8 posts tagged “scholarly woes”
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.
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)
The detergent smells crisp and fresh, only accentuated by the rain. Of which there is a lot (detergent & rain).
I am overwhelmed by the amount of work that has collapsed ungracefully upon me this last week. I have a newfound aversion to the internet, which accounts for an unnoticed absence in all things digital usually pertaining to my lackluster and uneventful schedule.
I have a new job. It goes like this: "Hi, this is Alison calling from the University Fund. Please give us more money so that we can compete with Harvard's endowment. I, personally, would also appreciate it as I have a deep and meaningful relationship with the Financial Aid Office. In fact, if you would just prefer to write out a personal check to me, that would be just as appreciated."
Oh, I'm witty. That's not what I really say (unneccesary disclaimer).
My new room has done nothing but try to kill me today. First a screw driver fell from a high altitude to land on my toe, and said toe is still bleeding profusely. Then I decided to be independent and bunk the two decrepit twin beds by myself, causing me to pull the frame apart, causing the other piece that was not being held desperately with all my strength to fall haphazardly into one of the bookshelves, knocking it to the ground in a painfully loud clamor that should have drawn alarm from someone, and I mean anyone, really. Of course, I moved in early, so I am on a somewhat deserted hallway but for a few random people I've never seen before, but shouldn't that kind of ruckus alert someone? The only inquiry I received was a few hours later from a maintenance worker who wanted to know if they needed to repaint my walls. He surveyed the room askance as I told him I was perfectly fine, thankyouverymuch, haveaniceday.
But I refuse to stifle my latent and extremely rare optimism--I like my new room, despite the falling furniture and appliances, despite the bars on the windows (I'm on the ground floor--safety is of the essence), despite the weird smell that I am desperately trying to Febreeze out, despite the desk drawer I had to duct tape together, despite the paper-thin walls (I CAN HEAR YOU TALKING, GUY DOWN THE HALL; DON'T TRY TO PRETEND LIKE YOU DON'T KNOW I'M HERE), despite the stark, white walls I have yet to cover with something, and I mean anything, really.
Okay, back to the furniture situation.
