Shoot-Out at the Fantasy Factory
Star Wars was dissappointing, but I enjoyed watching it.
Otherwise, Friday was mostly lovely. Pretty much.
And so I spent all Saturday making Chem study guides and thinking about protons and kelvin scales and diamonds and titration and I remembered all of Mr. Schubert's amazing moments--the shock of seeing a vial of clear liquid, too mundane to be anything but water or vodka, turn, at the touch of a single drop of another clear liquid, violent fuschia and then--another drop--perfectly clear again. I remembered seeing a gummy bear go up in flames, seeing the middle of a penny eaten away, seeing a liquid boil at room temperature, seeing another transparant vial turn into blue flames when the lights went out and then fade until I had to crawl across the ground to turn them on again and Djasi laughed when my scarf was left in the middle of the floor.
Then I watched the last two episodes of The Prisoner, which is by far the trippiest thing I've ever seen. A seventeen-episode TV show from 1985 with Secret Agent Man as the main character--except he's resigned, and won't tell them why, and they've decided to drive him insane to get the answer out of him. In turn he tries to drive them insane, and they give him a number instead of a name and when he wins and kills his chief opressor they bring him back to life and make Secret Agent Man into their leader. Before he takes over, though, he has to meet Number One, and it's all smoke and mirrors and I started philosphising about how it was all a metaphor for him seeking refuge and sanity in his own mind from what happened to him and whatever made him quit and the faces of youth and age and I thought I'd really gotten onto something and my mom told me to stop trying to explain it and take it as it was.
Why do I have so much trouble with that?
Because I'm right. My analysis is right and I know it. She knows it, too.
So I've decided that Chemistry is just a complex lie. There are no chemists. They make it complicated enough that no one in their right mind would persue it past high school to disguise the fact that Mr. Schubert and his kin are really dark magicians toying with us for a year or two and then bidding us farewell at the door. And we leave, amble or flee, blindly, unwittingly, to lead charmed lives and propegate the misunderstanding and mystery of it all.
What else is there to life but blessings and masks and the right to be an individual?
Then again. Maybe there really is something behind it all.
And I have until Thursday 12:00 to figure out what it is.
Otherwise, Friday was mostly lovely. Pretty much.
And so I spent all Saturday making Chem study guides and thinking about protons and kelvin scales and diamonds and titration and I remembered all of Mr. Schubert's amazing moments--the shock of seeing a vial of clear liquid, too mundane to be anything but water or vodka, turn, at the touch of a single drop of another clear liquid, violent fuschia and then--another drop--perfectly clear again. I remembered seeing a gummy bear go up in flames, seeing the middle of a penny eaten away, seeing a liquid boil at room temperature, seeing another transparant vial turn into blue flames when the lights went out and then fade until I had to crawl across the ground to turn them on again and Djasi laughed when my scarf was left in the middle of the floor.
Then I watched the last two episodes of The Prisoner, which is by far the trippiest thing I've ever seen. A seventeen-episode TV show from 1985 with Secret Agent Man as the main character--except he's resigned, and won't tell them why, and they've decided to drive him insane to get the answer out of him. In turn he tries to drive them insane, and they give him a number instead of a name and when he wins and kills his chief opressor they bring him back to life and make Secret Agent Man into their leader. Before he takes over, though, he has to meet Number One, and it's all smoke and mirrors and I started philosphising about how it was all a metaphor for him seeking refuge and sanity in his own mind from what happened to him and whatever made him quit and the faces of youth and age and I thought I'd really gotten onto something and my mom told me to stop trying to explain it and take it as it was.
Why do I have so much trouble with that?
Because I'm right. My analysis is right and I know it. She knows it, too.
So I've decided that Chemistry is just a complex lie. There are no chemists. They make it complicated enough that no one in their right mind would persue it past high school to disguise the fact that Mr. Schubert and his kin are really dark magicians toying with us for a year or two and then bidding us farewell at the door. And we leave, amble or flee, blindly, unwittingly, to lead charmed lives and propegate the misunderstanding and mystery of it all.
What else is there to life but blessings and masks and the right to be an individual?
Then again. Maybe there really is something behind it all.
And I have until Thursday 12:00 to figure out what it is.
posted by VVM at 8:53 PM
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