I've been hooked on tea lately. It's a curiosity-- as soon as I lose the floss I have been carting around for a few months, I switch to tea. I hope this doesn't mean that I will stop flossing my teeth entirely.
This week has been all sorts of panic attacks. The debate over the HOPE GPA raise to 3.7 will happen this Wednesday. It's sad. Our entire academic career has been based around the guarantee of a free education, and now at the point when we need it most, the rug is being ripped out from under us. The other day I found myself writing a letter to our dear Nathan Deal (who probably doesn't care because he has to meet budget demands) about the drastic changes. Take GPA from a 3.0 to a 3.5 and I understand, but a 3.7! Now to be clear, I didn't think this would affect me at all. Worked hard, good grades, challenging classes. Done. But now, in the face of an endless summer stuck in two part-time jobs, I am really too lazy to handle the burden. Why should I have to, considering I held up my end of the deal?
To lawmakers the change seems like business. But there are seriously kids out there who need the extra 10%, around 1,200 dollars, for books and a decent computer. I wouldn't have had a problem with these changes until I realized that the way to calculate hope gpa is less than fair. Take all of your core classes, subtract honors and ap points, add .5 points back for ap classes. Now, don't be fooled, sure the .5 may sound reasonable, but it is compensating for the fact that any B is a 3.0. Take an ap calc class and -gasp- earn an 86-- a decent grade, and maybe you even earned a 5 on the exam. But really that grade is a 3.5, less than the 3.7 needed for hope. Take your 3.5s and average them with the 4.0s (a 4.5 doesn't exist) and you will find that your A's actually do not balance out your B's. The system does not reward for A's, but really, punishes you for B's, or (horror) C's. It doesn't seem fair. There is a disparity between the way national AP curriculum is structured (in which you need to be challenged in order to learn) and the cracked way the state determines your academic worthiness.
I honestly yearn for socialized education. At least there is some guarantee in that.
Cleo 5-7
AP Literature
Monday, February 28, 2011
Monday, February 21, 2011
Mr. Bloomfield's Orchard
There is a reason I go to the library, and it is not to read books that have any relevance to my life. I go in to be surprised. And lucky me, I came out with the best book I have read in ages. Mr. Bloomfield's Orchard isn't just what the title states-- The mysterious world of mushrooms, molds, and mycologists --but really an analysis on human curiosity and discovery.
I never for once thought that mushrooms could be so exciting (and I miss the non-fiction novel, I should really read Stiff one more time). Bloomfield tells a story about how one of his colleagues left him a mushroom to identify. Well, Mr. Bloomfield had an appetite, so he cooked it into a stew and ate it for dinner. The colleague returned and asked him if he had identified the Boletus satanus, Satan's bolete, that he had left on Bloomfield's desk. "Amazed at my evident health, he walked away shaking his head. Satan's bolete cannot kill a mule, but it can make people shit themselves senseless...however, before swearing of all mushrooms, it is useful to acknowledge that products as innocent as Wonder bread probably have some detractors." I cannot explain my love for Mr. Bloomfield, just as I cannot explain my love for Ken Jennings's blog.
In the first chapter Mr. Bloomfield explains the nature of an oddly phallic like mushroom called the Stinkhorn. He recounts the story Charles Darwin's daughter, "For Victorians in England, sufficiently obsessed with sex to become excited by table legs, their appearance was too much to bear. As a mature woman, Charles Darwin's daughter Etty so despised stinkhorns that she mounted an anti-fungal jihad with the aid of gloves and a pointed stick. She burned the collections in secret, thereby protecting the purity of thought among her female servants." It is surprising that a mycologist could be so eccentric as to make me enjoy the study of mushrooms, as he says, "Even high school students are familiar with the warty, black zygospores of zygomycetes, although they spend far more time defiling textbook diagrams of human anatomy than understanding fungi." Haha
Wow, that was one big block quote, but still, Mr. Bloomfield is awesome :)
On a better note, this week I read Oscar Wilde's "The Nightingale and the Rose." It was sad, ironic, and painful. Sardonically beautiful.
(And I've also realized that Hans Christian Andersen's "The Little Mermaid" advocates women to shut-up and look pretty)
I never for once thought that mushrooms could be so exciting (and I miss the non-fiction novel, I should really read Stiff one more time). Bloomfield tells a story about how one of his colleagues left him a mushroom to identify. Well, Mr. Bloomfield had an appetite, so he cooked it into a stew and ate it for dinner. The colleague returned and asked him if he had identified the Boletus satanus, Satan's bolete, that he had left on Bloomfield's desk. "Amazed at my evident health, he walked away shaking his head. Satan's bolete cannot kill a mule, but it can make people shit themselves senseless...however, before swearing of all mushrooms, it is useful to acknowledge that products as innocent as Wonder bread probably have some detractors." I cannot explain my love for Mr. Bloomfield, just as I cannot explain my love for Ken Jennings's blog.
In the first chapter Mr. Bloomfield explains the nature of an oddly phallic like mushroom called the Stinkhorn. He recounts the story Charles Darwin's daughter, "For Victorians in England, sufficiently obsessed with sex to become excited by table legs, their appearance was too much to bear. As a mature woman, Charles Darwin's daughter Etty so despised stinkhorns that she mounted an anti-fungal jihad with the aid of gloves and a pointed stick. She burned the collections in secret, thereby protecting the purity of thought among her female servants." It is surprising that a mycologist could be so eccentric as to make me enjoy the study of mushrooms, as he says, "Even high school students are familiar with the warty, black zygospores of zygomycetes, although they spend far more time defiling textbook diagrams of human anatomy than understanding fungi." Haha
Wow, that was one big block quote, but still, Mr. Bloomfield is awesome :)
On a better note, this week I read Oscar Wilde's "The Nightingale and the Rose." It was sad, ironic, and painful. Sardonically beautiful.
(And I've also realized that Hans Christian Andersen's "The Little Mermaid" advocates women to shut-up and look pretty)
Monday, February 7, 2011
Untitled
Exhausted, scratching at brain, hoping something will come off like dandruff (gross!) Go to library, research ideas for a story, end up checking out a book on funny looking mushrooms. Go to work, gossip about co-workers, come home, sleep, wake up, play violin, take a moody shower. And that's about it.
I am a little disappointed in the outlines. I am worried that formatting might be going a little too far. Last semester's annotated bibliographies dragged down my average because my header wasn't positioned at the right place on the pages. Grammar, grammar, structure, structure! Not that I can blame you Ms. Marcy, I understand how atrocious these papers can be, but I just want to say that I hope it isn't like this in college. Nothing is better than writing a rough outline and then feeling my way through a paper while watching it magically develop (I guess that is why we are now being subjected to this torture).
Also, my paper isn't on Invisible Man, it's on Song of Solomon. I don't want an even compare/contrast between the two. I want it to be 60/40 or even 65/35 because I feel as though my audience (that is, you) has a background on Invisible Man and doesn't need a walk through of every allusion. The focus, I feel, is not proving that Invisible Man is about individualism, it is about proving that Song of Solomon is not about individualism. So I want to treat the elements in Invisible Man more like assumptions because, I feel, that will make a more sophisticated paper.
I am excited to discuss more existentialism in class. Nothing is better than thought-provoking debates. The only thing I ask is that everyone keeps an open mind and remembers the Little Prince! :D
I am a little disappointed in the outlines. I am worried that formatting might be going a little too far. Last semester's annotated bibliographies dragged down my average because my header wasn't positioned at the right place on the pages. Grammar, grammar, structure, structure! Not that I can blame you Ms. Marcy, I understand how atrocious these papers can be, but I just want to say that I hope it isn't like this in college. Nothing is better than writing a rough outline and then feeling my way through a paper while watching it magically develop (I guess that is why we are now being subjected to this torture).
Also, my paper isn't on Invisible Man, it's on Song of Solomon. I don't want an even compare/contrast between the two. I want it to be 60/40 or even 65/35 because I feel as though my audience (that is, you) has a background on Invisible Man and doesn't need a walk through of every allusion. The focus, I feel, is not proving that Invisible Man is about individualism, it is about proving that Song of Solomon is not about individualism. So I want to treat the elements in Invisible Man more like assumptions because, I feel, that will make a more sophisticated paper.
I am excited to discuss more existentialism in class. Nothing is better than thought-provoking debates. The only thing I ask is that everyone keeps an open mind and remembers the Little Prince! :D
Monday, January 31, 2011
Oh what a beautiful mornin'...
So we just finished King Lear, and I just finished Just Friends, a memoir by Patti Smith that details her unbreakable friendship with Robert Mapplethorpe. There is no reason I have just talked about these two works side-by-side. You cannot compare them, but each of them has made me think if only a little.
I cannot blame King Lear for wanting to be loved. Perhaps he went about it the wrong way, and maybe he was a bit pre-mature in allotting his kingdom to his daughters (but it needed to happen at some point). The parallel with Gloucester, I think, emphasized Shakespeare's motif of disguise and deception. The only way I can look at this play is by envisioning two trains about to intersect, and I am not sure if much could have been done to stop it. Oh sure, King Lear could have listened to his advisers, but that never gets anyone anywhere. And Gloucester should not have talked about Edmund's mother like that.
On to the more interesting stuff. I've always wondered what I would do with my life. Truth be told, I don't have an interest in anything. I don't like math or science, and literature, for the most part, keeps me entertained but not much else. Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe were literally starving artists. And it's weird too-- it seems as if Patti Smith had never been an artist until she left for New York and met Mapplethorpe. She moved from one medium to the other, experimenting in drawing, poetry, and finally music (how someone acquires musical ability in such a short time I will never know). She and Mapplethorpe lived at the Chelsea for some time and took part in the tail end of the Andy Worhol hysteria. It was as if all she did was decide "I'm going to be an artist today." And I'm really annoyed too. I'm waiting for the time when something will interest me and I find a calling.
I'm sure most of you know that Mapplethorpe died of AIDS. When I read this part of the memoir I nearly choked. I knew it was coming, but nonetheless, it was sad, not only because it was heart-wrenching, but because it was real and it had happened. It has been too long since I have read a non-fiction novel (does this classify as a non-fiction novel? it should) and I have forgotten how much of a greater impact stories have when they are true and written in words that a reader can relate to.
Okay, back to work. And we played through some of the Oklahoma! music today. So excited!
I cannot blame King Lear for wanting to be loved. Perhaps he went about it the wrong way, and maybe he was a bit pre-mature in allotting his kingdom to his daughters (but it needed to happen at some point). The parallel with Gloucester, I think, emphasized Shakespeare's motif of disguise and deception. The only way I can look at this play is by envisioning two trains about to intersect, and I am not sure if much could have been done to stop it. Oh sure, King Lear could have listened to his advisers, but that never gets anyone anywhere. And Gloucester should not have talked about Edmund's mother like that.
On to the more interesting stuff. I've always wondered what I would do with my life. Truth be told, I don't have an interest in anything. I don't like math or science, and literature, for the most part, keeps me entertained but not much else. Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe were literally starving artists. And it's weird too-- it seems as if Patti Smith had never been an artist until she left for New York and met Mapplethorpe. She moved from one medium to the other, experimenting in drawing, poetry, and finally music (how someone acquires musical ability in such a short time I will never know). She and Mapplethorpe lived at the Chelsea for some time and took part in the tail end of the Andy Worhol hysteria. It was as if all she did was decide "I'm going to be an artist today." And I'm really annoyed too. I'm waiting for the time when something will interest me and I find a calling.
I'm sure most of you know that Mapplethorpe died of AIDS. When I read this part of the memoir I nearly choked. I knew it was coming, but nonetheless, it was sad, not only because it was heart-wrenching, but because it was real and it had happened. It has been too long since I have read a non-fiction novel (does this classify as a non-fiction novel? it should) and I have forgotten how much of a greater impact stories have when they are true and written in words that a reader can relate to.
Okay, back to work. And we played through some of the Oklahoma! music today. So excited!
Monday, January 24, 2011
Without Fear of Wind or Vertigo
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.
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.
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.
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