*ahem* PLATYPUS! Thank you.

Excitement. Stress. Pressure. Procrastination. Brainfart. Spanierisms. All-Nighter. Caffeine. Moose. This. This is Junior year.

By now, you've probably read my reveries on the sleeplessness of Junior year, and the emotional catharsis of Junior year (If not, then either I didn't feel like turning those two in, or they somehow became pushed down further on the list of your grading schedule. Long parenthetical expression).

However, to completely encompass the essence of Junior year, I must utilize a completely different approach. Juniors fit everywhere and nowhere. Our Junior class, is more a split of Senior Sophomores and Junior Seniors. But we do have one unifying aspect: our randomness. Many a lunch hour, I have heard from an APUSH study session, the words "PURPLE UNICORN" uttered. Perhaps this brain flailing emerges from the intense pressure exerted on us by College Board, Parents, Actual Colleges, Teachers, Fake Colleges we get mail from, Over Achieving Friends, and imminent College applications.

I cannot encompass all I wish to explain about the Junior year into a mere 1.5 double-spaced pages, much like Juniors cannot encompass all that is necessary to live up to the ridiculous Junior year standards into a mere 180ish 24-hour days.

BRAIN FLAIL!

Excuse me. It is 11:43 and I am writing my third OpEd on the Junior year. This entire year has brimmed with great memories, stress-filled nights, and tear-inducing days, that with it winding down, I cannot but attempt to maintain this brimming-ness, along with the AWKWARD TURTLE. Junior year is the leading cause of the randoms.

Junior year has taught me to cry, to accept feelings, and has made me realize that cliché teenage movies sometimes hold a scrap of truth. It is quite unnerving. I have real friends from this Junior year, that I actually like; we bonded over stress, heartache, and mutual, consented judgment. And of course, randoms SHMER SHMER SHMER

Also, as I write this as the time approaches midnight, I realize that Junior Year has made me, and my fellow students accustomed to greeting this hour. The hours of 12:00-3:00 in the morning and I have become well acquainted with each other. We share a love for facebook, outlines, apple juice, and essays. Never before had I such great friends as these hours. 

"We Did It"

I remember, this time around last year, I prayed to be able to cry. I never really cried. Emotion was a myth portrayed only in movies and some television shows. I was in a bubble. Junior year burst that bubble. From tears of joy to tears of sadness. tears seemed to run through the Junior year like a river breaking through a dam.

            The proximity of Junior year to the real world starts the inevitable outpour. The time ticks away at the final months before my departure from all I’ve known for sixteen years. The pressure of Junior year to prepare for this departure dampens this feeling of dwindling time.  Colleges, parents, teachers, all reiterate the same thing: Don’t mess up, it’s the most important year of your school career.

            The pressure is on. The time is going. Everyone seems to notice the time falling over the cliff, irretrievable, gone, but none move to stop the waterfall. Junior year is gone. One year past. One more year to go. And where did this time go?

            Junior year encompassed more in one year than everything up to it. Personally, I experienced my first heartache, first sleepless nights, first true pride in my own work, first true shame in my own work. I found out that not all families are perfect. I learned that tears of joy are possible. I learned that losing a pitch-pipe doesn’t mean you’ve lost the competition.

            I cried myself to sleep for the first time. And the second. And the third. And the fourth.

            I think, we cry, because, in the Junior year, we stand so close to the end, we need to know how to feel. We need to experience everything in the comfort of all we’ve known for sixteen years. But academically and otherwise, we need to prepare for not-so-far-off day when we must leave all we’ve known for sixteen years. We need to learn to cry, when we still have people we know and trust to wipe the tears away. We need to know how to feel, how to live, how to cry.

Insomniaaaaaa... I MEAN JUNIOR YEAR!

Junior year for many, causes many to forget what 8 hours, even what 6 hours of sleep is. Somehow, when our bodies hit the age of 16 or 17, for 9-10 months, we can live on a mere 3-5 hours per night. However, that time is almost up. I can feel it catching up to me its…zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Huh… what? Summer’s over? I have COLLEGE APPS now? Oh well, hibernation was fun. Now back to work…

The French Are Glad To Die For Love

            For some reason, Americans tend to look at French people as snooty, as stuck-up, and just generally weird. No surprise that we as Americans look on cliques, a word of French origin, in the same way. In reality cliques reflect a more welcoming environment than their stereotypes would like us to believe.

            A cross country runner, a math geek, a couple of artists, a gay guy, a cheerleader, a water polo player, a singer and an Argentinean walk into a room… Sounds like the beginning of a really bad joke. However, this group of people makes up a pretty standard “clique” at Carlsbad High. But these people have nothing in common! Well yes. And no. These people all enjoy each other’s company and refer to themselves as “our group.” This pretty standard “clique,” rather than acting snooty and self-righteous like the many stereotypes exemplified by the French stereotypes themselves, let people in; they include anyone and everyone, even if they have not known them since elementary school. Just yesterday this group that, for the most part, keeps to themselves, included a dancer, and a football player in their lunch time “hangout.” Definitely not the exclusive clique that Hollywood models.

            Now sure, that clique opens their doors and welcomes anyone and everyone, but they are already so different, that just a little more diversity will not change much. Okay then, let us take a more homogenous clique: theatre people. This breed of highschooler enjoys standing on a stage, or in the mall, or pretty much anywhere, and making a complete fool of his or herself. One would think that anyone not so outgoing would shrink from this crazy group. Maybe this group would think anyone shy, too weird to hang out with. This weird, peculiar group of thespians, rather than ostracizing anyone less, insane, pulls him in. Once the person gets used to their unusual peer group, he submits to the theatricality of his surroundings. He becomes his true self: crazy and fun and confident in himself.

            Cliques, far from being distant and aloof and cut off from society, welcome those around. Often, just being a part of a group allows more freedom for individuality. Who needs to be labeled in French and weird, when you can be American and weird, with a bunch of other American, weird, cross country runners, math geeks, and theatre people?       

Manhattan - A 1979 Monet

My opinion of the movie Manhattan, directed by and starring Woody Allen, resembles my opinion of most modern art: oddly, and interestingly constructed, but nonetheless strange, disturbing, and a bit lacking in some intangible way. The movie follows Allen’s character Isaac, a two-time divorcee in New York City, as he finds love and finds himself in the city he adores.

            Seems innocent and cliché enough. But he finds love with a girl less than half his age. And he finds himself by dating his best friend’s mistress. Yes, formulaic. No, not completely awful. Yes, a bit awful.

From the beginning, the main focus was more on the city than the characters. The film itself starts out describing the main character, Isaac through the context of the city, as he narrates, “He adored New York. He idolized it all out of proportion.” Not only does Isaac idolize it all out of proportion, but Allen, as the director, idolizes it “all out of proportion.”

Often, the camera forgets to film the people’s faces in favor of New York’s distinctive skyline, or the Brooklyn bridge, or a tree in Central Park. Which, of course is so much more important than showing the emotional reasons behind the relationship between a seventeen-year-old girl and a forty-two-year-old man, the most vital role in the ultimate outcome of Isaac’s journey to self-understanding. The picturesque scenery does give a certain vibe to the piece, but it does not give the same emotional connection as a real portrayal of human relationships would.

Moreover, the characters’ problems have no depth. Mary, a woman knowingly seeing a married man, knows she can do better, and is not sure of her feelings for him. Yet, she does not do anything to fix her problems for the longest time. And, when she does, she ends up returning to her original mess of a relationship. It simply makes no sense.

The city’s portrayal in black and white contrasts the attempted colorful mash-ups of characters in this film, and works to visually and psychologically intrigue the viewer. And the music, the music of George Gershwin, deemed at the opening the music of the city, not of the people, plays throughout, sometimes reflecting the state of the people, but more often reflecting the state of New York City.

 It makes you wonder: is this a movie about romance between people, or a romance of a city?

            I think of it, as Allen probably thinks of it himself, as mostly the latter.

             The human characters simply do not measure up to the great character of the setting—of New York itself.

            Like with Monet, from far away you see the lily pads, in this film you see the great city—its like you are breathing in the polluted city air for yourself. However, upon closer inspection, you realize all that great looking piece of art is a bunch of random brushstrokes, hitting each other in random places and making absolutely no sense whatsoever. And in this movie, the brush strokes could have been a bit straighter.

Make sure you are in the presence of people before reading. Loner.

May 21, 2011 (the day we didn’t die,

because we had people around us to

keep us from being loners)

As some psychology professional or random guy on the street said, “A friend is a person that you keep around so you won’t be perceived as a loner.” The little man my conscience keeps around, to make her feel like not as much of a loner, may have also said this. You could consider this little man and my conscience friends. Well, friends by their definition.

In the popular T.V. show, Friends, a bunch of people live and date—and do other things—with each other on the island-thing of Manhattan. In the entire ten-season run of the show, not one of them feels like a loner, or so I’m told (I, personally have only seen a total of three episodes). I can only assume this is because they have friends. With friends, there is no feasible way they can feel like loners. That would stand against the very nature of friends: people you keep around so as not to be labeled “loner.” If that happened to any of the characters on that show, that character’s social standing would drop immensely. Why? Because no one likes loners. That, and they couldn’t really be on a show called Friends without friends. That’d be awkward.

So, at this point, you are wondering, “does this person have a point.” Yes, I do. Well, no I really don’t. But I don’t have to. Because I have friends. Therefore, I have a smidgen of social standing that can never completely dissipate. With friends, there is a mutual understanding, a bond, a silent contract: to act as floaties to ensure that each friend, respectively, does not drown a loner in the deep end of some metaphorical social pool.

Today fears social oblivion more than any other time in history—which is odd seeing as Today is a day, and not a person. Today’s society holds a similar sentiment. Today’s people fear social oblivion so much, that even the most socially awkward people forge connections that provide the illusion of actually staying afloat in that aforementioned metaphorical pool. This practice is commonly known as “Facebook-friending.”

On this blue-ish website, people can “friend” other people, without ever meeting them. It gives the benefits of having friends and the social standing that goes along with it, without the hassle of actually going out and meeting people. “Friends” don’t even have to live and date—and do other things—with each other at all any more. Internet access, an email, and a password that contains letters and numbers and is more than six characters, are the only necessary tools to create the social standing that we crave, that we feel we need.

Social standing. The artificial anchor we thrive on. The presence of other people the sediment the anchor sinks in to provide its basic function. Because why else would you want other people around—people who sweat, poop, and talk too much—other than avoiding loner-dom?