Last night I slept longer than I have all quarter, except perhaps when I was sick at the beginning. My roommate seemed disapproving, which actually succeeded in irritating me. That aside, it was wonderful. It certainly put me behind on my mental schedule for the day, but I suppose that people will just have to get my graduation announcements one day later. It doesn't really matter except for the party invitations anyway, and the people who are going to come to that probably won't be affected by a day's delay. And somehow my homework continues to get done...
Remember how I scrapped the Sherlock Holmes essay because it wasn't working? Well, I ended up profiling the family minivan that I used to drive and personally thought the essay lacked the "so what" factor and also lacked the cultural element that I was trying to drive home (no pun intended). Anyway, I wasn't satisfied with it, but the peer reviews on Wednesday were universally effusive. Seriously. They were pretty much the most concentratedly positive of anyone's all quarter, which was rather unnerving. Now my teacher has super high expectations of my last (and by FAR hardest) essay due in less than two weeks that I have yet to start. The thought just exhausts me further.
I've turned off emotion regarding the job process today because it was becoming too overwhelming. I find myself unable to be glad or even excited that Samaritan's Purse has finally become enthused with me as a candidate. I'm leaning toward the Lifewater position, but I don't know if that is even an option. What I DO know is that the Lord has a purpose for this confusing sequence of events that began about two weeks ago. Hopefully it's over soon.
I just realized that I'm going to be late again meeting Kara to edit our senior project. Oops.
May 30, 2008
May 26, 2008
THIS is the day that the Lord has made.
I mentioned today in conversation that at this point school is just a waiting game. This quarter has been uncharacteristically dreary in terms of school, and my disgruntled attitude is only heightened by my impending graduation. As I expressed to my mother last week, I really do not want to leave SLO nor end my career as a student, but as long as it has to happen in the near future, I wish the near future was right now. I just want to get it over with.
However, today I decided that I need to actually change this attitude instead of merely acknowledging that it is inferior. God has a purpose for this time in my life, and it is wrong for me to go on autopilot for my last six weeks of school even to prevent sadness and discouragement. I should depend on the Lord for joy and encouragement, rather than mentally checking out. This is not say that I have achieved this change in attitude, but rather I acknowledge that, once again, I am wrong and I need the Lord's help. I cannot rely on myself; I cannot rely on people; I can only rely on the Lord and His goodness and faithfulness.
Amen.
However, today I decided that I need to actually change this attitude instead of merely acknowledging that it is inferior. God has a purpose for this time in my life, and it is wrong for me to go on autopilot for my last six weeks of school even to prevent sadness and discouragement. I should depend on the Lord for joy and encouragement, rather than mentally checking out. This is not say that I have achieved this change in attitude, but rather I acknowledge that, once again, I am wrong and I need the Lord's help. I cannot rely on myself; I cannot rely on people; I can only rely on the Lord and His goodness and faithfulness.
Amen.
May 21, 2008
Pride?
I've been realizing recently that I have difficulty asking people for help with what I deem are important things. I can totally ask on behalf of someone else (which is want I want to do as a career, in a nutshell) or with small favors. But if something is important to me, it's difficult to ask. I find this to be an interesting psychological puzzle. My current explanation, which I believe to be correct, is that I would rather not ask than ask and be refused. It's the feeling of being vulnerable from which I shy away more than of inconveniencing someone, though the latter is certainly influential. This is particularly true of needing emotional support, which is how I was able to generalize to the overall explanation of vulnerability. I rarely tell people when I am upset about important things because I would rather languish than tell them and have them not try to fix it. I do not understand how you can love someone and not try to help them when possible. I think there is also a bit of a martyr syndrome in that I am willing to try to fix other people's problems but I label mine as less important. In truth, I think they usually are.
Is there an acronym for falling asleep at the keyboard?
Is there an acronym for falling asleep at the keyboard?
May 13, 2008
My Life as a Mystery Lover
This is the essay that I abandoned half-way through the word count. Each paragraph still has some merit, but it wasn't working as a whole.
The Complete Works of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle fills ¬1,122 pages of a two-volume 24-centimeter edition. It is comprised of four novels and fifty-six short stories, all unabashedly starring the classic sleuth of indomitable intellect. One ramshackle copy of the Complete Works resides on the second-from-the-bottom shelf of the mystery row in the tiny Fillmore Library. When I was fourteen the librarian straight-faced requested, “You will let me know when you have read every book in this library, won’t you?” Smiling assent, I loaded my tottering check-out pile into my left arm and spent the seven-minute walk home balancing it with my right as I pondered which delicacy to inhale first.
My childhood appetite for reading was insatiable. During sixth grade, my one year in public school, the teacher worried about my habit of occasionally reading straight through our 55 minute recess. I labeled him category number one: “Concerned with Social Skills.” Category number two was simply “Impressed,” which was gratifying yet disconcerting because it created more fodder for category number one. My parents, who taught me to read by age four, laughed off the comments from both categories. They knew I was perfectly capable of long-legged racing the other kids to the edges of our imaginary kingdoms.
After years of sauntering among genres, it happened: I fell in love with mystery. But I was no flighty debutante, traipsing through the library shelves and lingering with whichever mystery cover looked most alluring. Rather, I was captivated by a thin, graying, eagle-nosed man of vision. Yes, I loved Sherlock Holmes for his mind. Observation and deduction were his creed, and it was his reliance on science and logic that made him a superhero in my eyes. Holmes taught me that the mind is like an attic to be stored neatly with particular knowledge of use or to be obstacle course cluttered with indiscriminate factoids and blurbs. In arranging my mind with his exploits, I created a shrine. Anyone who could locate a crook from a soil sample or identify a profession from a scrap of handwriting deserved some adulation. Holmes always explained his methods in a denouement, but he never anticipated that his fans would or even could rise to his monumental heights.
Holmes was the Superman of Victorian London. His cases, which were ostensibly chronicled by his faithful sidekick Dr. John Watson, took London by storm in newspaper serials published from 1887-1927. When Holmes perished in the act of destroying his nemesis Professor Moriarty in 1893, a seven-year surge of pleading persuaded the author to resurrect him in what has ironically become the most well-known story, The Hound of the Baskervilles. Holmes style of sleuthing set the foundation for the mystery genre and he remains an integral icon of British culture. Even today the computer system used by British law enforcement is respectfully named Home Office Large Major Enquiry System – or HOLMES.
Transition needed. The Complete Works of Holmes is too large in size to transport as an antidote to boredom and furthermore brooks no interruptions. Like Holmes, his admirers must be homebodies when not saving the world. There is a best time for reading of Holmes. For a homeschooler in Southern California, this is on dark, preferably rainy afternoons post-Algebra. When the climate does not emulate the fairy-tale fog of London, evenings may be used provided there is cocoa present and that at least two-thirds of the body is hemmed by a close-wrapped blanket.
At the beginning of our relationship, a dictionary was a necessary third wheel. Every three pages or so, I had to update my lexicon to incorporate Victorian English. Twitterpated, I found this an endearing indication of education and culture. After reading through the entire collection once, I put the dictionary aside and simply enjoyed the stories even though I already knew the answers. It was like the tenth date after the demographics and favorites are old news and she is able to notice that he laughs with eyes closed when he’s truly amused and strangely sits straighter when he’s tired. I realized then that Holmes was more than “the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen” as described by Watson in A Scandal in Bohemia. He was an unashamed champion of the underdog, an able psychologist, an ardent patriot, an acclaimed scientist and scholar, and a loyal friend. He was also a neurotic druggie between cases (though he eventually conquered this vice), incapable of verbalizing his admittedly rare emotions, and an understandable victim of egotism.
Needs transition. Holmes explained his success when remonstrating Watson in The Sign of Four: “How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?” For hundreds of Holmesian fans worldwide, it is impossible that Holmes is not real. The improbable truth is that Sherlock and his bumbling biographer Watson truly lived in London in the late 1800’s and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was their inept literary agent. This is known as “The Great Game,” in which The Complete Works of Sherlock Holmes is the “Canon” whose genius is reflective of Holmes and whose inconsistencies are simply Watson’s lapses. The Sherlock Holmes Society in London, founded in 1934 and resumed after WWII in 1951, boasts over 1,000 members who meet regularly for conversation and special events centered on the Baker Street sleuth. It is open to anyone with “an interest in Sherlock Holmes and his world, and a willingness to play the game.” Its American cousin, The Baker Street Irregulars in New York City was also started in 1934. More about this.
After reading through the collection straight through twice with numerous jaunts on an intermittent basis, I realized that our relationship was no longer growing. Unwilling to play games, I moved on.
The Complete Works of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle fills ¬1,122 pages of a two-volume 24-centimeter edition. It is comprised of four novels and fifty-six short stories, all unabashedly starring the classic sleuth of indomitable intellect. One ramshackle copy of the Complete Works resides on the second-from-the-bottom shelf of the mystery row in the tiny Fillmore Library. When I was fourteen the librarian straight-faced requested, “You will let me know when you have read every book in this library, won’t you?” Smiling assent, I loaded my tottering check-out pile into my left arm and spent the seven-minute walk home balancing it with my right as I pondered which delicacy to inhale first.
My childhood appetite for reading was insatiable. During sixth grade, my one year in public school, the teacher worried about my habit of occasionally reading straight through our 55 minute recess. I labeled him category number one: “Concerned with Social Skills.” Category number two was simply “Impressed,” which was gratifying yet disconcerting because it created more fodder for category number one. My parents, who taught me to read by age four, laughed off the comments from both categories. They knew I was perfectly capable of long-legged racing the other kids to the edges of our imaginary kingdoms.
After years of sauntering among genres, it happened: I fell in love with mystery. But I was no flighty debutante, traipsing through the library shelves and lingering with whichever mystery cover looked most alluring. Rather, I was captivated by a thin, graying, eagle-nosed man of vision. Yes, I loved Sherlock Holmes for his mind. Observation and deduction were his creed, and it was his reliance on science and logic that made him a superhero in my eyes. Holmes taught me that the mind is like an attic to be stored neatly with particular knowledge of use or to be obstacle course cluttered with indiscriminate factoids and blurbs. In arranging my mind with his exploits, I created a shrine. Anyone who could locate a crook from a soil sample or identify a profession from a scrap of handwriting deserved some adulation. Holmes always explained his methods in a denouement, but he never anticipated that his fans would or even could rise to his monumental heights.
Holmes was the Superman of Victorian London. His cases, which were ostensibly chronicled by his faithful sidekick Dr. John Watson, took London by storm in newspaper serials published from 1887-1927. When Holmes perished in the act of destroying his nemesis Professor Moriarty in 1893, a seven-year surge of pleading persuaded the author to resurrect him in what has ironically become the most well-known story, The Hound of the Baskervilles. Holmes style of sleuthing set the foundation for the mystery genre and he remains an integral icon of British culture. Even today the computer system used by British law enforcement is respectfully named Home Office Large Major Enquiry System – or HOLMES.
Transition needed. The Complete Works of Holmes is too large in size to transport as an antidote to boredom and furthermore brooks no interruptions. Like Holmes, his admirers must be homebodies when not saving the world. There is a best time for reading of Holmes. For a homeschooler in Southern California, this is on dark, preferably rainy afternoons post-Algebra. When the climate does not emulate the fairy-tale fog of London, evenings may be used provided there is cocoa present and that at least two-thirds of the body is hemmed by a close-wrapped blanket.
At the beginning of our relationship, a dictionary was a necessary third wheel. Every three pages or so, I had to update my lexicon to incorporate Victorian English. Twitterpated, I found this an endearing indication of education and culture. After reading through the entire collection once, I put the dictionary aside and simply enjoyed the stories even though I already knew the answers. It was like the tenth date after the demographics and favorites are old news and she is able to notice that he laughs with eyes closed when he’s truly amused and strangely sits straighter when he’s tired. I realized then that Holmes was more than “the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen” as described by Watson in A Scandal in Bohemia. He was an unashamed champion of the underdog, an able psychologist, an ardent patriot, an acclaimed scientist and scholar, and a loyal friend. He was also a neurotic druggie between cases (though he eventually conquered this vice), incapable of verbalizing his admittedly rare emotions, and an understandable victim of egotism.
Needs transition. Holmes explained his success when remonstrating Watson in The Sign of Four: “How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?” For hundreds of Holmesian fans worldwide, it is impossible that Holmes is not real. The improbable truth is that Sherlock and his bumbling biographer Watson truly lived in London in the late 1800’s and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was their inept literary agent. This is known as “The Great Game,” in which The Complete Works of Sherlock Holmes is the “Canon” whose genius is reflective of Holmes and whose inconsistencies are simply Watson’s lapses. The Sherlock Holmes Society in London, founded in 1934 and resumed after WWII in 1951, boasts over 1,000 members who meet regularly for conversation and special events centered on the Baker Street sleuth. It is open to anyone with “an interest in Sherlock Holmes and his world, and a willingness to play the game.” Its American cousin, The Baker Street Irregulars in New York City was also started in 1934. More about this.
After reading through the collection straight through twice with numerous jaunts on an intermittent basis, I realized that our relationship was no longer growing. Unwilling to play games, I moved on.
May 5, 2008
I ate three mangos today.
Drat, it's been almost a month since I have posted. Basically, I am waiting on the Lord for a job and struggling to overcome senioritis, the onset of which has been spurred by a dismal lack of interest in my classes. It's a shame to go out this way when I have so enjoyed my major. I wish that I could have audited Dr. Duffy's American Political Rhetoric class, but alas, scheduling conflicted. Strangely, my job is one of the highlights of my quarter because the staff is so affirming (love language #1) and I get frequent snatches of free food. If only I didn't have to work MORNINGS.
Speaking of which, I have to get up in six hours. Ugh.
My condolences for this bland post. I'm going to blame my mundane classes.
Speaking of which, I have to get up in six hours. Ugh.
My condolences for this bland post. I'm going to blame my mundane classes.
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