- I should probably start making better life decisions. The other night, I ate ice cream instead of dinner. I’m not sure what I was thinking, but I believe it was something along the lines of, “I’m an adult! I can do what I want!” The ice cream was delicious. But it turns out, even adults can get tummy-aches.
- Pitch Perfect is not about Clint Eastwood playing baseball. Thank god. I was so glad to find out it was a musical, since one of the people I went with told me otherwise (she confused it with Trouble with the Curve, I realized later). I was bracing myself for a baseball movie, full of sports metaphors and angst. Instead, it was about a bunch of twenty-somethings bouncing around and singing a cappella. Awww yussss.
- The tide is high. I didn’t notice this until a few days ago, but the tide is getting really high at the Santa Cruz Boardwalk. It’s so high, the lifeguard towers, which used to be on the berm, are now sitting on little inlets in the ocean, completely surrounded by water. When I was a freshman, the water, even at its highest, didn’t go past those towers. Now, when you ride the Sea Swings at the Boardwalk, you actually fly over the ocean. If you look straight down, it looks like you’re going to fall straight in. I don’t know much about all the factors going into the rising tide, but it’s unsettling to see so many miles of shore disappear over such a short period of time.
- Anonymous is a web of lies. When I saw the movie Anonymous, I didn’t know much about Shakespeare’s personal life, so I took it at face value. Now that I’ve started taking a Shakespeare class, I started realizing that Anonymous is more entertaining than it is factual. But lesson learned: I’m going to question everything, now.
- After looking at sentences long enough, I sometimes start doing math. I’ve been revising my creative writing sample all week, and as a result, I’ve been obsessing over sentence structure more than usual. One day, I’d really like to pound out a well-turned sentence like this one, from Paul Harding’s Pulitzer Prize-winning Tinkers:
He thought, Buy the pendant, sneak it into your hand from the folds of your dress and let the low light of the fire lap at it late at night as you wait for the roof to give out to your will to snap and the ice to be too thick to chop through with the ax as you stand in your husband’s boots on the frozen lake at midnight, the dry hack of the blade on ice so tiny under the wheeling and frozen stars, the soundproof lid of heaven, that your husband would never stir from his sleep in the cabin across the ice, would never hear and come running, half-frozen, in only his union suit, to save you from chopping a hole in the ice and sliding into it as if it were a blue vein, sliding down into the black, silty bottom of the lake, where you would see nothing, would perhaps feel only the stir of some somnolent fish in the murk as the plunge of you in your wool dress and the big boots disturbed it from its sluggish winter dreams of ancient seas (25).
Can we all take a second to appreciate how gut-wrenchingly beautiful this sentence is? When I see a sentence like this one, I want to diagram it and tape it to my wall. I want to count all the syllables in each clause and see if there’s some scientific approach to writing a gorgeous, page-long sentence. Then I have to stop writing and start doing weird math equations, counting how many verbs Harding uses. Looking for the mathematical answer to the perfect sentence is probably a little like trying to invent the fountain of youth– and even if I did figure out how to make the most perfect sentence ever, it would just be my idea of the most beautiful sentence. This quest could easily devolve into an epic game of mad libs, as well. For now, I’ll set aside all the equations and think of beautiful sentences as a kind of magic.