Random Thoughts - Miscellaneous

As much as I love computers and the wonders that they bring with them (and oh, such wonders)(I love Photoshop; the ‘clone stamp’ tool makes my  LIFE)(and, uh, the internet, of course), they can be incredibly annoying.As such, this week’s update must again be cut a bit short.Computers.Bah.Anna go back to cave now.  Live with tigers.  Make rug from pelt. 

So, another installment of my ‘let me report on colleges so you don’t have to.’  By this point, I’m pretty much thinking that nobody cares or pays attention (which is fine by me; I have another column and other things to do like seeing the light of day or enjoying human contact—plus, I admit that most of the time, these could be a lot better) when I skip a week.  Last Wednesday, Mom and I went off to California to visit the Claremont-McKenna consortium (a group of five colleges, each with a distinct flavor, that are within one mile of each-other and share classes sometimes)(also, fans of the X-Files will get to make all sorts of jokes about studying in the consortium).  Also, to visit family.  Of the five-college consortium, we toured Scripps, Pomona, and Pitzer.

Of the five, Pomona is the one that is said to offer a well-rounded, co-ed liberal arts education.  It’s located in southern California, which I wasn’t such a big fan of (I don’t really like southern California in general, but that may be only because we used to live there), but the campus is still pretty enough.  Very well manicured.  Big, pseudo-ornate slabs of buildings, expansive green lawns, sun.  Lots of sun.  A bit of smog floating up from LA.  Trees that you KNOW must take a lot of energy to water (they certainly can’t grow naturally in the landscape) but can’t help but enjoy anyway.  Pomona is a lot like Brad Pitt.  I want a college that’s like Adrien Brody, before his bizarre Rasputin phase.  What I’m trying to say is that Pomona’s prettiness is rather generic and, while it certainly IS pretty, it’s not what I normally like.

The academics are fairly solid in all of the consortium school.  You need about an average of (and I could be wrong here) a 3.9 weighted GPA, plus about 28-30 on the ACT.  Not sure about the SAT.  From there, it depends on your interests.  I personally will probably not get a degree in mathematics or science (although physics is increasingly fun these days—yay electricity!), so Harvey Mudd may not be the best choice.  However, I do like art, psychology, and writing, with a little politik on the side, so Pitzer, Pomona, or Scripps would be best for me.  As I said in an earlier column, I can’t visit every school, just ones I want to go to.  Sorry, quantitatively-minded people.  I’m letting you down a little here.

But back to Pomona.  I can personally attest to the fact that the eateries are excellent, as is the guided tour.  The dorms are quite nice, and there are language tables in lunchrooms, where one can only speak a designated foreign tongue.  That’s pretty neat.  Although the walking tour we took was informative and the guides charming, I’d skip the informational session that follows it.  It just reiterates the words from the tour, but without a nice peek at the scenery and the chance to stretch one’s legs.  I think, shamefully, that I almost fell asleep (sorry).

Pomona is good for driven people who consider themselves creative and a bit mainstream, but not hugely so.  It’s expertly cared for, and beautiful for southern California.  Good academic standing, ebullient students.  I give it a 45/50.

I’m not exactly sure how much sleep I get on average each night.  From the looks of what I write in AP American History, I should probably get more.  Following are actual quotations from my notes.

-       At this point, England says, ‘ho ho ho, I’m a pimp!’

-       The main difference between the colonies and England at this point was meat and fruit pies.

-       I personally do not think that Hamilton was as precious as Hamilton thought he was.

-       Cult of Domesticity can be abbreviated as COD.  Coincidence?  Anti-feminist plot or some sort of fish?  Must investigate later.

-       Things would have been a lot easier if they’d just stopped being so damn retentive and just read ‘Watchmen’ [regarding the United States under the Articles of Confederation].

-       Emma Goldman was a radical organizer and anarchist.  She was also a badass, and had a role in several musicals.

-       Carnegie et al. used social Darwinism to justify all sorts of etceteras.

-       Lincoln got so excited that he did a little dance, made a little love, got shot that night.

-       In the end, the Jacksonians won.  But what does it matter?  They all died in the end.

I have lately not been feeling so well.

I  have no doubt that things will start to look up soon.  Well, maybe I do doubt, but it’s especially hard work being an optimist.  Cynicism is easy.  Because we are biologically wired to remember the bad more than the good (it helps us avoid the bad in the future if it stands out especially in our memory).  Because even for people who are incredibly lucky (I have a wonderful family, more friends than I probably deserve, and a promising career in drawing silly people in bunny suits), there are ruts.  Because the world has gone mad and has not taken you to Bedlam with it.  Because boys in art class will remember your boobs more than your drawings.  Because this shouldn’t bother me so much.  Because math will always be hard.  Because there are cracks to not step on, because there are infestations and plagues from which to flee, because that offhand comment you made is going to totally be taken out of context and nobody will ever love you again, because one bad science grade signals an upcoming teen pregnancy, because people will still brush against you in the halls, because you could say maybe the wrong word or five and remember how it is to be lonely, because.  Because because because.

We have to keep pushing, keep fighting.  And if we are too weak, we must Escape.  I have been doing hardly anything but reading for the past three or four days.  If I dwell on my current funk, I will succumb to it and become an angsty, insufferable mess (moreso than I am being now).  It is physically impossible to pull oneself up by one’s bootstraps (unless there are no forces of gravity or friction acting), but kittens are useful.  Useful and adorable.  Kittens make me quite content.  Books are lovely to escape into, and the staring contests with Ruby (my computer) are becoming more intense and more frequent.  I’m drawing more than I usually do (although I do have a new sketchbook so confounding variables so argh), and writing (usually awful, self-pitying poetry, which I immediately feel guilty about and dispose of).  I cannot fight right now, so I will run until I can.

But there are already so many, many whiny rants on the Internet.  Urgh, well, everywhere.  This isn’t a whiny rant (Rather, I hope it isn’t.  If it sounds whiny, sorry).  This is just a reminder.  Things will get better.  Nothing is permanent. And yeah, that’s pretty clichéd and double-edged, but I rely on my cheap sayings.  Cheap sayings, and inexplicably emotion-inducing Neutral Milk Hotel songs.

So hang in there, everyone.

It’s going to be okay.

Okay.  I went back over old columns here, and found that the formatting got messed up.  Like, a lot.  As in, sentences where they’re not supposed to be, text paragraphs of doom, you know how it is.  You can check.  I promise my formatting’s not that errant in real life.  So ugh.  I’m going to try a few things out and if the paragraphs are weird, I’m sorry.

Anyway, with that disclaimer out of the way, we can move to the meaty section of the column.

Recently, I visited Reed College (Of, you mentally add, Witchcraft and Wizardry).  And in a way, it sort of is.  Harry Potter-esque, I mean.  Or Tolkien-esque, if you’re a purist.  It’s nestled in between mountains, in the middle of these fantastic forests.  Some of the buildings are Victorian-old, and are all crumbly and intricate.  A few dorms are even like that.  I was ridiculously excited.  I was so excited (nervous), I may have made a few mistakes in the interview and shot myself in the foot, for reasons that will be disclosed when I am absolutely out of everything else to write about (you may already have gotten it, but on the off-chance I’m less pellucid than I seem…).  Which is a shame, because Reed was my favorite of all the colleges I’ve visited so far.  They take their classes seriously, and the academics are supposedly fantastic.  The students throw themselves into everything they do with a mix of intellectual passion and creativity, and seem to have fun in the process.  Actually, I don’t know that for sure, but they had a giant swing made from a couch (as well as a teeter-totter couch).  And it worked.  I mean, you could actually sit on the couch and swing back and forth.  What.  What.  How sweet is that?

            As I said before, the campus is stunning.  Even though it’s nature-tastic, it’s about five minutes away from Portland by car, and about half an hour by bike (and lots of people ride bikes there, another good thing, since driving terrifies me).  It’s unusual for somewhere so pretty to be near a moderately-sized city.  You get the best of both worlds.

Of course, I’m sugarcoating it.  I just very much want to go there.  As in, a lot.  It’s pretty, and wonderful, and amazing, and they have a COMIC LIBRARY.  AND A REGULAR LIBRARY.  AND A POOL HALL.   POOOOOOOL!  Plus, they have great psychology, English, and art departments.  And they’re into social activism (in general) and whatnot (I CAN START SENTENCES WITH ‘AND.’  WHY?  I’M AWESOME).  Everything I’m looking for.  But.  I should be objective.  The campus leans to the left (not, uh, literally), and if you’re deterred by that, the students will probably be nice to you, but you’ll be a minority.  There are also rumors of excessive drug use, but I didn’t see any evidence of it.

Anyway.  For me, it was 50/50, but that was a first visit, and I’d have to investigate more.

Sorry guys.  My computer isn’t working very well.  As you can see, there are a bunch of formatting errors in older posts (I’m not THAT bad at spacing in real life), and Word (where I write columns before copy-pasting them here) isn’t working.  I had my review of Reed College all typed up and ready, but ARGH.  I’ll try to get it here as soon as possible, but sorry for the delay.

I can’t turn in the usual column this week.  I’ll be gone (visiting Reed), and I’ll give a review of it (as I do) when we get back.  See you guys next week! 

So.  I work with children (volunteering at the local art league—I help teach the cartooning class, and clean up around the place when it’s needed).  It’s pretty fun, and I love every hour I spend there.  My boss is a superb human being and fantastic cartoonist, and I regret the day I must have to perform a ritualistic sacrifice in order to gain his amazing talents.  What’s better, I get to sit around and listen to small children talk to each other.  This is the Best Thing.  It’s like a running version of “Kids Say the Darndest Things” every day I’m there, but with more drawing involved.  There are some people my age who occasionally come in and take the classes, and then it gets awkward (I feel sorta bad, almost condescending, teaching to people my own age), but other than that, I get streams of comedic gold (I could make a filthy joke here based off of the intentionally clunky wording I just used.  I COULD.) 

            We have, sadly, a very defined set of demographics.  Violent little boys and quiet, artsy little girls (who later evolve into the cartoonists you see later in life).  The girls usually keep to themselves and are a bit hesitant to show their work to us.  The boys are usually the most vocal contingent. Of course, I generalize.  But.  Due to this overabundance of testosterone, I spend most of the class answering deep, hypothetical questions about which Star Wars character’s weapon is the best (the arguable favorite: Darth Maul’s saber), and telling my charges that throwing pencils isn’t exactly the most diplomatic way to get a point across.

            For a few weeks, there had been nothing but wars.  Wars that spanned for entire pages, which were usually explained as they were being drawn, onomatopoeias scribbled violently with zigzags of bullets and severely wounded stick figures.  After chiding them for a while, I threw my hands up and let them do what they wanted.  Why not?  At least they were drawing at all.  Why propagandize? I thought.  They should be allowed to do what they want; brutal art is still art.  One day, after a futile attempt on my part at changing the agenda, a boy turned to me with a concerned look on his face.

“Anna, do people die in wars?  I mean, like, not the bad guys because duh.  Of course THEY do.  But, like, people like us?”“Civilians?  Well, yes, sure.”

He looked genuinely startled, as if the thought has never occurred to him.  He glanced down at his paper.

“Uh… Well, THIS war isn’t going to be like that.  This is a war for peace!  The enemies want war, and—”

“It’s the good guys’ job to blow up the enemies because… they believe that war’s the answer?”

“Yeah!  Now…” He proclaimed, grabbing a fresh sheet of paper, “…THIS is going to be the fighter missiles, and THIS is where the bombs go in…”

I laughed.  Why propagandize? I reminded myself.  At least he was thinking.

Nothing is permanent.And these will be the most soaring and uplifting words, you know.Things will get better, worse, better, and can be condensed, for your convenience, into trite little truisms.This winter is screamingly cold, I’m afraid.  It’s screamingly cold.  I’m afraid.  It’s cold and I’m afraid (a bit pretentious too).  Given that this is Chicago and I am Anna, the aforementioned statement of blinding insight is somewhat akin to pointing out that kitties are adorable.  Also, that the sky is sometimes blue.I need to distract myself, or not.  How many hours of worrying will get you vindicated?  Can panic be measured or quantified?  And if so, how much should be enough?The trick is in the balance.The trick is in the lilt.  It depends on how you say things to yourself.  And when.  And how loudly. Gripping the edges of the desk and screaming isn’t advised.Right now, I am repeating to myself that I will not end up in a trailer park unless I think it sounds fun.  That not doing well on finals will NOT give me a teen pregnancy or a drug habit (but a crippling addiction to double-negatives, sadly).  But your head goes there, you know?So I study.And I still am haunted by the future me, barefoot, numerous children salivating about her filthy ankles, berating me for doing so poorly on my science finals.  “Whyyyy Anna?!” she wails.  “Why didn’t you take the time to learn about kinetic and potential energy?”So, I take the time to learn about potential energy.So, I take the time not step on the cracks.So, I take the time to look at old tests and go over all of the math homework, ever, much to the horror (envy! I say) of my friends and loved ones.Nothing is permanent, I tell myself, but hypothetical, science failure-related teen pregnancies are some serious business.

Vacation from Vacation

            Well.  I feel gross.  Winter break this time meant studying for finals, hiding from the multitudes of well-meaning relatives (the family photo this year has me cowering in the corner, trying not to touch anyone, with a slightly constipated look on my face from fear), and not exercising.  Good times.  I also slept in the closet.  You see, there were only two available beds—one of which went to my mother and father, of course.  The other (hidden craftily inside a couch) was given to my sister.  She offered to share, but it was just in the middle of the main room and also no.  No.  However, there was a lush and not dusty broom closet that I took full advantage of.  Over the course of two weeks, I learned how to perfect the art of sleeping in the closet.  In spite of the AC vent perfectly level with my head, the inferior cushions, and the precariously placed ironing board that was my roommate, sleep was lovely and possible.  I will share with you my secrets.  For touchy people all over the world.

1) Cushions

They are essential.  At the very least, pillows.  It is excruciatingly difficult to get a good night’s sleep without a cushy surface.  If there is a couch nearby, guilt trip your roommates into letting you hoard the cushions from it.  It helps if you’re all accommodating about it, like, “Yeah, I’ll be happy to sleep on the floor.  I just—do you mind if I take these cushions then?  That floor over there looks pretty hard.  It also appears that there is dust everywhere.  Surely, sparing some couch cushions wouldn’t be that hard?”

Cushions will be your mattress substitute.

2) Pillows

You really only need two.  One for your head, and one for the space between your hip and your rib (if you’re lying on your side).  That way, your spine will stay all straight, and you’ll be a good deal less sore in the mornings.  I figured this out from watching mattress commercials.  Because I’m that cool.  Really.

3) Intense Blanketry

If you pile enough blankets on, you can tuck them over your head and make a little fort.  Wheee.

4) A Mediocre Book/ A Book You’ve Read Before

For getting to sleep in a more expedient fashion.  It can’t be a book that would make you stay up wanting to know the ending.  It just ahs to be something to occupy your mind and make your eyes tired.  Don’t watch TV or go on the computer or drink coffee before going to sleep, but those can be for non-floor sleeping too.  So.

5) A Whack Over the Head

When nothing else will get you to sleep.

Obviously.

Overall, vacation was immensely needed and I cannot wait to get back and start actually doing stuff again.  Huzzah!