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...