Topic of my choice... not finished yet
A Scotch-Brite Life
I am, for all intents and purposes, a sponge. Not the permeable marine invertebrate nor the deliciously elastic and open-textured cake, but the common household utensil, porous and absorbent, synthetic and bare. Foamed plastic polymers intertwine my very being. Cellulose wood fibers circulate my veins. Unwrap me from plastic and, vacant, I am ready to perform. But do not be mislead; I am rather content with a sponge's existence, for the sponge is a highly underrated material, too often berated by implications of tedium and the mundane when weighed against more exhilarating cleaning equipment. However, the reality is quite the contrary. In a world of mighty cleansing dissolvents and rigid wire brushes, the sponge is unique: whereas the others destroy, a sponge absorbs and absorption is a fascinating thing.
Inspect closely the operation of this household device, the sponge: sopping up any variety of messy, staining adulterants, sponges digest heaps of what is placed before them but never regurgitate quite the same output. Rather, exuding from their porous surface is an innovative concoction of inputs altered from their original forms - a new mixture not identical to what they had consumed, but identifiable, nonetheless. Like my permeable companions, I operate in a similar fashion. While some may be content with life explicit, I revel in application: Nothing learned departs from my train of thought in quite the same manner it arrived. My mind is in constant motion, sopping up information and then making connections and extensions, never satisfied with the quintessential "What?" Rather, I prefer "Why?" "How?" "What if?" and "How does this apply?" An observer would find my notebooks rich with annotation - mind maps splashed in speculation and dripping interrogative scribbles - sprawled across white expanses of paper, each a footnote reminder of questions eager to be posed. And, more often than not, they are. Indeed, dispersed amid teacher instructions on English and Chemistry are my own queries of how the lost generation era might have influenced subject matter in The Great Gatsby or why the chemical composition of sea coral allows it to be used in human bone grafts. While fellow students might consider this curiosity senseless, perhaps even a "class distraction" from the tedious routine of lecture, I believe it to be the mark of an original thinker. The intersecting pores and canals that comprise my own mental procedure allow information to flow, mix, and mingle with other streams of consciousness before being wrung out of thought and into use, allowing ordinarily bland class work to be made fresh and exotic. By jotting down ties between, for instance, yesterday's calculus lesson and the vectorial nature of velocity learned in physics, I have created a unique and effective manner of studying, becoming a more active learner in the process. Occasionally, the precise act of composing associations between classes sparks an epiphany in my studies, allowing me to grasp previously misunderstood concepts. At other times, my inquisition sparks debate among classrooms, permitting an entire group of students to experience a glimpse of sponge-like curiosity. In either case, what began as an indissoluble connection between myself and a particularly tattered copy of The Way Things Work has blossomed into my existing personality, each arbitrary question and unnecessary inquisition a minute pore or fleshy piece of absorbent material that, when pieced together, produce a representation of my being. Quite simply, I am a sponge: I seek to absorb, grasp the foundation of what I learn, and then construct my own presumptions upon it. Some may deem us mundane, the epitome of routine domestic cleanup, but I consider our existence unique, for amid a society of harsh chemical and physical cleaning equipment, only a select few can truly lead a sponge's existence and find meaning in a Scotch-Brite life. I am glad to be one of them.
A Scotch-Brite Life
I am, for all intents and purposes, a sponge. Not the permeable marine invertebrate nor the deliciously elastic and open-textured cake, but the common household utensil, porous and absorbent, synthetic and bare. Foamed plastic polymers intertwine my very being. Cellulose wood fibers circulate my veins. Unwrap me from plastic and, vacant, I am ready to perform. But do not be mislead; I am rather content with a sponge's existence, for the sponge is a highly underrated material, too often berated by implications of tedium and the mundane when weighed against more exhilarating cleaning equipment. However, the reality is quite the contrary. In a world of mighty cleansing dissolvents and rigid wire brushes, the sponge is unique: whereas the others destroy, a sponge absorbs and absorption is a fascinating thing.
Inspect closely the operation of this household device, the sponge: sopping up any variety of messy, staining adulterants, sponges digest heaps of what is placed before them but never regurgitate quite the same output. Rather, exuding from their porous surface is an innovative concoction of inputs altered from their original forms - a new mixture not identical to what they had consumed, but identifiable, nonetheless. Like my permeable companions, I operate in a similar fashion. While some may be content with life explicit, I revel in application: Nothing learned departs from my train of thought in quite the same manner it arrived. My mind is in constant motion, sopping up information and then making connections and extensions, never satisfied with the quintessential "What?" Rather, I prefer "Why?" "How?" "What if?" and "How does this apply?" An observer would find my notebooks rich with annotation - mind maps splashed in speculation and dripping interrogative scribbles - sprawled across white expanses of paper, each a footnote reminder of questions eager to be posed. And, more often than not, they are. Indeed, dispersed amid teacher instructions on English and Chemistry are my own queries of how the lost generation era might have influenced subject matter in The Great Gatsby or why the chemical composition of sea coral allows it to be used in human bone grafts. While fellow students might consider this curiosity senseless, perhaps even a "class distraction" from the tedious routine of lecture, I believe it to be the mark of an original thinker. The intersecting pores and canals that comprise my own mental procedure allow information to flow, mix, and mingle with other streams of consciousness before being wrung out of thought and into use, allowing ordinarily bland class work to be made fresh and exotic. By jotting down ties between, for instance, yesterday's calculus lesson and the vectorial nature of velocity learned in physics, I have created a unique and effective manner of studying, becoming a more active learner in the process. Occasionally, the precise act of composing associations between classes sparks an epiphany in my studies, allowing me to grasp previously misunderstood concepts. At other times, my inquisition sparks debate among classrooms, permitting an entire group of students to experience a glimpse of sponge-like curiosity. In either case, what began as an indissoluble connection between myself and a particularly tattered copy of The Way Things Work has blossomed into my existing personality, each arbitrary question and unnecessary inquisition a minute pore or fleshy piece of absorbent material that, when pieced together, produce a representation of my being. Quite simply, I am a sponge: I seek to absorb, grasp the foundation of what I learn, and then construct my own presumptions upon it. Some may deem us mundane, the epitome of routine domestic cleanup, but I consider our existence unique, for amid a society of harsh chemical and physical cleaning equipment, only a select few can truly lead a sponge's existence and find meaning in a Scotch-Brite life. I am glad to be one of them.