Saturday, November 15, 2003
I am slightly feverish, for reasons I cannot identify. I have not been feeling very well of late.
Earlier this week I had a good train of thought regarding the relationship between the body and the mind, inspired by Addy's experience with Trager (I do enjoy living with a massage therapist!). My own experience with anxiety makes me certain that, in most cases, one should be able to heal oneself -- just as one is definitely able to make oneself sick. I would like to look into the subject in a bit more detail someday.
In a slightly different vein, heh, I was amused by this. I've often thought of explicitly giving my parents the address of my blog. The only problem would be the Incident, which I chronicled in some detail, but have not related to them. I don't know whether I want to tell them about it. I have a feeling they would not take it well, even 20 years from now. As for me, the feelings I am left with are resentment and a bit of anger. I have obviously not been harmed in any major way, but I have been tought to fear. This is a great part of the reason why I hate Romania -- my Incident, with the way it took place, was made possible by the culture of the place.
Earlier this week I had a good train of thought regarding the relationship between the body and the mind, inspired by Addy's experience with Trager (I do enjoy living with a massage therapist!). My own experience with anxiety makes me certain that, in most cases, one should be able to heal oneself -- just as one is definitely able to make oneself sick. I would like to look into the subject in a bit more detail someday.
In a slightly different vein, heh, I was amused by this. I've often thought of explicitly giving my parents the address of my blog. The only problem would be the Incident, which I chronicled in some detail, but have not related to them. I don't know whether I want to tell them about it. I have a feeling they would not take it well, even 20 years from now. As for me, the feelings I am left with are resentment and a bit of anger. I have obviously not been harmed in any major way, but I have been tought to fear. This is a great part of the reason why I hate Romania -- my Incident, with the way it took place, was made possible by the culture of the place.
Thursday, November 13, 2003
I am doing less than well in my Economics class, which is paradoxical (or maybe not) given the fact that I am very interested in Economics. My professor, an utterly admirable woman, is a kind-hearted leftist with good intentions. The author of my book is a kind-hearted institutionalist with good intentions. They are, nevertheless, wrong in the fashionable number of respects, such as government interference with the market, labor, inflation and globalization. Of course, this is not an excuse for my getting awfully bad grades. My only consolation is the fact that my professor likes me and has assured me I won't fail. Because that would suck.
Lost in Translation is definitely one of my favorite movies of the year. Without giving you reasons to think, brood, ponder or say "I've learned something today!", it entertains. I didn't know how much I liked Bill Murray until I saw this film. I also didn't know that I was not one of only a small number of people who found contemporary Japanese culture peculiar, hilarious and fascinating.
And Ahnold is definitely not an asshole. California is cool.
Lost in Translation is definitely one of my favorite movies of the year. Without giving you reasons to think, brood, ponder or say "I've learned something today!", it entertains. I didn't know how much I liked Bill Murray until I saw this film. I also didn't know that I was not one of only a small number of people who found contemporary Japanese culture peculiar, hilarious and fascinating.
And Ahnold is definitely not an asshole. California is cool.
Monday, October 27, 2003
I had an existentialist day today. I am feeling very tired, too much so to allow myself to become engaged in something. I hope I'm not getting sick.
I want to talk about Lost in Translation, Schwarzenegger and sports.
I want to talk about Lost in Translation, Schwarzenegger and sports.
Monday, October 06, 2003
I am living the sporting life, waking up at 6:40 AM four mornings a week. Given the fact that I only have a maximum of two classes (or approximately four hours) a day, it's not so bad. I also enjoy the 3.2 miles I walk to and from school every day.
One thing I find particularly charming in a summer camp sort of way is the school shirt (sweat, tee or what have you). People actually buy them and wear them with pride! To me, who have always strived to create and express as few affiliations as possible (for I am the cat that walks by himself and all places are alike to me!), it seems amusing.
In many respects, though, school loyalty is absolutely normal: American universities go out of their way to make their students feel like they are part of a community. They strive to concentrate everything a student is likely to need within a few blocks. They do their best to get people involved in all sorts of activities, from sports to soup kitchens (OK, so maybe the latter is just a Jesuit school thing). Campuses are little borroughs (which is, um, historically speaking, they way they started out; in continental Europe, however, larger neighborhoods and later towns and cities grew around and swallowed the original campus). People wear sweats to class and often look like they've just got out of bed (which is, in most cases, not far from the truth). If you happen to live on campus, the community spirit is that much greater. If you don't live on campus, the school will try to make you feel as if you do, at least for a portion of the day -- SU has so-called collegia for commuter students, with lounges, showers and kitchens. (I still find it funny that, technically, I am a "commuter" student, just like my classmates living in Kent or Issaquah, who have to beat the traffic every morning. And I walk to school!) Which is great!
Anyway, as I was saying, students have every reason to be proud of their schools. School loyalty shirts are cheesy, but effective means of expressing that pride. There.
Another good thing about being in a Jesuit school is that the "climate" is really "moral", as the university likes to put it. The campus is pretty calm and safe, people will hold doors open for you and if you leave your belongings somewhere, someone will pick them up and turn them in to somebody who is likely to know how to track you down and return them to you. The Stranger claims that there are flashers hidden in the campus bushes, but I have yet to encounter one.
One thing I find particularly charming in a summer camp sort of way is the school shirt (sweat, tee or what have you). People actually buy them and wear them with pride! To me, who have always strived to create and express as few affiliations as possible (for I am the cat that walks by himself and all places are alike to me!), it seems amusing.
In many respects, though, school loyalty is absolutely normal: American universities go out of their way to make their students feel like they are part of a community. They strive to concentrate everything a student is likely to need within a few blocks. They do their best to get people involved in all sorts of activities, from sports to soup kitchens (OK, so maybe the latter is just a Jesuit school thing). Campuses are little borroughs (which is, um, historically speaking, they way they started out; in continental Europe, however, larger neighborhoods and later towns and cities grew around and swallowed the original campus). People wear sweats to class and often look like they've just got out of bed (which is, in most cases, not far from the truth). If you happen to live on campus, the community spirit is that much greater. If you don't live on campus, the school will try to make you feel as if you do, at least for a portion of the day -- SU has so-called collegia for commuter students, with lounges, showers and kitchens. (I still find it funny that, technically, I am a "commuter" student, just like my classmates living in Kent or Issaquah, who have to beat the traffic every morning. And I walk to school!) Which is great!
Anyway, as I was saying, students have every reason to be proud of their schools. School loyalty shirts are cheesy, but effective means of expressing that pride. There.
Another good thing about being in a Jesuit school is that the "climate" is really "moral", as the university likes to put it. The campus is pretty calm and safe, people will hold doors open for you and if you leave your belongings somewhere, someone will pick them up and turn them in to somebody who is likely to know how to track you down and return them to you. The Stranger claims that there are flashers hidden in the campus bushes, but I have yet to encounter one.
Friday, September 19, 2003
Alright, people. It is time to get back in the swing of things.
I am starting school on Wednesday, and I dig. I've just returned from a three-day orientation (camp!) held by the U at a Christian (Christian! Grace-saying Christian!) retreat, and I'm impressed with the quality of the people that organized and attended the program. Some of my books have already arrived in the mail, some are on their way, and another couple are waiting for me in the store. My schedule is friendly, although it makes obscenely early provisions. Am expecting good things.
A good realization was occasioned by the time I spent at camp. The days were busy and long, and involved the common participation of something like 60 people. That, however, did not seem to be a problem for me. I didn't feel alienated or inadequate; I actually enjoyed the company of everybody around me. In spite of that, though, I made sure to take a couple hours off by myself every day. Not as an antidote, not even as a prophylactic -- but rather as a hygienic measure. Time by myself does re-charge my batteries; it is as necessary to me as, um, eating. And just like eating, it does not possess a dramatic dimension -- if it is not drastically denied.
I am starting school on Wednesday, and I dig. I've just returned from a three-day orientation (camp!) held by the U at a Christian (Christian! Grace-saying Christian!) retreat, and I'm impressed with the quality of the people that organized and attended the program. Some of my books have already arrived in the mail, some are on their way, and another couple are waiting for me in the store. My schedule is friendly, although it makes obscenely early provisions. Am expecting good things.
A good realization was occasioned by the time I spent at camp. The days were busy and long, and involved the common participation of something like 60 people. That, however, did not seem to be a problem for me. I didn't feel alienated or inadequate; I actually enjoyed the company of everybody around me. In spite of that, though, I made sure to take a couple hours off by myself every day. Not as an antidote, not even as a prophylactic -- but rather as a hygienic measure. Time by myself does re-charge my batteries; it is as necessary to me as, um, eating. And just like eating, it does not possess a dramatic dimension -- if it is not drastically denied.
Sunday, August 24, 2003
I have been in Seattle for 6 days now and I am slowly starting to recover my wits. The jet lag was worse than ever before, aggravated, probably, by my previously accumulated fatigue and, um, the fact that I don't really have anything to do right now, so I can afford to be lost and confused time and space-wise.
It is good to be here. I am happy -- not hysterically jumping up and down, just harmoniously, calmly, animal happy. My inner monologue is suffering from the lack of a reason to unravel, for I now have an audience for my thoughts.
It is good to be here. I am happy -- not hysterically jumping up and down, just harmoniously, calmly, animal happy. My inner monologue is suffering from the lack of a reason to unravel, for I now have an audience for my thoughts.
Thursday, August 14, 2003
More memories...
At 4 or 5, a pressing need wakes me up in the middle of the night. Sleepily, I call out “Mummy, I want pee pee!” I hear motion sounds coming from my parents’ bedroom and my father’s voice saying: “Sorry, we don’t have any!” My mother laughs and I am suddenly both amused at his joke and ashamed of the fact that I woke them up, like a silly little kid, instead of going to the bathroom on my own, which I was perfectly capable of doing.
***
At around 3, I am sitting in my brown wood high chair, at the table with my parents. We are having lunch. We are all in a good mood. Towards the end of the meal, my parents ask me to lift my arms above my head. I hurry to oblige them and find out, not without horror, that my fully outstretched arms only reach the sides of my head. There is no way I can make my hands meet above my head. My parents are highly amused by my frantic endeavors, but I am not. When they realize that I am on the verge of tears, they comfort me by pointing out that my arms are sure to extend as I grow up.
***
A couple years later I am, once more, sitting in my high chair, in the little secluded space between the table and the fridge which was all mine before Nan came to live with us and I had to move next to my mum, on the long external side of our rectangular table. My Dad has prepared me a lunch of steak and veggies. He has cut the steak into little pieces on my plate and has left me alone in the kitchen, to eat. But I do not want to eat; I do not feel hungry. I know I am supposed to eat, I even know, vaguely, that food is good for me, and yet I cannot swallow the little pieces of steak. Angry and frustrated, I pick up a few bits of meat and throw them on the floor. It is liberating! I feel good for a few moments, before I realize that I'm not going to be able to climb down my chair and pick them up quietly, and my Dad is going to come check on me and then he'll see what I've done.
***
When I was little, before the age of 10, my family used to spend almost every vacation in the mountains, in a breathtakingly beautiful place at the foot of the chalk-white Piatra Craiului (which is now a national park; too cool!). We would rent a couple rooms in the house of an old couple, utter mountain people who bred sheep and kept huge, bear-fighting dogs and had lots of land that they worked themselves. It was great. And while the ferocious dogs always seemed to be partial to me, the rooster wasn't.
During that particular vacation, the moutain couple had a particularly evil rooster that considered me appropriate bullying material. I must have been 5 or 6 at the time, and had a red jacket that I absolutely loved (I was pretty darned vain as a little girl!). It could well have been the bright red of the jacket that pissed the rooster off, for every single time that I walked outside, the rooster would jump on my chest, flapping his wings menacingly and trying to peck at my head. I was terrified to the point of refusing to leave the house. When apprised of the situation, the mountain woman had a swift solution: she cut the rooster's throat and boiled him in a soup -- which I chose not to taste because, even though I'd hated him, the rooster had been an acquaintance...
At 4 or 5, a pressing need wakes me up in the middle of the night. Sleepily, I call out “Mummy, I want pee pee!” I hear motion sounds coming from my parents’ bedroom and my father’s voice saying: “Sorry, we don’t have any!” My mother laughs and I am suddenly both amused at his joke and ashamed of the fact that I woke them up, like a silly little kid, instead of going to the bathroom on my own, which I was perfectly capable of doing.
***
At around 3, I am sitting in my brown wood high chair, at the table with my parents. We are having lunch. We are all in a good mood. Towards the end of the meal, my parents ask me to lift my arms above my head. I hurry to oblige them and find out, not without horror, that my fully outstretched arms only reach the sides of my head. There is no way I can make my hands meet above my head. My parents are highly amused by my frantic endeavors, but I am not. When they realize that I am on the verge of tears, they comfort me by pointing out that my arms are sure to extend as I grow up.
***
A couple years later I am, once more, sitting in my high chair, in the little secluded space between the table and the fridge which was all mine before Nan came to live with us and I had to move next to my mum, on the long external side of our rectangular table. My Dad has prepared me a lunch of steak and veggies. He has cut the steak into little pieces on my plate and has left me alone in the kitchen, to eat. But I do not want to eat; I do not feel hungry. I know I am supposed to eat, I even know, vaguely, that food is good for me, and yet I cannot swallow the little pieces of steak. Angry and frustrated, I pick up a few bits of meat and throw them on the floor. It is liberating! I feel good for a few moments, before I realize that I'm not going to be able to climb down my chair and pick them up quietly, and my Dad is going to come check on me and then he'll see what I've done.
***
When I was little, before the age of 10, my family used to spend almost every vacation in the mountains, in a breathtakingly beautiful place at the foot of the chalk-white Piatra Craiului (which is now a national park; too cool!). We would rent a couple rooms in the house of an old couple, utter mountain people who bred sheep and kept huge, bear-fighting dogs and had lots of land that they worked themselves. It was great. And while the ferocious dogs always seemed to be partial to me, the rooster wasn't.
During that particular vacation, the moutain couple had a particularly evil rooster that considered me appropriate bullying material. I must have been 5 or 6 at the time, and had a red jacket that I absolutely loved (I was pretty darned vain as a little girl!). It could well have been the bright red of the jacket that pissed the rooster off, for every single time that I walked outside, the rooster would jump on my chest, flapping his wings menacingly and trying to peck at my head. I was terrified to the point of refusing to leave the house. When apprised of the situation, the mountain woman had a swift solution: she cut the rooster's throat and boiled him in a soup -- which I chose not to taste because, even though I'd hated him, the rooster had been an acquaintance...
