We're drawing near to the end of King Lear, and I am excited to start something new. Don't get me wrong, I love the acting in King Lear, but now that we have read it, I am upset that we didn't read Hamlet. As was said in class, "Reading King Lear will give you an advantage on the exam because everyone will be writing on Hamlet." Okay, sure that might give us an edge, but where does that leave the student? Great, we will be the only ones who haven't read Hamlet. But I shouldn't be complaining; I'm sure both plays are equally as interesting and integral to our education.
That being said, I am wondering when this creative writing will begin again, or if that was just talk. Not sure, but I am super excited for my directed study on fairy tales this semester. I just finished a fairy tale called "The Selfish Giant" by Oscar Wilde (did anyone else know that Oscar Wilde wrote fairy tales?) and I actually really liked it for its simplicity. It's funny-- now that I'm reading into it, fairy tales are a creepy way for writers to regress into their childhoods. I can't decide if that's a good thing or not. Either way, I will be writing, narrating, and accompanying my own fairy tale :D
And it is also great seeing the progression of fairy tales. The earliest version of Snow White included a poisonous comb, which moved on to a very tight corset, and then a poisonous apple, which is cured by Prince Charming's love (also something about cats who turn into princes). In fact, the story goes that the prince found Snow White and bought her off the dwarves, and then Prince Charming dropped her casket so as to dislodge the poisonous apple from her throat (the Disney version is so much more romantic!) And also the violence which befalls the evil queen-- boots full of hot coals or simply a burning. What surprised me the most is that this Snow White does not reflect a mother's jealousy of a daughter's youth, as the stories might suggest, but rather a young girl imagining being abused by her mother/step-mother because she is jealous of the attention her father gives her mother. Freud is everywhere!
Anyways, I went to see 127 Hours this weekend and wound up sitting way too close to the screen. Suffice it to say, later that night I suffered from an uncomfortable bout of vertigo, which reminded about this chapter I read in If on a Winter's Night a Traveler ages ago (if anyone was curious about the title of this post). If you are into stream of consciousness or just plain scatter-brainedness, then maybe you should read it.
Cleo 5-7
AP Literature
Monday, January 24, 2011
Monday, January 17, 2011
La Noyee
Wow, a ten day weekend, and I still don't have my work done. I did read a lot of Steven Pinker though.
For those of you who don't know, I have decided to take up the accordion. Maybe it was on a whim (as are most things I do) but I have had a fascination with the accordion for a really long time. It may seem like an obscure, dorky instrument, but if you listen closely to commercials on t.v. or songs by your favorite bands, you might be surprised to find that the accordion is pretty ubiquitous.
Yesterday I waltzed into a monthly meeting of the Atlanta Accordion Club. I think I was the only one there who was under the age of 50. The first challenge I had was actually transporting my accordion to the meeting place, which included me finding a parking garage and then walking down the street with an accordion strapped around my shoulders. "Hey, what's up I play accordion."
When I walked into the meeting, the first thing Biff (I can't believe I actually met someone named Biff!), the club president, did was write my name into the line-up. Basically everyone performs a maximum of three songs. "If you feel too nervous to perform, don't worry about it."
"No, I want to."
Surprisingly, I wasn't nervous. A couple invited me to sit with them, so I sat and chatted about the accordion and my college plans as if they were grandparents I was trying to impress. We drank lemonade and listened to the other performances, which included a bunch of sad songs from the 50s (okay, pretty cool music actually) until it was my turn. I walked up to the stage, strapped the accordion on and said, "So I've only been playing for a couple of weeks. Criticism is appreciated."
I played a French waltz. I don't even remember being nervous because everyone at the meeting was old and accepting. Once I got into the music, it was as if I wasn't even a beginner. I struck the last chord and everyone clapped. They were all amazed that I had only been playing for a couple of weeks.
"You going to play us some more?"
"That's all I got-- two weeks of work right there."
From there people gave me compliments, including a man who had played accordion in Epcot Center for 20 years. They offered to give me accordion lesson books and new straps to replace my rotting leather ones. A woman approached me and said that I gave her courage because, although she had been playing accordion for 20 years or so, she was too nervous to perform.
All in all, Accordion Club was a great new experience.
For those of you who don't know, I have decided to take up the accordion. Maybe it was on a whim (as are most things I do) but I have had a fascination with the accordion for a really long time. It may seem like an obscure, dorky instrument, but if you listen closely to commercials on t.v. or songs by your favorite bands, you might be surprised to find that the accordion is pretty ubiquitous.
Yesterday I waltzed into a monthly meeting of the Atlanta Accordion Club. I think I was the only one there who was under the age of 50. The first challenge I had was actually transporting my accordion to the meeting place, which included me finding a parking garage and then walking down the street with an accordion strapped around my shoulders. "Hey, what's up I play accordion."
When I walked into the meeting, the first thing Biff (I can't believe I actually met someone named Biff!), the club president, did was write my name into the line-up. Basically everyone performs a maximum of three songs. "If you feel too nervous to perform, don't worry about it."
"No, I want to."
Surprisingly, I wasn't nervous. A couple invited me to sit with them, so I sat and chatted about the accordion and my college plans as if they were grandparents I was trying to impress. We drank lemonade and listened to the other performances, which included a bunch of sad songs from the 50s (okay, pretty cool music actually) until it was my turn. I walked up to the stage, strapped the accordion on and said, "So I've only been playing for a couple of weeks. Criticism is appreciated."
I played a French waltz. I don't even remember being nervous because everyone at the meeting was old and accepting. Once I got into the music, it was as if I wasn't even a beginner. I struck the last chord and everyone clapped. They were all amazed that I had only been playing for a couple of weeks.
"You going to play us some more?"
"That's all I got-- two weeks of work right there."
From there people gave me compliments, including a man who had played accordion in Epcot Center for 20 years. They offered to give me accordion lesson books and new straps to replace my rotting leather ones. A woman approached me and said that I gave her courage because, although she had been playing accordion for 20 years or so, she was too nervous to perform.
All in all, Accordion Club was a great new experience.
Monday, January 10, 2011
The Other Side of Flaubert
Looking forward to King Lear, especially the audio version. I hope no one takes this the wrong way, but I can't wait for a change of pace in our reading dynamics (not that I don't appreciate the people who enjoy reading aloud). And Goneril really isn't such a bad name.
I've been reading A Sentimental Education and can't shake the fact that it's just not as great as Madame Bovary. I want to say that it's the writing, which it can't be (I'm sure it's the same), so I can only blame the plot. Frederic is a rich bachelor vying for the affections of a married woman while balancing the affections with quite another kind of woman. He flip-flops between the two and altogether acts like an arrogant rich man in French high society. In contrast with Madame Bovary, in which Flaubert mocks the middle-class, A Sentimental Education satires the French aristocracy. The plot altogether is altogether slow and dull.
On to better things. Time to reacquaint myself with blogger again-- the holidays came and went and now it's time for second semester senior year to begin. I can't say I have caught senioritis. On the contrary, I want to learn as much as I can before I leave the hallways of AHS. I've been blaming my classes for learning close to nothing new, but I have now come to the conclusion that the only one standing in the way of satisfying knowledge is myself. So onwards, my new directed study this semester will be children stories. Hopefully by the end of it I can understand why I remember some stories and forget others, why some make me cry and some make me laugh.
Well, it's a beautiful night outside (I suppose it will be midnight in a few minutes) so maybe I will call up a friend and go for a walk.
I've been reading A Sentimental Education and can't shake the fact that it's just not as great as Madame Bovary. I want to say that it's the writing, which it can't be (I'm sure it's the same), so I can only blame the plot. Frederic is a rich bachelor vying for the affections of a married woman while balancing the affections with quite another kind of woman. He flip-flops between the two and altogether acts like an arrogant rich man in French high society. In contrast with Madame Bovary, in which Flaubert mocks the middle-class, A Sentimental Education satires the French aristocracy. The plot altogether is altogether slow and dull.
On to better things. Time to reacquaint myself with blogger again-- the holidays came and went and now it's time for second semester senior year to begin. I can't say I have caught senioritis. On the contrary, I want to learn as much as I can before I leave the hallways of AHS. I've been blaming my classes for learning close to nothing new, but I have now come to the conclusion that the only one standing in the way of satisfying knowledge is myself. So onwards, my new directed study this semester will be children stories. Hopefully by the end of it I can understand why I remember some stories and forget others, why some make me cry and some make me laugh.
Well, it's a beautiful night outside (I suppose it will be midnight in a few minutes) so maybe I will call up a friend and go for a walk.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Death of a Senior
The appearance of a Mysterious Pumpkin Pie was about the only exciting thing that has happened this week. I have no way of expressing my gratitude to the random customer who found the Regal employees so joyful as to offer us a token of her appreciation. All I know is that everyone thinks she's "a crazy woman" and that a few months ago she dropped off a chocolate cake for one of our managers. I don't care if she's nuts-O, I really just enjoyed the pie (in fact, she looked exactly like the female version of Willem Dafoe).
So I really enjoyed Death of a Salesman. Mostly because dysfunctional families tickle me (wait, The Squid and the Whale? Nah), but more so because I am constantly wary of waking up one morning and finding myself still dreaming. It's always been the eternal struggle for me-- trying to dream but also staying realistic. It may have something to do with how my parents perceive me, that I am some high-achieving individual when really I am just a "dime a dozen." Physics makes me feel this way, especially since I have no idea how to take a cross product, how to find angular momentum, or even take an integral. But I am digressing, I really just hate WebAssign and need an audience to vent to (no one reads this anyways, except maybe you Ms. Marcy).
Life these days is mostly depressing, probably because the bulk of them is spent perusing a useless site by the name of "College Confidential." The only reason I find myself reading that dumb site is because every once and awhile I find some lone straggler who thinks he has a chance at Harvard. And once he discovers he has no chance after all, he blames the colleges for propagating "unduly allotted" self-esteem. Never once does he believe himself to be a phony. That's what gets me. I fear that one day I will wake up and be oblivious to my own phoniness.
Yesterday I spent my free Sunday playing along with the Sufjan Stevens Christmas album. Surprisingly easy. Two chords is all you really need to write a song, or even one chord, really. So then I started playing the musical saw and remembered times back in the summer when I was still learning how to play, and how it used to dig imprints in my hands until I fastened a handle out of a screwdriver and learned to arc it in such a way that it didn't have to pierce through my pant leg. And so I traveled back to an old hobby and remembered how much it meant to exist apart from an acceptance letter.
And this is what I have been trying to convince myself my entire life.
The title of this blog is in no way hinting at secret intents to take my own life. Please do not think me such a martyr for senior-kind-- that would be too much to handle.
So I really enjoyed Death of a Salesman. Mostly because dysfunctional families tickle me (wait, The Squid and the Whale? Nah), but more so because I am constantly wary of waking up one morning and finding myself still dreaming. It's always been the eternal struggle for me-- trying to dream but also staying realistic. It may have something to do with how my parents perceive me, that I am some high-achieving individual when really I am just a "dime a dozen." Physics makes me feel this way, especially since I have no idea how to take a cross product, how to find angular momentum, or even take an integral. But I am digressing, I really just hate WebAssign and need an audience to vent to (no one reads this anyways, except maybe you Ms. Marcy).
Life these days is mostly depressing, probably because the bulk of them is spent perusing a useless site by the name of "College Confidential." The only reason I find myself reading that dumb site is because every once and awhile I find some lone straggler who thinks he has a chance at Harvard. And once he discovers he has no chance after all, he blames the colleges for propagating "unduly allotted" self-esteem. Never once does he believe himself to be a phony. That's what gets me. I fear that one day I will wake up and be oblivious to my own phoniness.
Yesterday I spent my free Sunday playing along with the Sufjan Stevens Christmas album. Surprisingly easy. Two chords is all you really need to write a song, or even one chord, really. So then I started playing the musical saw and remembered times back in the summer when I was still learning how to play, and how it used to dig imprints in my hands until I fastened a handle out of a screwdriver and learned to arc it in such a way that it didn't have to pierce through my pant leg. And so I traveled back to an old hobby and remembered how much it meant to exist apart from an acceptance letter.
And this is what I have been trying to convince myself my entire life.
The title of this blog is in no way hinting at secret intents to take my own life. Please do not think me such a martyr for senior-kind-- that would be too much to handle.
Monday, December 6, 2010
On Decision Making
Last week at Regal two customers walked up to me and bought 15 dollars worth of trans fat. I assumed they were dating, as attractive girls and guys are apt to do, but I suppose that decision had not been made yet. The boy held out a twenty dollar bill; the girl slapped it away and held out a debit card, “He already paid for dinner, please take my card.”
Oh the choices.
So now I’m responsible for the status of this relationship? What’s more, I have to challenge every belief I have been brought up on—as a woman, my mother taught me to never accept anything from men that would somehow undermine a woman’s equality (wait, was this the feminist talking or the liberal, Catholic hater talking?)
I did what any romance-minded “princess locked in a tower” would do and took the boy’s money. Well, at least I settled that question.
I used to think that I never really made any decisions. That I was sort of born with a brain and chained to a computer. But let me list all of the decisions I have made as recently as I can remember:
1) Took a weekend off work to play music, write a story, and read a book
2) Rejected all of the time I should have been using for physics to jump ahead on Death of a Salesman—and read all of it.
3) Pulled a funny prank on a friend, which might not have been so nice…
4) Turned off a really awful movie about post-modernism. What a bore.
5) Ate samosas for breakfast, lunch, and dinner
6) “lost” my wallet so that I would not have money to make a run to the grocery store on my way home
7) Played “The Age of Adz” for the past two weeks
8) Took all linen off of my bed in favor of a sleeping bag. More time efficient.
9) Ordered balloons online so that I can get a head start on my favorite holiday activity—balloon animals
10) Picked up my mandolin for the first time in I don’t know how long
But what this post is really about is the aching wait until college decisions come out. I am 3/3, so what do I have to worry about? Well, failure, but as someone so truthfully pointed out in a deep psycho-analysis, I am used to “failure.” So the problem is…
…that Tulane sent me a birthday card before my grandmother did!
The day I receive some sort of real decision, I will cut my hair, go for a run, and clean my room. But until then “The Age of Adz” will be on replay.
P.S. Ms. Marcy, I still have no idea what to do for my thesis statement. But I think that is perfectly okay. Truth is I am super, super excited for this research paper and ready to challenge myself.
Monday, November 29, 2010
I am a "Slow Roller"
I feel the days growing more sluggish; I fear if you throw salt on me I will unzip myself and flip my insides out. But that's just me.
I have done exactly what I shouldn't have--procrastinated on my outside reading book. Before you jump to conclusions and accuse me of complete laziness, I will defend myself by saying I did not catch one break over Thanksgiving holiday (but here I am complaining again). It's not that I don't enjoy Song of Solomon. I do, it's great. Before I started reading it I expected some black pride book, something like Glory Field (shiver) or maybe Their Eyes Were Watching God. Thankfully, I was pleasantly surprised when the opening scene started with a man jumping from a building and the story of the origin of Not Doctor Street. This book is so great I nearly died laughing more than a few times, especially when Milkman, the main character, remembers how he earned the name Milkman (I'll give you a hint and say that his mother didn't give him milk out of a glass even though he was five).
It's very strange when I think about history in this book. Like Invisible Man it exists within a time period of social upheaval, but there is no direct mention of big names (MLK, Malcolm X). Specifically, there is a scene where Milkman enters a barbershop and overhears the barber talking about "Till." It took me a few moments to place importance to the name, but then I remembered an Emmett Till, who was murdered by white men for flirting with a white woman. And I thought how clever, now I understand that Toni Morrison is not just another writer speaking out for social injustice; she is simply telling it like it is. But if that's so, why include the history at all? Well, I'm not sure, but I think it has something to do with the personal discovery of Milkman and his life in context, especially since he is from an affluent family sheltered from reality. I am really excited to revisit this story.
Today some random kid asked me if I was satisfied with my life. My only response was, "mostly," but I can tell you now that this slow rolling is really starting to take a toll on my mental health. Three more weeks...
I have done exactly what I shouldn't have--procrastinated on my outside reading book. Before you jump to conclusions and accuse me of complete laziness, I will defend myself by saying I did not catch one break over Thanksgiving holiday (but here I am complaining again). It's not that I don't enjoy Song of Solomon. I do, it's great. Before I started reading it I expected some black pride book, something like Glory Field (shiver) or maybe Their Eyes Were Watching God. Thankfully, I was pleasantly surprised when the opening scene started with a man jumping from a building and the story of the origin of Not Doctor Street. This book is so great I nearly died laughing more than a few times, especially when Milkman, the main character, remembers how he earned the name Milkman (I'll give you a hint and say that his mother didn't give him milk out of a glass even though he was five).
It's very strange when I think about history in this book. Like Invisible Man it exists within a time period of social upheaval, but there is no direct mention of big names (MLK, Malcolm X). Specifically, there is a scene where Milkman enters a barbershop and overhears the barber talking about "Till." It took me a few moments to place importance to the name, but then I remembered an Emmett Till, who was murdered by white men for flirting with a white woman. And I thought how clever, now I understand that Toni Morrison is not just another writer speaking out for social injustice; she is simply telling it like it is. But if that's so, why include the history at all? Well, I'm not sure, but I think it has something to do with the personal discovery of Milkman and his life in context, especially since he is from an affluent family sheltered from reality. I am really excited to revisit this story.
Today some random kid asked me if I was satisfied with my life. My only response was, "mostly," but I can tell you now that this slow rolling is really starting to take a toll on my mental health. Three more weeks...
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Artificial Harmonics
This week has been hell. I cannot reiterate this enough. The only way I could possibly sum up this week is by recounting Tuesday in directed study when a friend asked, "Rachel, why is your hair wet? It's not even raining today." That morning I had a project due, and I overslept. The shower lost priority to brushing my teeth (I hope this is understandable). Of course I admitted that, yes, I did not shower and I was indeed wearing my brother's sweatshirt. Not one of my finer moments. The next day I went shopping, in hopes that new clothes would make me want to get up in the morning. Only thing is, spending money makes me want to vomit.
For those of you who don't know, I slave away about 15 hours a week in a crappy job at Regal--all in an effort to save enough money and get myself to France. Thursday night was the premier of Harry Potter, and although I was excited at first, I realized they would make me work that night. I dressed up as Filch, with a fake shoulder cat to match (customers appreciated it). Unfortunately, I returned home around 2:30 that night and slept through all of my morning classes. Priorities, priorities.
The weekend didn't promise much relaxation either. On Friday I had a three hour rehearsal. Then another on Saturday, and then a three hour concert. Some of our music was a repeat from last concert. The only difference is that one of Mr. Ludwig's friends had died the week before this concert, so the entire show was dedicated to her. I guess it was fitting that he invited an A Capella group to sing Ding Dong the Witch is Dead (I hope she had a sense of humor). For dinner I ate squid with an old friend and caught up on the horrors of our high school orchestra. And then the concert started with the death of Mozart's father in Don Giovanni. After that a ten year old prodigy played violin, and I thought about how he was exactly like the Invisible Man. Really, his mother has him on a leash; I see him drinking and doing drugs by 17.
After that we had to fight through a battle with Serbian kings and Arabian knights. Malek Jandali, the most pompous performer I have ever encountered, insisted that we play 5 of his pieces. Emessa, Caravan, Nour, Soul b, Yafa. I can't keep track. The worst part was that every one of them ends on an E. After the performance I was cross-eyed and ready for a nap, so I went home and watched Perfume: The Story of a Murderer and rooted for the tortured protagonist on his murderous hunt to capture pheromones in a bottle. I also received a pretty merit scholarship from Tulane. Maybe...
Well, my brothers are home. Only issue is, I have to go to school and then work about 50 hours this week. When will I ever get to live?sigh
For those of you who don't know, I slave away about 15 hours a week in a crappy job at Regal--all in an effort to save enough money and get myself to France. Thursday night was the premier of Harry Potter, and although I was excited at first, I realized they would make me work that night. I dressed up as Filch, with a fake shoulder cat to match (customers appreciated it). Unfortunately, I returned home around 2:30 that night and slept through all of my morning classes. Priorities, priorities.
The weekend didn't promise much relaxation either. On Friday I had a three hour rehearsal. Then another on Saturday, and then a three hour concert. Some of our music was a repeat from last concert. The only difference is that one of Mr. Ludwig's friends had died the week before this concert, so the entire show was dedicated to her. I guess it was fitting that he invited an A Capella group to sing Ding Dong the Witch is Dead (I hope she had a sense of humor). For dinner I ate squid with an old friend and caught up on the horrors of our high school orchestra. And then the concert started with the death of Mozart's father in Don Giovanni. After that a ten year old prodigy played violin, and I thought about how he was exactly like the Invisible Man. Really, his mother has him on a leash; I see him drinking and doing drugs by 17.
After that we had to fight through a battle with Serbian kings and Arabian knights. Malek Jandali, the most pompous performer I have ever encountered, insisted that we play 5 of his pieces. Emessa, Caravan, Nour, Soul b, Yafa. I can't keep track. The worst part was that every one of them ends on an E. After the performance I was cross-eyed and ready for a nap, so I went home and watched Perfume: The Story of a Murderer and rooted for the tortured protagonist on his murderous hunt to capture pheromones in a bottle. I also received a pretty merit scholarship from Tulane. Maybe...
Well, my brothers are home. Only issue is, I have to go to school and then work about 50 hours this week. When will I ever get to live?
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