'd be shy about hearing his real name because he this is a story about rejection, and he isn't used to it. I, on the other hand, am rejection's right hand man. Fresh off rejection, it always helps to go back to the basics, so Ron and I have been theorizing about how relationships develop. Or don't develop.
It sucks to realize that the girl you're interested in doesn't even have you on her radar. Ron and I have decided to call this being the gay guy: a different kind of male to girls. One who can be confided in, one who is nonthreatening, unarousing, removed. It's like a girl clapping for Pinocchio's performance and then laughingly skipping away with a brawny man while Pinocchio is left protesting with wooden lips, "But I'm a real boy!"
Don't take me to mean that I expect girls to flirt with every straight guy they know. I just mean that it's nice to be on a list even if you don't want to be selected. For example, consider this dialogue:
"I'm so mad at Francine."
"What for?"
"She didn't invite me to her party."
"Sharon, you're out of town that weekend."
"Yeah, but she still should have invited me."
Ron and I phrased it differently, but with the same message: each country must have some kind of a list of how much any other country is a threat. Would a country want to be a threat? Of course not, but you at least want to be considered. And even if you've had a summit at which you decide that you're not a huge threat, and are just going to be friends, at least you earned a meeting. Guys don't want to be human Switzerlands.
Then Ron and I realized that guys do it, too, stereotypically to the fat girl: you just expect her to know that she's out of the running and treat her like a bystander in the great race for a spouse. She's less than a girl.
I remember in junior high there was a girl I liked who was way too cool for me. She liked one of my friends, and I would ask her to tell me about it because I'd rather hear her talk about liking someone and pretend it was me than not hear about it and puff myself up to thinking I was under consideration.
I'm not sure if I chose the best path. Currently dispassionate me would say neither approach was good and I should've just gotten over her. But if you could just get over someone, you wouldn't need to invent explanations like Ron and I have for why it hurts.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Orthography: Its Killer
How do you read the title to this post? And by "you," I don't mean the vague, "people" you that we use a lot, nor do I mean you the hypothetical reader; I uncomfortably address the person currently absorbing these words, because this post is powerless for an audience that isn't composed of individuals. Okay, now hold that thought while I lay out an introduction.
Each major has its own realm of assurance. Physicists insist that we follow physical laws, economists insist there are rules of incentive, historians disagree with people regularly enough that it's like a rule, and so on. English majors have an obligation to assure the world that spelling conventions are important. It's a loaded statement, I know. "Important!" you exclaim indignantly. "Well, it shouldn't be." But here's the thing: symbols aren't bad. Obviously, letters aren't bad, but I mean symbols generally. The ability to write a sentence according to society's standards of spelling and grammar is currently a symbol of a good education. I could argue that it's an end to itself, but I don't think that's necessary. All that's necessary is to say it's a symbol of it.
And symbols not being bad, seeing spelling as a symbol for a good education isn't bad either. Now, you can argue that there are more accurate, equitable symbols, but that really just hints at most people's problem with valuing spelling: people don't believe that good education exists. Because if good education exists, and it's marked by good grammar and spelling, and you don't have good grammar and spelling (or "don't care"), then you must not be getting a good education. People's first reaction to that thought is to get defensive and think it's an attack on their worth. Just to be clear, I personally value you as much as a person whether you can write flawlessly or, as someone writing to me recently brought into play, whether you honestly confuse "to" and "two."
If you can admit that good education exists (and if it helps you, Teach for America's starting proposition is that there is an education gap) then there must be a symbol for it. Diplomas exist because employers haven't lived college with us: they need the symbol, even if it is distorted.
And when you consider it, spelling and grammar as a symbol for good breeding is a pretty fair deal. You don't need to be rich, or wear the right clothes, or have a proper accent. Grammar and spelling are pretty robust, as statisticians would say. Jessica got me a shirt for my birthday one year that says, "Good grammar costs nothing." I always apologize for wearing it when people ask me. "A friend got it for me and I like the color," I demur. But the message is true: wealth (and lack of it) is not an excuse.
So that's all the theory I can make up for one day. Let's talk application: it's and its. The paragraph was coming, you knew from the beginning of this post. I'll just tell it to you straight:
1) It's a great day today.
2) Tomorrow is its own problem.
There's no excuse for the first one, really. Contractions use apostrophes.
"I'm not very good at orthography." [I am]
"I don't even know what that means." [do not]
"It's spelling." [it is]
"Really? I never would've guessed." [would have]
Please hear me: just because you use an apostrophe doesn't mean something is a contraction, but when you have a contraction, you use an apostrophe. For example, just because I'm a person doesn't make me a student at UF, but if I am a student at UF, I'm also a person.
So you look at your sentence and you ask yourself, "Is there an extra word I'm not saying?" If the answer is yes, it's a contraction and you need an apostrophe. Just to be obnoxious, I'm going to highlight all the contractions in the rest of this post so you know what I'm talking about.
Let's move on to the possessive case. I have some degree of sympathy for you if you get this one confused. For most things, indicating possession requires an apostrophe. "The cat's bowl is dirty." "Will's tone is not condescending." And so on. But pronouns are different. Just look: "His cat is in the freezer." "Our house burned down yesterday." No apostrophes!
It's the same thing with "its." You have to hunt to find a good neuter subject (like groups), but then it's a piece of cake. "Apple remade its laptops." "The History Club is on its own for funding."
Now for the pop quiz. I didn't make it easy, but there's only one question and it's an open-book test. Partial credit probably not given.
In the title of this post, do I mean "Orthography: it is really tough" or "Orthography: how it is dying"? Pass your papers forward with your name in the top right hand corner...
Each major has its own realm of assurance. Physicists insist that we follow physical laws, economists insist there are rules of incentive, historians disagree with people regularly enough that it's like a rule, and so on. English majors have an obligation to assure the world that spelling conventions are important. It's a loaded statement, I know. "Important!" you exclaim indignantly. "Well, it shouldn't be." But here's the thing: symbols aren't bad. Obviously, letters aren't bad, but I mean symbols generally. The ability to write a sentence according to society's standards of spelling and grammar is currently a symbol of a good education. I could argue that it's an end to itself, but I don't think that's necessary. All that's necessary is to say it's a symbol of it.
And symbols not being bad, seeing spelling as a symbol for a good education isn't bad either. Now, you can argue that there are more accurate, equitable symbols, but that really just hints at most people's problem with valuing spelling: people don't believe that good education exists. Because if good education exists, and it's marked by good grammar and spelling, and you don't have good grammar and spelling (or "don't care"), then you must not be getting a good education. People's first reaction to that thought is to get defensive and think it's an attack on their worth. Just to be clear, I personally value you as much as a person whether you can write flawlessly or, as someone writing to me recently brought into play, whether you honestly confuse "to" and "two."
If you can admit that good education exists (and if it helps you, Teach for America's starting proposition is that there is an education gap) then there must be a symbol for it. Diplomas exist because employers haven't lived college with us: they need the symbol, even if it is distorted.
And when you consider it, spelling and grammar as a symbol for good breeding is a pretty fair deal. You don't need to be rich, or wear the right clothes, or have a proper accent. Grammar and spelling are pretty robust, as statisticians would say. Jessica got me a shirt for my birthday one year that says, "Good grammar costs nothing." I always apologize for wearing it when people ask me. "A friend got it for me and I like the color," I demur. But the message is true: wealth (and lack of it) is not an excuse.
So that's all the theory I can make up for one day. Let's talk application: it's and its. The paragraph was coming, you knew from the beginning of this post. I'll just tell it to you straight:
1) It's a great day today.
2) Tomorrow is its own problem.
There's no excuse for the first one, really. Contractions use apostrophes.
"I'm not very good at orthography." [I am]
"I don't even know what that means." [do not]
"It's spelling." [it is]
"Really? I never would've guessed." [would have]
Please hear me: just because you use an apostrophe doesn't mean something is a contraction, but when you have a contraction, you use an apostrophe. For example, just because I'm a person doesn't make me a student at UF, but if I am a student at UF, I'm also a person.
So you look at your sentence and you ask yourself, "Is there an extra word I'm not saying?" If the answer is yes, it's a contraction and you need an apostrophe. Just to be obnoxious, I'm going to highlight all the contractions in the rest of this post so you know what I'm talking about.
Let's move on to the possessive case. I have some degree of sympathy for you if you get this one confused. For most things, indicating possession requires an apostrophe. "The cat's bowl is dirty." "Will's tone is not condescending." And so on. But pronouns are different. Just look: "His cat is in the freezer." "Our house burned down yesterday." No apostrophes!
It's the same thing with "its." You have to hunt to find a good neuter subject (like groups), but then it's a piece of cake. "Apple remade its laptops." "The History Club is on its own for funding."
Now for the pop quiz. I didn't make it easy, but there's only one question and it's an open-book test. Partial credit probably not given.
In the title of this post, do I mean "Orthography: it is really tough" or "Orthography: how it is dying"? Pass your papers forward with your name in the top right hand corner...
Monday, October 6, 2008
Omnipotence and Milkshakes
I didn't do a very good job explaining in my last post what Stephen (from A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man) meant in the quote about not taking communion. That's all English majors do, really: explain why you should like books. So I'll try again for a sentence or two. Stephen knows that he--the part of him that is him--is incompatible with taking communion when he doesn't believe it, because he can't dissociate the symbol from the act. If he did, he fears the "chemical action which would be set up in my soul." I was hoping to pun off of Joyce's convenient "chemical action," but that part isn't as important.
Well, Stephen might think that's a big deal, but today I bought a chocolate milkshake. I used to think I had a choice when I bought a milkshake, but then after about a year of only ever buying vanilla, I realized that my choice wasn't of the quality I thought it was. I'm almost incapable of buying a different flavor. I come to the decision fresh every time, and every time I have in mind that occasionally I buy chocolate, and occasionally strawberry, and occasionally vanilla. But then I always come away with vanilla.
Then today came. I went to the Chick-fil-A on Archer because they sell milkshakes there, and without thinking about it, I ordered chocolate. I'm pretty sure I'm not even the same person I was several weeks ago.
I was at a barbecue Saturday with a bunch of people and tried to explain the change that's come over me recently, only I was too eager to tell and didn't think it was important that I had only known the girl I was talking to for about twenty minutes.
"I don't love people," I summed up earnestly. "I only love myself. Is that a problem?"
She balked.
It's difficult to tell which changes are me returning from a seven-month stay in China and which are permanent modifications to my temperament. And I just bought a chocolate milkshake.
It reminds me of God's omnipotence, actually. People out for a riddle often wonder why, if God can do anything, can he not sin? Ever since I was little I looked a little skeptically at the "temptation" of Christ since God can't sin... right?
"Can" here is the fuzzy word. When we say God "can" do things, we mean there's no force external to him that would limit him. When we say we humans "can" do things, we mean it in a more nebulous sense, especially in English. (In Chinese they divide "can" into 能 (unrestricted ability) and 会 (learned ability). So I think if you're talking about driving a car, if you 能 drive a car, you have the keys and gas in your tank; if you 会 drive your parents have taught you and you know how to make it down the street without crashing.)
We as humans are changeable, and so on one day I might be in the mood to wear green and on another day in the mood to wear red. I can choose green or red. Or both if it's Christmas.
Some things about us change less. One season I might decide to watch Survivor, the next year I might prefer America's Next Top Model. It all depends on whether I have a girlfriend or not. Or whatever. I can choose to watch whatever show I want.
Some things barely change at all. I don't really like beans. If I'm pressed, I'll eat them out of politeness. I can eat beans--I guess.
And still other aspects of ourselves we regard as fundamental. One day I might snap and kill someone in cold blood. An extreme example, you say, but only because you're so secure in yourself: hat makes you different from a murderer? I can commit murder.
Here you would stop me. "I could not commit murder," you say indignantly. "Never have, never will." The idea here is that no circumstance imaginable would induce you to stab someone to death. But two factors make this uncertain: you don't know yourself perfectly; and you are mutable.
In contrast, God is self-aware and immutable. His can is not one limited by circumstance (there is nothing outside his control) but by character. God doesn't sin because that's not who God is. I'm tagging all the people I know with theological training on the Facebook version of this blog so if I'm totally off-base they can let me know. But here's my summary: God always chooses vanilla milkshakes. Thus proving by algebra that I am not God.
Well, Stephen might think that's a big deal, but today I bought a chocolate milkshake. I used to think I had a choice when I bought a milkshake, but then after about a year of only ever buying vanilla, I realized that my choice wasn't of the quality I thought it was. I'm almost incapable of buying a different flavor. I come to the decision fresh every time, and every time I have in mind that occasionally I buy chocolate, and occasionally strawberry, and occasionally vanilla. But then I always come away with vanilla.
Then today came. I went to the Chick-fil-A on Archer because they sell milkshakes there, and without thinking about it, I ordered chocolate. I'm pretty sure I'm not even the same person I was several weeks ago.
I was at a barbecue Saturday with a bunch of people and tried to explain the change that's come over me recently, only I was too eager to tell and didn't think it was important that I had only known the girl I was talking to for about twenty minutes.
"I don't love people," I summed up earnestly. "I only love myself. Is that a problem?"
She balked.
It's difficult to tell which changes are me returning from a seven-month stay in China and which are permanent modifications to my temperament. And I just bought a chocolate milkshake.
It reminds me of God's omnipotence, actually. People out for a riddle often wonder why, if God can do anything, can he not sin? Ever since I was little I looked a little skeptically at the "temptation" of Christ since God can't sin... right?
"Can" here is the fuzzy word. When we say God "can" do things, we mean there's no force external to him that would limit him. When we say we humans "can" do things, we mean it in a more nebulous sense, especially in English. (In Chinese they divide "can" into 能 (unrestricted ability) and 会 (learned ability). So I think if you're talking about driving a car, if you 能 drive a car, you have the keys and gas in your tank; if you 会 drive your parents have taught you and you know how to make it down the street without crashing.)
We as humans are changeable, and so on one day I might be in the mood to wear green and on another day in the mood to wear red. I can choose green or red. Or both if it's Christmas.
Some things about us change less. One season I might decide to watch Survivor, the next year I might prefer America's Next Top Model. It all depends on whether I have a girlfriend or not. Or whatever. I can choose to watch whatever show I want.
Some things barely change at all. I don't really like beans. If I'm pressed, I'll eat them out of politeness. I can eat beans--I guess.
And still other aspects of ourselves we regard as fundamental. One day I might snap and kill someone in cold blood. An extreme example, you say, but only because you're so secure in yourself: hat makes you different from a murderer? I can commit murder.
Here you would stop me. "I could not commit murder," you say indignantly. "Never have, never will." The idea here is that no circumstance imaginable would induce you to stab someone to death. But two factors make this uncertain: you don't know yourself perfectly; and you are mutable.
In contrast, God is self-aware and immutable. His can is not one limited by circumstance (there is nothing outside his control) but by character. God doesn't sin because that's not who God is. I'm tagging all the people I know with theological training on the Facebook version of this blog so if I'm totally off-base they can let me know. But here's my summary: God always chooses vanilla milkshakes. Thus proving by algebra that I am not God.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Underwear and the Eucharist
I'll phrase this hypothetically since the real party I was invited to I was later uninvited to.
Consider the concept of an underwear party. It could be a race with a skimpy cause thrown in for legitimacy, or a birthday party at which people are only allowed to wear underwear. The idea fascinates me because underwear is a socially constructed taboo. There's nothing inherently sexual about that fabric in that shape. In fact, now that I've taken up swimming, I see (very tan, attractive) people every day wearing less clothes to swim than they would as underwear. I myself am only hardcore enough for "Jammers," which are like Speedos with three inches appended for your legs.
So logically, going to an underwear party is just another fun theme-based party, like a "wear your prom clothes" party or a "50s-wear" party. And yet. I don't think I'd be able to go to an underwear party lust-free, and I admit that for most people that's the whole point. But I should be able to look at things from an objective perspective. If I could do that, it would give me the freedom to go to an underwear party or not.
That would be fun. Flirtatious, obviously, but in a pseudo-serious way, as if the whole house was in on the Emperor's new clothes. Pretending like nothing's unusual but snickering after every sentence from the titillating atmosphere.
It reminds me of a passage from Joyce. Stephen Dedalus has grown up in the Catholic church but recently decided that he doesn't actually believe it. His mom pleads with him to go to the Easter mass and take communion, but as he talks over the matter with his friend, he comes to the conclusion that he's too attached to the Catholic idea of communion as a sacred act to partake when he doesn't believe. The symbolism behind underwear and the Eucharist is too great to become immune to.
Consider the concept of an underwear party. It could be a race with a skimpy cause thrown in for legitimacy, or a birthday party at which people are only allowed to wear underwear. The idea fascinates me because underwear is a socially constructed taboo. There's nothing inherently sexual about that fabric in that shape. In fact, now that I've taken up swimming, I see (very tan, attractive) people every day wearing less clothes to swim than they would as underwear. I myself am only hardcore enough for "Jammers," which are like Speedos with three inches appended for your legs.
So logically, going to an underwear party is just another fun theme-based party, like a "wear your prom clothes" party or a "50s-wear" party. And yet. I don't think I'd be able to go to an underwear party lust-free, and I admit that for most people that's the whole point. But I should be able to look at things from an objective perspective. If I could do that, it would give me the freedom to go to an underwear party or not.
That would be fun. Flirtatious, obviously, but in a pseudo-serious way, as if the whole house was in on the Emperor's new clothes. Pretending like nothing's unusual but snickering after every sentence from the titillating atmosphere.
It reminds me of a passage from Joyce. Stephen Dedalus has grown up in the Catholic church but recently decided that he doesn't actually believe it. His mom pleads with him to go to the Easter mass and take communion, but as he talks over the matter with his friend, he comes to the conclusion that he's too attached to the Catholic idea of communion as a sacred act to partake when he doesn't believe. The symbolism behind underwear and the Eucharist is too great to become immune to.
--Do you fear then, Cranly asked, that the God of the Roman catholics would strike you dead and damn you if you made a sacrilegious communion?
--The God of the Roman catholics could do that now, Stephen said. I fear more than that the chemical action which would be set upin my soul by a false homage to a symbol behind which are massed twenty centuries of authority and veneration.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Doing the Deed
I turned in the drop form yesterday. My schedule is now short CHI3410 and CHT3500. With both of my Chinese classes gone, I'm down to 12 credits and a theoretically much easier semester. But I still feel tense, and it's tiring me out.
On one hand, I feel really accomplished. I aced my Medieval Lit test, finished my math proofs in time to turn them in, wrote a pretty good essay for Joyce. I even sent something in the mail yesterday, and that takes stamps and time and everything.
And yet, I've shied away from several things. For example, I wanted to clean the everlasting stack of dirty dishes. In the last week or two I've shrunk into a habit of using one cup, one small plate for my breakfast bagel, and one large plate for lunch. I have one knife with butter remnants and one with peanut butter traces, and one for cheese, too. So no matter what I'm hungry for I have the tableware needed to make myself food without cleaning anything. But I don't really like that habit and think when I have the time and energy it'd be nice to tidy up a bit.
The light in my room has grown finicky. I didn't know lights could be finicky, but recently when I turn on the switch, my light will take up to ten seconds to turn on, or not at all. Right now it's unwilling. I tried to be scientific about the problem, but it's difficult when you don't know anything. The problem can't be with the lightbulb, because the light will turn on sometimes. I tested it out with the fan on and off, but that didn't do anything. So maybe there's a wiring problem that magically popped up.
There are other deeds lurking, too. I half-intended to go to a coached swimming lesson with the triathletes someone invited me to, but by the end of today I felt scared somehow. Too much assessment, maybe.
I don't know if I've mentioned it before, but coming back from China has been difficult because in America it's not an accomplishment to be average. In China, me just living got respect. Now I'm back at college with thousands of other people who are also going to college and I'm drowning in normalcy. And drowning was supposed to be my comparison for my courseload before and after dropping Chinese, so it's worrying that I'm still using it.
It's difficult to read Joyce's perfect sentences, exquisitely crafted in endless variety, and with every one see my failure as a writer. Usually it takes a whole book before I admit that I can't do that. Joyce proves his superiority every paragraph afresh.
I guess I'm in a pretty disheartened mood. I used to call these 2am moods, because in high school 2am was late and lamenting my girl troubles then felt like I was baring my soul to the world. Now I do that less often.
But tomorrow I'm going to help build a wheelchair ramp, so that might be fun.
On one hand, I feel really accomplished. I aced my Medieval Lit test, finished my math proofs in time to turn them in, wrote a pretty good essay for Joyce. I even sent something in the mail yesterday, and that takes stamps and time and everything.
And yet, I've shied away from several things. For example, I wanted to clean the everlasting stack of dirty dishes. In the last week or two I've shrunk into a habit of using one cup, one small plate for my breakfast bagel, and one large plate for lunch. I have one knife with butter remnants and one with peanut butter traces, and one for cheese, too. So no matter what I'm hungry for I have the tableware needed to make myself food without cleaning anything. But I don't really like that habit and think when I have the time and energy it'd be nice to tidy up a bit.
The light in my room has grown finicky. I didn't know lights could be finicky, but recently when I turn on the switch, my light will take up to ten seconds to turn on, or not at all. Right now it's unwilling. I tried to be scientific about the problem, but it's difficult when you don't know anything. The problem can't be with the lightbulb, because the light will turn on sometimes. I tested it out with the fan on and off, but that didn't do anything. So maybe there's a wiring problem that magically popped up.
There are other deeds lurking, too. I half-intended to go to a coached swimming lesson with the triathletes someone invited me to, but by the end of today I felt scared somehow. Too much assessment, maybe.
I don't know if I've mentioned it before, but coming back from China has been difficult because in America it's not an accomplishment to be average. In China, me just living got respect. Now I'm back at college with thousands of other people who are also going to college and I'm drowning in normalcy. And drowning was supposed to be my comparison for my courseload before and after dropping Chinese, so it's worrying that I'm still using it.
It's difficult to read Joyce's perfect sentences, exquisitely crafted in endless variety, and with every one see my failure as a writer. Usually it takes a whole book before I admit that I can't do that. Joyce proves his superiority every paragraph afresh.
I guess I'm in a pretty disheartened mood. I used to call these 2am moods, because in high school 2am was late and lamenting my girl troubles then felt like I was baring my soul to the world. Now I do that less often.
But tomorrow I'm going to help build a wheelchair ramp, so that might be fun.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Witnessing a Paper
I decided to write my 8-10 page midterm for my Joyce class on one paragraph of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, a famous book about a boy growing up and figuring out who he is. It's really difficult to write an essay for a class you don't like. This paper has come smoothly but I think that's because I don't think it's a brilliant essay. It's actually a pretty boring paper:
If you want to read the rest of the paper, you can:
I think if you click on the picture, you can see a full-size version where you can read all my notes. This is how I write essays. There's no spatial organization, but I do find that I write bigger when there isn't anything on the page, so my final comments before I started a draft are scribbled in between other, less relevant things. You might be able to tell I started this essay in Library West. Where else would I encounter freshmen girls who were desperately cramming for a pre-calc exam? I can do absolute value problems!
Math is a surprising portion of my schedule. Mallory and I take a math class together every semester, but I have to catch up since I was in China in the spring, so I'm in diff-eq and my proofs class. We took our first test in the proofs class, and I was marked down for not being thorough enough proving that anything times zero is zero. I love that class.
But back to my paper. You might be able to tell I'm having trouble focusing. I've channeled some of my non-focus into Facebook messenger, which sucks as a messenger unless you really, really want to procrastinate and don't care if you're talking to your best friend from second grade's cousin because you both happen to be online. But it's okay, because the girl I was talking to is in my class working on her paper, too. So it's practically like I'm writing my essay.
Since my essay is boring and hers is about Spanish, we talked about religion. I got to share with her about what I believe ("witnessing," to use the Christian parlance). I thought it'd be weird if we had a deep conversation online over Joyce. Last night at RUF the preacher was talking about how we shouldn't be afraid to get in conversations with people about God. Then I was pulled over coming out of the parking lot because my headlights weren't on, and the cop asked where I was coming from. "RUF," I began, thinking of the sermon. "It's a Christian ministry..." But the cop left without converting and I left without a ticket.
But for tonight, all people will be witnessing is someone doing a fantastic job finishing up his Joyce paper.
At least, that's my first paragraph while I only have five pages finish. By the time I reach my conclusion, I might have changed my mind and think Joyce is actually supporting Irish despondency.At the end of book one of James Joyce's A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, young Stephen Dedalus reflects on his encounter with the rector. "He was alone. He was happy and free." Then, "he wished that he could do something kind for [Father Dolan] to show him that he was not proud" (64). Underlying this thought is Stephen's idea that conflict resolution is possible: he succeeded in complaining to the rector; he can succeed in convincing Father Dolan that he isn't really a bad boy. In book two, though, we quickly learn that the respect Stephen thought he received from the rector was only patronizing indulgence. When Stephen participates in a school play, he has a new mentality that happiness, which is still conceived of as being "alone" (85), proceeds from withdrawal. This other extreme is no more satisfying or lasting than the first, but a close reading of Stephen's explanation for isolation reveals a stubbornness for insignificance that, a contrario, is an encouraging statement of empowerment for downtrodden Irishmen.
If you want to read the rest of the paper, you can:
I think if you click on the picture, you can see a full-size version where you can read all my notes. This is how I write essays. There's no spatial organization, but I do find that I write bigger when there isn't anything on the page, so my final comments before I started a draft are scribbled in between other, less relevant things. You might be able to tell I started this essay in Library West. Where else would I encounter freshmen girls who were desperately cramming for a pre-calc exam? I can do absolute value problems!
Math is a surprising portion of my schedule. Mallory and I take a math class together every semester, but I have to catch up since I was in China in the spring, so I'm in diff-eq and my proofs class. We took our first test in the proofs class, and I was marked down for not being thorough enough proving that anything times zero is zero. I love that class.
But back to my paper. You might be able to tell I'm having trouble focusing. I've channeled some of my non-focus into Facebook messenger, which sucks as a messenger unless you really, really want to procrastinate and don't care if you're talking to your best friend from second grade's cousin because you both happen to be online. But it's okay, because the girl I was talking to is in my class working on her paper, too. So it's practically like I'm writing my essay.
Since my essay is boring and hers is about Spanish, we talked about religion. I got to share with her about what I believe ("witnessing," to use the Christian parlance). I thought it'd be weird if we had a deep conversation online over Joyce. Last night at RUF the preacher was talking about how we shouldn't be afraid to get in conversations with people about God. Then I was pulled over coming out of the parking lot because my headlights weren't on, and the cop asked where I was coming from. "RUF," I began, thinking of the sermon. "It's a Christian ministry..." But the cop left without converting and I left without a ticket.
But for tonight, all people will be witnessing is someone doing a fantastic job finishing up his Joyce paper.
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