To borrow the extremely disturbing words of Judi Dench in Notes on a Scandal--I saw the movie in Asheville over a week ago and have been unable to shake my fear of strange old ladies since--today has been a Gold Star Day. For brevity's sake, I shall list my reasons--
1. I finished my philosophy paper--after writing seven pages I finally came up with a thesis--with plenty of time to watch episodes of Scrubs. I am well aware from experience's sake that I should not have downloaded two seasons, given that I have a habit of forsaking all work for the idea of sitting numbly in front of my computer screen, chuckling at odd times and squelching any dissenting thought that wonders if I have any Chinese homework to do; alas, this experience is rather weak and its roots in reality are questionable.
2. My book on Alfred the Great came today; despite some bent corners I am quite delighted to further cultivate my newfound obsession in the Saxon monarch.
3. Jenn finally emerged from her hole in England and emailed me. Granted, the electronic information contained about 100 words, but it included a link to a blog she has finally started. Soon all my friends shall be but pages on the internet!
4. Despite cold weather, the sky is a painfully bright blue. I always love spring in DC far more than fall; maybe it's the semester schedule, with Spring Break followed by Easter Break that leaves ample time to recollect. Maybe it's the cherry blossoms, or maybe it's just that snow and bare trees in DC have a particular tint of ugliness to them.
How do you handle phone calls from telemarketers?
As a telemarketer myself--although I have been trained to call myself "fund raiser" (What's in a name? That which we call a rose, etc.)--I am somewhat sensitive to the brutality suffered by all people who deal with strangers on the phone for money. I detest those who hang up immediately upon hearing I am calling from their alma mater, I hate rude spouses who refuse to hand over the phone, I hate people who are short with me as if I am responsible for their traffic. All one requires is a simple, "I'm not interested, thank you." Then I can hang up, turn to the person next to me, make fun of alumni and their answering machines, and continue my calling for another two hours... all in the name of federal work-study loans.
This does not stop my father from torturing hard-working telemarketers, however. He ranges from pretending to be a seven-year-old child saying his father is not home to a bereaved brother saying the man of the house just died. But I suppose we all must have our amusements in life, especially when one's request to be put on the Do Not Call list is ignored.
I am tired.
A few weeks ago, I was taking notes in a typically bland spiral-bound notebook (with a blue cover that read FREN-366 on it for identification purposes), when I suddenly was struck by an enormous revelation. That is, I could write in the margins if I wanted to. It was an amazing insight--the very fact that red lines from a paper manufacturer and my first-grade teacher's admonitions were the only things keeping me from righting within the small confined space on the paper. I have since then been writing all over the paper, though it takes constant effort on my part to remind myself of my newfound freedom. Perhaps I shall begin writing every other page upside down now. WHO KNOWS? It's a crazy world.
Oh, I'm sorry. I've resigned myself to being uninteresting.
I have never resented schoolwork as much as I do currently, sitting in a cubicle in the dreary library, missing the first flurries of snow (that landed on my banana as I walked from the cafeteria to this tomb of books). Perhaps that is not true, as there have certainly been worse times. Alas, poor Yorick. Woe is I, the bard should have said.
Am in the midst of attempting to apply for overseas studies, but must come to terms with the fact that I will never leave the country. 'Tis hopeless, especially with French professors writing my recommendations--how can they support my desire for direct matriculation to a French university when I never spoke in class?
A slight consolation is the beautiful fun that is my wordie.org profile, though I must write to them and ask why they have no included "anaphor" in their drop-down list.
I had a resentful encounter today two days ago at the camera store, which involved only receiving negatives of my photos instead of the actual, asked-for prints. In an ideal world, we (the store clerk and I) would have chosen champions to fight for our honor; or, lacking the funds or charm, we would simply have challenged the other to a duel without the help of a third party. I would have slapped him with my roll of negatives, although ideally my champion would have a leather glove and rapier. Ideally I would be drinking from his skull at the moment. Alas, this is not an ideal world, which is lucky for me as I am not that gruesome despite a couple of fond viewings of Braveheart.
Camera store? one might ask, though one never does. Yes, camera store, I might answer, even when one does not ask. I've recently gotten addicted to my new Holga camera, and a return to film in general. I am sick of digital cameras, and I have now invested an obscene amount of money in polaroid film and medium-format film. Of course, all this yields is a rather petulant shop clerk telling me he cannot print my film, even though it is regular 35mm. Which leaves me with negatives and a murderous desire.
But anyway, as classes have started today I have set about attempting to remember my schedule--
CHIN-112-01 INTENS SECOND LEV CHINESE II
FREN-366-01 SELF & SOCIETY IN 17THC FRANCE
LING-225-02 SYNTAX
LING-333-01 CROSS-CULTURAL COMMUNICATION
PHIL-159-01 EXISTENTIALISM
Given the above schedule, I hereby project that, by the end of this semester, I will be able to successfully--
1. use Chinglish with greater accuracy and flair,
2. extrapolate more on how LaFontaine plagiarized many of his stories (in French, of course),
3. correctly diagram a sentence at cocktail parties to the amusement and horror of others, and then subsequently wonder why I receive no more invitations to cocktail parties,
4. effectively cross cultural boundaries and misunderstandings with my global linguistic perspective and
5. have even more existential dilemmas, now with a greater abundance of philosophers from whom I will draw dispairing quotations.
Ah, higher education.
The greatest, and at the same time saddest, thing about to-do lists is the vindictive pleasure I get from crossing off every task. All that is left for me to do before winter break (I am, technically, allowed to say Christmas break, as I go to a Jesuit university where the Christian religion is not hid in a closet masked by fake secularism) is to finish proofreading ma dissertation finale (i.e., re-reading it 5437819456 more times) and then I shall have three days to cram an entire semester's worth of Chinese into my lackluster lobe.
In less successful news, I spent $53 at Barnes & Noble today for three people's presents. This is clearly unacceptable and cannot continue. I'm planning on going into the call center this week despite exams, as we get paid time and a half. I apparently now more than ever desperately need it.
PS--for any tea lovers who happen to be reading this, visit Special Teas and use the promotional code HOLIDAY6 to receive free shipping (if you order before the 12th. Um, tomorrow). They also give you free samples of tea, so in addition to my just-ordered, non-generic, flavored Earl Grey tea, I will also be getting a sample of some belovèd Irish Breakfast Tea.
Once when I was in class, sitting there and diligently taking notes about Dostoevsky, I heard the unmistakable sound of a cell phone vibrating in someone's bag. I rolled my eyes as students around me attempted to inconspicuously check their phones without disturbing the professor, who continued to lecture. Grumbling some more, I wondered why it was so difficult for people to simply turn their phones off, or at least put them on silent--vibrating phones are just as loud as ringtones in the average college classroom. When class ended, I reached for my cellphone to see the time, and I noticed that Emma had called me just fifteen minutes ago. Yes, it was my phone that was ringing.
I like to think that I learned a valuable lesson that day, and that I have grown as a person as a result of it. That is, I continue to judge others, but only for mistakes I myself don't make. It's really rather simple.
My suitcase for Thanksgiving break is 40% clothes and toiletries, 60% school books. Hurrah for holidays.
I've been told I need to stop depressing people who are otherwise attempting to have a normal conversation with me.
me: how are you?Jenn: me'eh me: muy mal
I don't really know how I can stop myself from doing this, except to add after every statement, "I like kittens?" The truth is, I just don't find what I say depressing. Just the other day I began (what I thought to be) an insightful look at the ridiculous practice of having a symbol to represent the concept of infinity--what's the point? We can't even grasp the idea of infinity, so to attempt to write it with two little circles is absolutely hilarious. Somehow it all had to do with the human fear of finitude, but unfortunately, my companion did not find this quite as amusing, and suggested I change the subject.
Oh, but today I stumbled across a Facebook group entitled, "I Wish I Were Your Derivative So I Could Lie Tangent to Your Curves." Brilliance, pure brilliance.
I went to my first "real" concert last night at The Black Cat (I mean "real" because I have been informed that concerts at Carnegie Hall and other music halls don't count because I don't stand in a crowded room for three hours with blaring music). It was interesting, yes, and I still have black X's and stamps all over my hand this morning. But instead of enjoying the music, I began looking around at the people surrounding me, who were all bobbing their heads or swaying from side to side with the beat of the music. And when the lead singer began clapping his hands, everyone followed suit without any more provocation. The raised hands, the uniformity of all of their movement was more than a little disturbing, and as a result I spent half of the night trying to clap to a weird, stacatto unbeat--but most likely I just looked musically challenged. I couldn't rid my mind of a certain image, however--
The following marks my third installment of the PPP (Philosophy Post-It Project):
Anxiety is the dizziness of freedom.
The piano practice room is a fitting place, I decided, to complement my other places (the study lounge in my dormitory and the mailbox area). It is only a matter of time before the entire campus is riddled with my adhesive joy, and with Natalie working as my partner-in-crime a day south of me, it shall be wonderous.
(By the way, thanks to Sabrina I decided to change the name from Natalie's original suggestion of Philosophy Post-It People to Philosophy Post-It Project, which sounds slightly more superior).
To change the subject drastically, I have lately been thinking of people's compulsive need (me included) to creat to-do lists for accomplishing goals. The more I think about it, however, the more existentially claustrophobic I become: it seems like every deed I cross off the list is one more deed closer to my finitude. I am, as one could say, keenly aware of my Tillichean anxiety of ultimate nonbeing, and it unsettles me greatly that I can organize my life according to a day-to-day list--
Sorry for my depressingclean room (die a little)
finish writing paper (die a little)
run to the drug store (die a little)
email professor (die a little)
