First week of classes finished. Why did it feel like a month had passed since Monday? Moving in seemed to have been forever and a day ago. I can barely remember how bitter I was then, compared to how exhausted I am now.
Part of the problem was a mix of fear and dread that I wouldn’t know anyone, and I’d not only be that guy who did work all the time and never talked to anyone, I’d be the guy who didn’t want to be here, yet did all the aforementioned work. At least I’ve started to talk to people in the class, and I’ve got my study group. We’re all afeard of this place, so I’m not alone.
Despite having taken a year off, I’m still one of the youngest people in the class. We’ve got married peoples, people with kids (or expecting their first born very soon). We’ve got people who’re world weary travelers, people with master’s degrees. Yes, there are also people fresh off the undergrad boat. There are also people who could probably build a boat from a log and an axe. So many people are living real lives concurrently with law school. It makes my dead on concentration on law school seem pitiful by comparison.
I’m still doing work, because class leaves me so burnt out, it seems rather difficult to get back to work after class. Plus, I don’t want to fall behind.
Might as well call this Womb 425. Aside from going home to do laundry and finding a Burger King, the most I’ve seen of
So much for trying to relate this journal to the world around me.
[This was law school. –K.]
***I don't like baseball, and have no love for the Yankees. Still, when I read the following paragraph by Eric Neel, it touched something in me. I've never been particularly impressed by anything he's written before, and I probably won't again, but for one brief paragraph...
MARIANO RIVERA, RP, NEW YORK YANKEES
Here's what we'll tell our kids: He looked like an alien, and threw like a god. He had one pitch -- and with that one pitch, like David with one rock in a slingshot, he could fell any foe. With that one pitch he could escape any danger. With that one pitch he could intimidate any lineup. With that one pitch he won world titles. With that one pitch he pitched his way to the Hall of Fame. With that one pitch he performed surgery. With that one pitch he wrote poems. With that one pitch he sang songs. With that one pitch he saved souls and converted non-believers, and brought peace to the boroughs and joy to the masses. And we will not be exaggerating.
And it isn't like that paragraph is particularly complex. He uses the same sentence pattern nine or ten times, depending on how strictly you want to read it. Neel's just flat out exaggerating for the most part, a tall tale. But there's something about the earnestness with which he sells his description of Rivera, as well as the absolute belief in his pitch, whatever it may be. It reads so naturally, you can't help but believe it, so long as you can suspend your disbelief.
And that's the bitch of writing. The hardest thing is making it sound natural, almost as if you're conversing with someone, and they're just really, really quiet. The effortlessness is key. Think of those figures in our history we define as cool. What makes them cool is that they expend so little effort, that it's natural to them to do what they do. Think of athletes, making it so easy that it is almost natural. Think of any exemplar of a field, and what gets you is how natural they are, like they do what they were born to do.
Not to say that there isn't a lot of effort involved. Oh, the effort. My cousin, R.Y., is hands down a pimp. And he's worked hard to get as comfortable as he can around women. Lots of effort expended in wining and dining them. And now, it's like he's natural. He told me one day, while in the mall, he was chatting up some girls (I can't call them women because he told me their age), and people stopped because they were amazed at how natural he was at this. One person actually told him she'd never seen an Asian guy holla at girls the way he did. (A bit of a tangent, but I'm proud of R.Y., and even though he'll probably never read this, I still have to give him a shoutout.)
It's strange, making it so natural only after years of working your ass off, then pretending not to care that you put in all that time and effort. And I think, ultimately, that's what we're all attempting to head towards. We're all good at something, but we all also have to work at it. And is it enough to do that one thing as best you can, or to try to improve yourself with other things? I admire G.B.'s ability to develop code, tossed out with ease and flair. G.B. admires my ability to write a story, tossed out with ease and flair. We have plans to train each other (in almost diametrically opposed fields), but as much as I believe I can teach him to "find his voice" (a fucking misnomer of a phrase, and one that I despise, and probably fodder for another entry in the future), and he believes he can train me to understand "pointers" (another fucking misnomer), neither of us will become naturals, because there's no passion.
It's giving yourself up to something so wholly, because that thing grips you and won't let go, and you refuse to let it go, and you're locked in a simultaneous death grip, and you start laughing because you wouldn't be doing anything else in the world. And over time, because you work at it, it gets easier and easier, until it becomes a part of you, melds with your soul. You perform your task, and it seems so natural, until one day, you can no longer perform at that natural level for whatever reason. It happens to everyone, and everything. That's what really tasks you, whether or not you can let go gracefully. But no one ever thinks of that. They just do whatever they do, and do it naturally, for as long as they can.
Damn it, I swear I was trying to make this more inspirational and/or funny.
No comments:
Post a Comment