8 more days...

Things I have to do before winter break:

1. Distribute holiday gifts
2. Apply to Princeton and Wellesley
3. Ace a math final
4. Key club duties >_>

Things I have to do over winter break:

1. Write DCE Influence essay
2. Apply to Yale, JHU, Swarthmore, and Pomona in time to decorate Rose Parade floats.
3. Homework
4. Read
5. Sleep

On another note...I can't believe it's almost the end of the year. Time really seems to fly by these days, and I haven't done half of what I'd wanted to. It's scarier to think that college would fly by even faster.

I feel much older from this year. I look back at my middle-school self and even my self from junior year and cringe at the embarrassing sight. I was so naive. I'm better now, but I still run into some problems because of it. Maybe I'll talk more in depth in another entry. I'm too tired for now.

Mental Constipation

"Writing is easy. You just have to stare at a piece of paper until your forehead bleeds." -Douglas Adams.

So far, my forehead hasn't bled enough. Application essays are still painful and my head is suffering a losing war.

Eh, I'll win eventually and I'll be very relieved when that time finally comes. (January 15!)

But yes, this post was out of sheer mental constipation. I can't write anything right now without promptly deleting it afterwards. T_T

In this room

Creative activity in English class:
Decor Decoding

The small white bottle was empty. Patricia Walker stared into its stark void, kneeling on the carpet of the bedroom in front of her bedside table, socks strewn around her haphazardly. "Hm, out again?" She closed the bottle, slipped it into its usual bag, and replaced it in the drawer. Then she slowly replaced the socks, neat rows of two by four.

Dinner was the routine affair. Lupe' had taken the 5 o'clock train home after finishing the laundry, and Lilabelle would return after dinner at a friend's house. Patricia wondered faintly what Lilabelle would eat there. The steak simmered noisily in the cold stillness of the kitchen, but Patricia heard it dimly within the withdrawing chaos of her mind.

"I'm back." Mark slipped off his BacoBucci loafers and lined them parallel to her SteveMadden heels. "The night's going to be cold. Hope Lilabelle wore enough." His voice is clipped, echoed back in angles and edges from their geometric living room. He walked over the kitchen and stood in the doorway. Patricia glanced at him; he usually enters his office room first and does not come out until dinner.
"Patricia..." Now she knew something was wrong. He had not called her by her name in months. Maybe it was years. She lowered the spatula and turned to face him.

*******

The red and blue flashing lights hurt Lilabelle's eyes as her friend's mother dropped her off at her apartment complex. She cautiously walked toward them. Suddenly the figure of her mother emerged from the front door, flanked by strange big men.
"Mom?" Lilabelle ran toward her mother, but her father swooped in and picked her up. Patricia turned at the sound of the familar voice. She saw Lilabelle's pink pigtails that caught the light of the police cars, and all of a sudden Patricia wanted nothing more in the world than to take them off and bury her face her sweet child's hair, to hold her closer than she had ever held her before. It was too late, however; she had spent too much time on her pills and now had to leave, eyes streaming with tears.

Feeding Ducks

It was probably because I'd finished reading Watchmen the other night.

Watching the ducks and Canadian geese squabble over the bits and pieces of bread I flung at them, I pondered their resemblence to our own selves. We are greedy; greedy for food, fortune, sometimes fame. We fight each other for territory and chase away the losers, victorious. A pitiful-looking goose gazed mournfully at my bread, and I tried throwing some to her/him, only to see another goose viciously twisting its back feathers, reprimanding it for attempting to eat the proffered food. A certain duck was even more pitiful. Her feathers were ruffled, grayed, and upon closer inspection, she was flightless. Her wingtips had been completely sheared off, perhaps by another duck vying for the same food.

I wondered, and threw down the morsels in silent resentment. Soon we will run out of resources and squabble between ourselves just as the ducks did. Scratch that. We already are. And when that happens, who will be the flightless ones?

Sakura = cherry blossom

They say a cherry blossom petal falls at a rate of 5 centimeters per second...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mPCaAJ3BogE


It's pretty sad how unstable people are. We flit here and then there, forming bonds and breaking them, becoming close to those we come to know, and remaining distant from others. It almost seems as if the strength of people's friendships is inversely proportional to the distance between them. Distance in most cases are physical; it's difficult to maintain a long-distance relationship for example.

Why is it so? Why do we come to love those near to us when our true love may be halfway around the world? Are human hearts truly so easily swayed, our pack-animal instincts so firmly imbedded that we attach ourselves to those near us, forgetting the ones we met before because they are no longer "here"? Trapped in our bubbles and narrow viewpoints?

There are many charitable organizations and groups that promote saving the "starving children in Africa," but those who lounge in prosperity who had never been to those regions would not lift a finger. They might see an advertisement, feel sorry, and go back to that new quiz on Facebook or the latests political happening. Even now, I could be making more people aware of our distant-but-not-so-different neighbors on Planet Earth, but here I am, typing at my computer on my Blog, my conscious only slightly prickled.

My point is, it seems pathetic that we humans cannot feel for those who are also human but who live elsewhere and far away from us, who are complete strangers to us, and that we tend to lose our feelings for people we loved because of life's inevitable barriers: time, distance, people.

This is the room...

This is the room of no walls, just a few windows, the glass in the panes slowly, agonizingly melting down to the sill, the coffee door chipped at the shoulder from the chair it keeps banging into when it opens, face peeling from the moisture, wax long gone.
This is the room of paper dolls, cut out from yellowed magazines; Dottie Dimple, Lottie Love, Jenney June. Cobalt eyes, tin foil smiles. They plaster the plaster walls, so thickly that you need a palette knife to cut them away, covering every square centimeter except the light source, with its light switch dangling from a ceiling fan that won’t turn.
This is the room of moths, of closed cabinets and incomplete stamp collections. A pile of papyrus sheets lies on the desk next to a brush, blackened with the ink of twenty-three years. Laundry flutters in the humid dense air just outside the window, washed with detergent powder and the grandmother’s tears.


Please critique.

10 K

I had forgotten to bring an umbrella with me today. I had a cap that a student gave to my dad, two bottles of sunscreen, and an extra granola bar, but I didn't know that a) the weather would be so warm in West Hollywood, and b) that I'd actually walk the entire 10 kilometers that constituted the length of AIDS Walk LA 2009.

I almost didn't go; after I finally told my mom all the reasons I should go, she relented to let me spend an unknown number of hours on Sunday, October 18, participating in AIDS Walk as an officer of Key Club with treasurer duties.

It's been a while since I last woke up at six AM and the sun hasn't quite dawned yet. I hurried a breakfast down and met up with my two friends, the only other people who registered to go, at our high school at 7:30. My dad also sacrificed his Sunday to go with me, and eventually it was decided that he would drive all three of us there and back.

The sheer number of people staggered me: some 40,000 people were there today to walk the ten kilometers. Some were sponsor members, such as Target; some were fraternities and sororities (zeta pi rho); schools; other Key Clubs; individuals, etc. Our team was Division 25 West Key Club, and we changed into our new, bright blue Key Club t-shirts. Our mascot this year is the Pufferfish. Don't ask.

Signing up lasted from 8:30 to 9:15, at which time the Opening Ceremony commenced. My dad, my friends, and I walked over early and got close-up views of the people giving their spheel to everyone about AIDS Walk. They included West Hollywood's mayor, LA's mayor, Craig Miller, the founder of AIDS Walk, a representative from the White House, Tony-award-winning singer Andrew Lloyd Young (I think), actors and actresses from TV shows like "Desperate Housewives," "Star Trek," "Twilight: Eclipse," and even Michael Jackson's sister (not Jenny Jackson). A lot of times celebrities endorse these events to get overly self-promotional attention, but without these celebrities there to cheer on the cause, events like these may not get as much attention as it deserves. The actor from Star Trek, however, was different (he's the old, asian commander with a cool, deep voice).

Context: West Hollywood has a rather prominent gay population. Since AIDS apparently has this stigma of being prevalent among gay people, AIDS Walk has become another venue for demonstration.
The commander from Star Trek spoke not only for AIDS, but primarily for gay rights. My dad said that he was invited to talk mainly because he is a celebrity who is openly gay.

"I am a happily married, gay man." is what he said, which I find so courageous and amazing for him to say to the world. He also mentioned his husband, who couldn't be there today because of a family emergency in Arizona.
There were a good number of gay people there today. I couldn't really perceive it as much as my dad might have because I was more focused on keeping up with my division group, which wouldn't stick together no matter what. A young man who apparently stars in the Twilight saga: Eclipse wore a turquoise shirt that had ♂♂ symbols printed on it. Wow. I felt a little sorry for the female population because he was pretty good-looking, but the feminity in his face might make him appeal to another man as well. I don't know. I don't really know these things.
I saw a male couple holding hands. Both were macho-looking men too. Near the end of the walk there were several drag queens (with pot-bellies) who had thick white makeup and crazy getups on. Many people took pictures with them.

More interesting, however, was the anti-gay protests. As we rounded the first corner, a group of middle-aged white men (next to ten policmen) were holding up signs that denounced homosexuality, saying how it was a sin and that people should go read the Bible. People booed them, made hand gestures, and replied "[the Bible]'s too long!" I don't mind gay people much, but I also didn't like the booing. I thought the anti-gay people were also being very courageous and were good people just with different opinions. "This can only happen in California huh" I thought to myself. It made me glad to live in America.

Besides walking 10 km almost nonstop for the first time, I also sampled the taste of "Cashew Fruit Juice," walked past an "Adults only" shop for people with costume fetishes, had yogurt from a tube-like container, and ate an In-and-Out double-double burger (on the way home).

It was certainly a very refreshing experience. I think it's very good to do this kind of thing at least once in one's life, though why we should is a question I still have to mull over a little. It added to my world-life experience, for one. It showed me some instances of political demonstration and a social issue over which there is a lot of controversy today. It was physically strenuous (my legs are so sore). But it was also fun; walking and belting out cheers with thirty other people wearing the same t-shirt certainly makes for fun memories. And at the end, as my legs were just about ready to collapse from exhaustion, we all got our very own Certificates of Completion!

More about life again later.

~Heidy

October Post.

The waves crash against the coastline, throwing spray in the air and flinging their contents at the land as if they wanted nothing more than to consume it with their rage. The sky gives no hint of sunlight. Clouds of heather gray crowd toward the beach, egging on the waves, casting their shadow on the land and painting the sea the color of steel. Though the clouds are swelled with rain, not a drop has yet fallen.

A figure walks under the trees just beyond the jaws of the water, feet softly making imprints in the ground. Gauze from a dress trails behind as the wind whips around her ankles, and salt encrusts her hair. She emerges onto a precipice that stands stoically against the pounding of the waves, and gazes into the horizon, a haze between silk and wool. There is no sound save that of the waves incessantly driving against the rocks, the roar of nature's power.

Then, as she pauses, sheets of rain suddenly plummet to earth, bullets of half-water and half-ice. The ground is immediately drenched, sand turns to mud, air turns to a mist of gray. The ocean calms down under the sleet, rain cooling its wrath. The figure still stands on the rock.

When the clouds finally empty their bowels, they begin to part. A ray of gold, like a child gently waking, peeks through. The ocean is a mirror of silver, making riplets, entreaties to the shore, as if in apology for its conduct. A piece of cerulean appears in the sky, bordered by cotton. The girl smiles, sunshine blooming on her face as well.

She doesn't feel the need to peel off her dress before letting herself fall. The wind roars in her ears for a second, then stops. The jump from the cliff leads straight to the waters below.

In the distance, two wings glide a figure smoothly over the sea. No ripple disturbs the peace.


P.S. I tried not to use any adjectives. It's really quite the challenge. >_>

Friendship

Friendship is the lighthouse keeper, swinging the golden light that calls ships back from the sea. She wakes up to laughter, and dozes on long plane rides. She wears a woolen sweater the color of wine, or on sunnier days a bright neon bikini. Sometimes she gets sick just like normal people, and sometimes she never recovers, but she will always be there like the memory of first snow.

A piece of creative work for English class. I want to write more of this style.

And here we go again...

As much as I'd feared the return to reality, I still became excited in going to school again.

The remainder of August was spent hunched at my desk, writing out notecards, typing out log entries and essays, researching some colleges. I swam a total of 4 times this summer (probably the only time I use the backyard pool the 365 days we keep it running in a year) and had 3 make-up piano lessons. Sure, I knew that once school started I'd be hard pressed to have any more free time, but it didn't stop me from allocating some of it in August. I slept in 6 days out of 7, the seventh being Sunday mornings, when I would volunteer at Los Robles.

The Saturday before registration my parents held a small bbq get-together for some other parents and friends. We had a sumptious dinner out in the backyard and I chatted incessantly with my friends. Later we played Cranium and Twister. Classics. We had a wonderful time.

So when I went to Registration (long waiting lines, the usual procedure) it didn't feel as if a summer had passed when I met my friends there again. I'd been two worlds away this summer, and yet little has changed in the faces of people I knew.

My schedule of classes (after numerous visits to the Counseling Office):
1. Gov/Econ AP
2. Comp Sci AP
3. English IV AP
4. Studio Art AP
5. Calc BC AP
6. Physics AP

The full plate. Oh joy.

Though I keep insisting that I lack the mental maturity of a senior, I did notice how familiar the school has become...and how mediocre. Walking around on campus, I can't help but notice how seldom I see my fellow AP classmates. For the first time, I thought it'd be nice to be somewhere else, somewhere new and more intellectually stimulating...well, college, I suppose.

I think I'll very much like going to college.

Summer memories

Things I have done for the first time this summer:

1. Practice archery. And hit the center circle of the target with a bow and arrow upon the fifth try.
2. Rode on a running horse for 3 straight minutes.
3. Hiked up and down a cavern, through a ravine, and through an old city full of tourist shops.
4. Danced with performers from various minorities.
5. Took a picture of me next to a Rolls-Royce car in front of a five-star hotel in Kunming.
6. Felt like a sister among my mom and aunts.
7. Ate stinky tofu, among many other foods.
8. Took the Shanghai subway.
9. Boarded a small airplane on one of those staircases that you see the President using on TV.
10. Sang at a karaoke bar.
11. Roasted marshmallows over a fire and ate s'mores.
12. Played charades with the word "Latino" without making any people references.
13. Held hands with a boy. (I know, how sentimental)
14. Put my feet in a plastic tub of hot water with aromatherapy salts and 9 other girls.
15. Made a pillow.
16. Participated in a jello fight.
17. Attended a wedding (and danced with my sister on the dance floor).
18. Bought origami paper.
19. Saw leopard sharks and guitar fish off the shores of La Jolla Beach.
20. Actually caught a fish with a fishing pole. And grabbed it. And dissected it later on. (I have a new appreciation for my grandmother)
21. Had an amazing four weeks at COSMOS, met lots of wonderful people, and looking forward to college.
22. Coming home and feeling like nothing's changed.

This summer has made me experience a lot. I'm still in the process of digesting it.

~Heidy

Missing you

I have been back in America for a little over 2 weeks now, attending a summer program at UCSD. Before this, I'd spent 2 days with only my dad in China prior to returning to the US. My mom and sister had returned to my grandma's home and Nanjing, so in effect I did not see my mom for 2 and a half weeks and did not see my dad for 2 whole weeks. Also, I could only communicate to them via email since my mom had my cellphone, still in China.


And it's been the first time I've missed them so badly.


When I went to CTY the first time, age 13, I didn't miss them at all. I was too overwhelmed with what was going on that I had little time to think of them.


The second time I went to CTY, age 15, I called them everyday, babbling about this new logic problem or that exciting sushi rolling activity. So I didn't miss them a lot.


This time, I really missed them. At times when I'm not near them (like now, for instance), there's a weight in the center of my chest and my mood, if it was expressed in terms of weather, would be a sky blanketed with flat gray clouds, where light is refracted and scattered over the earth and people have no shadows.


It may sound heartless, but I feel as if I've only recently come to love my family. I'd always thought my mom was a tad too harsh, but I've grown used to it and can love her and rejoice in hugging her and kissing her cheek. My father can be rough and nonsentimental, but I know I mean a lot to him and he means a lot to me. My sister, my dear, clumsy, lazy, what-are-you-going-to-do-in-your-future sister: I still love you so much.



In light of recent events, I'd probably unconsciously realized something when I went to China. The trip would have been incredibly fun if the situation wasn't so serious. On the plus side, I was able to meet nearly all my relative from both sides of my family. And I found that I just loved them deeply as well. I was overjoyed to see them. Cousins, aunts, uncles, great-aunts and -uncles, grandparents...

I think it was because they loved me and accepted me too. In high school, I feel like I've been losing acquaintances and friends, one by one, until I have only a handful of people who I can call my close friends. So when I rediscovered my family, the people who I can bond with without awkward feelings, my soul leaped in joy. My laughing aunts, blase uncles, my absolutely adorable 2-year-old cousin, my 24-year-old cousin on my dad's side who studies in England and shares my tastes, my 2 other cousins who look almost like twins who could be my long-lost brothers, and my younger brother/cousin who spends every free minute he has playing his PSP, etc. etc.

Back to the present: my parents and sister drove the 2.75 hours to UCSD to visit me yesterday, and my heart was soothed for a time. We watched Harry Potter #6 (which had more humor than the last one, if I recall correctly) and spent the day together. The sun was shining brilliantly and a cool sea breeze blew in from the west.

At least now I have my cell phone, but the webcam they gave me isn't compatible with this laptop....


~Heidy

Parting words

Here I am, sitting at my desk, typing away these words while the music of Elgar's "Pomp and Circumstance" waft in through the open window, commemorating the 2009 eighth grade graduation currently taking place on the field of Lindero Canyon Middle School, visible from the same window. Three years ago, I sat on the same field. A year later, my sister will be there, undergoing the same ritual, and hopefully going through it without tripping over her feet.

I don't remember anymore who I was back then. If I think hard enough I can revisit memories of that momentous day, baking under the sun in our plastic maroon gowns. But I can no longer be 'that' person I might have been. I don't really remember how I used to think, what opinions I held, how I behaved in those years. I feel undoubtably older, more mature; "sobered," I like to say. I have more responsibilities, more knowledge, less time, and maybe more wisdom, though maybe 'cynicism' would be a better term. I can't say how much I've changed, but I do feel changed. I'm a bit afraid of the outside world. I've depended too much on my parents who usually take care of everything for me so I can focus on my studies. I'd like to learn how to become more independent, while at the same time learn how to seek proper help and interact more with others.

Ok, this train of thought is dying....on to the next one..

I'm really really really upset with the year ending like this. Mostly because I totally botched my math final (not in the asian sense of failed even) and consequently will not have a 5.0 A in that class. I. Am. Upset. And it's particularly aggravating since it's all my fault too for not studying hard enough. D= So now I can't say I got straight A's in junior year. ;~;
Secondly, this is my last day in the U.S. before I embark on a two-week trip to China, return for a day, and then spend four more weeks away from home at UCSD. I do NOT feel prepared for this trip, mentally or practically, but I am definitely going, so I'm going to China whether or not I am ready. >_< (I am a worrywart if you haven't noticed)

That's all for today. My next post won't be until August.

Until then,
D

Nostalgia and Grief

The former being due to the end of the school year.
The latter being due to the unexpected and very unsettling news of my maternal grandfather who is now closer to death than he had ever been.

It doesn't feel quite like the end of the year; I keep realizing at odd intervals that "Oh, this is the last time I have this class" or "Oh, this may be the last time I ever see this person." These thoughts fill me with a sense of loss, a sense of just how unforgiving time is, and how subtly painful goodbye's can be. Time passes. People grow, change, mature. People leave, for now the safe but small community they live in can't contain them. They move on. We move on, and before we know it, we will also leave. Time stops for no one.

And neither does death, it seems. I don't even know if it's ok to say that my grandfather is close to dying here on a blog that anyone could read if they knew the url. Disclaimer!!! Please mom if you read this don't be too harsh on me!! =(

He contracted esophagal cancer the spring of last year. It was removed, but the cancer had already metastisized(?) to his liver, and then to his lungs. The other day we heard the news that he had been sent to the emergency room, and right now he's in critical condition. Originally my dad would leave for China first, but mom changed plans and left with him, leaving me and my sister with our paternal grandparents. The sudden weight of responsibility fell on my shoulders to get us safely and securely to China and have all our belongings properly packed. This I had never done before. My mom always took care of everything for us in the past, so this will be the first time. It's daunting, needless to say, and my moral trembles. The morning of their departure my dad was already at his computer, typing farewell emails. After hearing the depressing news, I went to his side and knelt down, hoping to ask for some kind of blessing. I received one without even asking for it. He rubbed my head, spoke a few words of comfort, and kissed my forehead. When I came home from school, there was a letter on my desk from my mom, a library card, and my school parking permit. It was one of those "they are gone and left me this letter" kind of moments, and I nearly cried. Nearly.

We had all hoped that Grandpa would last long enough for us to see him again. My mom hinted before that it may be the last time, but now, we know for sure that it will be the last time, and he may not even be awake to see us.

I've never really heard great things about my grandpa. He served in the army, got a pension(?), married my nurse grandma through a matchmaker, drank regularly, and disciplined sternly. My mom was the eldest of their four children; three girls and one boy (the youngest). Naturally, he and his one son were the top priorities in the household. Of the little money the family received every month, most of it went to purchasing beer, of which he was very fond. Probably too fond. My mom, as the eldest, had to cook and do housework and look after all her siblings. The organization skills and strong self-discipline she cultivated has trickled down to me and my sister, though the concentration is obviously much lower. -_-

The upshot of my grandpa drinking so much is that he has no heart or blood pressure problems. He'd probably live to a ripe old age.

I hope they are all ok.

Meanwhile, I have finals to study for...

Until next time,
D

The end of all things...

For the first time in a long time, I do not feel swamped with homework.
Granted, it is the end of the school year after all and everyone, even the teachers, feels the coming of summer, though the weather is still no indication of it.

It must have been the APs. Our finals are fast approaching, yet none of the people I know feels any obligation to study excessively or really think about finals at all. It’s pretty much junioritis, and boy, does it feel glorious.
Besides a French final nagging me to be done, I have no homework to do. My afternoons and evenings spent sloughing through chemistry problems, math problems, or history papers have suddenly evaporated, especially when compared to last week, which was nearly hell.
(I say nearly because I haven’t died just yet.)

So now I can read books for amusement again and take naps without worrying as much. I’m currently almost done with Harry Bauld’s On Writing the College Application Essay, a highly enlightening 138 pages of advice from which I learned why I was rejected from the COSMOS program at UC Davis. I also received, much to my astonishment, a full Harvard application. I can already begin practicing (which my mom wants me to do and which I am attempting to do right now).
Also, I am reading A Romance on Three Legs: Glenn Gould’s Obsessive Quest for the Perfect Piano, a book belonging to my sister’s piano teacher, Mrs. Ornela Ervin. Ornela adores me. Honestly, I am probably her favorite student outside of her own studio. Even when I don’t play well, she lavishes compliments on me. I smile, nod, and squeeze out a “Thank you.” I don’t mix well with compliments.

On another note, it’s also yearbook signing season, where sharpies of all colors and sizes bloom out of plastic bags and fill the crisp white laminated pages placed uncomfortably at the end of every yearbook.
I didn’t buy a yearbook this year; it saves me a good deal of money and mental injuries inflicted by horrendous grammar and spelling errors. Instead, I brought five pens of different colors and blank printer paper on a bright yellow clipboard festooned with adorable yellow ducks and flowers.

Reading yearbook entries other people give me really boosts my ego. I generally believe most of what they say to me, even if it was obligatory to write something nice. So far I’ve collected 28 signatures or so and have written in more. Every time I sign someone’s yearbook, I usually accompany it with a small caricature of the person or some other inside joke, i.e. an octopus. People are usually welcoming about my cartoons. I try my best to draw them as accurately as possible holding a permanent pen (pencil doesn’t work well on laminated surfaces). Most times I succeed. Today I fulfilled a particular request and used a full blank piece of printer paper (on which I could use pencil) and colored it with my pens (not so practical, but). The recipient was ecstatic. I liked that. Using my talents to make others happy makes me happy in return, so long as they don’t rub it in too much.

I signed several seniors' yearbooks. Suddenly realizing that they would no longer be here next year saddened me; this would be the last time I could see them on a daily basis. The prospect of becoming a senior myself scares me slightly. None of our peers will be in higher classes than us. We will have to watch over the younger classmen, of whom I only know a few. They will be suffering similar fates to ours, while we must look forward and finally come to the brink of adulthood, where we will never again live the lives of children, in innocence and in bliss.

A friend of mine said "You know, I've realized that the more I learn, the less happier I am."

~D

On Construction

Poem by Anonymous

I watched them tearing the building down,
a group of men in a busy town.
With a ho heave ho and a lusty yell,
they swung a beam and a side wall fell.

I asked the foreman, 'Are these men skilled,
the kind I'd hire if I wanted to build?'
He gave a laugh and said no indeed,
Why common labor is all I need.

These men can wreck in a day or two
what builders have taken years to do.
I asked myself as I went my way,
which of these roles have I tried to play?

Have I been a builder that works with care,
measuring my deed by the rule and square?
Or am I a wrecker that stalks the twon,
content with the job of tearing it down?

Thoughts? Comments?

Mr. Busby said the metaphor referred to relationships between people. Some people support others; some ruin. You can spend years building up a friendship or a love with someone, and it can be wrecked with one blow. I have had it happen twice. I never want it to happen again.

Are people more of wreckers or builders?

According to Mr. Busby, about 90% of the population are wreckers, but the builders contribute significantly more to society that the difference can be compensated.

I believe I am a builder. I don't want to wreck things, and if I do, I'd feel horrible inside.

D

Quotes of the day

(I haven't gotten around to posting in a while, not even enough to say that I don't have the time to post).

The other day my history teacher gave us several papers of quotes and poems about life. I think I forgot to mention that Mr. Busby is a critical thinker and makes us think critically as well. So we talked about society, social relationships, risks, and making the most of every day. It was enlightening, and we gained some insight into Mr. Busby's own personality. I know I am a person with low self-esteem, ever reluctant to let my voice be heard. Mr. Busby almost always acts sarcastic and nearly conceited to us, but that day he confessed that he had very low self-esteem. He pays a lot of attention to student criticisms about how he ran the class and whatnot.

Here is one of the quotes he handed out to us:

Risk

To laugh is to risk appearing "the Fool"!
To weep is to risk appearing sentimental
To reach out for another is to risk involvement.
To expose feelings is to risk exposing your true self.
To place your ideas, your dreams before the crowd is to risk their loss.
To love is to risk not being loved in return.
To live is to risk dying.
To hope is to risk despair.
To try is to risk failure...
But risks must be taken - because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing.
The person who risks nothing - does nothing - has nothing - and is nothing...
That person can avoid suffering and sorrow but simply cannot learn, feel, change, grow, love--LIVE...
Chained by personal certitudes, that one becomes a slave, forfeiting freedom and opportunity.
Only a person who risks is genuinely free!

I am naturally a risk-averse person; I plan not to invest in stocks, I am afraid of requesting things of people, and above all I am afraid of raising my voice. Nevertheless, when I am asked to, I'll stand up and speak; when there's a problem (i.e. CD can't play) I'll try to help fix it. I still lack a lot of self-confidence, but I have been working on reducing it. Volunteering at Los Robles, playing a piano concerto with an orchestra in front of a large audience, etc. have shaped me.

For as long as I can remember I've been a shy person with a soft voice. I used to be naive, simple, and innocent. I still retain some of those qualities, but I have also definitely matured. Earlier in the year, I termed it "sober," but maybe it's just "matured." I don't want to grow up and face the enormous responsibilities of adulthood. I turn 17 in 14 days. Unfortunately, time doesn't stand still, and I have to change my personality to survive at the aggressive pace the world runs at. I cannot stay the way I have always been, sadly, however much I don't want to have to change. Altering one's very personality is difficult to do. Mr. Busby said the same, so he appraised me for taking a big risk and taking a speech class at Moorpark in the fall.

Volunteering at the front desk of the hospital has forced me to communicate and manage problems with complete strangers. Performing piano has forced me to retain an air of confidence and coolness despite horrendous performances (it still hurts though). I can greet strangers more easily now, and even hold light conversations, though small talk might take another step.

It's not easy for me to appear bubbly and cheerful. Not at all. Especially after seeing other people acting bubbly and cheerful. It gives me the shivers. I prefer being myself. That way, it doesn't feel like I am lying to myself. I'm probably honest to a fault (I say probably because I'm not sure), and I am honest with my feelings as well, though I might not say anything about them.

Mr. Busby has not been the only one who's advised me to speak up. Mrs. Cano, my English teacher, also told me to do so. Mr. Francis, my piano teacher, told me to "be just this side of conceited." Mr. Carpenter, my French teacher, continues to tease me about actually being able to hear me speak. Don't even start with my mom.

What puzzles me a little is that I am not always the quietest person. There are generally people who speak up much less than I do, yet I am targeted more often. Perhaps I just exhibit my low self-confidence more so than others (wth?); I always fret about doing something wrong.


Ok, this blog is long enough...but I feel like I was just rambling the whole time...ugh. Oh no! I just demonstrated my low self-confidence again! -_-

Another time,
D

A Demonstration of Procrastination

I wrote this down as a plan for today:

French IDs ~ 1 hr
Chronologie ~ .5-1 hr

Think Piece ~ 2 hrs

JFK research ~ ? hrs
JFK paper ~ 3 hrs

Studio art portfolio ~ 2 hrs
*Tuesday night

math test ~ 1 hr

Piano practice ~ .5 hr

Hours 5/30: 10 hours or so

Actual time spent today:

French IDs ~ 3 hrs
Chronologie ~ .5 hr

Think piece ~ 2 hrs (40% done)

JFK - has not started

math test - has not started

Piano practice ~ .75 hr

Going on internet ~ 4 hrs

....Yeah....my planning skills are pretty much shot...

I really need to work on them...

I feel happy, oh so happy, oh so happy and witty, and --

Just last week my mom told me that she had invited a number of her co-workers to come to the upcoming Opus concert, but so far the only one who has replied in the affirmative is a guy...who just happens to be gay. I had met him before, when he dropped by at our house to pick up/drop off something, and I had guessed correctly that he was Scottish from his accent. And only now do I realize that he is gay and will bring his partner to the concert. To say the least, I was astonished. I wasn't disgusted or horrified or ecstatic; just really surprised and a tad bit curious. He is the first gay adult male I was acquainted with. Sure there had been a handful on TV, but this was a first.

Earlier this year in November, one of the social studies classes staged a series of skits designed to educate its audience about the upcoming elections and propositions. When they got to Prop 8, many people snickered or otherwise laughed in a conspicuous and derisive manner. As it so happened, all of the skits seemed to lean toward "Yes," and we left the auditorium slightly dazed by the blatantly opinionated (and sometimes rather vapid) performances.

My school has a Gay-Straight Alliance club. I know a few of its members, who often wear bright, rainbow colors around campus. One of its members was a very devoted girlfriend. I admired her for it, and was sad after she'd broken up with her girlfriend. Recently they began a campaign to raise money by putting "slur jars" in as many of their classrooms; every time someone misuses the word "gay" in a derogatory fashion must contribute monies to the slur jar. In response to the infamous Proposition 8, they rallied at the intersection in front of the school brandishing rainbow posters. At that point in time, I hadn't realized that honking one's horn at them actually meant approval as opposed to disapproval.


My opinion on homosexuality is thoroughly mixed. It has always been a delicate topic to tread around, but I don't hold anything against it and I don't believe it is necessarily a bad thing at all. I guess the fact that I'm not religious plays a factor in this, but notwithstanding I generally evade the subject whenever possible. Now comes the confusing element; it is because of a certain subgenre of obscure literature that is particularly popular in Japan that I have learned to be mostly accepting of gay couples. However, since that subgenre is restricted to fiction, I have yet to accustom myself to the real world. At any event, I try maintaining a neutral outlook on things and not to judge without sufficient prior knowledge.

My mom was 'converted' I guess to vote yes on Prop 8 because a campaigner came by and convinced her that it was the better choice, mostly because he had asserted that future generations of children will be educated that gay couples are ok. Is this true? I wouldn't be absolutely sure but I'd say No, it's not true. It's just strongly assumed that only straight couples marry. She was Pro-Prop 8 from then on. My dad, on the other hand, has met gay people before, and is accordingly anti-Prop 8. He believes that gay people are really no different from other people except for their sexual orientation and that sometimes they are even better than other, pro-Prop 8 people. My mom remained unconvinced. I found my dad's argument to be the more persuasive. I mean, hey, Leonardo da Vinci, Walt Whitman, and Oscar Wilde were all gay.

So is it really "right" that only straight couples should marry and gay couples should not? Is achieving one's happiness more important than conforming to society?

On a side note, a friend of mine who is a genius at writing fake current events and other kinds of articles of "The Onion" caliber wrote a fake article on this very issue, claiming that scientists have found 'gay' plants and a special hormone in them called 'antipropate'. He really is a genius.

No pain, no gain

In three weeks, I will be performing a piano concerto with a professional orchestra. Guess what that means? *drumroll* I have to learn how to apply makeup.

Anticlimactic, isn't it? As a girl, makeup apparently ranks up there with clothes, iPods, cellphones, and the rest of all that teenage periphernalia. I have in my possession: a box of various eyeshadow colors, blush, a brush, a stick of mascara, and some glitter that cost $25 plus tax, some powder, eye-makeup-remover, cotton balls, a stick of red chapstick, and a bottle of perfume. That is pretty much my entire inventory. And it mostly sits in the sink cabinet collecting dust.

I tend to avoid makeup like the plague. Foundation? I'll get more pimples from it. Blush? My face blushes enough as it is. Eyeshadow? Dunno how to use it. Eyeliner? After a few hours, I become an emo (no seriously I do). Mascara? From past experiences, the smudges I get from it are not worth the trouble. Lipstick? *shudder* That's one of the worst. Not only are you restricted in your lip movements, but you end up eating most of it anyway. Oh, and then there's the tortuous task of plucking your eyebrows. Or waxing them, whichever you prefer.

I prefer a clean, natural look. Typically I cleanse my skin to keep the acne at bay, and apply chapstick after brushing my teeth. Occasionally I apply lotion on my extremities, since we live in southern California where humidity is low.

There's a pretty straightforward and, imho, reasonable explanation for my aversion. People put on makeup to make themselves look prettier so that a) they are more confident because they think they are prettier than normal and b) they attract potential mates easier.

The cliche that "what matters is the inside" has rooted itself firmly in my mind; I don't want to place my confidence in something so fallible as a synthetic outer appearance. I don't think people should judge each other by their appearances, but sadly, that has become quite a norm. I believe that people can have an inner beauty. For example, I know people who are good-looking but with lousy personalities, and people not so good-looking but with beautiful hearts and minds. Those are things I admire.
A word about attracting mates: of course, it is in our biology to be attracted to pretty people. That is partly the reason why so many women (and men) use makeup. But in the end, even with all the makeup in the world, if two people's personalities clash too much, they won't be happy. It's as simple as that. (if I'm assuming something wrong, please tell me) Also, it's not like I need a mate anyway.

I probably could be very pretty with makeup. I could be glamorous and showy. But I choose not to. I've chosen to be plain and nerdy. Half of it is because it's a big hassle, but half of it is because I want to rebel in a way. I like being different (in a smart and nerdy way) from "the norm," from most other girls who spend their days clinging to their cellphones, clothes, makeup, etc. And I want someone to like me as the plain, natural me, without any frills. Only that way would it really last. Yes, I'm sentimentally idealistic like that. Hope it happens anyway.

*sigh*

On second thought...

Ok, I noticed I probably lacked any substance whatsoever in the previous post. So, I shall supplement it with this one.

The APs came more or less as a surprise. We had been preparing for them and studying for them, but when the time came, it was like they had suddenly appeared and whizzed by. Last year I only had one AP class (AP European history) and I was very stressed and anxious about it, studying for hours on end. This time around, the stress from 5 APs combined hasn't quite exceeded that of the single Euro exam last year, nor the Biology AP exam the year before.

I was a little worried if I hadn't studied long enough. I feel like I hadn't even made much of an effort to study, besides reading the Princeton review books once and doing some of the practice tests (not even all of them!).

This may also be due to a boost in confidence that I fear is fallible. See, I felt that I had performed badly on the Euro test last year, but in actuality I did very well. I had run out of time on the multiple choice section, raced through the DBQ, botched the first FRQ, scratched out (not drawing a line through everything) an unfinished second FRQ, and I still got an inexplicably high score. So this time around, I've been slacking off with my studying, thinking, "Oh, I can probably do well anyway." This thought bothers me a lot, but so far it hasn't really motivated me to actually study more. Which worries me even more.

So really the problem is still my level of self-confidence. I'm the kind of person who'd rather go into a test prepared for the worst than having too much confidence going into it and failing. There'd be less surprise if I don't do well and much pleasanter surprise if I do...

On the three tests that I've taken, I think I've done moderately well. On French I could probably only get a solid 3 at most; I'm fairly confident in getting a 5 on the Chinese but I can't say for sure and it'll have to depend on the scale; and the US test went over much smoother than I'd thought it would. The essay questions were relatively easy and I was able to finish all three of the essays overall. Granted, I'd botched the last essay and I skipped three questions and probably missed 30 more...but I actually felt pretty good about it.

My French teacher told me that the essential thing I need to do is to "relax" and have some fun (despite the enormity of the task and situation). And, to tell the truth, I think I had some fun. It always feels good to know that you know something people ask you about. That's also why I like watching Jeopardy!

Now, on to Chemistry!

It's that season again...

Three down, two more to go. If you aren't into long, rambling, very likely vapid monologues, don't read.

Monday I took the French AP exam, said to be one of the hardest AP tests there are. The night before I almost let the nervousness pervade and ruin my sleep, but I managed to keep it at bay, releasing it fully at the appropriate time. Including me, 7 people took it; two were native French-speakers. Obviously, their speaking skills far exceeded the rest of ours, and especially mine since I've been notorious for not speaking at all. This exam was truly a test, mentally and physically (we got out at 4:30). A lot of comprehension goes into it. I was amazed that I could actually understand some of the listening questions and dialogues. The reading was mediocre, and I hope my dissertation wasn't too rambling or incomprehensible. It was like an SAT essay except in French. =_= Turns out, my AP French review book had harder listening and reading practices than the actual test, so I was relieved. The speaking part, the very last part of the exam in which everyone gets a mini-recorder and cassette, still proved challenging. Sadly, the graders won't realize just how much an effort I might be making compared to normal people. At least Mr. Carpenter had reminded us on how to physically use technology from 10 years ago. All of us had either forgotten or never learned which way to slide the cassette into its designated slot.
Now what was interesting was: ETS made a mistake and neglected to give us time to answer two of the listening questions in the first part of the exam. So, today all of us had to go to the counseling office where they asked us if we wanted to let those two questions be cancelled by procedure or if we wanted to retake that section of the exam.

So the conclusion? No more French!!! Doubtless I will try and preserve some of my language skills for future reference, but that took a sizable burden off my chest. I'm opting for a 3.

Then there was the AP Chinese exam. My mom had signed me up for the third period chinese AP class at Chinese school. It helped familiarize me with the format and style of the exam, but I relied mostly on my own prior knowledge. The speaking part was marginally better in that I could at least know how to say something. This time there were four other people (all Chinese) taking it. We got to use fancy earphones with microphones attached to the side. I wonder why they don't do that for the AP French exam where all of us listen to one CD...

Conclusion? No more Chinese!!! Hahahahahahahaha I won't be going to Chinese school anymore after this. I'll have "graduated" anyway.

I took my AP U.S. History exam this morning. I hadn't slept enough the night before, and it was a morning test as well. I barely stayed awake to finish the multiple choice section. The tides of slumber incessantly dragged me away from the waking world, but I only allowed it to pull me out when I finished answering as many questions as I could. I slumped over my test and closed my eyes. I didn't actually fall asleep though, sadly enough. I can feel incredibly tired, but when I finally close my eyes and lay my head down, I don't fully sleep. I've only done so on rare occasions and feel tremendously rejuvenated, but most times I get up again after a while, still tired but slightly less so. The essays were not all that bad, to tell the truth. What was annoying was that my middle finger got so sore from it that I have to hold my pencil differently to do my math homework.

Now all that's left is Chemistry and English. Woot! Chem is fine, but I'm not looking forward to writing those essays...

Thou gleeking malmsey-nosed giglet!

There are lots of things I'd like to talk about and record, but I'll have to be brief so I can go back to studying for my 5 AP tests. @_@

1.) we had our Every 15 Minutes program yesterday and today. The juniors and seniors were herded to a set of bleachers in front of the school, where, for forty minutes under a blistering summer sun, regarded with varying degrees of awe and trepidity the crash scene and ensuing coordinated chaos that followed. Besides the lack of good acting, the excess of fake blood, and the illogical positioning of the "dead" pedestrian participant, it was a very enlightening experience for many of the students, myself included. The better part of the show took place today in the gym, where they had a funeral-like assembly with dimmed lights and flower wreaths and a real coffin (though I doubt anyone was in it). There was a video of the events before and after the crash itself that elicited many strained emotions within us; the parents and students involved had openly cried as part of the act, but their words seemed very real. Afterwards, some students and parents and also our volunteer teacher walked up to the podium and read their letters through a microphone. The students wrote dying letters to their parents, the parents to their children. It was all very poignant and many tears flowing all around. Thanks to some considerate individuals, courtesy tissue boxes were scattered around the crowd. I myself welled up, but I held back the tears bravely, immersing myself in my own thoughts about what I would write in a final letter. That subject I'll return to some other day.

2.) I managed to finish Bill Bryson's "A Short History of Nearly Everything" and borrowed another book from my Chemistry teacher called "The Periodic Table" by a Jewish Italian named Primo Levi, which, interestingly enough, has very little to do with the elements themselves. The author had survived through Auschwitz.

3.) I am reading "The Great Gatsby" for English class, and I must say, F. Scott Fitzgerald has a mighty way with the pen. Every word seems like it was chosen especially for its place, and some things he says amuse me immensely, though others are equally as confusing by their depth.

4.) I love doing scratchboard art. I am currently working on a portrait of a tiger from here, and I really really like how it's coming along. Usually I struggle substantially with proportions in copying other images, but with this kind of fur, a little botching here and there won't be noticeable. I hate to be a brag, but I really do like how I've been doing it >.< I lurve me tiger~~

5.) I utterly failed on the practice speaking section I did in French class today x_x For one of the questions, I remained silent through at least 80% of its one minute.

6.) I really need to practice piano too...and I haven't been wearing my retainer in a while...Ok now I'm just complaining about stuff again and my writing formality has visibly deteriorated.

Ah well, another time.

~H

P.S. Since I was at a loss for titles, I obtained the one from here.

A push

Also stands for "AP U.S. History", the lovely class that is so far giving me the most suffering out of all my classes. Here is a record of it for safekeeping purposes...



My teacher is the school basketball coach, Mr. Busby, who has also taught European History AP and Government P. He graduated from the same high school and from UCLA, which he liked very much. A tall, slightly rotund, pink-faced man with his entire neck as a second chin and globular bright blue eyes, Mr. Busby wants to give us a proper "college-level" class experience. Namely, he doesn't believe in lecturing; we are expected to read everything beforehand and come in with questions. For every unit, he gives us a test one class, then a DBQ the next class, and then an FRQ the class after that. He doesn't grade the first drafts of essays we write in class, only collecting them all by a certain due date, but he highly encourages us to rewrite them and have him revise them with us. In between, he gives us "filler" assignments mostly designed to help boost our grades.
As can be expected, the majority of the population a) does not read all the material before the due date (now he makes us have socratic seminars so we actually read it all) b) doesn't really write the DBQs and FRQs in class because he doesn't grade them until later c) doesn't go in to see him with rewritten drafts before the due date, and d) gets A's anyway because he scales everything at a certain point. Having us submit a bunch of rewritten essays at a pretty distant due date calls for procrastination and then major crunch-writing time. I'm in one of them now. I have ten essays to rewrite. Yippeee....
In other words, his ideas are good, but they don't necessarily work out all the time.

We have pretty much read our entire history book. Compared to other school years, this is an incredible feat, and makes us feel both accomplished and consternated that we'd actually read all of it. Most of the time in class, he'll go off on long and frequently off-topic tangents (typical for history teachers). He used to be the Activities director at the school, so he's had a lot of experience with teens and with the bureaucracies of "The Administration". He's not afraid to talk back to people and can pwn us without so much as batting an eyelash. He's not afraid to cuss in front of us either. But he can be entertaining and likes cracking jokes as well.

I earned a reputation in his class even from sophomore year when he first came in to talk to us about APUSH (I wore a UCLA sweatshirt and did a headdesk several times, among other things). My mannerisms seem to amuse him excessively. Namely, I get intimidated by him and he finds it funny, and I get frazzled when he teases me, which only induces him to tease me more. Nowadays, when he makes eye contact with me, he'll open up his eyes really wide. In response, I mirror him. He laughs. Then he says I'm plotting his demise one day. Ah well. Don't really know what to do about that. ¬__¬

All in all, he's not my favorite teacher, but one I'm willing to learn from.

SAT scores available April 7...

Crit Reading: 740
Math: 790
Writing: 780

Grand total: 2310

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA GOODBYE SAT FOREVERRRRRR XDDDDDD


Sorry, just had to get that out of my system.

Isms

Optimism = seeing the glass half full
Pessimism = seeing the glass half empty
Realism = the glass is twice as big as it needs to be (as phrased by my dear friend Weslie)

I oscillate between the three pretty often, I think, but these things tend to be slightly unconscious, so I may not be correct in this self-analysis.

I try to maintain a certain level of happiness/cheeriness that makes life reasonably tolerable. More often than not, life does not want to be tolerable and I lapse into a rather depressed mood for a few days. However, no matter how unhappy I get, there comes a time when I can cheer myself up again, most times just by looking up at the sky and the trees and feeling the sun in my face. Those times remind me of how nice life can be. Other times, though, most people would say I'm rather pessimistic, or just a killjoy. Which I tend to be. This I would call "being realistic" I suppose, and not necessarily pessimistic. Pessimism is kind of like criticism; you see what's missing. As someone with high standards to maintain, this principle has been ingrained in my mind for a long time. Nowadays, it's been chipping away at the edges by the optimism of others to be satisfied with just a B on a test and the like.

As of right now, I am leaning towards a lapse of discontentedness, but which will disappear momentarily this Friday and then return full force next week. =/

Books

I used to be a bookworm in elementary and middle school. The teacher would catch me reading books under my desk propped on my feet. Yes, I also read books while walking around and no, I did not ram into anything, though I was quite close a few times.

In ninth and tenth grade, however, things changed and I seldom read for pleasure or outside the school requirements. It was very saddening, as I realized only too late. I needed to read more so I could understand more and comprehend other things as well (like the English AP test). And it is something that must be accumulated over an extended period of time.

My cousin in England studies at a prestigious middle school where his mother works as a teacher. To improve his English, she had him read one English book a day (or a week maybe). He did. And his English is not only immaculate, but also very heavily accented (so I've heard). I haven't seen him in ages, but from what I know, he's doing splendidly and is going through more than I can imagine. I do admire him.

Just yesterday I began reading Bill Bryson's A Short History of Nearly Everything, and I couldn't put it down. It's so refreshing to read something for pleasure once again, and all the more so for this book, for it is not only all about science, but it has an engaging author who makes everything so much more interesting to read about than your average textbook author is paid to do. I've taken to reading a bit after school everyday, whilst waiting in my van for the traffic to clear. So far I've read Sense and Sensibility (with a ridiculously happy ending) and am currently tackling Jane Eyre, a favorite of my mother's. There are tons of books that I want to read and tons (literally) of books that I should read. But unfortunately, my poor reading speed and lack of time have prevented me from getting anywhere. In between I also had to read an incredibly boring (but still useful) research book on the Crown-of-Thorns starfish and The Grapes of Wrath for a history essay of all things.

I need to go to bed now (and curl up with my book).

Until next time!

Excessories 2

The reason why I gave this post this title is because I wrote it in the "notes" application on my iTouch. It was a tad tedious, but at least it proves something small fingers can do. My dad's fingers are too chubby to type on it. :]

For some reason, I'm helping Jane in her upcoming performance at LCMS. I have to be her piano accompanist, and it is hard. I had to learn an 8-page piece in two days or so. It goes really fast and the fingering is all weird. At least I don't have to play all the notes or else I'd be doomed. I think this is one of those times when people take advantage of my kindness and use me to their own benefit. I'm not being paid to do this, even though most people would be, simply out of the goodness of my heart. My mom says I'd be wasting my time and effort in this endeavor, but the mpre she tried to dissuade me, the more I wanted to do it, even if it would just be to spite her. I suppose this wouldn't be a very good thing, but whenever she gets concerned about my time, it almost sounds like she's telling me to give up. And I don't want to give up anymore.

Excessories

To tell the truth, I have been itching for a camera and a laptop. But I'm waiting until my birthday to ask for them, so then there's some justification for spending that unusually large amount of money. I don't spend much; I tend to hoard. Or just buy the necessary things, of which a camera and a laptop do not count.

In the end, my parents get me an iTouch, just days after I meekly express the slightest inclination for something new. Apparently, I ask for so little that my parents jump at the slightest thing I want. Which inevitably bothers me sometimes. I don't even ask for something and they try to convince me that I want it and they should get it for me and don't worry about the price dear that doesn't matter.

*sigh*

So now I'm working on syncing this new gadget. It's unbelievably thin, just like the Nano we first bought. I think my sister got a neon blue Nano this time. Though I don't know what she'll do with it since she doesn't really have many songs or anything....
Nonetheless, I am pretty excited, though sadly it can't take pictures; I can go online (to look up grades lol), and store photos and art (for reference purposes). It can even serve as a mini-mirror, albeit one of those circus kinds that warps everything in it.

Am I being sucked into that world of convention, with everyone in possession of some fancy gadget? Sticking headphones into my ears to listen to music? Whipping it out to snap photos? I highly doubt I really needed it; it seems purely for indulgence. My dad keeps reminding me and "lamenting" about how spoiled I am. Well, if he's the one treating me like a princess, isn't that a little unfair? I don't want to be spoiled. I don't want to be wasteful. I want to be a grateful person who appreciates the fact that I can have these things.

Until next time. (argh, iTunes isn't letting me sync!!)

Musings

The highway roads near the exit to my street tend to be rather annoying to drive on. They've evidently suffered extensive damage; cracks filled in with tar stretch in broken, winding lines for miles on end, and shallow pits lie unfilled here and there. The tar is darker than the concrete, which has been worn grey by the passage of cars and time. There are places with only sparse damage, but others display a veritable tangle of multiple tar lines criss-crossing and winding around each other.
Sometimes, though, if the pattern is just right, it looks like the EKG record of a heartbeat. A line is mostly straight for a bit, then it winds left and right some before stretching straight again. Most times of course, it looks like it could be the EKG of a person with epilepsy or arrhythmia, only worse.
In a way, it's like a mark of the heartbeat of the road itself. The constant pulsing as cars, trucks, vans, etc, roll over it, every minute of every day. Turning it grayer, wearing it down, until it's smooth. But the tar doesn't become smooth. It's still there, and it doesn't wear down.

Apologies

For complaining about the same subject for three consecutive posts...

I promise, the next one will have some real-world relevance!

Htgyrfbvg

A lot of people say "just be yourself, and you'll be fine."

Well, what if the person I really am isn't what other people want?

So you might think, Who cares what other people think about you? or So why not change a little?

a) Apparently colleges are important. b) I'm trying, but it's going at the pace of a snail in a salt minefield.

Ok, maybe I'm just really frustrated and depressed right now because I'm supposed to be writing my application essays and I can't come up with anything good because I try too hard to be perfect and not cliche or cheesy or pretentious by talking about how both my parents are scientists or how I volunteered for my dad at UCLA twice and sound really passionate about what I'm applying to but can't because I don't like being falsely cheery or give them bullshit.

*sigh* Glad I could get that out of my system.

Writing Applications

...is like squeezing toothpaste out of a clogged or otherwise empty toothpaste tube.

I'm still working on it. My parents say the second draft is indefinitely better than the first.

And I have such a lovely pile of AP and SATII prep books in the corner, all Princeton Reviews, just waiting patiently for my attention. But first I have to tackle the Grapes of Wrath, two research books, and a french dialogue first.
I'm afraid you'll have to wait, Jane Eyre...

That is all I have to say.

Mentally constipated

I hate writing applications. To anything really. I thought I had it bad last year and this time it'd be easier, but no, it's stiiilll hard.

Writing applications comes into direct conflict with one of my most glaring faults. I am supposed to tactfully and eloquently persuade the reader into thinking I am more special than the other applicants and sound very sincere and interested in the object I am applying to.

1) I have almost no tact (or wit for that matter) whatsoever. Hence, trying to be eloquent, humble, and interested in a topic is very nearly beyond me.

2) I do not personally believe I am that much more special than others and even if I do think so, I have immense difficulty conveying that to the reader.

3) I am honest to a fault. If I do not feel intense interest in a specific topic, I cannot fake more interest in it to enhance the reader's impression of me. This also goes back to number 2; if I think of myself too much, I lose self-esteem and cannot write well enough to appear worthy of attention. Unfortunately, I must still try.

I think tact is something learned from life experience, but also requires a certain level of sensibility in dealing with people. Let the record show that I am not a people person. End of rant.

No, it's not a recital...

CM can be a pain.
I returned from a dismal piano evaluation and a stern admonishment on the way home. 1) one of my pieces was not memorized, thus eliminating me from competition for Panel. 2) In every piece besides that one I messed up majorly in at least one area. 3) I have discovered that I have a very good ability of recovering myself, although that time my mistakes were so egregious that it was very obvious as I was trying to recover.

My first piece was a Lizst etude: Un Sospiro, which is btw a very lovely piece. There were a series of octaves in the right hand that I simply bamdoozled on, and only somewhat manage to get to the next section of the piece. My second was a Bach prelude and fugue; the prelude was passable, the fugue quite the disaster. The judge stopped me after only the first page, I believe. The third was my Beethoven sonata, and while it was not entirely a flop, it definitely was not my best performance of it. I actually replayed a section of my Poulenc piece by mistake, the piece I should be the most familiar with since I have worked on it the longest. Ah well. Turns out, the judge liked my final Chopin nocturne the best and let me play the whole thing. Doubtless because I had the music in front of me so I could actually properly play that one.

Needless to say I did not receive a 5+ this year, the highest score one can get, and deservedly so. Hopefully, what I glimpsed on his grading sheet was a 5, which would still allow me to play in the Honors recital...At any rate, this signals to me that my pieces are in dire need of oiling and polishing, although my adrenaline levels were actually relatively low this year. I suppose that is a good thing, or maybe it shows my lack of will to perform well, which would not be a good thing.

I'll keep this one short.

P.S. Here I go, complaining again....*sigh* when will my hypocrisy ever end?

A field trip to UCLA became a field trip to the ER...

So, last week I had mock trial. Then I got a sore throat around Thursday, and by Friday morning, I found myself in the very hospital that I mean to volunteer at.

What happened? You may ask. Well, that night I had already begun feeling uncomfortable; my blankets seemed too thin, but I didn't want to smother myself with more layers in case it was a fever. I woke up at six o'clock like any other day, only feeling that incredibly nauseating lightheadedness characteristic of fevers, but I did not quite have one. Despite this adverse condition, I still prepared for school, stumbling around as if drunk and breathing heavily. My mother became very concerned once I began hyperventilating and seeing spots clouding my vision. I blame that on having just run up the stairs with no breakfast.

She insisted I go to the ER. I expressed disapproval at this idea, but the parent prevails. We tried a clinic in Westlake, but unfortunately it wasn't open until 8 AM, and it was just past 7 when we arrived. So much for "urgent care facilities"...
Thankfully, Los Robles Hospital was open and I entered their ER for the second time, the first being to get a TB test confirmed. As it was still pretty early in the morning, we did not wait long before entering the rooms, though seeing the doctor took some more time. As following procedure, I changed out of my clothes into those hospital gowns that open in the back and lay down on a narrow bed. My "room" was fairly large; it contained several computers, measuring devices (EKG and the sort), what looked like a fridge but was actually an incubator, and racks of various things. Attached to the ceiling were two of those huge surgery lamps and some hooks for IVs. By this time my headache had subdued itself and I stared, fascinated by the paraphernalia around me. My mother sat down nearby and waited for the next person to enter. I, still being in the post-waking stupor, reentered slumber as I lay there, covered in two warm blankets and my overcoat. It felt like hours had past, what were only a few minutes of deep sleep. I woke up once, completely bewildered by my surroundings, having forgotten I had gone to the hospital. That was an interesting experience.

The one doctor for the whole ER area did a general checkup and declared me "perfectly healthy". I also had my blood drawn for the first time since third grade (it terrified me) and a lady came in and performed an EKG on me as well. This was slightly awkward but still fascinating nonetheless; first she placed special blue stickers on my shoulders, left side of my chest, and on both calves. Then she clamped wires on every sticker and looked at a monitor from which the cables extended. After a few seconds, she proclaimed my healthy condition and removed all the stickers. The ones on my legs hurt the most when she yanked them off.

Around 9 AM I could sit up comfortably and already felt well on my way to recovery. My mother bought me a bottle of orange juice to drink as well. By 9:30 we were out the door. Hospital fee? $100 with insurance. But hey, I got to keep my blood lab results.

That day I was supposed to go on a field trip to UCLA. It was very unfortunate, but then again my dad works there so I have seen a lot of it already. Anyways, I went back to school after lunch, cowered in front of my chemistry teacher who had missed me for two classes now, and learned more preliminary calculus in math analysis.

These episodes of sickness, though rare and short, plague me with missed classes and make-up work. My image of being a good student has significantly faded in my teachers' eyes, I believe. Oh well. I must redeem myself, for I cannot change the past, only the future.

I gave my chemistry teacher chocolate truffles yesterday in apology. She loved them. :]

My love-hate relationship with Life...or does everyone have that?

Reason to smile? Life.
Reason not to? Life.

Sometimes this can be a good thing, and sometimes it is not. But after every brief episode of stress and/or dissatisfaction with life, I always find something to make me love it again. And, of course, it all looks better in retrospect.

Everyone says junior year is the hardest year. In my opinion, senior year first semester would be harder, though as of now I cannot say for sure, but that would be the time when we actually have to apply to schools as opposed to just contemplating them in junior year. Then again, the influx of AP classes and tests do take their toll. I have developed a high appreciation for weekends and any days off when I can relax a little and sleep in. I used to prefer school to them, but now I really would like to take a day off or two. That is not at all to say that I do not like school; it can just be very frustrating and stressing from time to time, as is its nature.

There are those days when I say to myself "Oh my gaawwwwwsh, aqwjkenfkdfhwueshf..." and then wrap my head in my arms and languish on the desk, too bereaved to maintain my already improper posture. These times usually come in the moments of indecision at home in choosing what homework to do first or the last minutes before a test or deadline is fast approaching. These are understandably difficult times for anyone really, so I may just be lamenting very pathetically a situation shared by many who are currently not complaining about their lives and particularly pathetically compared to those who suffer far more than I do yet endure their suffering while I immediately collapse from the sheer weight of my head. I feel bad when I complain, because I feel I don't deserve to complain at all, and yet here I am, complaining to the world how miserable I can get. Alas! I am such a horrible, hypocritical person. I do apologize for wasting your time.

On the bright side, there are many things that ameliorate my mood and which cheer me up significantly. The sunlight streaming through the leaves of trees, a warm discourse with a friend, a tease from a teacher (which I still cannot tell if it is a good thing or a bad thing), a hug from my mom (my personal favorite), but most of all thinking about how really fun everything was despite the stress. The things I have done, the myriad activities and conversations that take place; they individually will not be remembered, but the warm-hearted emotions that were aroused will be. With life and school moving at such back-breaking speed, it makes me appreciate all the more the brief but pleasant lulls in activity as well. So many things happen every single day, I hardly realize half of what happens by the end of each day, but I enjoy recounting my many adventures to my mother at the dinner table.

I think I have written enough for this post. Until next time!

The Mockery of Trials

Things happen. Many things. But I won't remember remotely close to half of these things. So I'll try to jot a few of the more memorable occasions down for future reference.

Monday, February 23, 2009:
I felt woefully unprepared for Mock Trial, but mostly because I had neglected to sharpen my graphite pencils. To, say, a prosecuting attorney, this would be like forgetting one's arguments jotted down from long hours of studying. Thankfully, I managed to obtain a pencil sharpener from a dear friend just before the second trial.
The majority of the day passed like any other odd day: we discussed the ominence of nuclear warfare in US history, I served as a model for my friend in art class, and took a math test that I studied for during lunch. We ate dinner at a Wendy's across the street from the Courthouse, an incessantly energetic and nervous conglomeration of teenagers in formal dress. The main "watering hole" of the courthouse was unbelievably stuffy and malodorous, what with some hundreds of people crowded inside. I met some friends from other schools: Pam, Vivian from Oak Park, and even Yi from Newbury. The last time I saw her was at the art studio I formerly attended for a year. In the course of the competition itself, I was particularly agitated, observing and listening to each team as they spoke, and sketching almost frantically in my lap. Simply put, I was amazed at the prowess students my age possessed; they were courteous to the judges and jury, articulated clearly, and demonstrated a calm and assertive demeanor the whole time. I do believe I would have wilted before even stepping up to the podium. And that is why I was the Court room Artist. I arrived home at around 11:27 PM.

Tuesday, February 24, 2009:
Thankfully I had finished the due homework for the next day, and brought along colored pencils as well. Unfortunately, I have had very little experience sketching quickly with colored pencils, and the result came out so horrid that I submitted my previous day's modest sketch instead. After hearing the trial over four times by different voices and judges, it almost seemed repetitive, but I enjoyed the experience nonetheless. Back in the sweltering main room, all of us waited what must have been two hours for final results and awards to be announced. Every award was received with incredible fanfare and cheers, quite possibly the equivalent of five minutes at a rock band concert. Our school scooped up a prized third place for best expert witness Kelly King, and of course we screamed with equal vigor as the rest. Everyone expected that I would win in the artist category, but, much to our disappointment, I didn't even place. I do not mean to sound pretentious, but I did display a good deal of artistic talent. People would stop and stare at my entry drawing. But, because I didn't give the judges quite what they wanted to see, I was eliminated, and thus the mock trial covers will once again display rather displeasing works of art. Oh well. That's what you get when you have lawyers judging art. However, I don't regret at all that I had spent twenty hours of my time in this effort with only a certificate to remember it by; on the contrary, I was happy to have participated.
In the meantime, I also had a major history test the very next morning, and as I came home past 1:00 that night, the latest I had ever stayed up on a school night, I decided to choose sleep over a potentially poor test grade.

This would have jarring consequences later, of which I would like very much NOT to remember...

Just so I don't seem dead...

I shall describe...my room!

Is shaped something like a lopsided pentagon. It probably has horrible fengshui.

The bedroom door just about faces the bed, and another door connects my room to the bathroom and to my sister's room. She has a regular-quadrilateral room.

My bedroom door does not lock. It also slams very easily.

On its southern side it has two windows on one side overlooking the backyard, and another window facing west. The bed, bookcase, and bedside tables are also on the west side of the room.

Along the inner side are closets with sliding doors. The doors have mirrors on them. I was mildly horrified at the prospect of seeing myself too many times in a day.

My desk also faces south, so I have to adjust the blinds according to the positioning of the sun every afternoon.

I have two printers; one for mass quantities in black ink only, and the other for color. My computer is the desktop my parents used to use.

The center of my room is largely empty, filled slightly with a red rug on the floor just in front of the bed.

Much of my room reflects its denizen: mismatched colors and designs, constructive chaos, and an air of quietness. Except for the horridly black chair, it's mostly filled with warm, pastel colors. A bit too much pink in my eye, though. Still, it suits its purpose well enough.
My queen-size bed and fluffy pillow are calling to me...until next time!

Los Robles

I started volunteering at a nearby hospital, hoping to expand my [rather limited] horizon of knowledge and experience and whatnot, mostly because I really wanted to see what a hospital environment is like. In truth, as a teen volunteer I don't actually DO much; I just run minor errands like delivering food, blood, papers, flowers, or specimens between various rooms and departments. An additional setback is that as of yet I am a volunteer trainee, so I may only run errands with a full-fledged volunteer, and if there aren't too many around, as was the case today, I cannot do anything even if I am the only person available.
I still get plenty of perks though; exploring the (to me) hitherto unknown areas of a hospital, glimpsing the kinds of rooms and beds patients lie in, getting lost among the intricate labyrinth that is the hospital corridors, etc...And discovering that I can be cheerful to complete strangers and make friends rather easily, albeit simple ones for now. I began to doubt my friendliness recently...
I used to play piano for seniors at an assisted living center, but the piano, which was the gateway to their hearts, also isolated them from me as well. Even after several visits, I still had trouble speaking to anyone, especially because I was playing for people who had Alzheimer's and such. Some people may think volunteering at Los Robles to be boring and lacking patient-interaction, but for the diffident me, I think it may improve my self-confidence and whatnot. And acquire for me a new group of friends. Hopefully.

Does the SAT have something against me?

Ok, so I spend 8 whole weeks of my summer getting up at 6:30 in the morning to go up to Northridge to study the SAT in the infamous Elite Boot Camp. That over, I take the SAT in December and land a lousy score that I just might have been able to get even if I hadn't gone to Elite. And so now I'm retaking it in March, and for extra preparation, my mom bought me "The Official SAT Study Guide" by CollegeBoard itself. I am expected to take (at least) one practice test a week and study everything else in its mocking two-inch girth until the fateful day in March. So after I skim through the first 150 pages or so, I think, "Oh, whatever, I'll just take a practice test right now" and flip over to the first practice test.

Guess what I find? The EXACT same tests I took at Elite. How's that for making my day.

On the other hand, I was absent the second week of Elite (woot!) during which I was up in Washington climbing Mt. Rainier and basking in a Seattle summer. So I have at least one unfamiliar test to try.


Heidy

I should be studying

I decided to participate in my chinese school's new year festival coming this February.
I did not participate in the last few years due to time conflicts, but I wanted to do it in my last year at chinese school, just for the heck of it. The past few years we had a good dance teacher too, and the shows were fantastic. I thought I might do well, so I signed up.

Unfortunately, they had a different teacher this year, and for motivational purposes, everyone gets community service hours for going to dance class every Sunday. The participants this year seem nothing like those from past years. It's a very large class, with perhaps close to 50 people, one third of them guys (a very large percentage, might I add). However, few of us take the dance seriously, and our teachers have a hard time keeping us in check. Whenever they turn around people start gravitating toward their friends and completely ignore the teachers. I get exasperated, but I can't stop them either. I think I'm one of the better dancers, but because I wasn't there on the day they organized our spots, I ended up in the back to the very side. Figures. If only they would place us based on our merits! But no, I must endure the injustice of forever being a sidepiece for my diligence.

The perks: I get my very own tie! And I can somewhat tie it too.

~Heidy

C'est beau, les mots!

It's the Sunday before finals week, and there's no school Monday thanks to MLKJ. I wonder if most people even take this holiday seriously anymore and actually do something in honor of him or think of him instead of viewing tomorrow as just a "no school!" day. This year will be different, of course, considering that our first black president-elect Barack Obama will be inaugurated the day after.

Meanwhile, I am on page 154 of my French IV book, studying for the final. If you thought composing IDs in English was terrible? I have to do at least 10 of them each chapter, and my teacher is only picking 5 out of the 10 to test us on. Just try summarizing Louis XIV in one sentence. In French. D:>

Chemistry is also a big one. Looking at the results from my chem final review, I need at least four hours or so studying. This is how most of my friends and I thank MLKJ. According to multiple sources, the Chem and French AP tests are the hardest AP tests. Why, oh why did I dig my grave at such a tender, young age? *sigh*

And here I will stop boring all of you and continue studying.

First

*peeks out of corner*

So...this being my first blog, I'll try to pick a topic that won't be too embarrassing to me if I read it years later, but even as I speak, it's beginning to give me that vibe. And it's probably giving the audience (you) that vibe as well...anyway...I'd hoped to pick up journal writing via a word document, but that died after two entries. Pitiful. I'll post those entries later. A good friend of mine recommended I start one, so here I am, wondering if this will last just as long.

And on with the first entry!

The Chinese new year is well on itsway and this year we'll be welcoming the Bull/Ox. My mother is being unusually festive and bought at least twenty ornaments to hang around the house and twenty more to give out to my classmates at chinese school. I suppose it is either because she's experiencing the joys of being a room parent for the first time or due to the interesting manifestation in some people's minds that makes them act younger the longer they age. She certainly seems that way in terms of appearance, which is considered a major plus in our day and age. I am happy for her that she can still semi-relive the joys of youth. As of now I have two pineapples, a flower basket, a firecracker, and fish ornaments hanging on the blinds of my windows. They are very colorful and pleasing to look at.