Bruh the execution on the penspinning was so bad help
At last, it’s over.
“Metacognition” is a fancy word. I’ve had that thought for the entire year, but I’ve never remembered to actually write it down in any metacognitions before. But now I have. Now what? I don’t know. I don’t think I want to know. Why not just call these things “reflections” instead? There’s a fairly high chance you’ve already explained the difference to us, but I don’t remember, and so I can only assume that you haven’t.
I don’t think I’ve grown that much as a writer. I think I put all of my “learning energy” into learning about the easiest way to get a 100, or at least an A, and then optimizing the way I do things so that I can be lazy and do the smallest possible amount of work possible, instead of actually trying to improve. I would go and look back at the work I’ve done in the past year in order to remember what actually happened, but I’m to lazy to do that too.
Anyway, one problem that I noticed about my writing is that I often know, or have an idea about the concept of the sentence/phrase that I’m trying to write, but can often take quite a long time for me to figure out what the words are actually supposed to be. If I don’t think it out, the sentences feel weird, and almost always don’t quite make sense. Like the first sentence in this paragraph. Transitions become almost always nonexistent too, which only adds to the fun. I don’t know how to fix it, and so a significant portion of the time it takes for me to write is spent just staring at the cursor line thing flash, steadily getting more and more bored. Success.
I just reread the instructions in a fit of boredom, and I now realize that this probably not the standard type of “Fitz-style Journal Entry.” I’m not making a podcast or video, and so the only way I can see myself making this work is by just adding a “Dear Fitz,” at the top, and a “From, Mark” at the bottom without changing any of the other text at all. Does that validate this thing as a letter now? The “Dear Fitz” Portion came out in both a different font and text size as the rest of the paragraph. Therefore I must do the only possibly acceptable thing and only make the font match, while leaving the text two sizes smaller than the rest of the “letter.” Honestly this metacognition is a pretty good example of what happened with my writing this year: improper style, laziness, confusing sentences, more laziness, “oh wait I forgot to read the instructions” moments, grammar problems, and other great things.
I read the instructions again, and I just realized it said that we should be “thorough.” I do realize this is my last English assignment of the year, but that doesn’t quite stop me from not trying. Sorry, Fitz.
“The mind picks some very bad times to take a walk doesn't it?”
The sun’s very warm. Unfortunately warm. More than warm enough to make some want to go back inside, and sit down. It would almost certainly help if I took off my hoodie, but it takes far too much energy to do that. And so thus, I keep it on. I do realize that we’re supposed to make the hook engaging, but it, again, takes far too much energy to do. I also do in fact realize that the sentence I just wrote looks really weird. But, for the third time, it takes too much energy to go back and change it. Being repetitive is fun, especially when you’re also being completely oblivious to the fact that you’re being repetitive, and thus being even more repetitive. Isn’t that just walking, though?
“Do you know how you get the urge to clean your room, and it’s no big deal? But when your mom tells you that you have to clean your room, you don't want to? That's me, anyway.”
Chores are rather useful things. Although I don’t necessarily like doing them, at least with our current technology, life without chores would be quite unpleasant. I don’t really have a meaningful experience to write about, because I quite honestly don’t learn anything when doing chores. I basically just shut off all of my cognitive functions, and then do whatever my subconscious mind tells me to do. Which may or may not be actually helpful.
Not every plan fails.
“One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”
― Probably overused proverb
I have a music stand. It’s not very large, impressive, or good looking. It’s broken in some rather important places, surprisingly sturdy in some not-as-important places, and it has a very, very amusing tendency to fall over in the worst possible situations—a fact made even more apparent because I play the cello (picking things up is surprisingly difficult). Quite honestly, it’s kind of bad. I mean, I can’t really complain too much because it is a somewhat “portable” wire stand (as opposed to a fixed(?) stand, which is designed with sturdiness and reliability in mind), and the reputation of wire stands is... questionable, at best.
Considering the fact that it was given to me for free, from an even more questionable musical instrument “shop,” I should probably be happy that it even works at all (random side tangent because I need words: Always check, and properly test your instruments before you buy them. And check them thoroughly. Very thoroughly. Even better, if you ever plan to get an instrument, don’t buy stuff from Leonard’s Music in the first place, because they’re s*. At least with strings, they’ve tried to sell me broken (broken to the point where it wouldn’t be possible to fix at home) instruments on two separate occasions, before I finally gave up and went to a different place. Even if you manage to get a instrument that’s working, the quality’s still really bad).
So anyway, about a week ago (it’s probably not a week, but I’m too lazy to check. I do know that it was during the quarantine, though), I had to record something for one of my classes. Well, no probl—of course there’s a problem. Why wouldn’t there be a problem. I kind of needed two hands for the thing I was doing, and a third to hold the camera up in place while I did it. Since I didn’t have a tripod, and I couldn’t quite find a very good way for me to get a third hand before the assignment was due, I consulted my imaginary friend, also known as the “third” state of inner depression (there’s presumably fourteen total):
“Hey, I need help.”
“Well I can help, but I don’t want to help you.”
Well, a bit disappointing, but I could work with that. After that extremely enlightening and helpful conversation, I decided to take a look around my room, in order to see if I could find or design something. That’s when I stumbled upon the idea of using the music stand as a makeshift iPad holder.
Surprisingly enough, unlike almost every idea that I’ve had in the past, it actually worked. It wasn’t really bad, either. As they say, “Good things often come when you least expect it.” The music stand, who’s only purpose before this was to allow me to wake up the neighbors easier at 11:00 during the night with my out of tune cello playing, now actually had some purpose, some legitimately good reason for me to use it. A zombie, raised from the dead—yet this time, the zombie actually helped me.
Never underestimate music stands.
Journal Entry no. 1(?)
”Normal” for me could be anything, if I don’t have a definition.
“There are times when the mind is dealt such a blow it hides itself in insanity. While this may not seem beneficial, it is. There are times when reality is nothing but pain, and to escape that pain the mind must leave reality behind.”
I used to have a diary. I say that with a lot of emphasis on “used to,” and surprisingly little emphasis on “diary.” I’m currently questioning if it could even be considered a diary at all, because although I did in fact write in it every day, the actual writing mainly just consisted of a singular sentence that I would rewrite consistently every day, detailing the events of said day. Case in point: “March 24, 2013: It’s been a normal day.” And that was all. Life was fun back then. It still is, considering the sheer amount of boredom and laziness required to do something like this.
Commenting metacognition from last week.
“Just with the same comment, one can fool several people.”
Commenting’s weird. On one hand, like many other people, I don’t like it. On the other hand, it’s sometimes a strangely peaceful experience. But then again, this is very much a “sometimes” sort of thing. The vast majority of the time, the only thing that commenting is, is infuriating. Honestly, the peaceful times are usually both quite annoying and stupid too, because it means that my brain has shut down to the point where basic cognitive functions are essentially nonexistent anymore, and I’m relying purely on my subconsciousness, and intuition to do work that they’re really not supposed to be doing (i.e. thinking about what to write for comments. It’s not even thinking).
All roads lead towards getting tired.
Motivation is interesting. On one hand, things sometimes (emphasis on “sometimes”) work out really well, and it almost seems like there’s limitless energy and potential in the world. On the other hand, I just kind of wish that it didn’t exist in the first place. It’s too inconsistent. It never appears when you want it to appear, and when there is energy, it never lasts for long enough.
The Place I Go
It’s very green, and not necessarily in a good way.
”My uncle's dying wish - he wanted me on his lap. He was in the electric chair.”
Carving light grooves on the ground as it rolls around, it’s gray, cylindrical wheels squeaking in a chaotic symphony of noise. Small, dark, scratched pneumatic pumps and levers work silently in the shadows, holding things away from the cold, lifting things up into the dry air above. Other, confusing, illogical knobs, flimsy gears, and spindly levers work unseen, controlling unknown things behind their thin, painted, metallic walls. They might not even do anything, but no one would know—they hide it so well. That, however, is only the base of the tower. It’s the foundation of the structure, the part that no one sees. Although it seems complex, there is only one purpose for why it all exists: to hold up the structure above.
A Slice of Life
We all fall into habits, and routines. For me, that habit has been lunch. On every single full school day for the past two years, my lunch has been the same: I would get whatever they serve, and then I would hope that there were either plain bagels, or plain bread. If there was, I would get it, and toast it. If there wasn’t, I would give up and cry. Even if there was bread, I would still cry, because I had to wait for the toaster.