Well, first, the Mock Trial season ended unceremoniously, as it usually does. We played Frederick High School (I think?) in the Circuit Championship and lost, 50-52 - though, in an act of special frustration for us, we were awarded the "who did better overall"/tie-breaker point. With our 7-1 record, we were still in the running for the "wild card" spot in the elite eight (hehe... I've always loved the real shared terminology with March Madness, like "seeded," and the simultaneity of it; while we toil in our grandiose obscurity, half the country is watching 16 other teams get pared down). Anyway, we lost that chance as well - by .5 of a point, determined by our average score in preceding matches. It was nice, this year, that the shock of loss didn't come all at once; we had a week between the Frederick match and Regionals notification, during which I grew accustomed to not playing two draining, three-hour matches a week.


My sense of loss now is largely for the social aspect of Mock Trial. I joined as a freshman and learned, in four years, to feel competent and useful - and to have a sense of pride in and membership to a set of incredibly cool, talented people. I had friends and comfortable acquaintances: Sandy, of course, was my Best Mock Trial Friend (we've been passing mean notes and punning since sophomore year), but I'll also miss the company of Lijia and Amanda, and others. Honestly, I miss the excuse to talk to people I wouldn't otherwise know; Sandy, at least, is still my Diff Eq buddy/favorite person to discuss IB English with/role model in generally harmless driving illegalities.


To cope with my new sense of purposelessness and undefined roles (as a second-semester senior long ago accepted into college), I joined the Hello, Dolly! props crew in earnest. School is a sham, lately, at least for me; I suffered a two-week bout with burn-out (I guess?), where I had plenty of time to do my homework and no particular inclination to do anything but sleep and wake up desperate. I stayed home one day and did roughly 15 hours of backlogged homework, attempting to salvage what I assumed were lousy grades in every one of my classes - and was shocked to discover, after the fact, that I have either straight A's or one B in Diff Eq. I feel, as I tried to explain to Seth, the guilt of undeserved privilege; the teachers are just enabling us (grin). And so I turned to the Spring musical for honest labor and meaning through ritual. I constructed about twenty waiters' platters, and painted various articles, and purchased drama supplies at Party City. I consider these things more moral than the decadent slacking to which I could easily succumb.


Drama club, however, is something of a test to an eighteen-year-old introvert. I told Dena, half-kidding, that I felt too old to meet new people; everyone is so young (the seniors are mostly leads or uninvolved), and I perceive myself sometimes as a mess of incompetence and unbelonging: I don't know where anything goes, I don't know who anyone is, I monopolize the people I do know, I stumble through small-talk with relative strangers. However, it's getting better constantly. I feel comfortable with my crewmates, Mel and Heather, and they provide a focused sense of community. I'm starting to become cognizant of backstage ritual and the tenor of interaction (when to work/when to goof off), and, in spite of my defeatist interior monologue, I am meeting new people, and nice ones. Hehe, I feel like all of those preceding paragraphs were just context for what I've been doing lately, outside of the normal stream of narrative. I'll tell stories later (probably today, even).

You're all the things I've got to remember

I can't conceive of the world situation clearly enough to say anything new. Dena and I discussed an infectious irrationality and pessimism, moving everywhere - that, and my unexpected fear of watching the bombs fall on Friday (I assumed I was desensitized) are all I know absolutely. I'll narrate the small stuff instead: I had a lovely date on Sunday instead of reading Dawidowicz. I eventually somewhat read Dawidowicz, but my grade will certainly reflect my misplaced priorities for Sunday afternoons. The weather was warm and windy, and Seth and I walked along Bethesda streets, scoping out (uniformly closed) second hand stores, before finally sitting in the stone gazebo - sandwiched between a playground and Bethesda Library. In the early summer last year, we made a similar circuit almost daily; the city seemed wide and new, or maybe I was finally paying attention to it. On Sunday, I lost track of time and place, confusing last year's springtime optimism for this year's; it's the same bright blur of inactivity and potential.


I said to Sandy, in the car on the way to our Frederick match, "Math [or Hemingway or whatever scholastic thing interests me at the moment] is the only thing that makes me productively happy." To Dena and Alison, I've been plotting sleepovers and late-night ice cream stops and walking (and singing!) along the towpath at the canal. I've felt so stunted and moody and strange lately; I need to (abashedly) recover my grades for fourth quarter, but I also need to experience, firsthand, the restorative power of good weather. I returned home on Sunday for family dinner with my aunt and uncle. I was fidgety and quiet, I think, because I was still focused on the apparent redundancy of my good mood; it seemed nothing important had changed between last May and this March, and that my mental state was merely a product of the seasons. I felt I'd woken up, for the first time since last summer, and been surprised/dubious that my life had gone on in the interim.


Anyway, I returned to school Monday and taught myself, annoyedly, to do homework again. I did mediocre, exhausted work on a variety of things; I feel sharper now, for whatever that's worth (I still have a math test, a physics test, a CNQ, and maybe another mock trial through which to show my new respect for honest labor). I did, however, cut sixth and seventh periods on Monday to see the Oxford a cappella group Out of the Blue. Live performance by the attractive and dorky has been a singular pleasure of the past few weeks - and they sang such favorite songs of mine as "Otherside" and "Take On Me"! I periodically feel a blanket respect for art, for its ability to compel potent, unselfish emotion and for its production by ordinary humans. I marveled at what a wonderfully appealing song "Take On Me" is.

In response to Tara's post (though I'd wanted to write about Hemingway this week anyway): I really do appreciate AFTA now, and even half-way understand it. I remember Madame Bovary was considered novel, partly, for its manipulation of diction; Flaubert created a web of context and connotation, that linked discrete textual passages and constructed a psychological outline of Emma. Hemingway, too, is economical and (at times) brutally precise about word choice - but his psychological portrait is so much more compelling, for me anyway, because the emotional cues are supplied well in advance of the relevant events. By the time the actual stimulus occurs, there's only a strange and terrible numbness - description largely devoid of emotion, so that the intuitively shocking or beautiful is straight plot summary. I reread in class the passage that Tara quoted, and then I read the passage I’ve quoted below - and I felt the first vague stirrings, for Hemingway, of my usual wonder at "real" art.

We slept when we were tired and if we woke the other one woke too so one was not alone. Often a man wishes to be alone and a girl wishes to be alone too and if they love each other they are jealous of that in each other, but I can truly say we never felt that. We could feel alone when we were together, alone against the others. It has only happened to me like that once. I have been alone while I was with many girls and that is the way that you can be most lonely. But we were never lonely and never afraid when we were together. I know that the night is not the same as the day: that all things are different, that the things of the night cannot be explained in the day, because they do not then exist, and the night can be a dreadful time for lonely people once their loneliness has started. But with Catherine there was almost no difference in the night except that it was an even better time. If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.

I love this passage dearly for two reasons: first, it fits so neatly into the novel, with links that are clear and necessary. The casual reference to Tara's passage recalls directly all of that nighttime thrill and debauchery and daytime emptiness and clarity... and resolves it at once with cheerful understatement; also, the closing lines approach actual emotional resolution for the novel's end (!!), almost 100 pages beforehand. My other reason for liking the passage, I suppose, is more of a "private response" thing. While I was reading, I was troubled by (what I perceived to be) Hemingway's conception of life/love: existence without the possibility of fulfillment, "love" as base sexual satisfaction. This passage is the best evidence I've found that Lt. Henry loves Catherine, and that their love fulfills him. In the context of senseless violence and arbitrary tragedy (the general state of AFTA), the earnestness of the last few lines is just so appealing.

With regard to my new appreciation of AFTA's charm and structural complexity, as represented by a single passage (grin):

SaffyCat: the passage you quoted is my second-favorite passage
SaffyCat: my favorite passage references it
smiletara: :-) which is your favorite?
[I paste it in]
smiletara: when I checked out farewell to arms at the library a week ago
smiletara: I wrote out two passages from it
smiletara: the one you just quoted was the second one :-)
SaffyCat: that pleases me
smiletara: me too :-)

P.S. RM's Mock Trial Team won the county championship. We're all very happy, because now we'll get to go to Law Day and be presented with plaques and a good square meal and as much free stuff as we can steal from the marketing stands outside. Last year I got a boomerang. :-)

P.P.S. Explanatory note: Kiss = quick, friendly peck. That was somewhat unclear.

LATER NOTE (8:55 PM March 17 - final one on this topic, ever!): For now, I decided it's worth the potential misunderstanding to tell a story that I like. Both Alison and Seth, among others I know, belong to that category of people who I feel genuinely lucky to see every day, and watch their antics and hopefully get involved. As a general rule, I don't post how I feel about Seth, because I'm squeamish about sentimentality; I haven't felt the same inhibitions with Alison because my interest in her is unromantic.


As a matter of context, the boys in Madrigals and drama have frequently toyed with homoeroticism - and in public places (i.e., onstage with the T-tones' "Lumberjack Song"). The prospect of parity for girls is, I'll admit, intriguing (grin). Anyway, it seems, to me, fairly wholesome and harmless - and more about the congregation of emotive drama kids than any particular latent homosexuality. I hope I clarified a bit; if I’m confusing or offensive, please tell me rather than, um, be quietly offended.

"BRAHHCIOS: negligent/reactionary breakfast cereal"

After I posted on Saturday, I was unexpectedly called by Seth and invited for a night on the town. I say "unexpectedly," because romantic dates have been a casualty of our monstrous busyness - and because I was already in my pajamas and settling down to not read A Farewell to Arms (I've subsequently read most of it, though I'm still sullenly railing against Hemingway in the hallway after English). Seth's mother, a committee chairperson of the group of Parents with Kids Going to Italy, had entrusted him with two pick-ups of food donations for Sunday's "International Buffet"/mid-year concert. I put on clothes and rode along, and performed such vital operations as recollecting spilled egg rolls en route, when a Styrofoam container popped open in the backseat. After our chore was done, we rented Love and Death, and I laughed a lot but can't remember why.


On Sunday, we performed in our mid-year concert; it was devoted, this year, to fundraising for the Italy trip, which may or may not have been cancelled two days later (MCPS mandate - sigh). Regardless, we raised a lot of money for the choral program, and experienced lovely entertainment and food. There were balloons and Christmas lights strung up along the hallway between A1 and A3. Natalie D. remarked that it looked like a "children's Las Vegas," but I appreciated the attempt at ambience (grin). After dinner, Resonance gave a somewhat unsteady rendition of "Killing Me Softly," with Alison and me as bass - just like Seth (we figured), but considerably less audible.


On Tuesday, the six Madrigals in Mr. Baron's third period, including Alison and me, took a brutal make-up Palmer - truncated to eight questions, one of which wasn't from the assigned chapter (the Allied commander of Pacific forces: Nimitz, as we all now know). Alison and I commiserated and conspired to spend our (combined) fifteen dollars forgetting our troubles at a secondhand store. I found a nice red sweater for four dollars, and we discussed boys and literature. We then went back to her home and ate Cheerios and did Diff Eq homework, and we talked seriously about our marriage.


Wednesday was, I suppose, the most exciting day of the week, for reasons that also concern Alison (grin). We left during lunch for Choral Day at Blake; our performance was mediocre but not unexpectedly so. Seth and Chris were giving each other piggyback rides on the front walkway, when they encountered two other friendly, male choral students. One boy discreetly asked if Seth was gay/available. I was understandably furious. "I never get hit on by girls," I said bitterly on the way to sight singing. Natalie and Dena offered empty (and somewhat perplexed) expressions of sympathy. Alison, however, gave me a big kiss on the cheek. I turned to the other girls, ecstatic: "Alison just gave me a kiss!" They laughed. I repeated the news to Seth. He said, "Dammit," and grinned somewhat lasciviously.


I whispered to Alison, in between periods of singing, that Seth and I had reached an agreement whereby I'm allowed to kiss a girl. Seth has kissed, among other boys, Elliot T., Jeff K., and Hank (on the cheek). I considered this inequitable. Alison replied cheerfully, "Let's do it, after Choral Day." I was thrilled, and told her so. Returning to Rockville and Vignola's, that traditional choral hideout for sixth and seventh periods, we located a table full of Madrigals girls and Nick B. I was oddly jittery and conscious of my chapped lips, as if on a first date; Alison said something to that effect as well. She also said that it was important that we practice before we demonstrated for Seth. We kissed in plain view but were uniformly ignored by our dubious-yet-permissive friends.


Back at school, we searched for Seth but couldn't find him. Alison said, "Even if we can't find Seth, we'd better kiss again. I don't think I could stand the tension, like in Lolita." I agreed, and so we stood at the foot of the main stairwell, while the last trickle of people pushed past us for the buses, and kissed again. Then I went home (grin). Yesterday, I went to a party where I recounted that story gleefully. It was a typical Bivalve affair - a confusion of physical violence and tasteless jokes and that unending analogy game. I told Seth that I was looking forward to blogging my kissing-Alison story, so I could end with a Hello, Dolly! reference. "Har har," he said, semi-approvingly, though I liked the idea.

Heh, well, I never got back to that post. It's been a tough week, with two taxing mock trials and various choral practices and performances. My dear Mock Trial Team is now 5-0, having won our first playoff match against G-burg. Next match is Monday, where I only have to spectate (I do this best, anyway). For those who care, the other teams in the final four are: Whitman, Churchill, and QO - we're playing QO, and it's certainly a blessing to be seeded first and have the other most intimidating teams devour each other.


Lolita is still progressing slowly. I have a visceral reaction to this book that I so far haven't duplicated in reading other things; I made reference in my U of C application, based on my memory of the book at age sixteen, to the "exuberance of language, unforced and conscious of its own sophistication." At eighteen, I better understand Nabokov's manipulation of language - it's language that's shimmery but obscurant, dubiously communicative but achingly beautiful and strangely exciting for its phrasing alone. Nabokov manages to communicate by proxy, compelling uncertain, insecure impression by describing too much to interpret directly. Alison and my literary conclusion: it shore beats Hemingway.

SaffyCat: hehe... finish lolita quick, so it'll stop being a temptation
madhatter0330: im getting there
madhatter0330: but farewell to arms aint so bad
SaffyCat: yes, it's all right
SaffyCat: but i disagree with it
madhatter0330: what do you disagree?
SaffyCat: i don't see much evidence of an underlayer of important psychological truth
madhatter0330: underwear, perhaps
madhatter0330: Catherine says"oh i feel like a whore"
SaffyCat: but i don't want to see anyone's psychological underwear, let alone hemingway's
SaffyCat: i want psychological overcoats
madhatter0330: psychological hats
SaffyCat: yes, with wide brims
madhatter0330: mmmhmmm

As for what I would have posted last week, I went to my first concert on Saturday. They Might Be Giants, at DC's 9:30 Club. It was probably an ideal First Concert experience, except maybe for the lateness (John & John came on at 11:30, and played until around 1:30 AM). There was confetti, which I grabbed handfuls of and made a collection in my pockets, and adoring bouncing-up-and-down to such favorites as "Birdhouse in your Soul" - that perfect expression of mingled charm and strangeness (er, b/c partical physics = "Partical Man"?). I was thrilled, albeit somewhat exhausted, and Seth harmonized in my ear and kissed my shoulder during the "romantic" songs. Overall, a super night - and well worth the hoarse voice and ridiculous rat icons, which were stamped on my hands to preclude me buying alcohol.

All I know is that while the Haze woman and I went down the steps into the breathless garden, my knees were like reflections of knees in rippling water, and my lips were like sand, and--

"That was my Lo," she said, "and these are my lilies."

"Yes," I said, "yes. They are beautiful, beautiful, beautiful!"

I'm sorry for the unusually long delay between posts, but I didn't let myself blog until my History IA was done, and then I was in a terrible mood and wanted to spare you that. My IA was originally due on Tuesday, February 18 - but a huge winter storm gave us President's Day Week, and of course I didn't finish writing until practically a week later. I amused myself with semi-appropriate register, i.e.:


"[Conquest and Rogovin] identify two types of Stalin adherents: those who accepted the myth of a higher purpose and discharged their duties faithfully, and those opportunists who sought to profit from association with the most powerful bully in Soviet politics. The former were moral and psychological victims of Stalin’s machinations from the start; the latter were swept up in machinery they could not control, and ceased to execute their own will.... Biographical sketches of Stalin’s early supporters show a mix of loyal Party members and the thuggish, career-minded type.... The question of who was complicit in the Great Terror becomes particularly relevant in light of the fact that Stalin’s cronies were his successors – the policymakers of the mid-Twentieth Century, 'tainted,' Rogovin asserts, by 'participating in the Stalinist crimes.'"


Well, at least I amuse myself (grin). It wasn't a stretch to call these men names, though; the historical account is full of darkly hilarious tales of misanthropic, amoral dweebs. For example, Robert Conquest writes, "A recent Soviet account speaks of [Yezhov's] 'low moral qualities' and 'sadistic inclinations; 'women working in the NKVD were frightened of meeting him in the corridors....'" Oh, I want to be a historian and find the sex offenders of large-scale tragedy! Otherwise, I spent that idle week with Seth and, when alone, playing massive amounts of Insane Aquarium - so much so that I would close my eyes and see green fish-shapes in need of feeding, projected onto my eyelids.


The subsequent week was my bad-mood week - for no good reason, except that I periodically feel anonymous and isolated. I have a mental block about relating to other people, I think, that's probably self-perpetuating. I get frustrated with myself, and lonely and self-pitying, and work myself into a state. It's the same silly teenager crap that plagues practically everyone, but I have unusually poor mood control and a great capacity for the maudlin. A conversation on Friday got me out of it, and it was like turning on a light switch, illuminating a room. I reread a great deal of Lolita (quoted above) that day, and talked with Christine for the first time in months.


With regard to Christine: I admire her, but she makes me feel helpless. It seems grim, to me, to accept Christianity fully and feel compelled, all at once, to convert her best friend. We were so close in middle school, but (I learned later) she was terribly unhappy; religion, for her, has meant real happiness - but incompatible worldviews for the two of us, and perhaps an insuperable barrier to honest communication. I miss her, and feel ambiguously towards evangelical Christianity. I also feel quietly guilty that she's always the one to call me, when she does. As usual, this post is getting too long - so I'll catch up, later, on the last day or so.