Sunday, June 15, 2008

Truth

Mom told me that I wasn't being completely honest in my blogs. Truth be told, they called at the peak of my studying frenzy and the height of my emotional drainage. I am tired. And today just wasn't a good day.

Saturday wasn't much good either. It was fine up until lunch, but after lunch a series of unfortunate events lead to several of my photos getting corrupted and my panic was only compounded by Bunkmates incessant whiny drone filling my ears so full that there wasn't room for my own thoughts to escape. She pounded out essays against me. I was her verbal soundboard and after we were through I felt beat up and like I had wasted a whole lot of time. It was frustrating to feel like I was in a really intense study session but didn't get a whole lot out of it.

The problem lies in the flawed "discussions" we had. She likes the sound of her own voice and she loves her own ideas. She doesn't like outlines or to be bothered when she's in a "moment of inspiration." She bitterly glares at anyone who even speaks when she is really getting something good down on her computer and if you try and ask her to clarify one of her many points she gives you an annoyed eye roll coupled with a condescending answer in that all-too-familiar "I am so annoyed I could write a lyrical ballad about it" tone. The "discussions" go something like this:

(The sound of vigorous typing cuts through a silent parlor. This is the only sound during the breaks between the constant abrasive dialog. I begin to jot down a few notes in the margins of the book and tie a few points together when I am suddenly interrupted by Bunkmate in her voice that reminds me of a taut rubberband: pinched and ready to leave a sting)
- Listen to this. 'Wordsworth, in his deep understanding of innocence takes us through a stream of consciousness and [highfalutin nonsense that is more along the lines of musings rather than actually answering the prompt]. (This goes on for a good 2 minutes)
- I don't --
- EH! (Pause as she peers over her laptop with each of her white bony fingers, drumming the top of the screen before grasping the top of it and pulling it near here meanwhile never letting her eyes release their burning stare from my face.) Let me finish! (And she thrusts the screen back up into the upright position and proceeds)
- (I hunker down and wish that Mr. Apple was a big screen TV that I could use as a shelter)
- (She finishes her discourse and looks up at me, obviously pleased with herself)
- I like it, but I don't see the relevance to the style which Wordsworth uses to convey his take on innocence and experience. It all seems a little ethereal and
- (Pause. Her mouth falls open and her eyes widen.) Ugh. You just don't understand it do you? (She proceeds to type even more vigorously on her computer. I am again free to pencil in notes until, just as my brain is drawing a line between a few points, she strikes again).
- What about this? . . .
- (I start rapidly sawing at my wrists with my notebook and to no avail am left unwounded)

And thus ended the three-hundred and thirty minutes of study of the people of BYU in the land of London.

To get the rest of the complaints out in once post:
- The day started with a fire alarm in the building. No one, likes a misinformed fire alarm.
- It took us over two hours to get to church (and we were late getting there) because there was a bike race in the middle of the city. We were surrounded.
- I let pen cause a huge ink stain to form on the front of my dress
- I got volunteered t0 participate in a musical number in church and since we arrived late, we got to sightread at the pulpit. That's always cool.
- I ate too much bread
- I hate studying when all I want to do is sit outside and enjoy the little bit of time I have left.

Okay. Now I'm done and I will return to posts about sunshine and rainbows and butterflies and red balloons.

Saturday evening the study session was one million percent more effective than earlier in the day. Newfound facilitated lively discussions and I would like to publicly thank her. Dearly.

1 comment:

caro said...

even your complaints are magnificent.

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