The prompt for this week’s Sunday Scribbling is powerful. When do you feel most powerful? I did something I usually don’t do this week, which was to procrastinate on writing about it and to read other people’s posts first. Some people think that they were powerful as children, and some feel powerful as adults. Some feel powerful as women—it seems especially as women who have given birth, and some because they are men. Some write about the use of power. Myself, I had to think about personal power for a while, because it’s usually something I avoid thinking about at all.
First I thought I would say I felt powerful as a child. But the moment I thought about that I started laughing. I do sigh sometimes and think how great it would be to be a kid again. But the reason for that is not because I want to be powerful again, and have the confidence and resilience and imagined power of a child again. I never had the confidence in the first place, although I did have more resilience, and I still have all the imagined power.
The reason is because I was not powerful then.
I knew when I was a child that I was not powerful. All I had to do was look at my parents to know where power was. I wasn’t even powerful among children. My older sister was able to tell me to do anything and to shut me in a closet if I didn’t do it and she was upset about it. My older brother could roll me in a rug and sit on the end and reduce me to a screaming and gibbering claustrophobic animal. Both he and my younger brother could complain to my mother about anything and prompt her to send me to stand still with my face to the wall. Before I was home-schooled, I couldn’t prevent other children from putting clods of mud down my clothing. I was very aware that I was not a powerful child, nor important to many, although I suppose I did have the power to sit in the closet for long periods of time, and the power to stand very still in corners for even longer periods of time, and not be bothered by it.
But when I was a child, because I was not powerful, I was not expected to use power wisely. I had no responsibility. If I goofed, someone else would fix it. I did not have to think about the consequences of my actions, and how I could make life better or worse for someone.
And I used to run and jump off the roof because I was sure with a fast and high enough start that I could fly. Then after three or four times I realised that, as my friend says, “Gravity was inevitable.” But I’d run and jump again and again anyway, even knowing that I couldn’t fly, because I could pretend I was flying, that the fall was merely the start of flight, and because there was always that tiny hope that maybe this time might be different.
Of course it never was—I never flew. But I did jump. As I’ve grown older I’ve lost the ability to jump off the roof. Because now I am powerful. I have the power to own my mistakes and take the gaff myself. I have the power to make things better for other people, and I have the power to make things worse. If I need something done, I know people who can and will help me get it done, because I have the power to ask or persuade them to do it. I am a single, white, western woman impeded only by other western women in my rise to greater power.
Well, them and myself. If I do not think about what I am doing, but set myself on a path and focus on reaching the end of it, I do great. I’m certain I can get there, and I have the power to do it. That’s how I graduated from university, that’s how I wrote my first story, that’s how I’ve done everything major I’ve ever done in my life. I thought about it in the beginning and then took a breath and dove, continuing straight on without giving it thought. Most people who meet me think I’m singularly determined, but really I only seem that way because if I did not plunge ahead, I would never get anything done.
Because as soon as I think about power, and if my actions are increasing my own personal power, I freeze up and become indecisive. That’s why I did not apply to graduate school while I was in university and am running around trying to apply now. I’m still worrying about it. Would it be better to go for the thing that would surely help me—should I get a one-year education degree that would guarantee me a stable job? Or should I do the Ph.D.? I love math, and the only people in my school that would not help me are the female professors and secretaries. But do I really love math that much, or is it just to prove myself to my family? Am I creative enough to come up with a Ph.D. dissertation? Should I get any sort of degree at all, or should I just continue substitute teaching until I sell a book?
Today I feel that if I jump off the roof, I certainly won’t fly, but I might break a leg and have to pay for the enormous hospital bills (health insurance, you ask, and I laugh) and certainly if anyone saw me jumping off roofs they would think I was suicidal. I have to think about these sorts of things, because if I take a risk and it turns out bad, I’m the one that has to fix it.
But until I start thinking about it, I do fine. Until I start thinking about everything that I do in terms of advancement and loss, power and control, I’m great. When I was a kid, I never thought about that, and nothing mattered to me. I sometimes wish for that back, but then again, my childhood was kind of miserable. I just want to be able to not worry about it.
So the answer, for me, to the Scribblings prompt is: I am most powerful when I do not think about power at all.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go jump off the roof. I’ll let you know how it goes.
30 September 2007
23 September 2007
My Byronic Hero
Well, plans failed, as sometimes plans will, so here I am, writing when I thought I wouldn’t be. I haven’t anything else to do at the moment, so I’m going to feel free to write as much as I want. You can feel free to read as much or as little as you want, too.
I just finished watching the 1993 film version of Wuthering Heights. Despite the fact that it had Ralph Fiennes’ incredible voice in it, I managed to dislike it intensely. It wasn’t because the actors were bad—Fiennes had the best death stare that I’ve seen that wasn’t on a dead person. It wasn’t because so very many of the historical details were off. It wasn’t because the haircuts were hideous early nineties rat-nests, although that didn’t help. It was partly because of the music, but I could probably have gotten over that if it weren’t for what the cause of my dislike for the movie was mainly the result of.
I didn’t like the movie because I didn’t like the book.
I had no sympathy for Heathcliff. I had no sympathy for Catherine Earnshaw. The rest of the characters I formed no attachment to, except perhaps Ellen. For me, the book was simply a Gothic Romance, by which I mean Early Victorian Emo. I know, heresy for me to criticise the great literary masterpiece and all, but there you have it. I either like books or I don’t, and this was one of the don’ts.
I usually detest Byronic heroes. I sometimes like the stories that go on around them, but I usually hate the gentlemen themselves. I think I should have found Byron himself insufferable, had I ever met him, and he I. It’s not that Byronic men are too mysterious for me, or that they’re incomprehensible. I can understand most Byronic heroes. I just don’t like them.
Which brings me to the subject of this post (yes, I wandered a bit getting here, didn’t I?): I have finally found a Byronic hero that I absolutely love. Who is it that breaks through the instinctive dislike?
Severus Snape.
Yes, from the Harry Potter books. If you’ve never read them or never particularly bothered to remember them, allow me to briefly outline his Byronic nature. He is a loner, disliked even by his peers; before this he was an outcast during his school days; he has a very troubled past, including childhood abuse by his family members; he suffers to the end of his days from unrequited love (and without the hope of resolution, since the object of his affections is dead); his chief descriptors are terms like “dour” and “gloomy” and “brooding”; he is arrogant, demanding, and cynical; he suffers from a conflict of emotions over his self-imposed penance; he has trouble maintaining the integrity of his judgement around Harry Potter and matters involving the boy; he feels no need to conform to public opinion and in fact despises it in many instances; and he has certain things about him, such as his willingness to hurt people, his pettiness, and the murders he’s committed, that are not generally considered heroic traits.
Phew. Yeah, I know, brief. Anyway, from these and other observations, I’ve decided that he is one hundred percent Byronic hero. And I do love him so very much. He is, in fact, the reason I read anything past the middle of the fourth book.
My relationship to JK Rowling’s books over the years went like this: At thirteen, I read the first book, a year after it’s published. I quickly find a copy of the second and read it. At fourteen, I read the third book, and it becomes my favourite. At this time, Harry Potter is great. I love him. He does what I cannot, he stands up to teachers, he’s got great lines, &c &c. I adore him. Then at fifteen I read Goblet of Fire and two things have changed. One, Harry’s hit puberty, and two, I’ve gone to University. I no longer adore Harry Potter. I only read past the dragon fight because I want to see if the new idea forming in my mind is correct—that Harry Potter unjustly hates his Potions teacher.
The fifth book comes out. By this time I have been teaching under the supervision of another teacher while attending University full time, and I have been given a brand-new perspective with which to read the book: The perspective of someone who has already learned to hate students who emulate the behaviours of Harry Potter. I instantly take an extreme dislike to Harry Potter in book five, and cheer on his antagonists, especially the one teacher who dares to dislike him also. I resolve not to read the sixth book.
The sixth book comes out. I read it, because I must have the justification for my hero’s behaviour. I must know that he is not simply a ruthless villain supporting an even more ruthless villain but instead the hero that I believe him to be. I find the support I need in a single glimpse into his memory that the author provides. I know I am right. All is well in the world.
The seventh book comes out. I read it through (this morning, in fact), and for Severus I do what I have not done for Heathcliff and his ilk. I cry when he dies.
Yup. I liked him that much. I never wrote poems or drew pictures or any of that other stuff that some fans do (unless you count this blog post), but I gave him the greatest compliment I can give a literary character. I bought books because of him.
I am Severus!
Congratulations if you read to this point. I think I’ll quit before my mental stability is thrown into any more question. But a question to answer, if you will: Have you a favourite Byronic hero? Who and why?
I just finished watching the 1993 film version of Wuthering Heights. Despite the fact that it had Ralph Fiennes’ incredible voice in it, I managed to dislike it intensely. It wasn’t because the actors were bad—Fiennes had the best death stare that I’ve seen that wasn’t on a dead person. It wasn’t because so very many of the historical details were off. It wasn’t because the haircuts were hideous early nineties rat-nests, although that didn’t help. It was partly because of the music, but I could probably have gotten over that if it weren’t for what the cause of my dislike for the movie was mainly the result of.
I didn’t like the movie because I didn’t like the book.
I had no sympathy for Heathcliff. I had no sympathy for Catherine Earnshaw. The rest of the characters I formed no attachment to, except perhaps Ellen. For me, the book was simply a Gothic Romance, by which I mean Early Victorian Emo. I know, heresy for me to criticise the great literary masterpiece and all, but there you have it. I either like books or I don’t, and this was one of the don’ts.
I usually detest Byronic heroes. I sometimes like the stories that go on around them, but I usually hate the gentlemen themselves. I think I should have found Byron himself insufferable, had I ever met him, and he I. It’s not that Byronic men are too mysterious for me, or that they’re incomprehensible. I can understand most Byronic heroes. I just don’t like them.
Which brings me to the subject of this post (yes, I wandered a bit getting here, didn’t I?): I have finally found a Byronic hero that I absolutely love. Who is it that breaks through the instinctive dislike?
Severus Snape.
Yes, from the Harry Potter books. If you’ve never read them or never particularly bothered to remember them, allow me to briefly outline his Byronic nature. He is a loner, disliked even by his peers; before this he was an outcast during his school days; he has a very troubled past, including childhood abuse by his family members; he suffers to the end of his days from unrequited love (and without the hope of resolution, since the object of his affections is dead); his chief descriptors are terms like “dour” and “gloomy” and “brooding”; he is arrogant, demanding, and cynical; he suffers from a conflict of emotions over his self-imposed penance; he has trouble maintaining the integrity of his judgement around Harry Potter and matters involving the boy; he feels no need to conform to public opinion and in fact despises it in many instances; and he has certain things about him, such as his willingness to hurt people, his pettiness, and the murders he’s committed, that are not generally considered heroic traits.
Phew. Yeah, I know, brief. Anyway, from these and other observations, I’ve decided that he is one hundred percent Byronic hero. And I do love him so very much. He is, in fact, the reason I read anything past the middle of the fourth book.
My relationship to JK Rowling’s books over the years went like this: At thirteen, I read the first book, a year after it’s published. I quickly find a copy of the second and read it. At fourteen, I read the third book, and it becomes my favourite. At this time, Harry Potter is great. I love him. He does what I cannot, he stands up to teachers, he’s got great lines, &c &c. I adore him. Then at fifteen I read Goblet of Fire and two things have changed. One, Harry’s hit puberty, and two, I’ve gone to University. I no longer adore Harry Potter. I only read past the dragon fight because I want to see if the new idea forming in my mind is correct—that Harry Potter unjustly hates his Potions teacher.
The fifth book comes out. By this time I have been teaching under the supervision of another teacher while attending University full time, and I have been given a brand-new perspective with which to read the book: The perspective of someone who has already learned to hate students who emulate the behaviours of Harry Potter. I instantly take an extreme dislike to Harry Potter in book five, and cheer on his antagonists, especially the one teacher who dares to dislike him also. I resolve not to read the sixth book.
The sixth book comes out. I read it, because I must have the justification for my hero’s behaviour. I must know that he is not simply a ruthless villain supporting an even more ruthless villain but instead the hero that I believe him to be. I find the support I need in a single glimpse into his memory that the author provides. I know I am right. All is well in the world.
The seventh book comes out. I read it through (this morning, in fact), and for Severus I do what I have not done for Heathcliff and his ilk. I cry when he dies.
Yup. I liked him that much. I never wrote poems or drew pictures or any of that other stuff that some fans do (unless you count this blog post), but I gave him the greatest compliment I can give a literary character. I bought books because of him.
I am Severus!
Congratulations if you read to this point. I think I’ll quit before my mental stability is thrown into any more question. But a question to answer, if you will: Have you a favourite Byronic hero? Who and why?
22 September 2007
Sunday Scribblings: Hi, My Name Is...
I won’t be around net access on Sunday, most likely, so here it is, a day early. This is, for the record, not at all pretty much modelled off of conversations I’ve had at a new job in the past, with the names and places changed to protect the not-so-innocent. Not at all. Why would you suspect such a thing?
___________________________
Week 1, Monday, Emerson High School, Main Office
“Young lady? Young lady? Hello, young lady. You’ll need to sign in and take a visitor badge, please. No, they’re the ones over there, with “Hi, My Name Is _____”. Yes, those ones. Is this your first day? Who have you got? Ooo, Mrs Wallerstein’s classes! They’re a real handful. If you have any trouble just send the problem up here with a referral. Oh, the forms are in that box. Sure, no problem; see that desk back there? That’s Miss Buchanan, she handles subs. You’re welcome. Thanks, you too.”
Week 1, Tuesday, Emerson High School, Main Office
“Hello! You’ll need to sign in and take a visitor badge, please. Janice, hmm? I have a cousin called that. Pretty name. Oh, Maria’s out today, she’ll be back tomorrow. The badge? That’s so security knows you’re supposed to be on campus. Yes, every day. I don’t know, school policy? It does seem kind of redundant, doesn’t it? You all have substitute IDs anyway, couldn’t they check those? Oh, there’s the first bell! Good luck!”
Week 1, Wednesday, Emerson High School, Main Office
“Young lady? Oh, hi. Haven’t you been here before? Mrs Wallerstein on Monday, that’s right. You’ll need to sign in and… yeah. Thanks, you too. Hey, young lady! You forgot your badge! You’re welcome. Can’t be on campus without one, you know. Thanks, you too.”
Week 1, Thursday, Emerson High School, Main Office
“Young lady? Oh, hi. You know the drill. Hey, you can’t put it on your purse, Janice. Because it has to be on where everyone can see it. There you go. That wasn’t so hard, was it? Thanks, you too.”
Week 1, Friday, Emerson High School, Main Office
“Young lady? Oh, hi. Of course I remember. Brittany. Yeah, the badges are helpful, aren’t they? Thanks, you too.”
Week 1, Friday, Emerson High School, Main Office
“Young lady, you forgot to sign in this morning. Hey! Where’s your badge! Did you take it off? That’s against school policy, young lady. I don’t want to see that again, do you understand? All right. Anyone can make a mistake once. Just don’t do it again. Thanks, you too.”
Week 2, Thursday, Emerson High School, Staff Entrance to Main Office
“Hey, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at lunch with your friends? Oh, are you? I’m sorry, you look so young. I thought you were a student. You got your badge? Sure, come on in. Sorry about that. Haha, yeah, it is a nuisance, isn’t it? Sometimes I think they should just tattoo them to your foreheads. Yeah, but then at least Maria would know who you were at once. Have the students given you trouble at all? Really? Great! Hey, I’ll be out next week, let me have your sub number and I’ll request you. Yeah, they’re easy. Best kids in the school. And they’re doing the CHASEE for three days, so you’ll have an easy go. They’re real little angels, not like some of the classes. 3165? Got it. Yeah, Joe Wallerstein. Yeah, she’s my wife! Yeah, aren’t they great? Oh, there’s the bell. See you later!”
Week 3, Monday, Emerson High School, Joe Wallerstein’s Second Period Class
“Hey look, it’s her badge!”
“Give it here!”
“Write on it, Jesus!”
“What should I write? You write on it!”
“Give it here!”
“Haha! Way to go, Mario!”
“What?”
“What, now? Are you serious? Yeah, but I finished the test! What, them? They don’t care!”
“I’ll wait for you outside detention, bro.”
“Thanks, chamo. I’m going, I’m going. Geez, are you new or something? We always do this!”
Week 3, Monday, Emerson High School, Main Office
“Where’s your badge, young lady? I thought I told you not to take it off again. You have to wear it at all times. School policy. That’s not very funny, young lady. Are you trying to make fun of me? Displaying obscenities on or about your person is against school policy. I don’t care, young lady, one more incident like this and I’ll have to report you to the principal.”
Week 4, Friday, Emerson High School, Quad
“Young lady? Young lady! Young lady, STOP! Hey, what’s the matter with you?! Didn’t you hear me calling you? Yes, I was! Are you supposed to be out of class? A substitute? You’ll have to come up with a better one… oh. I’m sorry, ma’am. Hey, where’s your visitor badge? You’re not supposed to be on campus without one. Did you check in at the office? Come with me, please, I have to verify this.”
Week 4, Friday, Emerson High School, Principal’s Office
“You are Janice Smith? You know, Miss Smith, I’ve been listening to the talk about the office. It seems that you’ve had more than one problem with this sort of thing before. Are you trying to flout our educational policy? We have a system in place, Miss Smith, because we have found that system to work. Do you understand? We can’t have people running all over campus without identification, and when you attempt to disobey procedure, you send a message to our students. When you “lose” your visitor badge or scribble obscene humour on it, you send a message. Do you know what that message is? You are saying to our students that they can feel free to disobey, too. I understand that, but it is your responsibility to come to the office and get a new one. Miss Smith, I think you are being purposefully difficult. We in the administration have always tried to support our teachers and substitutes with as little hassle as possible, and you should return the favour. This kind of fuss is not something we need. Am I clear?”
Week 5, Monday, Lincoln High School, Main Office
“Hi, I’m Kelly, how are you this morning? Fine, thanks. What’s your name? Ah, let me see… Monica, right? Here’s the keys. Monica said to tell her sub not to let them use the TV, they’re in her class to do math even when she isn’t. What badge? Don’t be silly, that’s what you have a sub ID for. Here’s the map, we’re here, and Monica’s class is here. If you get lost, just ask one of the kids, they’ll help you. Have a nice day!”
Week 25, Thursday, Lincoln High School, Main Office
“Hi, Janice! Monica again today. Nate’s gonna ask you to do a period coverage, just warning you. Hey, you’ve been subbing here exclusively now for a while, haven’t you? Yeah, wow, almost six months! Why do you like Lincoln so much?”
___________________________
Week 1, Monday, Emerson High School, Main Office
“Young lady? Young lady? Hello, young lady. You’ll need to sign in and take a visitor badge, please. No, they’re the ones over there, with “Hi, My Name Is _____”. Yes, those ones. Is this your first day? Who have you got? Ooo, Mrs Wallerstein’s classes! They’re a real handful. If you have any trouble just send the problem up here with a referral. Oh, the forms are in that box. Sure, no problem; see that desk back there? That’s Miss Buchanan, she handles subs. You’re welcome. Thanks, you too.”
Week 1, Tuesday, Emerson High School, Main Office
“Hello! You’ll need to sign in and take a visitor badge, please. Janice, hmm? I have a cousin called that. Pretty name. Oh, Maria’s out today, she’ll be back tomorrow. The badge? That’s so security knows you’re supposed to be on campus. Yes, every day. I don’t know, school policy? It does seem kind of redundant, doesn’t it? You all have substitute IDs anyway, couldn’t they check those? Oh, there’s the first bell! Good luck!”
Week 1, Wednesday, Emerson High School, Main Office
“Young lady? Oh, hi. Haven’t you been here before? Mrs Wallerstein on Monday, that’s right. You’ll need to sign in and… yeah. Thanks, you too. Hey, young lady! You forgot your badge! You’re welcome. Can’t be on campus without one, you know. Thanks, you too.”
Week 1, Thursday, Emerson High School, Main Office
“Young lady? Oh, hi. You know the drill. Hey, you can’t put it on your purse, Janice. Because it has to be on where everyone can see it. There you go. That wasn’t so hard, was it? Thanks, you too.”
Week 1, Friday, Emerson High School, Main Office
“Young lady? Oh, hi. Of course I remember. Brittany. Yeah, the badges are helpful, aren’t they? Thanks, you too.”
Week 1, Friday, Emerson High School, Main Office
“Young lady, you forgot to sign in this morning. Hey! Where’s your badge! Did you take it off? That’s against school policy, young lady. I don’t want to see that again, do you understand? All right. Anyone can make a mistake once. Just don’t do it again. Thanks, you too.”
Week 2, Thursday, Emerson High School, Staff Entrance to Main Office
“Hey, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at lunch with your friends? Oh, are you? I’m sorry, you look so young. I thought you were a student. You got your badge? Sure, come on in. Sorry about that. Haha, yeah, it is a nuisance, isn’t it? Sometimes I think they should just tattoo them to your foreheads. Yeah, but then at least Maria would know who you were at once. Have the students given you trouble at all? Really? Great! Hey, I’ll be out next week, let me have your sub number and I’ll request you. Yeah, they’re easy. Best kids in the school. And they’re doing the CHASEE for three days, so you’ll have an easy go. They’re real little angels, not like some of the classes. 3165? Got it. Yeah, Joe Wallerstein. Yeah, she’s my wife! Yeah, aren’t they great? Oh, there’s the bell. See you later!”
Week 3, Monday, Emerson High School, Joe Wallerstein’s Second Period Class
“Hey look, it’s her badge!”
“Give it here!”
“Write on it, Jesus!”
“What should I write? You write on it!”
“Give it here!”
“Haha! Way to go, Mario!”
“What?”
“What, now? Are you serious? Yeah, but I finished the test! What, them? They don’t care!”
“I’ll wait for you outside detention, bro.”
“Thanks, chamo. I’m going, I’m going. Geez, are you new or something? We always do this!”
Week 3, Monday, Emerson High School, Main Office
“Where’s your badge, young lady? I thought I told you not to take it off again. You have to wear it at all times. School policy. That’s not very funny, young lady. Are you trying to make fun of me? Displaying obscenities on or about your person is against school policy. I don’t care, young lady, one more incident like this and I’ll have to report you to the principal.”
Week 4, Friday, Emerson High School, Quad
“Young lady? Young lady! Young lady, STOP! Hey, what’s the matter with you?! Didn’t you hear me calling you? Yes, I was! Are you supposed to be out of class? A substitute? You’ll have to come up with a better one… oh. I’m sorry, ma’am. Hey, where’s your visitor badge? You’re not supposed to be on campus without one. Did you check in at the office? Come with me, please, I have to verify this.”
Week 4, Friday, Emerson High School, Principal’s Office
“You are Janice Smith? You know, Miss Smith, I’ve been listening to the talk about the office. It seems that you’ve had more than one problem with this sort of thing before. Are you trying to flout our educational policy? We have a system in place, Miss Smith, because we have found that system to work. Do you understand? We can’t have people running all over campus without identification, and when you attempt to disobey procedure, you send a message to our students. When you “lose” your visitor badge or scribble obscene humour on it, you send a message. Do you know what that message is? You are saying to our students that they can feel free to disobey, too. I understand that, but it is your responsibility to come to the office and get a new one. Miss Smith, I think you are being purposefully difficult. We in the administration have always tried to support our teachers and substitutes with as little hassle as possible, and you should return the favour. This kind of fuss is not something we need. Am I clear?”
Week 5, Monday, Lincoln High School, Main Office
“Hi, I’m Kelly, how are you this morning? Fine, thanks. What’s your name? Ah, let me see… Monica, right? Here’s the keys. Monica said to tell her sub not to let them use the TV, they’re in her class to do math even when she isn’t. What badge? Don’t be silly, that’s what you have a sub ID for. Here’s the map, we’re here, and Monica’s class is here. If you get lost, just ask one of the kids, they’ll help you. Have a nice day!”
Week 25, Thursday, Lincoln High School, Main Office
“Hi, Janice! Monica again today. Nate’s gonna ask you to do a period coverage, just warning you. Hey, you’ve been subbing here exclusively now for a while, haven’t you? Yeah, wow, almost six months! Why do you like Lincoln so much?”
16 September 2007
Sunday Scribblings: Collector's Personality
I started thinking about what I was going to write for the Sunday Scribblings prompt this week, and I was thinking about all the things that I collect.
I could say I collect the playing of musical instruments. I collect instruments that seem exotic (to Americans, which I will admit is not very difficult) and learn how to play them. I’m not very good at most, but I have a reckoning of all of them and can play my hardangerfele fairly well (laugh it up, Norwegians, but no here knows what it is :/).
I could say I collect sharp bladed objects, except I only really have ones that were given to me as a gift or that I thought were pretty on the spur of the moment. I never really set out to buy one on purpose. So am I really collecting them, or are they just accumulating?
I have a rack of DVDs and a steamer trunk full of books (because I ran out of space on my available shelves). But those books and DVDs were bought not because they were books or DVDs but because of the content they contained. Perhaps I’m collecting information? I definitely have a lot of unicorn paraphernalia and bric-a-brac. Throws and blankets with unicorns, pictures and clocks, tons of things. But I haven’t really bought something like that in five or six years. So that’s a past collection.
So then I started thinking about past things I’ve collected, searching for something suitably impressive to write about. I gave up on that idea quickly, since pretty rocks are generally underappreciated and my mum made me throw out my dead bugs collection when I was five. I think it was the still-living cockroach that ratted out my hiding place for it.
The past proving barren of interesting collections, I thought about ideas and less material things of that general abstract nature. But I don’t collect ideas, they just happen upon me; I don’t collect dreams, I only wish them; and I don’t collect years, they collect me.
So I gave up on writing about a collection of mine and decided to write a story about somebody else’s collection. Maybe I’d write about someone who collected jewellery, and write about where it came from. Or I’d write about someone who collected hair. Or cats. Or shampoo, possibly to be used on the cats or the hair. Or I’d write about a murderer who collected lives.
And then this story idea popped in my head, and I thought it would be fun to write about a person who doesn’t really collect things, but is more forced to collect them. Has to collect them. And then I thought it would be fun to try and see if I couldn’t write a story in the style of author X, so I gave it my best shot (which, as it turns out, is not very good, since I forgot whom I was trying to imitate halfway through and now I can’t tell from the finished product).
Any rate. The story follows.
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And now it actually doesn't follow, because I'm trying to get it published and I can't have it here no more.
I could say I collect the playing of musical instruments. I collect instruments that seem exotic (to Americans, which I will admit is not very difficult) and learn how to play them. I’m not very good at most, but I have a reckoning of all of them and can play my hardangerfele fairly well (laugh it up, Norwegians, but no here knows what it is :/).
I could say I collect sharp bladed objects, except I only really have ones that were given to me as a gift or that I thought were pretty on the spur of the moment. I never really set out to buy one on purpose. So am I really collecting them, or are they just accumulating?
I have a rack of DVDs and a steamer trunk full of books (because I ran out of space on my available shelves). But those books and DVDs were bought not because they were books or DVDs but because of the content they contained. Perhaps I’m collecting information? I definitely have a lot of unicorn paraphernalia and bric-a-brac. Throws and blankets with unicorns, pictures and clocks, tons of things. But I haven’t really bought something like that in five or six years. So that’s a past collection.
So then I started thinking about past things I’ve collected, searching for something suitably impressive to write about. I gave up on that idea quickly, since pretty rocks are generally underappreciated and my mum made me throw out my dead bugs collection when I was five. I think it was the still-living cockroach that ratted out my hiding place for it.
The past proving barren of interesting collections, I thought about ideas and less material things of that general abstract nature. But I don’t collect ideas, they just happen upon me; I don’t collect dreams, I only wish them; and I don’t collect years, they collect me.
So I gave up on writing about a collection of mine and decided to write a story about somebody else’s collection. Maybe I’d write about someone who collected jewellery, and write about where it came from. Or I’d write about someone who collected hair. Or cats. Or shampoo, possibly to be used on the cats or the hair. Or I’d write about a murderer who collected lives.
And then this story idea popped in my head, and I thought it would be fun to write about a person who doesn’t really collect things, but is more forced to collect them. Has to collect them. And then I thought it would be fun to try and see if I couldn’t write a story in the style of author X, so I gave it my best shot (which, as it turns out, is not very good, since I forgot whom I was trying to imitate halfway through and now I can’t tell from the finished product).
Any rate. The story follows.
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And now it actually doesn't follow, because I'm trying to get it published and I can't have it here no more.
14 September 2007
It's Not What You Know, It's Who You Know
As it so happens, my prediction of four days ago was entirely correct. The schmuck won. Unfortunately for him, the fifth fundamental force of nepotism did not exert a strong enough pull this time around, and he was forced to share his first place status with the Russian schlemiel.
I thought the Russian dude would win second, seeing as how he was only a student of the Russian judge, and the Hungarian bloc of voters was much bigger than the Russian bloc. I guess the Hungarian bloke really bungled his concerto. Sad, really, when a mere student of a jury member can tie with the nephew of the dean and the student of the President of the Jury. Where’s the sense in that?
Of the two third place winners, I predicted this one (also a student of the Russian judge) but missed out on this one. She was a wild card winner; I thought it would be this girl, the student of the Japanese judge.
But, all in all, I did a pretty fair job of predicting this one. I’ll have to try my hand at predicting other competitions as they come around. Or perhaps I should just become a medium right now.
I thought the Russian dude would win second, seeing as how he was only a student of the Russian judge, and the Hungarian bloc of voters was much bigger than the Russian bloc. I guess the Hungarian bloke really bungled his concerto. Sad, really, when a mere student of a jury member can tie with the nephew of the dean and the student of the President of the Jury. Where’s the sense in that?
Of the two third place winners, I predicted this one (also a student of the Russian judge) but missed out on this one. She was a wild card winner; I thought it would be this girl, the student of the Japanese judge.
But, all in all, I did a pretty fair job of predicting this one. I’ll have to try my hand at predicting other competitions as they come around. Or perhaps I should just become a medium right now.
10 September 2007
The Wheel Keeps Turning… But It Only Matters To Those On The Rim
The József Szigeti Violin Competition is one of the most prestigious violin competitions in the world. It’s not as important as the Indianapolis or the Queen Elizabeth, but it’s up there. It’s supposed to help aspiring musicians break into the world of concert performing and suchlike. Now, you’d think that, given all the preaching about helping young musicians get a leg up into a professional career, may the best player win, fairness of judging, &c &c, that the best player would, in fact, win.
Wrong.
The competition is not over yet. But I, a mediocre player at best since I can’t be bothered to practice the seven or eight hours a day it would require to be good, can tell you the exact characteristics of the person who will win. Even though I’ve displayed no previous aptitude for fortunetelling.
The winner will be Hungarian. He will be male. He will be the nephew of the dean of the Ferenc Liszt University of Music, where the competition is being held. He will be the student of the President of the International Jury judging the competition, and, as it so happens, one year younger than me. It will be this schmuck.
Does that seem fair to you? That I can predict with such ease? Yeah, it did to me too.
Wrong.
The competition is not over yet. But I, a mediocre player at best since I can’t be bothered to practice the seven or eight hours a day it would require to be good, can tell you the exact characteristics of the person who will win. Even though I’ve displayed no previous aptitude for fortunetelling.
The winner will be Hungarian. He will be male. He will be the nephew of the dean of the Ferenc Liszt University of Music, where the competition is being held. He will be the student of the President of the International Jury judging the competition, and, as it so happens, one year younger than me. It will be this schmuck.
Does that seem fair to you? That I can predict with such ease? Yeah, it did to me too.
09 September 2007
Sunday Scribblings: Writing
She’s written one thousand, five hundred and forty-three pages of twelve point Times New Roman text in the last year. Perhaps fifty people have seen portions of it, and only two have read it all. The writing is commonplace, neither great nor terrible. She makes her errors, misspellings here and missing punctuation there, but no more than most and far less than some. It’s mostly prose, green shading to blue, rather than purple. She writes in response to the prompts other people give, and in turn prompts others to write. None of it is publishable—she hasn’t even tried. An editor would use the SASE after reading the first page.
But her sister read it all, as it was written, and she laughed and liked it, for the most part.
She writes about people, all sorts. Broken people, whole people, cracked people. Strong people, weak people, happy people, and sad people. She writes about sneaks, and she writes about honest blokes. She writes about hope and anger and love—sometimes too much. The people she writes about feel too much, or too little, and sometimes nothing happens to them so they don’t feel at all, but are put in her writer’s refrigerator to keep them fresh for later use. Every one of the people in the story is somehow connected to each of the others within three or four degrees, even the ones she doesn’t write about. She is the Kevin Bacon of the story. She tries to keep everything cohesive but sometimes it spirals away, stray wisps of hair blowing on the wind. Sometimes she’s happy with what she’s written, and other times not.
But her best friend read it all, as it was written, and she said she was happier and hopeful, for the most part.
She writes for a readership of two, sometimes more, and ignores her mother, who thinks it’s a waste of time. She smiles and nods to her father, who thinks it’s a form of social networking. She jokes with her brother, who sometimes writes with her. And she keeps on writing.
It’s worth it to her.
But her sister read it all, as it was written, and she laughed and liked it, for the most part.
She writes about people, all sorts. Broken people, whole people, cracked people. Strong people, weak people, happy people, and sad people. She writes about sneaks, and she writes about honest blokes. She writes about hope and anger and love—sometimes too much. The people she writes about feel too much, or too little, and sometimes nothing happens to them so they don’t feel at all, but are put in her writer’s refrigerator to keep them fresh for later use. Every one of the people in the story is somehow connected to each of the others within three or four degrees, even the ones she doesn’t write about. She is the Kevin Bacon of the story. She tries to keep everything cohesive but sometimes it spirals away, stray wisps of hair blowing on the wind. Sometimes she’s happy with what she’s written, and other times not.
But her best friend read it all, as it was written, and she said she was happier and hopeful, for the most part.
She writes for a readership of two, sometimes more, and ignores her mother, who thinks it’s a waste of time. She smiles and nods to her father, who thinks it’s a form of social networking. She jokes with her brother, who sometimes writes with her. And she keeps on writing.
It’s worth it to her.
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