in Life's name and for Life's sake

So...getting back in the swing of things here. Everyone just moved in today (as in all of the other people at Berkeley) and classes start Wednesday. That is not enough time for me to do all of the things that I need to do between now and then, of course. It's not a long list but it's rather meaty. Ugh.

Met the other people on my floor today, and as far as I can tell, almost every last one of them is a stereotypical jock. I'm not trying to make assumptions or be critical, but when all of the questions to the RA were about how lax she's going to be about drinking in the dorms, and when they all listed "partying" as one of their major hobbies, I stopped liking them. Well, not all. The student health worker who lives on our floor is a total sweetheart, and there are one or two other girls and guys who I don't know yet but who seem decent at least. The thing that annoys me is that all of the jocks already know each other, and for the most part are living with people they already know, and as a result the floor is going to be cliquey.

In other news, I'm having problems with my laptop touchpad. Yes, that would be the touchpad that I was having problems with before the laptop got sent in to be totally reconditioned. The touchpad that I told them to replace, but that they didn't. I'm hoping I can make things work by just reinstalling the driver, but I've had too many touchpad issues in the past, of the kind that make it impossible for me to use the computer without attaching a mouse, which I don't own.

In other other news, I still don't have pictures of my room. I really have been meaning to take some and get them up, I'm just lazy and it'll probably take me a while. Suffice it to say that it's big enough for all of you to come and visit!

Later I will post an entry that contains pictures as well as an awesome personality test thing that we did as part of my tutor training here that is rather accurate and very interesting, I think. But right now, I'm off to reinstall the driver that will (fingers crossed) solve Fitz's problems.

Oh, I lied: Riders of the Storm (Julie E. Czerneda's newest book) comes out September 2nd!!! I'm so excited I'm using multiple exclamation points, an offense that generally apalls the writer in me!!!

Things I will probably/hopefully/really ought to do today:

--laundry
--read Part 4 of Gulliver's travels
--read Chapter 13 for History
--read at least one of the primary source docs for History
--write something, even if it has nothing to do with the creative writing exercise I'm supposed to have done by Sunday
--write in my journal for my language & tech seminar
--finish labeling map for map quiz
--breathe
--eat a large and unrushed meal
--take a nap
--write more real letters to people

I hope I don't seem too stressed to everyone. Really, I'm doing well. And I don't have more club meetings until...Tuesday, I think. That should be a good thing.

I'll probably post more about my life tomorrow morning before breakfast...they don't start serving on weekends until 10:30! And of course I wake up before that so this gives me something to do.

I'm sitting here at 7:30 in the morning listening to an Astronomy class podcast (because I didn't go to the class yesterday) while licking peanut butter off a plastic spoon for breakfast.

Yes guys, I'm in college.

(And I'm annoyed that I missed the total lunar eclipse but I REALLY NEEDED TO SLEEP.)

Also, Shannen -- if you're ever bored and want to listen to a very enthusiastic astronomer, go here: http://webcast.berkeley.edu/course_details.php?seriesid=1906978460.  I might not end up taking this course this semester, but the professor sounds really amazing...

Yesterday was my last real day of high school, and I don't know what to do.

Unlike most people, I've never taken  too well to summers.  I mean, I like them because they give me free time to do things I want to do rather than things I have to do.  But they also make me feel undefined.  I've always defined myself to a large extent by school.  I'm a student, I'm a learner, I'm a pupil.  I go to Del Cerro, I go to La Paz, I go to Mission.  But the transitions from one to another aren't always smooth.  I'm reminded of something from Beverly Cleary's book called Ramona Quimby, Age Eight.  The main character didn't liked it when people asked her what grade she was in during the summer months, because she felt like she couldn't give the right answer.  She wasn't in second grade -- she'd already finished with that -- but she wasn't in third grade -- it was still off in her future.

That feeling of gradelessness, of a lack of definition, is what is starting to set in already, and it's one of the things I don't like.

But back to Friday.  The hardest part was without a doubt the fact that I had to leave my teachers.  I'm not worried about leaving my friends.  I have come to understand over the past few years that friendships that are meant to be will last.  This doesn't mean that they won't require time and effort...but if you want it to happen, then you will put the time and effort into it, and it will.  However, the same can't really be said of the teachers I know.  Sure, I'll come back to visit them, but it will be a return as an outsider.  I will never again be their student in truth, though I will always feel like it in my heart.

And it feels like there are things they could have still taught me, things that I need to learn from them, but that I never will, because now I'm gone.  When I see my favorite teachers again, it will be through a new lens, and I'm not sure I'm ready for that.  And it's not just the teachers I've had this year, like Fukuda, Koger, and Krucli -- the realization is there when I thnk of teachers I've had in past years, like the McClures or Vargish or skinny Moore, who will never again be just a few classrooms away.  In the past I've never really left the teachers I've loved.  Now, I have to.

And part of me knows that I have to, part of me understands that it's a part of my personal journey, part of me knows that there really isn't anything else left for them to teach.  On a basic level, I can comprehend that there is something bigger than Mission Viejo High School calling to me, and that it is a call I will need to answer.  The things I have learned along the way will be used to help me through the road of trials that lies ahead.  I know that by holding on to these teachers, and by feeling that there is still something they have to teach me, I am refusing the call.  I know that this must stop if I am to grow up and become my own person.

But I also know that the journey will change me, and I'm worried that once I cross the return threshold and come back to see them in a few months or a year, everything will have changed and they will no longer mean to me what they once did.  I'm afraid that their significance will diminish with distance, and I desperately don't want that to happen, because they have shaped my life so greatly and I don't know how I could continue to be the person that I am if I forgot them.  

So I won't forget them.  

I won't forget Mr. Koger's crazy stories about the time his friends backpacked through Europe, or his guitar skills, or his flattery, or the way it feels to hug him.  

I won't forget Mr. Krucli's ability to let us teach ourselves and to honestly and openly discuss literature with us as though we were his equals in age and knowledge, nor will I forget his smile or his odd anecdotes or his tendency to form personal relationships with his students.  

I won't forgeth Mr. Fukuda's "mkays," or the way he always hassled me about my calculator, or the way that he seemed genuinely proud of everything his students managed to do right.  

I won't forget Mr. Vargish's ability to make history come alive, or his trademark sayings, or his genuine affection for me and that one hug I got from him, or the way he teared up at the end of Casablanca.  

I won't forget Mrs. McClure's unwavering support for all of my English efforts, or the way she's been a part of my life since freshman year, or her uncanny ability to draw me into a conversation that will last much longer than it needs to.  

I won't forget Mr. McClure's laughter, or his recitation of poetry, or his impossible style of teaching that nonetheless brought out the best in all of his students and helped them to never fear English again.  

I won't forget Mr. Mark Moore, for his ridiculous school spirit, or for acting like everyone's best great-uncle, or for being genuinely excited about the math that he taught, even if others didn't see it.  

I can't forget them all, because I am them all.  They are as much a part of me as my friends and my family; to borrow a phrase from Julie E. Czerneda, they too are my heart-kin.  Forgetting them?  Why, that would be impossible.

Dammit, college is confusing.  Now that I'm in, you'd think it got easier, but no, there's so many things to learn and understand, and it's maybe just a little overwhelming.

Take, for instance, the act of registering for classes.  I'm not going to be able to go do Berkeley for their student orientation day (at least, I don't think so) so I'm pretty much on my own for a lot of this stuff.  So I try to do the student advising online demo, but it's set up for people who aren't sure what they want to major in yet.  I know for a fact I'm going to major in English, minor in creative writing, and major or minor in history.  I don't need to spend time exploring majors.  Things aren't going to change for me; I want to start right in on getting all my requirements out of the way.

But this isn't like high school where there's only one path you can take for each potential objective you wish to fulfill.  There's a bajillion things I could do.

And that's the problem, because while I've gotten some good advice, I don't know everything, and it seems like some of the enrolling process is stacked against me.  For instance, freshmen seminar and discovery courses aren't online yet for the fall semester.  And the writing course I want to take is application-based, but the application isn't available online -- you have to pick it up in person at Berkeley.  Oh, and it's due by April 19th.  There goes that plan.

Why is this so annoying and difficult?

I'm going to Berkeley. I sent in my Statement of Intent to Register yesterday. I tried to send out e-mails to all of you to let you know I'm all right, and what I've decided, but I'm realizing I don't have all your addresses so I figured I'd post up here, too.

Yesterday sucked, as far as days go, but everything's over and there's no turning back now. I don't think I need condolences or congratulations any more. At least I can talk about it without feeling like crying.

Last night the thought that kept going through my head was, "I worked my ass off for this?" But this morning, it's easier to realize the answer is "Yes, sort of." Because if I hadn't worked this hard, I don't know if I would have even gotten this far. It's one of those cases, I think, where setting high expectations might be more painful, but ultimately it allows for more personal growth. At least, this is what I tell myself.

So really guys, I'm okay.  I hope you all are, too.

Of course, I should have been spending the last two hours studying for the hardest chemistry test of the year.  Instead, I have spent them re-reading a Phantom of the Opera fanfic and creating a new userpic.  Oh, and having a conversation with Rachna about college sweatshirts.

So I got into Berkeley.  I went up to LA today for the interview for the Regent's/Chancellor's Scholarship and the lady who signed me in shook my hand and said, "I want to be the first person to congratulate you on your acceptance to this school."  Dad was there with me and he was freaking out, because Berkeley's his Alma Mater and I'm sure he'd like to see me go there. 

But (and I feel like an unappreciative freak for saying this) I wasn't freaking out.  In a way, I'd been expecting it.  "So I'm into Berkeley," I've been thinking.  "So what?"  True, I'd like to go there; true, out of the colleges that have accepted me at the moment, it's undoubtedly the one I'm going to (did I mention I also got into Santa Barbara?).  But I'm not excited.  I don't feel happy for myself.  I don't feel any different than I did before I knew for sure that I'd been accepted.  It's not a big deal.

And I think it's because of my expectations.  I've set them so high...when I set them I didn't think they were impossible.  When I fell in love with Stanford, I didn't realize it was the one thing I wanted that I wouldn't get.  But regardless of how well I set my expectations, they're set, and I'm realizing that nothing short of being accepted to Stanford will make me happy.  I know universities other than Stanford will make me happy -- Berkeley's a good example of that -- but the finding out, the "oh my god I got in" moment, will only happen if I get into Stanford.  

If.  I hate that word.  It means there's something I don't know.  In a way it's possibilities -- but not just for good.  Bad stuff can happen to an "if," not just good stuff.  "If" might mean anything.  And a lot of "anything" sucks.  

I hate it that I can't feel proud of my own accomplishments.  In a way, though, it's why I'm here.  I'm always trying to do something better, no matter what it is.  When I accomplish one thing, I'm already looking ahead to the next.  That's how I am in writing, certainly -- I have moments where I allow myself to feel excited, but also sometimes I just get right on working with the next project, the next set of characters and turns of phrase.  It's what's gotten me this far: my ability to keep reaching outward and outward, to set my standards higher and higher.  Which is why it feels so shitty when I can't reach them, or I'm not sure if I've reached them, or I should have reached them but someone on the outside says I haven't, except for some stupid reason or another, what they have to say matters more than what I know.  I hate that.

I think, though, once again, that it's too much a part of me to get rid of.  I've always been about impossible dreams.  I see myself most clearly in the third-grader who came home from school one day to tell mommy and daddy that she'd be a published writer when she grew up; in the fifth-grader who began the creation of an entire fantasy world from scratch; in the seventh-grader who picked up those fifth-grade characters and worlds and thought she could resurrect them and turn them into something worthwhile; in the ninth-grader who re-resurrected the same story and decided she would have it written and published before she graduated high school.  I see myself most clearly in these shadow dreams, goals I once had.  In writing, I've been able to compromise with myself -- I've been able to talk myself out of some of my more ridiculous goals, which has made the intermediary milestones seem more important.  But I don't think I've been able to do that with college, because I'm not excited about Berkeley, and I don't think I will be unless (until?) it's the last choice I have left.

My life hasn't been to insanely busy lately, but my thoughts have been. I feel like, even when I'm sitting still, they're all buzzing around, vying for my attention. There are so many things I want to do, even at this particular moment: read, write, talk on the phone, watch a movie, organize my binders, study math. And there are so many things that sometimes it's difficult to decide which of them is most important.

We did a socratic seminar today on Einstein's "Science and Religion," which I really liked. A lot of what he says is stuff I can agree with, especially about the nature of religion. My favorite line, out of the entire piece, is without a doubt

"For a doctrine which is able to maintain itself not in clear light but only in the dark, will of necessity lose its effect on mankind, with incalculable harm to human progress."

It's what I've always been trying to say about religion -- no matter what you believe in, if your beliefs don't hold up to the light, it's time you question them. If you've never tried to hold them up against that clarity, then start. If people don't realize that faith has to make some sense, we'll keep going on with this whole nonsense of religious wars for ever. Sheesh!

I'm too easily distracted, which is part of my problem. I wanted to read, then I wanted to write, but I always feel like I never have enough time to really read and become absorbed by it, or to write and get to the point where the words flow effortlessly. But should it matter that the words are hard sometimes, if I'm not with them long enough? I should still be able to shape them, or let them shape me.

I want to write a novel. If wishes were novels, I'd be as prolific as McCaffrey, or Asimov! But wishes aren't novels, though novels are the answers to some wishes.

I want to write something that's important to more people than just me. I want to write something that leaves the proverbial sock drawer of my existence. I wonder what Harvard will think of "Fire and Ice" (one of my short stories I sent in as an additional submission with the application). I wonder if they'll like it or not. I wonder if The New Yorker would like it. I wonder why I haven't just submitted it and given it a try already. I wonder why I'm letting the world in on my wonderings. Dammit, I want an audience bigger than this, a stage larger, and this is getting me nowhere closer to it!

But at least I want, and wonder, and wish -- because the real problem is with the absence of desire, the lack of will, that leads to death and obscurity. God, let me never fear that worst of darknesses.