Last Chance To Lose Control.
Yesterday was the first day of Driver Ed. It was an hour-length session of Lecture. It wasn't unbearable, although I get the feeling it will be. Mr. McQuade (a disturbingly expressionless man) talked for an hour about the importance of driving, mentioning how great it was that we all wanted to be there. You know, not like it was required by law or anything. I love spending my evenings in a classroom of kids I hate while we're lectured on how to steer a wheel without killing anyone. And for no less than five hundred obligatory dollars.
Yesterday was also the day I learned a few of my grades, for both the second quarter and certain state-mandated exams. I scored a 91 on my history midterm. I didn't do nearly as well on my chemistry midterm. When I took it, I finished early. It was mainly because I didn't know anything from anything else. As it turns out, I got a 56. I think my teacher was offended by my responding, "Come on now, I don't know anything about science." So it's no surprise that I got a 76 for the quarter.
The big shock came today, when I received the grade on my English Regents. I put all of my faith into that one test, simply because I don't care about anything else in school. I don't know what I expected. I wanted some sign that these readers had seen something special in me. I didn't point out literary elements or write six superfluous pages of words. When he let me see that 89, I was immediately saddened. I guess, if we're considering this test in its entirety, I should have followed a format and built myself a legacy of lengthy prose. But I didn't. And for that, I have to weigh my options. I had this moment of supposed clarity, as if a not-high-enough number could change my emotional future. How could I have let myself consider not being a writer? Even if they were right. Even if I was not what I claimed to be. I don't do this for fun, but because I have to. I want to say that writing is like oxygen, but it's not. It's worse. It's something akin to heroin. I could convulse beneath this small exterior if words were not enough for me. I don't know if you can appreciate that, but I know you can identify. If not in writing, in something else then.
I sat through a presentation on establishing a gallery in an available room in our school cafeteria. It was kind of limiting, you know, with the kind of people who think art is something to be swallowed and regurgitated. Or worse, viewed as if from an entirely different atmosphere. As if being "outside of the box" really means to be boxed-in. I didn't get much out of those two periods, but I do like the idea of a gallery intended for students. That's pretty cool, and it's accessible. I think I'd like it better elsewhere. But that's really only because I resent this school. I hate the expensive mornings, the alcoholic evenings, and the accusatory afternoons. It's like I'm wearing a watch that only ever tells me a certain time. It's both insignificant and tedious, even when it's meant to be something more.
I'm rambling, I guess. I've got two hours of Driver Ed. tonight, first of Lecture and then of Simulator. The latter, I'm told, is little more than a bunch of boxes with pedals that don't work and a video from the eighties. Naturally, I'm looking forward to it.
On Saturday night, Jess stole the doors of Alex's Jeep as a joke. Then she had Josh tell all of us that someone had taken them. She drove up with the doors when Alex was on the verge of tears. To get her back, the boys stuck roughly 2,400 Post-Its on her car (color-coded, of course). The best part is that it rained, so the paper stuck perfectly. I haven't seen the pictures yet, but it sounds like beautiful coverage.
There's always an obstacle, isn't there? It doesn't matter if it's a person, a thing, or even a fear. It doesn't have to be rational or plausible. It can gnaw at your insides when you're trying to decide, and it can pull the sheets over your head when you're trying to realize. Sometimes there's more than one. I don't know if I'm working against time, against myself, or against another version of the truth. Is there victory in defeat? Is there life after death? When did winning get to be everything?
Yesterday was also the day I learned a few of my grades, for both the second quarter and certain state-mandated exams. I scored a 91 on my history midterm. I didn't do nearly as well on my chemistry midterm. When I took it, I finished early. It was mainly because I didn't know anything from anything else. As it turns out, I got a 56. I think my teacher was offended by my responding, "Come on now, I don't know anything about science." So it's no surprise that I got a 76 for the quarter.
The big shock came today, when I received the grade on my English Regents. I put all of my faith into that one test, simply because I don't care about anything else in school. I don't know what I expected. I wanted some sign that these readers had seen something special in me. I didn't point out literary elements or write six superfluous pages of words. When he let me see that 89, I was immediately saddened. I guess, if we're considering this test in its entirety, I should have followed a format and built myself a legacy of lengthy prose. But I didn't. And for that, I have to weigh my options. I had this moment of supposed clarity, as if a not-high-enough number could change my emotional future. How could I have let myself consider not being a writer? Even if they were right. Even if I was not what I claimed to be. I don't do this for fun, but because I have to. I want to say that writing is like oxygen, but it's not. It's worse. It's something akin to heroin. I could convulse beneath this small exterior if words were not enough for me. I don't know if you can appreciate that, but I know you can identify. If not in writing, in something else then.
I sat through a presentation on establishing a gallery in an available room in our school cafeteria. It was kind of limiting, you know, with the kind of people who think art is something to be swallowed and regurgitated. Or worse, viewed as if from an entirely different atmosphere. As if being "outside of the box" really means to be boxed-in. I didn't get much out of those two periods, but I do like the idea of a gallery intended for students. That's pretty cool, and it's accessible. I think I'd like it better elsewhere. But that's really only because I resent this school. I hate the expensive mornings, the alcoholic evenings, and the accusatory afternoons. It's like I'm wearing a watch that only ever tells me a certain time. It's both insignificant and tedious, even when it's meant to be something more.
I'm rambling, I guess. I've got two hours of Driver Ed. tonight, first of Lecture and then of Simulator. The latter, I'm told, is little more than a bunch of boxes with pedals that don't work and a video from the eighties. Naturally, I'm looking forward to it.
On Saturday night, Jess stole the doors of Alex's Jeep as a joke. Then she had Josh tell all of us that someone had taken them. She drove up with the doors when Alex was on the verge of tears. To get her back, the boys stuck roughly 2,400 Post-Its on her car (color-coded, of course). The best part is that it rained, so the paper stuck perfectly. I haven't seen the pictures yet, but it sounds like beautiful coverage.
There's always an obstacle, isn't there? It doesn't matter if it's a person, a thing, or even a fear. It doesn't have to be rational or plausible. It can gnaw at your insides when you're trying to decide, and it can pull the sheets over your head when you're trying to realize. Sometimes there's more than one. I don't know if I'm working against time, against myself, or against another version of the truth. Is there victory in defeat? Is there life after death? When did winning get to be everything?