Today, in order to have an informal end-of-9th-grade celebration, my friend Saoirse came over around 2:00 to hang out. We planned to go see the "Clash of the Titans" remake at the $2 theater that night, which we did (my dad thought that it was cheesy, but Saoirse and I liked it all right; one of the main characters, we're pretty certain, was the actress who played Violet Baudelaire in the Series of Unfortunate Events movie). When she initially came over, my mother took us all out to lunch at Pancho Villas, a small restaurant off of Stratford Road which is quicky becoming my favorite Mexican restaurant. After being dropped back off at my dad's house, we hung around for a bit, played the piano, and then embarked on a mission to purchase the delicious gelato, which is made and sold by a super-nice lady on the opposite side of the park.
The journey itself was not necessarily a treacherous one, despite the heat and the fact that we had Lancy in tow, a dog who cannot pass any grass without sniffing it to obtain all record of life that passed over the spot. However, once we reached Reynolda Road (I think it was Reynolda - it was whatever road the actual gelato place is on), we remembered that it was indeed rush hour, and that the greedy business men driving by were intent on preventing us from crossing the road to our destination. After about 20 minutes of peering nervously around the parked cars at the oncoming stream of cars, we were finally able to run across the street, glaring at a man in a red car who seemed to be trying to speed up to pass by us before we made it all the way across. Fortunately, he didn't accomplish his task, for we would have then been stranded in the middle of the street as the flow of cars behind him continued. In any case, we entered the restaurant and ordered our gelato, deciding that we would walk back across the street to a shady place on the edge of the park, where we noticed a rather attractive man scribbling in his notebook on a park bench. We waited about 20 more minutes before we were able to cross the street in the shadow of a man who was carrying furniture to his car on the opposite side of the road. As we made it to safety, he said, "You finally made it across!" and I said, "Thanks to you! Have a great day." Then, Saoirse, Lancy, and I took seats on one of the benches which surrounded a large garden of red flowers, all organized into neat, mesmerizing rows. The man took no notice of us and continued to pour out his heart in writing. Saoirse mouthed, "I think he's writing poetry." and I nodded, thinking that the intensity of his concentration as he bent nearly double over his journal made that explanation quite plausible. We continued to watch him idly in his work, conversing about various things as we did so; I had a feeling that he would eventually storm away in frustration because we were interrupting his work, but surprisingly, he remained in the same position the entire time that we were present - it was after about half an hour that we finally decided that it was time to take Lancy back home, due to the fact that the longer we were out, the more he would probably suffer in the heat with his thick Siberian Husky fur. Walking to and from the gelato place, on and off, Saoirse and I discussed that favorite topic of teenage girls: the ideal male. However, through our conversation (and through simple observation), I believe I've decided that the male species (as well as the human species in general) is a variable, capricious one, and that I'm content to be enamored of the constance of music, at least for now. It is a much simpler solution than that of trying to bat one's way through the storm of hormones which whirl us through this Kansas plain of adolescence. As long as I can still play the piano on a mediocre level and make occasional "Wizard of Oz" allusions when elaborating on the effects of hormones, I shall be satisfied.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Last Day of School and Dream about the Killer Sea Monster
So, today was the last day of school, marked ironically with the last and least rigorous of my exams: Seminar of the Arts, the exam consisting of the Cultural Languages, Creative Writing, and Careers in the Arts portions of our course. Naturally, I finished within an hour; and the only reason that I took that amount of time was that I insisted on checking over each answer to make sure that, in my speed, I hadn't skipped a question or recorded an answer incorrectly on the sheet. After the test, I was well occupied with a Jodi Picoult book that Ms. Jones is allowing me to borrow over the summer, entitled Change of Heart, which deals with, in the tradition of Jodi Picoult books, a controversial issue in modern society, which in this case is the death penalty. Owing to the fact that her books are famous for being page-turners, I find that I'm already about seventy pages into it (which is a lot for me; I'm a notoriously slow reader). In any case, Ms. Jones offered to let me borrow it in the first place because I had lent her my Carson McCullers autobiography and she wanted to exchange a book of her own so that we could have the summer to read the selections. Likewise, I'm hoping that Harrison, a fellow classmate, utilizes his time over the summer to read The Grapes of Wrath, which I lent him in a spurt of spreading-the-awesomeness-of-John-Steinbeck passion a few months ago, and which he started to read a week ago. It has been rather amusing, because over the past few months, I've asked him at least three times if he's started to read it, simply because I'm nerdy and I was curious as to what he thinks of it, and how he thinks it compares to Of Mice and Men; however, whenever I asked him this, he seemed to think that I was prompting him to hurry up and return the book, though I assured him otherwise multiple times. After the second occurrence of this, I decided not to ask him again until just before the summer, when he delivered the news that he had finally started to read it, but that he had gotten stuck in the introduction - at which point I exclaimed, "Who reads the introduction anyways, Harrison?! I didn't!" and he seemed relieved, admitting that after trudging through ten pages of the introduction, he had decided to skip it.
So anyways, around 11:30 or 12:00, the bell released us for a brief lunch period, half of which I spent hanging out with Elizabeth Bell, McKinley, and Jordan and eating a cosmic brownie and pack of Smiles, the other half of which I spent gathering things from my locker and delivering my lock and its combination (for the purpose of nostalgia: 13-31-9) to the main office as Ms. Parise wasn't in her room. After doing this, I carried the accumulation of binders and such from my locker back to the picnic tables, where I contacted my mother, beseeching her to come and rescue me from the awful heat (it must have been at least 90 degrees today). Eventually, since Kalyn's addition to the family hinders the speed of any sort of last-minute plan, I was shooed to the opposite side of the street, where we were officially off-campus; the other students who weren't fortunate enough to have rides were herded to various locations within the building. I called my mom again after a few minute to alert her to my change of position, and to ask if she was almost there because it was still quite hot outside - she responded that she was just coming up on Five Points and should be arriving outside of my school any minute. This she did, and after being hugged by Elizabeth and the other two girls (whom I really only know through Elizabeth and sharing their driver's ed class; I still have to take my in-car), I loaded my stuff into the trunk and climbed into the passenger seat. My mom and I had our lunch at the new Mario's near my dad's house, and then she dropped me off at my dad's house, where I walked the Baby, played the "Adagio" of the "Tempest," and the beginning of the third movement of the "Moonlight," and slept on my dad's bed with the dog and the cat for an hour or so.
The rest of the evening passed in a typical, non-eventful manner until I decided to scout around on the Internet for some Proust, which I've been meaning to do anyway. I found a free e-book type thing of his masterpiece, A la recherche du temps perdu, I believe it is called (Search for Lost time). This particular site that I found had both the English translation and the French original, and so I initially pulled up the French and started to figure my way through it, as with a mathematical equation, but I could tell that there were beautiful things - extravagant, luscious similes and metaphors - that I was missing with my limited vocabulary. So, after struggling through a few paragraphs in this manner, I pulled up the English version in a different window and began to read the translation; it was beautiful, and very relatable. The part that I read dealt with his memories of sleeping when he was a boy, about how he would often fall asleep reading and then be unable to separate himself from the "subjects" of his literature - they would mold inevitably into his dreams. He discussed his dreams of women - saying that, just as Eve was created from the rib of Adam, so these women radiated from his sleeping form, so that when he awoke, there would be moments of the dream's memory in which his body was still conformed to accept the shape of the woman's and the warmth of her kiss was still upon his cheek. In any case, I could go on about some of the details of that and other paragraphs, but my point is that I was awed by the beauty of his prose, in the original text and in the translation - I shall have to find a hard copy of it with the translation so that I can similarly read my way through both.
So, I long have rambled, and I'm sure that most of you who have come to read this entry are more interested in the dream involving the killer sea monster which was referenced in the title; actually, you probably are not, since I just had a conversation with my dad which went like this:
My dad: So, who're you chatting with on there?
Robyn: No one. I'm blogging. Oh, by the way, did I tell you about this crazy dream that I had the other night where there was this guy who could turn into a sea monster and - ?
My dad (nodding): Yes. . .You did.
Robyn: I did? Really? I don't remember telling you.
My dad (backing towards the stairs, grabbing the vacuum cleaner): Well, you did.
Robyn: Are you just saying that so you can avoid hearing the dream?
My dad: . . .Yes.
In any case, whether you are looking forward to it or not, here is the dream. I lived in a large beach-house with a group of many other people which contained my parents, my mom's friend Lalanea, and her daughter Xiola. It was our job (the job of everyone in the house) to look after one individual who was confined to the house with us: a convicted murderer, who was "insane in the membrane," and who could transform into a giant, blue, rainbow-striped sea monster at will. This man, who was really not insane but had an insatiable urge to kill, was known for targeting women particularly, so he did have some method to his supposed madness - the supposed madness being the reason that he wasn't in a prison somewhere. The beach house was like a sort of half-way house, in that he was expected to eventually recover from his "madness" while under our supervision. In any case, now that I'm awake, I realize that it was rather silly to try to restrain this man from killing people when we were so close to the ocean where he could easily utilize his transformation powers. Many mornings found Xiola and I, who were on the midnight-to-morning watch shift of the maniac, running down the beach to the water, where we could see some unfortunate early-morning swimmer struggling to paddle to shore as the silhouette of the escaped sea monster rose up, towering, behind them. This happened multiple times, and we were chastised by the other members of the beach house most severely.
"What if he ran off one time during the night?" one woman asked us, "Then we'd be in even deeper trouble; we can't just let him go around, destroying everything in his path - he needs to stay here for his rehabilitation - each time you let him kill, you're reminding him of what he's missing from his old life."
Yet, the murderer returned each time, as would an obedient dog. Of course, we were unable to tackle a gigantic sea monster to the beach and drag him back inside the house; we had to wait. But, before midafternoon, we would always find our cold-blooded murderer asleep in his bed upstairs, often without noticing him enter the house in the first place.
After establishing this routine, there came a night when Xiola and I, upon tip-toeing up to his bedroom on the top floor, found his bed to be empty once again. However, we knew something was amiss almost right away: while we could generally hear the screams of the swimmers being attacked from his window or the splashing sounds of his large, serpentine body flailing around in the ocean, we could hear nothing this night. It was eerily quiet, and it seemed that our fellow boarder's prediction may have come true: our murderer might have finally escaped the lot completely.
First, however, before we jumped to conclusions, we had to search the house for the killer and any "trophies" that he may have taken into the house with him (his victims). We exited the room and entered the long, long hallway outside of it, lined on either side by doors, most of which were cracked and contained the other sleeping boarders of the house. We walked down this hallway, checking in each room for the murderer and his kill - it was an intense walk, not knowing where he might be or whether or not he might be in a state of mind provoking him to kill us if we found him. It was around this time that I woke up.
So anyways, around 11:30 or 12:00, the bell released us for a brief lunch period, half of which I spent hanging out with Elizabeth Bell, McKinley, and Jordan and eating a cosmic brownie and pack of Smiles, the other half of which I spent gathering things from my locker and delivering my lock and its combination (for the purpose of nostalgia: 13-31-9) to the main office as Ms. Parise wasn't in her room. After doing this, I carried the accumulation of binders and such from my locker back to the picnic tables, where I contacted my mother, beseeching her to come and rescue me from the awful heat (it must have been at least 90 degrees today). Eventually, since Kalyn's addition to the family hinders the speed of any sort of last-minute plan, I was shooed to the opposite side of the street, where we were officially off-campus; the other students who weren't fortunate enough to have rides were herded to various locations within the building. I called my mom again after a few minute to alert her to my change of position, and to ask if she was almost there because it was still quite hot outside - she responded that she was just coming up on Five Points and should be arriving outside of my school any minute. This she did, and after being hugged by Elizabeth and the other two girls (whom I really only know through Elizabeth and sharing their driver's ed class; I still have to take my in-car), I loaded my stuff into the trunk and climbed into the passenger seat. My mom and I had our lunch at the new Mario's near my dad's house, and then she dropped me off at my dad's house, where I walked the Baby, played the "Adagio" of the "Tempest," and the beginning of the third movement of the "Moonlight," and slept on my dad's bed with the dog and the cat for an hour or so.
The rest of the evening passed in a typical, non-eventful manner until I decided to scout around on the Internet for some Proust, which I've been meaning to do anyway. I found a free e-book type thing of his masterpiece, A la recherche du temps perdu, I believe it is called (Search for Lost time). This particular site that I found had both the English translation and the French original, and so I initially pulled up the French and started to figure my way through it, as with a mathematical equation, but I could tell that there were beautiful things - extravagant, luscious similes and metaphors - that I was missing with my limited vocabulary. So, after struggling through a few paragraphs in this manner, I pulled up the English version in a different window and began to read the translation; it was beautiful, and very relatable. The part that I read dealt with his memories of sleeping when he was a boy, about how he would often fall asleep reading and then be unable to separate himself from the "subjects" of his literature - they would mold inevitably into his dreams. He discussed his dreams of women - saying that, just as Eve was created from the rib of Adam, so these women radiated from his sleeping form, so that when he awoke, there would be moments of the dream's memory in which his body was still conformed to accept the shape of the woman's and the warmth of her kiss was still upon his cheek. In any case, I could go on about some of the details of that and other paragraphs, but my point is that I was awed by the beauty of his prose, in the original text and in the translation - I shall have to find a hard copy of it with the translation so that I can similarly read my way through both.
So, I long have rambled, and I'm sure that most of you who have come to read this entry are more interested in the dream involving the killer sea monster which was referenced in the title; actually, you probably are not, since I just had a conversation with my dad which went like this:
My dad: So, who're you chatting with on there?
Robyn: No one. I'm blogging. Oh, by the way, did I tell you about this crazy dream that I had the other night where there was this guy who could turn into a sea monster and - ?
My dad (nodding): Yes. . .You did.
Robyn: I did? Really? I don't remember telling you.
My dad (backing towards the stairs, grabbing the vacuum cleaner): Well, you did.
Robyn: Are you just saying that so you can avoid hearing the dream?
My dad: . . .Yes.
In any case, whether you are looking forward to it or not, here is the dream. I lived in a large beach-house with a group of many other people which contained my parents, my mom's friend Lalanea, and her daughter Xiola. It was our job (the job of everyone in the house) to look after one individual who was confined to the house with us: a convicted murderer, who was "insane in the membrane," and who could transform into a giant, blue, rainbow-striped sea monster at will. This man, who was really not insane but had an insatiable urge to kill, was known for targeting women particularly, so he did have some method to his supposed madness - the supposed madness being the reason that he wasn't in a prison somewhere. The beach house was like a sort of half-way house, in that he was expected to eventually recover from his "madness" while under our supervision. In any case, now that I'm awake, I realize that it was rather silly to try to restrain this man from killing people when we were so close to the ocean where he could easily utilize his transformation powers. Many mornings found Xiola and I, who were on the midnight-to-morning watch shift of the maniac, running down the beach to the water, where we could see some unfortunate early-morning swimmer struggling to paddle to shore as the silhouette of the escaped sea monster rose up, towering, behind them. This happened multiple times, and we were chastised by the other members of the beach house most severely.
"What if he ran off one time during the night?" one woman asked us, "Then we'd be in even deeper trouble; we can't just let him go around, destroying everything in his path - he needs to stay here for his rehabilitation - each time you let him kill, you're reminding him of what he's missing from his old life."
Yet, the murderer returned each time, as would an obedient dog. Of course, we were unable to tackle a gigantic sea monster to the beach and drag him back inside the house; we had to wait. But, before midafternoon, we would always find our cold-blooded murderer asleep in his bed upstairs, often without noticing him enter the house in the first place.
After establishing this routine, there came a night when Xiola and I, upon tip-toeing up to his bedroom on the top floor, found his bed to be empty once again. However, we knew something was amiss almost right away: while we could generally hear the screams of the swimmers being attacked from his window or the splashing sounds of his large, serpentine body flailing around in the ocean, we could hear nothing this night. It was eerily quiet, and it seemed that our fellow boarder's prediction may have come true: our murderer might have finally escaped the lot completely.
First, however, before we jumped to conclusions, we had to search the house for the killer and any "trophies" that he may have taken into the house with him (his victims). We exited the room and entered the long, long hallway outside of it, lined on either side by doors, most of which were cracked and contained the other sleeping boarders of the house. We walked down this hallway, checking in each room for the murderer and his kill - it was an intense walk, not knowing where he might be or whether or not he might be in a state of mind provoking him to kill us if we found him. It was around this time that I woke up.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Yesterday: French and Music
Here are a few of my favorite things! Haha, yesterday was one of the best days that I've had in a while - I was worrying about it initially because the French and Band exams were both happening that day and I was somewhat worried about my results from the exams. Madame Matisko gave us our writing and speaking prompts ahead of time, which was awesome, because it gave me the oppurtunity to memorize forty seconds of speaking over the weekend. I spent most of this weekend speaking to myself in French about what I plan to do this summer. Among other things, I discuss in the speaking prompt my plans to ride my bike, walk my dogs, go to classical music concerts to have a good view, visit my family in Naples, play Scrabble with my grandmother, and of course (bien sur) to work on the piano and trumpet. For the first time in my existence, I received a 100 on the speaking portion of the exam. I don't know how I performed on the rest of the test yet, but the listening portion, which I was worried about, was fairly easy and I think that I may have gotten a 100 on that also. The band exam was stressful simply because of my name's location in the alphabet - I have so much time to sit and worry and stress myself out before I even get the chance to play - I'm one of those "let's-just-get-it-over-with" people, but it's hard to have this sort of personality when your last name begins with a "W."
In any case, after I played, Mr. James told me that I got an A on my performance, about which I was quite pleased, considering I messed up at least three times. Overjoyed with my success, I joined Heather and another flute player outside for a game of Egyptian Rat Screw (which is a card game). Eventually, Ernest came outside also and slapped his way into the game before declaring that he was going to loiter in Dr. Moss's room for a while and play the piano. Then, when Mr. Small came by and forced us to sit on the cards (because we weren't entirely sure that we were supposed to be in possession of them), I followed Ernest over to Dr. Moss's room, wanting to play the piano myself. Sure enough, he was in there, and he allowed us to play. I started with the Introduction of the "Pathetique" Sonata, played all the way through the "Adagio Cantabile" section, moved on to Mozart's "K. 545," then through what I could remember from the "Tempest" Sonata of Beethoven, and some other pieces. After a while, Dr. Moss gave me some advice - for one thing, I am overly-Romantic (or in other words, the pedal is my crutch). My grandfather has told me this before, so I was not surprised - also, I need to bring out the melody with my right hand more, and my issue with that, I think, is partially that I like the sound of the lower notes a bit better than the higher ones, and so I subconsciously pound with my left and ignore my right almost completely. And last, I need to work on the strength of my pinkies, because they are weak and cannot carry the melody efficiently. It was a very productive hour-or-so that I spent in the room, and Dr. Moss suggested that I practice the third movement of the "Moonlight" Sonata so that I might increase the agility of my hands. I printed that out yesterday and I've started to learn it, though I don't know if I shall ever get it up to the speed at which I've just heard it played on Youtube. It's insanely difficult and amazing. All in all, yesterday was awesome. Last night, I went with my dad to Harris Teeter to purchase bouquets of flowers for my teachers, and I made two cd's, one for Mr. James and the other for Dr. Findeis, since I figured that it would be awkward to buy male teachers flowers. As I had no exam today, I spent the morning traveling around and distributing the gifts, spending about an hour in Ms. Jones' room conversing about various books and such. After that, I spent some time in Dr. Moss's room, practicing the third movement of the "Moonlight" and the second movement of Bach's sonata for piano and violin (number 4, I think). At lunch, I called my mother and asked her to come and rescue me, as I had no other reason to stay for the remainder of the day - she, Wesley, the baby, and I went out to lunch at Pancho Villas, and then she dropped me back off at my dad's house.
In any case, after I played, Mr. James told me that I got an A on my performance, about which I was quite pleased, considering I messed up at least three times. Overjoyed with my success, I joined Heather and another flute player outside for a game of Egyptian Rat Screw (which is a card game). Eventually, Ernest came outside also and slapped his way into the game before declaring that he was going to loiter in Dr. Moss's room for a while and play the piano. Then, when Mr. Small came by and forced us to sit on the cards (because we weren't entirely sure that we were supposed to be in possession of them), I followed Ernest over to Dr. Moss's room, wanting to play the piano myself. Sure enough, he was in there, and he allowed us to play. I started with the Introduction of the "Pathetique" Sonata, played all the way through the "Adagio Cantabile" section, moved on to Mozart's "K. 545," then through what I could remember from the "Tempest" Sonata of Beethoven, and some other pieces. After a while, Dr. Moss gave me some advice - for one thing, I am overly-Romantic (or in other words, the pedal is my crutch). My grandfather has told me this before, so I was not surprised - also, I need to bring out the melody with my right hand more, and my issue with that, I think, is partially that I like the sound of the lower notes a bit better than the higher ones, and so I subconsciously pound with my left and ignore my right almost completely. And last, I need to work on the strength of my pinkies, because they are weak and cannot carry the melody efficiently. It was a very productive hour-or-so that I spent in the room, and Dr. Moss suggested that I practice the third movement of the "Moonlight" Sonata so that I might increase the agility of my hands. I printed that out yesterday and I've started to learn it, though I don't know if I shall ever get it up to the speed at which I've just heard it played on Youtube. It's insanely difficult and amazing. All in all, yesterday was awesome. Last night, I went with my dad to Harris Teeter to purchase bouquets of flowers for my teachers, and I made two cd's, one for Mr. James and the other for Dr. Findeis, since I figured that it would be awkward to buy male teachers flowers. As I had no exam today, I spent the morning traveling around and distributing the gifts, spending about an hour in Ms. Jones' room conversing about various books and such. After that, I spent some time in Dr. Moss's room, practicing the third movement of the "Moonlight" and the second movement of Bach's sonata for piano and violin (number 4, I think). At lunch, I called my mother and asked her to come and rescue me, as I had no other reason to stay for the remainder of the day - she, Wesley, the baby, and I went out to lunch at Pancho Villas, and then she dropped me back off at my dad's house.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Train Track Metaphor
So, exams have officially started as of yesterday; I don't have one until tomorrow, owing to the fact that the periods having exams have been EOC classes (and neither my third nor fifth period class is an EOC course).
I think that I'll go ahead and explain a thought that's been stewing within me ever since I had the dream involving my walk on the train tracks in a barren landscape. In the dream, one of my teachers elaborated on these depressing stories from his childhood, and pointed out landmarks in the sea of weeds around us to indicate where his phantoms resided (the example I remember being the collapsed fence which once surrounded a swimming pool where he suffered the torment of his peers). Through this entire walk, however, we all marched along these interminable train tracks which disappeared in a miniscule dot in the distance, the mating of the sky and the earth in the horizon. The place was hung in an eternal veil of twilight, the subtle darkness that begins to cloak the world when the sun is just about to set completely, the hour of the crickets' awakening and barbecue smells.
Well, in any case, I think that the concept of a traveling train is a good one to visualize one's consciousness in relation to Past, Present, and Future. Obviously, in the dream, we were all experiencing my teacher's past; no train traveled on the tracks, and we walked in a place which was not only traveled once before, but was also disheveled and unkempt. There were signs around (like the fence) which led one to believe that the area was certainly inhabited at one point, but was no longer, and for all intents and purposes, the Past was a wasteland - in that one could not walk its road twice and reap different crops from it; one walked it once (or rather rode through it in the train) and traveled back many times alone to view it in the distorted scope of one's memory, which keeps things alive, but only with the connotation and added commentary of the "rememberer."
Though we didn't travel to the future in my dream, I have conjured an image to go along with the rest of the metaphor. Imagine passing like a ghost, the very embodiment of a soul, out beyond the boundaries of your train compartment, out to the distance where the gold fringe of the horizon provokes curious eyes to wonder what might wait beyond. I imagine the tracks splitting in a numerous amount of ways - all to places founded in our imagination upon that skill of ours, insight - which, as Dr. Findeis explained to us, is our ability to predict how to act in completely new experiences, or in this case, merely our ability to predict what these new experiences might be - all places the train might potentially go. But while we are on the train, ours is not the mind of the conductor, who is sitting at the head of the train with his own destination in mind, which may differ from the one that we have predicted. Ahead, our minds dwell in cities, never lingering long enough to establish that our destination is a certainty, wandering from road to road, never certain - and all of the towns are ghost towns themselves, decorated with a thin wisp of bluish haze to indicate the boundaries of our imagination. And imagine, for a moment, a pleasant land of this bluish haze - a paradise of your own creation, a hope or dream for the best - how curious to think that often we are in this paradise when the train, filled now with its zombie bodies transported elsewhere, passes us all on the road chosen of the conductor. And now, not only are we not in the present, but we are also no longer in the potential future - we're in the past which never occured in the first place - in shock, we zoom back to the train rattling through the roads of the present, leaving our fantasies desolate in some corner of our brains.
The train, we have established, is the present. How often are we wary of it, I wonder, the vessel which carries us irrestibly onward? How wary are we of it, between us nostalgic ones and those who dwell on soon-to-be-fruitless fantasies? We wander the halls of the compartments and acknowledge our brothers when we are conscious of our surroundings, waving to them in each open-doored compartment - sometimes, it is as though they shut that compartment door, and those that walk into our lives seem to disappear like a shadow from it once more. But they are always there, the live ones - just sometimes beyond barriers that human cowardice prevents us from transcending. Permanent departure occurs when the train stops and that faceless conductor weaves his way through the zombie crowd and beckons to a certain passenger; "Your stop, Madam," he says, and leads her bewildered from her compartment. We catch a glimpse of her through the window; she is pale as Death himself, walking with the footsteps of the timid beside the tracks, shielding her eyes from the brightness of the gold-fringed horizon. Then we never see her again. Now that I think about it, this dream can be eerily compared with a certain poem of Carl Sandburg's, entitled "Limited"
The computer won't let me copy and paste the poem for my readers' benefit, but I strongly encourage you to follow this link and see what I mean: www.americanpoets.com/poets/carlsandburg/12681.
Since I've rambled so long on this topic, let me finish by saying that my grandmother left for Florida today, and my Aunt Karen and Jeremy left yesterday. It is always so sad when everyone leaves : ( I'm going to join my mom and baby Kalyn out in the living room, where they are watching one of the "Scary Movie" movies.
I think that I'll go ahead and explain a thought that's been stewing within me ever since I had the dream involving my walk on the train tracks in a barren landscape. In the dream, one of my teachers elaborated on these depressing stories from his childhood, and pointed out landmarks in the sea of weeds around us to indicate where his phantoms resided (the example I remember being the collapsed fence which once surrounded a swimming pool where he suffered the torment of his peers). Through this entire walk, however, we all marched along these interminable train tracks which disappeared in a miniscule dot in the distance, the mating of the sky and the earth in the horizon. The place was hung in an eternal veil of twilight, the subtle darkness that begins to cloak the world when the sun is just about to set completely, the hour of the crickets' awakening and barbecue smells.
Well, in any case, I think that the concept of a traveling train is a good one to visualize one's consciousness in relation to Past, Present, and Future. Obviously, in the dream, we were all experiencing my teacher's past; no train traveled on the tracks, and we walked in a place which was not only traveled once before, but was also disheveled and unkempt. There were signs around (like the fence) which led one to believe that the area was certainly inhabited at one point, but was no longer, and for all intents and purposes, the Past was a wasteland - in that one could not walk its road twice and reap different crops from it; one walked it once (or rather rode through it in the train) and traveled back many times alone to view it in the distorted scope of one's memory, which keeps things alive, but only with the connotation and added commentary of the "rememberer."
Though we didn't travel to the future in my dream, I have conjured an image to go along with the rest of the metaphor. Imagine passing like a ghost, the very embodiment of a soul, out beyond the boundaries of your train compartment, out to the distance where the gold fringe of the horizon provokes curious eyes to wonder what might wait beyond. I imagine the tracks splitting in a numerous amount of ways - all to places founded in our imagination upon that skill of ours, insight - which, as Dr. Findeis explained to us, is our ability to predict how to act in completely new experiences, or in this case, merely our ability to predict what these new experiences might be - all places the train might potentially go. But while we are on the train, ours is not the mind of the conductor, who is sitting at the head of the train with his own destination in mind, which may differ from the one that we have predicted. Ahead, our minds dwell in cities, never lingering long enough to establish that our destination is a certainty, wandering from road to road, never certain - and all of the towns are ghost towns themselves, decorated with a thin wisp of bluish haze to indicate the boundaries of our imagination. And imagine, for a moment, a pleasant land of this bluish haze - a paradise of your own creation, a hope or dream for the best - how curious to think that often we are in this paradise when the train, filled now with its zombie bodies transported elsewhere, passes us all on the road chosen of the conductor. And now, not only are we not in the present, but we are also no longer in the potential future - we're in the past which never occured in the first place - in shock, we zoom back to the train rattling through the roads of the present, leaving our fantasies desolate in some corner of our brains.
The train, we have established, is the present. How often are we wary of it, I wonder, the vessel which carries us irrestibly onward? How wary are we of it, between us nostalgic ones and those who dwell on soon-to-be-fruitless fantasies? We wander the halls of the compartments and acknowledge our brothers when we are conscious of our surroundings, waving to them in each open-doored compartment - sometimes, it is as though they shut that compartment door, and those that walk into our lives seem to disappear like a shadow from it once more. But they are always there, the live ones - just sometimes beyond barriers that human cowardice prevents us from transcending. Permanent departure occurs when the train stops and that faceless conductor weaves his way through the zombie crowd and beckons to a certain passenger; "Your stop, Madam," he says, and leads her bewildered from her compartment. We catch a glimpse of her through the window; she is pale as Death himself, walking with the footsteps of the timid beside the tracks, shielding her eyes from the brightness of the gold-fringed horizon. Then we never see her again. Now that I think about it, this dream can be eerily compared with a certain poem of Carl Sandburg's, entitled "Limited"
The computer won't let me copy and paste the poem for my readers' benefit, but I strongly encourage you to follow this link and see what I mean: www.americanpoets.com/poets/carlsandburg/12681.
Since I've rambled so long on this topic, let me finish by saying that my grandmother left for Florida today, and my Aunt Karen and Jeremy left yesterday. It is always so sad when everyone leaves : ( I'm going to join my mom and baby Kalyn out in the living room, where they are watching one of the "Scary Movie" movies.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
False Alarm. . .Not
So, this will be a short post, but I thought that I'd clarify that the "false alarm" that my mom had last Sunday was not a false alarm. In fact, she went into labor that very night, after the doctor verified that her had indeed been broken. She had Kalyn Abigail at 1:55 the next day.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Confirmation Weekend
This weekend, after waiting for what seemed like an eternity, I finally went through the motions of being confirmed in First Presbyterian Church. It was even more special than originally anticipated, due to the fact that my mother was able to come as well (she hasn't had her baby yet).
It started yesterday around 4:00 as I was preparing for the night. I attired myself in my black dress with the gray half-sweater over top of it. My nice black shoes were at my mom's house, and so I called her to ask if she could bring them over at some point, as well as to ask her if she would be participating in the night's festivities with us. She eventually agreed, and she said that she would bring over the shoes just as soon as she was done walking and feeding all of the dogs. Meanwhile, my grandparents were apparently on their way to Winston-Salem, though my dad and I had almost given up hope on being able to take them with us to the church that night, as they hadn't arrived yet. However, at around 4:50, I saw their new red car pull up in the driveway from the window in my bedroom, and I could hear my grandfather's loud, exuberant voice as he carried his luggage from the car. I ran downstairs barefoot to meet them at the back door, wearing my dress. After greeting them, I showed them the dress that we bought for me to be baptized in the next day when the official confirmation would occur in front of the entire church congregation. About five minutes after my grandparents' arrival, my mom entered, carrying the shoes. I put them on as my grandparents showed my mother some things that they had gathered for the baby, and soon after, we piled into my grandfather's car and drove to the church. My family was led into the main room of the worship center, while I headed upstairs to meet the rest of my confirmation class in the small room that we were instructed to wait in. It was an oddly-shaped room, empty but for a dozen straight-backed chairs lined against one wall and a window looking out onto Building B and the Sanctuary. I could see people pouring into our building from the parking lot, and I paced around the room, tense: we were expected to deliver a speech that night on "who Jesus is to us," and I clutched the notebook I had written my outline of sorts in, reviewing everything I had written - I was nervous because earlier that day, I had tried to do a practice-run of it with my dad, and I stuttered terribly and could not think of logical transitions between ideas. I greeted the cool seventh-grade girls whom I hung out with at the last retreat, Emma, Anna, and Emily, complimenting their dresses. They held either notebooks or notecards. Soon, after an immeasurable amount of time spent waiting for Molly, Lisa, or Bo to instruct us in some way, we were organized into a line based on alphabetical order of last name; I, of course, was last in line, behind a petite little girl named Megan. As we were standing there, Molly gave us the "run-down" of what was about to occur, assuring us that there was no need to worry, and that perfection was not expected in the least. Then, we marched down the stairs and into the right side of the main room of the worship center - I had left my purse up in the "waiting-room" to be retrieved after this initial part of the ceremony - and we walked up the steps onto the stage, sitting in the chairs which were organized in a straight line before a purple curtain (the color of which Emma mentioned shortly before our descent), facing the audience, who fell suddenly silent with our entry. Molly and Harry Daniel delivered a short introduction and the former began to question each student, "Who is Jesus Christ to you?" or "Please describe your faith for us." Each student went about answering these questions in different ways, some referencing the collages that we created on our last retreat, others speaking from written word, others simply improvising. There were moments, seated on the very end of the row, when I would be overcome with anxiety, and my hands would sweat as I clasped them in my lap; but then there were other times when one of the students would say something humorous, the audience would laugh, and the mood and tension would lighten significantly. I gazed to my right as the students standing up to speak came closer and closer to where I sat. Soon, Megan stood up beside me, read through her three note cards, sat down, and passed the microphone to me.
I eased myself from my chair and began, "When considering the Trinity, Jesus seems to be the most merciful 'part' of God, when you take his great sacrifice for us into consideration. . ." and on and on. A few things that I mentioned were of event, like the Harper Lee quote that I used to reference those Christians who cling to the idea of paradise as opposed to utilizing their time on Earth to be doing good. I also referenced the sermon at Prodigals community on Gethsemane, my poem which I wrote in response to that, and a remark that a fellow classmate had made about Jesus showing his crucifixion scar to his disciples, a remark made to the effect that our identities will be retained when we pass from this life to the next one that everyone is so caught up in. Despite my nervousness and swaying (my mom told me afterward that I was rocking), it did not fare as badly as it could have, and I sat down with a vague air of triumphance. Following all of the speeches, we stacked our chairs and took a few confirmation pictures, with and without mentors, before heading off to dinner in the fellowship hall. During that time, I was encountered by a few people who complimented my speech, including some whom I'd never met, and I was very flattered. One man approached me and said, "You were right on the money, girl; don't stop there. You're on an assignment now. An assignment."
When I ran into Linda, I gave her the thank-you note that I had written for her earlier that day, and over dinner, she presented me with a gift that ended up being the "Jesus Storybook Bible," for which I was very grateful. After waiting in the long line outside of the fellowship hall, we received our plates of food and went to sit at our assigned table, which we shared with Pastor Harry Daniel and Mrs. Daniel. Both shook my hand and congratulated me on my speech, and Grandpa engaged Mr. Daniel in conversation soon after. My dad and I told Mrs. Daniel that we're huge fans of Mr. Daniel's sermons. Dinner passed in a vaguely pleasant way, watching everyone converse with each other, together, which I never get to see. Then, the Daniels stood up, preparing to leave. I had been debating the entire night whether I should ask Mr. Daniel to baptize me the following morning, given that he is my favorite pastor and that his sermons have meant the most to me in this whole process. After hovering for a moment in indecision, I dropped my purse on my chair and nearly ran out of the dining hall after them. I found him waiting outside of the bathroom for his wife. I asked him if he would baptize me the next morning, worried initially that he would be weirded-out, but he seemed to be flattered, and he told me that it would "be a privilege" to baptize me, and even embraced me. I walked back to our table, rather stunned by my success.
After dinner, we walked over to the Sanctuary, where each student was presented a Bible and some flowers, some to keep as souvenirs, and a single flower which we were supposed to give to someone the next day. I gave mine to Linda following this part of the ceremony, thanking her for everything that she had done. Then we all departed.
The next morning, I woke at 8:30, showered, and dressed in my confirmation outfit: a white dress with black sash and lining, decorated with embroidered sunflowers. I wore a white headband to match, and ate some of my grandmother's famous scrambled eggs for breakfast as I waited for my dad to get in the shower. Once we had arrived at the church, I wandered over to the fellowship hall, where a man in charge of a Guatemalan missionary was presenting a powerpoint. At 10:30, we were released, and I hurried over to the Sanctuary, where our class would first be presented. We sat in designated rows on the left side of the room, and Ms. Moyer (who still seems to be pregnant) played some weird French songs on the organ as a prelude, along with a pretty piano piece with bell accompaniment. Our class lined up at the front of the room, was presented to the Sanctuary, and departed for the Worship Center, where we would spend the remainder of the 11:00 service.
We were introduced here in the same way; we all walked up onto the stage in alphabetical order, but before the actual introduction took place, the three of us who were to be baptized stepped forward onto a rug that was set up, and we knelt before the two pastors who would in charge of the baptism. I was baptized first, and Mr. Daniel dipped his hand in the jug of water before placing it on my head and moving on to the next person. Courtney's brother, Chris, was baptized last, by Mr. Horne. After this, the introduction, and a prayer of the mentors and parents over the confirmands, we were all seated in our designated seats, and Mr. Daniel presented a sermon on the three components of a Christian's moral compass that should always be kept in mind in one's faith. After the service, my grandparents, my dad, and I had lunch at the Olive Garden, bringing home our leftovers.
In other news, Saoirse came over to hang out today, and we posed for photographs at my dad's friend Jennifer's restaurant, Mozelle's (this was for advertisement purposes; we were supposed to sit in front of desert plates and pretend like we were having a grand time). My mom had a false alarm today with the baby, and so she should be sent home at any time now.
It started yesterday around 4:00 as I was preparing for the night. I attired myself in my black dress with the gray half-sweater over top of it. My nice black shoes were at my mom's house, and so I called her to ask if she could bring them over at some point, as well as to ask her if she would be participating in the night's festivities with us. She eventually agreed, and she said that she would bring over the shoes just as soon as she was done walking and feeding all of the dogs. Meanwhile, my grandparents were apparently on their way to Winston-Salem, though my dad and I had almost given up hope on being able to take them with us to the church that night, as they hadn't arrived yet. However, at around 4:50, I saw their new red car pull up in the driveway from the window in my bedroom, and I could hear my grandfather's loud, exuberant voice as he carried his luggage from the car. I ran downstairs barefoot to meet them at the back door, wearing my dress. After greeting them, I showed them the dress that we bought for me to be baptized in the next day when the official confirmation would occur in front of the entire church congregation. About five minutes after my grandparents' arrival, my mom entered, carrying the shoes. I put them on as my grandparents showed my mother some things that they had gathered for the baby, and soon after, we piled into my grandfather's car and drove to the church. My family was led into the main room of the worship center, while I headed upstairs to meet the rest of my confirmation class in the small room that we were instructed to wait in. It was an oddly-shaped room, empty but for a dozen straight-backed chairs lined against one wall and a window looking out onto Building B and the Sanctuary. I could see people pouring into our building from the parking lot, and I paced around the room, tense: we were expected to deliver a speech that night on "who Jesus is to us," and I clutched the notebook I had written my outline of sorts in, reviewing everything I had written - I was nervous because earlier that day, I had tried to do a practice-run of it with my dad, and I stuttered terribly and could not think of logical transitions between ideas. I greeted the cool seventh-grade girls whom I hung out with at the last retreat, Emma, Anna, and Emily, complimenting their dresses. They held either notebooks or notecards. Soon, after an immeasurable amount of time spent waiting for Molly, Lisa, or Bo to instruct us in some way, we were organized into a line based on alphabetical order of last name; I, of course, was last in line, behind a petite little girl named Megan. As we were standing there, Molly gave us the "run-down" of what was about to occur, assuring us that there was no need to worry, and that perfection was not expected in the least. Then, we marched down the stairs and into the right side of the main room of the worship center - I had left my purse up in the "waiting-room" to be retrieved after this initial part of the ceremony - and we walked up the steps onto the stage, sitting in the chairs which were organized in a straight line before a purple curtain (the color of which Emma mentioned shortly before our descent), facing the audience, who fell suddenly silent with our entry. Molly and Harry Daniel delivered a short introduction and the former began to question each student, "Who is Jesus Christ to you?" or "Please describe your faith for us." Each student went about answering these questions in different ways, some referencing the collages that we created on our last retreat, others speaking from written word, others simply improvising. There were moments, seated on the very end of the row, when I would be overcome with anxiety, and my hands would sweat as I clasped them in my lap; but then there were other times when one of the students would say something humorous, the audience would laugh, and the mood and tension would lighten significantly. I gazed to my right as the students standing up to speak came closer and closer to where I sat. Soon, Megan stood up beside me, read through her three note cards, sat down, and passed the microphone to me.
I eased myself from my chair and began, "When considering the Trinity, Jesus seems to be the most merciful 'part' of God, when you take his great sacrifice for us into consideration. . ." and on and on. A few things that I mentioned were of event, like the Harper Lee quote that I used to reference those Christians who cling to the idea of paradise as opposed to utilizing their time on Earth to be doing good. I also referenced the sermon at Prodigals community on Gethsemane, my poem which I wrote in response to that, and a remark that a fellow classmate had made about Jesus showing his crucifixion scar to his disciples, a remark made to the effect that our identities will be retained when we pass from this life to the next one that everyone is so caught up in. Despite my nervousness and swaying (my mom told me afterward that I was rocking), it did not fare as badly as it could have, and I sat down with a vague air of triumphance. Following all of the speeches, we stacked our chairs and took a few confirmation pictures, with and without mentors, before heading off to dinner in the fellowship hall. During that time, I was encountered by a few people who complimented my speech, including some whom I'd never met, and I was very flattered. One man approached me and said, "You were right on the money, girl; don't stop there. You're on an assignment now. An assignment."
When I ran into Linda, I gave her the thank-you note that I had written for her earlier that day, and over dinner, she presented me with a gift that ended up being the "Jesus Storybook Bible," for which I was very grateful. After waiting in the long line outside of the fellowship hall, we received our plates of food and went to sit at our assigned table, which we shared with Pastor Harry Daniel and Mrs. Daniel. Both shook my hand and congratulated me on my speech, and Grandpa engaged Mr. Daniel in conversation soon after. My dad and I told Mrs. Daniel that we're huge fans of Mr. Daniel's sermons. Dinner passed in a vaguely pleasant way, watching everyone converse with each other, together, which I never get to see. Then, the Daniels stood up, preparing to leave. I had been debating the entire night whether I should ask Mr. Daniel to baptize me the following morning, given that he is my favorite pastor and that his sermons have meant the most to me in this whole process. After hovering for a moment in indecision, I dropped my purse on my chair and nearly ran out of the dining hall after them. I found him waiting outside of the bathroom for his wife. I asked him if he would baptize me the next morning, worried initially that he would be weirded-out, but he seemed to be flattered, and he told me that it would "be a privilege" to baptize me, and even embraced me. I walked back to our table, rather stunned by my success.
After dinner, we walked over to the Sanctuary, where each student was presented a Bible and some flowers, some to keep as souvenirs, and a single flower which we were supposed to give to someone the next day. I gave mine to Linda following this part of the ceremony, thanking her for everything that she had done. Then we all departed.
The next morning, I woke at 8:30, showered, and dressed in my confirmation outfit: a white dress with black sash and lining, decorated with embroidered sunflowers. I wore a white headband to match, and ate some of my grandmother's famous scrambled eggs for breakfast as I waited for my dad to get in the shower. Once we had arrived at the church, I wandered over to the fellowship hall, where a man in charge of a Guatemalan missionary was presenting a powerpoint. At 10:30, we were released, and I hurried over to the Sanctuary, where our class would first be presented. We sat in designated rows on the left side of the room, and Ms. Moyer (who still seems to be pregnant) played some weird French songs on the organ as a prelude, along with a pretty piano piece with bell accompaniment. Our class lined up at the front of the room, was presented to the Sanctuary, and departed for the Worship Center, where we would spend the remainder of the 11:00 service.
We were introduced here in the same way; we all walked up onto the stage in alphabetical order, but before the actual introduction took place, the three of us who were to be baptized stepped forward onto a rug that was set up, and we knelt before the two pastors who would in charge of the baptism. I was baptized first, and Mr. Daniel dipped his hand in the jug of water before placing it on my head and moving on to the next person. Courtney's brother, Chris, was baptized last, by Mr. Horne. After this, the introduction, and a prayer of the mentors and parents over the confirmands, we were all seated in our designated seats, and Mr. Daniel presented a sermon on the three components of a Christian's moral compass that should always be kept in mind in one's faith. After the service, my grandparents, my dad, and I had lunch at the Olive Garden, bringing home our leftovers.
In other news, Saoirse came over to hang out today, and we posed for photographs at my dad's friend Jennifer's restaurant, Mozelle's (this was for advertisement purposes; we were supposed to sit in front of desert plates and pretend like we were having a grand time). My mom had a false alarm today with the baby, and so she should be sent home at any time now.
Friday, April 30, 2010
The Nature of Insanity, a Nagging Dream, and a "Tri-dream"
So, today is Friday, almost Saturday, as my dad, his friend Jennifer, her two boys - Evan and Smith -, and I just came back from a Martina McBride concert. I didn't know who this singer was until tonight, but Jennifer received free tickets from someone - and who can pass up a free concert? We ended up leaving after Ms. McBride's first song, due to Smith's exhaustion. Both of Jennifer's boys are really cool - Evan reminds me a lot of how I was when I was in elementary school. It was great getting to hear him talk about Whitaker's urban legends and the tendency of obnoxious kids to pop their chip bags in the cafeteria each day (I remember this). Overall, it was a really fun night - now tacked to it is an inside-joke from the night's events. My dad, who had been eagerly awaiting McBride's appearance on the stage (partially because he found her attractive), was disappointed when she spent the majority of her first song demonstrating her vocal prowess by repeatedly hitting the same super high note, "WAAAHHH!", with intervals of about ten seconds between each instance of this. This irritated him to the extent that, on the way out of the Greensboro coliseum, he made sport of her stage presence, singing, "I'm Martina McBride - WAHHHHHH! - I wear black leather pants - WAHHHHH! - I like to hit the same note over and over again - WAHHHHHH - I -" until we finally convinced him to stop. But all the way back in the car, whenever it got too quiet, either Jennifer, my dad, Evan, or I would suddenly yell, "WAHHHH!"
The other inside joke was a reference to the urban legend that Evan told us about Whitaker. "A fifth-grader," he said mysteriously, "once told me a story about this creepy house in the woods behind Whitaker. Apparently, there were these four girls, and they were playing with a ball or something when one of them dropped it and it went rolling into the woods behind the school. Well, when the girls went to go get it, they saw that it had landed in someone's backyard. One of the girls walked over to pick it up when - suddenly - an arm came out from the back door of the house and pulled her inside!" The story continued in this fashion, with the girl never reappearing and the sinister ending declaring "and that's why no one ever goes into that forest." My dad, finding this story amusing, began to end all rambling stories that anyone would tell from that point on with the conclusion of - "and then an arm came out and grabbed them, and pulled them inside!" Even trivial stories were treated the same way; for example, I was talking about one of my trumpet lessons, on the way back from the concert. I told about how Ms. Rheder had emerged from the office as I was playing and said that I sounded really good for someone just starting - I suppose I was trying to make a point about Ms. Rheder being a nice lady or something along those lines - when my dad interrupted and said, "and then an arm came out of the office and pulled her inside!" and we were all thoroughly amused.
Moving on, from inside jokes to the nature of insanity, which we were discussing just the other day. I was provoked by dreams (on which I'll soon elaborate) to state my thesis on self-imposed insanity (a theory which I learned from the psychoanalysis book that Patrick gave me for Valentine's Day last year) at lunch the other day, the theory being this: most "neurotic" or crazy people impose their insanity on themselves. The most relatable thing that I can think of to compare this theory to, having never considered myself clinically insane (at least not to the point where reality mingles with imagination), would be the whole concept of "not being able to get a person out of one's head," particularly if this person is beloved or fancied of the "neurotic." Though said neurotic claims that fancied person is "driving them insane," it is partially their fault because they are the ones thinking about the person and at least some twisted part of themselves wants to think about that other person, in spite of the pain that this causes. I'm sure that this is probably true for other, more serious things as well - one might approach a traumatic past experience with these mixed feelings, similar to the feelings that Harry Potter feels in The Prisoner of Azkaban when he hears the last moments of his parents' life through his encounters with dementors (yes, I know I just made a Harry Potter allusion in reference to psychology) and is saddened, but yet intrigued and even overjoyed by the sounds of his parents', whom he has never heard speak outside of this experience.
So, therein lies the basis for self-imposed "insanity," a theory which did not seem to interest my fellow lunchers, as we soon moved on to another topic.
However, I did find it odd that, a few periods later in Biology class, the topic of insanity was mentioned again by Dr. Findeis. We were discussing, of all things, isolation- or sensory deprivation-tanks (I think the latter is what they were once called), which were instruments utilized by the Soviets at one point to "persuade" captured spies to confess useful information. Prisoners were tossed into a pitch-black, sound-proof tank filled with water at body-temperature and given a snorkel or some means to breathe. Then they were left there for however many hours with no socializing or external stimuli - completely left to their own devices. If the prisoners didn't break down and confess, they almost certainly all crumbled to some odd inward insanity, having been subjected entirely to their own thoughts with, essentially, no physical senses. Spooky. In any case, this would of course be an example of externally-imposed insanity, dealing with the social habits of human beings, and I think that this hypothesis is just as valid as the self-imposed insanity hypothesis. My conclusion is that there are just too many ways for someone to become insane nowadays.
In any case, now to the dreams. One night, I can only recall one portion of my dream, in which I was walking into the cafeteria of my school to dispose of trash from my lunch. At the trash can, I was encountered by some school official whom I vaguely knew but had never spoken to. They engaged me in a conversation about a girl in my French class, instructing me to carry her books on certain days of the week. I left to reluctantly assume my responsibilities, though when I woke up, I wondered about the dream's implications, as I had been wanting to speak to this girl for a while now, though it is difficult because of our mutual "quietness." From what I know of her, she seems like a really nice girl; she's new to the school, and seems to be, as my dad would say, "wicked-smart." I plan on engaging her in conversation at some point, though the trick with talking to any new people involves how to do it without being awkward. But, in any case, enough about that.
The next night I had a series of three disturbing dreams, a "Tri-dream" if you will. This was the dream which really made me begin to question my sanity on a superficial level. The first dream lasted for the majority of the night, though it lacks content and plot. In the dream, my father and I were sitting on the couch, watching this interminable movie starring Johnny Depp, Kathy Bates, and two other famous actors whom I cannot remember at the present time (whether or not such a movie exists is beyond my knowledge). This movie, besides being tedious, was also very depressing, in a way that makes one question the purpose of life. The only part that I can remember about it was that Johnny Depp played a father in the film of a seven-ish-year-old boy and was married to Kathy Bates. The film focused on the imperfections of the relationship, their separation at one point, and the little boy's methods of dealing with this sort of life. My dad remarked at some point in the dream that he had once met Johnny Depp (he hasn't in real life) and that Johnny Depp had said that his role in this movie had been his least favorite to play of all the movies he'd been in. That was the entirety of the first dream.
The second dream was a recurring one which I won't describe in excessive detail for that reason. In the dream, I was with Saoirse and Kiki at Reynolds Auditorium, and we were looking for seats from which we would view the Symphony concert, due to start in about 10 minutes. Unlike what happens in most of these dreams, we were able to find awesome seats about ten rows from the stage, and we took great joy in finding these seats. People filed into the auditorium from both sides, chattering, and the stage was empty at that time. Reluctant as we were to desert our seats, we had to find my father, as he was wandering around outside of the building for no particular reason. We pulled him back into the auditorium, fearing that our seats would be stolen by the time we returned. Luckily for us, they had not, though they had somehow moved since we had left. These seats were now located up on the actual stage, behind a boundary designated by vertical poles with rope hanging between them. We went and sat with the other people on stage, of which there were about 20, waiting for the musicians to emerge. They eventually did, to tumultuous applause from the audience, and took their seats in the arc of chairs just within the roped boundary. I stood, holding the rope and scrutinizing their facial expressions. The thing which bothered me in the dream was that they did not seem responsive at all to the audience - it was almost as though an iron curtain hung between the Symphony and the rest of the people. It was a queer feeling - and then the dream changed.
The third dream was most depressing, and will therefore not be told in much detail. My mother went into labor finally, delivering my baby sister. I rushed to the hospital, too late to see my sister born. My grandmother was there as well, and we sat on either side of my mom's hospital bed. While sitting there, my mother, clothed in her hospital gown, proceeded to tell us that she was terminally-ill, that she had been diagnosed two years previously, and that she had neglected to tell us for those two years. I awoke from the dream asking myself why she would go through with having the baby if she knew that she wasn't going to be around to raise it. I awoke from these dreams feeling deeply saddened by their content and my ability to be so deeply saddened by their content simultaneously. It's a trippy effect, if you think about it. I also dreamt last night, though I don't quite remember what it was about.
In other news, my grandparents should be arriving tomorrow for my confirmation banquet, and my sister will be born any day now, hopefully without complications.
The other inside joke was a reference to the urban legend that Evan told us about Whitaker. "A fifth-grader," he said mysteriously, "once told me a story about this creepy house in the woods behind Whitaker. Apparently, there were these four girls, and they were playing with a ball or something when one of them dropped it and it went rolling into the woods behind the school. Well, when the girls went to go get it, they saw that it had landed in someone's backyard. One of the girls walked over to pick it up when - suddenly - an arm came out from the back door of the house and pulled her inside!" The story continued in this fashion, with the girl never reappearing and the sinister ending declaring "and that's why no one ever goes into that forest." My dad, finding this story amusing, began to end all rambling stories that anyone would tell from that point on with the conclusion of - "and then an arm came out and grabbed them, and pulled them inside!" Even trivial stories were treated the same way; for example, I was talking about one of my trumpet lessons, on the way back from the concert. I told about how Ms. Rheder had emerged from the office as I was playing and said that I sounded really good for someone just starting - I suppose I was trying to make a point about Ms. Rheder being a nice lady or something along those lines - when my dad interrupted and said, "and then an arm came out of the office and pulled her inside!" and we were all thoroughly amused.
Moving on, from inside jokes to the nature of insanity, which we were discussing just the other day. I was provoked by dreams (on which I'll soon elaborate) to state my thesis on self-imposed insanity (a theory which I learned from the psychoanalysis book that Patrick gave me for Valentine's Day last year) at lunch the other day, the theory being this: most "neurotic" or crazy people impose their insanity on themselves. The most relatable thing that I can think of to compare this theory to, having never considered myself clinically insane (at least not to the point where reality mingles with imagination), would be the whole concept of "not being able to get a person out of one's head," particularly if this person is beloved or fancied of the "neurotic." Though said neurotic claims that fancied person is "driving them insane," it is partially their fault because they are the ones thinking about the person and at least some twisted part of themselves wants to think about that other person, in spite of the pain that this causes. I'm sure that this is probably true for other, more serious things as well - one might approach a traumatic past experience with these mixed feelings, similar to the feelings that Harry Potter feels in The Prisoner of Azkaban when he hears the last moments of his parents' life through his encounters with dementors (yes, I know I just made a Harry Potter allusion in reference to psychology) and is saddened, but yet intrigued and even overjoyed by the sounds of his parents', whom he has never heard speak outside of this experience.
So, therein lies the basis for self-imposed "insanity," a theory which did not seem to interest my fellow lunchers, as we soon moved on to another topic.
However, I did find it odd that, a few periods later in Biology class, the topic of insanity was mentioned again by Dr. Findeis. We were discussing, of all things, isolation- or sensory deprivation-tanks (I think the latter is what they were once called), which were instruments utilized by the Soviets at one point to "persuade" captured spies to confess useful information. Prisoners were tossed into a pitch-black, sound-proof tank filled with water at body-temperature and given a snorkel or some means to breathe. Then they were left there for however many hours with no socializing or external stimuli - completely left to their own devices. If the prisoners didn't break down and confess, they almost certainly all crumbled to some odd inward insanity, having been subjected entirely to their own thoughts with, essentially, no physical senses. Spooky. In any case, this would of course be an example of externally-imposed insanity, dealing with the social habits of human beings, and I think that this hypothesis is just as valid as the self-imposed insanity hypothesis. My conclusion is that there are just too many ways for someone to become insane nowadays.
In any case, now to the dreams. One night, I can only recall one portion of my dream, in which I was walking into the cafeteria of my school to dispose of trash from my lunch. At the trash can, I was encountered by some school official whom I vaguely knew but had never spoken to. They engaged me in a conversation about a girl in my French class, instructing me to carry her books on certain days of the week. I left to reluctantly assume my responsibilities, though when I woke up, I wondered about the dream's implications, as I had been wanting to speak to this girl for a while now, though it is difficult because of our mutual "quietness." From what I know of her, she seems like a really nice girl; she's new to the school, and seems to be, as my dad would say, "wicked-smart." I plan on engaging her in conversation at some point, though the trick with talking to any new people involves how to do it without being awkward. But, in any case, enough about that.
The next night I had a series of three disturbing dreams, a "Tri-dream" if you will. This was the dream which really made me begin to question my sanity on a superficial level. The first dream lasted for the majority of the night, though it lacks content and plot. In the dream, my father and I were sitting on the couch, watching this interminable movie starring Johnny Depp, Kathy Bates, and two other famous actors whom I cannot remember at the present time (whether or not such a movie exists is beyond my knowledge). This movie, besides being tedious, was also very depressing, in a way that makes one question the purpose of life. The only part that I can remember about it was that Johnny Depp played a father in the film of a seven-ish-year-old boy and was married to Kathy Bates. The film focused on the imperfections of the relationship, their separation at one point, and the little boy's methods of dealing with this sort of life. My dad remarked at some point in the dream that he had once met Johnny Depp (he hasn't in real life) and that Johnny Depp had said that his role in this movie had been his least favorite to play of all the movies he'd been in. That was the entirety of the first dream.
The second dream was a recurring one which I won't describe in excessive detail for that reason. In the dream, I was with Saoirse and Kiki at Reynolds Auditorium, and we were looking for seats from which we would view the Symphony concert, due to start in about 10 minutes. Unlike what happens in most of these dreams, we were able to find awesome seats about ten rows from the stage, and we took great joy in finding these seats. People filed into the auditorium from both sides, chattering, and the stage was empty at that time. Reluctant as we were to desert our seats, we had to find my father, as he was wandering around outside of the building for no particular reason. We pulled him back into the auditorium, fearing that our seats would be stolen by the time we returned. Luckily for us, they had not, though they had somehow moved since we had left. These seats were now located up on the actual stage, behind a boundary designated by vertical poles with rope hanging between them. We went and sat with the other people on stage, of which there were about 20, waiting for the musicians to emerge. They eventually did, to tumultuous applause from the audience, and took their seats in the arc of chairs just within the roped boundary. I stood, holding the rope and scrutinizing their facial expressions. The thing which bothered me in the dream was that they did not seem responsive at all to the audience - it was almost as though an iron curtain hung between the Symphony and the rest of the people. It was a queer feeling - and then the dream changed.
The third dream was most depressing, and will therefore not be told in much detail. My mother went into labor finally, delivering my baby sister. I rushed to the hospital, too late to see my sister born. My grandmother was there as well, and we sat on either side of my mom's hospital bed. While sitting there, my mother, clothed in her hospital gown, proceeded to tell us that she was terminally-ill, that she had been diagnosed two years previously, and that she had neglected to tell us for those two years. I awoke from the dream asking myself why she would go through with having the baby if she knew that she wasn't going to be around to raise it. I awoke from these dreams feeling deeply saddened by their content and my ability to be so deeply saddened by their content simultaneously. It's a trippy effect, if you think about it. I also dreamt last night, though I don't quite remember what it was about.
In other news, my grandparents should be arriving tomorrow for my confirmation banquet, and my sister will be born any day now, hopefully without complications.
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