Oh my! I was just meditating on the fact that it has been quite a while since I last blogged, which is a pity because my old entries have become something like a photo album for me...whenever I forget exactly how something happened, I go back through all my old blog entries to see if I wrote about it (which I usually did, because I used to be a very diligent blogger) and that's how I remember.
In any case, I will use the abridged list in the title to describe the important things that have come to pass this week.
The word of the week is: Boondoggle, a noun which means, "work of little or no value done merely to keep or look busy." It is the word of the week because Mr. Koschak has used it every day without fail to describe the antics of the physics students, who went on a trip to Carowinds today, missing the first day of the practice AP test. "If you are going on the Physics Boondoggle," he's been telling us at the beginning of each class, "then make sure that you get here early on Thursday to get the first part of the test done." I didn't believe that it was a real word at first, but it is, in fact, in the dictionary, hence the conviction that it should be included in this entry and be used forever more from here on out. The English language surprises me with treats like this every now and then.
Believe it or not, Balrogs and Communist containment go together today. A Balrog, for those who have neither seen nor read The Fellowship of the Ring, is a fire demon of the ancient world (in the context of Tolkien's books). "Containment" is the strategy that was pursued during the presidencies of Truman and Eisenhower with regard to Communism - that is, these administrations sought to keep Communism from spreading to other countries - from this foreign policy, we see developments like the Marshall Plan and others. In any case, we were reviewing the 1950's and 1960's the other day in AP US History, and I was thinking about containment, and I had one of those moments where something quite random but thought-provoking occured to me - and it will probably sound ridiculous if I go to explain why I found it amusing here or anywhere else. But I'm going to explain it anyway. So I was sitting there and meditating on the epic degree to which Americans observed the containment and brinkmanship policies as the noble battle of democracy against oppressive communism. And it occured to me that, had "The Fellowship of the Ring" been a movie during that period, the show-down between Gandalf and the Balrog on the Bridge of Khazad-dum would be a good representation of how Americans imagined containment. Standing on the Bridge between the Balrog (Communism) and the rest of the fellowship (not-yet-communist countries), Gandalf (the US) informs him, "YOU SHALL NOT PASS!" And, true to his word, the Balrog is not able to pass - BUT THEN, both of them are pulled down into the pit of the Mines of Moria, fighting even as they fall. This, my friends, occured to me as a beautifully-ridiculous symbol of the concept of mutually-assured destruction, with both sides going down closer to DOOM as they fight (or as they obtain more weapons). I thought it was a neat, history-related epiphany in any case, and one which would have made nice Red Scare propaganda at the time.
Anywho, moving on to our next topic, which is Tom-catting. My readers mustn't take offense by my inclusion of this, which is purely for fun and sport. If you've read The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck, then you'll know that at the beginning of the story, the teenage boy Al Joad is off "tomcattin' around the country," which essentially means he's going around visiting and getting to know (both words in several contexts) his lady friends before the family has to uproot and move west. The little boy in me giggled when I read it, but since then, my mother and I have found the word to be very useful, and we have adapted the meaning of the word for our purposes. If it is given that a "tomcat" is a male, then "tomcatting" for us is the proposed act (always in jest) of going out to look for "tomcats." Because we aren't actually planning to find men wherever we're going, we use it for the most innappropriate situations and derive joy from it - for example, my mom might say, "Kalyn and I are going bowling while you're at school today," and I might reply, "Cool, well keep your eyes peeled, the bowling alley might yield tomcatting results." Today, as we were waiting for my bus 419 outside Reynolds, we were discussing our dinner and movie plans for tonight.
"We're going to go tomcatting tonight!" she announced excitedly.
"I know...I do hope we finally have some success." I said in jest.
"Well, I'll be sure to find us some tomcats while Kalyn and I are out shopping - as with rings, it's always easier to tomcat when you are already accompanied by other tomcats." (she was commenting on the phenomenon in which a married person, often a man, is shamelessly flirted with and tomcatted in public by women who do not seem to notice his ring...the real problem is that he has made himself sparkly in donning the jewelry, and is mistaken for a vampire. I'm convinced that this is the reason).
Next, I had the first memorable dream last night that I've had in quite a while - some of them have seemed to be memorable, but the speed with which I rush about in the mornings prevents me from taking the time to internalize the memory of most of these dreams, so the one this morning was special in that regard. In all other regards, it was quite strange. In the dream, my dad, Heather, Holden, Hope, and I were staying in this nice little mountain house - it was not one of the one high-up and secluded ones on the mountain, but it was in a suburb near the foot of the mountain - there were other quaint, yet fancy houses sitting around it. The community was set up like Boone in that there were isolated houses on the mountain but a glittering golden criss-crossing of city-lights in the valley. It was a booming semi-urban area with bluegrass concerts and lots of art.
In the dream, my dad and I took a trip to a nearby coffee-esque shop that was next to a bowling alley. We were to meet a friend of ours there, who will be named Leon for the purpose of the post. Leon's character is a nervous one, but a kind one as well - he was happy to see us and he beckoned us to join him at his corner table. He and my father spoke together for a while about the mountains and the regional football team while I day-dreamed. The blond-haired waiter came by and told me that next door, at the bowling alley, they were selling the most amazing watermelon flavored drinks and that I just had to try one. I vaguely agreed with him and he wandered away.
When I returned my attention to the table, I noticed that my dad had left, and so I asked Leon where he had gone - to which he replied that he had gone home to be with the baby, and that my dad had asked him to tell me that the taxi was still waiting outside for me, and I was to embark in it at 10:30 in order to get home before it was too late. I agreed and then was overcome with a wave of sadness, loneliness, and sleepiness. I leaned onto Leon's shoulder in a half-asleep manner and he patted me on the back awkwardly as I asked his jaw in near-proximity whether he had ever tried the watermelon drinks next door. He said that he had not, and that he didn't believe that I would be able to either, because he thought that they were sold at a bar.
"A bar in a bowling alley?" I asked incredulously, standing up after what seemed like hours. "That's ridiculous. I'm going to head over there to get a drink before they run out." I paid him a somewhat irritated "goodbye" before storming out and dashing next door. It was mostly darkness in there with neon lights, and much to my chagrin, the majority of the neon lights shone over a bar to the left-hand side of the building. Pink and green neon lights twined together to advertise the limited-time-only watermelon drink, which apparently had alcohol in it anyway. Disheartened, I left and entered the taxi, realizing with a wave of guilt that it was way past 10:30.
"I'm so sorry you've been sitting here all this -" I began to apologize, but the taxi driver, who was the sweet lady who drives bus 419 in real life, waved my apology away.
"You're here now, that's what matters," she turned around as another passenger entered on the far side. "Where to, Ms. Breece?" I looked over and Bennie Breece from the choir was entering the taxi on the other side - she was wearing the bunny ears that she had worn to our Holy Saturday rehearsal before Easter.
"Hey Bennie!" I said, glad after the watermelon drink catastrophe to see her.
"Hey!" she replied to me, and then she told the taxi driver that she was just going home. After plugging in both of our coordinates on her GPS system, we were driven home at what seemed curiously to be a breakneck speed if one watched the little dot on the GPS screen, but what felt much slower if you wrenched your eyes from it and simply looked out the window. That was the end of the dream.
Finally, we've had discussions the past couple days on the psychology of horror films. What is it that makes the scariest ones so scary? That's what I've been discussing with my mom, and she says that it all depends on what the individual finds to be scary. For example, ghost movies don't scare her, but zombie ones and homicide ones do. I personally don't find zombie movies to be scary (usually), and if both are done well, the ghost movies stick more in my brain after watching them than the homicide ones. This might say something about my fear of someone breaking into the house - I was thinking about it the other day, and I realized that I am far more afraid of waking up with a stranger staring at me or forcing my door than the sort of harm that might be inflicted on me after the fact. While I dread either occurence, it is the first one that occassionally occurs in nightmares relating to break-ins. This fear of something appearing that doesn't belong carries over to the sorts of movies that chill me - the ones in which a door is opened to reveal something that wasn't there initially, films in which a mirrored medicine-cabinet door is closed to reveal a person behind you, films in which computers or televisions (familiar materials) function differently to facilitate haunting. We just watched a movie from the 1980's that seemed to set a precedent for many of the half-way decent horror movies that started off the 2000s - it was called "Ghost Story" and it played off of exactly the sort of fear that I just described. They use these shots of her (the ghost's) face to accomplish it...for example, at the beginning of the movie, she is lying face-down on a bed and speaking mysteriously (though in quite a normal timbre) to a fellow sitting next to her who does not yet realize that she is dead. When he gets frustrated and tries to flip her over, he finds that her face is like that of a skeleton and he backs away and accidentally falls out of the window. This happens twice more near the beginning of the movie, and then as her character before the start of the movie is developed, the actress flips her hair over her face or is pictured facing a window and then turning - and each time the audience tenses up, expecting to see what they were not prepared to see at first - but it doesn't come. Everyone exhales and waits for the next part where the music sounds spooky again.
Putting that aside, I think that there must be some sort of universal element of fear that successful horror movies tap into - just as there is a universal element of comedy that directors appeal to when making comedy films. For example, whenever I ask anyone who has seen "The Exorcist" what they think is the scariest part of the movie, I receive one answer without fail: the part where the possessed girl climbs backward down the stairs on her hands. Now, why should this display of gymnastics inspire such communal fear in a population of movie-goers? It's really difficult to say; I don't think I have an answer for it. If you have any ideas, feel free to comment! Good night!
Friday, April 13, 2012
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
"Fate"
Just got back about an hour ago from watching Beethoven's Symphony 5, nicknamed "Fate" because of the supposed caption for the first movement: "Thus Fate knocks at the door." Amazing. Now, I suppose it can be said that I have 2 down, 7 to go (as far as seeing all of the Beethoven symphonies live in concert before I die, which I fully intend to do, along with my bucket-list goal of cultivating a hedge maze). My dad and I were two rows from the front and on the left side of the auditorium, right beneath the violinists....It was pretty incredible. A nice memorial speech was given in honor of Mr. Simonel before any of the music was played....Saoirse and Kiki were both present at the concert, and I spoke to Kiki during the intermission. There was a horn soloist from the Canadian Brass who came to play Strauss' first concerto for horn. He was really awesome as well, but there was nothing quite equivalent to the build-up between the third and fourth movements of the fifth symphony...I hope I dream of it.
Friday, December 16, 2011
December 16, 2011
Today (rather, yesterday) is a fantastic day! My baby brother, Holden Alexander Witt, was born at Forsyth Hospital at 4:00 a.m. - just about on the dot, as I am told - and he weighed in at about 8 pounds, 6 ounces, and 21 inches long. He's an incredibly handsome young man, as I saw in the photos that I received early this morning just about as soon as he was born as well as when I went to see him after school - he obviously takes after his big sister in his good looks.
He is also a very sweet, snuggly, and mellow baby - he sat contentedly on my lap for about ten minutes, breathing the peaceful breaths of newborn sleep. I think I might gain a second fan of my singing voice (the first being Kalyn), because when I was singing "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" to him earlier, he didn't seem to mind all that much. His voice is very quiet...even when he got really mad about having his diaper changed, he only discussed his discontent in tones of what I would deem as mild frustration, compared to the full-scale screeching I have heard from many an infant. Therefore, I'd like to take him home, hug him, squeeze him (not too hard, of course), and call him my very own baby brother.
This is not to mention that he chose a very stylish day to make his debut - no less than the birthday of many friends and a cousin of mine whom I hold dear to my heart, the date of the Boston Tea Party, and the birth date of Ludwig van Beethoven, who was incidentally on the radio today as we traveled from my school, to Marios, and finally to the hospital - what was Beethoven playing on the radio, you ask? Well, some symphony orchestra was playing his third, or "Eroica," symphony - the heroic symhony - the symphony for the brave and noble heros (and initially for Napoleon Bonaparte, before he decided to be l'Empereur de la France). I thought it was very appropriate for a young man who charged into life in such early hours like he had some mission that needed to be done!
It is important to note that today was an A-day at school - meaning I had a study-period and German class following the four daily classes at the Career Center - it is also important to note that it was pouring outside for a good portion of the day, though it never really got cold until the nighttime, and so my black slipper-y shoes became very wet and bedraggled. I began the morning by visiting Lancy at the house and by having a bagel date with my mom at Bruegger's Bagels.
After returning home from the hospital tonight, my mom and I watched a film called, "The Help," about which (book and film) we've heard great things from people whom we trust to give movie critiques. Gary did not like it, but I certainly think it got its point across...I think that the first and last scenes sandwiched it well enough to throw the tragedy (under whatever circumstances, including differences of culture or color, and those differences which continue to divide us today) of a mother-figure being taken from her dependent child into very sharp relief. It was the relationship of Abilene and "Baby Girl" which developed and ended up reducing me to tears at the end of the film. I don't want to spoil it, so go and read it and then watch it.
Why, though? I've always wondered why we care so much about fiction, and so often about these anecdotal points that are used in works like The Help to help convey the big picture, to help support the underlying issue. I have my theories...but now it is too late for me to attempt to discuss them in an articulate manner. Good night, everyone!
He is also a very sweet, snuggly, and mellow baby - he sat contentedly on my lap for about ten minutes, breathing the peaceful breaths of newborn sleep. I think I might gain a second fan of my singing voice (the first being Kalyn), because when I was singing "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" to him earlier, he didn't seem to mind all that much. His voice is very quiet...even when he got really mad about having his diaper changed, he only discussed his discontent in tones of what I would deem as mild frustration, compared to the full-scale screeching I have heard from many an infant. Therefore, I'd like to take him home, hug him, squeeze him (not too hard, of course), and call him my very own baby brother.
This is not to mention that he chose a very stylish day to make his debut - no less than the birthday of many friends and a cousin of mine whom I hold dear to my heart, the date of the Boston Tea Party, and the birth date of Ludwig van Beethoven, who was incidentally on the radio today as we traveled from my school, to Marios, and finally to the hospital - what was Beethoven playing on the radio, you ask? Well, some symphony orchestra was playing his third, or "Eroica," symphony - the heroic symhony - the symphony for the brave and noble heros (and initially for Napoleon Bonaparte, before he decided to be l'Empereur de la France). I thought it was very appropriate for a young man who charged into life in such early hours like he had some mission that needed to be done!
It is important to note that today was an A-day at school - meaning I had a study-period and German class following the four daily classes at the Career Center - it is also important to note that it was pouring outside for a good portion of the day, though it never really got cold until the nighttime, and so my black slipper-y shoes became very wet and bedraggled. I began the morning by visiting Lancy at the house and by having a bagel date with my mom at Bruegger's Bagels.
After returning home from the hospital tonight, my mom and I watched a film called, "The Help," about which (book and film) we've heard great things from people whom we trust to give movie critiques. Gary did not like it, but I certainly think it got its point across...I think that the first and last scenes sandwiched it well enough to throw the tragedy (under whatever circumstances, including differences of culture or color, and those differences which continue to divide us today) of a mother-figure being taken from her dependent child into very sharp relief. It was the relationship of Abilene and "Baby Girl" which developed and ended up reducing me to tears at the end of the film. I don't want to spoil it, so go and read it and then watch it.
Why, though? I've always wondered why we care so much about fiction, and so often about these anecdotal points that are used in works like The Help to help convey the big picture, to help support the underlying issue. I have my theories...but now it is too late for me to attempt to discuss them in an articulate manner. Good night, everyone!
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
November 20 - 21: Height and Depth
The reason for the title of this entry is the fact that I experienced two consecutive and yet radically-different days on - you guessed it - November 20th and 21st.
The first of these was a "down" sort of day. Having missed Friday for the all-county concert this weekend, I was immensely stressed out about getting caught up on all my homework, not to mention the future prospect of getting caught up on all the homework that I'll be missing next week while visiting my great-grandma in Florida - it also occured to me, on the way home from church, that I would be out of town on the day on which I initially signed up for the SAT, December 3rd. So, I went on the website and did all that I could to change my testing date, though it still has not registered the change. I have made a mental note to give them a call tomorrow. In any case, apart from that, one of my favorite pastors had his last Sunday on the pulpit on that day also. The choir sang "The Old Hundredth Psalm Tune" and "He is God," neither of which are favorites of mine. However, the service was immensely powerful - never have I heard that much spiritual guidance packed into one sermon. For part of the prelude, Dr. Dodds went up to one of the balconies and played his violin - it sounded like water and silk, that is how smooth it was. Then, all of the other pastors came to help assist, and midway through the service, after our thanks for the offering, Mike Horne stood with Harry Daniel (the interrim pastor who had to leave) at center stage and spoke of how he has been a blessing on our church as a teacher and a friend. After that, there was a long moment of applause, the longest I've ever heard in the church, even counting the time that the choir sang the "Hallelujah" chorus. I cried a little then.
After the service, most everyone congregated in the fellowship hall to attend the farewell reception for Mr. and Mrs. Daniel. I spoke to him briefly and gave him a packet of sacred poetry that I had written, and then I sat down and wept a little more. For some reason, the sight of him walking around and clutching the bright purple folder cheered me up a bit, and so I got some pink lemonade and socialized with people. Jenny and I had a nice Harry Potter conversation for a while, and then I had to go.
Later that night, I was playing the piano while Hope was in the shower; I decided that it was high time to refresh those Beethoven pieces that I must play monthly to remember: The second movement of the "Pathetique" and the first movement of the "Moonlight." Moreover, I decided to practice them as I would perform them, instead of running through them really fast just to make sure I remember the notes, as I usually do. I was about halfway through the "Pathetique" when I remembered being a kid and sitting on the carpeted stairs and listening to my father play the same piece - and then I wondered if Beethoven had been remembering something from his childhood when he wrote the piece, because it sure captured that feeling well - that mixture of happiness and sadness all rolled into nostalgia. Already being on a roll that day, I wept again, thereby impairing my vision.
November 21st was another thing entirely. I woke up early with the intention of finishing a lab before school started. I caught a ride with Emily, who had a super-early a-cappella gig over at Reynolds that she had to go to anyway. While I waited for her outside, I listened to the Trio section from Beethoven's "Christ on the Mount of Olives" oratorio. There's one note in it that is like Paradise - the whole thing is pretty and worth listening to, I assure you, but that one part makes the whole piece what it is. This song played itself over and over in my head for the rest of the day, as well as the "Agnus Dei" from Beethoven's "Missa Solemnis." It was one of those rare times when having something stuck in your head isn't necessarily a bad thing.
I also found everything excessively amusing yesterday. For example, I was in history class, and Mr. French was discussing John Brown's radical activities prior to the Civil War, specifically the Powatahomie Massacre (or something like that) - in any case, one of the students accused him of mispronouncing it (I personally wouldn't have known one way or the other) and with great jubilance, he exclaimed, "Whoops! I put the wrong emPHAsis on the wrong sylLAbles!" and then laughed somewhat maniacally. At the time, I thought that this was uproariously hilarious for some reason, but then found that either it wasn't, or it was one of those "you-had-to-be-there" things later on when I tried to explain it to my mom.
Just after school, I stayed about 45 minutes or so for a piano lesson. This was a very productive period in which I learned a new fingering for a section of the 6 Beethoven "Ecossaises" in E flat that I had been playing awkwardly before. I also learned a new "blonde joke" and had the opportunity to tell my "bottom of the ninth" joke - the retelling of this joke always makes me happy.
So in any case, I left school in high spirits, which endured through a dinner at Pancho Villas with my mom, Wesley, and Kooky. Wesley has just finished the duet song for his album, "There's No Time for Romance," which my mom turned into the joke of the night by insisting that there wasn't enough time for just about everything. So, then I came home, procrastinated on homework, finally did homework, and went to sleep. That is what has happened the past two days.
The first of these was a "down" sort of day. Having missed Friday for the all-county concert this weekend, I was immensely stressed out about getting caught up on all my homework, not to mention the future prospect of getting caught up on all the homework that I'll be missing next week while visiting my great-grandma in Florida - it also occured to me, on the way home from church, that I would be out of town on the day on which I initially signed up for the SAT, December 3rd. So, I went on the website and did all that I could to change my testing date, though it still has not registered the change. I have made a mental note to give them a call tomorrow. In any case, apart from that, one of my favorite pastors had his last Sunday on the pulpit on that day also. The choir sang "The Old Hundredth Psalm Tune" and "He is God," neither of which are favorites of mine. However, the service was immensely powerful - never have I heard that much spiritual guidance packed into one sermon. For part of the prelude, Dr. Dodds went up to one of the balconies and played his violin - it sounded like water and silk, that is how smooth it was. Then, all of the other pastors came to help assist, and midway through the service, after our thanks for the offering, Mike Horne stood with Harry Daniel (the interrim pastor who had to leave) at center stage and spoke of how he has been a blessing on our church as a teacher and a friend. After that, there was a long moment of applause, the longest I've ever heard in the church, even counting the time that the choir sang the "Hallelujah" chorus. I cried a little then.
After the service, most everyone congregated in the fellowship hall to attend the farewell reception for Mr. and Mrs. Daniel. I spoke to him briefly and gave him a packet of sacred poetry that I had written, and then I sat down and wept a little more. For some reason, the sight of him walking around and clutching the bright purple folder cheered me up a bit, and so I got some pink lemonade and socialized with people. Jenny and I had a nice Harry Potter conversation for a while, and then I had to go.
Later that night, I was playing the piano while Hope was in the shower; I decided that it was high time to refresh those Beethoven pieces that I must play monthly to remember: The second movement of the "Pathetique" and the first movement of the "Moonlight." Moreover, I decided to practice them as I would perform them, instead of running through them really fast just to make sure I remember the notes, as I usually do. I was about halfway through the "Pathetique" when I remembered being a kid and sitting on the carpeted stairs and listening to my father play the same piece - and then I wondered if Beethoven had been remembering something from his childhood when he wrote the piece, because it sure captured that feeling well - that mixture of happiness and sadness all rolled into nostalgia. Already being on a roll that day, I wept again, thereby impairing my vision.
November 21st was another thing entirely. I woke up early with the intention of finishing a lab before school started. I caught a ride with Emily, who had a super-early a-cappella gig over at Reynolds that she had to go to anyway. While I waited for her outside, I listened to the Trio section from Beethoven's "Christ on the Mount of Olives" oratorio. There's one note in it that is like Paradise - the whole thing is pretty and worth listening to, I assure you, but that one part makes the whole piece what it is. This song played itself over and over in my head for the rest of the day, as well as the "Agnus Dei" from Beethoven's "Missa Solemnis." It was one of those rare times when having something stuck in your head isn't necessarily a bad thing.
I also found everything excessively amusing yesterday. For example, I was in history class, and Mr. French was discussing John Brown's radical activities prior to the Civil War, specifically the Powatahomie Massacre (or something like that) - in any case, one of the students accused him of mispronouncing it (I personally wouldn't have known one way or the other) and with great jubilance, he exclaimed, "Whoops! I put the wrong emPHAsis on the wrong sylLAbles!" and then laughed somewhat maniacally. At the time, I thought that this was uproariously hilarious for some reason, but then found that either it wasn't, or it was one of those "you-had-to-be-there" things later on when I tried to explain it to my mom.
Just after school, I stayed about 45 minutes or so for a piano lesson. This was a very productive period in which I learned a new fingering for a section of the 6 Beethoven "Ecossaises" in E flat that I had been playing awkwardly before. I also learned a new "blonde joke" and had the opportunity to tell my "bottom of the ninth" joke - the retelling of this joke always makes me happy.
So in any case, I left school in high spirits, which endured through a dinner at Pancho Villas with my mom, Wesley, and Kooky. Wesley has just finished the duet song for his album, "There's No Time for Romance," which my mom turned into the joke of the night by insisting that there wasn't enough time for just about everything. So, then I came home, procrastinated on homework, finally did homework, and went to sleep. That is what has happened the past two days.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Airplanes and Model Airplanes
It is an odd day to reflect on these dreams that I had, in fact, two nights ago. It was also not until I wrote the title just that I realized that both of the dreams involved airplanes.
The first dream was particularly odd because it was a dream that began in the third-person omniscient, and I was not present in it. I was in the air, observing a large-ish family with two sons and a daughter (I believe) - both parents were there as well. The main issue of the dream was that it was war-time (I don't know when) and the boys were 21 and 18, and they were both drafted into the air force. Seemingly sped-up, I watched a day of departure preparation: suitcases strewn with clothes on their twin beds, a tearful family meal, the father trying to calm down the mother, who was hysterical at having two of her children leave to fight in a war that she didn't support.
Then there was a montage...and then began the actual war itself - I was suddenly behind the eyes of the older boy, in the cock-pit of some sort of fighter plane. The air was rent with the noise of metal tearing, guns shooting, and people hurting. The green grass below us swarmed with infantry, but there was no escape in the air either. It was hard to distinguish enemy planes from our own, because they all streaked beneath me and to my right and left in such a blur that the symbols inscribed in the metal were indistinct - after giving up the pursuit of the enemy, I tried to find my brother. I called him in my radio, and after a few moments of terrible static I heard his voice. He said that he was doing fine, and that there was not much action at his part of the field. He gave me his position, and then I adjusted my flight coordinates so as to maneuver the plane in his direction. However, as I caught sight of his plane in the distance, over a barren, gray sort of meadow, a plane that was on fire streaked past below me, headed straight for his plane, which was facing the other direction. Before I could press the button on the radio to warn him, the two planes had collided in a fiery explosion, slowly descending to the ground like bloody, ashy fireworks. I let go of the controls in shock. My brother was dead.
The rest of this dream involved my return home and the family grief.
The next dream was of a different mood entirely. I was me, and my mom was driving merrily along the highway with me in the front seat next to her. We were on the way to visit one of her friends, whom she had met at work. She also took care to mention that her friend had a son who was supposed to be handsome.
"So you're trying to set me up with your friend's son, is that it?" I asked her incredulously.
She shrugged and grinned, "We'll see what happens."
Well, when we got there, I realized that it would have been good to inquire about his age. He was standing out front with his mother, and he informed me upon our handshake that he was in the seventh grade. My mom and his mom exchanged the sidelong glance of mothers plotting something together before his mom said, "Well, you kids have fun...Kathy and I will just be out on the terrace." And so my mom left me alone with this boy.
He really was a beautiful boy, just not like someone I wanted to date. Though he was in the seventh grade, he looked no older than seven, with softly-tanned skin and a shock of light blonde hair. His voice was also uncharacteristically young sounding for a seventh grader: he could have been a boy soprano.
"Let me show you my airplanes." he said eagerly, his eyes bright.
"Okay," I said, sort of mystified. I followed him to his room, which was painted army-green. The frame on which his twin bed rested was shaped like a dinosaur, and he had a blue, wooden shelf where he had at least ten model airplanes. Through a window in the far wall, we could see a large table on the terrace where our mothers laughed together and drank coffee.
He grabbed his first airplane and began to describe it - this took about five minutes, and so when he turned around to take the second one, I sat on his bed, expecting the whole ordeal to last a while. When he turned back around, he lowered his head and shuffled his feet, looking very awkward, as though I had just undressed myself or something.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Well, nothing, only...my mommy doesn't want any girls sitting on my bed when she isn't here."
I chanced a look out of the window and noticed that his mother was watching us out of the corner of her eye. Disgusted that she would expect me to make an advance on her little angel boy, I stood up and said, "Well, we surely wouldn't want her to worry, would we?"
I sat on the floor while he showed me the rest of the airplanes.
After this exhibition, we joined the adults outside, or rather, I sat across from my mother while the boy ran happily around the backyard (which was like a large meadow) holding out one of his airplanes. When his mother got up to get a refill of coffee, I started to scold my mom for trying to set me up with such a young boy. Before the argument was complete, I woke up.
The first dream was particularly odd because it was a dream that began in the third-person omniscient, and I was not present in it. I was in the air, observing a large-ish family with two sons and a daughter (I believe) - both parents were there as well. The main issue of the dream was that it was war-time (I don't know when) and the boys were 21 and 18, and they were both drafted into the air force. Seemingly sped-up, I watched a day of departure preparation: suitcases strewn with clothes on their twin beds, a tearful family meal, the father trying to calm down the mother, who was hysterical at having two of her children leave to fight in a war that she didn't support.
Then there was a montage...and then began the actual war itself - I was suddenly behind the eyes of the older boy, in the cock-pit of some sort of fighter plane. The air was rent with the noise of metal tearing, guns shooting, and people hurting. The green grass below us swarmed with infantry, but there was no escape in the air either. It was hard to distinguish enemy planes from our own, because they all streaked beneath me and to my right and left in such a blur that the symbols inscribed in the metal were indistinct - after giving up the pursuit of the enemy, I tried to find my brother. I called him in my radio, and after a few moments of terrible static I heard his voice. He said that he was doing fine, and that there was not much action at his part of the field. He gave me his position, and then I adjusted my flight coordinates so as to maneuver the plane in his direction. However, as I caught sight of his plane in the distance, over a barren, gray sort of meadow, a plane that was on fire streaked past below me, headed straight for his plane, which was facing the other direction. Before I could press the button on the radio to warn him, the two planes had collided in a fiery explosion, slowly descending to the ground like bloody, ashy fireworks. I let go of the controls in shock. My brother was dead.
The rest of this dream involved my return home and the family grief.
The next dream was of a different mood entirely. I was me, and my mom was driving merrily along the highway with me in the front seat next to her. We were on the way to visit one of her friends, whom she had met at work. She also took care to mention that her friend had a son who was supposed to be handsome.
"So you're trying to set me up with your friend's son, is that it?" I asked her incredulously.
She shrugged and grinned, "We'll see what happens."
Well, when we got there, I realized that it would have been good to inquire about his age. He was standing out front with his mother, and he informed me upon our handshake that he was in the seventh grade. My mom and his mom exchanged the sidelong glance of mothers plotting something together before his mom said, "Well, you kids have fun...Kathy and I will just be out on the terrace." And so my mom left me alone with this boy.
He really was a beautiful boy, just not like someone I wanted to date. Though he was in the seventh grade, he looked no older than seven, with softly-tanned skin and a shock of light blonde hair. His voice was also uncharacteristically young sounding for a seventh grader: he could have been a boy soprano.
"Let me show you my airplanes." he said eagerly, his eyes bright.
"Okay," I said, sort of mystified. I followed him to his room, which was painted army-green. The frame on which his twin bed rested was shaped like a dinosaur, and he had a blue, wooden shelf where he had at least ten model airplanes. Through a window in the far wall, we could see a large table on the terrace where our mothers laughed together and drank coffee.
He grabbed his first airplane and began to describe it - this took about five minutes, and so when he turned around to take the second one, I sat on his bed, expecting the whole ordeal to last a while. When he turned back around, he lowered his head and shuffled his feet, looking very awkward, as though I had just undressed myself or something.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Well, nothing, only...my mommy doesn't want any girls sitting on my bed when she isn't here."
I chanced a look out of the window and noticed that his mother was watching us out of the corner of her eye. Disgusted that she would expect me to make an advance on her little angel boy, I stood up and said, "Well, we surely wouldn't want her to worry, would we?"
I sat on the floor while he showed me the rest of the airplanes.
After this exhibition, we joined the adults outside, or rather, I sat across from my mother while the boy ran happily around the backyard (which was like a large meadow) holding out one of his airplanes. When his mother got up to get a refill of coffee, I started to scold my mom for trying to set me up with such a young boy. Before the argument was complete, I woke up.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
A Dream of Toronto and A Consideration of Adventure-Scented Air
So, I've been incredibly lucky in that I chose the second week of school to get sick - I'm not being sarcastic, this is actually a good thing, because I chose to do it before the work got to be too overwhelming, though to tell you the truth, the work is already making me nervous as it is. And to think that I tried to take five AP classes...
In any case, I've lost my voice, and I've been coughing up some sort of wetness in my lungs since Wednesday or so, and because it's been going on for so long (and because my dad contracted what seems to be the same illness last night), we went to the doctor today. The PA gave us a prescription for some anti-biotics and seemed to be optimistic that my voice would return and that I would be feeling better when classes resume on Tuesday (tomorrow is Labor Day).
The coughing has been keeping me from sleeping most nights, and any sleep that I've gotten has included troubled dreams, not excluding last night, I'm sure. But in a shocking way, I remembered part of my dream from last night and it was actually quite wondrous.
My dad and I had actually just signed in at Primecare, where he was told that we would have an hour and a half of a wait - he was hungry, and so we left for lunch. We went to a Mexican restaurant called El Sombrero, which is near where K-mart used to be (now The Grand). I remembered going there once with my old friend Sofia's family. So we went inside and were seated in the right-back corner of the restaurant, just underneath a stunning painting that caught my eye and kept it during most of the meal.
It was a painting of a city at night, situated around a circular harbor that opened at the farthest end to the sea. The city was alive and colorful, with tall, glass office buildings and rainbow neon lights. It looked like a fun place to be at night - a place where you could leave your apartment for a stroll, stumble into an arts festival, hear a couple of bands playing live on the streets, and then walk along the ocean, watching the boats' progress across the harbor.
I felt the lovely jolt of deja vu - and then the elusive silk of my unconscious slid back into place.
In at least part of the dream last night, I was on a boat with my mother and father - it was like how it was a few years after they split up, to where they were civil enough to go on vacations together - and we were out on the dark ocean, but I wasn't worried, because we weren't piloting the boat. It seemed to be something like a cruise, though it was a bit smaller and there weren't swimming pools on the top decks or anything like that. It was a lot less ostentatious. I could smell the ocean and hear it breathe beneath us. We were all at the front of the boat, having spotted a bit of light on the horizon. Presently, we were pulling into a circular harbor almost identical to the one in the picture, and a gleaming, silver city spread out all around us. There was something very clean and futuristic about this city, though it wasn't too upright to abstain from being the site of good concerts and other nighttime revelry.
As we navigated the center of the harbor, I wondered aloud, "What city is this?!"
My mom answered my question: "This is Toronto." Her tone was surprised, as she knew that Toronto was the city in Canada that I most wanted to visit, and she figured that I would know what it looked like (that is to say, what it looked like it the dream...I don't know how close to reality my dream was).
I thought of the things I wanted to do there: I wanted to go to the museums, walk along the water, go to a few concerts, and lay some flowers by the grave of Glenn Gould. But it was up to my parents, as to whether we would get to do these things.
"When the boat docks, can we go and look around a bit?" I asked.
My dad nodded and I gripped the railing at the front of the ship, looking eagerly toward the dock, which we slowly approached.
This is all that I remember of the dream.
In other news, today I was considering the human condition, as I tend to do when I grow weary of such mundane tasks as coughing and doing homework. I was moved by nostalgia to consider the perpetual excitement of children. I was thinking in particular about three bands that animated many car rides for me as a child - the punk rock bands Rancid and the Ramones, and the folk singer Bob Dylan. There's also some sort of saying along these lines: "Don't waste the journey thinking about the destination when half the fun is getting there!" And I found it curious to consider this saying in juxtaposition with childhood, when a child tends to fantasize about the destination (growing up) more than at any other age but still somehow enjoy the journey more. I remember one specific occasion in particular, when my mom picked me up from my dad's house, and we were going to go to Arby's or some other such place for dinner before going back home to the apartment. She played my favorite song on the Rancid cd, "The Roots, the Radicals" (that's probably not what it is really called), and I bobbed in the backseat, singing, looking out the window, and just felt that the night was charged with electricity, with adventure waiting to happen! My enthusiasm was such that when the song was over, my mom turned down the music for a minute and regarded me warily in the rear-view mirror. "What are you so happy about?" she asked me curiously. I shrugged. I was alive - I was filled with inexplicable relief and there was nothing to be sad about.
I'm sure all of you remember an experience like this, even if it did not involve traveling in a car at night or punk rock music - but I bet you would agree with me that if that feeling could be harnessed and distributed, then someone would be very rich indeed.
That is to say, the inventor would be materially rich and the consumers would all be spiritually rich.
There were other moments too! Other solitary ones, like riding my bike in the fall and smelling the leaves and receiving that same intoxication! Or that surge of joy when you're walking along the palm-tree lined road and you catch that first glimpse of the ocean, ever-eternal, up ahead, dominating the horizon like a blue heaven. It was like flat soda this last time, walking with my dad, Heather, and Hope from our parking spot to the opening between the trees. I saw it - and appreciated it too, in a composed, formal way - but Hope saw it. And when she saw it, she did what any person in their right mind should do when encountered with something so endless and beautiful: she kicked off her shoes and ran splashing into the water, and I stood watching her, thinking to myself, "How?"
Where does all the joy go? Not that I am utterly joyless now, just composedly joyful about a smattering of things, and somewhat ignorant of the things that used to make me so joyful, apparently.
Every now and then, like a dream, I remember in jolts. I hear that the fair is coming to town, and I envision the rides, smell the roast corn, and imagine the excited voices of people shrieking and laughing and talking, and it is like a brief leap in the pit of my stomach. Then it settles, and that is all. It is like the man Bretodeau in "Amelie de Montmartre," paraphrased, "Tout qui demeure de mon enfance va dans une boite" (All that remains from my childhood fits in a box).
It is the same when I have jolts of remembered joy, and it is sad sometimes, like a CD skipping. But I maintain that this is why it is important to be present in life, and to enjoy the moment, seize the day, etc.
It is also how I like to imagine the "flourishing" that our pastor Dr. Daniel alludes to when he speaks of Heaven.
Something like that, perpetually.
In any case, I've lost my voice, and I've been coughing up some sort of wetness in my lungs since Wednesday or so, and because it's been going on for so long (and because my dad contracted what seems to be the same illness last night), we went to the doctor today. The PA gave us a prescription for some anti-biotics and seemed to be optimistic that my voice would return and that I would be feeling better when classes resume on Tuesday (tomorrow is Labor Day).
The coughing has been keeping me from sleeping most nights, and any sleep that I've gotten has included troubled dreams, not excluding last night, I'm sure. But in a shocking way, I remembered part of my dream from last night and it was actually quite wondrous.
My dad and I had actually just signed in at Primecare, where he was told that we would have an hour and a half of a wait - he was hungry, and so we left for lunch. We went to a Mexican restaurant called El Sombrero, which is near where K-mart used to be (now The Grand). I remembered going there once with my old friend Sofia's family. So we went inside and were seated in the right-back corner of the restaurant, just underneath a stunning painting that caught my eye and kept it during most of the meal.
It was a painting of a city at night, situated around a circular harbor that opened at the farthest end to the sea. The city was alive and colorful, with tall, glass office buildings and rainbow neon lights. It looked like a fun place to be at night - a place where you could leave your apartment for a stroll, stumble into an arts festival, hear a couple of bands playing live on the streets, and then walk along the ocean, watching the boats' progress across the harbor.
I felt the lovely jolt of deja vu - and then the elusive silk of my unconscious slid back into place.
In at least part of the dream last night, I was on a boat with my mother and father - it was like how it was a few years after they split up, to where they were civil enough to go on vacations together - and we were out on the dark ocean, but I wasn't worried, because we weren't piloting the boat. It seemed to be something like a cruise, though it was a bit smaller and there weren't swimming pools on the top decks or anything like that. It was a lot less ostentatious. I could smell the ocean and hear it breathe beneath us. We were all at the front of the boat, having spotted a bit of light on the horizon. Presently, we were pulling into a circular harbor almost identical to the one in the picture, and a gleaming, silver city spread out all around us. There was something very clean and futuristic about this city, though it wasn't too upright to abstain from being the site of good concerts and other nighttime revelry.
As we navigated the center of the harbor, I wondered aloud, "What city is this?!"
My mom answered my question: "This is Toronto." Her tone was surprised, as she knew that Toronto was the city in Canada that I most wanted to visit, and she figured that I would know what it looked like (that is to say, what it looked like it the dream...I don't know how close to reality my dream was).
I thought of the things I wanted to do there: I wanted to go to the museums, walk along the water, go to a few concerts, and lay some flowers by the grave of Glenn Gould. But it was up to my parents, as to whether we would get to do these things.
"When the boat docks, can we go and look around a bit?" I asked.
My dad nodded and I gripped the railing at the front of the ship, looking eagerly toward the dock, which we slowly approached.
This is all that I remember of the dream.
In other news, today I was considering the human condition, as I tend to do when I grow weary of such mundane tasks as coughing and doing homework. I was moved by nostalgia to consider the perpetual excitement of children. I was thinking in particular about three bands that animated many car rides for me as a child - the punk rock bands Rancid and the Ramones, and the folk singer Bob Dylan. There's also some sort of saying along these lines: "Don't waste the journey thinking about the destination when half the fun is getting there!" And I found it curious to consider this saying in juxtaposition with childhood, when a child tends to fantasize about the destination (growing up) more than at any other age but still somehow enjoy the journey more. I remember one specific occasion in particular, when my mom picked me up from my dad's house, and we were going to go to Arby's or some other such place for dinner before going back home to the apartment. She played my favorite song on the Rancid cd, "The Roots, the Radicals" (that's probably not what it is really called), and I bobbed in the backseat, singing, looking out the window, and just felt that the night was charged with electricity, with adventure waiting to happen! My enthusiasm was such that when the song was over, my mom turned down the music for a minute and regarded me warily in the rear-view mirror. "What are you so happy about?" she asked me curiously. I shrugged. I was alive - I was filled with inexplicable relief and there was nothing to be sad about.
I'm sure all of you remember an experience like this, even if it did not involve traveling in a car at night or punk rock music - but I bet you would agree with me that if that feeling could be harnessed and distributed, then someone would be very rich indeed.
That is to say, the inventor would be materially rich and the consumers would all be spiritually rich.
There were other moments too! Other solitary ones, like riding my bike in the fall and smelling the leaves and receiving that same intoxication! Or that surge of joy when you're walking along the palm-tree lined road and you catch that first glimpse of the ocean, ever-eternal, up ahead, dominating the horizon like a blue heaven. It was like flat soda this last time, walking with my dad, Heather, and Hope from our parking spot to the opening between the trees. I saw it - and appreciated it too, in a composed, formal way - but Hope saw it. And when she saw it, she did what any person in their right mind should do when encountered with something so endless and beautiful: she kicked off her shoes and ran splashing into the water, and I stood watching her, thinking to myself, "How?"
Where does all the joy go? Not that I am utterly joyless now, just composedly joyful about a smattering of things, and somewhat ignorant of the things that used to make me so joyful, apparently.
Every now and then, like a dream, I remember in jolts. I hear that the fair is coming to town, and I envision the rides, smell the roast corn, and imagine the excited voices of people shrieking and laughing and talking, and it is like a brief leap in the pit of my stomach. Then it settles, and that is all. It is like the man Bretodeau in "Amelie de Montmartre," paraphrased, "Tout qui demeure de mon enfance va dans une boite" (All that remains from my childhood fits in a box).
It is the same when I have jolts of remembered joy, and it is sad sometimes, like a CD skipping. But I maintain that this is why it is important to be present in life, and to enjoy the moment, seize the day, etc.
It is also how I like to imagine the "flourishing" that our pastor Dr. Daniel alludes to when he speaks of Heaven.
Something like that, perpetually.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
An Earthquake Between Open Houses
First of all, I know that everyone is raving about the earthquake that happened earlier today, so here is my account of it: my grandparents and I were at Belk in the mall; my grandmother and I were on the third floor, each with separate pursuits - I was trying, once more in vain, to find Kalyn a floppy-collared dress, and Grandma was searching for some nice sporty clothes that she could wear in Florida. I was walking amid the racks when suddenly, the floor began to vibrate and when I looked up, the light fixtures were positively shaking. This lasted for about 6 seconds before everything was normal again, and when I looked around to make sure that I wasn't insane, there were other people staring bemusedly at the ceiling as well, and so I was reassured. Strangely enough, my grandfather felt nothing down on the first floor in the men's department, and neither did Hope and Lucy's family (Lucy is a little girl who just moved in next door to us, and for the last two weeks, she and Hope have been inseparable). Perhaps earthquakes of this caliber are only felt in the upper floors of places.
In any case, with school about to start on Thursday, we've been rushing around to get to not only one, but two open houses - one at Reynolds, and the most recent one at the Career Center. Yesterday, I went to Reynolds with the main goal of getting my schedule and meeting my new teachers, Frau Woloshzyn and Ms. Bell. My new German teacher was especially helpful, as she stood with us for about twenty minutes in the upstairs hallway and tried to understand my messed up schedule...My meeting with Ms. Bell was very brisk and concise; I said "Hello," she gave me some papers, and then I was immediately hailed by Saoirse, Kiki, Marcus, and the rest of the crowd - Luke came ambling up to say Hello as well. At some point, I ran into Elisabeth, and she walked with us until we reached Mr. Bragg's room, at which point I was rushed by my dad to complete the business of open house because of the fact that everyone was waiting for dinner. So we ran down to the arts building, had an awkward discussion with Ms. Reese about how I'm not continuing dance this year, had a nice chat with Dr. Moss (in which I was told that I'd be able to continue receiving instruction from him after school if necessary), and stopped by Mr. James' room before heading back out to where we were parked across the street from the school.
Today was the day of the unknown...I embarked on my journey to the career center, where it seems that I will be taking AP French, AP Chemistry, AP English, AP Music Theory, and maybe (though I hope not) AP US History. I met the first five teachers, who all gave off different impressions. We met Mr. Koschak first, because his name was the first I spotted on the map. He seemed to be very nice, but his comment about how "the average grade on my tests is a 60" left me with an ominous sort of feeling in the pit of my stomach. Then we went to the English room, where Ms. Tedder gave us a long speech in which she revealed herself to be a pleasant, friendly teacher who likes to talk. She reminded me of Ms. Jones, but I hope that Ms. Tedder grades our essays somewhat more leniently. Then, it was back to the Chemistry hallway for M. Richwine, my French teacher - he spoke French at me automatically and I almost completely blanked in nervousness. Then, perhaps taking pity on me, he said, "Ah...tu t'appelles comment?" and after a moment of stuttering, I responded with the customary, "Je m'appelle Robyn," and the conversation proceeded in English. Needless to say, I left feeling quite ashamed of the first impression I had given of my verbal French abilities, which he must now assume are abysmal at best. Last of all, we talked to the music theory teacher, a relatively young fellow who was playing the music of Nirvana when we entered the room. As cool of a fellow as he seems, I might have to drop his class because he only offers it during the 7th period and the 1st period...But I can always take it next year. Overall, after the chaos of tonight and the night before, I'm hoping that I'll be able to sort out all of the rifts in my schedule with the guidance counselors tomorrow when I walk over there.
In any case, with school about to start on Thursday, we've been rushing around to get to not only one, but two open houses - one at Reynolds, and the most recent one at the Career Center. Yesterday, I went to Reynolds with the main goal of getting my schedule and meeting my new teachers, Frau Woloshzyn and Ms. Bell. My new German teacher was especially helpful, as she stood with us for about twenty minutes in the upstairs hallway and tried to understand my messed up schedule...My meeting with Ms. Bell was very brisk and concise; I said "Hello," she gave me some papers, and then I was immediately hailed by Saoirse, Kiki, Marcus, and the rest of the crowd - Luke came ambling up to say Hello as well. At some point, I ran into Elisabeth, and she walked with us until we reached Mr. Bragg's room, at which point I was rushed by my dad to complete the business of open house because of the fact that everyone was waiting for dinner. So we ran down to the arts building, had an awkward discussion with Ms. Reese about how I'm not continuing dance this year, had a nice chat with Dr. Moss (in which I was told that I'd be able to continue receiving instruction from him after school if necessary), and stopped by Mr. James' room before heading back out to where we were parked across the street from the school.
Today was the day of the unknown...I embarked on my journey to the career center, where it seems that I will be taking AP French, AP Chemistry, AP English, AP Music Theory, and maybe (though I hope not) AP US History. I met the first five teachers, who all gave off different impressions. We met Mr. Koschak first, because his name was the first I spotted on the map. He seemed to be very nice, but his comment about how "the average grade on my tests is a 60" left me with an ominous sort of feeling in the pit of my stomach. Then we went to the English room, where Ms. Tedder gave us a long speech in which she revealed herself to be a pleasant, friendly teacher who likes to talk. She reminded me of Ms. Jones, but I hope that Ms. Tedder grades our essays somewhat more leniently. Then, it was back to the Chemistry hallway for M. Richwine, my French teacher - he spoke French at me automatically and I almost completely blanked in nervousness. Then, perhaps taking pity on me, he said, "Ah...tu t'appelles comment?" and after a moment of stuttering, I responded with the customary, "Je m'appelle Robyn," and the conversation proceeded in English. Needless to say, I left feeling quite ashamed of the first impression I had given of my verbal French abilities, which he must now assume are abysmal at best. Last of all, we talked to the music theory teacher, a relatively young fellow who was playing the music of Nirvana when we entered the room. As cool of a fellow as he seems, I might have to drop his class because he only offers it during the 7th period and the 1st period...But I can always take it next year. Overall, after the chaos of tonight and the night before, I'm hoping that I'll be able to sort out all of the rifts in my schedule with the guidance counselors tomorrow when I walk over there.
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