For the past week, I’ve been mulling this over.

“Only a few [gifted children] rose to fame and fortune, and no matter how glittering their early prospects, they had to work extremely hard most of their lives to get there. There is a big difference between a gifted child and a gifted adult. A child is seen as gifted because they are ahead of their age peers, especially at school, while a “gifted” adult has to be seen to make a difference to the world.”
(New Scientist: The gifted child’s curse – 11 October 2010)

Very, very interesting.  I’ve heard that, when raising children, it’s better to tell them “you worked really hard on that!  Good job!” rather than telling them “you’re so smart!”.  This way, the child learns that their hard work pays off and doesn’t believe their successes are due to innate ability.

Side note – I was on the “gifted on top of gifted” super accelerated academic track, and all it did was instill in me an intense fear of failure.  I would avoid activities that I wasn’t instantly good at, since not being good at something served as proof that I perhaps wasn’t as “gifted” as people told me I was.  Apparently, this is common: http://nymag.com/news/features/27840/

Good thing my parents always said “You can do better”?

(via latecapitalism)

God, this is so so true. It was easily a decade wasted, for me, between coasting through school and college and realizing the rest of the world didn’t work the same way, and that intelligence wasn’t enough. If there’s one thing I wish I learned earlier, it was this.

(via rickwebb)

“Last edited by rebecca on October 20, 2010 at 1:15 am”

I did mull it over for a week. Then two. Then a few more. And then it was the next year and I had completely forgotten about this god-forsaken blog. The post didn’t come easily once I pasted something that someone else wrote, so I just didn’t finish. But it’s still on my mind. This is exactly what I’m talking about.

Somebody once convinced me (okay, a lot of people convinced me on multiple occasions) that I was really smart. The underlying message to me was that “smart” is inherent in a person. Either you’re smart and you’re set and you’ll never need to work hard for anything, or you’re not and you’ll have to work hard and settle for being less awesome than that fortunate top quarter of the top one percent who went to summer camp at Duke to take classes with other precocious (but cool!) kids. Henceforth leading me to associate working hard with being stupid.

You’ve set me up for failure or an uphill battle convincing myself to exert effort, challenge-free academic life. Cheers.

It’s Friday evening and I’m walking through the most Hasidic part of Williamsburg when I realize that means Amazing Savings (my fav dollar store) will be closed. On the way to my second choice, I see a lost boy with curls and a plastic bag over his hat walk by, and I dismissedly wonder why he’s out.

I arrive at 99 Cent Wonder with the singular purpose of purchasing a punch bowl and rushing home. Naturally though, I am distracted by all the fun cheap items. At some point, I catch sight of another Hasid hot on my trail and sniffling as I’m perusing frames (for a certain vintage alligator photo that has nothing to do with this story). I jokingly remark to myself that he’s here looking to pick up a hooker.

He continues to follow me and awkwardly picks up a frame that he pretends to inspect. I note that at least today I cannot be mistaken as a lady of the evening and halfheartedly pat myself on the back for it. On the contrary, Sniffles finally decides to make his move. He approaches holding his frame and mumbles something incomprehensible in Hebrew-accustomed broken English. I raise an eyebrow as he ponders what to say next. He settles on what he deems to be an appropriate question.

“These are frame?”

He proceeds to fondle his crotch as I feign confusion. He then asks me, in Spanish, if I understand. I say, ”What?” several times in succession and laugh. He asks what language I speak, realizes that it is indeed English, then asks why I’m laughing, and again if they are frames.

“What else would they be?”

“Just want to make sure. So they frames? Thank you.”

He smiles all too coolly and expectantly as I laugh and turn around. Then he returns the frame to the appropriate bin, rubs his little red nose, and we part.

Yesterday I was walking down Greenpoint Ave. in the slightly pathetic rain and saw something (I’ve already forgotten what) that I wanted to describe (FYI, my thought process is akin to writing in a journal at all times – and yes, it gets really obnoxious), but I couldn’t do it without wanting to laugh at myself for sounding lame and memoir-y. And I came to the conclusion that one only wants to hear descriptors like “haunting” and “beautiful” and “eerie” from anonymous sources. Or when in an altered state. Likewise, it turns out that poetry when written by real, tangible personas generally comes across as creepy and contrived. It’s the reason we keep private diaries and make up identities. Why we like secret admirers better than known ones. It’s the reason the anonymity of the Internet is successful and persistent. This alternate reality is a coping mechanism and a way to perpetuate our delusions of the things we create not being stupid (or to avoid changing societal perceptions of ourselves). Unless you already seem douchey and presumptuous in real life but like a poignant genius in writing, in which case you’re welcome to hold onto that image and consider yourself among my long list of faceless online crushes.

I just finished sorting my entire 95-movie-deep Netflix queue in reverse projected star rating order. (I’m now working on the Instant queue.) Why?

How I’m feeling a day after watching Antichrist:

1. It’s worse than watching porn with your parents.
2. Nevertheless, I’m not disappointed that I saw it.

The first thing I’ve been telling people when they ask about it is that it’s incredibly beautiful. The visuals are exactly what I want out of cinematography. While every single frame is breathtaking and worthy of being printed and hung on my walls, Anthony Dod Mantel (I just Googled him) is unquestionably a cinematographer rather than a director of photography. (He also did – in addition to a slew of Scandinavian films – Slumdog Millionaire and 28 Days Later, which is one of my favs.) One of my biggest film pet peeves is when scenes start like compelling photographs but feel flat and contrived translated to a medium with motion.

On a related note, I wish I had watched it on mute. The ambient sounds were fair. The music was appropriate. The writing was horrible. Laughable. In rare form, Bobby and I giggled our way through explicit sex scenes more because of the inane and unrealistic dialogue than out of immaturity.

Nevertheless, it lived up to my expectations. Which is an unusual thing for a movie to do lately (see: Where the Wild Things Are, Paranormal Activity). I watched the movie after building it up for 3 weeks wanting to be shocked, disturbed, or at the very least creeped out, and it did not let me down. I respect the movie for grossing me out and horrifying me with sadomasochism legitimately used to further the plot without being the main focus. But I think Lars von Trier has to be absurdly arrogant to think that he made a huge statement with it. I get it. Human Nature and Mourning and Desire and Self-Flagellation-as-Repentance. Cool. The script made me feel like he thinks I, personally, am an idiot. But who’s the one who used a talking fox?

As much as I would miss the dreamy forest images, I could have done without anything past the Prologue. The Prologue is moving, unsettling, and beautiful, there’s no obnoxious dialogue, and it leaves all the violent guilt to your imagination rather than spelling it out, alongside impressively realistic vulgar doodles, in washable marker on wide-ruled notebook paper.

hello, again.