Tuesday, September 6, 2016

Organized Chaos

I used to consider myself a messy person. Before I went to college, my room at home was quite the specimen: walk in at any given time and you would always find clothes leaking out of dresser drawers, piles of books on the floor, and empty mugs on every existing horizontal surface, alongside other wonderful things like month-old receipts, crumpled sticky notes, and a spoon I forgot to put in the sink for 3 weeks. At the height of its uncleanliness, I could probably bury myself in some corner of my room and no one would find me for weeks. 


But today, if someone were to ask me if I was a neat or messy person, I'm not sure how I would answer. Sometimes I love living like a cockroach, and other times, I need things to be painstakingly ordered and tidy. I think a good way to describe my ideal conditions would be "organized chaos."


The state of my room, for example. It may appear disgusting to most, but I find it pretty tolerable. In fact, I often don't even notice how dirty my room is until someone else does first. Usually, that person is my mom, who comes in to check if I'm still alive, takes one look at my desk, and screams in horror. The rare times I do begin to notice myself are when it's difficult to make it to my bed at night without stubbing my toe on three different things.


But if it reaches this point (and it always does eventually), I'll clean it. That's the strange thing: I enjoy the process of cleaning almost as much as I enjoy rotting in filth. I have rare domestic moments in which I find myself happily committing hours to tidying up messes I clearly made myself. It makes me feel like a dumpster diver, unearthing something nice from underneath a pile of trash. 

Another plus to cleaning is finding interesting things along the way, like old journals and failed quizzes, which gives me a review my life since the last time I cleaned my room (probably like a year and a half ago). And regardless of how dirty it was before, I can guarantee that the finished product afterwards is so clean, it makes a soap bar want to wash itself. 

As a side note, while many may have found that moving into a dorm in college unleashed their inner slob, I became considerably neater after I moved. I guess you can say I clean up pretty nicely-- literally. 

If I really think about it, my mixed messy/clean lifestyle extends into almost everything I do. When I was a kid, I dumped entire buckets of crayons on the floor for the sole purpose of neatly putting them back in the same bucket. Now in my classes, whenever I get a handout, I shove it unceremoniously into a single, bulging folder that contains notes for every other class I'm taking-- but eventually, I'll organize all of them at once. Perhaps some part of me just likes tidying up messy things-- the only catch is that they have to get messy first. 

I had a job shelving books in my school's library this summer. I quickly learned that summer is the worst season for school libraries-- even though there's no one around, all the books that were checked out during the year come flooding back in one tsunami-ous wave, making the next three months dedicated to nothing but reshelving thousands of volumes and fixing overcrowded shelves. 

As you may imagine by now, I had quite a joy ride. 




Initially, I thought that my job would be some daily quiet hours in which I could collect my thoughts and listen to music, with sorting books being only the secondary task at hand. But by the third week, I noticed that this may have been a wrong prediction. I obsessively cleaned up rows I wasn't assigned to. As I walked to the elevator for lunch breaks, I would purposefully take longer routes so that I could push wayward books back into their shelves. I even tidied up carts of books that would be shelved anyway, just to make them look nicer until then. 

I actually didn't think anything was unordinary about my activities until I noticed something about the shelving slips on my floor. To keep track of progress, the library has students fill out slips for each truck they complete. Eventually, I noticed that when I added a finished slip to the tray, the most recently completed slip on top of the pile was usually also mine. I decided to count them one day, to get to the bottom of the mystery. What I found was that out of the three student employees on my floor, I had filled out over 2/3 of the completed slips. I am not very good at math, but some part of me realized that this was probably not normal.
Even though the library is a huge space, I think I made some noticeable progress in its cleanliness this summer. Whenever I finished a cart, I felt very organized and productive. And at the end of the day, as I got ready to leave, I'd happily shove my water bottle, two books I checked out, a hairbrush, and a half-eaten sandwich into my black hole backpack and go home. 

Perhaps when we call people messy or organized, we're not doing their personalities justice. People don't fit into categories as easily as we think-- most of our habits, even the oldest ones, probably have exceptions if we think about them enough. Variation makes life interesting. At least, that's what I tell myself as I trip over the same pile of clothes in my room for the seventh time. 



Tuesday, August 16, 2016

Snoozy Review: Romeo and Juliet

Romeo and Juliet is such a classic, I'm kind of ashamed to admit that I'd never read it until this year. But having read it or not, basically everyone knows the plot of this famous Shakespearean tragedy (or at least the ending). 

Thus, when I finally picked it up for a class last year, I had pretty high expectations. After having read it, I have to say-- I have no idea how calling your significant other your "Romeo" or "Juliet" ever became a compliment, because these kids are literally insane. Is it considered romantic to die because you can't tell the difference between a corpse and someone who's napping??


Review: Romeo & Juliet
William Shakespeare, 1597



Plot: 
Romeo is like, ayyy Rosaline, I love you! But then Juliet is all like ayyy. And then Romeo is like, yoo! But because there's this familial conflict thing, Romeo goes and kills someone and Juliet is like "Man, this guy is crazy but I still love him." Then they attempt to elope but they're both dumb, irrational teenagers so, as you can imagine, things go horribly wrong and they both die.

By The Cover:
*see above* I got the Pelican edition of the book, which has this snazzy modern art depiction of the two dumb teenagers' deaths. It's actually a pretty cool piece of artwork! But dang, spoiler alert??

First Line: 
"CHORUS
      Two households, both alike in dignity,
      In fair Verona, where we lay our scene..."
A chorus starts off by laying down the plot. It's a nice little rhyming thing. 

Last Line: 
"For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo."
They dead!!

 A Quote:
"CAPULET
Go to, go to!
You are a saucy boy."

To be fair, there are a lot of great lines in this play, but I just enjoy picking out random funny-sounding lines out of older literature.

Favorite Part:
When Romeo first sees Juliet at the ball and does this elaborate, beautiful monologue... and then Tybalt literally just sees him and wants to kill him. 


Least Favorite Part:
A lot of the romantic elements seemed a bit contrived, given the short time frame and and age of the main characters. If you have a hard time with suspension of disbelief, some of the most dramatic parts of the play may make you laugh out loud. 

Final Comments:
I think Romeo and Juliet is one of those works that is more known for its cultural legacy rather than its own merit. While Shakespeare does a good job of conveying some universal emotions through beautiful language, the absurdity of the plot made it feel like a comedy at times, which I'm 100% sure was not his intention. But it's short enough and not a horrible read, so if anything, you could just read it to say you've read it!

Rating: 2.5/5

Friday, June 3, 2016

Jeanne, My Love

Today, I will be sharing a love story. It began more than five years ago, on a fine autumn day, when the leaves had just begun to change their color from vibrant greens into the warm hues of the fall. I was in middle school, and realized that something was missing from my life. Everywhere I went I carried with me a hole in my heart that could not be filled by the company of friends, family, or even food. It was a deep longing for something more, something that always seemed to be around me, yet just out of my reach. I went on in this way for months, neither knowing what I was looking for, nor if I would ever find it.



Then, one day, I did. I still remember how she looked on that very first day: her slender neck, the curves of her body, the way I was mesmerized by her deep blue... varnish. 

 Okay, okay. For those who don't know, Jeanne is my guitar. She is an inanimate object. I am not romantically attracted to her, nor do I anticipate becoming so in the future. But honestly, she is the best companion anyone could ask for, for a multitude of reasons.



Firstly, we share common interests. For example, both of us are interested in music, don't respond well to extreme heat, and won't move around much unless prompted by an external force. Jeanne also happens to want to jam whenever I want to jam, which is pretty rare to find in another person. She's always available and never hides from me-- I can't say the same of some of my friends, or my now deceased cat. 

Secondly, Jeanne is very easy to get along with. She is quiet and never complains, even when I accidentally smash her against a chair or bump her into a mic stand. I've honestly never met someone who is so tolerant of my clumsiness, yet still so willing to be seen with me in public. On the flip side, she's also one of the only presences I feel completely comfortable around when I practice music, even when I know I don't sound my best. Indeed, you could say we are quite the dynamic duo.


Jeanne also gives me outstanding amounts of confidence. Have you ever seen a guitarist perform without their guitar? Let me tell you, it's one of the awkwardest things you could witness. The stripped musician stands there clearly wanting to die, not sure whether to grip a mic or robotically clap in an effort occupy themselves. With Jeanne, though, I never perform alone. She has been with me through sound mishaps, botched lyrics, and every stage mess-up possible. They say we get closer to our friends through shared experiences and struggles-- and as for me and Jeanne, there have been too many to count.




Finally, Jeanne is a memento of a particular stage in my life. When I decided to pick up guitar, it was for a lot of reasons, which included, but were not limited to, my guitar-playing crush, the rise of Taylor Swift, and a Japanese anime that featured a high school rock band. Nonetheless, whatever that reason was, it gave me an extraordinary sense of purpose, and for the first time in my life, I had a real, long-term desire for something. Because of Jeanne, I saved every dollar I got for over a year, scrubbing the floor of my bathroom and resisting the urge to spend any money I had on immediately satisfying, but non-Jeanne related things. I also began learning some basic skills on an old guitar to prove to my parents that I was, as a movie protagonist would say, "serious about her."

After finally carrying Jeanne out of Guitar Center in triumph, this trend carried into my mission to teach myself how to play. I don't remember much from those early years anymore, except for the fact that I was very clueless and very bad (as evidenced by my still close-to-zero knowledge of music theory). But Jeanne stuck with me through it all, and when I see her now, I remember a bit of what it was like to want something so genuinely. I remember what it was like to get excited over something as little as learning a new chord. I remember what it was like to grow. 

Some people think it's weird that I've named my guitar, or that I am so protective of her (though to be honest, it used to be a lot worse-- I'd tear up if someone got a fingerprint on her body). But if they felt the connection that flows through us, and knew all that we've been through together, I think they'd understand. Some people are dog-lovers. Others find solace in growing plants, or amassing an antique doll collection. I'm not that different. I just have Jeanne.  




Tuesday, March 1, 2016

Winner

I've never been very competitive when it comes to sports. I don't think this is much of a surprise, considering how unathletic I am. With other things, I sometimes feel a sense of competition, because I think I have a chance at winning. But with sports, there is no chance, and thus, no need for me to try. It sounds very sad, but my life is actually a lot simpler this way.

However, even though I have never won anything sports related in my life, I'm happy to say that I have played a critical role in another athlete's victory. It was the year 2009, and I was volunteering for the Rhode Island Paralympics.

Now if you do the math, you'll realize that in 2009, I was 11 years old. There's not much that an 11 year old can do at functions like the Paralympics. I tried asking around for advice, but no one seemed to take me very seriously. I was told to just wait around and help out when I saw an opportunity. However, in the end, I felt rather useless, not to mention that my volunteer t-shirt was two sizes too big for me and went down to my knees. 

Nonetheless, I tried my best. My official name tag gave me courage, and I felt an immense sense of duty to serve. I looked everywhere for a way to contribute, flashing my lanyard, but there seemed to be no work for me. At most, I passed out a couple of information packets to some spectators who were too weak to say no to a ten year old kid.

Finally, after moping around for an hour, I found an unexciting, but legitimate job: escorting contestants into an arena. To be honest, I wasn't allowed to enter the waiting tent at first, because some of the older volunteers were skeptical of my abilities. But the thing was, I was somewhat tall for my age, and I had a good poker face. I realized that as long as it looked like I was doing something important, no one would really question me. 

So for most of the day, I continued guiding athletes to the arena, finally doing something valuable. 

Nonetheless, I faced the problem that afflicts nearly every 40 year old in America: I was dissatisfied in my work.

There wasn't any sense of accomplishment. My job ended when the athletes got to the arena and I returned to my tent. As the day dragged on, I started losing hope of ever doing anything meaningful.

Little did I know that my shining moment was soon to come with one single event: the wheelchair race.


One of the athletes needed someone to push them into the starting position at the arena. They must have been short on older volunteers, because they appointed me to the job. However, I was also strictly told to come right back to the tent once I was done. Completely overwhelmed with the opportunity to finally enter the arena, I happily obliged.

As I pushed my athlete in, I realized that she was unable to speak, and seemed rather confused by what was going on around her. Nonetheless, she seemed happy, and in my heart, I silently cheered her on. I rolled her into the starting position, took a long look around the arena, and then started my sad walk back to the tent.

Suddenly, one of the managers stopped me. Apparently the wheelchair race, as a precaution, required that one volunteer wait for each contestant at the finish line. Since I was the one who rolled her in, he assumed that I would also be the one to fill in this task. Immediately, my orders to "return to the tent immediately" flew out of my head. The crowd was cheering as the race was about to begin, and I saw my chance to serve my duty flash before my eyes. 

Putting on my best "I-know-what-I'm-doing" poker face, I nodded and took my place.

Now you would think that someone would have noticed an 11 year old girl among the rest of the significantly older volunteers, but it's surprising what kind of things slip one's mind in the heat of the moment. In fact, just as the race was about to begin, the volunteer right next to me finally realized that something wasn't right.



But it was too late. I was already in the zone.


As the race started, I was on hyper alert. I knew that the chances of me actually doing anything were very slim. It was a short distance, so it would take the contestants at most a minute to finish. Regardless, I watched my athlete diligently, looking for any opportunity for me to do something.

The race began without a hitch. The contestants were coming towards the finish line fast, and we cheered them on as they drew closer. In a matter of seconds, they were almost finished, and it seemed like I would once again serve little purpose. 

But suddenly, I noticed something. My contestant was rolling completely perpendicular to the intended route of travel.


In a panic, the head organizer yelled out that one of us needed to help put her back on the track. And at that moment, I felt immense power course through my veins.



I ran out onto the track to direct her back to the path. But by then, I had lost all logical sense, and wasn't really sure what I was supposed to be doing anymore. Before I knew it, I was pushing her at lightning speed past all the other racers, who gawked at me incredulously.


She looked very confused when we crossed the finish line, but happy nonetheless.

Needless to say, I was soon caught and thrown out of the arena for good. I did boring, mindless tasks for the rest of the day. But I'll never forget the brief glance I had of my racer on the podium, in first place, gleefully waving to the crowd. Some kind of connection flowed between us. And that was the only moment I've come close to winning an athletic competition. 

THE END