As I helped him with the simple math problems, I felt my status lowering. I knew she would see it, and wouldn't ignore the situation, and I'm not so naive as to think that popularity is proportional to intelligence. Soon enough she would talk to me, and it wouldn't be to invite me to a party, or out for coffee. It would be for help. Not that I mind helping; I love to help people, especially if they smell good. I didn't notice if she smelled good though, probably a bad sign.
But yes, my status was lowering. In their eyes I was becoming smarter and smarter. (If I dive further into this metaphor, God must be the ultimately unpopular kid, which is probably why so few young people go to church.) Soon their words would be laced with poison as they complain about their inability to understand things. They will resent me. They will feel like I am smug and snobbish, even if that's not the case.
Still I want to see them do well, and I want to do well, so I do the best that I can do.
I raised 2 to the -2 power. 0.25. The teacher says "Perfect!" in her all too excited voice. Too many simple feats are deemed Perfect by her, and it makes it seem like everything here is trivial. If she is so excited about this simple math, how much more excited could she get when it comes to the really interesting core of the course? This should be blasé, as it is for me.
I should be in a different group. Or I should be in this one. She wants me in this one, she sorted us by GPA. Some crazy psychoanalytical experiment she is performing on us while we are forced to perform menial tasks which aren't so menial to so many others.
I have been trying to get to a point, to some logical conclusion with a moral and a hint of understanding, but I can't find it.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Virginia Woolf
Hi. I didn't write this, Virginia Woolf did. But I read it in class today and it was quite amazing, and it reminds me of how I write, so I thought you all would enjoy it. I hope to write as well as her someday. :)
Moths that fly by day are not properly to be called moths; they do not excite that pleasant sense of dark autumn nights and ivy–blossom which the commonest yellow–underwing asleep in the shadow of the curtain never fails to rouse in us. They are hybrid creatures, neither gay like butterflies nor sombre like their own species. Nevertheless the present specimen, with his narrow hay–coloured wings, fringed with a tassel of the same colour, seemed to be content with life. It was a pleasant morning, mid–September, mild, benignant, yet with a keener breath than that of the summer months. The plough was already scoring the field opposite the window, and where the share had been, the earth was pressed flat and gleamed with moisture. Such vigour came rolling in from the fields and the down beyond that it was difficult to keep the eyes strictly turned upon the book. The rooks too were keeping one of their annual festivities; soaring round the tree tops until it looked as if a vast net with thousands of black knots in it had been cast up into the air; which, after a few moments sank slowly down upon the trees until every twig seemed to have a knot at the end of it. Then, suddenly, the net would be thrown into the air again in a wider circle this time, with the utmost clamour and vociferation, as though to be thrown into the air and settle slowly down upon the tree tops were a tremendously exciting experience.
The same energy which inspired the rooks, the ploughmen, the horses, and even, it seemed, the lean bare–backed downs, sent the moth fluttering from side to side of his square of the window–pane. One could not help watching him. One was, indeed, conscious of a queer feeling of pity for him. The possibilities of pleasure seemed that morning so enormous and so various that to have only a moth’s part in life, and a day moth’s at that, appeared a hard fate, and his zest in enjoying his meagre opportunities to the full, pathetic. He flew vigorously to one corner of his compartment, and, after waiting there a second, flew across to the other. What remained for him but to fly to a third corner and then to a fourth? That was all he could do, in spite of the size of the downs, the width of the sky, the far–off smoke of houses, and the romantic voice, now and then, of a steamer out at sea. What he could do he did. Watching him, it seemed as if a fibre, very thin but pure, of the enormous energy of the world had been thrust into his frail and diminutive body. As often as he crossed the pane, I could fancy that a thread of vital light became visible. He was little or nothing but life.
Yet, because he was so small, and so simple a form of the energy that was rolling in at the open window and driving its way through so many narrow and intricate corridors in my own brain and in those of other human beings, there was something marvellous as well as pathetic about him. It was as if someone had taken a tiny bead of pure life and decking it as lightly as possible with down and feathers, had set it dancing and zig–zagging to show us the true nature of life. Thus displayed one could not get over the strangeness of it. One is apt to forget all about life, seeing it humped and bossed and garnished and cumbered so that it has to move with the greatest circumspection and dignity. Again, the thought of all that life might have been had he been born in any other shape caused one to view his simple activities with a kind of pity.
After a time, tired by his dancing apparently, he settled on the window ledge in the sun, and, the queer spectacle being at an end, I forgot about him. Then, looking up, my eye was caught by him. He was trying to resume his dancing, but seemed either so stiff or so awkward that he could only flutter to the bottom of the window–pane; and when he tried to fly across it he failed. Being intent on other matters I watched these futile attempts for a time without thinking, unconsciously waiting for him to resume his flight, as one waits for a machine, that has stopped momentarily, to start again without considering the reason of its failure. After perhaps a seventh attempt he slipped from the wooden ledge and fell, fluttering his wings, on to his back on the window sill. The helplessness of his attitude roused me. It flashed upon me that he was in difficulties; he could no longer raise himself; his legs struggled vainly. But, as I stretched out a pencil, meaning to help him to right himself, it came over me that the failure and awkwardness were the approach of death. I laid the pencil down again.
The legs agitated themselves once more. I looked as if for the enemy against which he struggled. I looked out of doors. What had happened there? Presumably it was midday, and work in the fields had stopped. Stillness and quiet had replaced the previous animation. The birds had taken themselves off to feed in the brooks. The horses stood still. Yet the power was there all the same, massed outside indifferent, impersonal, not attending to anything in particular. Somehow it was opposed to the little hay–coloured moth. It was useless to try to do anything. One could only watch the extraordinary efforts made by those tiny legs against an oncoming doom which could, had it chosen, have submerged an entire city, not merely a city, but masses of human beings; nothing, I knew, had any chance against death. Nevertheless after a pause of exhaustion the legs fluttered again. It was superb this last protest, and so frantic that he succeeded at last in righting himself. One’s sympathies, of course, were all on the side of life. Also, when there was nobody to care or to know, this gigantic effort on the part of an insignificant little moth, against a power of such magnitude, to retain what no one else valued or desired to keep, moved one strangely. Again, somehow, one saw life, a pure bead. I lifted the pencil again, useless though I knew it to be. But even as I did so, the unmistakable tokens of death showed themselves. The body relaxed, and instantly grew stiff. The struggle was over. The insignificant little creature now knew death. As I looked at the dead moth, this minute wayside triumph of so great a force over so mean an antagonist filled me with wonder. Just as life had been strange a few minutes before, so death was now as strange. The moth having righted himself now lay most decently and uncomplainingly composed. O yes, he seemed to say, death is stronger than I am.
THE DEATH OF THE MOTH
Moths that fly by day are not properly to be called moths; they do not excite that pleasant sense of dark autumn nights and ivy–blossom which the commonest yellow–underwing asleep in the shadow of the curtain never fails to rouse in us. They are hybrid creatures, neither gay like butterflies nor sombre like their own species. Nevertheless the present specimen, with his narrow hay–coloured wings, fringed with a tassel of the same colour, seemed to be content with life. It was a pleasant morning, mid–September, mild, benignant, yet with a keener breath than that of the summer months. The plough was already scoring the field opposite the window, and where the share had been, the earth was pressed flat and gleamed with moisture. Such vigour came rolling in from the fields and the down beyond that it was difficult to keep the eyes strictly turned upon the book. The rooks too were keeping one of their annual festivities; soaring round the tree tops until it looked as if a vast net with thousands of black knots in it had been cast up into the air; which, after a few moments sank slowly down upon the trees until every twig seemed to have a knot at the end of it. Then, suddenly, the net would be thrown into the air again in a wider circle this time, with the utmost clamour and vociferation, as though to be thrown into the air and settle slowly down upon the tree tops were a tremendously exciting experience.
The same energy which inspired the rooks, the ploughmen, the horses, and even, it seemed, the lean bare–backed downs, sent the moth fluttering from side to side of his square of the window–pane. One could not help watching him. One was, indeed, conscious of a queer feeling of pity for him. The possibilities of pleasure seemed that morning so enormous and so various that to have only a moth’s part in life, and a day moth’s at that, appeared a hard fate, and his zest in enjoying his meagre opportunities to the full, pathetic. He flew vigorously to one corner of his compartment, and, after waiting there a second, flew across to the other. What remained for him but to fly to a third corner and then to a fourth? That was all he could do, in spite of the size of the downs, the width of the sky, the far–off smoke of houses, and the romantic voice, now and then, of a steamer out at sea. What he could do he did. Watching him, it seemed as if a fibre, very thin but pure, of the enormous energy of the world had been thrust into his frail and diminutive body. As often as he crossed the pane, I could fancy that a thread of vital light became visible. He was little or nothing but life.
Yet, because he was so small, and so simple a form of the energy that was rolling in at the open window and driving its way through so many narrow and intricate corridors in my own brain and in those of other human beings, there was something marvellous as well as pathetic about him. It was as if someone had taken a tiny bead of pure life and decking it as lightly as possible with down and feathers, had set it dancing and zig–zagging to show us the true nature of life. Thus displayed one could not get over the strangeness of it. One is apt to forget all about life, seeing it humped and bossed and garnished and cumbered so that it has to move with the greatest circumspection and dignity. Again, the thought of all that life might have been had he been born in any other shape caused one to view his simple activities with a kind of pity.
After a time, tired by his dancing apparently, he settled on the window ledge in the sun, and, the queer spectacle being at an end, I forgot about him. Then, looking up, my eye was caught by him. He was trying to resume his dancing, but seemed either so stiff or so awkward that he could only flutter to the bottom of the window–pane; and when he tried to fly across it he failed. Being intent on other matters I watched these futile attempts for a time without thinking, unconsciously waiting for him to resume his flight, as one waits for a machine, that has stopped momentarily, to start again without considering the reason of its failure. After perhaps a seventh attempt he slipped from the wooden ledge and fell, fluttering his wings, on to his back on the window sill. The helplessness of his attitude roused me. It flashed upon me that he was in difficulties; he could no longer raise himself; his legs struggled vainly. But, as I stretched out a pencil, meaning to help him to right himself, it came over me that the failure and awkwardness were the approach of death. I laid the pencil down again.
The legs agitated themselves once more. I looked as if for the enemy against which he struggled. I looked out of doors. What had happened there? Presumably it was midday, and work in the fields had stopped. Stillness and quiet had replaced the previous animation. The birds had taken themselves off to feed in the brooks. The horses stood still. Yet the power was there all the same, massed outside indifferent, impersonal, not attending to anything in particular. Somehow it was opposed to the little hay–coloured moth. It was useless to try to do anything. One could only watch the extraordinary efforts made by those tiny legs against an oncoming doom which could, had it chosen, have submerged an entire city, not merely a city, but masses of human beings; nothing, I knew, had any chance against death. Nevertheless after a pause of exhaustion the legs fluttered again. It was superb this last protest, and so frantic that he succeeded at last in righting himself. One’s sympathies, of course, were all on the side of life. Also, when there was nobody to care or to know, this gigantic effort on the part of an insignificant little moth, against a power of such magnitude, to retain what no one else valued or desired to keep, moved one strangely. Again, somehow, one saw life, a pure bead. I lifted the pencil again, useless though I knew it to be. But even as I did so, the unmistakable tokens of death showed themselves. The body relaxed, and instantly grew stiff. The struggle was over. The insignificant little creature now knew death. As I looked at the dead moth, this minute wayside triumph of so great a force over so mean an antagonist filled me with wonder. Just as life had been strange a few minutes before, so death was now as strange. The moth having righted himself now lay most decently and uncomplainingly composed. O yes, he seemed to say, death is stronger than I am.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
If You're in Missouri...
You just might want to drop by the hotel with the big lights. You know the one I'm talking about, it's right near the coast of the river and you can't miss it if you're on your way to see the big fireworks show, just like the ones you used to go see with your daddy when he was around, before he found that harlot and gave her all your time, before he sold out and joined the rest of the world of broken homes and dysfunction, back when you knew he loved you without him having to say anything. The fireworks always made you remember how tall he was, because you could get on his shoulders and see above everyone else, like the show was just for you. Yeah, those were the days. But then you snap out of it and realize that the heat can sometimes do some crazy things to you, especially when it jumps around from 63 one day to 9 the next.
Well, now that you know what I'm talking about I can tell you why. Go there and dig like your heart never saw dirt, dig like you knew there was something good. In fact, there is something good. There is a message. A message buried at that hotel on the coast under the big lights near the explosions of glory. And the message is this: Go forth, my child, and dig.
Well, now that you know what I'm talking about I can tell you why. Go there and dig like your heart never saw dirt, dig like you knew there was something good. In fact, there is something good. There is a message. A message buried at that hotel on the coast under the big lights near the explosions of glory. And the message is this: Go forth, my child, and dig.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Ah, L'Amour
Oui, je suis en le universitat. No sé más francés. I will English you. I have become a new person today. Well, it's not really as bad as all that I suppose. I have moved to Chico. I have a place here in which I shall reside. My roommate likes to roller disco. I have a big screen TV at the foot of my bed, constantly hooked up to the Wii. My computer monitor is currently at 1050x1680, tall, and it displays an image of Samus Aran fanart. It was created by =transfuse, on DeviantArt.
I hope to one day own the poster.
My clothes are in a...bureau? cabinet? something with doors and a drawer, inside the closet. That was my ingenious idea. My keyboard is behind me. (But how do you type, good Sir Doug?) It is a musical keyboard. Black and white. My bed is not yet sheeted. soon, my bebbies, soon. I will now go explore what might be my backyard, using a flashlight!
I hope to one day own the poster.My clothes are in a...bureau? cabinet? something with doors and a drawer, inside the closet. That was my ingenious idea. My keyboard is behind me. (But how do you type, good Sir Doug?) It is a musical keyboard. Black and white. My bed is not yet sheeted. soon, my bebbies, soon. I will now go explore what might be my backyard, using a flashlight!
Monday, January 7, 2008
Donate Your Clothes
Today while I was driving I realized the magnitude of the amount of things that pass through my vision without me seeing them. I am sure it is the same for most humans. There are literally thousands of things that I could see if I wanted to, but none of them are important enough to register.
While moving at sixty-five miles per hour down the main thoroughfare, dozens of yellow reflectors pass through my range of vision every second. I don't notice any of them, but they are the most important things on the road. Their presence is known, even if not acknowledged. I feel the yellow line. It is an invisible barrier - not because I can't see it, but because I choose not to.
We recognize the collection of yellow, forming a line hundreds of miles long, but we do not distinguish individual reflectors. They are like soldiers in a stalemate, each one only important as a member of a team, never winning or losing, never going home, only existing for the sake of existence. Occupation. Authority.
If we paid attention, we would see their patterns, these self-sacrificing dots of trafficky malevolence. Sometimes they come at us one at a time. Sometimes two at a time. Often it's one, two, one, two. Each pattern with its own meaning. If you're on the 880, north of San Jose, you might be lucky enough to see some dots off on the shoulder, forming their own faction. Three, two, one, blank, blank, three, two, one. They march to a different beat.Maybe they are the Salvation Army? They are an example we should all follow, even if their purpose is unknown to us.
While moving at sixty-five miles per hour down the main thoroughfare, dozens of yellow reflectors pass through my range of vision every second. I don't notice any of them, but they are the most important things on the road. Their presence is known, even if not acknowledged. I feel the yellow line. It is an invisible barrier - not because I can't see it, but because I choose not to.
We recognize the collection of yellow, forming a line hundreds of miles long, but we do not distinguish individual reflectors. They are like soldiers in a stalemate, each one only important as a member of a team, never winning or losing, never going home, only existing for the sake of existence. Occupation. Authority.
If we paid attention, we would see their patterns, these self-sacrificing dots of trafficky malevolence. Sometimes they come at us one at a time. Sometimes two at a time. Often it's one, two, one, two. Each pattern with its own meaning. If you're on the 880, north of San Jose, you might be lucky enough to see some dots off on the shoulder, forming their own faction. Three, two, one, blank, blank, three, two, one. They march to a different beat.
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