"For the rowers keep on rowing, and they're certainly not showing, any signs that they are slowing..
I don't know why I find it necessary to use such discretion and care in updating in here. I can never let myself just write or rant. It needs to be neat, and "worthy", and whatever other expectations and standards I hold myself to with a lot more than simply updating LiveJournal. It's a characteristic that definitely holds its share of the good, the bad, and the ugly, but, alas, let's leave that alone right now and start here--summer.
This summer. My family got two new puppies, two adorable little dogs that need more care and attention than I ever thought animals could need. I've spent a lot of summer taking care of them, and though often I was annoyed and felt chained to the house, I was actually reasonably content to be doing it, and I'm glad I got to spend time with them. As guilty as it makes me feel, I think I've already paid them much more attention than I payed Champ in years' time. I think maybe it has to do with maturation and learning to be a bit more selfless and enjoy things such as time with dogs as one gets older. As much as I love these puppies (as tiring and relentless as they can be), I still really miss Champ. It's strange and hard to have a feeling of missing and longing, and know that it's something that'll never be rectified or fulfilled, and that it's a feeling you'll have for the rest of your life. It's so unfamiliar to truly feel that any emotion is something you'll be experiencing forever. And of course that goes a lot deeper than family pets.
Besides the dogs, I haven't been doing all too much. This is the first summer I can remember where my family hasn't taken any trips, and while often I don't want to leave home and my friends, I've really begun to see how significant even little trips are. It really becomes wearing to be in the same place for so long, no matter how you feel about the place. It really is nice and refreshing to have a temporary change of surroundings, and I think I've realized it more from not having it this year than I have by my many years of Vermont-going, as things usually go. Since I've been here, I've just been spending time with friends and trying to enjoy my last days with them as almost living one, collective life, as we have for the past few years.
To be honest, I've spent a good part of this summer being angry at myself for not reacting to the end of high school as I thought I would/thought I should/wanted to. I constantly looked back to the last day of middle school, where in one giant rush of emotion half the 8th grade class stood on the lawn outside the theater building, bawling in each other's arms. I cried that day all the way through the walk to 7th hour, and the long bus ride home. And they were such full, honest tears, absolutely throughly felt emotions. I expected, and wanted, the same, or even more for high school, since, of course, high school evolved to far more than middle school-me could've even dreamed of. But when the time came, as Showcase, the last day of school, senior activities, and graduation came to pass, I felt as if I was simply going through the motions, floating through the end of high school, grasping so hard at the ground, wanting so hard to break through to reality and let all it meant set in, without ever landing. I knew how much Dreyfoos meant to me, how much all those people and classes and teachers, how those buildings will forever ring for me of an incredible four years, complete with that nostalgic gloss over the not-so-great parts, and that inexpressible added coat of meaning that always grows thickly upon already favored memories of old. But as all the end of high school traditions passed--Grad Nite, Project Grad, more and more keep coming to mind--I felt hardly present for any, though I tried so hard to be. And for most of summer, I've pretty much just been unaccepting of this fact, unable to understand why I was this way, angry at myself for not fully experiencing everything, for not being there as I thought I would, for not being overwhelmed by reaction. It still hasn't hit me yet, as much as I've tried virtually to force-feed it to myself.
Tonight was the first time I think I really felt anything real at all about high school ending. As I was driving home from the party at Stephanie's grandparents' house, I listened to some old music, that kind of nostalgic music (well, almost everything you listened to at some point in high school becomes nostalgic when you're already feeling that way) that is already sad, already emotional and beautiful, and I finally got a glimpse into all that I had, and finally felt something besides simply knowing consciously and logically it's over. I got that mix of stewed sadness for leaving, for knowing you're leaving something wonderful and important, and of appreciation and love for knowing you experienced it at all. None of these are new things to say, but, I guess I just still feel like saying them. And I don't think I will ever be able to get over how lucky I was to go to Dreyfoos, to meet the people and teachers I did, to learn what and how I did, even to get to know Palm Beach County's distant ends. And I think I'm just going to have to accept that this whole leaving this, this whole truly connecting to and feeling what I've had, what I'm leaving, what I'm keeping--everything, is not as simple as it was back in middle school. That, for better or worse, it's a process. And I have a feeling it's going to be filled with a lot of both forward and backward steps for the next few months (or even more), no matter how numb I randomly feel to it, no matter how distant or how close.
What else, what else to include in this massive single update of the past months. I read Bulgakov's The Master and Margarita, Camus' The Fall, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Nabokov's Despair, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and now I'm polishing off the summer by rereading Lolita--annotated style. Of course I would've liked to have read more, as is always the case, but, I'm actually somewhat content with what I read this summer. The Master and Margarita really, really sparked my interest in some really interesting concepts, and I think will inspire me academically for quite a while, Despair was of course delightful and hand-in-hand with Bulgakov got me really excited about and in awe of the power of voice, narration, and the magic of involuted work, which seems to be the Russian theme I've been trying to trace all along. I feel like reading The Annotated Lolita is the only way to appropriately make my personal transition into a passionate study of college-level literature. I feel most content in what I'm choosing to study next year. Also, Dahl reminded me that a lot can be gained from children's books, both emotionally and artistically, and that the best writing comes from all around, and that I should keep myself open to little excursions such as his books, as a reader for fun, a student of literature, and a writer myself.
Speaking of such, I haven't written nearly as much as I would've liked to--really only a ranting, exposé on myself as a writer which hardly even counts as writing, and a mediocre poem about chasing inspiration. Most of summer I felt really upset with myself about this, but, that and all its blaring contradictions can be left within that stupid rant I just referred to.
It's strange--the more poetic certain aspects of my life become, the harder it is for me to write poetry about it. I've never been one to write about those sorts of emotions, ever, and now that I'm experiencing something really worth writing about, I've stayed further from the pen (or keyboard) than ever. I'm still not sure if it's just that that's not the writer I am or ever will be, or if I'm not ready yet as a writer to tackle something so meaningful. Not that art and those things which I do like writing about aren't meaningful and important as well. I guess it'll all come with time. Getting away from the writing aspect of it--the best thing about this summer, and why everything's been worth it, is definitely love.
Anyway, I felt that I had other things to talk about here, but it seems this entry's gone far beyond a reasonable length anyhow. Oh, I know I wanted to address how I realized this summer just how empty and unhealthy I feel if I go for months without doing anything really productive or worthwhile, but, I'm feeling better about that now.
Up until today I had miscounted and thought I had three weeks left, but today I realized it's down to two. I don't quite know what else to say about that, and if I tried, this already long-winded entry, might never end.
This summer. My family got two new puppies, two adorable little dogs that need more care and attention than I ever thought animals could need. I've spent a lot of summer taking care of them, and though often I was annoyed and felt chained to the house, I was actually reasonably content to be doing it, and I'm glad I got to spend time with them. As guilty as it makes me feel, I think I've already paid them much more attention than I payed Champ in years' time. I think maybe it has to do with maturation and learning to be a bit more selfless and enjoy things such as time with dogs as one gets older. As much as I love these puppies (as tiring and relentless as they can be), I still really miss Champ. It's strange and hard to have a feeling of missing and longing, and know that it's something that'll never be rectified or fulfilled, and that it's a feeling you'll have for the rest of your life. It's so unfamiliar to truly feel that any emotion is something you'll be experiencing forever. And of course that goes a lot deeper than family pets.
Besides the dogs, I haven't been doing all too much. This is the first summer I can remember where my family hasn't taken any trips, and while often I don't want to leave home and my friends, I've really begun to see how significant even little trips are. It really becomes wearing to be in the same place for so long, no matter how you feel about the place. It really is nice and refreshing to have a temporary change of surroundings, and I think I've realized it more from not having it this year than I have by my many years of Vermont-going, as things usually go. Since I've been here, I've just been spending time with friends and trying to enjoy my last days with them as almost living one, collective life, as we have for the past few years.
To be honest, I've spent a good part of this summer being angry at myself for not reacting to the end of high school as I thought I would/thought I should/wanted to. I constantly looked back to the last day of middle school, where in one giant rush of emotion half the 8th grade class stood on the lawn outside the theater building, bawling in each other's arms. I cried that day all the way through the walk to 7th hour, and the long bus ride home. And they were such full, honest tears, absolutely throughly felt emotions. I expected, and wanted, the same, or even more for high school, since, of course, high school evolved to far more than middle school-me could've even dreamed of. But when the time came, as Showcase, the last day of school, senior activities, and graduation came to pass, I felt as if I was simply going through the motions, floating through the end of high school, grasping so hard at the ground, wanting so hard to break through to reality and let all it meant set in, without ever landing. I knew how much Dreyfoos meant to me, how much all those people and classes and teachers, how those buildings will forever ring for me of an incredible four years, complete with that nostalgic gloss over the not-so-great parts, and that inexpressible added coat of meaning that always grows thickly upon already favored memories of old. But as all the end of high school traditions passed--Grad Nite, Project Grad, more and more keep coming to mind--I felt hardly present for any, though I tried so hard to be. And for most of summer, I've pretty much just been unaccepting of this fact, unable to understand why I was this way, angry at myself for not fully experiencing everything, for not being there as I thought I would, for not being overwhelmed by reaction. It still hasn't hit me yet, as much as I've tried virtually to force-feed it to myself.
Tonight was the first time I think I really felt anything real at all about high school ending. As I was driving home from the party at Stephanie's grandparents' house, I listened to some old music, that kind of nostalgic music (well, almost everything you listened to at some point in high school becomes nostalgic when you're already feeling that way) that is already sad, already emotional and beautiful, and I finally got a glimpse into all that I had, and finally felt something besides simply knowing consciously and logically it's over. I got that mix of stewed sadness for leaving, for knowing you're leaving something wonderful and important, and of appreciation and love for knowing you experienced it at all. None of these are new things to say, but, I guess I just still feel like saying them. And I don't think I will ever be able to get over how lucky I was to go to Dreyfoos, to meet the people and teachers I did, to learn what and how I did, even to get to know Palm Beach County's distant ends. And I think I'm just going to have to accept that this whole leaving this, this whole truly connecting to and feeling what I've had, what I'm leaving, what I'm keeping--everything, is not as simple as it was back in middle school. That, for better or worse, it's a process. And I have a feeling it's going to be filled with a lot of both forward and backward steps for the next few months (or even more), no matter how numb I randomly feel to it, no matter how distant or how close.
What else, what else to include in this massive single update of the past months. I read Bulgakov's The Master and Margarita, Camus' The Fall, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Nabokov's Despair, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and now I'm polishing off the summer by rereading Lolita--annotated style. Of course I would've liked to have read more, as is always the case, but, I'm actually somewhat content with what I read this summer. The Master and Margarita really, really sparked my interest in some really interesting concepts, and I think will inspire me academically for quite a while, Despair was of course delightful and hand-in-hand with Bulgakov got me really excited about and in awe of the power of voice, narration, and the magic of involuted work, which seems to be the Russian theme I've been trying to trace all along. I feel like reading The Annotated Lolita is the only way to appropriately make my personal transition into a passionate study of college-level literature. I feel most content in what I'm choosing to study next year. Also, Dahl reminded me that a lot can be gained from children's books, both emotionally and artistically, and that the best writing comes from all around, and that I should keep myself open to little excursions such as his books, as a reader for fun, a student of literature, and a writer myself.
Speaking of such, I haven't written nearly as much as I would've liked to--really only a ranting, exposé on myself as a writer which hardly even counts as writing, and a mediocre poem about chasing inspiration. Most of summer I felt really upset with myself about this, but, that and all its blaring contradictions can be left within that stupid rant I just referred to.
It's strange--the more poetic certain aspects of my life become, the harder it is for me to write poetry about it. I've never been one to write about those sorts of emotions, ever, and now that I'm experiencing something really worth writing about, I've stayed further from the pen (or keyboard) than ever. I'm still not sure if it's just that that's not the writer I am or ever will be, or if I'm not ready yet as a writer to tackle something so meaningful. Not that art and those things which I do like writing about aren't meaningful and important as well. I guess it'll all come with time. Getting away from the writing aspect of it--the best thing about this summer, and why everything's been worth it, is definitely love.
Anyway, I felt that I had other things to talk about here, but it seems this entry's gone far beyond a reasonable length anyhow. Oh, I know I wanted to address how I realized this summer just how empty and unhealthy I feel if I go for months without doing anything really productive or worthwhile, but, I'm feeling better about that now.
Up until today I had miscounted and thought I had three weeks left, but today I realized it's down to two. I don't quite know what else to say about that, and if I tried, this already long-winded entry, might never end.