Pretty Phenomenal Paper Planes
I love paper planes. I love the song "Paper Planes" by M.I.A. I love that the song is seemingly just about getting high and is just a feel good song, but, if you look up the lyrics and the singer, the song becomes this super profound message about immigrants. Although British, M.I.A, or Mathangi "Maya" Arulpragasam, is or Sri Lankan descent. Her name, obviously, stands for Missing In Action, while also just sounding like Maya if you say it rather than spelling it. Things are getting interesting, yes? Well let us gander at the lyrics and spice things up even more:
I love paper planes. When I was little, my dad and brothers taught me how to make paper planes and we would go in the basement or outside to test whose was the best. I never won. In fact, I actually still cannot make a paper plane to this day. The problem is that, when I try to fold the paper, the creases are not perfect. One side will look amazing, but when I go to make the symmetrical fold on the other side, it overlaps the other or is much shorter than the other. This creates a lopsided plane, which cannot fly at all. They usually still look cool, but they get no where. That line pretty accurately summarizes myself in a few short words. I recently interviewed for a leadership position within my college's Campus Ministry. During the interview, the woman interviewing me, who happens to live on my floor and has lead a retreat I went on, said to me, "I have always loved that about you. How cool and calm you seem. You are probably the most confident person I know." I told her that her comment meant a lot, and I meant it. I wish I was really that confident. She is not the only one to tell me this. The other day, I went to order a sandwich at the caf. I had never used the sandwich station before and I was very nervous, I had no idea what to do. When I approached the intimidating stand, I expected the man working it to greet me and guide me in my challenging decision of what cheeses and bread I wanted. Instead, he barely made eye contact and said nothing. I told him, "can I have sandwich please?" because they also make wraps at the station but I was too hungry to mess around with those flimsy things. He made no movement and made no sound. So I said, in an absolutely sweaty mess, "just that bread there with provolone," pointing at the sub bread. He took the bread and put the provolone on, and then looked up at me and stared for several seconds, my sandwich being tortured in his cruel grasp. I had no idea what he wanted, so I squeaked, "and American cheese" in an almost questioning form, like, is that what you want me to say, sir? He put the second cheese on, a cheese I hate. A cheese that is more like golden wax. A cheese that is not even cheese. I cannot grace American cheese with the title "cheese" because I do not even need to take Lactaid when I eat it -- it seriously is not a dairy product. It is, however, very American. It certainly deserves that title. So anyway, I already messed up my sandwich with the cheese. Without saying anything, he put my sandwich into the conveyer belt toaster thing and we both grew impatient in our awkward silence waiting for the toasty disgusting wax-cheese combo to come out. When it did, he hastily slid my sandwich onto a plate, causing the bread to split apart, a big pet peeve of mine. Like if I wanted the bread to split I would have used sliced bread, not a sub bread that is held together on the side for a reason. So now I am worrying about my condiments falling off of my already repulsive sandwich because they can no longer comfortably sidle up against the warm wall of bread to their right. Angrily, I tell the worker I want spinach, banana peppers, cucumbers and ranch dressing on my sandwich. I HAVE NO IDEA WHY I SAID SUCH A THING. Ranch and American cheese?? I puke at the very concept. So anyway, I leave the sandwich station really upset with myself. I got so stressed out by the silent worker staring at me that I made terrible cuisine choices. As I ate it, I felt bile rising in my throat, but I forced myself to eat it. I had to taste my failure so that I would never make the same mistake again. ANYWAY. Holy cow I am getting so mad at myself again just thinking about that horrible mess of a sandwich. The taste was horrific, I am getting sick just thinking about the repulsive combination. But seriously, anyway. The point of this catastrophic anecdote is this: when I told my friends about my flustering frustration, they said, "that really surprises me. You are usually so sure of everything in life and what you want. You speak with such convection, shouldn't a sandwich be easy?" Why, yes. A sandwich should be easy. I am not as confident as people think. I guess I display confidence. I exude cockiness and maintain a sturdy disposition, but, underneath this rocky facade, I am an average teenager with deeply rooted doubts in myself and confusion about my purpose and place in life. I am yet another lost and wandering soul in this abyss. Like my planes, I usually look cool, but I cannot actually fly.
I love paper planes. When I was a freshman in high school, I used to constantly make them. They were my coping method of choice at the time. I found them very therapeutic. I would carefully fold the paper slowly and methodically, feeling the smooth paper against my skin. With each fold, I would say a different mantra. I had hundreds of these planes collected during the duration of freshman year. Anytime I got slightly antsy, I would breath deeply and make a paper plane. I used this same concept for studying latin. I would make a fold, write down the declension I needed to memorize, A AE AE AM A, AE ARUM IS AS IS, and repeat this process until I had a plane with latin scribbled on every wing and fold. The repetition was nice and made the information really stick with me, stick with me until this day, actually, as I did not google the previously provided first declension. I wonder if that is even right though. I was a Latin scholar back in the day. I participated in the Julius Caesar contest and won the Latin award senior award. But now, who knows if that declension is right. Update: I googled it and I was right. Funny story about the Julius Caesar contest though. The way it was set up, you qualified for the contest (which was stupid, meant nothing, and I had to wear a toga and head piece in front of the grade) by passing in class tests on various latin things. The tests spanned over the week. The incentive? You did not have to take the final. So you bet your bottom dollar I was all over that contest. This girl, an acquaintance of mine, was beating me through Wednesday, and everyone expected her to win. Instead, inspired by my laziness of not wanting to drive to school for another final, I studied my ass off and claimed the title on Friday afternoon. The girl I beat was pretty upset. Not like heartbroken or anything, just a little pissy. I felt so bad that I made her chocolate chip cookies with Oreos inside of them. Those cookies became an instant hit and I made them once a year for my peers the next two years of high school. That is the real way to make friends -- bake your way into their hearts.
I love paper planes. They are so freaking nifty. I mean, cmon, who doesn't love a good ol' fashion paper airplane? Imagine being in the olden days, when flying seemed like a wishful myth. Imagine someone flying a piece of paper across a room in front of you. I saw this scene in a movie one time, but I cannot think of the name of it right now. Essentially, this dude does not think flying will ever be possible. And then, this arrogant young lad strides up to him, whips up a paper airplane, and flies the thing across the room. Smirking a crooked smile, the young guy knows he just revolutionized the world, proven by the flabbergasted look plastered on the older bloke's face. Hold on, lemme see if I can google the movie, this is really bothering me now. I wonder if I just dreamt this. Ah, I knew this would happen; the only thing google is giving me is the Australian movie about a little kid winning the national paper plane contest. That was a really good movie, very cute and inspiring. Okay I can't find it. Maybe I really did dream it. I must love paper planes more than I thought.
I love paper planes. For my senior year AP Literature class, we had to make a symbolic piece of art. I honestly do not really remember the point of the project, I think my teacher just liked crafts. I think it was supposed to symbolize a poem we read but I am not sure. I think it was this poem, titled "The Fish" by Elizabeth Bishop:
I guess I love paper planes because they are paper that can fly. Just paper. Just a mundane sheet of shredded up wood. A human invention created from the goods provided to us. A nice sheet of any paper, from newspaper, to notebook paper, to gum wrappers. Just a simple piece of paper, something we all encounter on a daily basis. But this paper flies.
Be a paper plane in a world full of paper.
I fly like paper, get high like planes. If you catch me at the border I got visas in my name. If you come around here, I make 'em all day. I get one down in a second if you wait. Sometimes I think sitting on trains. Every stop I get to I'm clocking that game. Everyone's a winner, we're making our fame. Bona fide hustler making my name. All I wanna do is BABABA And a ... And take your money. Pirate skulls and bones, Sticks and stones and weed and bong. Running when we hit 'em. Lethal poison for the system. No one on the corner has swagger like us. Hit me on my Burner prepaid wireless. We pack and deliver like UPS trucks. Already going hell just pumping that gas. All I wanna do is BABABA And a ... And take your money. M.I.A., Third world democracy. Yeah, I got more records than the K.G.B. So, uh, no funny business. Are you ready all? Some some some I some I murder, Some I some I let go. Some some some I some I murder, Some I some I let go. All I wanna do is BABABA And a ... And take your money.And suddenly the song seems to mean a lot more than smoking weed. Although, drugs do seem to be a big part of the song, too. Maybe I am stretching or putting words in M.I.A's mouth, but is that not the beauty of works of art? To hear, read, or see something and put your own twist to it? That is the beauty to me. That is why I pursue English. It gives me a sense of purpose. I am constantly creating and feeling inspired, and it is made easy to me because my job is to analyze beautiful art. It is invigorating. I do not have to search the depths of my brain to create something completely new, I simply have to look at what is already created and add to its beauty, thus creating something new and unique to me. Adding my own layer.
I love paper planes. When I was little, my dad and brothers taught me how to make paper planes and we would go in the basement or outside to test whose was the best. I never won. In fact, I actually still cannot make a paper plane to this day. The problem is that, when I try to fold the paper, the creases are not perfect. One side will look amazing, but when I go to make the symmetrical fold on the other side, it overlaps the other or is much shorter than the other. This creates a lopsided plane, which cannot fly at all. They usually still look cool, but they get no where. That line pretty accurately summarizes myself in a few short words. I recently interviewed for a leadership position within my college's Campus Ministry. During the interview, the woman interviewing me, who happens to live on my floor and has lead a retreat I went on, said to me, "I have always loved that about you. How cool and calm you seem. You are probably the most confident person I know." I told her that her comment meant a lot, and I meant it. I wish I was really that confident. She is not the only one to tell me this. The other day, I went to order a sandwich at the caf. I had never used the sandwich station before and I was very nervous, I had no idea what to do. When I approached the intimidating stand, I expected the man working it to greet me and guide me in my challenging decision of what cheeses and bread I wanted. Instead, he barely made eye contact and said nothing. I told him, "can I have sandwich please?" because they also make wraps at the station but I was too hungry to mess around with those flimsy things. He made no movement and made no sound. So I said, in an absolutely sweaty mess, "just that bread there with provolone," pointing at the sub bread. He took the bread and put the provolone on, and then looked up at me and stared for several seconds, my sandwich being tortured in his cruel grasp. I had no idea what he wanted, so I squeaked, "and American cheese" in an almost questioning form, like, is that what you want me to say, sir? He put the second cheese on, a cheese I hate. A cheese that is more like golden wax. A cheese that is not even cheese. I cannot grace American cheese with the title "cheese" because I do not even need to take Lactaid when I eat it -- it seriously is not a dairy product. It is, however, very American. It certainly deserves that title. So anyway, I already messed up my sandwich with the cheese. Without saying anything, he put my sandwich into the conveyer belt toaster thing and we both grew impatient in our awkward silence waiting for the toasty disgusting wax-cheese combo to come out. When it did, he hastily slid my sandwich onto a plate, causing the bread to split apart, a big pet peeve of mine. Like if I wanted the bread to split I would have used sliced bread, not a sub bread that is held together on the side for a reason. So now I am worrying about my condiments falling off of my already repulsive sandwich because they can no longer comfortably sidle up against the warm wall of bread to their right. Angrily, I tell the worker I want spinach, banana peppers, cucumbers and ranch dressing on my sandwich. I HAVE NO IDEA WHY I SAID SUCH A THING. Ranch and American cheese?? I puke at the very concept. So anyway, I leave the sandwich station really upset with myself. I got so stressed out by the silent worker staring at me that I made terrible cuisine choices. As I ate it, I felt bile rising in my throat, but I forced myself to eat it. I had to taste my failure so that I would never make the same mistake again. ANYWAY. Holy cow I am getting so mad at myself again just thinking about that horrible mess of a sandwich. The taste was horrific, I am getting sick just thinking about the repulsive combination. But seriously, anyway. The point of this catastrophic anecdote is this: when I told my friends about my flustering frustration, they said, "that really surprises me. You are usually so sure of everything in life and what you want. You speak with such convection, shouldn't a sandwich be easy?" Why, yes. A sandwich should be easy. I am not as confident as people think. I guess I display confidence. I exude cockiness and maintain a sturdy disposition, but, underneath this rocky facade, I am an average teenager with deeply rooted doubts in myself and confusion about my purpose and place in life. I am yet another lost and wandering soul in this abyss. Like my planes, I usually look cool, but I cannot actually fly.
I love paper planes. When I was a freshman in high school, I used to constantly make them. They were my coping method of choice at the time. I found them very therapeutic. I would carefully fold the paper slowly and methodically, feeling the smooth paper against my skin. With each fold, I would say a different mantra. I had hundreds of these planes collected during the duration of freshman year. Anytime I got slightly antsy, I would breath deeply and make a paper plane. I used this same concept for studying latin. I would make a fold, write down the declension I needed to memorize, A AE AE AM A, AE ARUM IS AS IS, and repeat this process until I had a plane with latin scribbled on every wing and fold. The repetition was nice and made the information really stick with me, stick with me until this day, actually, as I did not google the previously provided first declension. I wonder if that is even right though. I was a Latin scholar back in the day. I participated in the Julius Caesar contest and won the Latin award senior award. But now, who knows if that declension is right. Update: I googled it and I was right. Funny story about the Julius Caesar contest though. The way it was set up, you qualified for the contest (which was stupid, meant nothing, and I had to wear a toga and head piece in front of the grade) by passing in class tests on various latin things. The tests spanned over the week. The incentive? You did not have to take the final. So you bet your bottom dollar I was all over that contest. This girl, an acquaintance of mine, was beating me through Wednesday, and everyone expected her to win. Instead, inspired by my laziness of not wanting to drive to school for another final, I studied my ass off and claimed the title on Friday afternoon. The girl I beat was pretty upset. Not like heartbroken or anything, just a little pissy. I felt so bad that I made her chocolate chip cookies with Oreos inside of them. Those cookies became an instant hit and I made them once a year for my peers the next two years of high school. That is the real way to make friends -- bake your way into their hearts.
I love paper planes. They are so freaking nifty. I mean, cmon, who doesn't love a good ol' fashion paper airplane? Imagine being in the olden days, when flying seemed like a wishful myth. Imagine someone flying a piece of paper across a room in front of you. I saw this scene in a movie one time, but I cannot think of the name of it right now. Essentially, this dude does not think flying will ever be possible. And then, this arrogant young lad strides up to him, whips up a paper airplane, and flies the thing across the room. Smirking a crooked smile, the young guy knows he just revolutionized the world, proven by the flabbergasted look plastered on the older bloke's face. Hold on, lemme see if I can google the movie, this is really bothering me now. I wonder if I just dreamt this. Ah, I knew this would happen; the only thing google is giving me is the Australian movie about a little kid winning the national paper plane contest. That was a really good movie, very cute and inspiring. Okay I can't find it. Maybe I really did dream it. I must love paper planes more than I thought.
I love paper planes. For my senior year AP Literature class, we had to make a symbolic piece of art. I honestly do not really remember the point of the project, I think my teacher just liked crafts. I think it was supposed to symbolize a poem we read but I am not sure. I think it was this poem, titled "The Fish" by Elizabeth Bishop:
I caught a tremendous fish / and held him beside the boat / half out of water, with my hook / fast in a corner of his mouth. / He didn’t fight. / He hadn’t fought at all. / He hung a grunting weight, / battered and venerable / and homely. Here and there / his brown skin hung in strips / like ancient wallpaper, / and its pattern of darker brown / was like wallpaper: / shapes like full-blown roses / stained and lost through age. / He was speckled with barnacles, / fine rosettes of lime, / and infested / with tiny white sea-lice, / and underneath two or three / rags of green weed hung down. / While his gills were breathing in / the terrible oxygen / —the frightening gills, / fresh and crisp with blood, / that can cut so badly— / I thought of the coarse white flesh / packed in like feathers, / the big bones and the little bones, / the dramatic reds and blacks / of his shiny entrails, / and the pink swim-bladder / like a big peony. / I looked into his eyes / which were far larger than mine / but shallower, and yellowed, / the irises backed and packed / with tarnished tinfoil / seen through the lenses / of old scratched isinglass. / They shifted a little, but not / to return my stare. / —It was more like the tipping / of an object toward the light. / I admired his sullen face, / the mechanism of his jaw, / and then I saw / that from his lower lip / —if you could call it a lip— / grim, wet, and weaponlike, / hung five old pieces of fish-line, / or four and a wire leader / with the swivel still attached, / with all their five big hooks / grown firmly in his mouth. / A green line, frayed at the end / where he broke it, two heavier lines, / and a fine black thread / still crimped from the strain and snap / when it broke and he got away. / Like medals with their ribbons / frayed and wavering, / a five-haired beard of wisdom / trailing from his aching jaw. / I stared and stared / and victory filled up / the little rented boat, / from the pool of bilge / where oil had spread a rainbow / around the rusted engine / to the bailer rusted orange, / the sun-cracked thwarts, / the oarlocks on their strings, / the gunnels—until everything / was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! / And I let the fish go.Looking back, I have no idea how a paper plane relates to this poem, and I now understand why I got a 22/25 on an easy project. Anyway, no idea where I was going with this, but what a nifty poem! I really like it. The fish could be a lot of things, whatever you are thinking of is probably unique to the current you. It could be a lover, a concept, a career path, etc. Depends on where you are and who you are and when you are. Holy cow, ain't poetry a beaut?
I guess I love paper planes because they are paper that can fly. Just paper. Just a mundane sheet of shredded up wood. A human invention created from the goods provided to us. A nice sheet of any paper, from newspaper, to notebook paper, to gum wrappers. Just a simple piece of paper, something we all encounter on a daily basis. But this paper flies.
Be a paper plane in a world full of paper.
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