I have so many things to say that I don’t know how to go about saying them. I’ve never felt so miserable in my life, and this misery manifests itself in a sluggishness that further encourages my depression. I don’t know what to think, I don’t know what to do, and every time I sit down to write about my confusion I just feel an unyielding desire to sleep. I am impatient and frustrated with everyone in my life, with the exception of Bryan and my mother. I don’t want to say goodbye to Bryan, I don’t want to unpack my things, I don’t want to go to Michigan. I want nothing other than to cry myself to a dreamless, thoughtless sleep. Even though sleep is my only solace, I am terrified I will reach for his arm while lost in my dormancy, wishing to be held, just to wake and find that I am alone on a couch and not in my bed with him.
I didn’t know I would miss him this much.
Saturday, March 08, 2008
Rachael (interior monologue): “And I’ll just pop out that gradient there a bit, just to highlight the edge of the side window...”
Computer: “You want to use a WHAT size brush after running photoshop and illustrator simultaneously for nine hours straight? Cute, real cute.”
Rachael: “There we go...”
Computer: “What did I tell you? What do I ever tell you? Why don’t you ever listen? We play this game all the time, I have to crash on you, and then all of a sudden I’m the bad guy. Just, just chill. Surf the web for a while, why don’t you? Read some gossip, god, FACEBOOK if you have to, just give the massive aps a break.”
Rachael: “And that overlay is looking a bit much, I’ll just knock it down a bit...”
Computer: “YOU CRAZY BITCH! I will crash on yo’ ass so fast you won’t know what hit you OR your cartoonish, sophomoric rendering!”
Rachael: “This rendering is looking awesome. I am a badass.”
Computer: “...”
Rachael: “Maybe just a bit more shadow...”
Computer: *bipzewwww…*
Rachael: “Fuck! NO!! God no! You piece of shit! FUCK!!! ...
Computer: ...
Rachael: “... This must be karmic retribution for picking all of the raspberries out of the fruit salad Cindy made this afternoon.”
Computer: “GOOD GOD YOU’RE DUMB!”
Computer: “You want to use a WHAT size brush after running photoshop and illustrator simultaneously for nine hours straight? Cute, real cute.”
Rachael: “There we go...”
Computer: “What did I tell you? What do I ever tell you? Why don’t you ever listen? We play this game all the time, I have to crash on you, and then all of a sudden I’m the bad guy. Just, just chill. Surf the web for a while, why don’t you? Read some gossip, god, FACEBOOK if you have to, just give the massive aps a break.”
Rachael: “And that overlay is looking a bit much, I’ll just knock it down a bit...”
Computer: “YOU CRAZY BITCH! I will crash on yo’ ass so fast you won’t know what hit you OR your cartoonish, sophomoric rendering!”
Rachael: “This rendering is looking awesome. I am a badass.”
Computer: “...”
Rachael: “Maybe just a bit more shadow...”
Computer: *bipzewwww…*
Rachael: “Fuck! NO!! God no! You piece of shit! FUCK!!! ...
Computer: ...
Rachael: “... This must be karmic retribution for picking all of the raspberries out of the fruit salad Cindy made this afternoon.”
Computer: “GOOD GOD YOU’RE DUMB!”
Big news: after a quarter of waiting and fretting, my day has come. I can finally sigh, wipe the perspiration from my forehead and neglect my schoolwork with an ounce of validation. I got my first co-op.
Come March 31 I will be an official employee of Whirlpool’s platform studio.
I was offered my co-op later in the quarter than some. The pressure grew even more unbearable with every student that found a job; I was beginning to doubt my talent and my ability. The apprehension caused many people to jump at the first job they were offered. Luckily enough, I was offered two of the best co-ops at the same time: Whirlpool and New Balance. Not only did I score an awesome co-op, but I managed to land two of the best available to sophomores. The humility gained during the past couple of months melted away in an instant. I am, once again, the unbearably arrogant yet awesome person you all knew and loved previously, now complete with my first design job.
The decision between Whirlpool and New Balance was a tough one, even though I would love to do appliances and have no interest in shoes; Whirlpool pays for housing in Benton Harbor, Michigan, whereas I would be left to my own devices when working for New Balance in Boston, New Balance, however, is located in Boston as opposed to Benton Harbor, Michigan. Some could say that New Balance holds more prestige than Whirlpool, but Whirlpool offers the type of design work I’m looking for. The scales were even until I remembered that Whirlpool throws a free Kitchen Aid stand mixer into the deal. To Whirlpool I go. I am thrilled, and currently feeling like quite the badass.
An appliance-designing badass, that is.
More later when I’m not quite as tired.
Come March 31 I will be an official employee of Whirlpool’s platform studio.
I was offered my co-op later in the quarter than some. The pressure grew even more unbearable with every student that found a job; I was beginning to doubt my talent and my ability. The apprehension caused many people to jump at the first job they were offered. Luckily enough, I was offered two of the best co-ops at the same time: Whirlpool and New Balance. Not only did I score an awesome co-op, but I managed to land two of the best available to sophomores. The humility gained during the past couple of months melted away in an instant. I am, once again, the unbearably arrogant yet awesome person you all knew and loved previously, now complete with my first design job.
The decision between Whirlpool and New Balance was a tough one, even though I would love to do appliances and have no interest in shoes; Whirlpool pays for housing in Benton Harbor, Michigan, whereas I would be left to my own devices when working for New Balance in Boston, New Balance, however, is located in Boston as opposed to Benton Harbor, Michigan. Some could say that New Balance holds more prestige than Whirlpool, but Whirlpool offers the type of design work I’m looking for. The scales were even until I remembered that Whirlpool throws a free Kitchen Aid stand mixer into the deal. To Whirlpool I go. I am thrilled, and currently feeling like quite the badass.
An appliance-designing badass, that is.
More later when I’m not quite as tired.
Friday, March 07, 2008
"I hope I didn't bring up a sensitive subject when I mentioned Barb earlier today."
"What?" My father asked me, somewhat confused. The girlfriend of Cindy's 20 year old son, Austin, had delivered a baby the previous Sunday. Family relations are messy at this point, and by messy I mean that they put episodes of Jerry Springer to shame. All the same, a baby had been delivered, Cindy had become a grandmother -I suppose we can suspend that statement until the paternity tests have been taken care of- I felt it appropriate to inquire after the health of the parents and child.
"Today, when I mentioned Barb's delivery. She looked downright pissed, to be honest."
"Oh the baby! No, not at all. She is absolutely twitterpated with that child, through and through. Absolutely beautiful baby girl."
"Have you seen the baby?"
"No!" He barked. "I don't trust them."
I raised an eyebrow.
"Nothing like a baby to make blubbering idiots out of otherwise sane people," he explained.
"What?" My father asked me, somewhat confused. The girlfriend of Cindy's 20 year old son, Austin, had delivered a baby the previous Sunday. Family relations are messy at this point, and by messy I mean that they put episodes of Jerry Springer to shame. All the same, a baby had been delivered, Cindy had become a grandmother -I suppose we can suspend that statement until the paternity tests have been taken care of- I felt it appropriate to inquire after the health of the parents and child.
"Today, when I mentioned Barb's delivery. She looked downright pissed, to be honest."
"Oh the baby! No, not at all. She is absolutely twitterpated with that child, through and through. Absolutely beautiful baby girl."
"Have you seen the baby?"
"No!" He barked. "I don't trust them."
I raised an eyebrow.
"Nothing like a baby to make blubbering idiots out of otherwise sane people," he explained.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
So, it seems, whether we are ready or need more time, whether we are eager for change or reluctant to get off the couch and face what is happening, life marches on. The monotonous landscape of February instills in me a deep, powerful listlessness that I have found difficult to overcome. Despite the overwhelming amount of schoolwork I have yet to get a handle of, I have never slept so much in my life, nor have I felt as tired. Normally I would panic at the thought of my being behind in school, and yet...I don’t care... and would rather nap than think about it.
A dangerous mentality, to say the least.
Bryan and I, as I’m sure my nonexistent readers were able to gather from my latest post, are breaking up. This Sunday I will drive him to the airport and send him off to Salt Lake to interview with several architecture firms. I have never been one to wear my emotions on my sleeve; I survive such experiences by slowly dealing with my sentiments when I have the time to be alone and address them exclusively. I have no choice but to concentrate on school, a co-op and finding a place to live- well, attempt to concentrate, that is; as mentioned earlier, I’ve had trouble focusing as of late- and it must seem to those around me that I am unaffected by this break up. Regardless of how things appear, I am completely, entirely, and desolately broken-hearted, and will be for some time.
It helps that the reasons for our split are mostly technical, I suppose. There is no lack of love or trust; there is no betrayal, no inability to compromise or lack of desire. There is a young woman and a man eighteen years her senior who need different things. Bryan and I have always been best friends as well as lovers, and I predict that after we have had time to mend our wounds we will continue to be good friends. I will always love him- the things I love about him haven’t changed, after all- and I hope that he finds happiness, fulfillment, and contentment. I know he will.
As for myself, I hope that I am able to find a co-op, an apartment, and a way to fix my currently dysfunctional computer. DAAP’s ID program is highly regarded because of the co-op program, which allows students to spend a year and a half in different cities working in the field. Thank GOD for the program, because the actual classes can be something of a joke from time to time. The co-op experience is invaluable and thrilling; the jobs pay well and some are located in wonderful places: New York, San Francisco, Chicago, Seattle, London, and so on and so forth. The trick, of course, is finding a job, which I have yet to do. I have submitted my portfolio, which is badass in every sense of the word, and I am waiting to hear back from employers. The wait is absolutely tortuous, and is resulting in my becoming a more humble person by the day. Not the worst thing in the world, I suppose.
My computer is functioning normally, with the exception of one very important modeling program that refuses to run. The problem, my papa speculates, is Windows (as always! I can’t believe I had to taint my perfect mac with that shitty OS). I am thus uninstalling and reinstalling windows today. Fuck you, winXP, fuck you.
*obnoxiously thrusts two middle fingers up at computer screen*
Later on today I’m attending the 20th century modern art exhibition with a couple of studio mates, after which we will return to one of their apartments to drink and make hot wings. Tomorrow I have to go check out renting a room in an apartment close to campus. I would have two male architecture students as roommates, which is not ideal, but you really can’t beat $209+utilities and a two second walk to DAAP.
Life marches on, as I said before, and I’m just going to have to trail behind and try to catch up. I hope warm weather will invigorate and inspire me. I guess I’ll just cross my fingers and wait and see.
A dangerous mentality, to say the least.
Bryan and I, as I’m sure my nonexistent readers were able to gather from my latest post, are breaking up. This Sunday I will drive him to the airport and send him off to Salt Lake to interview with several architecture firms. I have never been one to wear my emotions on my sleeve; I survive such experiences by slowly dealing with my sentiments when I have the time to be alone and address them exclusively. I have no choice but to concentrate on school, a co-op and finding a place to live- well, attempt to concentrate, that is; as mentioned earlier, I’ve had trouble focusing as of late- and it must seem to those around me that I am unaffected by this break up. Regardless of how things appear, I am completely, entirely, and desolately broken-hearted, and will be for some time.
It helps that the reasons for our split are mostly technical, I suppose. There is no lack of love or trust; there is no betrayal, no inability to compromise or lack of desire. There is a young woman and a man eighteen years her senior who need different things. Bryan and I have always been best friends as well as lovers, and I predict that after we have had time to mend our wounds we will continue to be good friends. I will always love him- the things I love about him haven’t changed, after all- and I hope that he finds happiness, fulfillment, and contentment. I know he will.
As for myself, I hope that I am able to find a co-op, an apartment, and a way to fix my currently dysfunctional computer. DAAP’s ID program is highly regarded because of the co-op program, which allows students to spend a year and a half in different cities working in the field. Thank GOD for the program, because the actual classes can be something of a joke from time to time. The co-op experience is invaluable and thrilling; the jobs pay well and some are located in wonderful places: New York, San Francisco, Chicago, Seattle, London, and so on and so forth. The trick, of course, is finding a job, which I have yet to do. I have submitted my portfolio, which is badass in every sense of the word, and I am waiting to hear back from employers. The wait is absolutely tortuous, and is resulting in my becoming a more humble person by the day. Not the worst thing in the world, I suppose.
My computer is functioning normally, with the exception of one very important modeling program that refuses to run. The problem, my papa speculates, is Windows (as always! I can’t believe I had to taint my perfect mac with that shitty OS). I am thus uninstalling and reinstalling windows today. Fuck you, winXP, fuck you.
*obnoxiously thrusts two middle fingers up at computer screen*
Later on today I’m attending the 20th century modern art exhibition with a couple of studio mates, after which we will return to one of their apartments to drink and make hot wings. Tomorrow I have to go check out renting a room in an apartment close to campus. I would have two male architecture students as roommates, which is not ideal, but you really can’t beat $209+utilities and a two second walk to DAAP.
Life marches on, as I said before, and I’m just going to have to trail behind and try to catch up. I hope warm weather will invigorate and inspire me. I guess I’ll just cross my fingers and wait and see.
Saturday, February 09, 2008
Saturday, February 02, 2008
It feels like sacrilege to call you darling. I feel very differently from the way I felt last night, but that sentiment remains the same. I forget you completely between these spurts of regret and longing, when we’re sitting side by side on the couch, miles away from one another, watching the thing that was once our love whine and die. I hate myself for allowing these past months to taint my porcelain-delicate memories of you and what we’ve shared for the past three years.
The only thing, the only thing I want in this world is you, not as you are now- cold, hard, resentful- but as you were before, as we were before, when we ran to the world bravely, unafraid, so deeply, fervently, madly in love that my body aches to think about it.
Like clockwork I wake at eight in the morning, dry mouthed but not hung over. I sit on a stranger’s couch, a copy of a copy of a copy, a reiteration so distant that I have begun to fade and lose all distinction; once a possessor of an object so impassioned, so lucid that it vividly cuts into my mind like a scalpel into unblemished skin, now a reason for passersby to snicker with shrewd assumption: a stained shirt, smeared eye liner, half a bottle of rum.
Here, on a small couch in a vaguely familiar apartment, is where I grieve for you. I am alone; I will always be alone when I allow myself to feel this way. I am sorry I cannot do this in front of you. I mourn for you the way a mother mourns a son, a sister a brother, a fan a hero. We can never go back, I’m afraid, to the luscious delirium of yesteryears, the intoxicated fantasy of new love that we managed to suspend for three years. We can never love each other again without the stinging memory of this January’s cruelty and the things we have done. Already our love begins to slip out of focus and become a mirage-like haze down the road. The girls chat up their scandal at hand while I, deaf to their prattle, long for the original other. Masochistically my mind will float to you in the years to come; a soft breeze will blow on my face some sunny afternoon, and I will remember singing loudly to David Bowie while on our way down to North Carolina in a rented car, Bavarian bagels at servattii in the chill of early morning, moon pies brought home to me after a bad day, notes left on a studio desk, a man who cared, a man who loved, a man with the capacity to comfort, protect, hurt and torture me,
a man gone far, far and forever away.
The only thing, the only thing I want in this world is you, not as you are now- cold, hard, resentful- but as you were before, as we were before, when we ran to the world bravely, unafraid, so deeply, fervently, madly in love that my body aches to think about it.
Like clockwork I wake at eight in the morning, dry mouthed but not hung over. I sit on a stranger’s couch, a copy of a copy of a copy, a reiteration so distant that I have begun to fade and lose all distinction; once a possessor of an object so impassioned, so lucid that it vividly cuts into my mind like a scalpel into unblemished skin, now a reason for passersby to snicker with shrewd assumption: a stained shirt, smeared eye liner, half a bottle of rum.
Here, on a small couch in a vaguely familiar apartment, is where I grieve for you. I am alone; I will always be alone when I allow myself to feel this way. I am sorry I cannot do this in front of you. I mourn for you the way a mother mourns a son, a sister a brother, a fan a hero. We can never go back, I’m afraid, to the luscious delirium of yesteryears, the intoxicated fantasy of new love that we managed to suspend for three years. We can never love each other again without the stinging memory of this January’s cruelty and the things we have done. Already our love begins to slip out of focus and become a mirage-like haze down the road. The girls chat up their scandal at hand while I, deaf to their prattle, long for the original other. Masochistically my mind will float to you in the years to come; a soft breeze will blow on my face some sunny afternoon, and I will remember singing loudly to David Bowie while on our way down to North Carolina in a rented car, Bavarian bagels at servattii in the chill of early morning, moon pies brought home to me after a bad day, notes left on a studio desk, a man who cared, a man who loved, a man with the capacity to comfort, protect, hurt and torture me,
a man gone far, far and forever away.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
It's 7:16 in the morning, and I am sitting on the dusty, dirty floor of DAAP's third floor, waiting to be taught how to weld. Vanessa said they were meeting for an orientation this morning at 7, but as time creeps closer to 7:30 I grow progressively more convinced that I misheard her. Underneath the door of the shop, however, a light creeps out and dances on the finish of the concrete floor; either a light is always left on in the shop, regardless of whether or not it is open, or my comrades will emerge from the room in several moments as master welders, leaving me to return for orientation yet another time.
*sigh*
Well, I suppose I should explain how I found myself at this particular moment. The last time you heard from me was in mid August, during a particularly amusing fight with Bryan. This morning I'm bundled up in a coat, scarf, and moderately practical shoes. Two months have passed, I've been to Paris and back, started school and am half way done with the quarter. My, how time flies.
Paris was spectacular and unlike anything I have ever seen. Like many others I know, I've been bitten by the illusion that I will learn French, snag a fabulous Parisian job, and be living in the Marais in a matter of years. Will this happen? Perhaps not. I will, however, certainly return to the city of light many times in the next couple of years. The city and the way of life is beautiful. I have many pictures to post.
School has also been going well. I spend 60 hours in the studio a week, but I've done well in most of my work. I have yet to find motivation for some classes- drawing, for instance- but I've felt inspired in most other areas. I've developed a solid routine that involves taking the bus, packing a lunch, working my ass off during the week so that I can spend time with Bryan on the weekends; basically I'm finally doing all the stuff I should have been doing last year.
I look up from my laptop to find the shopkeeper, Jim, rushing towards me with profuse apologies and mutterings about sleeping in, a sick cat, and some distorted comment about "that damn dishwasher repair man". He unlocks the door of the shop, waves me in, and asks me to throw my bag in a corner and grab a welding mask. A glance at a torn piece of loose lief taped to the office door informs me that I'm a day early for the orientation. I keep this bit of information to myself in hopes that I can get certified today and sleep in tomorrow. Jim is bustling about the office, clearly still half-asleep, ironically droning on about the importance of alertness and awareness while welding.
Within half and hour I am savvy to the processes of the spot-welder, plasma cutter, and welding machine. A mark is punched on my shop ID to indicate my ability. Tootsie Rolls are thrust in my hand with further apologies for the tardiness. Another comment about "that degenerate" the repairman can be heard among his ramblings. I saunter off towards the cafe for a bagel and coffee.
I am, once again, where I so often find myself to be: in studio. I have drawing to do and a bit of research to conduct. I look out the window and see students walking towards their first classes of the day, and I think of the friends I haven't seen in ages and the normal college diversions I don't have time for. I allow myself to look up for a moment more before grabbing a sheet of 11x17 copy paper and beginning to draw.
*sigh*
Well, I suppose I should explain how I found myself at this particular moment. The last time you heard from me was in mid August, during a particularly amusing fight with Bryan. This morning I'm bundled up in a coat, scarf, and moderately practical shoes. Two months have passed, I've been to Paris and back, started school and am half way done with the quarter. My, how time flies.
Paris was spectacular and unlike anything I have ever seen. Like many others I know, I've been bitten by the illusion that I will learn French, snag a fabulous Parisian job, and be living in the Marais in a matter of years. Will this happen? Perhaps not. I will, however, certainly return to the city of light many times in the next couple of years. The city and the way of life is beautiful. I have many pictures to post.
School has also been going well. I spend 60 hours in the studio a week, but I've done well in most of my work. I have yet to find motivation for some classes- drawing, for instance- but I've felt inspired in most other areas. I've developed a solid routine that involves taking the bus, packing a lunch, working my ass off during the week so that I can spend time with Bryan on the weekends; basically I'm finally doing all the stuff I should have been doing last year.
I look up from my laptop to find the shopkeeper, Jim, rushing towards me with profuse apologies and mutterings about sleeping in, a sick cat, and some distorted comment about "that damn dishwasher repair man". He unlocks the door of the shop, waves me in, and asks me to throw my bag in a corner and grab a welding mask. A glance at a torn piece of loose lief taped to the office door informs me that I'm a day early for the orientation. I keep this bit of information to myself in hopes that I can get certified today and sleep in tomorrow. Jim is bustling about the office, clearly still half-asleep, ironically droning on about the importance of alertness and awareness while welding.
Within half and hour I am savvy to the processes of the spot-welder, plasma cutter, and welding machine. A mark is punched on my shop ID to indicate my ability. Tootsie Rolls are thrust in my hand with further apologies for the tardiness. Another comment about "that degenerate" the repairman can be heard among his ramblings. I saunter off towards the cafe for a bagel and coffee.
I am, once again, where I so often find myself to be: in studio. I have drawing to do and a bit of research to conduct. I look out the window and see students walking towards their first classes of the day, and I think of the friends I haven't seen in ages and the normal college diversions I don't have time for. I allow myself to look up for a moment more before grabbing a sheet of 11x17 copy paper and beginning to draw.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Oh, I could kill him! I could absolutely kill him! Twenty five minutes ago I was tired, worn out by an exhausting double at work and quite ready for bed, but now my blood is surging and I am anything but tired. The nerve! I ask you! I don't think I should let it pass lightly, to be honest with you; just as with dogs and children, boyfriends will continue bad behavior if left unchecked. But I ask you! Am I a fucking dog owner? A mother? I think not! Gngngngngnkigkjfsdjksgkj!!!
Argh. Anyways. Things are as they usually are. I've been working a lot lately in preparation for school and for a trip to Paris, the thought of which would be much more enjoyable were I not traveling by the good grace of the aforementioned jackass. My birthday was last Sunday, which was absolutely perfect- the aforementioned jackass was not a jackass at all last weekend, but rather a perfect gentleman, regardless of his current jackass status- and yesterday I ordered an expensive, delightfully unnecessary digital SLR camera. I've made good money all this week at work, too, though I think it might finally be time for me to serve at a fine dining establishment. Everything is fine, with the exception of the boy.
Honestly! It would be too fucking simple if he were logical, wouldn't it? Too ideal, too easy. Real relationships aren't ideal, but rather so stuffed with bullshit at times that the only real solution to the problem is a particularly large bottle of liquor.
The aforementioned jackass just texted me, saying that he acted like a jackass and to please call him. I called him. Why the fuck did I call him? God, I have no spine. I do, however, have a large bottle of liquor. I am a spineless drinker.
At least I drink good liquor.
Argh. Anyways. Things are as they usually are. I've been working a lot lately in preparation for school and for a trip to Paris, the thought of which would be much more enjoyable were I not traveling by the good grace of the aforementioned jackass. My birthday was last Sunday, which was absolutely perfect- the aforementioned jackass was not a jackass at all last weekend, but rather a perfect gentleman, regardless of his current jackass status- and yesterday I ordered an expensive, delightfully unnecessary digital SLR camera. I've made good money all this week at work, too, though I think it might finally be time for me to serve at a fine dining establishment. Everything is fine, with the exception of the boy.
Honestly! It would be too fucking simple if he were logical, wouldn't it? Too ideal, too easy. Real relationships aren't ideal, but rather so stuffed with bullshit at times that the only real solution to the problem is a particularly large bottle of liquor.
The aforementioned jackass just texted me, saying that he acted like a jackass and to please call him. I called him. Why the fuck did I call him? God, I have no spine. I do, however, have a large bottle of liquor. I am a spineless drinker.
At least I drink good liquor.
Monday, July 30, 2007
"But till I am thirty, I know that my youth will triumph over everything- every disillusionment, every disgust with life. I've asked myself many times whether there is in the world any despair that would overcome this frantic and perhaps unseemly thirst for life in me, and I've come to the conclusion that there isn't, that is till I am thirty, and then I shall lose it of myself, I fancy. Some drivelling consumptive moralists- and poets especially- often call that thirst for life base. It's a feature of the Karamazovs, it's true, that thirst for life regardless of everything; you have it no doubt too, but why is it base? The centripetal force on our planet is still fearfully strong, Alyosha. I have a longing for life, and I go on living in spite of logic. Though I may not believe in the order of the universe, yet I love the sticky little leaves as they open in spring. I love the blue sky, I love some people, whom one loves you know sometimes without knowing why. I love some great deeds done by men, thought I've long ceased perhaps to have faith in them, yet from old habit one's heart prizes them. [...] I want to travel to Europe, Alyosha, I shall set of from here. And yet I know that I am only going to a graveyard, but it's a most precious graveyard, that's what it is! Precious are the dead that lie there, every stone over them speaks of such burning life in the past, of such passionate faith in their work, their truth, their struggle and their science, that I know I shall fall on the ground and kiss those stones and weep over them; though I'm convinced in my heart that it's long been nothing but a graveyard. And I shall not weep from despair, but simply because I shall be happy in my tears, I shall steep my soul in emotion. I love the sticky leaves in spring, the blue sky- that's all it is. It's not a matter of intellect or logic, it's loving with one's inside, with one's stomach. One loves the first strength of one's youth. Do you understand anything of my tirade, Alyosha?" Ivan laughed suddenly.
"I understand too well, Ivan. One longs to love with one's inside, with one's stomach. You said that so well and I am awfully glad that you have such a longing for life," cried Alyosha. "I think everyone should love life above everything in the world."
"Love life more than the meaning of it?"
"Certainly, love it, regardless of logic as you say, it must be regardless of logic, and it's only then one will understand the meaning of it. I have thought so a long time. Half your work is done, Ivan, you love life, now you've only to try to do the second half and you are saved."
-Fyodor Dostoyevsky, "The Brothers Karamazov"
"I understand too well, Ivan. One longs to love with one's inside, with one's stomach. You said that so well and I am awfully glad that you have such a longing for life," cried Alyosha. "I think everyone should love life above everything in the world."
"Love life more than the meaning of it?"
"Certainly, love it, regardless of logic as you say, it must be regardless of logic, and it's only then one will understand the meaning of it. I have thought so a long time. Half your work is done, Ivan, you love life, now you've only to try to do the second half and you are saved."
-Fyodor Dostoyevsky, "The Brothers Karamazov"
Friday, June 01, 2007
Today I completed and turned in my last studio project. Though my last exam is not until Wednesday, I experienced the true pain and horror of design finals last week. Two days ago I turned in my design drawing process book, yesterday I turned in my space studio work, and today I turned in a portfolio of the work completed this year. The portfolio is a pdf created in InDesign, and it turned out quite lovely. Considering, however, that my technological incompetence turns the posting of pictures into a complex debacle- even with blogger’s super user-friendly setup- an attempt to post a pdf would result in the spontaneous combustion of my head. We don’t want that. Rather, I plan to bombard you with massive amounts of pictures.
This school year has been like nothing I’ve ever experienced: a dream-like blur of stress and expectation that consumed me so wholly, so completely, that I only now feel as if I’ve returned to the world I knew before. Perhaps I’m being a bit dramatic; foundations studies, though challenging weed-out classes, are nothing, nothing, compared to program work. My life, however, has changed because of it. Not only have the components of my life shifted, but I have stumbled upon a sense of specified purpose that I am moving towards at break-neck speed. This time next year I will be returning from a co-op in a design firm. The summer I start on Wednesday will be my last; after this year the breaks between quarters will be two weeks long at most. Come September I will begin my industrial design classes, and in the blink of an eye I will be facing graduation.
I’ve been dreading summer. I’m worried that I’ll have nothing to do. I’m also worried that I will burn out of the restaurant industry much sooner than I am allowed to. Waiting tables is my bread and butter for the next 4 years, yet I’m already sick of it. I absolutely loathe it.
I have fun travel plans for this summer, however. Rob will be marrying his delightful fiance Jasmin on July 7th, and I will be traveling to Salt Lake to attend the wedding, and in September Bryan and I will spend 5 days in Paris. Until then I will be working, sleeping in, dressing up, going out, and saying goodbye to the summers of my youth. This is, after all, the last one.
This school year has been like nothing I’ve ever experienced: a dream-like blur of stress and expectation that consumed me so wholly, so completely, that I only now feel as if I’ve returned to the world I knew before. Perhaps I’m being a bit dramatic; foundations studies, though challenging weed-out classes, are nothing, nothing, compared to program work. My life, however, has changed because of it. Not only have the components of my life shifted, but I have stumbled upon a sense of specified purpose that I am moving towards at break-neck speed. This time next year I will be returning from a co-op in a design firm. The summer I start on Wednesday will be my last; after this year the breaks between quarters will be two weeks long at most. Come September I will begin my industrial design classes, and in the blink of an eye I will be facing graduation.
I’ve been dreading summer. I’m worried that I’ll have nothing to do. I’m also worried that I will burn out of the restaurant industry much sooner than I am allowed to. Waiting tables is my bread and butter for the next 4 years, yet I’m already sick of it. I absolutely loathe it.
I have fun travel plans for this summer, however. Rob will be marrying his delightful fiance Jasmin on July 7th, and I will be traveling to Salt Lake to attend the wedding, and in September Bryan and I will spend 5 days in Paris. Until then I will be working, sleeping in, dressing up, going out, and saying goodbye to the summers of my youth. This is, after all, the last one.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
I have 10 minutes to write before work; I just skimmed over a friend of a friend's blog, and I immediately felt guilty for neglecting my own. My busy schedule has little room for niceties such as writing, I'm afraid, and because of it I've written very few posts over the past year. This is disheartening, considering that I used to post 7 days a week, but oh well; such is DAAP, after all. Though I'll have no written record to document this past year, I have all sorts of school work that I'm gathering for my portfolio. I've learned to draw this past year; I draw quite well, actually. I suppose I've grown quite a bit but have yet to reflect upon it.
Reflection will come soon; one week from today I will be free for the summer. Granted, I'll be working 40 hours a week, but I suspect my free time will be exponentially more plenteous than it was during the school year. I hope to write and draw plenty over the summer, seeing as this is the last 3-month carefree break I'll ever enjoy, but we'll have to see if any of these lofty goals come to fruition.
note: I've sacrificed my editing time for the sake of quantity. Don't judge if I've misspelled every other world. I am a product of the spell-check generation, after all.
Reflection will come soon; one week from today I will be free for the summer. Granted, I'll be working 40 hours a week, but I suspect my free time will be exponentially more plenteous than it was during the school year. I hope to write and draw plenty over the summer, seeing as this is the last 3-month carefree break I'll ever enjoy, but we'll have to see if any of these lofty goals come to fruition.
note: I've sacrificed my editing time for the sake of quantity. Don't judge if I've misspelled every other world. I am a product of the spell-check generation, after all.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Oh dear god. I am back in school after a short spring break respite. It was all too short, I’m afraid; it feels as if I finished my winter finals yesterday, yet here I am, flipping through 6 new syllabi and buying books again. I finished winter quarter with exactly the same grades as fall quarter: all A’s save an A- in Wolf’s impossible drawing course. I am proud of myself and confident in my chances for a scholarship, so I’ll be holding my breath from now until May.
Much to my dismay, Space studio this quarter is going to resemble fall quarter and not winter quarter; fall quarter was marked by the dreaded, time-consuming “paint-chip” color exercises, whereas all winter work was completed on a computer and consequently less tedious. This quarter, however, we are completing a series of exercises all executed by folding paper. I began school on Monday, and my first all-nighter of the quarter will be tonight.
I am taking my studio courses, a political philosophy course, and an analysis of Shakespeare course, which I am quite excited about. Work is the same: Wednesday and Friday evenings at Mimi’s cafe, resulting in a weekly income of $150. Mum discovered she could add me onto her car insurance, which would save me $75 a month, but I don’t have 6 months pay upfront, unfortunately, and can’t take advantage of the opportunity.
Bryan’s birthday is on the 10th, and I’m terribly worried that finances will prevent me from providing him with a fantastic birthday. When I express these financial concerns he always bats the issue away with a “don’t get me anything”. I know him though, and I know how he loves surprises. I’m going to bake a magnificent cake and collect a few excellent gifts. I’m a resourceful gal, after all, and I always seem to pull through ordeals such as this.
Today will be a taxing day. I have drawing studio in 10 minutes, at which time I will begin a still life that I’ll have to finish over the weekend. I then rush to Mason to work at 5- and I think I’m closing tonight, to boot- and then I must return downtown for a couple of hours of studio work. I look forward to the summer, when I will have completed the first year of my major with flying colors. All is well, dearest readers, though you and I don’t see too much of each other any more. I’ll try to report back more often.
Much to my dismay, Space studio this quarter is going to resemble fall quarter and not winter quarter; fall quarter was marked by the dreaded, time-consuming “paint-chip” color exercises, whereas all winter work was completed on a computer and consequently less tedious. This quarter, however, we are completing a series of exercises all executed by folding paper. I began school on Monday, and my first all-nighter of the quarter will be tonight.
I am taking my studio courses, a political philosophy course, and an analysis of Shakespeare course, which I am quite excited about. Work is the same: Wednesday and Friday evenings at Mimi’s cafe, resulting in a weekly income of $150. Mum discovered she could add me onto her car insurance, which would save me $75 a month, but I don’t have 6 months pay upfront, unfortunately, and can’t take advantage of the opportunity.
Bryan’s birthday is on the 10th, and I’m terribly worried that finances will prevent me from providing him with a fantastic birthday. When I express these financial concerns he always bats the issue away with a “don’t get me anything”. I know him though, and I know how he loves surprises. I’m going to bake a magnificent cake and collect a few excellent gifts. I’m a resourceful gal, after all, and I always seem to pull through ordeals such as this.
Today will be a taxing day. I have drawing studio in 10 minutes, at which time I will begin a still life that I’ll have to finish over the weekend. I then rush to Mason to work at 5- and I think I’m closing tonight, to boot- and then I must return downtown for a couple of hours of studio work. I look forward to the summer, when I will have completed the first year of my major with flying colors. All is well, dearest readers, though you and I don’t see too much of each other any more. I’ll try to report back more often.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Queen Bee and the Ruffians
I smiled as I set their drinks down, plucked the straws from my shirt pocket and placed them beside each glass. Things looked promising for this bunch, much more so than any of the other uneventful guests I’ve waited on this evening. I haven’t received any spectacular tips, nor have I been forced to suffer through hellish customers- I very rarely stumble upon truly intolerable individuals at work, come to think of it- but the night is young and full of perilous possibility.
The older woman on the left side of the booth is anxiously charming, and had arrived before the two younger women who sat beside her now. Her hair was drawn up into one of those masterful hairdos common among older women, rigidly set into unyielding arcs and curls that seem flowing and natural until the creature beneath it moves, and by the coif’s inability to sway with its master one realizes that the hair might as well be set in stone.
When I had asked her what she would like to drink she glanced around, torn between reservedly ordering and gregariously gushing hello. She delicately ordered a pinot grigio before allowing her smile to nervously wither. Her counterparts- loud, oblivious, miller-lite swilling girls- disappointed me, to say the least. I didn’t know quite what to think; upon the arrival of the first bird I’d felt an amazing tip was a sure thing, but if the bill ended up in the wrong hands- and it had a 66% chance of doing so- I wouldn’t be surprised to receive a lackluster 15%.
I sang for my tip regardless as I always do, and slowly eased into a little light humor with the table. The queen bee and one of the ruffians revealed an interest in fashion, and we lamented Marc Jacob’s latest disappointments together. When it came time to order the three were jovially requesting suggestions and asking questions. The fashionable ruffian asked me if I had ever had the veggie stack, and in what I thought was perfectly acceptable good humor responded, “Well, as a carnivorous Norwegian I don’t know too much about meatless dishes”.
Queen bee misheard me. She must have. Her jaw dropped to the table with an earsplitting thud as if I had just referenced a type of specialty fellatio native to Singapore. Mouth agape, she pointedly gasped at her fellow diners. They must have heard me correctly and thought nothing of it, because they didn’t react to bee’s shock. I stood there awkwardly, almost ready to ask the woman what the hell her problem was and offer another pinot. I decided against it, and, blushing, walked away.
“I have a question for you”, I told Alexis, a fellow server, at the side station.
“Yeah?” she said as she prepared four waters.
“I know it’s not exactly typical, but does the sentence ‘as a carnivorous Norwegian I don’t know too much about meatless dishes’ offend you?”
“Damn, girl. You think some crazy shit. I swear to god just yesterday you were all confused about why humans have eyebrows and getting mad at the bread tongs. Now you’re just trippin me out.”
“Oh, I asked my dad about it, by the way. He said they’re to keep the sweat from running into our eyes. And he didn’t have to think about for a second, but it makes perfect sense. I don’t know how he knows all the stuff he knows.”
“Huh”, Alexis muttered. “That does make sense, now that I think about it.”
“Anyways, the comment thing”, I hurriedly said, noticing that I had just received another table that needed tending to.
“As a carnivorous Norwegian I don’t know meatless dishes”, she said to herself, looking up and pausing. “No, doesn’t offend me. Sounds weird though. The word ‘meatless’ is questionable.”
“This woman misunderstood me, and now probably thinks I’m uncouth and inappropriate or something”, I said, squinting my eyes.
“Don’t you hate that” she sympathized. “Cause you can’t help but think that they thought you said the worst possible thing. Once I offered a man desert, and he looked at me, all mad-like, and was like ‘I’m married’. You don’t know what to say, you know?”
“Just another thing to love about the service industry”, I said, grinning. I walked up to my new table and took drink orders. When bee’s and the ruffian’s food came up I had no choice but to return to the table. I delivered their food and acted as comfortable as possible, but found myself not making eye contact at times. Bee was still acting bizarre, though her behavior was not too different from the nervous unease she had displayed earlier. Maybe she had just escaped from a mental institution and showed up at the ruffian’s door for refuge, posing as a long-lost grandmother. She certainly didn’t fit in with the bunch.
As I placed her meal in front of her she was once again marked by overt indecision. She smiled graciously, but before the words “thank you” reached her lips her smile fell, she pursed her lips, squinted her eyes, and looked up at me cockeyed as if she were contemplating throwing a drink in my face. I once again consider my escaped nut-job theory.
They ate their dinner, ordered a couple more drinks, and were soon ready for the bill. Queen bee, much to my dismay, reached for the checkbook and held it in her jewel-clad fingers. Great, I thought to myself: now I’ll be lucky if they pay for just the meal.
I hurried away and doted upon my other tables in an attempt to distract myself. I walked to the kitchen to fix some bread, and when I returned to the garden room bee and the ruffians had gone. Among the glasses of partially finished wine, rumpled linens, and sucked-dry beer bottles on their table was the checkbook. I pocketed the check and walked to the side station. Alexis saw me pull the book from my apron and asked an ambiguous but all too well understood “Well?”. I glanced down, puckered my lips and looked to the window.
“25%” I said.
“Did she pay, or did one of the other girls at the table?”
“No, it was her”, I confirmed. “Crazy get-all-offended lady. She paid and left the tip.”
“Crazy motherfuckers”, she laughed. “It’s so funny; you become a part of these people’s lives for an hour out of the evening, you find out what they like to eat and drink, and how they speak, and sometimes where they’re from and shit. But nothing, absolutely nothing says as much about people as what kind of tip they leave. I will never stop being surprised by people. Crazy motherfuckers.”
“That was downright profound”, I chuckled.
“Well think about it. We know these people better than their friends and family, because tipping is personal. There are no pretenses when it comes time to tip. No more acting. It’s the one act that forces you to put your money where your mouth is.”
I smile at her insight, and reach for the water pitcher. I circle round my tables, an obsequious, smiling vulture, assessing their conditions from above, sneaking plates off of tables, silent and unknown, all while wondering what it was Queen bee thought I had said to her.
I smiled as I set their drinks down, plucked the straws from my shirt pocket and placed them beside each glass. Things looked promising for this bunch, much more so than any of the other uneventful guests I’ve waited on this evening. I haven’t received any spectacular tips, nor have I been forced to suffer through hellish customers- I very rarely stumble upon truly intolerable individuals at work, come to think of it- but the night is young and full of perilous possibility.
The older woman on the left side of the booth is anxiously charming, and had arrived before the two younger women who sat beside her now. Her hair was drawn up into one of those masterful hairdos common among older women, rigidly set into unyielding arcs and curls that seem flowing and natural until the creature beneath it moves, and by the coif’s inability to sway with its master one realizes that the hair might as well be set in stone.
When I had asked her what she would like to drink she glanced around, torn between reservedly ordering and gregariously gushing hello. She delicately ordered a pinot grigio before allowing her smile to nervously wither. Her counterparts- loud, oblivious, miller-lite swilling girls- disappointed me, to say the least. I didn’t know quite what to think; upon the arrival of the first bird I’d felt an amazing tip was a sure thing, but if the bill ended up in the wrong hands- and it had a 66% chance of doing so- I wouldn’t be surprised to receive a lackluster 15%.
I sang for my tip regardless as I always do, and slowly eased into a little light humor with the table. The queen bee and one of the ruffians revealed an interest in fashion, and we lamented Marc Jacob’s latest disappointments together. When it came time to order the three were jovially requesting suggestions and asking questions. The fashionable ruffian asked me if I had ever had the veggie stack, and in what I thought was perfectly acceptable good humor responded, “Well, as a carnivorous Norwegian I don’t know too much about meatless dishes”.
Queen bee misheard me. She must have. Her jaw dropped to the table with an earsplitting thud as if I had just referenced a type of specialty fellatio native to Singapore. Mouth agape, she pointedly gasped at her fellow diners. They must have heard me correctly and thought nothing of it, because they didn’t react to bee’s shock. I stood there awkwardly, almost ready to ask the woman what the hell her problem was and offer another pinot. I decided against it, and, blushing, walked away.
“I have a question for you”, I told Alexis, a fellow server, at the side station.
“Yeah?” she said as she prepared four waters.
“I know it’s not exactly typical, but does the sentence ‘as a carnivorous Norwegian I don’t know too much about meatless dishes’ offend you?”
“Damn, girl. You think some crazy shit. I swear to god just yesterday you were all confused about why humans have eyebrows and getting mad at the bread tongs. Now you’re just trippin me out.”
“Oh, I asked my dad about it, by the way. He said they’re to keep the sweat from running into our eyes. And he didn’t have to think about for a second, but it makes perfect sense. I don’t know how he knows all the stuff he knows.”
“Huh”, Alexis muttered. “That does make sense, now that I think about it.”
“Anyways, the comment thing”, I hurriedly said, noticing that I had just received another table that needed tending to.
“As a carnivorous Norwegian I don’t know meatless dishes”, she said to herself, looking up and pausing. “No, doesn’t offend me. Sounds weird though. The word ‘meatless’ is questionable.”
“This woman misunderstood me, and now probably thinks I’m uncouth and inappropriate or something”, I said, squinting my eyes.
“Don’t you hate that” she sympathized. “Cause you can’t help but think that they thought you said the worst possible thing. Once I offered a man desert, and he looked at me, all mad-like, and was like ‘I’m married’. You don’t know what to say, you know?”
“Just another thing to love about the service industry”, I said, grinning. I walked up to my new table and took drink orders. When bee’s and the ruffian’s food came up I had no choice but to return to the table. I delivered their food and acted as comfortable as possible, but found myself not making eye contact at times. Bee was still acting bizarre, though her behavior was not too different from the nervous unease she had displayed earlier. Maybe she had just escaped from a mental institution and showed up at the ruffian’s door for refuge, posing as a long-lost grandmother. She certainly didn’t fit in with the bunch.
As I placed her meal in front of her she was once again marked by overt indecision. She smiled graciously, but before the words “thank you” reached her lips her smile fell, she pursed her lips, squinted her eyes, and looked up at me cockeyed as if she were contemplating throwing a drink in my face. I once again consider my escaped nut-job theory.
They ate their dinner, ordered a couple more drinks, and were soon ready for the bill. Queen bee, much to my dismay, reached for the checkbook and held it in her jewel-clad fingers. Great, I thought to myself: now I’ll be lucky if they pay for just the meal.
I hurried away and doted upon my other tables in an attempt to distract myself. I walked to the kitchen to fix some bread, and when I returned to the garden room bee and the ruffians had gone. Among the glasses of partially finished wine, rumpled linens, and sucked-dry beer bottles on their table was the checkbook. I pocketed the check and walked to the side station. Alexis saw me pull the book from my apron and asked an ambiguous but all too well understood “Well?”. I glanced down, puckered my lips and looked to the window.
“25%” I said.
“Did she pay, or did one of the other girls at the table?”
“No, it was her”, I confirmed. “Crazy get-all-offended lady. She paid and left the tip.”
“Crazy motherfuckers”, she laughed. “It’s so funny; you become a part of these people’s lives for an hour out of the evening, you find out what they like to eat and drink, and how they speak, and sometimes where they’re from and shit. But nothing, absolutely nothing says as much about people as what kind of tip they leave. I will never stop being surprised by people. Crazy motherfuckers.”
“That was downright profound”, I chuckled.
“Well think about it. We know these people better than their friends and family, because tipping is personal. There are no pretenses when it comes time to tip. No more acting. It’s the one act that forces you to put your money where your mouth is.”
I smile at her insight, and reach for the water pitcher. I circle round my tables, an obsequious, smiling vulture, assessing their conditions from above, sneaking plates off of tables, silent and unknown, all while wondering what it was Queen bee thought I had said to her.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Advances in technology and procedure have revolutionized our society and pulled us out of the dark abyss of antiquity in almost every aspect of daily life. There are practices, however, that still plague us with their inconvenience, inefficiency, and incompetence. The process of purchasing textbooks, for example, is in dire need of further evolution. Though buying used textbooks online is a good way to avoid the anguish of paying full price, many times the process is just as painful.
For the most part my experiences with sites such as amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com have been positive; in a matter of minutes I’ve been able to locate the needed textbook for a twentieth of what it costs new and commence the new quarter. The organization and clever layout of the popular sites makes ordering books completely painless. For a brief moment we naive students dance our celebratory dances, ecstatically calculate our hundreds of dollars in savings, and aggressively put two figurative fingers up to the system with all the mutinous rebellion we can muster. But when our books have yet to arrive three weeks later, our camaraderie begins to dwindle and we look ashamedly to our hated nemesis: the bookstore.
It seems a step in the wrong direction to shop at the bookstore in light of our many options. The truth of the matter, however, is that textbooks are actually fairly priced, and campus bookstores only keep 4.5% of textbooks sales (after operating costs, personnel, and taxes have been paid). There is no big-business villain clutching a dollar-stamped bag to blame for the price of textbooks. “Academic books, especially specialized ones for graduate courses, have a lower sales volume than popular books, causing costs to be spread out over a smaller base number, thereby increasing a book's unit cost,” explains a statement recently released from the University of Cincinnati’s Department of University Relations.
Thus there is no easy fix to the problem of high textbook costs. Students have found ways to get creative, but any alternative method will have its pros and cons. No company can mass-distribute used goods for the low prices that individual sellers can, and unfortunately that is where the steals are found on sites such as amazon.com or barnesandnoble.com (buying books new from these sites provide the consumer with the dependability of a big seller, but is seldom much cheaper than the bookstore). Buying from an individual seller is cumbersome, and anyone who has ever dealt with Ebay will know that; few sellers are easy to get in contact with, professional, and prompt. The sellers that carry the texts students need are most often other students and therefore even less likely to execute an online transaction with professionalism. Orders are sometimes cancelled- as were three of mine this quarter- or delayed, and at times the savings made possible by this bothersome process are completely negated, especially if one has to hunt down and photocopy library copies to complete the first couple of assignments. Ordering textbooks a month ahead of time also has its disadvantages; if you’re anything like me and the other 20% of students who refuse to buy a text until reading has been assigned- nothing is more frustrating than dropping $60 on a book that the teacher never uses- then ordering books prematurely is not the most attractive option.
It seems as if whether we buy our books from the bookstore or order them online we will be left wrathfully swearing under our breath. As seamless as amazon.com may make the process seem, textbooks will continue to act as the vile bane of our existence for some time to come. Though tiresome the old adage may be, it certainly rings true in this case: “If it seems to good to be true, it probably is”.
For the most part my experiences with sites such as amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com have been positive; in a matter of minutes I’ve been able to locate the needed textbook for a twentieth of what it costs new and commence the new quarter. The organization and clever layout of the popular sites makes ordering books completely painless. For a brief moment we naive students dance our celebratory dances, ecstatically calculate our hundreds of dollars in savings, and aggressively put two figurative fingers up to the system with all the mutinous rebellion we can muster. But when our books have yet to arrive three weeks later, our camaraderie begins to dwindle and we look ashamedly to our hated nemesis: the bookstore.
It seems a step in the wrong direction to shop at the bookstore in light of our many options. The truth of the matter, however, is that textbooks are actually fairly priced, and campus bookstores only keep 4.5% of textbooks sales (after operating costs, personnel, and taxes have been paid). There is no big-business villain clutching a dollar-stamped bag to blame for the price of textbooks. “Academic books, especially specialized ones for graduate courses, have a lower sales volume than popular books, causing costs to be spread out over a smaller base number, thereby increasing a book's unit cost,” explains a statement recently released from the University of Cincinnati’s Department of University Relations.
Thus there is no easy fix to the problem of high textbook costs. Students have found ways to get creative, but any alternative method will have its pros and cons. No company can mass-distribute used goods for the low prices that individual sellers can, and unfortunately that is where the steals are found on sites such as amazon.com or barnesandnoble.com (buying books new from these sites provide the consumer with the dependability of a big seller, but is seldom much cheaper than the bookstore). Buying from an individual seller is cumbersome, and anyone who has ever dealt with Ebay will know that; few sellers are easy to get in contact with, professional, and prompt. The sellers that carry the texts students need are most often other students and therefore even less likely to execute an online transaction with professionalism. Orders are sometimes cancelled- as were three of mine this quarter- or delayed, and at times the savings made possible by this bothersome process are completely negated, especially if one has to hunt down and photocopy library copies to complete the first couple of assignments. Ordering textbooks a month ahead of time also has its disadvantages; if you’re anything like me and the other 20% of students who refuse to buy a text until reading has been assigned- nothing is more frustrating than dropping $60 on a book that the teacher never uses- then ordering books prematurely is not the most attractive option.
It seems as if whether we buy our books from the bookstore or order them online we will be left wrathfully swearing under our breath. As seamless as amazon.com may make the process seem, textbooks will continue to act as the vile bane of our existence for some time to come. Though tiresome the old adage may be, it certainly rings true in this case: “If it seems to good to be true, it probably is”.
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