I have a big test coming up Saturday morning. April 11th has been circled on my calendar since Thanksgiving. I have been studying empirical facts for the test, but I believe, hopefully not incorrectly, that my passing this test is predicated on my writing skills rather than my knowledge. Thus, in preparation, I'm trying to stay calm rather than trying to know every date and every theory.
It would be a gross hyperbole to say this is the most important test of my life. I've taken lots of tests that all amounted to something important.
Looking back on SATs and AP tests, GREs and finals, I think my biggest weakness is my mental toughness. I let the situation get the best of me. The negative result, the failing, hangs over my head like the Sword of Damocles. I imagine that sinking feeling in your chest when you realize you've failed. You gave it your best shot, and, at the time, it wasn't enough. It's hard not to take failure personally.
It might be a gross hyperbole to say this is the most important test of my life. But it would be an equally gross litotes to say this Saturday is just another day. This test is a gateway to so many things. I want to pass this test. So, in the scope of my life, this test is certainly the most important test this week and is probably the most important test I'll take this calendar year. But I'm sure there will be other important tests in the future to scare me.
This blog post has calmed me down a bit. Just thinking "out loud" is helping me get some perspective. But just in case mind mind wanders down the path of insecurity in the next 33 hours, I ask you, dear reader, for a favor. Please send me positive vibes Saturday morning. I'm nervous. And I want to pass.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Patience
All the studies and reports are right: my generation has no patience. Blame it on the video games. Blame it on the TV. Whatever the reason, I don't have the strength of mind to apply myself for extended periods of time.
These three objects are physical symbols of patience from a past generation. The purple flower on the left is actually a button made out of cantaloupe seeds and small shells. The two turtles on the right are carved pieces of wood. My grandma made these objects.
These crafts astound me every time I see them. But it's not the art that amazes me. It is the patience. I can barely save money let alone cantaloupe seeds. I couldn't carve intricate turtles--I cut myself making dinner. And these objects weren't made in one day. My grandma had to sit and come back to these activities with a determination like a runner in the 26th mile.
Grandma sifted through the Utah sands searching for shells like a gold miner. She protected the perfect pieces of wood from barbed wire fences. She sat calmly making these crafts and waited patiently for release. It's hard to imagine the patience or honor required to sit in the face of such a harsh climate.
I asked my grandma about these objects. She looked at them factually. "These are cantaloupe seeds. These are shells. And these are pieces of wood I found in the remnants pile." No stories about how much she hated life those days. No tears for her abandoned dog Skippy. Just an echo from the 1940s inside her eyes.
She doesn't begrudge the small turtles, the melon-seed brooch, or the situation that created them. She keeps them all in an old cookie box stored in the dining room teak hutch. These small trinkets remind me that she can make it out of tough times. She may be small in stature, and may be dying from radiation and cancer, but she has a patience and a determination forged in the desert winds of Topaz.
These three objects are physical symbols of patience from a past generation. The purple flower on the left is actually a button made out of cantaloupe seeds and small shells. The two turtles on the right are carved pieces of wood. My grandma made these objects.
These crafts astound me every time I see them. But it's not the art that amazes me. It is the patience. I can barely save money let alone cantaloupe seeds. I couldn't carve intricate turtles--I cut myself making dinner. And these objects weren't made in one day. My grandma had to sit and come back to these activities with a determination like a runner in the 26th mile.
Grandma sifted through the Utah sands searching for shells like a gold miner. She protected the perfect pieces of wood from barbed wire fences. She sat calmly making these crafts and waited patiently for release. It's hard to imagine the patience or honor required to sit in the face of such a harsh climate.
I asked my grandma about these objects. She looked at them factually. "These are cantaloupe seeds. These are shells. And these are pieces of wood I found in the remnants pile." No stories about how much she hated life those days. No tears for her abandoned dog Skippy. Just an echo from the 1940s inside her eyes.
She doesn't begrudge the small turtles, the melon-seed brooch, or the situation that created them. She keeps them all in an old cookie box stored in the dining room teak hutch. These small trinkets remind me that she can make it out of tough times. She may be small in stature, and may be dying from radiation and cancer, but she has a patience and a determination forged in the desert winds of Topaz.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
A Broken-Hearted Banana
Broken
The world keeps spinning.
People are giving.
I am alone.
And you are on your phone.
How could you keep me back!
Now you go and talk smack!
F*** you!
How dare you!
I loved you!
~By: Jessica Singler
NOTE: Let me clarify that I am not mocking this poet or poem. I wanted a passionate teenager break-up poem to accompany my latest picture of an abandoned banana. After reading many poems on many sites, I tried to write my own, but it didn't have the correct emotion. I wanted a poem birthed by teenage passion and heartache, so I had to borrow upon Jessica's work. I find this poem humorous not in the attempt at poetics but in the vulnerability of teenage love. How love can change with maturity and experience! I read this poem not with a malicious laugh but with a nostalgic chuckle.
Be strong, Jessica. You'll get through it.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Wasps
Near my Light Rail station, I found this beginning of a wasp nest. If you look closely, you can see the queen tucked inside the dried pieces of wood and saliva.
The corner of North 1st and Gish in San Jose is dangerous. Recently, the city has placed crossing guards at the corners before and after school to help the Bachrodt Elementary School students travel safety. At this dangerous intersection, there is traffic, Light Rail trains, and, now, a wasp nest.
Some people are deadly allergic to stings from such creatures, and I thought it unsafe to have potentially violent insects along the sidewalk where children commute to school. I thought about calling someone to remove the hazard before it got any bigger, but whom would I call? I thought about smashing the hive with my shoe, killing the queen, and then running like Usain Bolt, but I'm not Jamaican.
Who am I to destroy this young monarch's fledgling kingdom?
I remember last year, there was a spider whose web spanned between two columns. The web must have been 5 feet across. And the spider, with a large web, had an equally large body. The spider hovered in the night like a ghost. I know it was looking down, but that giant backside of the spider looked like a face, laughing at me and taunting me just before it attacked.
I couldn't help myself. I took a branch and tore the spider's webbing from the columns. The spider fell the ground collapsing into a ball with tentacles frantically trying to upright itself. The once ominous and terrifying spider was not ominous or terrifying at all—it was simply a creature trying to make a home. Its masterpiece web, which must have taken days to complete, was destroyed in an instant by an insecure child.
Reader, I am at an impasse. The wasp nest can potentially hurt children, but how can I destroy something so extraordinary?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?--
If design govern in a thing so small.
~Robert Frost
The corner of North 1st and Gish in San Jose is dangerous. Recently, the city has placed crossing guards at the corners before and after school to help the Bachrodt Elementary School students travel safety. At this dangerous intersection, there is traffic, Light Rail trains, and, now, a wasp nest.
Some people are deadly allergic to stings from such creatures, and I thought it unsafe to have potentially violent insects along the sidewalk where children commute to school. I thought about calling someone to remove the hazard before it got any bigger, but whom would I call? I thought about smashing the hive with my shoe, killing the queen, and then running like Usain Bolt, but I'm not Jamaican.
Who am I to destroy this young monarch's fledgling kingdom?
I remember last year, there was a spider whose web spanned between two columns. The web must have been 5 feet across. And the spider, with a large web, had an equally large body. The spider hovered in the night like a ghost. I know it was looking down, but that giant backside of the spider looked like a face, laughing at me and taunting me just before it attacked.
I couldn't help myself. I took a branch and tore the spider's webbing from the columns. The spider fell the ground collapsing into a ball with tentacles frantically trying to upright itself. The once ominous and terrifying spider was not ominous or terrifying at all—it was simply a creature trying to make a home. Its masterpiece web, which must have taken days to complete, was destroyed in an instant by an insecure child.
Reader, I am at an impasse. The wasp nest can potentially hurt children, but how can I destroy something so extraordinary?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?--
If design govern in a thing so small.
~Robert Frost
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Ridin' Shotgun with Hobodog and QuickD13
“The car's back” is one of the most frequently used phrases when my brother and I play Halo 3. For the neophytes to this blog: my brother lives far away from me, and because of this, we spend more time together, hour for hour, Online than in person.
It might seem frivolous from the outside, but some of our most trenchant and intimate conversations happen over a game of Halo 3.
We've recently been sticking to Big Team Battles, which are 8 on 8 battles on larger maps. We like the bigger battles because the game puts Warthogs on the larger maps. A Warthog is essentially a jeep with a large turret mounted on the back. The brilliance of this vehicle rests in its principle: in order to be an effective killing machine, at least 2 people need to ride the same Warthog. One person must drive, and another person must operate the turret. Each person is at the mercy of the other. The driver is unable to shoot while behind the wheel, and the gunner, without a driver, would be an easy target.
Both the driver and the gunner have limited fields of vision, so to be truly effective, the two players must be in constant communication. And the Warthog isn't invulnerable. A well-placed enemy grenade or a laser can destroy the precious Warthog and its passengers in an instant.
Over the last few weeks, my brother and I have developed a special language to communicate while I drive and he guns. The language must be concise due to a slight Online lag, but detailed enough to explain particular enemy patterns. With some practice, we've learned to predict each other's movements. I know how he shoots, and he knows how I drive. And this has made us successful as teammates.
I've posted some of our post-game statistics below. To the Halo 3 laymen, these are strong stats.
I know this is not the most impressive skill to have, but with a brother that lives so far away, Online games are our only way to spend time together. It may not seem as such, but to my brother and me, Halo 3 is no more nerdy than other respected activities like playing in a band or being on the same basketball team. All the activities require time commitment, patience, communication, some kind of skill, and, above all, dedication to an idea larger than one's own self. Instead of guitars and basketballs, we bond with jeeps and turrets.
Brothers always love each other, but they don't always like each other. I only have one brother, I feel pretty excited that he and I actually like each other.
Think not of our Halo 3 accomplishments as nerdy; think of these accomplishments as testaments to how much my brother and I have worked to keep our relationship intact even though he moved away almost 10 years ago. The act of playing Halo 3 might be ridiculous, but our skills in the virtual world are rooted in our ability to keep a brother as a best friend.
It might seem frivolous from the outside, but some of our most trenchant and intimate conversations happen over a game of Halo 3.
We've recently been sticking to Big Team Battles, which are 8 on 8 battles on larger maps. We like the bigger battles because the game puts Warthogs on the larger maps. A Warthog is essentially a jeep with a large turret mounted on the back. The brilliance of this vehicle rests in its principle: in order to be an effective killing machine, at least 2 people need to ride the same Warthog. One person must drive, and another person must operate the turret. Each person is at the mercy of the other. The driver is unable to shoot while behind the wheel, and the gunner, without a driver, would be an easy target.
Both the driver and the gunner have limited fields of vision, so to be truly effective, the two players must be in constant communication. And the Warthog isn't invulnerable. A well-placed enemy grenade or a laser can destroy the precious Warthog and its passengers in an instant.
Over the last few weeks, my brother and I have developed a special language to communicate while I drive and he guns. The language must be concise due to a slight Online lag, but detailed enough to explain particular enemy patterns. With some practice, we've learned to predict each other's movements. I know how he shoots, and he knows how I drive. And this has made us successful as teammates.
I've posted some of our post-game statistics below. To the Halo 3 laymen, these are strong stats.
I know this is not the most impressive skill to have, but with a brother that lives so far away, Online games are our only way to spend time together. It may not seem as such, but to my brother and me, Halo 3 is no more nerdy than other respected activities like playing in a band or being on the same basketball team. All the activities require time commitment, patience, communication, some kind of skill, and, above all, dedication to an idea larger than one's own self. Instead of guitars and basketballs, we bond with jeeps and turrets.
Brothers always love each other, but they don't always like each other. I only have one brother, I feel pretty excited that he and I actually like each other.
Think not of our Halo 3 accomplishments as nerdy; think of these accomplishments as testaments to how much my brother and I have worked to keep our relationship intact even though he moved away almost 10 years ago. The act of playing Halo 3 might be ridiculous, but our skills in the virtual world are rooted in our ability to keep a brother as a best friend.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Why Superman Isn't My Soul Mate
Superman and I used to date back in the late 1980s. All my boyfriends after Superman felt incredibly insecure, and who could blame them? Superman's rock-hard physique and his Kryptonian-on-Earth powers made him unbelievably sexual. I had pictures of him in my room, and, even though I was dating him, I would dream about him in bed with the lights off.
Sometimes, before I left for work, I'd stare at his square jaw and remember our perfect embraces while flying over Metropolis. My Man of Steel had perfectly supple hair. I'd run my fingers through it whenever he chivalrously kissed me. There was something so pure, so powerful, and so invulnerable about him. I loved him like someone loves their high school sweetheart: complete surrender.
After about 2 years though, I began to see his flaws. Yes, the Last Son of Krypton is perfectly moral and practically immortal, but I began to see past his invincibility. I couldn't love a Kryptonian--at least not a Kryptonian on Earth. The only thing that could hurt him was Kryptonite, and that bothered me.
Superman would simply put his one true weakness in a lead box and hide it. With the Kryptonite safely stored away, my dear Superman was forever invulnerable. But who wants to fuck perfection? I felt like he was always judging me while I was naked. I put on a few pounds, and I'm sure his vision saw everything.
I gave him my love. I gave him my intimacy. He knew all my secrets. And that is dangerous because I'm simply a regular woman. For humans, romantic intimacy is giving your partner your true self. Your partner with whom you are intimate, will know all the ways to hurt you because they know all about you. True intimacy is giving your personal version of "Kryptonite" to your partner and trusting that they will not use it against you. Superman had my Kryptonite. He knew how to make me cry. He knew how to make me angry. He knew how to make me vulnerable. Superman had my Kryptonite, but he never gave me his. "It's too dangerous to give it to you. I'll keep it safe in my Fortress of Solitude. Don't worry."
Maybe he didn't trust me. Maybe he didn't want to risk his life. But being a soul mate is about reciprocity. I couldn't stay with a man, even a super man, if we weren't equal partners risking equal amounts of ourselves. I would never, ever, use the green rock against him, but I wanted him to trust me enough to give me a piece. Even a small shard.
I see him every now and then. He's tried to make himself more human with Superman For All Seasons and Red Son, but I know that stupid "S" on his chest is as impenetrable as ever. I need a human. I need someone who knows what it's like to have mortal, ephemeral blood pumping through their veins. The woman in me might concede some meaningless sex; after all, he is the man of steel. But I will never again give him my heart.
Sometimes, before I left for work, I'd stare at his square jaw and remember our perfect embraces while flying over Metropolis. My Man of Steel had perfectly supple hair. I'd run my fingers through it whenever he chivalrously kissed me. There was something so pure, so powerful, and so invulnerable about him. I loved him like someone loves their high school sweetheart: complete surrender.
After about 2 years though, I began to see his flaws. Yes, the Last Son of Krypton is perfectly moral and practically immortal, but I began to see past his invincibility. I couldn't love a Kryptonian--at least not a Kryptonian on Earth. The only thing that could hurt him was Kryptonite, and that bothered me.
Superman would simply put his one true weakness in a lead box and hide it. With the Kryptonite safely stored away, my dear Superman was forever invulnerable. But who wants to fuck perfection? I felt like he was always judging me while I was naked. I put on a few pounds, and I'm sure his vision saw everything.
I gave him my love. I gave him my intimacy. He knew all my secrets. And that is dangerous because I'm simply a regular woman. For humans, romantic intimacy is giving your partner your true self. Your partner with whom you are intimate, will know all the ways to hurt you because they know all about you. True intimacy is giving your personal version of "Kryptonite" to your partner and trusting that they will not use it against you. Superman had my Kryptonite. He knew how to make me cry. He knew how to make me angry. He knew how to make me vulnerable. Superman had my Kryptonite, but he never gave me his. "It's too dangerous to give it to you. I'll keep it safe in my Fortress of Solitude. Don't worry."
Maybe he didn't trust me. Maybe he didn't want to risk his life. But being a soul mate is about reciprocity. I couldn't stay with a man, even a super man, if we weren't equal partners risking equal amounts of ourselves. I would never, ever, use the green rock against him, but I wanted him to trust me enough to give me a piece. Even a small shard.
I see him every now and then. He's tried to make himself more human with Superman For All Seasons and Red Son, but I know that stupid "S" on his chest is as impenetrable as ever. I need a human. I need someone who knows what it's like to have mortal, ephemeral blood pumping through their veins. The woman in me might concede some meaningless sex; after all, he is the man of steel. But I will never again give him my heart.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Happy Friendship Day!
Today is a strange type of holiday. April Fool’s Day. A day where pranks and practical jokes are forgiven and condoned. I admit that I was not the victim of a hoax this year, but I doled out a harmless trick or two.
Some people often criticize this holiday as sophomoric and mean-spirited, but after some analysis, I disagree. The April Fool’s joke is actually a sign of friendship and true camaraderie.
I believe that no one does an April Fool’s joke to be truly mean. Practical jokes are, by nature, having fun at someone’s expense, so there is a certain innate mean-spiritedness. But the sub-genre of practice jokes, the April Fool’s joke, is rooted in friendship. Of course there may be the aberrant “I’m-a-jerk” April Fool’s joke where someone uses the prank as a means to boost their own self-esteem, but this is another type of malicious prank that coincidentally occurs on April Fool’s Day. I believe that the true April Fool’s Day jokes only occur between true friends.
Think about it. Aren’t all the April Fool’s jokes you can remember between friends? Who would take the time to sign-up their mortal enemy’s email on 50 gay porn sites? Enemies fight their battles with passive-aggressive behaviors. Enemies shoot each other. Enemies sabotage one another’s careers. But enemies don’t play practical jokes on one another.
Like enemies, April Fool’s jokes don’t often occur between neutral acquaintances or strangers either. I can’t imagine clowning one of my co-workers whom I met this semester—I don’t know them well enough. The true hilarity of the April Fool’s joke is the aesthetic exploitation of someone’s inner traits. Sure, I can dump paint on someone’s head, but it is much more funny and relevant to mock the grammarian with comma splices and nominalization in fake interoffice emails.
That being said, April Fool’s is one of the few days that people can use their knowledge of their friends to mock with immunity and impunity. Of course it’s mean spirited, and of course feelings can get hurt. But what kind of friend can’t take one of your jokes? If they’re truly your friend and not simply an acquaintance, chances are that they’ll be laughing as hard as you once they realize they’ve been April Fooled. So relax and have a big laugh with your close friends. And there’s always next year for revenge.
Some people often criticize this holiday as sophomoric and mean-spirited, but after some analysis, I disagree. The April Fool’s joke is actually a sign of friendship and true camaraderie.
I believe that no one does an April Fool’s joke to be truly mean. Practical jokes are, by nature, having fun at someone’s expense, so there is a certain innate mean-spiritedness. But the sub-genre of practice jokes, the April Fool’s joke, is rooted in friendship. Of course there may be the aberrant “I’m-a-jerk” April Fool’s joke where someone uses the prank as a means to boost their own self-esteem, but this is another type of malicious prank that coincidentally occurs on April Fool’s Day. I believe that the true April Fool’s Day jokes only occur between true friends.
Think about it. Aren’t all the April Fool’s jokes you can remember between friends? Who would take the time to sign-up their mortal enemy’s email on 50 gay porn sites? Enemies fight their battles with passive-aggressive behaviors. Enemies shoot each other. Enemies sabotage one another’s careers. But enemies don’t play practical jokes on one another.
Like enemies, April Fool’s jokes don’t often occur between neutral acquaintances or strangers either. I can’t imagine clowning one of my co-workers whom I met this semester—I don’t know them well enough. The true hilarity of the April Fool’s joke is the aesthetic exploitation of someone’s inner traits. Sure, I can dump paint on someone’s head, but it is much more funny and relevant to mock the grammarian with comma splices and nominalization in fake interoffice emails.
That being said, April Fool’s is one of the few days that people can use their knowledge of their friends to mock with immunity and impunity. Of course it’s mean spirited, and of course feelings can get hurt. But what kind of friend can’t take one of your jokes? If they’re truly your friend and not simply an acquaintance, chances are that they’ll be laughing as hard as you once they realize they’ve been April Fooled. So relax and have a big laugh with your close friends. And there’s always next year for revenge.
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