After four days of figuring out the tangled web of dorm life and cafeteria lines and two teachers and lots of writing homework (hence the dearth of blog posts) and getting to know my three roommates, I can safely say that CSSSA is not as bad as the two "policewomen" of the place made it seem. (It's just that the campus life sucks compared to Stanford's.) So far, despite art school's reputation for being pretty dopey, I have not seen any drug use or even heard of it. The food's pretty good, and changes every day, though if you don't like the day's main course you're basically screwed (not much variety in a single meal). At first I think I wasn't eating enough vegetables or something - my mouth felt weird. Tonight I accidentally ate a vegan meal, chili beans and brown rice with sauteed vegetables and vegetable soup, and now I feel great. I love chili. Yesterday two of my roommates (one in Creative Writing with me, the other in Visual Arts - the third is in Film and already has friends in CSSSA, so she's out a lot and I haven't gotten to talk to her as much) and I ordered Thai food delivered, mainly because they both suddenly craved boba tea for whatever reason, and also because none of us had done this before and we wanted to try. That curry was good. Made me happy. Yum.
Crap the lights are out, I have to go to bed soon and I still have work to do. Uhhhhh today there was a faculty reading, basically our four Creative Writing teachers got on stage and read examples of their work aloud. I really wish I had the poet and department chair as a teacher - she was fucking brilliant (sorry cuss words proliferate a great deal around here) and hilarious as hell. My two teachers are also very good though - both playwrights/screenwrights, as it seems CSSSA has a pretty big emphasis on the film industry. It's why the school was built in the first place, according to the handbook. The fourth teacher, the short story writer, he told a story about a father and his daughter and his inability to connect with her because they lived apart, even though he loved her a lot; and for whatever reason I started to cry and I wanted to talk to my dad and make sure he knew I loved him and I really really missed him. So after, as I was walking back from the reading to my dorm, I called my parents up and then started bawling like a baby as I tried to say, "Hi Daddy." My mom is probably reading this, though, haha - I love her too. I have such a great family. In my memoir class, I realized what a perfect life I've had: loving, stable family, great grades to compliment a great education, never ever had to worry about money. This is probably where all my problems come from, oddly enough. In my lack of problems. I'm gradually learning how to make use of my advantages though - there was a speech my older sister showed me that dealt with this too. Later when the lights are on I'll post the link. 'Night.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Sunday, July 14, 2013
In Summation
Let me tell you about EPGY.
A small group of brilliant kids all around your age come from incredibly diverse backgrounds all around the world meet in Stanford to study something you love. You have a plethora of counselors who also work as teacher assistants and your awesome older siblings, so they can help with both life problems and academic questions. The first few days you're given a tour of the campus structured as a game and led cheerfully from place to place so even the most directionally challenged person won't get lost. Activities and having fun and making friends are strictly enforced, with plenty of student input of course. The food is great, the campus is beautiful, the dorms are homes away from home, the instructors are among the best. It's impossible not to enjoy your stay.
For me, EPGY was probably the most incredible writing experience I have every had, not just because it revolutionized the way I see short stories and poetry (particularly poetry), but also because of the atmosphere of freedom, friendship, and pursuing a passion together. After the first few days counselors didn't follow us around to class anymore, so it was remarkably easy to skip class - but it never even crossed our minds. We have our fun, but we all know what we're here for. When I sat down to dinner and for the first time saw all my friends start talking about the art of literature, I realized I was exactly where I wanted to be. The camp felt like a bubble of intellectual delight. I was also lucky enough to be in (we call ourselves) the best house in EPGY: the Creative Writing and Anthropology people were so sweet and funny and smart, and the counselors too. I still talk to the people I met there and still love them very much.
I'm writing this in CSSSA, actually. There are 73 creative writers here, not fifteen. Yesterday for orientation we were told, "Your roommate is not your best friend, so don't tell her you're having sex with your boyfriend," and then we were lectured for another twenty minutes not to use drugs (but if we hand over whatever drugs we brought by 9:30 pm they'd turn a blind eye). Yeah, I miss Stanford.
A small group of brilliant kids all around your age come from incredibly diverse backgrounds all around the world meet in Stanford to study something you love. You have a plethora of counselors who also work as teacher assistants and your awesome older siblings, so they can help with both life problems and academic questions. The first few days you're given a tour of the campus structured as a game and led cheerfully from place to place so even the most directionally challenged person won't get lost. Activities and having fun and making friends are strictly enforced, with plenty of student input of course. The food is great, the campus is beautiful, the dorms are homes away from home, the instructors are among the best. It's impossible not to enjoy your stay.
For me, EPGY was probably the most incredible writing experience I have every had, not just because it revolutionized the way I see short stories and poetry (particularly poetry), but also because of the atmosphere of freedom, friendship, and pursuing a passion together. After the first few days counselors didn't follow us around to class anymore, so it was remarkably easy to skip class - but it never even crossed our minds. We have our fun, but we all know what we're here for. When I sat down to dinner and for the first time saw all my friends start talking about the art of literature, I realized I was exactly where I wanted to be. The camp felt like a bubble of intellectual delight. I was also lucky enough to be in (we call ourselves) the best house in EPGY: the Creative Writing and Anthropology people were so sweet and funny and smart, and the counselors too. I still talk to the people I met there and still love them very much.
I'm writing this in CSSSA, actually. There are 73 creative writers here, not fifteen. Yesterday for orientation we were told, "Your roommate is not your best friend, so don't tell her you're having sex with your boyfriend," and then we were lectured for another twenty minutes not to use drugs (but if we hand over whatever drugs we brought by 9:30 pm they'd turn a blind eye). Yeah, I miss Stanford.
Thursday, July 4, 2013
Independence Day
Fireworks work like this: light flowers on fire and shoot them into the sky, see how high they fly. Someday they'll reach the moon, or maybe they'll come down again like shooting stars, all aflame. We pitch our fireworks into the grass and stand back, watching the spark flare up between us.
Happy Fourth of July! and i'm tired and it's late and too much poetry asdflkjldjksa, so no more update today. g'night.
Happy Fourth of July! and i'm tired and it's late and too much poetry asdflkjldjksa, so no more update today. g'night.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
Lesson 8
7/3/13
"the heart sang in the head" - Song, Brigit Pegeen Kelly
Today was basically trying to define poetry.
Oh God my head.
(Enough said.)
After lessons I drew Henna on myself and then an Anthropology professor came to visit and it was frickin awesome he gave a college lecture and talked about his past and he personally knows Tobias Wolff or something, and it was fascinating learning about human perceptions of other humans and eugenics and the Pueblo Revolt and archaeology. Cool stuff. Fed two poems and a couple story eggs. I might stick them in the incubator later.
"the heart sang in the head" - Song, Brigit Pegeen Kelly
Today was basically trying to define poetry.
Oh God my head.
(Enough said.)
After lessons I drew Henna on myself and then an Anthropology professor came to visit and it was frickin awesome he gave a college lecture and talked about his past and he personally knows Tobias Wolff or something, and it was fascinating learning about human perceptions of other humans and eugenics and the Pueblo Revolt and archaeology. Cool stuff. Fed two poems and a couple story eggs. I might stick them in the incubator later.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Lesson 7
7/2/13
"Sometimes you feel like a scientist in the middle of an experiment that no one else believes in." - Sam Beckett, Quantum Leap
Today was the last day of the short story unit. The teacher gave an inspirational talk using the above quote from Quantum Leap, and then somehow we started talking about how to maintain a lifelong marriage, and then we talked about ambition and faith and the meaning of life, and it was in my opinion a great way to end the unit.
When you get down to it, the life of an artist is really quite depressing. Rejection abounds; stories you've worked on for so long and so hard die in the blink of an eye; and even though a good story has the ability to change the world, society shoves most writers in the back corner of the room just as it uses classical music as background noise. Look over your shoulder; you are alone. There is only you and the page. The great beauty and great futility of a writer is that we must have absolute faith both in ourselves to create a work of art and in our readers to appreciate it. Before the experiment can be complete, we must go through a long and difficult process. But we keep waking up every morning, we keep setting word after word down until the blank page is full, because we are in love with the craft and there is nothing we can do about it. Nothing else completes us.
Yupyup. That was me being sentimental. You'll have to excuse me - I'm a writer. Anyways.
I'm oddly tired, so I'll be brief now. Made ice cream in the afternoon. Ran out of plastic bags - had to stir with a spoon. Cream never iced. Drank it in liquid form. It was still sweet.
Pretty sweet, no?
"Sometimes you feel like a scientist in the middle of an experiment that no one else believes in." - Sam Beckett, Quantum Leap
Today was the last day of the short story unit. The teacher gave an inspirational talk using the above quote from Quantum Leap, and then somehow we started talking about how to maintain a lifelong marriage, and then we talked about ambition and faith and the meaning of life, and it was in my opinion a great way to end the unit.
When you get down to it, the life of an artist is really quite depressing. Rejection abounds; stories you've worked on for so long and so hard die in the blink of an eye; and even though a good story has the ability to change the world, society shoves most writers in the back corner of the room just as it uses classical music as background noise. Look over your shoulder; you are alone. There is only you and the page. The great beauty and great futility of a writer is that we must have absolute faith both in ourselves to create a work of art and in our readers to appreciate it. Before the experiment can be complete, we must go through a long and difficult process. But we keep waking up every morning, we keep setting word after word down until the blank page is full, because we are in love with the craft and there is nothing we can do about it. Nothing else completes us.
Yupyup. That was me being sentimental. You'll have to excuse me - I'm a writer. Anyways.
I'm oddly tired, so I'll be brief now. Made ice cream in the afternoon. Ran out of plastic bags - had to stir with a spoon. Cream never iced. Drank it in liquid form. It was still sweet.
Pretty sweet, no?
Monday, July 1, 2013
Lesson 6
7/1/13
"Language is fossil poetry." - Ralph Waldo Emerson
Dialogue today. Finally discussed those snippets of speech we harvested during our eavesdropping sessions - it was both hilarious and hurt my brain a little. I love dialogue, but I usually do it without actually thinking; today I learned about all the elements that go into dialogue to make it not quite real (putting conversations verbatim onto paper is impossible to read) but a fabrication of reality, and it was hard. As my piano teacher always tells me, if I want to be good I have to stop relying on inspiration and start perfecting my craft. It applies to everything about me, really.
I went shopping today, haha! Imagine. I realized that it was probably not the best idea, even to go with CW camp friends, when I was sitting on the bus staring out the window and all the girls were yammering about cute clothes and then about cute boys. I don't know why girls use the word "cute" so much. I tried it, but it felt like wearing a woolen sweater over my brain - I prefer using a diversity of adjectives when I talk, thank you very much. Especially if I'm trying to describe things I like.
Generally, shopping is an unfortunate necessity to me. Browsing is alright - in fact, I love looking at the different personalities stores have and all the pretty clothes and jewelry and tidbits and decorations. But shopping with actual goals in mind makes me anxious, and wears me out really quickly. I also hate changing clothes. I like looking at clothes. I hate trying them on. I'm too lazy to be a barbie doll, even if (and that's a big if) I had the looks. Haha.
But whatever the case, I went shopping because I was looking for birthday presents for my older sister and my best friend. My older sister's is kinda late (like, two weeks late); but neither of us were home then, anyways, so I think she'll forgive me. She's turning 21. I browsed Urban Outfitters and was sorely tempted to buy her this alcohol case - the kind you see old men drinking from in movies about the Down South - that said "Happy F** Birthday!" on it in bright happy letters. But I figured it would look highly suspicious for me to buy that under the supervision of our counselors, and besides, it didn't quite match her sense of humor. I got her a bar of chocolate instead. It says "I LOVE YOU" and then about fifty "very"s and then "MUCH." and then "MORE THAN CHOCOLATE." and then "NOT MORE THAN CHOCOLATE." There was a better one that was like, "I love you thiiiiis much! Now give me a piece." but it looked possibly molding.
I'll write her a letter too, of course; a proper handwritten one.
I ended up not getting anything for my friend. There was a section that I absolutely adored and that I think she would too, which held all these posters and could be summed up by the big label on the top which said "CARPE THAT F** DIEM" (I swear I don't cuss in my everyday speech). I almost, almost, bought this one poster with the backside of a painted cadaver that was decorated with flowers and birds and a few anatomical labels. But it cost over twenty bucks. And I didn't exactly want to buy my friend something more expensive than my sister's present. So in the end I shied away from it. I'm going to write smth awesome and send it to her by email tomorrow.
It will arguably be more difficult than buying that poster. And arguably worth more.
Yup. What else? Oh, yeah, Monterey Bay was amazing. Sunday was even more lax than I expected, but I got writer's block and spent the whole day alternatively mentally stabbing myself and writing the first chapter of Sun Road.
Also, I missed the college essay deadlines.
(Shh. Don't tell my mom.)
"Language is fossil poetry." - Ralph Waldo Emerson
Dialogue today. Finally discussed those snippets of speech we harvested during our eavesdropping sessions - it was both hilarious and hurt my brain a little. I love dialogue, but I usually do it without actually thinking; today I learned about all the elements that go into dialogue to make it not quite real (putting conversations verbatim onto paper is impossible to read) but a fabrication of reality, and it was hard. As my piano teacher always tells me, if I want to be good I have to stop relying on inspiration and start perfecting my craft. It applies to everything about me, really.
I went shopping today, haha! Imagine. I realized that it was probably not the best idea, even to go with CW camp friends, when I was sitting on the bus staring out the window and all the girls were yammering about cute clothes and then about cute boys. I don't know why girls use the word "cute" so much. I tried it, but it felt like wearing a woolen sweater over my brain - I prefer using a diversity of adjectives when I talk, thank you very much. Especially if I'm trying to describe things I like.
Generally, shopping is an unfortunate necessity to me. Browsing is alright - in fact, I love looking at the different personalities stores have and all the pretty clothes and jewelry and tidbits and decorations. But shopping with actual goals in mind makes me anxious, and wears me out really quickly. I also hate changing clothes. I like looking at clothes. I hate trying them on. I'm too lazy to be a barbie doll, even if (and that's a big if) I had the looks. Haha.
But whatever the case, I went shopping because I was looking for birthday presents for my older sister and my best friend. My older sister's is kinda late (like, two weeks late); but neither of us were home then, anyways, so I think she'll forgive me. She's turning 21. I browsed Urban Outfitters and was sorely tempted to buy her this alcohol case - the kind you see old men drinking from in movies about the Down South - that said "Happy F** Birthday!" on it in bright happy letters. But I figured it would look highly suspicious for me to buy that under the supervision of our counselors, and besides, it didn't quite match her sense of humor. I got her a bar of chocolate instead. It says "I LOVE YOU" and then about fifty "very"s and then "MUCH." and then "MORE THAN CHOCOLATE." and then "NOT MORE THAN CHOCOLATE." There was a better one that was like, "I love you thiiiiis much! Now give me a piece." but it looked possibly molding.
I'll write her a letter too, of course; a proper handwritten one.
I ended up not getting anything for my friend. There was a section that I absolutely adored and that I think she would too, which held all these posters and could be summed up by the big label on the top which said "CARPE THAT F** DIEM" (I swear I don't cuss in my everyday speech). I almost, almost, bought this one poster with the backside of a painted cadaver that was decorated with flowers and birds and a few anatomical labels. But it cost over twenty bucks. And I didn't exactly want to buy my friend something more expensive than my sister's present. So in the end I shied away from it. I'm going to write smth awesome and send it to her by email tomorrow.
It will arguably be more difficult than buying that poster. And arguably worth more.
Yup. What else? Oh, yeah, Monterey Bay was amazing. Sunday was even more lax than I expected, but I got writer's block and spent the whole day alternatively mentally stabbing myself and writing the first chapter of Sun Road.
Also, I missed the college essay deadlines.
(Shh. Don't tell my mom.)
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