Or rather I felt compelled to write a decent LJ entry, because I know you all are hanging on my every profound word. Ah, my razor sharp wit, isn’t it grand?
Good news included: me making the OU statewide honors orchestra, me making third chair in chamber (surprise surprise) and I dropped physics. The first two are rather self-explanatory. The third was because I am blindingly dumb in science, end story.
At the urging of several people, I watched Lost. It made no sense to me, but I need to know what happens next. I also watched CSI. All I have to say on that is:
Okay Catherine. We know you have husband issues. We know you have daddy issues. We get the picture: you don’t get on with men that well. So where, where did this thing with Warric come from? Not only are you about twenty, thirty years older than him, it’s positively incestuous.
Incest. I insist. They are family. You cannot dissuade me of this opinion. Grissom is papa, Catherine is the mother (as she is the all purpose stripper-turned-motherly-figure), Warric is the oldest son, Nick’s the second son by a very small margin, old enough to be on equal footing with Warric but young enough to be snarky with his little sister Sarah. And Greg? Greg’s either the youngest son or the family puppy. One of the two. Or that was my understanding during the first season.
Catherine, you do not fall in love with your oldest son! It is wrong. Everything should go the way I want it, in my mind. I’m still doubting the veracity of Warric getting married. Really. Grah…poo on Catherine
And, my essay of experience from Research and Exposition, because it amuses me and I’m under the impression that someone cares:
Big Brother Is Watching You, Still
It stared up at me, bland words on an equally bland background of eggshell white. Well, once it was white, now it’s more of a brownish gray. What do you expect from a book published in the early ‘60s? It has that moldering, ancient smell to it, the kind that books get after changing hand up on hand over about four decades. Sure, it’s not as fashionable or eye-catching as the newer versions, but the bland cover still insists on staring up at me with a blatant statement that should be familiar to most everyone, if not quite on the level of familiarity as say, a pair of well-worn slippers, but as least as familiar as the concept of gravity: sure, you may not know the exact meters per second but you get the basic idea that gravity is there and it does things. That’s similar to this statement, 1984. Up until last spring, I was about as familiar with 1984 as I was with the intricacies of gravity, that is to say, I wasn’t very familiar at all.
Published in 1949 by an Englishman named Eric Blair under the well-known pseudonym of “George Orwell,” 1984 is a memorable book, a frustrating book, a book that, in my senselessly puerile terms “ate my brains,” and I kid you not, it truly did ingest the gray matter in my head. Ingested it, digested it and then spit it back out in the form of something more similar to gray mush. Reading that book bludgeoned my poor psyche (most notably the part that has at least a scintilla of faith in human nature) to the point that if my brain, the metaphorical part that does all the thinking as opposed to the hunk of tissues itself, was a palpable thing it would be nothing but a pile of mutilated entrails lying on a slaughterhouse floor read to be devoured by voracious microorganisms which exist for the sole purpose of decomposition. One would probably prefer to think that I’m kidding. I assure the one that doubts, I am very serious.
It’s funny to think that a piece of literature can actually have significance in someone’s life, especially when it’s fictional, but 1984 really impacted me, probably more than I, even now, realize. I mean, it’s more than just having that astounding epiphany that wow, we’re sniveling, whiney pigs, it’s broadening your horizons so that when someone murmurs something about “Big Brother” your eyes light up with a kind of private knowledge that only the teenage intelligentsia possesses. Basically, it’s a form of elitism. Granted, it’s dorky elitism, but it is elitism none the less. Thought police, inner party, doublethink - when it comes down to it, knowing what these buzzwords mean allow you to present a more erudite façade to society in general. I guess the point it to say, reading 1984 was a very significant experience for me, of course it took me a while before I realized just how significant.
There comes a time when your obsession, or rather your preoccupation, with something becomes so strong that it hits you, like a blatant, open-handed slap in the face. The reason that it’s such a blatant, open-handed slap is because up until said point of revelation you haven’t realized just how much your mind is focused on that certain subject. With 1984 that slap came, rather unexpectedly, when I opened up a CD case and put it in, well, what you generally put CDs in: a CD player. The CD in question happens to be Radiohead’s latest album Hail to the Thief and is absolutely consumed with partially-veiled references to 1984. I could go into a long dissertation on them, but I find that rather unnecessary, instead, I have to say, as soon as I read the title to the first song 2 + 2 = 5 my brain when haywire, and essentially melted. I’ve been making those kinds of connections ever since. I mean, I can’t say I’ve been drastically changed in my basic character by the book, but I have been more or less possessed by the fervor that Orwell portrays in his utterly mind-numbing dystopia. So, I say that reading 1984 is probably one of the most significant events that have happened to me as of late, I mean, I’d say having your brain gnawed on by a piece of literature is significant, wouldn’t you?