I can't sleep. I've been to used to the sleepless nights spent doing papers or studying for Math tests. In fact, I'm craving for a cheese sandwich because the past few weeks, I've been eating my breakfast at around this time. (My nightly schedule during hell week was nap from 8-9, work from 9-3, breakfast at 3, sleep from 3-6, then school! Yay.)
At this rate, I do think I really need a sea change. I'm glad I'll be out of the country for a few days starting Tuesday.In fact, I texted Isaiah's mother today about something. Her reply ran something along the lines of, "Stop worrying. You'll get wrinkles" So yeah. I do think I need to keep my mind off everything school-related right now. It will just make me question my life choices all the more; and frankly, while I've grown to be a more self-actualized individual this past school year, I think I just need to let loose really. I've been....tense the past few weeks. And, I still don't really feel that feeling of release. Weird, right? (And no, I don't mean this in a suggestive sort of way.)
I can't fully free myself from "school", or at the very least, academic things, though. In my luggage are Terry Eagleton's Literary Theory, a copy of The Book Thief I started way back in high school and in my handbag (Girbaud yay, because I allow myself to be brand conscious sometimes) is An Oresteia. While my love of books has always been a given, it's a bit different now because I am determined to be "serious" about learning something about Lit at least, especially now that my mother shot down my proposal of shifting to Lit. I'm resigned to the fact it will never be my major, but at least it can be my passion.
I am shifting to Legal Management instead, and minoring in Lit. I don't think I want to spend my next three years in college, worrying about a possible noose at my neck so I'm cutting to the chase and shifting. Besides...I wasn't really happy in a Math heavy course. While I love the subject at a distance and it's actually fun to talk about, doing it is another matter entirely. Besides, I acknowledge I chose it as a means to an end: I really, really am hoping I'm not too burned out to get to law school at the end of these four years.
Que sera, sera.
--
On another note, do listen to "The xx." Their entire album. It's haunting. At least, for me.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
In Retrospect.
Right now, there are two types of M-06ers: the jubilant and the secretly saddened. Needless to say, I fall under the latter portion. There's nobody but myself to blame for the situation, I guess. I've set myself up to be the latter portion from the very first day, when sitting in the front row, I hesitantly raised my hand to volunteer as beadle. She asked me to fetch her coffee, forcing me to leave the classroom and buy one Americano, two brown sugars, no cream.
After that, there was no turning back.
People ask me a bunch of things about her:
a.) Do I have parental issues that manifest in my complete adoration of Miss Diaz?
b.) Am I masochistic?
While the first isn't true, I guess, and the second is debatable, I really thank this woman for making me work and understand my limitations. Similarly, she is the reason I understand the depths of my passion for Literature: cheesy to say right now, but boundless.
And so, without further ado:
Diazpora: A Guide for (Mourning) M-06ers *
You wake up in the middle of the afternoon, realizing it's been weeks since you've let yourself sleep for more than ten minutes in the middle of the day. The sleep is refreshing, but-
There is a numbness you feel when you realize there are no papers to write, no inch-thick readings to pore over and no sunlight streaming/storm clouds hovering over B-102 (surprisingly reflective of Ma'am's mood and lipstick color of the day) to look forward to.
You drift off to sleep, only to jolt yourself awake ten minutes later (SHIII- I haven't finished my CRP) only to realize:
It's the numbness again.
Denial is evident in the stack of papers you've filled your desk with and the stack of books you've gathered under the pretense of "I need it for school" when secretly, you're thrilled at the thought of being an "honorary" Lit minor. You browse through your books and pick one out (Grief, Joan Didion says, strikes us most because it is always preceded by the ordinary.)
While you can't call this grief (There is no loss, is there? Merely the regaining of the "ordinary", the sense of normalcy after those ten months spent in a daze), there's a certain depth to the emptiness you deny feeling. (Breakups are sharp shards of glass; deaths are waves upon waves of loss while this- this is just the starkness of the unknown.)
Grief, Didion says, strikes us most because it is always preceded by the ordinary. You realize that what you are feeling is the reverse: what do you do when you've become so used to the extraordinary? When the extraordinary becomes your ordinary ( and then "rights" itself again)?
Being the true Diaz student that you are, you write. You write and you forget the expository techniques you've so recently learned. You look at what you've written and you laugh, knowing she would have a lot to criticize about your work (This is terrible; you've actually tried to be metafictive- it did not work; I told you; you must have a narrative framework).
You smile as you realize: it's never the writing skills you've completely imbibed; it's the raw emotion.
You guess it's not a loss, after all.
*Thank you, Jan Ong, for thinking up Diazpora.
(Disclaimer: While this is a sight better than the drivel I've been posting the past few months, this is in no way indicative of the quality of M-06 works.)
After that, there was no turning back.
People ask me a bunch of things about her:
a.) Do I have parental issues that manifest in my complete adoration of Miss Diaz?
b.) Am I masochistic?
While the first isn't true, I guess, and the second is debatable, I really thank this woman for making me work and understand my limitations. Similarly, she is the reason I understand the depths of my passion for Literature: cheesy to say right now, but boundless.
And so, without further ado:
Diazpora: A Guide for (Mourning) M-06ers *
You wake up in the middle of the afternoon, realizing it's been weeks since you've let yourself sleep for more than ten minutes in the middle of the day. The sleep is refreshing, but-
There is a numbness you feel when you realize there are no papers to write, no inch-thick readings to pore over and no sunlight streaming/storm clouds hovering over B-102 (surprisingly reflective of Ma'am's mood and lipstick color of the day) to look forward to.
You drift off to sleep, only to jolt yourself awake ten minutes later (SHIII- I haven't finished my CRP) only to realize:
It's the numbness again.
Denial is evident in the stack of papers you've filled your desk with and the stack of books you've gathered under the pretense of "I need it for school" when secretly, you're thrilled at the thought of being an "honorary" Lit minor. You browse through your books and pick one out (Grief, Joan Didion says, strikes us most because it is always preceded by the ordinary.)
While you can't call this grief (There is no loss, is there? Merely the regaining of the "ordinary", the sense of normalcy after those ten months spent in a daze), there's a certain depth to the emptiness you deny feeling. (Breakups are sharp shards of glass; deaths are waves upon waves of loss while this- this is just the starkness of the unknown.)
Grief, Didion says, strikes us most because it is always preceded by the ordinary. You realize that what you are feeling is the reverse: what do you do when you've become so used to the extraordinary? When the extraordinary becomes your ordinary ( and then "rights" itself again)?
Being the true Diaz student that you are, you write. You write and you forget the expository techniques you've so recently learned. You look at what you've written and you laugh, knowing she would have a lot to criticize about your work (This is terrible; you've actually tried to be metafictive- it did not work; I told you; you must have a narrative framework).
You smile as you realize: it's never the writing skills you've completely imbibed; it's the raw emotion.
You guess it's not a loss, after all.
*Thank you, Jan Ong, for thinking up Diazpora.
(Disclaimer: While this is a sight better than the drivel I've been posting the past few months, this is in no way indicative of the quality of M-06 works.)
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