How I got into junior college: Essay 1
1. Tell us about yourself. Discuss the most
influential aspects of your experience and
environment.
Who? Me?
A sultry summer day.
24 hour breakfast diners provide a means of food.
A suburban home provides the means for shelter.
Utilities are provided by outside forces.
Yet by no means has my experience been as simple as the fulfilment of basic sustenance; it has been involved and remains as elusive as it is constant.
The heat swelters.
My experience:
(the south-eastern united states)
Smatterings of tradition colour my environment. Seemingly inbred institutions perpetuate through social mitosis (racism, obesity, ), or so they would have you believe. The frying pan of flavour overflows with breading, giving a chicken-fried layer to all within reach, masking the true meats of what is at hand. Underneath lies a pettiness that heralds superficial values and preoccupies itself with being preoccupied. A death rattle is heard. The funeral proceeding is for old tradition, only to be replaced by old tradition. A mirror placed in front of the seasoned man, cracking under social implications. His wrinkles outline; his thin wispy hair of wisdom is woven into a rustic tapestry. Ivy overtakes him. Vestigial shutters leave the scene open to the public display without an out. The complexity of the basics is available to all.
A protagonist (or so he claims) rises from the rubble:
Protagonist(?): Dammit! (obsession with damnation)
The south has lent me its tools of perception (and damnation).
(night)
Darkness becomes abound and grows until it plateaus, providing a background to the fireworks that exude from within. A fluorescent light glows above my workplace, flooding the set. The audible patterings of a base clarinet resonate from the diaphragms of head speakers. Scattered muses of writ lay their lessons about. Individually their warnings amount to nothing, yet they form a procession with the use of perspective. Pastels, clippings, colours, smiles, giggles, and wires are scattered about. Half-full (empty?) glasses of water act as an army (deserters?) of heat sinks. A blanket provides security, (albeit tattered) though there is seemingly nothing to protect against. A web is before me, of which I am told extends world-wide, however the entirety of it remains mine. Nothing else exists other than myself, myself and all that stems forth. Shadows dance to tales of wonder, and prose bounces under my fingertips. My cloak masks the tower in which I have constructed, yet as my cloak deteriorates, I must dismantle the very tower I laboured. Latitude and longitude belong to me. My passion excites my passion and evil thusly is thwarted by the bright night sky, for Olbers’ paradox is a reality enacted by my commandment. I am a CAM plant, keeping my stomata closed until the safety of the night has assured me that my innards will not evaporate. Retention rates are greater in the dark, so the furthering of my knowledge is reserved for such hours. This knowledge is released to my RuBisCO and converted into accessible bits. During sessions of light these bits are disassembled for translation to the starving masses.
Darkness has infiltrated my mind and my humour, resulting in a charred sense of reality and a whimsical take upon grave proceedings.
Darkness has lent me its tools of insight.
(community)
As daytime sets in I am surrounded by (perceived) biological normalcy, and I wither not under the baking sun (thanks to the closure of my stomata). I do not falter in the face of knowledge nor the pursuit of information, no matter how disagreeable the parleyer or the subject may be, for all shall be embraced, tangibles and intangibles. My education has been rather agreeable, providing me with an array of tools (yet withholding just as many). These tools can then be utilized to unearth other tools allowing me access to other hidden utensils, continuing a cycle of discovery for the sake of discovery. It is this pursuit that involves and impresses, not the act of the discovery.
The insulation of the thermos surrounding me allows me to do as I may, so as long as I abide by its conditions. Independence is presented, yet only perceived. Within the thermos lies familiarities and understanding, though they are constantly evolving, they always expected. The growth and evolution of both the environment and its inhabitants goes unnoticed outside of a retrospect.
Eventually the proceedings end in a crucifixion.
My community has lent me its tools of care(ful!).
(art)
Vomit is before me as convolution of words, colours, shapes and perceptions rainbowing to no end. A parade to be seen by all of my innards. The very same innards that produced such beasts. Innards that have been swayed and churned and pressured by the outside winds. Winds that are a culmination of the behemoth of art. Art that has affected opinion. Opinion has affected my opinion. I both create and understand. Looking forth I see the monumental realities of those before me. Masterworks of the arts hold my hand yet push me further, while its spindle fibres of theatre, film, literature, music, television, and opinion affect me through my kinetichores of influence. The colours, sounds, tastes, smells and feelings that enter my receptors constantly form new motifs and symbols, affecting the overarching work that life surmounts to.
The box came without an eraser.
Art has lent me its tools of opinion.
(physical being)
I face the crux of two perpendicular mirrors, allowing me to witness my flesh as the surrounding world does. My biological schematics return the stare. The appearance in which I see is a part of a group of givens I have received, found in a pile amongst numerous other preconceived conditions, all based upon the enablers of the first ‘givens‘. Such random enablements dictating the very random (yet tangible) life I lead. Utilising these ‘givens’ I practice the intake of atmosphere and the release of energy. My body oft takes to other forms and molds to the world around me. When fitted into my track bicycle (my active site [for I am a substrate]) a Zen overcomes me. I become the road. I become the surrounding cityscape. I become. I produce. I work to maintain this attachment between body and community by furthering my own attachment between body and self. DNA constantly replicates, always respecting the initial ‘givens’ demands. Acting as an organic being I too respect the rules that have been allotted for me, the expectations set forth by natural law.
No apparent dehibilitating chromosomal mutations have arisen.
My body has lent me its tools of function.
(perspective)
At the tender age of 7 I was rather content with my experience. I expressed such contentedness by admitting an acceptance of death. “I am ready to die" I exclaimed. "I have lived a good, long life” I further rationalized. In actuality I was merely as content as I would ever be. Ever since that fateful day it has been an never ending pursuit (struggle?) to face death once again. I am not only driven by my own passions, yet also by the darkness that lurks after the sun departs, the community that insulates my perceptions of independence (keeping watch), the unique society that surrounds and engulfs (and enlivens) me, the biological (and societal) truths that were decided upon during prophase I, and the artistry that constantly amasses both with and without my knowing.
A bead of sweat slowly ventures through my pores.
Well, there went my summer....