So I Guess that Everything Matters...

Out of all the books we've read this year, Ron Currie Jr.'s Everything Matters! was by far my favorite.  I didn't love this book the entire time.  In fact, you might say we had a bit of a love-hate relationship.  But in the end, this book affected me the most, and it was the only one that I actually enjoyed reading.  I found the allusions very modern and interesting, such as "your life is so blue it looks like a James Cameron movie."  This quote was both relatable and funny, while simultaneously depressing.  That's pretty much how the entire book went.  I'd connect with the characters, mostly Junior and Amy, and then they'd enter into depressing life situations and I'd get frustrated.  We always talk about how the books parallel our lives, and this was one book I was scared to see parallel my life in any way.  In the end, though, I got the sense from this book that it doesn't matter what I choose to do in life, since there are an infinity of possibilities and nothing is truly right or wrong.  In fact, "anything, anything, anything is possible."  It's easy to to give in to fear about the future, since "the theoretical snakes, theoretically lurking everywhere...trump them all," but the most important thing is to just continue living no matter what happens.  While Ms. Serensky would like us to "push the implications" in our essays, it's probably better not to do this in regards to real life.

image via imgur

PS: classmates who have posted pictures that they randomly found on Google images, be careful what images you link.  If you accidentally steal someone's copyrighted photo and they get ticked off, they can change the photo from the original source to something wildly inappropriate.  This happened to me...it was not pretty.  But I fixed it.  So just a warning.

But Really Though...

Top Ten Most Thrilling Academic Moments of My High School Career

I'm using very loose definitions of "thrilling" and "academic."  For the sake of this blog "thrilling" means exciting, chilling, or abnormally tremoring.  "Academic" means anything pertaining to school and/or theoretical or hypothetical; not practical, realistic, or directly useful (legit).  That said, I don't actually count many experiences as both thrilling and academic.  It's kind of a paradox.

1. Not failing my AP Chem test. This one kind of speaks for itself.  for anyone who has taken AP Chem... you know.  Also, not failing all other AP tests.  "We cannot all be masters," and I was and am content with this (Shakespeare 1.1.40).
2. That time when I totally got a ribbon from Ms. Serensky that says "I'm Special."  I feel like I need photo proof for this.  It will be posted.  A better ribbon, however, might have said "you seem to me to be in every way the visible personification of absolute perfection," but I can understand that all of that font probably wouldn't have fit (Wilde 31).
3. That time I didn't get in trouble for wearing short shorts and got an award instead.  "How very, very strange, this life" (Currie 164).
4. Deciding to go to art school despite working so hard on academics for years.  Backstory: sometime around sophomore year I decided I liked art enough to do it in college, and then last year I was kinda like "I don't [paint] accurately... but I [paint] with wonderful expression" (Wilde 1).  And decided to apply to art school.
5. The moment when I realized that 90% of high school classes have no application in real life.  Freedom.  "And so anything, anything, anything is possible" when you stop trying so hard doing things that don't matter to you and focus on what you will use in the future (Currie 302).
6. When I stayed up way too late working on a data sheet and then in a state of delirium started making phone calls.  Half of the data sheet was nonsensical.  Thrilling.  "It is awfully hard work doing nothing," and yet terribly easy to make a fool of yourself after two or three in the morning (Wilde 17).
7. The time that my team got 100% accuracy on a multiple choice game.  Never again.  This victory was "Not destiny.  Happenstance," as it only occurred one time and led to a curse falling on my team forever after (Currie 62).
8. That time that we all skipped school to go to a football game.  Academics at its best.  "O, blood, blood, blood!" cried all of the students who actually wanted school that day (Shakespeare 3.3.449)
9. Turning in the research project that we did sophomore year, typos and lewd comments included, and receiving a fantastic grade.  I think. My first thought was "I have not deserved this" (Shakespeare 4.1.241).  My second was "Oh well, I'll take it."
10. That time that I got a 9 on an essay while riding on a dinosaur and visiting my secret sandwich factory in Switzerland.  It was "either the grandest thing [I] have ever done, or the cruelest" (Currie 275).  That was a delicious and rewarding day.  Except for the dinosaur bites.  (Will provide proof for this as well)  (EDIT: Dinosaur ate my photo proof.  Will have to make you a drawing instead).

Proof

We've Been Hatin'

Of the many poems we have traversed throughout this year, my favorite was one of our first.  "Winter in the Summer House," by Robert N. Watson, had fascinating imagery, sweet metaphors, and IT DOESN'T RHYME.  I don't know if anyone remembers my assertion that I "hate rhyming poetry" from the beginning of the year.  While studying a fair amount of poetry with rhyme schemes has made me appreciate both forms, I still prefer the flow of non-rhyming poetry.  However, that's not my sole reason for liking "Winter in the Summer House."  I swear.

The sense of loneliness that Watson conveys in his poem really struck a chord with me, since the subject of the poem brought it on himself.  He ignored the women who could have loved him, and so he remains alone.   In Othello Emilia expresses the desire to "Let husbands know/ Their wives have sense like them" (Shakespeare 4.3.96-97)  In the same way that the characters in Othello see a demise in their relationships due to miscommunication, the subject of Watson's poem feels the ill effects of a past relationship ruined.

For some reason, a lot of what we've read this year has to do with romantic relationships of the dysfunctional variety.  "There is love, and then there is love," and the second type tends to lend itself to crazy (Currie 223).  Even the supposedly high-class characters of The Importance of Being Earnest have dysfunctional views.  However, the problems in these relationships all come from the men.  Cecily complains how "men are so cowardly," and blames them entirely for all that has gone wrong (Wilde 40).

Basically, we seem to really hate on men in AP English.  In our literature, they make stupid mistakes, Bunbury, steal plums, lie about their names, hear voices, and kill their wives.  Even the poor lonely man in "Winter in the Summer House" doesn't escape criticism, despite the fact that his current existence is completely depressing.  Basically, the assumption seems to be that it's a man's own fault if he's alone, because obviously he made some mistake.  It's not even like we're reading a bunch of feminist authors, since the majority of our books and poems were written by men.

Anyway, props to our small handful of AP English males who have stuck through all of this.  I'm sorry that our literature hates you.

I Googled "manliest picture ever," and I got Ron Burgundy.  I thought it was appropriate for the moment.  So to make up for all of the man-hating we've done, here is the manliest picture I could find in five seconds.

Success?

I remember my favorite day of AP English because of the piñata, and the infant death.  Upon entering the classroom, I was greeted by the sound of maracas, and saw a Spongebob piñata hanging ominously from the ceiling.  It was quite clear that shenanigans would go down.  Having completes a SOAPSTone the night before, I knew that we would be discussing a poem about a dead baby, and so the odd juxtaposition of fiesta decor and death both confused and interested me.  Upon receiving the instruction to make a short skit based on the poem, my power group of Lizzy, Chase and I decided to go for gold and make an offensive skit involving smothering of an infant by personified Death.  We chose Chase for the role of Death, since "'tis a notorious villain," and had him pretend to asphyxiate Lizzy with a black hoodie that also doubled as a cape (Shakespeare 5.2.235).  After watching the much tamer poem interpretations of our classmates, I thought that our rendition would cause the class to "look shocked, which is vulgar, or laugh" (Wilde 9).  Actually, I think the end result was a mix of both.  But in the long run, our questionable skit-making tactics paid out, as we WON.  And by that, I mean that we got to destroy the piñata.  Which had a baby's face taped to it.  I'm not actually sure if this counts as winning, but hey... I think it is.  Anyway, after this entire episode, the class culminated in a discussion... while we ate tortilla chips.  Many of us started to focus more on eating than on talking, and "the silence [was] starting to get a little awkward" (Currie 252).  I had to force myself not to laugh as I crunched on tortilla chips and thought over the events of the last fifty-so minutes.  As the bell rang, I realized with a pang of sadness that this had been our last poetry project day, and that no class could ever top the ludicrous amount of dead babies and awkwardness that had just occurred.

Ok.  This picture is what I found when I searched "baby piñata" on Google images.  I actually wish I could write an entire blog about just this picture.  Where do they sell shirts like this?  Apparently this is the workings of an internet celebrity, so never mind.  It doesn't have to make sense.  Just enjoy the phrase "Your heart is my piñata" as you sit down to write your in-class essay tomorrow.

Not. Appropriate.

The daylight fell as metaphorically as possible over a long stretch of sidewalk, highlighting the cracks in the seedy pavement of a seedy neighborhood.  Two men walked slowly towards each other, one in the garb of a Victorian manservant, the other wearing a fantastically ironic t-shirt.  And pants, of course.  As they met upon the pavement, the sun sank over the horizon of sketchy apartments and telephone wires.

"Hello, Sir," the Victorian man intoned.  He paused, as if waiting for an audience's reaction to his words.

"I've got my instructions," replied the man with the clever t-shirt (Currie 193).  "Now, have you been drinking?"

"Yes, Sir; eight bottles and a pint" (Wilde 1).

"Ah." The speaker paused and surveyed his surroundings.  The second man continued to stand perfectly still, waiting for a cue from the other to commence with speaking.  "When's the last time you took the pills?" ironic-shirt-man asked (Currie 192).  The Victorian man showed an uncomfortable display of nervousness.

"I don't know what you're speaking of," he stuttered.

"Lane, I think it's time to admit you have a problem."

Lane began backing away slowly, but his elaborate Victorian-era costume hindered his crawling flight somewhat.  He started gesticulating wildly and stammering about his personal rights.

"I need you to stop your habits, Lane.  You're tearing our friendship apart.  I was okay with it at first, but once you started dressing up as a manservant and only responding to dialogue when directly spoken to, things got weird.  Can you please go to rehab?"

"Not even for ready money," Lane growled, dropping his affected air once and for all (Wilde 8).

"I'm taking you to the hospital" (Currie 193).

"Back off, Clark!"

Clark lunged towards Lane, who attempted to run away, but then halted suddenly.  He seemed perplexed and stood wavering on the now-unlit pavement.

"I'm gonna get real weird with it," he muttered, "But my copious drug and alcohol abuse has opened a door for me.  We are living inside fiction, my dear Clark.  Fiction."

Clark started to respond, but then a disembodied and rather morose voice intoned "Exit LANE and CLARK."

CURTAIN

Dear Journal...

Dear Journal,

I, Cecily Cardew, despise the thought of education.  "I keep a diary to enter the wonderful secrets of my life," but my day is full of dull subjects which I cannot bring myself to truly study (22).  "Horrid Political Economy!  Horrid Geography!  Horrid, horrid German!" (23).  I would much rather write to you, dear Journal, as you do not judge me.  Speaking of judging, I received the most awful bout of judgment today when I foolishly decided to share my love of crafts with my AP English 12 class.  You may wonder how a girl like me ended up in AP English, but it is a matter of little consequence.  The simple fact is that "I don't like novels that end happily.  They depress me too much," and so I though I fit in with the AP English crowd (22).  However, today's incidents may prove this sentiment false. You may not know this, but I have a habit of making elaborate piñatas in my spare time, when I am not tending to the flowers.  I consider it my secret strength, and I had thought to share it with my esteemed classmates and teacher.  I specifically chose to share this with them on my birthday, hoping that they would realize that a girl deserves praise on such a special occasion as her eighteenth birthday.  However, my expert craftsmanship was not well received.  "That piñata is horrifying," Katie C. said bluntly.  The others quickly agreed, and then analyzed the structure, design, and craftsmanship of my piñata.  I was appalled as they metaphorically tore it to pieces, then suggested that they physically tear it apart.  By this point, I had become so demoralized that I simply shrugged in agreement.  I watched as they beat my lovingly made piñata with a large stick, and then once they realized that there was nothing inside except my hopes and dreams, they continued discussion as if nothing had happened.

I'm sorry if this story has depressed or unnerved you.  Here is a video clip of something joyful to take your mind off of my misfortunes:

It Matters?

The following is a conversation between me, as a Junior in high school, and the third-person plural voice that usually resides in Junior's head.  It was a grueling experience.

VOICE: "First, enjoy this time!" (3)

SG: What are you talking about?  There's nothing to enjoy!  We're all terrified of murderers because of In Cold Blood, and terrified of actual murder caused by Ms. Serensky's future reaction to our essays.  We don't sleep.  We forget how to talk when discussions come around.  And I hear tell of these awful things called "Data Sheets" next year.  I can't even handle SOAPSTones.  I might die.

V: "We will not lie--it could kill you.  Now be calm" (3)

SG: WHAT???  Alright, who are you, and why are you in my head?  Also, why are you speaking as a plural, I only hear one voice.

V: Oh... We guessed that sounded cooler.  Now it's kind of a hard habit for us to break.  We could stop if you like.

SG: ...It's... OK.  It kind of makes more sense, now that I think about it.  So are you omniscient or something?

V: "We in fact only know one thing for certain" (8)

SG: Which is?

V: Can't tell you.

SG: Awkward.  Well do you know anything about AP English?

V: Actually, yes.

SG: OK.  So what's the secret?  I know there has to be a way to get through these discussions, but everyone interrupts like crazy or else changes the topic for no reason so that my points become irrelevant.  Is there any way to change this?

V: Honestly, no.  You, and everyone else, will struggle with being understood for the rest of your lives.

SG: That's bleak.  What do I have to look forward to?

V: Well, you may ask yourself, "does anything I do matter?" (9)

SG: And?

V: We'll leave it up to you to answer that question.  As far as life goes.  But you should know that, as far as AP English 11, everything you do DOES matter.  All of it.

SG: I still don't know if I can trust you... how can you prove that you know anything?

V: How can you prove that YOU know anything?

SG: Do you always answer questions with questions?

V: Don't you?

SG: Well, I have to go annotate a book now.  It was great talking to you, but I think you're proof of my English-caused insanity.  I'm going to stop listening.  Goodbye.

V: This isn't the least you'll hear of me... You'll see me again in a year.  EVERYTHING MATTERS!

SG: ...Thanks?

pretend this is a clever caption