I've been dreading my required algebra class all summer. It was one of those things that would hit me like a mack truck at 2 in the morning- how in the world am I going to do MATH with a one month old and insane two and a half year old? Within minutes I would be seething at... you guessed it- Joe. No matter what my problem is, I can always trace it to Joe. Don't feel bad for him. He simply thrives on his position as my scapegoat, imagining himself as forging ahead against all odds with a quiet and humble dignity- a beacon for the down trodden and abused the world over.
As it turns out, however, I'm actually really liking algebra. How I've changed from my sullen sixteen year old self, who sat in the very back of the math class drawing pictures on the desk between itching my head and falling asleep from the half dozen pills my friend and I would take before school (I still don't know what they were- any ideas?). While my teacher in high school was a drab Polish woman who attempted to liven up the class by describing the wrong solutions to equations as 'no such animal', my teacher now is a computer, who cheers me on personally when my answers are correct, and who gently chides me when my answers are wrong. Although sometimes I feel uncomfortably like a character in an H.E. Wells novel, for the most part I enjoy the cold objective personality of my new teacher. I know that it's encouraging 'Fantastic!'s and 'Well Done"s do not stem from pity, and that its polite reprimands don't come out of a personal dislike of me. It simply wants me to learn algebra.
And learning it I am. In fact, I stayed up until 12:30 AM figuring out an algebra problem. I finally forced myself to go to bed, veritably dragging myself away from the computer, and fell asleep feeling fulfilled and purposeful. I felt a certain affinity to William Nash, the Nobel Prize winning mathematician whose journey to insanity and back was portrayed in the movie 'A Beautiful Mind'. I mentioned this the next day to my brother. Knowing my chameleon like personality, he suggested that I run away with this idea and take on the role of an eccentric mathematician; by scrawling algebraic equations onto place mats at restaurants and onto any glass surface (2x+3=27, etc.), by throwing furniture out the window, by being rude and distracted with people and by slowly losing my mind. I'm not sure if he has my best interests in mind, but this kind of life certainly sound much more interesting than mine. Who wouldn't want an invisible Ed Harris showing up unexpectedly at their side, barking exciting orders at them?
Yes, anthropology has lost its thrill. No more earth colored clothing, long brown hair and sensible shoes for me. Who cares about different cultures when you can solve the mysteries of the universe with NUMBERS? Next time you see me, expect my hair to be tousled, my outfit to be a random selection of ill fitting clothes, and don't be taken aback if I seem rude or distracted, or say insulting but on the mark things. I am in the lonely world of numbers and equations, in which moments of brilliance are followed by an incomprehensible darkness. A brilliant madness.
Well, at least until the end of the semester.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Calliope's Lost Her Mind...
My sister and I have a theory that every girl, no matter how pretty or promising, will inevitably turn into a big butted, opinionated woman bustling past her husband in a pair of pilled stretch pants and a Tweetie Bird sweatshirt complaining about money and carrying a load of laundry on her head. (That is, unless you're wily enough to score a David Beckham or soulless enough to score a Donald Trump.) This ghastly woman is both my nemesis and my oasis, as her resignation to her bleak existence signifies the end of all of the restlessness and anxiety inherent to the golden days of youth, when success is still a possibility. I see subtle signs of her emergence- I find myself complaining more and more and becoming extremely frugal. In fact, now that I think about it I pretty much am that woman, and it's only a matter of time before appearances catch up with me.
This same sister (who I will keep anonymous at her request) also shares my eagerness to do as little as possible without appearing mentally ill. While complaining to her about an assignment for an illustration class in which I had to draw a picture of my family, she suggested that I take advantage of the current 'anything goes' state of the art world and turn in a piece of abstract art.
'Just draw four triangles.' She said.
Not a bad idea. We discovered that I could even go the extra mile and create a piece of performance art. Imagine the expressions of my online fellow students as they watch a video of a plump, pasty, chestnut haired thirty year old covered in shaving cream throwing herself onto the floor over and over again and heaving herself up each time. At the end, she remains lying on the floor in a depressing heap, and a bag of chocolate chips is thrown at her by someone off camera. She remains lying there for four or five minutes, the screen wavers and turns slightly sideways as someone struggles to figure out how to stop the recording, and the words: 'Existential Portrait of My Family' appear. An A+ for originality! What raw energy! What an utterly unique glimpse into not only the artist's family, but into the concept of family itself! God I love the art world, if only there was anything even slightly original after Duchamps was clever enough to place an old toilet into an art gallery.
I actually had my work in a show last year. I just felt like it was one of those things that I had to do before I died- not to be macabre about it. It was great fun, dampened only by my wondering on the way there exactly how one acted at their own art exhibit, and the appearance of a very strange, short man with disconcerting eyes who seemed to stare at me an awful lot. This same sister also mentioned that he seemed to be staring at her a lot as well, and that she felt as if she were in a David Lynch movie. It's hard to explain his eyes, they seemed to integrate the expression of a bird and a second grader. As disconcerting as his presence was, it was strangely comforting as well- in the crowd of strangers who expected something of me, there he was, two sharp eyes slightly below my chin following me unabashedly, with a gaze that conveyed nothing and clearly expected nothing. I'm glad that my sister saw him also, or I would be inclined to think that perhaps that I'd been given one of the odder guardian angels (which would explain a lot), and for whatever reason he had chosen that time and place to reveal himself to me. At any rate, whatever I was expecting of my art show, I certainly hadn't imagined anything remotely like my experience with that elfen little man. Eventually he receded into the crowd, but the magnitude of revealing my art to the public for the first time has been somewhat eclipsed by the memory of the disturbing gaze of that odd little creature. Such is life.
Well, back to my school work. I think that I'm just going to draw a picture of the four of us for my class- when it comes down to it I'm far too unoriginal for the contemporary art world. But seriously, what if when the Pope had commissioned Michelangelo to design the Sistine Chapel, he had dangled two loaves of bread from the ceiling and declared it to be symbolic of eternity? Or if Leonardo da Vinci had performed a short skit titled the 'Mona Lisa' for his colleagues, the climax of which was him dumping a jug of wine over his head, instead of painting his masterpiece? Call me old fashioned, or maybe it's just the eminently practical bug butted lady coming out in me, but it's just all so ridiculous.
This same sister (who I will keep anonymous at her request) also shares my eagerness to do as little as possible without appearing mentally ill. While complaining to her about an assignment for an illustration class in which I had to draw a picture of my family, she suggested that I take advantage of the current 'anything goes' state of the art world and turn in a piece of abstract art.
'Just draw four triangles.' She said.
Not a bad idea. We discovered that I could even go the extra mile and create a piece of performance art. Imagine the expressions of my online fellow students as they watch a video of a plump, pasty, chestnut haired thirty year old covered in shaving cream throwing herself onto the floor over and over again and heaving herself up each time. At the end, she remains lying on the floor in a depressing heap, and a bag of chocolate chips is thrown at her by someone off camera. She remains lying there for four or five minutes, the screen wavers and turns slightly sideways as someone struggles to figure out how to stop the recording, and the words: 'Existential Portrait of My Family' appear. An A+ for originality! What raw energy! What an utterly unique glimpse into not only the artist's family, but into the concept of family itself! God I love the art world, if only there was anything even slightly original after Duchamps was clever enough to place an old toilet into an art gallery.
I actually had my work in a show last year. I just felt like it was one of those things that I had to do before I died- not to be macabre about it. It was great fun, dampened only by my wondering on the way there exactly how one acted at their own art exhibit, and the appearance of a very strange, short man with disconcerting eyes who seemed to stare at me an awful lot. This same sister also mentioned that he seemed to be staring at her a lot as well, and that she felt as if she were in a David Lynch movie. It's hard to explain his eyes, they seemed to integrate the expression of a bird and a second grader. As disconcerting as his presence was, it was strangely comforting as well- in the crowd of strangers who expected something of me, there he was, two sharp eyes slightly below my chin following me unabashedly, with a gaze that conveyed nothing and clearly expected nothing. I'm glad that my sister saw him also, or I would be inclined to think that perhaps that I'd been given one of the odder guardian angels (which would explain a lot), and for whatever reason he had chosen that time and place to reveal himself to me. At any rate, whatever I was expecting of my art show, I certainly hadn't imagined anything remotely like my experience with that elfen little man. Eventually he receded into the crowd, but the magnitude of revealing my art to the public for the first time has been somewhat eclipsed by the memory of the disturbing gaze of that odd little creature. Such is life.
Well, back to my school work. I think that I'm just going to draw a picture of the four of us for my class- when it comes down to it I'm far too unoriginal for the contemporary art world. But seriously, what if when the Pope had commissioned Michelangelo to design the Sistine Chapel, he had dangled two loaves of bread from the ceiling and declared it to be symbolic of eternity? Or if Leonardo da Vinci had performed a short skit titled the 'Mona Lisa' for his colleagues, the climax of which was him dumping a jug of wine over his head, instead of painting his masterpiece? Call me old fashioned, or maybe it's just the eminently practical bug butted lady coming out in me, but it's just all so ridiculous.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
'Some are born to sweet delight...'
Ok, I seriously can't think of a thing to say. I've started about seven or eight blogs and have trailed off of each one. A bad case of blogger's block.
Soooo- what's happened. Let's see if I go through with this.
Looking out the window the other morning, I saw the entire Vietnamese family across the street gaping to the left of my house. Apparently the two little Russian boys were beating the crap out of each other. Victoria Hui was both shocked and horrified, and was making violent hitting motions to me across the street to convey the 'badness' of the two little scoundrels. One thing is certain- Victoria Hui would NEVER allow such behavior in her household. Victoria has warned me time and again that the Russians are 'TROUBLE'. Because Victoria is my elder, and because it was my daughter's car that they were fighting over, I dutifully walked over and stared at them, but not being able to think of a thing to say (not to mention the fact that they wouldn't understand it anyway) I smiled and walked back to my house. Boys will be boys, Victoria, boys will be boys.
Sunday morning Joe emerged from the bed room in a vest and white t-shirt with a stately and virtuous air about him. He announced that we were going to church, and I complacently agreed. Why not? Joe obviously had a preconceived notion of what a 'religiously minded man' was like, and entered the church with a somber air- giving my family what my sister described as 'a silent nod'. He gave me a crumpled five dollar bill to put in the collection basket (which he later accused me of taking credit for) and sat reverently through the service. Another sinner bites the dust.
I took my mom to Piper's first doctor's appointment because I couldn't drive yet (it was a week after she was born). My mom is not... status quo (for example, when a well meaning friend took her to a talk by Jane Goodell, everyone stood up and started clapping at the end. My mom remained sitting grimly in her seat, being a staunch opponent of evolution). Anyway, when the doctor asked me if there were any medical conditions in the family, I answered that Piper's father's half brother was slightly autistic, at which my mom burst into uncontrollable laughter drawing a bewildered look from both the doctor and myself. Does anyone know what's funny about that? Is nothing sacred?
Myla (aka the Bride of Chucky) has been acting like a psychopath lately- a bad case of sibling rivalry. It's a good thing that Piper is still pretty much a tabula rasa because she would probably not be able to emotionally bear the diabolical hostility aimed at her, or her several close brushes with torture and maybe even death. It doesn't seem fair that Myla enjoyed such a tranquil and enjoyable babyhood while poor Piper is always being poked and strategized against. Piper's future seems bleak indeed- 'Some are born to sweet delight, and some are born to endless night.' Rest assured my little Piper B.- Mommy's got your back. And Norma Bates, Mommy loves you no matter what.
Speaking of 'Some are born to sweet delight' and Asians, my brother P (for the sake of anonymity I will not disclose his name HAHA) is the luckiest, most Asian white guy I've ever met. Not only does he jet set around the world and catch more breaks than Paris Hilton, he gets along swimmingly with and most importantly is respected by Victoria. While Victoria regards me as a fool ('YOU LAUGH, YOU FORGET!!!) , she has the utmost regard for Pete- for his abrupt mannerisms, loud voice, moccasins, subdued fashion sense and grey Honda. She UNDERSTANDS P, and P understands her. It was P who explained to me that Victoria was my elder, and that it was blatant disrespect to disregard her opinion of the Russians. It was also P who assured me that I should give her grand children ice cream cones in return for her giving Myla an ice cream cone, and it was P who revealed to me the Vietnamese concepts of reciprocation and family honor. Thank you P, for serving as an ambassador to Little Vietnam across the street.
Wow, I finished a blog! The fact that I'm avoiding my online classes might have something to do with it. Not that I don't love them- they're very accommodating to my solitary nature. I'm planning on getting my doctorate online, teaching online and finally becoming the Dean online of an online school- all without any sort of human contact. I can't wait for graduation, a ceremony that I've always avoided in the past- I've bought the Pomp and Circumstance CD which I will play in my room while I type in my valedictorian speech to all of my faceless fellow students wearing my special cap and gown! In short, I am never LEAVING my ^%&*% HOUSE AGAIN!!!!!
Soooo- what's happened. Let's see if I go through with this.
Looking out the window the other morning, I saw the entire Vietnamese family across the street gaping to the left of my house. Apparently the two little Russian boys were beating the crap out of each other. Victoria Hui was both shocked and horrified, and was making violent hitting motions to me across the street to convey the 'badness' of the two little scoundrels. One thing is certain- Victoria Hui would NEVER allow such behavior in her household. Victoria has warned me time and again that the Russians are 'TROUBLE'. Because Victoria is my elder, and because it was my daughter's car that they were fighting over, I dutifully walked over and stared at them, but not being able to think of a thing to say (not to mention the fact that they wouldn't understand it anyway) I smiled and walked back to my house. Boys will be boys, Victoria, boys will be boys.
Sunday morning Joe emerged from the bed room in a vest and white t-shirt with a stately and virtuous air about him. He announced that we were going to church, and I complacently agreed. Why not? Joe obviously had a preconceived notion of what a 'religiously minded man' was like, and entered the church with a somber air- giving my family what my sister described as 'a silent nod'. He gave me a crumpled five dollar bill to put in the collection basket (which he later accused me of taking credit for) and sat reverently through the service. Another sinner bites the dust.
I took my mom to Piper's first doctor's appointment because I couldn't drive yet (it was a week after she was born). My mom is not... status quo (for example, when a well meaning friend took her to a talk by Jane Goodell, everyone stood up and started clapping at the end. My mom remained sitting grimly in her seat, being a staunch opponent of evolution). Anyway, when the doctor asked me if there were any medical conditions in the family, I answered that Piper's father's half brother was slightly autistic, at which my mom burst into uncontrollable laughter drawing a bewildered look from both the doctor and myself. Does anyone know what's funny about that? Is nothing sacred?
Myla (aka the Bride of Chucky) has been acting like a psychopath lately- a bad case of sibling rivalry. It's a good thing that Piper is still pretty much a tabula rasa because she would probably not be able to emotionally bear the diabolical hostility aimed at her, or her several close brushes with torture and maybe even death. It doesn't seem fair that Myla enjoyed such a tranquil and enjoyable babyhood while poor Piper is always being poked and strategized against. Piper's future seems bleak indeed- 'Some are born to sweet delight, and some are born to endless night.' Rest assured my little Piper B.- Mommy's got your back. And Norma Bates, Mommy loves you no matter what.
Speaking of 'Some are born to sweet delight' and Asians, my brother P (for the sake of anonymity I will not disclose his name HAHA) is the luckiest, most Asian white guy I've ever met. Not only does he jet set around the world and catch more breaks than Paris Hilton, he gets along swimmingly with and most importantly is respected by Victoria. While Victoria regards me as a fool ('YOU LAUGH, YOU FORGET!!!) , she has the utmost regard for Pete- for his abrupt mannerisms, loud voice, moccasins, subdued fashion sense and grey Honda. She UNDERSTANDS P, and P understands her. It was P who explained to me that Victoria was my elder, and that it was blatant disrespect to disregard her opinion of the Russians. It was also P who assured me that I should give her grand children ice cream cones in return for her giving Myla an ice cream cone, and it was P who revealed to me the Vietnamese concepts of reciprocation and family honor. Thank you P, for serving as an ambassador to Little Vietnam across the street.
Wow, I finished a blog! The fact that I'm avoiding my online classes might have something to do with it. Not that I don't love them- they're very accommodating to my solitary nature. I'm planning on getting my doctorate online, teaching online and finally becoming the Dean online of an online school- all without any sort of human contact. I can't wait for graduation, a ceremony that I've always avoided in the past- I've bought the Pomp and Circumstance CD which I will play in my room while I type in my valedictorian speech to all of my faceless fellow students wearing my special cap and gown! In short, I am never LEAVING my ^%&*% HOUSE AGAIN!!!!!
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