The Internet connection was feeling lazy and broke down for half of the computers in my house, including my laptop, so I'm crashing at my parents' room to write this. Which I don't particularily like because I can't reach into my desk drawer and produce a chocolate; primarily because this desk has no drawers. Otherwise I would have transported my chocolate box here to make myself feel more at home.
There are other differences between my room and my parents':
1. My desk surface is small and cluttered, whereas my parents' desk surface is nice and big, with only a few pens and pencils in a cup, some discrete little speakers, some books, a mouse (I don't have a mouse!) and some souveniers from Cuba and Japan. Oh, and a photo of... I'm not sure, actually. It's either me or one of my sisters when they were a baby. And an ancient, unopened bottle of water that's been here for about two years. But even with all that (and two keyboards - don't ask) there's still plenty of leftover space.
2. My parents have their own little washroom, which means they can go straight from bed to the shower in the morning. I don't.
3. My parents also have a walk-in closet. Um, mine's smaller. Although to be fair, they have to store two people's clothes... no, wait! I have to store my clothes plus most of the old clothes that ever belonged to my sisters in the last 3-5 years or so, plus a bunch of old costumes and bathrobes and raincoats and the like! Not fair!
4. My parents have nice big reading lamps in their room. I have a little one with three howling wolves on it, which I bought two years ago, and is more of a decoration piece, as it doesn't give much light.
5. Um.... my parents have a really pretty wooden waste basket. Mine is gray plastic. Yes.
Er... you know, I think I like my room better. Sure, it's not as big, but I have a bunkbed. Hahaha, beat that!
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Poetry and its consequences - A Rant Pt. 2
Okay. So, to recap, I'm too lazy to recap. Go and read the previous entry, you sloth.
We were all really mad because the Spanish teacher found time for 3F, and gave them choreography and all, but ignored us. "Why???" we asked. Why?
---A note to my parents: The rest of the post basically describes our immature response to the Spanish teacher's treachery, so read it with this in mind: I know it wasn't the thing to do. And our ages vary between 14 and 15, so we got away with it. Sort of. ---
When we got back to our classroom, we were sooooooo angry. For a few minutes we debated amongst ourselves what to do, and then people took their poems, which we all had nicely photocopied and stapled, and ripped them up, scattering the pieces all over the wooden platform that the teachers' desk is on. They took the desk and turned it upside-down, and tossed the teachers' chair on top. "Thanks for your help" was scrawled on the board. Two guys pasted a crumpled page of the poem - the third page, to be exact, the page where disaster struck- on the door, and after another guuy highlighted the paragraph we forgot. Somebody emptied the trash can as well.
We were venting our anger so well, and then the prefect came in and interrupted us.
"Who did this?"
"Everybody!!!"
"Okay. I want one person from each row to clean this up."
Nobody moved.
Enter Math teacher.
"!!!"
Our Math teacher is sensible and actually understands us, so he was all,
"Look, I know how you feel. Yadda yadda, I've got to give you your grades for the bimester, so why don't you all help clean this up? Then you can talk to your Spanish teacher."
He said some other stuff, too (the "yadda yadda" bit), but I forgot what it was. Anyway, it was something that calmed us down, because we all went and tidied up, like obedient little sheep.
Then it was recess, so we went off.
Then we returned to our classroom and messed it up again, preparing it for the Spanish teacher, before going to the Computer room for English.
Once English class was finished, we went back to our classroom, and after a few minutes the Sp. teacher got there, and after a pause entered, picking her way through the sea of ripped-up poetry, before moving more papers aside on the desk, which we left standing this time, and depositing her books on it.
Then she turned around to face us and said,
"I want an explanation, now. Who did this?"
"Everyone."
"Ah!", she said, evidently not believing us, "so, the bad conduct report will be for everyone!"
Duh, what did you think, we think, but instead say "Yes."
"...Oh. ... Well, I don't know what you were trying to tell me with this" she gestures dismissively at the scraps of paper lying at her feet, "but it was very immature of you. I completely disapprove of it. Completely."
She then went through four stages:
1. This was immature of you. Grow up. (no, really. She actually said that. Which is not to say she was wrong, but hey)
2. It was all your fault. (not true! She was the one who didn't want to rehearse, not us)
3. Listen to me talk about how the other groups (namely, 3F and 3C) managed to learn their whole poem, with choreography, and how you should have badgered me, or the Music teacher, to help you; if you had, we would have helped you. (3F and 3C learned their poems because theirs were half as long as the one you picked out for us. And don't pretend you would have helped us, we know better. As for the Music teacher, he already said he wouldn't help us anyomore, and you know that because we told you)
4. Tell me what your arguments are, so I can shoot them down. (Edward Eager once said, "If you're going to argue [...] you want people to line up all their objections at a time; then you can knock them all down at once." Not only did the teacher have us do this, she also interrupted us halfway through each argument, which I find cowardly. Sorry, but it's true)
One guy stood up and said sorry, we were immature, we should have memorized the poem. True.
Then the teacher proceeded to act as if it were all settled and taught us class as if nothing had happened. And she twice interrupted to tell us that she had "No regrets" and did not "feel in the least bit guilty". What a nerve.
After she left, nobody I talked to was quite convinced by her arguments.
This concludes the series.
We were all really mad because the Spanish teacher found time for 3F, and gave them choreography and all, but ignored us. "Why???" we asked. Why?
---A note to my parents: The rest of the post basically describes our immature response to the Spanish teacher's treachery, so read it with this in mind: I know it wasn't the thing to do. And our ages vary between 14 and 15, so we got away with it. Sort of. ---
When we got back to our classroom, we were sooooooo angry. For a few minutes we debated amongst ourselves what to do, and then people took their poems, which we all had nicely photocopied and stapled, and ripped them up, scattering the pieces all over the wooden platform that the teachers' desk is on. They took the desk and turned it upside-down, and tossed the teachers' chair on top. "Thanks for your help" was scrawled on the board. Two guys pasted a crumpled page of the poem - the third page, to be exact, the page where disaster struck- on the door, and after another guuy highlighted the paragraph we forgot. Somebody emptied the trash can as well.
We were venting our anger so well, and then the prefect came in and interrupted us.
"Who did this?"
"Everybody!!!"
"Okay. I want one person from each row to clean this up."
Nobody moved.
Enter Math teacher.
"!!!"
Our Math teacher is sensible and actually understands us, so he was all,
"Look, I know how you feel. Yadda yadda, I've got to give you your grades for the bimester, so why don't you all help clean this up? Then you can talk to your Spanish teacher."
He said some other stuff, too (the "yadda yadda" bit), but I forgot what it was. Anyway, it was something that calmed us down, because we all went and tidied up, like obedient little sheep.
Then it was recess, so we went off.
Then we returned to our classroom and messed it up again, preparing it for the Spanish teacher, before going to the Computer room for English.
Once English class was finished, we went back to our classroom, and after a few minutes the Sp. teacher got there, and after a pause entered, picking her way through the sea of ripped-up poetry, before moving more papers aside on the desk, which we left standing this time, and depositing her books on it.
Then she turned around to face us and said,
"I want an explanation, now. Who did this?"
"Everyone."
"Ah!", she said, evidently not believing us, "so, the bad conduct report will be for everyone!"
Duh, what did you think, we think, but instead say "Yes."
"...Oh. ... Well, I don't know what you were trying to tell me with this" she gestures dismissively at the scraps of paper lying at her feet, "but it was very immature of you. I completely disapprove of it. Completely."
She then went through four stages:
1. This was immature of you. Grow up. (no, really. She actually said that. Which is not to say she was wrong, but hey)
2. It was all your fault. (not true! She was the one who didn't want to rehearse, not us)
3. Listen to me talk about how the other groups (namely, 3F and 3C) managed to learn their whole poem, with choreography, and how you should have badgered me, or the Music teacher, to help you; if you had, we would have helped you. (3F and 3C learned their poems because theirs were half as long as the one you picked out for us. And don't pretend you would have helped us, we know better. As for the Music teacher, he already said he wouldn't help us anyomore, and you know that because we told you)
4. Tell me what your arguments are, so I can shoot them down. (Edward Eager once said, "If you're going to argue [...] you want people to line up all their objections at a time; then you can knock them all down at once." Not only did the teacher have us do this, she also interrupted us halfway through each argument, which I find cowardly. Sorry, but it's true)
One guy stood up and said sorry, we were immature, we should have memorized the poem. True.
Then the teacher proceeded to act as if it were all settled and taught us class as if nothing had happened. And she twice interrupted to tell us that she had "No regrets" and did not "feel in the least bit guilty". What a nerve.
After she left, nobody I talked to was quite convinced by her arguments.
This concludes the series.
Poetry and its consequences - A Rant Pt. 1
Yesterday was the contest... no, I need more backstory. Much more.
Every year, there is a contest in the country's capital (which is where I live) for reciting poetry as a group. Each year, one of the groups of third years (there's six) from our school participate, and to pick out the one which will compete there is a contest between the six classes. That was yesterday.
Our Spanish and Music teachers were supposed to help us with our poem, but they barely did. In about a few weeks, we were supposed to memorize about five minutes of yammering and accompanying movements, under the instruction of said teachers. After about three rehearsals with the Music teacher, he said he was going to stop helping us due to the fact that we were not cooperating as we should. This was okay, because it wasn't his job to help us and never comitted himself to do so. It was the Spanish teacher's job.
We rehearsed with her, but for reasons unknown she had us practice the first two pages of our poem over and over and over again, changing bits and pieces, but few times going past this limit she set herself, and only to assign bits of the poem to the bits of the class who would recite them.
Then, after some three or so classes spent on our poem, she abandonded the poem, instead opting for actual Spanish class, under the valid argument that on our admission exam, nobody was going to ask us to recite this poem. We told her that we were not rehearsing in Music class, either, but she said, basically, "Meh".
And so it was left until Thursday, the day of the eve of the contest. Then the Spanish teacher was all, "Oh, let's practice". So, we were ushered down to the gym, where, once again, we didn't go past the first two pages, except for that time when she realized that she hadn't assigned the very last bits and pieces of the poem to different people, so she did.
Then, class 3F (in our school, every group of a grade is called by a letter, form A to F: thus there are groups 1A, 2A, 3A, 1B, 2B and so on.) trooped into the gym to rehearse with the Spanish teacher after a little while, and we were ushered back out of the gym, left to practice by ourselves. We did, for a bit, and then went home because it was the end of the schoolday.
The next morning, we are all sort of nervous, because we know it's the day of the contest, and nobody -nobody- has memorized the poem, except, of couse, for the first two pages. Go figure.
So we organize ourselves. Groom ourselves, all the girls pull their hair back in a ponytail, and we rehearse for about an hour, in which time we accomplished quite a bit, correcting errors and the like. Then its time for the contest. Ohgodpleasehelpus.
We go down and see Surprise, surprise! 3F is rehearsing and they've got got their whole poem down to pat, movements and all. "Hm," we think, "that's weird. It seems the teacher actually made herself useful with them. Why not us? Oh, well, it doesn't matter. The teacher told us that the judges were going to grade us on voice only, because nobody had time to do anything extra."
Then we all go into the gym, and a teacher (last year's Spanish teacher, not the current one) reads out some stuff, and then says "The aspects that the judges will evalute are: Tone of voice, memorization, yadda yadda yadda, and gestures."
Wait. What???
"And now one student from each of the participating classes will step foreward - come over here - and pick, out of this box, a ball with a number on it, to determine the order of participation."
We got #3.
I didn't even pay attention to the first two groups because I was desperately... well, being desperate. So was everybody else.
It's our turm. Ohmegod. We go onto the stage...
...and, beautifully, begin to recite our poem. Hey! This isn't so bad, I find myself thinking. And okay, we were just standing there and not moving, but our class has the best quality of voice. It was good! Good, I tell you!
And then, all of a sudden, disaster strikes.
We reach the part of our poem where our Spanish teacher always halted us, and we stop.
We stand there for what seems like hours, and nobody can answer the question echoing inside each and every one of our minds:
@$^*&!%, what's next????
And then, salvation! One guy remebers, and saves the day by reciting the next line, and everyone catches on and continues.
And then... Gawd. I still can't believe it.
We forgot it again. We recite half of the third page, and once again, and for the last time, silence falls. And this time there's nobody who can remember what goes next. We all stand there, petrified. Half a minute passes. I hear my friend, behind me, whisper something I won't repeat.
And then everybody starts clapping.
Suddenly a whispered fight springs up.
"Let's get off the stage!"
"No, don't!"
"Come on!"
"But..."
The clapping fades away. We're still standing there.
Then, slowly, the first guy turns and descends the steps.
And we all follow.
Oh, you thought that was the end, did you? We didn't leave it at that. We sought revenge. Read about it (and how it bit us in the butt) in Pt. 2, coming soon.
Every year, there is a contest in the country's capital (which is where I live) for reciting poetry as a group. Each year, one of the groups of third years (there's six) from our school participate, and to pick out the one which will compete there is a contest between the six classes. That was yesterday.
Our Spanish and Music teachers were supposed to help us with our poem, but they barely did. In about a few weeks, we were supposed to memorize about five minutes of yammering and accompanying movements, under the instruction of said teachers. After about three rehearsals with the Music teacher, he said he was going to stop helping us due to the fact that we were not cooperating as we should. This was okay, because it wasn't his job to help us and never comitted himself to do so. It was the Spanish teacher's job.
We rehearsed with her, but for reasons unknown she had us practice the first two pages of our poem over and over and over again, changing bits and pieces, but few times going past this limit she set herself, and only to assign bits of the poem to the bits of the class who would recite them.
Then, after some three or so classes spent on our poem, she abandonded the poem, instead opting for actual Spanish class, under the valid argument that on our admission exam, nobody was going to ask us to recite this poem. We told her that we were not rehearsing in Music class, either, but she said, basically, "Meh".
And so it was left until Thursday, the day of the eve of the contest. Then the Spanish teacher was all, "Oh, let's practice". So, we were ushered down to the gym, where, once again, we didn't go past the first two pages, except for that time when she realized that she hadn't assigned the very last bits and pieces of the poem to different people, so she did.
Then, class 3F (in our school, every group of a grade is called by a letter, form A to F: thus there are groups 1A, 2A, 3A, 1B, 2B and so on.) trooped into the gym to rehearse with the Spanish teacher after a little while, and we were ushered back out of the gym, left to practice by ourselves. We did, for a bit, and then went home because it was the end of the schoolday.
The next morning, we are all sort of nervous, because we know it's the day of the contest, and nobody -nobody- has memorized the poem, except, of couse, for the first two pages. Go figure.
So we organize ourselves. Groom ourselves, all the girls pull their hair back in a ponytail, and we rehearse for about an hour, in which time we accomplished quite a bit, correcting errors and the like. Then its time for the contest. Ohgodpleasehelpus.
We go down and see Surprise, surprise! 3F is rehearsing and they've got got their whole poem down to pat, movements and all. "Hm," we think, "that's weird. It seems the teacher actually made herself useful with them. Why not us? Oh, well, it doesn't matter. The teacher told us that the judges were going to grade us on voice only, because nobody had time to do anything extra."
Then we all go into the gym, and a teacher (last year's Spanish teacher, not the current one) reads out some stuff, and then says "The aspects that the judges will evalute are: Tone of voice, memorization, yadda yadda yadda, and gestures."
Wait. What???
"And now one student from each of the participating classes will step foreward - come over here - and pick, out of this box, a ball with a number on it, to determine the order of participation."
We got #3.
I didn't even pay attention to the first two groups because I was desperately... well, being desperate. So was everybody else.
It's our turm. Ohmegod. We go onto the stage...
...and, beautifully, begin to recite our poem. Hey! This isn't so bad, I find myself thinking. And okay, we were just standing there and not moving, but our class has the best quality of voice. It was good! Good, I tell you!
And then, all of a sudden, disaster strikes.
We reach the part of our poem where our Spanish teacher always halted us, and we stop.
We stand there for what seems like hours, and nobody can answer the question echoing inside each and every one of our minds:
@$^*&!%, what's next????
And then, salvation! One guy remebers, and saves the day by reciting the next line, and everyone catches on and continues.
And then... Gawd. I still can't believe it.
We forgot it again. We recite half of the third page, and once again, and for the last time, silence falls. And this time there's nobody who can remember what goes next. We all stand there, petrified. Half a minute passes. I hear my friend, behind me, whisper something I won't repeat.
And then everybody starts clapping.
Suddenly a whispered fight springs up.
"Let's get off the stage!"
"No, don't!"
"Come on!"
"But..."
The clapping fades away. We're still standing there.
Then, slowly, the first guy turns and descends the steps.
And we all follow.
Oh, you thought that was the end, did you? We didn't leave it at that. We sought revenge. Read about it (and how it bit us in the butt) in Pt. 2, coming soon.
Friday, February 09, 2007
History and a limerick
We wrote a History exam earlier this week, and got it back today. I love History; however, I suck at it, and thus I guessed a lot of the answers.
I also happen to have the bad habit of doodling on my exams once I've solved them. Most teachers ignore them, but some actually do read them, like my Math teacher in first year. She would even scribble answers back. Last year my Math teacher would also read them, but only answered once or twice. This year, none of my teachers had appeared to take any notice of them until today, when I got my History exam back and the teacher, smiling, said: "I read that little thing youu wrote..." Huh?" I answered. She motioned with her hand to my exam. I read what I had scrawled on the back:
Ave María, dame puntería.
Which means something along the lines of "Ave María, give me a good aim", which I wrote because most of the exam was multiple choice.
All this means that my History teacher actually has a sense of humour. Eek.
On another note, check this out this limerick:
(12 + 144 + 20 + (3 * 4^(1/2))) / 7) + (5 * 11) = 9^2 + 0
A Dozen, a Gross and a Score,
plus three times the square root of four,
divided by seven,
plus five times eleven,
equals nine squared and not a bit more.
-John Saxon
I also happen to have the bad habit of doodling on my exams once I've solved them. Most teachers ignore them, but some actually do read them, like my Math teacher in first year. She would even scribble answers back. Last year my Math teacher would also read them, but only answered once or twice. This year, none of my teachers had appeared to take any notice of them until today, when I got my History exam back and the teacher, smiling, said: "I read that little thing youu wrote..." Huh?" I answered. She motioned with her hand to my exam. I read what I had scrawled on the back:
Ave María, dame puntería.
Which means something along the lines of "Ave María, give me a good aim", which I wrote because most of the exam was multiple choice.
All this means that my History teacher actually has a sense of humour. Eek.
On another note, check this out this limerick:
(12 + 144 + 20 + (3 * 4^(1/2))) / 7) + (5 * 11) = 9^2 + 0
A Dozen, a Gross and a Score,
plus three times the square root of four,
divided by seven,
plus five times eleven,
equals nine squared and not a bit more.
-John Saxon
Friday, February 02, 2007
My Life's Soundtrack
Open iTunes, hit shuffle, and for each question, write the song that's playing.
Soundtrack to my life:
Opening Credits: El Baile Y El Salon, by Cafe Tacuba
Waking Up Scene: Seuls, by Bruno Coulais (from Les Choristes... it'll be a bad day, I see)
Car Driving Scene: Inquisition Symphony, by Apocalyptica (hm. Not sure what to make out of this)
High School Flashback Scene: Du Hast, by Rammstein
Nostalgic Scene: I am a man of constant sorrow (Instrumental), by John Hartford (this is from the O Brother, Where Art Thou? movie. I guess it fits.)
Bitter, Angry Scene: Across the Universe, by the Beatles (okay, this one reaaaally doesn't fit, it sounds more like a post-fight song to me)
Break-up Scene: Stuck With Me, by Green Day (contradictory title! )
Agony scene: Yesterday, by The Beatles
Regret Scene: I Am A Man Of Constant Sorrow, by The Soggy Bottom Boys (this is also from the O Brother soundtrack. The name fits, but the song itself is too happy, I think)
Nightclub/Bar Scene: Wings, by the Warsaw Philharmonic Orchestra (from an Escaflowne soundtrack)
Fight/Action Scene: Enid, by the Barenaked Ladies (doesn't sound like much of a fight scene... I guess that's because I can't fight?)
Lawn Mowing Scene: Easily, by the Red Hot Chili Peppers
Sad, breakdown scene: Potter Waltz, by Patrick Doyle (from the fourth Harry Potter soundtrack. Doesn't fit either... what is up with this thing? I never did like the shuffle option... huff)
Death Scene: Baby You're A Rich Man, by The Beatles (an inheritance, is my guess- and a nice, big one, too, it seems. Whoohoo!)
Funeral Scene: Deathzone, by Apocalyptica (oh, good, another one that fits. It's making more sense now.)
Mellow Scene: Orinoco Flow, by Black Jade (then again, maybe not)
Dreaming About Someone Scene: Revenga, by System Of A Down (it's in the lyrics: All my sweet revenge will be yours, for the taking... you're dreaming about someone, but not in a nice way. Teehee)
Sex Scene: It's hard work!, by the New Japan Philharmonic Orchestra (from the Spirited Away soundtrack. ...what else can I say?)
Contemplation Scene: And I Love Her, by the Beatles (Him. It should be And I Love Him)
Chase Scene: Achachau, by los Incas (these guys are good! Except this would only fit if the things being chased are hummingbirds)
Happy Love Scene: La Mort de Juliette, by Gerard Presgurvic (Happy love scene. Happy!) Okay, let's try again:
Happy Love Scene v. 2: Boom!, by System Of A Down (okay, I give up)
Happy Friend Scene: Si Tu N'Etais Pas La, by Yann Tiersen (from the Amelie soundtrack. Okay, the thing here is not to read too deeply into this. Let us just move on)
Closing Credits: Prophecy Fufilled- And the dark night entered, by Haggard ("Fufilled", see? Good, good...)
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