Tuesday, June 2, 1998
Students ponder point of life
MUSING: People should consider directions taken in their lives,
attempt to understand extent of their motivations, limitations
While mucking around campus the other day disguised as a
mild-mannered student, I came across a point. This point
constituted an entirely self-contained world. At the time, it was
talking to itself and seemed quite content. "I am the world and the
world is me," declared the dimensionless, geometric object having
no property but still having location.
I paused and stared. How utterly annoying. Imagine the nerve of
that little point muttering insane comments like that to itself.
Who let this thing out of the funny farm? I attempted to engage it
in some semblance of a conversation, but technical problems
interfered.
"Excuse me?" I tried in vain to grab the point’s attention.
"Excuse me?" the point repeated. "Sure, pardon me. Why thank
you."
"No. I’m here," I said.
"No. Well, of course I am here," the point declared.
After several attempts at trying to ask the point some
questions, I realized the hopelessness of the situation.
Apparently, the lesson learned by Mr. Square in the book
"Flatlands," written by Edwin Abbot, failed to discourage me from
talking to the point.
The point coexists with the linear world, the two-dimensional
world, the three-dimensional world and whatever world that exists
beyond our own limited perceptions. Dear Mr. Square discovered how
simple it was for a citizen of a certain dimension to comprehend
the existence of "lower" planes of reality. At the same time,
understanding or even believing in "higher" planes of reality
eluded many of those around Mr. Square.
But he persisted and believed. When I read this book, I grew
suspicious. I sensed the work of some sort of mathematical
spiritualist. (The combination of math and spiritualism gave me the
chills.) Even though this bothered me, I could not help but ponder
the possibilities.
As a devil trapped in the City of Angels at an apathetic
university, the prospect of a higher being watching over me seemed
oppressive. Is someone watching me? And if so, who gave a damn
about my business? God? Is that you again?
"I am the world and the world is me," said the point, derailing
my decrepit train of thought.
At the beginning of this quarter, a young magazine salesman
managed to slip into my secure apartment complex and knock on my
door. (It’s the apartment with the "no solicitors" sign out at the
front entrances and a conveniently padded elevator for the little
point and me.)
The incessant knocking jolted me out of one of my daily naps. I
found myself at the door debating with myself. Should I get a chair
or shouldn’t I? Because some member of the
Anti-Vertically-Challenged League (AVCL) put the cursed peephole
high up on the door, I must decide if I want to know the identity
of the knocking fiend. At that time, I didn’t bother to check to
see who had disturbed my slumber. I opened the door. (This is a
terrible habit. Perhaps, I should drill a hole in the door closer
to my eye level. Down with AVCL!)
After being duped into subscribing to a magazine I already had,
this salesman asked me what my major was. I mumbled, "Anthropology
and political science."
A look of confusion spread over his face. "What is
anthropology?" he asked. I stared at him blankly. At that moment, I
tried to recall all those times as a first-year student when I
actually attended classes somewhat regularly and knew what
anthropology meant.
"Uh … it’s …," I stammered.
I attempted to cling to a fragment of a conversation I had three
years ago in regards to my major. Unfortunately, I couldn’t quite
make it out.
"Anthropology is a really vague social science. It’s the study
of mankind … and I’m really tired and don’t know what the hell
I’m talking about. It was nice meeting you."
I pushed the salesman out of my apartment and closed the door as
quickly as I could. I sat down in the middle of my apartment. What
did I do with my life for the last three and a half years? "I am
the world and the world is me!" screamed the insane little point
from the padded elevator.
The walls stared at me. (I should take some posters down.) I
stared at the wall. Sleep was infecting my brain, but I was
determined to figure out the point of being at UCLA. After sitting
and hallucinating for an hour, I realized that the lessons I did
glean from this campus mostly occurred outside the sterile
classrooms with the buzzing fluorescent lights.
As a bold first-year, I disregarded my orientation counselor’s
warning and stomped on the sixth Janss step. If you’ve nonchalantly
stepped on it, be afraid. I think I’ll graduate by next year
sometime, which would make me a super senior. If only I could be a
super student. (My orientation group voted me "most likely not to
graduate" because I skipped out on all of the orientation programs.
What did I do? I wandered the campus depressed over not being a UC
Santa Cruz Banana Slug.)
I learned that piggy-back rides are quite fun, but not down the
Hedrick Hall stairs and through the bushes. Sometimes well-meaning,
but daredevilish friends step in potholes and send you head-first
onto the sidewalk. (I was in my usual pensive mood, and a friend of
mine thought that a piggy-back ride would cure the frown on my
face. Two black eyes and an abrasion on my forehead made him
reconsider.)
I once thought that lying for a good cause was OK. So after
taking a midterm, I went to Wooden to donate some blood and get
some free cookies. Due to my irregular eating habits, I didn’t
quite make the minimum weight requirement to donate blood. (But did
that stop me? No, I had my eyes set on that Red Cross gallon pin.)
Sitting at the canteen after pumping out a pint of blood in five
minutes, I witnessed a girl literally toss her cookies and faint. I
decided to leave.
I set out for Hedrick in 80-degree heat with my backpack full of
books. By the time I reached the top of Bruin Walk, I didn’t feel
good. I managed to make it to Rieber when I lost the hearing in my
right ear and saw Sproul warp into some sort of wavy mesh of
colors. I found myself laying face down on a couch on my floor
about twenty minutes later.
Challenging oneself at work is a good thing in moderation.
Working 100 hours a week is generally not a good idea. Your brain
synapses start firing at the rate of gnats swimming through tar,
and formulating coherent sentences becomes quite a task; (although
I could attribute mental difficulties to losing massive amounts of
brain cells.)
This quote would describe a great number of people in the world
including me: "Public opinions – private laziness." (Nietzsche is
an insane dead philosopher who also belongs in the padded
elevator.)
But the most important lesson I learned at UCLA thus far
occurred this year. The insane little point does have a point after
all. It made me realize that there are so many things beyond
comprehension. The possibilities are endless. I only see the world
through my own two mortal eyes, but there is so much to this world
that is and is not seen.
I often take for granted my youth and the future. In the loss of
a former resident assistant and friend, I realized that life is so
finite and that I’ve become complacent. With graduation approaching
in a couple of weeks, thousands will pause and look toward the
future. But people should consider what they are doing at the
present moment.
As a wise Hedrick resident director once said, "Tomorrow isn’t
promised to you." That’s right. It isn’t.
(I’ll spare you the carpe diem, Dead Poet’s Society speech
because it drives me crazy. It’s like when I was forced to learn
how to play the piano. My piano teacher would show me how to play
some sorry folk song about chickens and then I would mutter, "I
know, I know … OK. OK." But do I know how to play that damn song?
No, I just have this great dislike of chickens.)
Just remember that when such words as, "I am the world and the
world is me" enter your mind, look around and tell that point to
leave you alone.
Sohn is currently in the padded elevator. She can be "reached"
at jsohn@ucla.edu.