My Favorite Place

Some may find this topic to be a bit unoriginal, and perhaps you're right. It seems like one of those questions that would be on a "Getting to Know You" worksheet (the ones we get on the first day of school, with the same questions every year). But before you judge my topic choice too harshly, let me tell you a little about Christina's basement.

It's sort of like walking into a time warp; like someone froze the room in 1999 and no one has touched it since. We all revert back to our childhood, instantly shedding all tawdry facades and allowing ourselves to let go. We don't pretend to prefer baroque art or music, in fact, we all admit that Disney is our favorite. One entire wall is filled with board games, and the other with all the best Disney movies (VHS of course). These two things are enough to keep us entertained for hours, and time just seems to stand still. 

Lying on a big comfy couch, we all feel free to say absolutely anything we want. We can talk about people who have been acting perfidy, or have just gotten on our nerves. We can scream, sing, or do absolutely anything we want in Christina's basement. If I feel as though I've hit a nadir in my life, walking in is like going back in time, back to when things were much simpler. 

When someone else walks in (such as Christina's brother), he will often find us dancing maladroitly around the room, doing things we would never do on an actual dance floor. We've grown accustomed to the stigma that might come with this, and none of us mind. Some may think we have ceded our dignity, and maybe they're right. All I know is I much prefer it that way.

There is no other place that I have ever felt as comfortable, or as free. We can be whoever we want to be, without fear of any judgement. All we do is laugh, laugh loudly and constantly and for hours. Hours that mean nothing, because time means nothing. There is a working clock in the basement, but the numbers simply don't make sense in our head. Sometimes it's because we aren't willing to comprehend the notion that we have been lying in her basement for twelve hours. But usually we don't even look because we're much too preoccupied with our own fun. 

You Win

(Mrs. Abrams: There are no vocab words in this blog. While you should certaintly feel free to read it, I don't want to waste your time if you're in a rush.)

1. "If a car with a mass of 1250 kg is traveling at 105 m/s, what is the total work being done?"

What an interesting question, Mr. Cann. I bet you had to think really long and hard for that one. Okay Sam get to work. Did you know that you can divide both numbers by five? I wonder if that was on purpose. Probably not. Someone in the hallway is wearing loud high heels. I hate that. Alright so work equals force times distance. So 1250 times...Oh wait. 105 m/s is not a distance. Oh no. Oh no. 

Okay, you know what? That's fine. I can handle it. I can handle being given a velocity instead of a distance. Do you know why? I can find the distance! I can find the...wait. No. You can't find the distance. The distance cannot be found.

So how is this problem possible?! Where is my formula with velocity? Do I have one? So how should I convert? Do I want to convert? Why is it so cold in here? Is the window open? Sam you don't have time to worry about windows focus on the test! 

How big is 1250 kg anyway? Is that the size of an average car, or is it more like a person? Only science people weigh things in grams. Now, give it to me in pounds and the whole problem starts to make sense. Give it to me in pounds and the lightbulbs go off in my brain, painting pictures in my head. Ha, who am I kidding? It wouldn't make a difference.

What were you thinking, Mr. Cann, when you wrote this problem? Were you trying to trip us up? Because if you are, that's a nasty thing to do on the first question. The first question should boost our self-esteem, it should let us think we're capable physics students for at least a few more seconds. Then the next question should crush us, it should drive us screaming out of the room. It should leave us crying on the floor, begging for mercy. That's how this should have worked, Mr. Cann. You never want to flip us out on the first question. 

Will you laugh while grading this? Will you fall out of chair laughing? Will you call up your friends, William and Borislaw, and will you all share a big chuckle over this? Or will you grimace, and pity my lack of brains? What I'm really trying to ask is, how much enjoyment will you take out of my failure? Don't get me wrong, I understand why grading my test is humorous. But still. If I'm miserable, you shouldn't get to laugh. Maybe that's not fair, maybe it's none of my business. But still. 

Maybe I'll hand it in now, completely blank except for cross outs and doodles. Maybe you'll give me a few points for drawing a heart, smack in the middle of my workspace. Or maybe if I copy the formulas, really, really neatly, you'll be so impressed by my effort that you'll award me a point on this exam. 

Do you make up formulas, concepts, principles, laws and just throw them on the test, creating a nice little hodge-podge of made up information? What's the point of assigning us homework if it's not even going to resemble the exam? Honestly, who would know if you gave us one easy problem? Would you get in trouble with your supervisor, would he actually be upset if there was a single problem that actually had an answer? One problem would have been nice, Cann. One solvable problem...well it would have been a nice Christmas present. But it's alright. Too late now. You win. 

Btw: I managed to pull off a 48% on this test. And I was happy. 

 

Oh Monica

You know how every year, you have that one person that you feel like you spend the entire day with? This year, I have classes three through eight with Monica. Since we spend so much time together, it would only be appropriate to dedicate a blog entry to her. 

  Even though she can often be very garrulous, I usually appreciate her keeping me occupied with her odd conversation. She doesn't realize when I'm not listening to her, and it's always amusing when she finds out. Yesterday she had a five minute conversation with herself about how difficult it is for her to open a door. This is the type of colloquial conversation she engages me in every day, and I've found it's often difficult to listen. She usually brings interesting comestibles to snack on during Convoy's class, although she doesn't always share them. She gets very cranky when she doesn't get her mid-afternoon snack, and you don't want to be around her. 

While it might sound like I spend the entire day making fun of her, she also has her fair share of fun with me as well. She enjoys mocking my credulous nature, and often convinces me that we have a test next period even when we don't. My cryptic remarks are never let go, and she takes pleasure out of making sure the whole class hears them.

The best thing about Monica is she can always make me laugh, even when it's at my own expense. She makes me feel better even when I'm having a bad day, and I'm really glad that I see her as much as I do. 

Peter Pan

      My heart pounded as Wendy solemnly walked the plank after refusing to join Captain Hook's crew, and I was near tears as she jumped off. I need not have worried, however, because Peter Pan flies across Neverland to rescue her, saving her from the cold sea and hungry crocodile. After returning her to safety, he boldly fights Captain Hook with one hand behind his back, finally stopping him at knifepoint and forcing him to proclaim that he is a codfish. And with that, Hook falls into the ocean and finds himself being chased by the ever-present ticking crocodile, and is never to be heard from again. 

       A tale of mermaids and Neverland will enrapture the ebullient child, and make their minds dream of things far greater than Earth. But after watching this as an adult, (well, sort of) I can now see what the author wanted me to see all along. These characters are not dreamy quixotics meant for children, but they embody the pieces that make all of us up and symbolize the battle they go through everyday. 

       Peter Pan is more than a pointy eared imp who flies around with fairies, but he is our inner-child, trying desperately to escape the harshness of the adult world. He is our oldest dream, the wish from which we base all other wishes, the person we always thought we would be. We admire yet deprecate him; not allowing ourselves to admit he is greater than our greatest truth. He has found the Fountain of Youth, the ideal we will spend hours searching for at the bottoms of cremes and lotions but will never find. He avoids adulthood by simply declaring that it will not exist for him, and it doesn't. He will never change a diaper, nor cope with any of the scruples adults face day after day. But he will also never hold a baby in his arms, or feel a sense of pride that comes from making the right decision. Peter will never meet rational or practicality, but only exists in a world of make-believe and fairy tales. In other words, Neverland. 

        Captain Hook spends his whole life running from the ticking time bomb he feels is out to get him, and he does not know how to escape. The crocodile that swallowed the clock seems to have no interest in Peter; a person who deals with growing up by proclaiming it will never happen. But he is constantly watching out for Hook, who is so afraid he becomes incapacitated at the very thought of it. Time is always chasing the Captain, a constant reminder that he is a choler and mortal man who has already grown up. Out of his fear grows resentment, resentment of a little boy who lives life without a clock, without any passing time. His prized hat becomes his very own cachet; a symbol of his eminence and respectability that is always missing when the crocodile is chasing him. The feather on it is always salient, that is of course until Pan excoriates it with his knife and its remains flutter away. 

         And then there is Tinkerbell, the ethereal and majestic fairy that lights up every room with her pixie dust. She is the hope and innocence of all children, their ability to believe in things that are far beyond them. Tinkerbell wishes and feels, and acts without thought. It is no wonder she palls around with Peter; together they are the wonder and naivity of children everywhere, both good and bad. Her burgeoning influence throughout the movie just shows how important a child's hope is, and her laconic disposition shows the needlessness of words. 

         These fairy-tale characters exist in all of us; our daily conflict between denial, fear, and hope. In most, these ideals are implacable, and will not allay their battle until one has taken over. So next time you see Peter Pan fight Captain Hook and win, remember that you are watching your most impractical dreams beat your fear. And think of how wonderful it would feel...if only we could all fly around Neverland as a hero. 

Meet My Family

        Whenever I spend the day with my extended family, I always leave wondering if we are actually related. I love them and don't mean to disparage, it's just that they are all a bunch of lunatics. We are all so different, and sometimes we have trouble adjusting our strong personalities to accommodate one another. Even simple colloquial conversation can quickly turn into an argument; and heated debates are not uncommon. 

      Thanksgiving is the ultimate culmination of all of this craziness; the time we find it most appropriate to unleash all of our pent up aggravation and get it all out in the open. We become unconcerned with trivial things like giving thanks or people's feelings; we find it much more therapeutic to tell everyone what we really think. We take pleasure from pushing each other's buttons, and I don't think one person could honestly claim they stayed sang-froid throughout the night. 

       Dinner started with a riveting story from my vegan cousin about the beauty and wonder of turkeys, and how cruel it was that millions are slaughtered every year. We tried to ignore her malcontent, but she surreptitiously slipped it in whenever she could. It's not that I don't sympathize with their plight, but I didn't want to be reminded of my status as a turkey murderer as I ate my dinner. Finally my aunt declared a moratorium on the topic; one of the many moratoriums to be declared during dinner. My sister then spilled soda all over my brothers food, and he proceeded to castigate her with unusual harshness even for my family. This of course became a huge production; we split up between yelling at my brother and cleaning the table. 

       Somewhere in between this chaos, my grandmother decided Thanksgiving just wouldn't be Thanksgiving without letting us know what ungrateful brats we all are. Of course this speech was mainly directed at the adults, and her supercilious comments did not go unnoticed. I spent the rest of the night with a smile on my face as the adults struggled to defend themselves. 

        The funniest part is, I actually ended up having a lot of fun tonight. That's not to say I don't think they're crazy, because I still do. But as I've gotten older, I've learned to accept every member of my family for who they are, and appreciate them for what they have to offer. And I've stopped distancing myself from it all, and I now realize that I am just as crazy as they are. I'll try to remember this in mid-December, when we all get together for Hannukah, and we repeat the same cycle for eight crazy nights...

The Unarguable Argument

    Do you know what it's like to live in a house with two lawyers? It's like watching two trains collide; both strategically planned to hit one another with the strongest force possible. All parents argue, but most don't know how to do it. My parents have been trained in the fine art of argument, and they practice every single day. They stand in front of a jury, using equivocating and masterful language in order to manipulate the unknowing citizens of New York. Throwing sparkles in their eyes, they bedazzle and beguile their viewers, tricking them into believing their version of the truth. 

         It's like living in a courtroom; playing the part of the impartial juror as the plantiff and defendant go at it. If the defendant lets me go to a party, the plantiff will quickly abrogate the decision with a final snap, a non-negotiable decision. There really is no use fighting back; these are professionals trained to do this. So I succumb, I succumb to the overwhelming pressure to yield to one side or the other. And to issue a verdict, for I am Madame Forewoman, and in the end it is only I who can exonerate. 

         To argue the unarguable argument, that is the job of two attorneys under one roof. The goal is not to win; but to get the other side to lose. Planning and executing one sortie after another; that is how you take down your opponent. These arguments are not ephemeral; an average trial lasts years. Fighting with your heart and soul, fighting over something so slipperly and amorphous you will not know what it is even if you get it. To earn the title of the winner one will need to usurp it; it will never be rightfully won. 

         And what of the three jurors, who have born witness their whole lives and still cannot make a decision? Well they will just have to be convinced, one secret little bribe at a time, until the allegiances and alliances made no longer mean a thing. Gaining a two thirds majority means coalescing two jurors against the third, but I suppose that is a sacrifice the lawyers are willing to make. We are here to listen, to judge, to decide and we will be sequestered in this little room until we do so. 

24 Minutes

24 minutes. I felt my head hit the desk, finally allowing this saturnine feeling to get the best of me. One eye briefly skimmed the worksheet my teacher had just handed out, while the other kept an intent watch on the clock. The numbers and formulas swirled on the page, painting shapes and pictures of exotic places and better times. But it was all a ruse, created by a wandering eye and a mind desperate to get out of this class. 

        It's not just the inescapable ennui, but the horrible knowledge that even if you pay attention, you still won't understand. I watch people all around me quickly finishing the problems, the problems that tease my mind and lie slightly out of reach. Scott gets up to hand in his paper; his condescending smile more of a hector than any words could be. 16 minutes. He sits back down with a deriding laugh, and I silently wish he could just disappear. I try to keep my invidious feelings off of my face, but I know I did a poor job of it. I manage to focus both eyes on the worksheet, and force myself to concentrate. The argot of the physics department never fails to confuse me, and I wonder if they can even understand themselves. 

       My eyes wander towards the window, getting lost in the blowing leaves and soft grass. 7 minutes. I wish I could just run outside, through the breezeway, all the way home. I wish I had some sort of capriciousness that would just take over, allowing me to do exactly what I please without worrying about the consequences. But I don't, and I won't, so I better stop dreaming. Finally. The bell.