LiveMocha rant, please excuse (I just need to express my frustration)

So I’ve been using this language-learning website, LiveMocha. It’s a pretty cool set-up: you take online courses in your target language, then do review to make sure you remember what you’ve learned. Finally (and in my opinion, this is the best part) you either compose a paragraph using your new vocabulary, or read aloud a paragraph to practice pronunciation. If you’re reading aloud, you record it through special software on the site. After this step, native speakers of that language either read what you’ve written or listen to your recording, and give you helpful tips on what you’re doing right and wrong, and how to improve. It’s an awesome idea. And the best part of all? It’s all free!

However, every silver lining has a cloud, apparently. I joined LiveMocha about three weeks ago, and started with great verve and zeal on “German 201.” I completed my first lesson, and recorded (on my trusty MacBook) a paragraph about the production of wine. Some native German speakers told me my accent was great, and I was very happy. All well and good. But then, suddenly, last weekend I tried to move up to the next level, and was completely unable to record. At first I thought it must be my computer’s fault, but nothing had changed since the last time I recorded with success. Also, the part that reported an error was the website’s own software, which would state “Connecting… Connect Failed!” repeatedly. Also, remember, I used this exact method of recording with no problems, only a few weeks ago.

Enter that wonderful invention, the “report bug” feature. …NOT. I “reported bug” obediently, explaining my problem in detail, and got an obviously computer-generated response, giving me a few possible sources of the problem (all related to MY computer alone, of course, not a possible problem in the relationship between my computer and their site!). I went methodically through the list and tried every one. No deal. Now here’s the kicker: at the end of that computer-generated response, they said, and I quote: “If you have followed all these steps and the audio is still not working, please contact us again.” So I did. What response did I get? The EXACT SAME automated email. No help there!

Clearly the problem is NOT mine, since nothing has changed since it worked fine on this very computer. I feel like the site is totally brushing me off here. I’m getting no support, and am completely unable to move forward in my language lessons until I regain the ability to record. Anyone have any suggestions of other language-learning communities with structured online courses?

I’m majorly procrastinating right now.  I have a ten-page paper due on Wednesday, which I haven’t started yet.  It’s actually due on Thursday, but I may be going home on Wednesday, so I have to have it done by then.  I haven’t started the paper yet.  I mean, I’ve got pages of notes, and some good quotations from this one book that I hope to slip into the paper, and a possible title, but I haven’t really started writing the damn paper.  It’s about Snow White.  Words cannot communicate how much I do not want to write a ten-page paper about Snow White.

So instead I’ve been procrastinating all day, watching Eddie Izzard speaking French on YouTube.  I thought I’d forgotten all my French, so it was reassuring to be able to understand everything he says.  Although it’s not so reassuring when I realize that (in the clip I just watched) he’s speaking it at probably about a five-year-old’s level.

Oh well, I don’t study French anyway.  I study German.  Speaking of German, I’ve been speaking German so much recently that I actually hurt myself.  Those “r”s in the back of the throat are painful, man.  I tried to make myself stop talking German for a whole day, and failed miserably.  I never realized how much I talk to myself and randomly sing in German all the time.

God damn it, I swear I’ll get at least one page of that stupid paper written tonight.  I have to, because honestly, I don’t believe I can ever again reach my academic pinnacle (/nadir) of writing a good ten-page paper in one afternoon.  Oh, for the good old dazzzze.

What am I doing / I’m not thinking about you

Actually what I’m doing is not doing my homework, but that lyric from The Molested is just stuck in my head.  One habit I simply cannot break myself of is my tendency to put two spaces between sentences.  I just think it looks better that way, easier to read.  I like having lots of space.    Right now I’m supposed to be reading two different versions of “Cinderella” for my fairy tale analysis class (one German and one Italian-translated-to-English), as well as reviewing “The Pardoner’s Tale” from The Canterbury Tales.  Luckily I didn’t have much homework this weekend, because I’m pulling my usual procrastinatory trick and only starting it now, at seven o’clock on Sunday night.

I’ve got this painful spot on my gums.  I’m worried about it, seeing as I’ve got such a record of having health problems.  God, it would be *so* nice to get rid of even half of them.  I hope I haven’t got gingivitis or something.  That would just be the icing on the cake.  I’ll brush and floss extra carefully tonight, not that it’ll do any good, an ounce of prevention being worth a pound of cure and all that.  I wish I could develop a habit of taking better care of myself.

I’m participating in NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month) on my other blog, and it’s going well so far.  Some days I only post a picture or a link, but several days I’ve posted more than once, so I’m doing comfortably.  Confession time: I hate it when really boring people friend me on LJ.  Okay, maybe they’re not actually boring *people* – that’s a bit harsh to say, I suppose.  The thing is, all I know about them is their blog, and so many blogs are so deathly boring.  I’ll probably do a friendslist purge after November.

Damn, I have really dry knuckles, no matter how much I moisturize them.  I’m so SICK of my body not working as well as everyone else’s.  One time I made a list of all the things wrong with me, and it was so depressingly long that I just threw it away.  At least I don’t focus on the bad part of life.  I usually do a pretty good job of being positive.  Maybe that’s because I get out all my whining on blogs like this one, which is rapidly turning into my negative and boring blog.  Oh well, everybody’s gotta have one, I suppose.  Right now I’m listening to the Hot Buttered Rum String Band, and not being very impressed.  Bye-bye, HBRSB.  Hello, Seu Jorge.  His guitar playing is so lovely.  And his voice.

Oh man, I really oughta do that homework before my sister gets online and wants to chat with me.  Our chat sessions sometimes last an hour, and it’ll probably only get worse now that we’ve discovered video chat.  Here I go.

living on the edge of a broken heart

I’ve had an awful day.  I hate, hate, hate being poor.  An offhand, joking remark one of my professors made today nearly brought me to tears.  “Remember how you got everything you wanted by acting a certain way?”  I only wish.  It would be such a safety net to know that your parents weren’t getting you an iPod because you were a brat, not because they desperately wanted to but couldn’t afford it even as your only birthday present.

I spent the rest of the afternoon in a state of shock, constantly being reminded – even having it shoved in my face – that easily 99% of the people I know can have pretty much everything they want.  Physical things, that is.  I still believe that I’m generally more happy, intelligent, and generally enlightened than most people my age, but they can afford to buy things.  Have you ever noticed how the people who say you don’t need money to be happy are the ones who have enough money to be happy?  I’m very cynical today, but I believe I’m not far from the truth.

Money.  He and I have such a love-hate relationship.

school begins

Last night and today I’ve sent SO many e-mails to various professors, relating to textbooks and getting into classes, mostly.  I e-mailed my math teacher to ask if it’s okay to use the 2006 edition of our textbook, since I can’t afford the 2007 one ($86 for one book!).  I e-mailed my philosophy teacher to get the reading list for the course and ask if it’s okay to order them online, again for financial reasons (God I hate being poor).  Today I e-mailed another professor to ask if I can switch into his literature class (it’s about the Canterbury Tales – sounds fun!), and then one more to warn him that I would be trying my damnedest to get into his songwriting class next semester.  I like to forewarn people about these things.  It worked great with German last year.

Today I need to buy milk, so I can have tea and coffee.  I also wanted to go to the post office and warn them that the books I ordered (the ones for philosophy class) will be coming addressed to the mailbox I had last year, even if my mailbox has changed.  I thought it would only be fair to let them know that.  But then I bumped into Qi Zhen in the dining hall and she told me that the P.O. is closed today, because it’s Labor Day.  Of course.  I should have remembered.  Actually I’m not surprised at all that I didn’t remember.

Right now I’m going on FaceBook to check when my roommate’s birthday is.  I ought to know it, because not only did she remember that mine is tomorrow, but she bought me sushi as a birthday present.  I love her already.  . . .   Oh, it’s not until July 17.  Oh right, I wished her a happy birthday online at the time.  Hmm.  I’ll have to get her something right at the end of school before we leave.  It’ll be a two-month-early birthday present.  Probably the earliest one she gets. 

I’m looking forward to German class, but I’m dreading the mental work-out that is German.  Submerging my brain in that language is so stressful, but in an exciting way.  It makes stubbornly cling to what I know, even as I want to scream with frustration at my own inability.  I keep being amazed that French is so much easier.  I always thought they were sort of alike.  Sigh.  Maybe the Germanic languages do tend to be harder than the Romance ones.  I’m picking up a few words of Italian pretty fast, and I can read a tiny bit of Spanish, but I know English is insanely hard.  If it wasn’t such a lingua franca, I’d be amazed that anyone else can learn it at all.

Okay, I’ve got to get out of my dim dorm room and get milk.  And check the movie schedule.  I really, REALLY hope they’re showing “The Dark Knight”!  I’ve simply GOT to see it.

self-analysation

I’m listening to Bob Dylan’s “Standing in the Doorway” and feeling insecure.  I can’t come to terms with my own natural anti-socialness.  The solid core of me that just knows things is quite positive that it’s an important thing, if not a good thing.  Combating this fact is my interest in people and my desire not to appear unpleasant and stuck-up.  Combating this, once again, is my loathing for most parties and for “hanging out” and for most of those awkward shallow ways people pretend to relate to each other.  I’m also feeling displeased with myself.  I feel that my outer self so incompletely represents my inner self.

you left me standing
in the doorway crying
under the midnight moon

It’s 22:02.  I ought to go to bed around twenty-three hours.

you left me standing
in the doorway crying
suffering like a fool

Some days I feel that my only escape, my only validation, might be to end up like Bob Dylan.  As it is now, I struggle to find my inner image.  If I was in Dylan’s position, I’d be caricatured into that image and probably want to escape it.  You never get what you want.

I can’t stand people.  But I’m fascinated by them.  I want to study them.  I want to try relating to them in various ways, and see what reactions I get.  I want to live my performance art.  I want to simply exude music.  An artist/musician/songwriter is the one thing I don’t mind, and quite enjoy, being stereotyped as.  Because then I think people get the closest idea of what I’m really like.

Strange.  Knowing me, I’m surprised that I seem to actually want people to know what I’m like.  Maybe I only want people to think they know what I’m like.  But that’s how it is right now.  Maybe it’s always going to be like this.  Even my closest friend on Earth, the one I’ve known all my twenty-one years and shared my life with, says she doesn’t know me.  Intriguing.

Maybe I’m too objective, too scientific, about all this.  But I’ve always been.  I don’t mind that part of myself.  It amuses me, rather.  Like an entertaining pet.

God, it’s so complicated, being a part of human society.  I miss the old days.

It’s fun to stay at the ACLU

I’m having one of those strange days where I freak out when I think about the future, when I can’t get anything productive done, when I feel guilty about everything I do, when I’m depressed about myself and don’t want to relate to anyone, when I get annoyed easily, when I feel sensitive, when I cruise the Internet all day and hate myself for doing it, when I just lie on my bed with Ivy and watch her sleep and shake as she dreams (I wake her up if the dreams seem to get too scary), and when I try not to think because if I do I immediately start thinking of all the things I’m terribly behind on doing.  Things which really need to be done.  But I just can’t do them today.

The weather isn’t helping.  Well, now it’s okay.  Early it was flat and light grey and warmish and only vaguely breezy.  I really wanted it to be big and dark grey and cold and windy and possibly rainy, with the trees whipping around and leaves falling and the sense of impending Autumn in the air.  Now it’s actually sunny and warm and still.  So, so boring, though.  Nice weather is so un-inspirational.  I want very much to be inspired today.  I’ve been feeling very close to being able to write recently, but I haven’t been able to do it.  Queen of Procrastination, that’s me.

Right now I’m listening to Ladysmith Black Mambazo.  Just before that I listened to “YMCA” by the Village People, and before that “You Talk Too Much” by Joe Jones.  Great song.  Great tune.

All right, okay, gotta get myself together.  Time for the band to play.  We’re gonna just rock out a bit, then maybe try a second take of “We Can Talk.”  The rhythm on the first take was off, and everything was a little insecure.  It’ll be better this time, though.

I heard it on the other side

I wonder how long I’ll manage to stay separate, floating out here in the universe untethered to home.  Posting a link to my other web presences would be easier than saying “God’s your uncle,” but I plan to resist the urge.  I plan to keep this blog separate.  I plan to be as genuinely me as I can on this blog, and try to deal with certain neuroses I have.  Perhaps I suffer from a bit of paranoia.  I tend to think that I have to outdo everyone, all the time, in order to succeed in life.  I can do it quite effectively when I wish, but right now I don’t wish.  I just want to try to get to know myself.  I don’t know myself at all.  I discovered that over the past year, my first year at college.  I guess it’s a common time for people to do some soul-searching.  I just think I’m going to have to do it a bit differently than most.  I believe the term “soul-searching” usually refers to searching your soul.  I’ll be searching FOR my soul.  Trying to find out if I have one at all.

That sounded morbid.  Excuse me.  I don’t feel at all negative about it.  Well, maybe I do.  But not debilitatingly.  I try to focus myself outwards most of the time because I can’t begin to fathom what’s on the inside.  But for a long time I’ve envied those people who do appear to know lots about themselves, and I just realized that the reason they do is because they actually spend time looking inward.  I don’t.  I need to remedy that.  But I’m tired of this paragraph already.  Evidently there are some muscles that need development.

In the other window I have up right now, there’s an article called “Why Do Intellectuals Oppose Capitalism?”  It talks about “wordsmith intellectuals” in particular.  Am I a “wordsmith intellectual”?  I’m intelligent.  I’m a college student at an elite liberal arts school.  I can write better than a lot of people my age.  I can write fluently in many different genres: fiction, non-fiction, poetry, and especially songs.  Does that mean I’m a wordsmith intellectual?  Frankly, I don’t want to be.  Over the past few years, I’ve developed this powerful distaste for upper-class intellectualism, pretention, disconnect with reality (or my definition of reality).  Not that I’d choose to be a low-class redneck with limited access to high quality education, but . . .  I simply feel more comfortable talking to the guys who unload the truck than the people who get invited to the cocktail party.  More on this later.  I’m tired now.  I want to think about something simpler than the way I am.

I’m already sickened by the boring tone of my writing in this blog.  Why do I constantly feel the need to impress even myself?  I know I’m capable of the good stuff, so what’s wrong with churning out the mediocre stuff?  I can’t get to know myself better if I intimidate myself with my sweet skillz.

All these “myselves” are getting complicated.  I ought to finish that list of my personalities and assign more representative names, so I can refer to them without confusing myself.

All right, did it.  In part.  I don’t like thinking about them all.  I hate being fractured.  I hate having to stop and think when someone asks me my name, where I live, where I come from.  But I’ve started to realize that maybe this is just part of who I am.  Sure it’s not pleasant.  I’ve known for a long time that the real me is not pleasant.  That’s all right.  I’ve been coming to terms with that for about six years, and the project is progressing acceptably, if not splendidly.  I need to read that book about the golden notebook.  What I remember of the story line is that the woman keeps various colored journals representing the different parts of herself and how she was keeping them separated, and then at the end she stops using the different ones and uses only one golden notebook.  That story could practically be about me.

PRACTUALLY

Juvenile moment.

Or, perhaps . . . very mature moment.  Who knows.

‘Cause your friends don’t dance, and if they don’t dance, well they’re no friends of mine.