Last year, my teacher mentioned Dante's Inferno casually in class and referred to it as an epic poem written to condemn sinners to hell. Well, it sounded interesting. So a few weeks ago, I found a lovely copy of it at my local book consignment shop and bought it, wondering if I would be able to understand Dante in his prose. I need not have worried, because I could understand it (with the help of "notes" at the end of each canto. So far, the fifth canto has been my very favorite. This part describes the special circle of hell reserved for sins "of the flesh," if you know what I mean.
After the impersonal description of a few greedy, disgusting sinners, Dante moves to discuss one couple, Francesca and Paolo, who committed adultery because they were in love. Francesca, even as a spirit, is a lovely person to talk to and tells Dante the pilgrim her sad story.
Francesca and Paolo had been reading of the love affair of Sir Lancelot and Queen Guenevere when they apparently realized that they really loved one another. As I remember the story of Lancelot and Guenevere, it went nothing like Francesca said. First, King Arthur married Guenevere even though he knew she was in love with Sir Lancelot. Second, after Arthur and Guenevere's son died, they grew apart. Third, Guenevere sought Lancelot out and persuaded him to become her lover. Finally, this love affair destroyed Camelot. So I really don't understand how this story is in any way romantic. After finishing the canto and feeling kind of sorry of Francesca and Paolo, I read the notes where the translator pointed out that their punishment was to remain together forever. Francesca refers to Paolo as "this one," which is no way to call your dearly beloved. And it's hell, so it must have been agony. After I finished reading the notes, I felt a little taken in by Dante, as though I was supposed to realize this all on my own, but I didn't. Even in English and with notes, I managed to completely miss his point.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
City v. Country
Sometimes we forget who we actually are. Music pounds out from our cars, television blurs our sight, and schedules become the raison d'etre. Instincts that were programmed into us are now ignored, until an unguarded moment.
Spring in Iowa is actually one of the best and worst times of the year. Storms are strong, the temperature varies from freezing cold to over eighty degrees, and the lure of the outside is the strongest. This morning, the sky was purely blue and wonderfully unblemished, but the air under that sky was heavy. There was a new kind of thickness that circled around me uncomfortably. I, not wanting to care about anything but getting in the car and starting my day, slammed the door behind me and turned up the radio.
Lunch time. I had forgotten Advil in my car and I could tell I would need it within another thirty minutes. There was ten minutes until the start of the next class, so I hurried along. I pulled the heavy door open and stepped out into the muggy blue-ness. A few puffy thin clouds hung on high, but I worried only about how I had walked for two minutes and was already sweating. Back inside.
Rushing, rushing, rushing. Late to my flute lesson. I flew down the road and parked -- remarkably well for my current mindset -- and ran inside. There were more clouds in sky, but it was hard to notice them from indoors. When I stepped outside once more, the sky in the west had begun to darken. Now almost completely clouded over, the sky was the most beautiful it had been all day. The stillness of the clouds cut the leaves and greenery into sharp edges. The birds sang louder than ever before, conducting some unknown ritual. Rain. I felt it deep inside, that the sky would open and we would have a spring shower. Somehow I knew there would be no thunder, no lightning -- just a soft patter of raindrops.
I can only imagine how difficult it must be to live in a city. The rhythym and cadences of nature must be completely lost on those people who look up and see only a square of blue. Furthermore, the appreciation of our world must be lost in that high pace of life, always doing, seeing, or going. Although I would recommend living in the country or close to it, I know that it's not for everybody. Some people love to shop or hate the smell of cows. Some people prefer areas like California and its coastline to the rolling hills of Iowa. This always confused me personally as well. Why take pride in the fact that you're from a certain area of the nation (i.e. California Gurlz) if all that's there is a bunch of people and no water? I don't want to hurt anybody's feelings but the country (or what I know of it from Iowa) has an entirely different pace of life that brings a person back to themself. Try it, it's good for the soul.
Spring in Iowa is actually one of the best and worst times of the year. Storms are strong, the temperature varies from freezing cold to over eighty degrees, and the lure of the outside is the strongest. This morning, the sky was purely blue and wonderfully unblemished, but the air under that sky was heavy. There was a new kind of thickness that circled around me uncomfortably. I, not wanting to care about anything but getting in the car and starting my day, slammed the door behind me and turned up the radio.
Lunch time. I had forgotten Advil in my car and I could tell I would need it within another thirty minutes. There was ten minutes until the start of the next class, so I hurried along. I pulled the heavy door open and stepped out into the muggy blue-ness. A few puffy thin clouds hung on high, but I worried only about how I had walked for two minutes and was already sweating. Back inside.
Rushing, rushing, rushing. Late to my flute lesson. I flew down the road and parked -- remarkably well for my current mindset -- and ran inside. There were more clouds in sky, but it was hard to notice them from indoors. When I stepped outside once more, the sky in the west had begun to darken. Now almost completely clouded over, the sky was the most beautiful it had been all day. The stillness of the clouds cut the leaves and greenery into sharp edges. The birds sang louder than ever before, conducting some unknown ritual. Rain. I felt it deep inside, that the sky would open and we would have a spring shower. Somehow I knew there would be no thunder, no lightning -- just a soft patter of raindrops.
I can only imagine how difficult it must be to live in a city. The rhythym and cadences of nature must be completely lost on those people who look up and see only a square of blue. Furthermore, the appreciation of our world must be lost in that high pace of life, always doing, seeing, or going. Although I would recommend living in the country or close to it, I know that it's not for everybody. Some people love to shop or hate the smell of cows. Some people prefer areas like California and its coastline to the rolling hills of Iowa. This always confused me personally as well. Why take pride in the fact that you're from a certain area of the nation (i.e. California Gurlz) if all that's there is a bunch of people and no water? I don't want to hurt anybody's feelings but the country (or what I know of it from Iowa) has an entirely different pace of life that brings a person back to themself. Try it, it's good for the soul.
Farmer's Markets
Many people do not live in California where farmer's markets have the essentials of life, but I had no idea that the farmer's market in my hometown is as organized as it is. When looking at the sparse website, I clicked on the blog thinking, "Why not? Maybe there I can find something to blog about." Farmer's markets have been labelled as something of a saving grace to our supermarket-itis. In an enormous store, it's truly difficult to find the things you really want while the items you don't need are circled around you.
Farmer's markets are good and bad. First, they allow you to choose your own food, to see the person that grows it and harvests it. In the movie Food, Inc. they show a farmer who does butcher animals but keeps them (when they're alive) in such a way that it's more natural for them and does not in any way resemble the cruelty that can be present in factories. This world was given to us for the care and keeping, not for exploitation. If we do not realize that our world is not ours for the killing, than kill it we will. Farmer's markets attempt to combat this by encouraging us to think about what we put in our mouths, something we don't do a lot of in America. Our dietary and health trends demand a change, even more so than the environmental challenges, and becoming involved in our food again is part of the answer.
Unfortunately, farmer's markets can be a place for extremely high prices for no actual difference in product. The nutritional value of the food doesn't increase because it came from around that area, but it does cost more. The governmental policies favor large companies in agriculture and smaller farmers are being run into the ground. For someone who is competeing against a factory farm next door, the only option is to raise prices. But by doing so, farmer's markets cut the lower class out of the bracket for customers, and these are the people who need access and knowlege about fruits and vegetables the most. In America, we have a problem that reaches beyond farmer's markets and the locavore movement. The idea that is important isn't that we should only eat what's around us. If that was truly plausible, Iowans would be eating a whole lot of cort and not a whole lot of citrus. The true goal of the different food movements is to get people to understand that what they put into their mouth matters and affects their lives and those of their children.
Farmer's markets are good and bad. First, they allow you to choose your own food, to see the person that grows it and harvests it. In the movie Food, Inc. they show a farmer who does butcher animals but keeps them (when they're alive) in such a way that it's more natural for them and does not in any way resemble the cruelty that can be present in factories. This world was given to us for the care and keeping, not for exploitation. If we do not realize that our world is not ours for the killing, than kill it we will. Farmer's markets attempt to combat this by encouraging us to think about what we put in our mouths, something we don't do a lot of in America. Our dietary and health trends demand a change, even more so than the environmental challenges, and becoming involved in our food again is part of the answer.
Unfortunately, farmer's markets can be a place for extremely high prices for no actual difference in product. The nutritional value of the food doesn't increase because it came from around that area, but it does cost more. The governmental policies favor large companies in agriculture and smaller farmers are being run into the ground. For someone who is competeing against a factory farm next door, the only option is to raise prices. But by doing so, farmer's markets cut the lower class out of the bracket for customers, and these are the people who need access and knowlege about fruits and vegetables the most. In America, we have a problem that reaches beyond farmer's markets and the locavore movement. The idea that is important isn't that we should only eat what's around us. If that was truly plausible, Iowans would be eating a whole lot of cort and not a whole lot of citrus. The true goal of the different food movements is to get people to understand that what they put into their mouth matters and affects their lives and those of their children.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Chapstick
Behold the Chapstick Conundruum.
I bought a little tube of strawberry Chapstick a few weeks ago and I am most unhappy. It smells so good, it makes my lips feel good, but there's something awry. About 30 minutes after the application, I cannot feel as though I have been properly moisterized. My lips are dry and my Chapstick tube becomes an addiction.
It feels as though the Chapstick company has designed to be only semi-effective, a horribly deceptive idea. What kind of sick person does this? Now I have two choices. First, I could continue to feed the consumer cycle of comfort and apply more strawberry Chapstick. Or I could throw the pink tube in the trash can and endure a few days of uncomfort. Obviously, I'm going to choose option one; I'm American.
This problem makes me wonder, how many other products have been designed like this? In the junior's section of department stores, most shirts are see-through. Most girls do not walk around with see-through shirts, and so they are made to buy undershirts, which are conveniently located next to the see-throughs. In our materialistic society, this race against morality is an awful reminder of who we are. Instead of sucuumbing to this American push, use your free will to choose things that don't support this deception.
Moral: Don't buy Chapstick unless you want to make a lifelong investment.
I bought a little tube of strawberry Chapstick a few weeks ago and I am most unhappy. It smells so good, it makes my lips feel good, but there's something awry. About 30 minutes after the application, I cannot feel as though I have been properly moisterized. My lips are dry and my Chapstick tube becomes an addiction.
It feels as though the Chapstick company has designed to be only semi-effective, a horribly deceptive idea. What kind of sick person does this? Now I have two choices. First, I could continue to feed the consumer cycle of comfort and apply more strawberry Chapstick. Or I could throw the pink tube in the trash can and endure a few days of uncomfort. Obviously, I'm going to choose option one; I'm American.
This problem makes me wonder, how many other products have been designed like this? In the junior's section of department stores, most shirts are see-through. Most girls do not walk around with see-through shirts, and so they are made to buy undershirts, which are conveniently located next to the see-throughs. In our materialistic society, this race against morality is an awful reminder of who we are. Instead of sucuumbing to this American push, use your free will to choose things that don't support this deception.
Moral: Don't buy Chapstick unless you want to make a lifelong investment.
The Knack
Everybody's a writer nowadays, anybody can publish anything, even half-rate love stories that go "he said, she said" all over the place. What's even more repulsive than the quality of the work being published is the people writing it. They're horrible to be around, these half-writers. For instance, a half-writer I know believes that she truly has the ability to write for a living. She forces everyone in her writing class to give her their own work so that she may make suggestions and feel as though she is better than them. Somehow, it seems to me that writing second-rate fantasy stories does not mean you have the Knack.
The Knack is elusive and is impossible to describe, and yet anyone who compares Twilight with Austen novels can see the difference due to the presence of the Knack. Many people believe they have a talent when it comes to writing, but they are sadly mistaken. As with most things, when a person begins to believe that they are talented in some area of their life -- truly believe that they have within them a flame of art or passion -- it is then that they become unbearable in company and through their work. Usually their work will consist of meaningless words on a page, unimaginative plots, or outright imitation. And also, these people are only under the impression that they're any good. A blind man with a stick could tell them otherwise.
The Knack-deception is a horrible cycle, full of lost friends and headaches... for everyone else. The would-be writer remains completely oblivious and scorned by all. Whenever she is confronted with her inadequacy, she finds it impossible to believe that there is really a problem with her writing. The only way to improve in an art -- or anything for that matter -- is to be able to see where you fail. This doesn't mean that you should be able to proofread your paper as though you've never read it before, but you should be able to admit that you're wrong. When this happens, the would-be becomes humble and begins to search to make themselves better, just for the sake of learning. This situation is more ideal and is conducive to the Knack. It is in the depths of despair that the true writer emerges, when the art is unleashed and inspiration runs rampant. Here, the writer is able to truly think and discard ideas without feeling as though every errant thought is a perfect piece of philosohpy.
The Knack-deception cycle does not just apply to writing, but as this is for a writing class, I doubt that my failure in French is anywhere near applicable. Sometimes it's dangerous to be at the top, to always be able to perform better than everyone else. At this point, it is healthy to attend a French contest where you can see your glaring pronunciation problems or lack of conversational ability. After this experience, it is typical to return home feeling somewhat relieved that there's work to be done and modes of improvement. This was not a case of thinking that I had a Knack, but simply being thrown to the top, asked all the questions and being able to answer them. I know that I haven't fallen into the Knack-deception cycle because the thought of putting hours of extra work into my problem areas is exciting and new, to be able to expand and learn in AP French next year.
Please, if you know anyone who is a victim of the Knack-deception cycle, call this number (000) 000-0000 or hit them upside the head with a book and hope they never speak to you again.
The Knack is elusive and is impossible to describe, and yet anyone who compares Twilight with Austen novels can see the difference due to the presence of the Knack. Many people believe they have a talent when it comes to writing, but they are sadly mistaken. As with most things, when a person begins to believe that they are talented in some area of their life -- truly believe that they have within them a flame of art or passion -- it is then that they become unbearable in company and through their work. Usually their work will consist of meaningless words on a page, unimaginative plots, or outright imitation. And also, these people are only under the impression that they're any good. A blind man with a stick could tell them otherwise.
The Knack-deception is a horrible cycle, full of lost friends and headaches... for everyone else. The would-be writer remains completely oblivious and scorned by all. Whenever she is confronted with her inadequacy, she finds it impossible to believe that there is really a problem with her writing. The only way to improve in an art -- or anything for that matter -- is to be able to see where you fail. This doesn't mean that you should be able to proofread your paper as though you've never read it before, but you should be able to admit that you're wrong. When this happens, the would-be becomes humble and begins to search to make themselves better, just for the sake of learning. This situation is more ideal and is conducive to the Knack. It is in the depths of despair that the true writer emerges, when the art is unleashed and inspiration runs rampant. Here, the writer is able to truly think and discard ideas without feeling as though every errant thought is a perfect piece of philosohpy.
The Knack-deception cycle does not just apply to writing, but as this is for a writing class, I doubt that my failure in French is anywhere near applicable. Sometimes it's dangerous to be at the top, to always be able to perform better than everyone else. At this point, it is healthy to attend a French contest where you can see your glaring pronunciation problems or lack of conversational ability. After this experience, it is typical to return home feeling somewhat relieved that there's work to be done and modes of improvement. This was not a case of thinking that I had a Knack, but simply being thrown to the top, asked all the questions and being able to answer them. I know that I haven't fallen into the Knack-deception cycle because the thought of putting hours of extra work into my problem areas is exciting and new, to be able to expand and learn in AP French next year.
Please, if you know anyone who is a victim of the Knack-deception cycle, call this number (000) 000-0000 or hit them upside the head with a book and hope they never speak to you again.
Hate
Sitting across from me at this very second is a girl which, to my dismay, I cannot stand. Her very presence in the room annoys me and leaves me in sort of an odd fear that she might come talk to me. Unfortunately, we share some of the same environments and can't avoid seeing one another. This is not a relationship where we openly hate each other -- rather, we have to pretend to be nice. Well, at least I'm pretending.
As humans, and the only creatures to possess compassion, our capacity to hate is astounding. The largest global problems are founded on hate. But there is a difference between the kind of hate that makes a person refuse to be served by a woman wearing a hijab and the petty kind of hate that stops us from fully enjoying life. Ever since September 11, 2001, hate has been the dominant theme of relations between the United States and the Middle East. The people of that region hate Americans, believeing that we want to eradicate their belief system and replace it with our own governmental and societal ideals. This has been the battle cry for Islamic extremists for a decade now, and to some extent it is true. If the Islamic belief system truly supports oppression and dictatorship, then yes, America wants to eradicate the threat this brings for American global security. But I do not believe that most Muslims would support a dictatorship or genocide. Never having read the Koran, I cannot say for certain that it endorses the killing of infidels, this being the accusation of many Christians. But the people, that's a different story. Radicalism and fundamentalism is dangerous today, and if it in any way threatens the United States, our government has the responsibility to respond to that threat to protect the people. How far that goes in the world is uncertain and up for debate. But even with all the hate and the suicide bombings being thrown in our face, we have no right to hate our own citizens or even other people of the world. Without the retaliatory hate of the Americans, terrorists would lose some of their momentum.
So I'll smile and be nice. I'll make small talk if it kills me. Even though I can't stand her, and she does deserve to some degree my disdain, I cannot give it to her. I cannot believe with our world in the state it is that two wrongs will ever, ever make anything right.
As humans, and the only creatures to possess compassion, our capacity to hate is astounding. The largest global problems are founded on hate. But there is a difference between the kind of hate that makes a person refuse to be served by a woman wearing a hijab and the petty kind of hate that stops us from fully enjoying life. Ever since September 11, 2001, hate has been the dominant theme of relations between the United States and the Middle East. The people of that region hate Americans, believeing that we want to eradicate their belief system and replace it with our own governmental and societal ideals. This has been the battle cry for Islamic extremists for a decade now, and to some extent it is true. If the Islamic belief system truly supports oppression and dictatorship, then yes, America wants to eradicate the threat this brings for American global security. But I do not believe that most Muslims would support a dictatorship or genocide. Never having read the Koran, I cannot say for certain that it endorses the killing of infidels, this being the accusation of many Christians. But the people, that's a different story. Radicalism and fundamentalism is dangerous today, and if it in any way threatens the United States, our government has the responsibility to respond to that threat to protect the people. How far that goes in the world is uncertain and up for debate. But even with all the hate and the suicide bombings being thrown in our face, we have no right to hate our own citizens or even other people of the world. Without the retaliatory hate of the Americans, terrorists would lose some of their momentum.
So I'll smile and be nice. I'll make small talk if it kills me. Even though I can't stand her, and she does deserve to some degree my disdain, I cannot give it to her. I cannot believe with our world in the state it is that two wrongs will ever, ever make anything right.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Bees
Fear is an odd thing -- sometimes it's irrational, and we know whatever it is that we're scared of is just a little (fill in the blank with object of fear), but we still tense up. Every spring, the bugs wake up, warmed by the spring air, and so do the bees. I don't know what it is about them, but bees have always been terrifying to me. They're like little bullets of pure evil, yellow and black, outfitted with a stinger of death.
As a little kid, I used to scream and run. I wouldn't listen when my mom would tell me I was probably scaring the bee -- what did I care? If the bee was scared, he could fly away and leave me alone. Now, I see a bee (or a wasp, or a hornet, or a yellow jacket) and I can't move. If I can, it's usually backwards and away from the buzzing horror. As far as I know, I've always been terrified of bees, and maybe that's a good thing. At least I'm not afraid of something like dogs!
In first grade, we had a beekeeper come in and inform us about bees and making honey. Unfortunately, I had chosen a front row seat. I thought he was just going to show us a jar of honey and then give us honey candy, but no. About halfway through the presentation, he pulled out this box from a black duffel bag. This box was filled to the glass side windows with bees. They were walking through their honeycomb in that menacing, hunched manner. As I said before, I usually avoided seeing bees at all costs and usually left (screaming and running) if they did appear. Now here I was, faced with a box full of them which was held by a man who apparently believed in letting kids experience things up close and personal. He waved the box around in front of the first row, where I was ironically seated. I closed my eyes and waited for the torture to be over. Finally, the man pulled out a basket full of honey-flavored candy and told us we could have one as we left. We filed out, and when I came to the basket I took two spitefully, to punish the man for his awful little comrades. Unfortunately, I found out later I didn't like honey candy. Everything about these bees seems to disagree with me.
As a little kid, I used to scream and run. I wouldn't listen when my mom would tell me I was probably scaring the bee -- what did I care? If the bee was scared, he could fly away and leave me alone. Now, I see a bee (or a wasp, or a hornet, or a yellow jacket) and I can't move. If I can, it's usually backwards and away from the buzzing horror. As far as I know, I've always been terrified of bees, and maybe that's a good thing. At least I'm not afraid of something like dogs!
In first grade, we had a beekeeper come in and inform us about bees and making honey. Unfortunately, I had chosen a front row seat. I thought he was just going to show us a jar of honey and then give us honey candy, but no. About halfway through the presentation, he pulled out this box from a black duffel bag. This box was filled to the glass side windows with bees. They were walking through their honeycomb in that menacing, hunched manner. As I said before, I usually avoided seeing bees at all costs and usually left (screaming and running) if they did appear. Now here I was, faced with a box full of them which was held by a man who apparently believed in letting kids experience things up close and personal. He waved the box around in front of the first row, where I was ironically seated. I closed my eyes and waited for the torture to be over. Finally, the man pulled out a basket full of honey-flavored candy and told us we could have one as we left. We filed out, and when I came to the basket I took two spitefully, to punish the man for his awful little comrades. Unfortunately, I found out later I didn't like honey candy. Everything about these bees seems to disagree with me.
Review Book Bonanza
For high school students around this time of year, studying becomes tedious, all-encompassing, and smothering. In many schools, the AP tests are coming. Last January, I thought it would be a great idea to take three of these "college-level" courses. I can handle it, I thought. It won't be that bad, I told myself.
Yeah, right.
The review is falling behind, the homework is piling up, and it's getting harder and harder to keep my grades up. I was going to create my own review sheets out of my textbook, but after a few days, I realized I didn't have the time to be retaking notes on all the chapters. So yesterday, I went down to Barnes&Noble, in defeat, to buy some ready-made review books, which I knew would cost a fortune.
The shelf, set in plain view for desperate students, had an overwhelming amount and variety of review books for every subject imaginable. I tried to find ones on the subjects I was looking for -- maybe a better way to phrase that would be to say that I tried to carry the books I found. The cover of one for AP U.S. History struck me as odd. "A BETTER SCORE GUARANTEED!" How on earth can you guarantee a better score? How do you say to yourself afterwards, "Man, if I only didn't buy that book, I would have gotten a 4 instead of a 3!" That's just ridiculous! Needless to say, I put that one back.
One of them was about three inches thick and impressively large. Large means more information, more information means a better score, right? Well, the first 50 pages were introduction and the next 100 on test-taking tips. I figured if between previous AP tests and the ACT and the ITED tests I've taken I have not been able to figure out how to answer a test question, there was no way one book was going to help me in the weeks before the tests. So that one was dragged back to the shelf and placed on the lowest level -- although it wasn't in its section, it was heavy and kept flipping open when I tried to put in back where it belonged.
Another said "THREE FULL PRACTICE TESTS!" in huge yellow letters on the front. What, I wonder, is the value of "THREE FULL PRACTICE TESTS!" when you have teachers and resources with ten-plus years of released exams and essay questions? I didn't even take this one off the shelf. The next book was entitled "500 Questions You Should Know for the AP Exam." At first I was a little suspicious of this book, but I opened the AP Biology one and was pleasantly surprised. It was divided into the same sections the College Board divides the course into, and the multiple choice questions were legitamitely hard. I set this one aside, even though I hadn't come for an AP Biology review book. The only thing that kept nagging at me was that it was $14.00. That's a lot of money!
I finally chose the Kaplan Express Review books for AP U.S. History and English Language and Composition. I don't have that much time, and these were also the least expensive. These companies must make a fortune on the books, because I doubt that they cost $25 a piece to make (that was the most expensive book there). Obviously, AP students are extremely reliant on these books because they're easier than writing review sheets for every chapter in your textbook. I didn't want to be the person who buys the review book and prays for a 4. But with three classes, there isn't a chance on this earth I can do this alone.
Yeah, right.
The review is falling behind, the homework is piling up, and it's getting harder and harder to keep my grades up. I was going to create my own review sheets out of my textbook, but after a few days, I realized I didn't have the time to be retaking notes on all the chapters. So yesterday, I went down to Barnes&Noble, in defeat, to buy some ready-made review books, which I knew would cost a fortune.
The shelf, set in plain view for desperate students, had an overwhelming amount and variety of review books for every subject imaginable. I tried to find ones on the subjects I was looking for -- maybe a better way to phrase that would be to say that I tried to carry the books I found. The cover of one for AP U.S. History struck me as odd. "A BETTER SCORE GUARANTEED!" How on earth can you guarantee a better score? How do you say to yourself afterwards, "Man, if I only didn't buy that book, I would have gotten a 4 instead of a 3!" That's just ridiculous! Needless to say, I put that one back.
One of them was about three inches thick and impressively large. Large means more information, more information means a better score, right? Well, the first 50 pages were introduction and the next 100 on test-taking tips. I figured if between previous AP tests and the ACT and the ITED tests I've taken I have not been able to figure out how to answer a test question, there was no way one book was going to help me in the weeks before the tests. So that one was dragged back to the shelf and placed on the lowest level -- although it wasn't in its section, it was heavy and kept flipping open when I tried to put in back where it belonged.
Another said "THREE FULL PRACTICE TESTS!" in huge yellow letters on the front. What, I wonder, is the value of "THREE FULL PRACTICE TESTS!" when you have teachers and resources with ten-plus years of released exams and essay questions? I didn't even take this one off the shelf. The next book was entitled "500 Questions You Should Know for the AP Exam." At first I was a little suspicious of this book, but I opened the AP Biology one and was pleasantly surprised. It was divided into the same sections the College Board divides the course into, and the multiple choice questions were legitamitely hard. I set this one aside, even though I hadn't come for an AP Biology review book. The only thing that kept nagging at me was that it was $14.00. That's a lot of money!
I finally chose the Kaplan Express Review books for AP U.S. History and English Language and Composition. I don't have that much time, and these were also the least expensive. These companies must make a fortune on the books, because I doubt that they cost $25 a piece to make (that was the most expensive book there). Obviously, AP students are extremely reliant on these books because they're easier than writing review sheets for every chapter in your textbook. I didn't want to be the person who buys the review book and prays for a 4. But with three classes, there isn't a chance on this earth I can do this alone.
Sock Puppets
Fiction is an extremely limiting genre of writing. Ever since I was old enough to write stories, I did, usually fashioning them after a book I liked at the time. And I thought I was amazing at it, but something funny happens as you grow up and learn new things. You realize actually how bad you were to begin with. If I ever do try to write something fiction now, I am confronted with the awful dilemma of lying to my audience. Of course, they know that I am lying to them, but still. If I'm going to make something up, I need to make it a good lie at the very least.
And this is where the problem starts. I like to focus on the character, what he's feeling, what he thinks. The only issue is I can't seem to write about things I haven't experienced. I can't write about being in nineteenth century France because first I live in the twenty-first century and second I've never been to France. I can't write about a male perspective because I've never experienced that. Every time I try to pick up and write, I just as soon stop when I realize how limited my life has been.
Obviously, this doesn't bother many writers. Some choose to ignore it completely, writing about vampires, werewolves, and a whole list of things no healthy human has seen. Others imagine around it and simply imagine what it might feel like. But for me, that sort of imagining is just like lying to myself. I can't tell myself I know what it's like to be Amish or a cheerleader or being able to sing. It just ends in bad writing.
This is why I've come to appreciate nonfiction writing. I can take something that's real (or at the very least based on something real) and fashion words around it. The tone and style that result become so much more vivid and represenative of myself. Although it is thrilling to live through a character and watch her grow into her own person, I can't help the selfish inclination to write from my point of view. For one thing, it is so much easier. I don't have to add insane amounts of dialogue if what I really want to do is rattle around a bit inside the topic I've chosen. The narrative is what is powerful and compelling, not the characters, because when you step back and look, the characters are only sock puppets for the author, and unless that author is extremely talented, the sock puppets resemble those made by a child in daycare.
And this is where the problem starts. I like to focus on the character, what he's feeling, what he thinks. The only issue is I can't seem to write about things I haven't experienced. I can't write about being in nineteenth century France because first I live in the twenty-first century and second I've never been to France. I can't write about a male perspective because I've never experienced that. Every time I try to pick up and write, I just as soon stop when I realize how limited my life has been.
Obviously, this doesn't bother many writers. Some choose to ignore it completely, writing about vampires, werewolves, and a whole list of things no healthy human has seen. Others imagine around it and simply imagine what it might feel like. But for me, that sort of imagining is just like lying to myself. I can't tell myself I know what it's like to be Amish or a cheerleader or being able to sing. It just ends in bad writing.
This is why I've come to appreciate nonfiction writing. I can take something that's real (or at the very least based on something real) and fashion words around it. The tone and style that result become so much more vivid and represenative of myself. Although it is thrilling to live through a character and watch her grow into her own person, I can't help the selfish inclination to write from my point of view. For one thing, it is so much easier. I don't have to add insane amounts of dialogue if what I really want to do is rattle around a bit inside the topic I've chosen. The narrative is what is powerful and compelling, not the characters, because when you step back and look, the characters are only sock puppets for the author, and unless that author is extremely talented, the sock puppets resemble those made by a child in daycare.
Wikiup
The particular branch-shaped bruise is the only physical reminder I have of my semi-successful hike at Wikiup, but it's quite sore now. Wikiup Outdoor Learning Center is just that: an outdoor preserve of trails, a large pond, and a prairie. It's a beautiful, well-kept place, and actual wild animals live there!
Yesterday I had decided to go off the trail and slide my way down to a tiny little creek. Creeks are fascinating. They are so much more lighthearted than rivers. What was interesting about this particular creek was that it had worn a 3 and 1/2 foot canyon out of the ground. The water was at deepest a few inches -- how many years it took to carve that cut in the earth is mind-boggling. The landscape we see around us was formed in that fashion. Each hill was meticulously carved by the bottom of a glacier; each cut by the creeks a force of eons of water flowing by; each river stone smoothed by the current of a river. The sheer amount of time it took to make what we see around us is what makes it so precious. In an antique store, people look for the oldest, best preserved items so they can marvel over their beauty and hold something of another time. It's the same with nature; here we have something that has lived steadily through our wars, our lives, our deaths, our defeats, and our victories, something we can't even begin to take credit for but we can take inspiration from. We've invented air conditioning, the blender, and nonfat ice cream, but we have yet to create the majesty of a sunset.
For animals, the homes we live in are quite ostentatious. All the little burrows beside the creek were half hidden and only revealed by a careful survey of the area. Here, a muskrat family could live out their days in peace, hidden from predators and yet situated close to water. Here a frog could blend in with the intricate tapestry of fallen trees and branches and live his life happy and free. On the other hand, humans live in houses or apartments, easily distinguishable from the landscape and easily invaded. This past winter, a mouse illustrated this point well by gnawing through the side of our house into my bedroom and attempted to run into oblivion by disappearing into a closet. Unfortunately, this didn't work out well for him and he ended being trapped in a handheld vacuum cleaner and freezing to death outside. But the point is that mouse, probably half-mad with the cold from the recent snow, managed to find a way into my house and managed to wreak havoc on our perfectly ordinary morning. There's never been any hope that a human-made living area would blend into the background when threats appear. The earliest settlements still were distinguishable from the surrounding landscape, showing something intrisic and basic about the level of human fear. If we are willing to live so openly and boldly, even before the age of modern technology, humans must be less afraid of the natural threats than other animals. Fear is not inborn in us as it is in other animals. We weren't born to burrow deep into a riverbank or blend in among the grass. We were born to live freely, to be assured of our capability to protect ourselves. And that, with all its contradictions and assumptions, is a unique and critical facet of humanity.
Yesterday I had decided to go off the trail and slide my way down to a tiny little creek. Creeks are fascinating. They are so much more lighthearted than rivers. What was interesting about this particular creek was that it had worn a 3 and 1/2 foot canyon out of the ground. The water was at deepest a few inches -- how many years it took to carve that cut in the earth is mind-boggling. The landscape we see around us was formed in that fashion. Each hill was meticulously carved by the bottom of a glacier; each cut by the creeks a force of eons of water flowing by; each river stone smoothed by the current of a river. The sheer amount of time it took to make what we see around us is what makes it so precious. In an antique store, people look for the oldest, best preserved items so they can marvel over their beauty and hold something of another time. It's the same with nature; here we have something that has lived steadily through our wars, our lives, our deaths, our defeats, and our victories, something we can't even begin to take credit for but we can take inspiration from. We've invented air conditioning, the blender, and nonfat ice cream, but we have yet to create the majesty of a sunset.
For animals, the homes we live in are quite ostentatious. All the little burrows beside the creek were half hidden and only revealed by a careful survey of the area. Here, a muskrat family could live out their days in peace, hidden from predators and yet situated close to water. Here a frog could blend in with the intricate tapestry of fallen trees and branches and live his life happy and free. On the other hand, humans live in houses or apartments, easily distinguishable from the landscape and easily invaded. This past winter, a mouse illustrated this point well by gnawing through the side of our house into my bedroom and attempted to run into oblivion by disappearing into a closet. Unfortunately, this didn't work out well for him and he ended being trapped in a handheld vacuum cleaner and freezing to death outside. But the point is that mouse, probably half-mad with the cold from the recent snow, managed to find a way into my house and managed to wreak havoc on our perfectly ordinary morning. There's never been any hope that a human-made living area would blend into the background when threats appear. The earliest settlements still were distinguishable from the surrounding landscape, showing something intrisic and basic about the level of human fear. If we are willing to live so openly and boldly, even before the age of modern technology, humans must be less afraid of the natural threats than other animals. Fear is not inborn in us as it is in other animals. We weren't born to burrow deep into a riverbank or blend in among the grass. We were born to live freely, to be assured of our capability to protect ourselves. And that, with all its contradictions and assumptions, is a unique and critical facet of humanity.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Hunter Smells a Storm
My dog Hunter has the innate ability to sense when a storm is coming. Here, to my right, he pants his smelly, hot breath on me, hoping that I have some magical power to make the upcoming weather disturbance go away. How on earth does he know, so completely and without doubt, that something is coming? He doesn't have to look at the sky or check Joe Winters's forecast. The dog simply knows.
Animals are fascinating. They don't think, they don't step back and try to figure out a problem, and they don't empathize, and yet they are many times infinitely more at peace than any human. We worry, we stress, and we cry, but we never stop doubting ourselves or fill the void in our lives. Most people don't acknowledge the void. Instead, they continue to fill their lives with stuff. You know the people. New car, redecorated house, nice clothes, soccer practice for their kids. But if you really know them, you know something's always wrong with the car, or the coach isn't being fair, or there's never enough shopping. There are very few moments were they step back and say, "I never want more than this. If I could stay here forever, I would."
The difference between a human and, say, a porcupine, is that the human needs a sense of purpose, of value. Finding, killing, and eating our food is not enough. There is something special about being human, something mysterious and critical to understand. We analyze, hypothesize, and love, but we need to be even more human. A common cry of environmentalists -- especially the more radical -- is that people need to be more in touch with nature. The transcendentalists held this belief above all else. However, I believe that a person can only connect with nature after they have connected with their own self. What's more horrible than seeing a squirrel diligently gathering nuts for an unknown occaison and not truly knowing who you are? Nature is a beautiful and irreplaceable part of our lives, but it should not be the most important part, nor the most vibrant.
Animals are fascinating. They don't think, they don't step back and try to figure out a problem, and they don't empathize, and yet they are many times infinitely more at peace than any human. We worry, we stress, and we cry, but we never stop doubting ourselves or fill the void in our lives. Most people don't acknowledge the void. Instead, they continue to fill their lives with stuff. You know the people. New car, redecorated house, nice clothes, soccer practice for their kids. But if you really know them, you know something's always wrong with the car, or the coach isn't being fair, or there's never enough shopping. There are very few moments were they step back and say, "I never want more than this. If I could stay here forever, I would."
The difference between a human and, say, a porcupine, is that the human needs a sense of purpose, of value. Finding, killing, and eating our food is not enough. There is something special about being human, something mysterious and critical to understand. We analyze, hypothesize, and love, but we need to be even more human. A common cry of environmentalists -- especially the more radical -- is that people need to be more in touch with nature. The transcendentalists held this belief above all else. However, I believe that a person can only connect with nature after they have connected with their own self. What's more horrible than seeing a squirrel diligently gathering nuts for an unknown occaison and not truly knowing who you are? Nature is a beautiful and irreplaceable part of our lives, but it should not be the most important part, nor the most vibrant.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Poetic License
I was reading Everything and More: A Compact History of Infinity by David Foster Wallace for my language arts class when I realized that I had never stopped to wonder what it was that I was solving all the math problems for. I never thought "53/14 whats?" and I had certainly never stopped to think about math as anymore than going through the motions. Obviously, this is okay and most people do it, but really? Has math become so compartmentalized and watered down that the doers can't even see it as real life and vital, beyond the train problems of course.
It was interesting, walking into my precalculus class the next day and seeing the fingerprints of great mathematicians throughout the simple exercises we were doing. As my teacher explained the area under a curve idea and natural logarithims, much of Wallace was saying sort of made sense. This just wasn't taking the derivative or sine or tangent for nothing. This was math that could be applied, that could be lived, and it was kind of beautiful.
As the AP Language and Composition test looms, I can't help wishing that I had learned more formal grammar back in elementary school. We learned the basics of "either/or, neither/nor" and all the parts of speech basics, but those were just enough to get by. The clearest memory I have of a grammar discussion was when, in fourth grade, we discussed poetic license, and that doesn't count. We didn't diagram sentences or memorize prepositions, and yet the world hasn't run out of writers.
The two subjects, math and writing, are in this respect oddly related. Math continuously runs the risk of loosing its beauty and its wonder, especially in lower level math courses because it is sometimes reduced to basic steps instead of creative thinking and ingenuity. With writing, the opposite has been happening. Kids have to read to get better, have to expose themselves to wide ranges of styles, tones, difficulties, and ideas to even begin to write coherently. There is a hunger in every student meant to write (as in every student meant to wrap his mind around advanced mathematics) to know, to learn, and to be the best at that particular subject. No student who has a dominant, in-born talent for writing gives up reading early on because they were not clearly and concisely drilled with different types of sentence structure. You can't escape your personality forever, and the change that will happen, that will overcome you is you coming to yourself. There is no other way to put it. As a person becomes more and more himself, ability and talent override training, which becomes irrelevant as the person excels and thirsts and discovers.
Sitting in math class right before lunch, my teacher told us to be patient with him, to just move our pencil how he tells us -- for now. As the bell rang, he spoke over the din, saying, "You're just rookies now, but someday you'll be able to do real math." Real math. It sounds elusive and terrifying all at once. It fills you with a sense of impatience and a knowing, a knowing of the change that undoubtedly will come with the advent of Real Math and Real Anything.
It was interesting, walking into my precalculus class the next day and seeing the fingerprints of great mathematicians throughout the simple exercises we were doing. As my teacher explained the area under a curve idea and natural logarithims, much of Wallace was saying sort of made sense. This just wasn't taking the derivative or sine or tangent for nothing. This was math that could be applied, that could be lived, and it was kind of beautiful.
As the AP Language and Composition test looms, I can't help wishing that I had learned more formal grammar back in elementary school. We learned the basics of "either/or, neither/nor" and all the parts of speech basics, but those were just enough to get by. The clearest memory I have of a grammar discussion was when, in fourth grade, we discussed poetic license, and that doesn't count. We didn't diagram sentences or memorize prepositions, and yet the world hasn't run out of writers.
The two subjects, math and writing, are in this respect oddly related. Math continuously runs the risk of loosing its beauty and its wonder, especially in lower level math courses because it is sometimes reduced to basic steps instead of creative thinking and ingenuity. With writing, the opposite has been happening. Kids have to read to get better, have to expose themselves to wide ranges of styles, tones, difficulties, and ideas to even begin to write coherently. There is a hunger in every student meant to write (as in every student meant to wrap his mind around advanced mathematics) to know, to learn, and to be the best at that particular subject. No student who has a dominant, in-born talent for writing gives up reading early on because they were not clearly and concisely drilled with different types of sentence structure. You can't escape your personality forever, and the change that will happen, that will overcome you is you coming to yourself. There is no other way to put it. As a person becomes more and more himself, ability and talent override training, which becomes irrelevant as the person excels and thirsts and discovers.
Sitting in math class right before lunch, my teacher told us to be patient with him, to just move our pencil how he tells us -- for now. As the bell rang, he spoke over the din, saying, "You're just rookies now, but someday you'll be able to do real math." Real math. It sounds elusive and terrifying all at once. It fills you with a sense of impatience and a knowing, a knowing of the change that undoubtedly will come with the advent of Real Math and Real Anything.
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