Youthful Enthusiasm
So I processed my first rolls of film today all by myself, and only ended up burning one picture out of 48. I was pretty psyched about that, and it made me want to get back into the darkroom so I could make a contact sheet and see how the pictures really turned out, but unfortunately I had class. College campuses in the early fall are such beautiful places, full of all sorts of idealism and fresh attitudes that I wish I had a little bit more time to appreciate at the moment. Although I am currently trapped inside on this idyllic September afternoon, in the unique-smelling athletic department student workers' office, at least I'm making money, right? You know I missed stuffing envelopes and addressing recruit letters to unwitting high school girls, seducing them to Haverford's soccer team while getting the news of the world via NPR's All Things Considered and Fresh Air.
I'd just like to state for the record that Henry Kissinger was an awful, awful man, and that US foreign policy in the 1970's was f-ed up. I forgot that the CIA helped Pinochet overthrow Chile's *democratically* elected gov't in '73. Makes you proud to be an American, eh?
Time is flying by, and before I know it I'll be a legal adult, fellowships will be due, and classes will start to hold me accountable for the work that I'm already behind on. For the time being, I'm going to be a 'photographer' and enjoy the last wisps of summer that are lingering here on the Eastern seaboard.
If, on a winter's night a traveler outside the town of Malbork, leaning from a steep slope without fear of wind or vertigo, looks down into the gathering shadow...on the carpet of leaves illuminated by the moon around an empty grave, what story there awaits its end? -italo calvino
Tuesday, September 09, 2003
Monday, September 08, 2003
"It's good to see you out and about, Thea."
I've eaten nothing but cookie dough and chocolate chips with pellegrino for dinner, faked my way through a commentary on post-colonial literary theory for senior seminar because I didn't have time to finish the reading for Wednesday's class, haven't even started the photography assignment due Thursday, and woke up my mother at 11:00 pm tonight when I got home from class in an unsuccessful attempt to reestablish my status as a good daughter and phoning home on a regular basis...and I'm still smiling. Why? Shit if I know.
Maybe it's because my stress-relief baking was well received at the cafe tonight; maybe it's because for the first time in almost a year I've had an engaging class discussion about literature (yay for Cortázar!) with my peers AND a great professor; maybe it's because I dragged my ass out of bed at 7:15 to work out this morning so that I could be productive today; and maybe it's because walking home tonight to the apartment, even mocking Baseball boys couldn't shake my sense of self and personal accomplishment (or the small grin that I had on my face left over from compliments on the cookies and study abroad stories of London). Fuck them if they want to gossip about me and break out into bawdy laughter after I continue on the path! I'm cute, I'm talented, and if they don't care to appreciate me, then I'll find other friends who will. I can laugh at them now, and really be laughing, not laughing just long enough until I get home and start to cry. Makes me feel a little tougher, a little more resilient. Also makes me sound like overcooked meat. But enough with the cooking metaphors, I've got work to do! Essays to proofread, reading to skim, and class waaaaay earlier than anyone should have to smell darkroom chemicals.
I've eaten nothing but cookie dough and chocolate chips with pellegrino for dinner, faked my way through a commentary on post-colonial literary theory for senior seminar because I didn't have time to finish the reading for Wednesday's class, haven't even started the photography assignment due Thursday, and woke up my mother at 11:00 pm tonight when I got home from class in an unsuccessful attempt to reestablish my status as a good daughter and phoning home on a regular basis...and I'm still smiling. Why? Shit if I know.
Maybe it's because my stress-relief baking was well received at the cafe tonight; maybe it's because for the first time in almost a year I've had an engaging class discussion about literature (yay for Cortázar!) with my peers AND a great professor; maybe it's because I dragged my ass out of bed at 7:15 to work out this morning so that I could be productive today; and maybe it's because walking home tonight to the apartment, even mocking Baseball boys couldn't shake my sense of self and personal accomplishment (or the small grin that I had on my face left over from compliments on the cookies and study abroad stories of London). Fuck them if they want to gossip about me and break out into bawdy laughter after I continue on the path! I'm cute, I'm talented, and if they don't care to appreciate me, then I'll find other friends who will. I can laugh at them now, and really be laughing, not laughing just long enough until I get home and start to cry. Makes me feel a little tougher, a little more resilient. Also makes me sound like overcooked meat. But enough with the cooking metaphors, I've got work to do! Essays to proofread, reading to skim, and class waaaaay earlier than anyone should have to smell darkroom chemicals.
Week 2 Begins
It's Monday again, and I seem to have acquired more reading than I thought I had. Not an auspicious trend to start this early in the semester, but I guess I brought it upon myself by having a relaxed Sunday. I let myself get roped into watching LOTR with my roommate on Sunday morning (with very minor protestations), and before I knew it, not only had I spent an hour showing Sevilla pictures to an alum who's going back this week, but I was late for my darkroom time, and still without a shower.
Just for the record, Photography is hard. And it's essentially all trial and error. I forsee many a late night in the darkroom, emerging all chemical-ey and tired with little tangible evidence of hours of work. That said, I still spent Sunday afternoon taking pictures, so it must be worth all the trouble.
It was a beautiful afternoon out on Walton field, and the men's team did well; my photographs of them (ostensibly illustrating movement, but probably all out of focus) might not do so well, but we'll see. Also ran into the ex-soccer coach and had my first conversation with her in over 9 months. Whew. Good to see that nothing's changed there, and she's still just as socially awkward as I left her =).
Ack! Where does the time go? Late for class, as usual...
It's Monday again, and I seem to have acquired more reading than I thought I had. Not an auspicious trend to start this early in the semester, but I guess I brought it upon myself by having a relaxed Sunday. I let myself get roped into watching LOTR with my roommate on Sunday morning (with very minor protestations), and before I knew it, not only had I spent an hour showing Sevilla pictures to an alum who's going back this week, but I was late for my darkroom time, and still without a shower.
Just for the record, Photography is hard. And it's essentially all trial and error. I forsee many a late night in the darkroom, emerging all chemical-ey and tired with little tangible evidence of hours of work. That said, I still spent Sunday afternoon taking pictures, so it must be worth all the trouble.
It was a beautiful afternoon out on Walton field, and the men's team did well; my photographs of them (ostensibly illustrating movement, but probably all out of focus) might not do so well, but we'll see. Also ran into the ex-soccer coach and had my first conversation with her in over 9 months. Whew. Good to see that nothing's changed there, and she's still just as socially awkward as I left her =).
Ack! Where does the time go? Late for class, as usual...
Friday, September 05, 2003
Leavening
There's nothing quite like the pleasure of freshly baked bread in the morning. I've had a starter going for a few days now, and it was growing quite happily according to plan. Yeast is most content in a warm, moist environment, and it's usually a little difficult to achieve those conditions for an extended amount of time--that is, long enough to complete all 3 rises. Oh wait, when it's been raining for THREE DAYS STRAIGHT that means our entire poorly-ventilated apartment is an uber-productive yeast factory. My roommate came into the bedroom yesterday evening with a puzzled look on her face and told me cautiously: "uh, I think you might want to check the starter."
Out of control. In an unprecedented fit of activity, it had bubbled completely out of its tupperware and was dripping onto the countertop like some gooey creature of the fens. I think it actually burbled at me mockingly. Extra flour wouldn't stop it; not even salt could chemically retard the overzealous bacteria, so at 11:00 pm I decided that I'd do what real bakers do, and prepare a batch of fresh wheat bread, scheduled to finish around breakfast time.
There's something very satisfying about going to sleep with that slight ache in your triceps from kneading; a rhythm in the quarter turn, fold, push, quarter turn that works out the kinks of a stressful day. Due to my roomie's psycho workout schedule, I didn't have to wake up at 7:00 to form the twice-risen dough into loaves, so that was even better. When the alarm finally rang at 8:00, I rolled out of my comfy bed, stepped on some (likely) important papers scattered on the floor, and shuffled sleepily out into the kitchen to turn the oven up to 475 degrees. After my shower, I still wasn't exactly "awake," as they say, and spilled a jar of coffee grounds on the floor while simultaneously attempting to 1. make coffee, 2. brush my teeth, 3. hold up my fluffy red towel. Nobody ever said I was good at multitasking in the mornings. Yet as I cleaned up my caffeinated spill, I could already smell the bread in the oven working its leavening magic, and when I washed off my hands in the kitchen sink, I noticed that for the first time in 4 days, I could see the sun outside.
The swampy temperature of the night before dropped down to about 65: perfect for a September morning of baking. Before I knew it, I was spreading peach jam onto freshly sliced bread to have with my morning coffee. Felt just like a cold January a.m. in Spain, only better. Cleansed, prettied up in new jeans and sevillana earrings, I met the intermediate Spanish class I'll be TA-ing for this semester, and then in true Andalucían fashion, found that I had nothing better to than sit in the sun until class. Right now, it's good to be me, and I'd like to keep it that way.
Out of control. In an unprecedented fit of activity, it had bubbled completely out of its tupperware and was dripping onto the countertop like some gooey creature of the fens. I think it actually burbled at me mockingly. Extra flour wouldn't stop it; not even salt could chemically retard the overzealous bacteria, so at 11:00 pm I decided that I'd do what real bakers do, and prepare a batch of fresh wheat bread, scheduled to finish around breakfast time.
There's something very satisfying about going to sleep with that slight ache in your triceps from kneading; a rhythm in the quarter turn, fold, push, quarter turn that works out the kinks of a stressful day. Due to my roomie's psycho workout schedule, I didn't have to wake up at 7:00 to form the twice-risen dough into loaves, so that was even better. When the alarm finally rang at 8:00, I rolled out of my comfy bed, stepped on some (likely) important papers scattered on the floor, and shuffled sleepily out into the kitchen to turn the oven up to 475 degrees. After my shower, I still wasn't exactly "awake," as they say, and spilled a jar of coffee grounds on the floor while simultaneously attempting to 1. make coffee, 2. brush my teeth, 3. hold up my fluffy red towel. Nobody ever said I was good at multitasking in the mornings. Yet as I cleaned up my caffeinated spill, I could already smell the bread in the oven working its leavening magic, and when I washed off my hands in the kitchen sink, I noticed that for the first time in 4 days, I could see the sun outside.
The swampy temperature of the night before dropped down to about 65: perfect for a September morning of baking. Before I knew it, I was spreading peach jam onto freshly sliced bread to have with my morning coffee. Felt just like a cold January a.m. in Spain, only better. Cleansed, prettied up in new jeans and sevillana earrings, I met the intermediate Spanish class I'll be TA-ing for this semester, and then in true Andalucían fashion, found that I had nothing better to than sit in the sun until class. Right now, it's good to be me, and I'd like to keep it that way.
Thursday, September 04, 2003
Am I Overinvolved?
I just came home on this, the humidest of all evenings, from my first *actual* Watson Fellowship meeting. Why is it that I feel both horrendously nervous and overconfident at the same time. More than anything else in the world (except maybe peanut butter and timed distance runs) is putting myself before a committee of some sort to be evaluated. I don't feel as though I should have to 'sell myself,' but clearly that's going to be the case here, and in so many other occasions coming up in the near future. it is unreasonably naive to think that you can just show up somewhere and have people 'like you for who you are.' That said, it does absolutely nothing to make the application process for said fellowship any less scary.
I've been working like mad, reading books and talking to professors, spending inordinate amounts of time in the library for my first week in school, and all I can think about (when I'm not ridiculously enthusiastic about the project, babbling about it to anyone who will listen) is that it's all for nothing, and I'm just killing myself trying to do this and balance an extra class, working 3 jobs, and maybe the internship at Hot Soup. Am I insane? I keep telling myself that I can't have a repeat of first semester last year, when I really was doing TOO much, and drove myself a bit batty.
And then, hidden innocuously there in the fifth tier of the library (literally the old attic of the cathedral part) is an original 1949 copy of M.F.K. Fisher's translation of Brillat-Savarin's canonical The Physiology of Taste, and all is right with the world; I show Klu and an old English prof my miraculous find, garnering the response "wow, you're really a geek now, aren't you?" That was the professor, not the roommate.
I forget about the reading for my film class that I forgot to do, and the private tutoring that I signed up for which has absolutely no place in my weekly schedule, and instead go grocery shopping for the ingredients to tomorrow night's 14 2C dinner for two, which promises to be scrumptious. To the gym, Thea! Exercise out those doubts.
I've been working like mad, reading books and talking to professors, spending inordinate amounts of time in the library for my first week in school, and all I can think about (when I'm not ridiculously enthusiastic about the project, babbling about it to anyone who will listen) is that it's all for nothing, and I'm just killing myself trying to do this and balance an extra class, working 3 jobs, and maybe the internship at Hot Soup. Am I insane? I keep telling myself that I can't have a repeat of first semester last year, when I really was doing TOO much, and drove myself a bit batty.
And then, hidden innocuously there in the fifth tier of the library (literally the old attic of the cathedral part) is an original 1949 copy of M.F.K. Fisher's translation of Brillat-Savarin's canonical The Physiology of Taste, and all is right with the world; I show Klu and an old English prof my miraculous find, garnering the response "wow, you're really a geek now, aren't you?" That was the professor, not the roommate.
I forget about the reading for my film class that I forgot to do, and the private tutoring that I signed up for which has absolutely no place in my weekly schedule, and instead go grocery shopping for the ingredients to tomorrow night's 14 2C dinner for two, which promises to be scrumptious. To the gym, Thea! Exercise out those doubts.
Wednesday, September 03, 2003
Dampness
It's been raining now for three days here at good old Haverford. All of my class schedule books, syllabi, and other assorted paper products are thouroughly saturated with humidity, and the newly affixed pictures on my wall are starting to curl, as are the unruly flyaway pieces of hair at my temples.
Senior year begins, full of unexpected obstacles, which I should have anticipated. The entire network was infected with some virus and crashed two days before school, so nobody had internet until a few days ago...but all the professors still wanted to contact you through (you guessed it) EMAIL. Some of them are not quite as technologically savvy as we'd like them to be. Work on thesis development and fellowship applications are is in full force, the due date for the Watson conveniently falling right after my birthday [sarcasm]. Oh well, I guess I can wait until the 22nd to celebrate.
Being back in an American college setting is quite a contrast from my life of the past 9 months, and I'm not quite sure how that's going yet. I like my self-imposed isolation in the apartment; Klu and I actually had a nice little sit-down dinner last night in the 'dining room' which felt relaxed and pseudo-grown-up. We're so cool, 'cause we made gourmet salad and I had a glass of Pellegrino, perfectly chilled, to accompany it. I'm all about the little things.
Unfortunately, I am 'all about' the little things, and tend to get distracted quite easily from the greater task at hand. It has been brought to my attention of late that I have "unorthodox" organizational methods; when unpacking, my roommate came in to hang out while I proceeded to
1. Made a collage of Spain pictures, stopping halfway to
2. put away a sweater
3. organize my CD's
4. make a playlist on the computer
5. put up some more Spain pictures
6. unpack my shoes
7. put away another sweater
8. reposition the couch
So I don't exactly think in a linear fashion...It all gets done. Eventually. Most of the time. Personally, I find it charming and endearing, one of my 'cute little quirks.' Others may not agree =).
Since my class shedule is officially fucked (that being a technical term), today will be spent running errands in typically non-linear Thea fashion, and hopefully I'll go to bed this evening having accomplished something worthwhile on this moist, misty September day.
Senior year begins, full of unexpected obstacles, which I should have anticipated. The entire network was infected with some virus and crashed two days before school, so nobody had internet until a few days ago...but all the professors still wanted to contact you through (you guessed it) EMAIL. Some of them are not quite as technologically savvy as we'd like them to be. Work on thesis development and fellowship applications are is in full force, the due date for the Watson conveniently falling right after my birthday [sarcasm]. Oh well, I guess I can wait until the 22nd to celebrate.
Being back in an American college setting is quite a contrast from my life of the past 9 months, and I'm not quite sure how that's going yet. I like my self-imposed isolation in the apartment; Klu and I actually had a nice little sit-down dinner last night in the 'dining room' which felt relaxed and pseudo-grown-up. We're so cool, 'cause we made gourmet salad and I had a glass of Pellegrino, perfectly chilled, to accompany it. I'm all about the little things.
Unfortunately, I am 'all about' the little things, and tend to get distracted quite easily from the greater task at hand. It has been brought to my attention of late that I have "unorthodox" organizational methods; when unpacking, my roommate came in to hang out while I proceeded to
1. Made a collage of Spain pictures, stopping halfway to
2. put away a sweater
3. organize my CD's
4. make a playlist on the computer
5. put up some more Spain pictures
6. unpack my shoes
7. put away another sweater
8. reposition the couch
So I don't exactly think in a linear fashion...It all gets done. Eventually. Most of the time. Personally, I find it charming and endearing, one of my 'cute little quirks.' Others may not agree =).
Since my class shedule is officially fucked (that being a technical term), today will be spent running errands in typically non-linear Thea fashion, and hopefully I'll go to bed this evening having accomplished something worthwhile on this moist, misty September day.
Saturday, August 30, 2003
Procrastinators are people too
I went up the rickety folding ladder to get my last boxes out of the attic this evening. Mostly a bunch of baking supplies and dishes that have been sitting there since I moved out of my apartment last December. Along with the dusty lefse rolling pin and cake rounds is my trunk. I painted fish on the hideously neon green thing years ago in middle school, and it's been a lot of places with me, survived many packings and unpackings. As I attempted to latch it up and bring it downstairs another hinge broke, now leaving one functional fastening device that I can only hope will make it up to school with me one last time. Hmm, something metaphorical there? Nah, just my imagination.
Sometimes, I feel as though things are just about to unravel. Not in any sort of psychological sense, it's not like I'm going to go all psycho or anything, but that my little happy bubble of homey-ness and hard fought for contentment is so close to popping, I'm just waiting for it. Not a particularly happy feeling, which is sad (duh, inherently; I enjoy redundancy), considering a new semester is right around the corner. I should be *excited* about *senior year* [said with prerequisite happy face on] and all that shit, but I can't seem to do it.
What's so strange is that the past two weeks have been amazing. All day yesterday, while running around looking for car paint, drawing on the van, finally getting some color on the hood and having it look good, I was on such a high. You laugh, scoff, and tell me it was the industrial strength paint fumes that I was inhaling in the 90 degree midday heat outside, but my idealistic little heart refuses to agree. The guy at the custom detailing place looked over my priming job, saw my cutoff shorts and gray nails, and asked "did you do all this yourself?" It felt so good, in my meager little fashion, to be able to say "Yes." It's just a phase, it will pass, but it was fun. Can't wait to get back in October and get started on the next section.
Even got to go for a nice relaxing run before my Dad presented before me the Iron Chef challenge of the evening: to make something appetizing with lamb chops, dandelion greens, and white asparagus. The plate presented to him a few hours later was worthy of any high-falootin' restaurant, complete with stylized sauce, sliced meat (perfectly rare, right off the grill), presented on the trendy 'bed of wilted greens.' A day of small successes, but big for me.
The sort of day that doesn't happen very often at school. Grrr. Maybe I should try to *make* it happen, but then it's just not the same. Or maybe I'm just feeling sorry for myself, and don't want to leave the beach, say goodbye to my friends that I've hardly seen all summer, and deal with all the crap that I've been trying not to think about (quite successfully, I might add) for the past 10 months or so.
I didn't want to leave Shabbos dinner with my adopted family on 72nd street tonight, because I knew all that waited for me at home was empty boxes waiting to be packed, and disorganized bookcases. Why can't I just spend every afternoon at the pool, watching the shadows get longer as we play stupid aquatic games with her younger siblings, dry off in lounge chairs at sunset as the moon rises over the pines? I guess I'm just an awful person, would prefer to be non-productive, and live life a little slower for a little while longer. It's been good to me for a little while, and I could get used to that.
Sometimes, I feel as though things are just about to unravel. Not in any sort of psychological sense, it's not like I'm going to go all psycho or anything, but that my little happy bubble of homey-ness and hard fought for contentment is so close to popping, I'm just waiting for it. Not a particularly happy feeling, which is sad (duh, inherently; I enjoy redundancy), considering a new semester is right around the corner. I should be *excited* about *senior year* [said with prerequisite happy face on] and all that shit, but I can't seem to do it.
What's so strange is that the past two weeks have been amazing. All day yesterday, while running around looking for car paint, drawing on the van, finally getting some color on the hood and having it look good, I was on such a high. You laugh, scoff, and tell me it was the industrial strength paint fumes that I was inhaling in the 90 degree midday heat outside, but my idealistic little heart refuses to agree. The guy at the custom detailing place looked over my priming job, saw my cutoff shorts and gray nails, and asked "did you do all this yourself?" It felt so good, in my meager little fashion, to be able to say "Yes." It's just a phase, it will pass, but it was fun. Can't wait to get back in October and get started on the next section.
Even got to go for a nice relaxing run before my Dad presented before me the Iron Chef challenge of the evening: to make something appetizing with lamb chops, dandelion greens, and white asparagus. The plate presented to him a few hours later was worthy of any high-falootin' restaurant, complete with stylized sauce, sliced meat (perfectly rare, right off the grill), presented on the trendy 'bed of wilted greens.' A day of small successes, but big for me.
The sort of day that doesn't happen very often at school. Grrr. Maybe I should try to *make* it happen, but then it's just not the same. Or maybe I'm just feeling sorry for myself, and don't want to leave the beach, say goodbye to my friends that I've hardly seen all summer, and deal with all the crap that I've been trying not to think about (quite successfully, I might add) for the past 10 months or so.
I didn't want to leave Shabbos dinner with my adopted family on 72nd street tonight, because I knew all that waited for me at home was empty boxes waiting to be packed, and disorganized bookcases. Why can't I just spend every afternoon at the pool, watching the shadows get longer as we play stupid aquatic games with her younger siblings, dry off in lounge chairs at sunset as the moon rises over the pines? I guess I'm just an awful person, would prefer to be non-productive, and live life a little slower for a little while longer. It's been good to me for a little while, and I could get used to that.
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