sink or swim, i'm back in the fray.

My first painting assignment: ten paintings due by Wednesday. No prior knowledge of how to oil paint, no idea how to clean my brushes or anything, just plunck! Here you go, have at it. I think the primary purpose of this assignment is to weed out the unwilling to work. There were six or seven non-majors in class today, and they were so scared... one literally left in the middle of his intro speech. Went up, shook his hand, said, nice to meet you but this class is not for me. and left. If I wasn't a major, then I might very well have left too. He starts off trying to scare the crap out of everyone, 'thout a doubt.

Photo 1 sounds like it's going to be good, except that people generally spend about $175 on supplies. Thank goodness I have a camera to use. If I had to buy one of those, it'd be crazy. Also, he's married to the other professor forsythe, so I'm afraid their grading practices are similar. A deccent amount of work, but not too much. Just one roll a week.

Art history 2 I'm rather cocky about. It's academic, and I know I'm good at academic.

Also, in exciting news, Kelsey's back at Messiah! Apparently she just decided Philly was stupid, so she registered here, and I have painting and art history 2 with her, so that's exciting.

I hope bioethics and poetry workshop are a reasonable amount of work. Painting is going to kill me... I know how much work colour & design took to see improvement, and I'm afraid that painting will take twice as much work. Kelsey's taking drawing 2 from Finch as well, which I feel like is almost as bad as taking 3 studios. And people say I'm crazy.

It kind of made me happy in painting today, we were going around introducing each other, and he asked me where, ideally, I wanted to be in 5 years... and I had a definite answer. In five years, I want to be graduating from grad school with an MFA and applying to teach at a college somewhere. I think he was a little taken aback by my answer, but heck, that's where, ideally, I'm going to be in five years.

Alright, off to dinner and painting for hours upon hours.

today I had a very awkward experience. I started walking into the bathroom, and there was a man there. Yes. In the bathroom of a girl's floor. I think he was the father of a girl on my hall and probably assumed no one else was left on the floor or something, but it was still very awkward. I went back to my room. Then used a different floor's bathroom.

I also finally decided on a project for J-term break. Unfortunately, break is just about over. I'm making a triangular fold-out book, and I hope it works and looks good at the end. At least it's not for an assignment, so no pressure.

It's totally hard to get up in the morning at a decent time when you know there's no reason to get up. No classes, not going to breakfast, don't particularly need to get the fiddly projects done by a certain time.... Or maybe I just have trouble getting up because I'm lazy. It's going to be interesting to have an eight o'clock this semester. And bioethics at that. Not the sort of class that's particularly fascinating, at least not enough to wake one up and keep one awake for a whole hour first thing in the morning.

Alright then. Toodles.

Go out, right now, and find Dorothy L. Sayers' "Are Women Human?" It contains the two best feminist essays I've ever read. Skip the intro, it's boring, but read the two essays.

"sometimes i find myself checking my own blog to see if i have anything new to say."

today's the birthday of eduard manet!

I'm pretty sure I spelled Eduard wrong, but those french names have so many vowels in them... I just can't manage to remember everything.

Tonight I make a semi-offical speech as layout editor to anyone who'd interested in helping out, so that makes me feel very nervous. I hope I don't do something embarrassing like passng out.

I finished the second draft of Mabyn, so hopefully by tomorrow at one I'll be all set. I'm just slightly nervous that the professor keeps confusing the good and evil. Just because they both make her afraid doesn't mean they make her afraid for the same reason. I tried really really hard to differentiate. Anyway. We'll see. I'd like to have more time with this, but it's probably my own fault for not starting the story way earlier.

Yeah. Other than that I'm just feeling a lot of pressure. I shouldn't, because spring semester hasn't even started yet, but I am all the same. I really should come up with a better way of coping. Hm....

fearful tears are running down

"ToTaLlY LoOkInG 4 A KeWl BF PrEfRaBlY OnE DaT LOoKs LyKe JoHnNy DePp. DaT MaN iS sO hAwTt LOLZZ!!11!"

I read that today on a message board, and I wanted to die. Do these people have any idea how painful it is to read such erratically capitalized messages? I mean, seriously, I'll live without punctuation rather than have people capitalize every other letter. Crap. I swore this would be a post without complaining, and here I start with a huge rant. Erase. Begin again.

Meredith is back! Yay! I had to work on my Mabyn story again today, seeing as it's due in a final polished form on Tuesday, but since there's someone else here with me, I hope I won't be freaked out again. Reading back over it, I'm not surprised that I flipped out. It's a really strong picture.

Also, on the subject of portfolios, I wrote a different sonnet tonight. The other one was crap. This one is slightly better. I need to get a little feedback from someone though (we're supposed to turn in at least one draft with other peoples' comments on it with our final draft), so if anyone wants to volunteer....

Perhaps the hardest part of my portfolio is going to be the self-assessment. With that stuff, the longer I have to prepare it, the better. I have to cobble together journal entries and exercises into some coherent whole, using specific pieces as examples. Yippee.

You know, it strikes me how profoundly boring my posts are. Yes, I'm consistent with posting, unlike most people I know, but it's all kind of self-centered, and most of it people know already from actually talking to me. I'm not sure how to remedy this problem, exit this rut. Anyone have any ridiculously brilliant ideas? Maybe I should tell people who actually talk to me on an everyday basis not to read my blog. That way I could still update people I don't talk to on an everyday basis and not feel like such an unutterable prick.

questions that contain their own replies...

Yesterday was such an amazingly good day, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that today was a bit of a letdown. Well, I should say that yesterday was an amazingly good day except for when I got freaked out and couldn't go to sleep until almost 4 a.m. But that's technically part of today. So, seeing as I couldn't sleep until then, I slept in until almost 11, so my day started off really slow. I mean, most times I'm not against slow, I just keep getting frustrated that I can't get back on a decent sleeping schedule after the all-nighter.

I at least am making some headway on my Mabyn story. If I can finish it and whip it into shape over the weekend, it's going in my portfolio for creative writing. I estimate that I have about ten pages of writing to do before next Tuesday, not to mention all the revising that goes along with that. So yeah, it's definitely crunch time. On the other hand, I'm trying to enjoy the relatively relaxed pace of this one more week. Actual spring term is going to kick my butt. = ) I'm sort of excited though. I mean, more or less. In my saner moments I want to cry at the thought of all that work, but for the most part I'm excited.

Liz thinks we (our whole group) should give up complaining for lent. I just have one question... did Lent already start?

smoking kills. if you're killed, you've lost a very important part of your life.

Yesterday night we got a call from dispatch that I'd left the inside lights of my car on. They'd been on since 7 am that morning. The good (and totally surprising) thing was that when I went down to turn them off, the car still started. So I ran it for a while to recharge the battery. So thank goodness it started! I also realized, at about 10 p.m., that I'd been wearing my tank top backwards all day.

Here's another exciting thing: I'm going to be able to pay for all my books all by myself, including the monstrous art textbook and the bioethics textbook. That makes me really really proud. I didn't even have to touch the money I've been saving for Italy next year. That makes me insanely proud. Sure, my parents are still clothing, feeding, and paying for 40% of my college tuition... but I got my textbooks all by myself.

Ok, I know, I sound like an five-year-old who's proud she can tie her shoes. Actually, that's a great metaphor for the college life. College students (are not like chicken, Andrew) are learning to be grown-ups. Paying for textbooks is like tying shoes, finishing your degree is like baking that first batch of whatever (in my case it was demented chocolate-chip cookies), and getting a full-time job is like finally growing up enough to get your license.

It just struck me how ridiculous it was to use life as an analogy for another time in life. Ignore that whole previous paragraph.

I'm as proud as a five-year-old who just learned to tie her shoes.

the streets are safe in philadelphia, it's only the people who make them unsafe.

I lived through the whole all-night thing, although barely. I've decided five hours of sleep is the absolute minimum I can get and feel even remotely like a human being. And even on five hours, "human being" is kind of a stretch.

I'm going to bed now.

MEMBERS AND NON-MEMBERS ONLY

Persephone has been doing good for today and most of yesterday night, so that was good. I think she's well enough to come with me to the writers retreat tonight, which is good. So yeah, I won't be back until the morning, at which time I'm supposed to meet professor Perrin (have I said this already?) after which I need to go to chapel, after which... I plan on sleeping until the humanities reading that night.

I'm feeling slightly more chipper about this writers retreat though. I do like most of the people in my group, and I like some of the other people in the class, so maybe it'll be good bonding time.
Of my group, I find that Evan has the most interesting writers' neuroses. He's obsessed with parentheses and parenthetical phrases within parenthetical phrases (think Salinger + 10. Actually, he admitted that his inspiration for all those parentheses was Salinger. In high school he read all his short stories and became obsessed.) See, in Evan's stories, all of these sentences contained within one set of parentheses would have been enclosed within each other with other parentheses. Observe: (think Salinger + 10. (Actually, he admitted that his inspiration for all those parentheses was Salinger. (In high school he read all his short stories and became obsessed.)))

OK, wow, that's totally confusing. I'm going to have to start a new paragraph to make it clear that I'm no longer caught up in convoluted parenthetical phrases. Also, in addition to the parenthesis-obsession, Evan is afraid of italics. He doesn't use italics. Ever. Not even when his character is having an internal monologue. But he doesn't use quotation marks either, so it's really hard to read. In poetry you can get away with it easier, because there's usually no dialogue.

All of this analyzation of other peoples' interesting writing neuroses makes me wonder: Do I have interesting writing neuroses that I don't notice? Or actually, any writing neuroses that I don't notice? How irritating are writing neuroses to a reader? Is there a line between "characteristic" and "obsession"? For instance, what if a critic said I had an interesting characteristic way of talking using semicolons? If I was obsessed with using semicolons, would I begin to use them every sentence?

So yeah, that's my thoughts before the writers retreat. Good night all. I hope you sleep more than I will tonight.

by 'kicking up heels,' i meant causing problems, not partying

and also, according to this test, I'm a "total geek." I thought you'd all like to know. Take the test. I'm curious.

well, persephone is kicking up her heels again.

I turned her off and just let her sit for a whole day. I'm hoping maybe she'll like me better after having a nice long rest. I know I felt better this morning after a nice long rest.

Is it terrible that I'm completely dreading the writing sleepover on Wednesday? I don't like staying up all night - it makes me wacky for a week, and I get so grumpy at about 4am that I can hardly stand myself. Also, I'm trying to fight off a cold here, and missing sleep is not going to help any. Not to mention that I know anything I write late at night is crap and requires twice as much revision as if I had just waited until morning. This plan seems full of holes to me. Not to mention that our peer groups are each required to do something to refresh/revitalize/re-inspire the other groups once during the night. We're doing make - sock - puppets - that - look - like - your - character - and - then - let - it - speak - to - you activities at 11 o'clock. I mean, what the crap? Granted, it's better than duck-duck-goose.... but not by much.

Happy birthday to Sharon!

And here's the poem I decided to close with, written by Jane Hirshfield:

Waking This Morning Dreamless After Long Sleep

But with this sentence:
"Use your failures for paper."
Meaning, I understood,
the backs of failed poems, but also my life.

Whose far side I begin now to enter -

A book imprinted without seeming reason,
each blank day bearing on its reverse, in random order,
the mad-set type of another.
December 12, 1960. April 4, 1981. 13th of August, 1974 -

Certain words bleed through to the unwritten pages.
To call this memory offers no solace.

"Even in sleep, the heavy millstones turning."

I do not know where the words come from,
what the millstones,
where the turning may lead.

I, a woman of forty-five, beginning to gray at the temples,
putting pages of ruined paper
into a basket, pulling them out again.

MA, MS, BA, Ph. D, all it boils down to is BS.

Or so said our chapel speaker the other day.

Since I'm on a roll with posting poetry and things, here's what I got in the writer's almanac e-mail (from NPR, in case you don't know) for today. I find it somewhat apropos, and also somewhat ironic. I feel like saying "love to all," although maybe people I don't know read this blog (OK, unlikely, I admit. And anyway, Christ said love everyone anyway.). So yes, love to all.

by John Pomfret.

The Choice

That life may be more comfortable yet,
And all my joys refined, sincere and great,
I'd choose two friends, whose company would be
A great advance to my felicity:
Well-born, of humours suited to my own;
Discreet, and men, as well as books, have known.
Brave, generous, witty, and exactly free
From loose behavior or formality.
Airy and prudent, merry, but not light;
Quick in discerning, and in judging right.
Secret they should be, faithful to their trust;
In reasoning cool, strong, temperate and just;
Obliging, open, without huffing, brave,
Brisk in gay talking, and in sober, grave;
Close in dispute, but not tenacious, tried
By solid reason, and let that decide;
Not prone to lust, revenge, or envious hate,
Nor busy meddlers with intrigues of state;
Strangers to slander, and sworn foes to spite:
Not quarrelsome, but stout enough to fight
Loyal and pious, friends to Caesar, true
As dying martyrs to their Maker too.
In their society, I could not miss
A permanent, sincere, substantial bliss.

i leave you, dear friends, with this quote:

"We were married in summer, thirty years ago. I have loved you deeply from that moment to this. I have loved other things as well. Among them the idea of women's freedom. Why do I put these words side by side? Because I am a woman. Because marriage is not freedom. Therefore, every word here is written against love poetry. Love poetry can do no justice to this. Here, instead, is a remembered story from a faraway history: A great king lost a war and was paraded in chains through the city of his enemy. They taunted him. They brought his wife and children to him - he showed no emotion. They brought his former courtiers - he showed no emotion. They brought his old servant - only then did he break down and weep. I did not find my womanhood in the servitudes of custom. But I saw my humanity look back at me there. It is to mark the contradictions of a daily love that I have written this. Against love poetry."

- Eavan Boland

something funny that the chapel speaker said

I have to say, I hate doing laundry at college. At home it's not so bad. You just pop the clothes in any ol' time, don't have to fight for dryers, and don't have to worry about the balance of your flex dollars. Also, things seem to break down less at home. If you accidentally forget that you were doing laundry (something I am prone to) no one's going to chuck your clothes on the floor, or on a questionably clean tabletop. It also totally creeps me out to think that random guys see my underwear fairly frequently in the course of doing laundry (I mean, probably they're being polite and not paying any attention, especially considering that my underwear isn't that interesting, but there's no way to know that for sure). All that said, at least Friday mornings seem to be a good time to do laundry. I got enough washers on the first try, and even enough dryers.

It's the weekend!!!!! AAAHHHHH!!!! So unbelievably excited. Especially since it's the start of a 3-day weekend! I am so looking forward to this.

I'm not sure if I've told the family yet, so in case I forgot: Liz, Lucy, Sharon, Meredith and I are all going to Sharon's house after lunch Saturday and staying until sometime after church on Sunday. We're celebrating Sharon's birthday with a sleepover sort of thing. I think. Yes. I totally know what I'm talking about.

Class was... I feel like it was funny today, although I'm not sure why. I really didn't pay attention. We started dismantling this story from 'a writer's perspective' (said in the voice of doom), and we took, seriously, two hours at it. Considering that looking at things that way is just sort of habit for me, I found it pretty boring. So I started roughing out more of the dragon lady story. Three pages worth of the dragon lady story. Although maybe my time would have been better spent trying to rough out my sonnet.

S - Sick of rhyme and iambic pentameter
O - Ouch, says my brain in a moment of misery
N - "Never!" the form says, refusing to bend, and
N - "Nyah Nyah! You can't write me!"
E - Eternity spent in the arms of a sonnet makes me wish for
T - The end.

So that's my little... er... form... related to sonnets. Acrostic! That's the word. That's my acrostic related to sonnets. I'm sure you're all blown away by its brilliance.

And also, I realized that the boy with ridiculously teal eyes is named Kurt LeVan, and that he's in the Minnemingo this semester. And Liz was saying something about knowing him. Or something. Apparently he's nice, although I haven't read his poetry yet to be able to tell if I actually like it or not.

So that's my unrelated fact for the day. I'm kind of wondering if, since Liz knows him, she could ask him if he wears colored contacts or not.... I have a premonition that I'm going to have to write a character with ridiculously teal eyes at one point, possibly as a villain, since I just like that color. and also the way the phrase "ridiculously teal" sounds.

i looked up edvard munch

Edvard Munch http://www.quizgalaxy.com/result_images/edvard.jpg"> /> Edvard Munch should paint your portrait. You are a very emotional person. You are always up for a good talk with one of your friends. You don't like to keep things bottled up. Often, you are friendly and outgoing, but that can change very easily to being introverted and cold. http://www.quizgalaxy.com/quiz.php?id=63">Take this quiz at http://www.quizgalaxy.com">QuizGalaxy.com

;


and what I found was funny. You know that famous picture The Cry? Well, if you don't, use google image search. Anyway, he painted it. I find that grimly ironic.

On a happy note, though, yay for Liz getting published! She read her piece, and it was good.

i can't remember if i'm the good twin or the evil one.

So, yesterday was much better. Less flipping out, less psyochanalyzing all my artistic faults, and less crying. So all in all, you could call it a good day. I wouldn't quite, but you could. Don't get me wrong, it was a decent day. I just didn't really write anything good, you know? And I feel like I definitely should, seeing as there's only nine days of class left in J-term. Some sort of improvement should definitely be going on right now. And I don't think "improvement of mood" or "improvement in mental balance" qualify.

I did have a good talk with Professor Walker today. She said some interesting things about peer review and perfectionism. In peer review, the main reason people won't give unpleasant feedback is because somewhere in their being, they feel superior to the person they're critiquing. She also said that at base level, perfectionism is all about arrogance. Which is a very uncomfortable revelation for me, but it just might be true. I'm still thinking about it.

And then, when I got out of work, everything was foggy! It was ridiculously beautiful, it really was. Meredith and I broke out our cameras and took some pictures, although of course night + fog = lousy pictures. Anyway, it was fun.

Today I turn in four poems to the teacher. Wish me luck.

fac ut gaudeam.

For those that don't know, that means "make my day."

And actually, I chose the title for its sheer irony. The phrase is typically used as a challenge - go on, try and hurt me, I dare you. I couldn't be feeling any less like challenging the world. The world kind of whupped up on me today. For those unfamiliar with southern lingo, that means "the world kind of violently beat me with a belt, claiming it was for my own good." (ala certain kinds of southern parents)

I'm afraid of complexity. I think that's one of the reasons I couldn't write a good poem for a long time, and why I'm failing at it now. It's one of the major artistic problems I have. I have a tendency, an almost maniacal urge, to simplify, to strip down to the bare essence, to write leanly. To paint leanly. The problem is, the line between simple and boring is blurry. The line between 'the essence' and 'nothing interesting' is likewise obscure. The urge to write or paint leanly often translates into not writing or painting at all. The fear of complexity also stems, I think, from an urge to control. Simple things are more easily controlled. Less decision making goes into non-complex things, so there's less chance of failure.

I'm so delighted when I make the first mark on a page. I have writers block a lot more than I actually write, and I'm thinking about a lot more artwork than I actually make. I think this is one of my problems too. I'm so delighted to make that first mark that I want to leave it undisturbed - I hate to revise, to change, to paint over, because you can never get that first mark back. Odds are that I'll screw it up if I keep going after making that first mark.

Frankly, half-baked ideas terrify me. If it's something odd, like nothing I've never read or seen before, I'm really reluctant to show anyone, or even complete the project. Almost-getting-it-right can get comfortable. At least if I don't improve, I always know what's wrong.

Well, I've had it with this. I'm going to do something complex, and I'm going to keep going after that first mark, and I'm going to try half-baked ideas. I don't care what the annoying inner bits of me (or anyone else's annoying outer bits) have to say about it.

So the title turned out to be doubly ironic. I thought I couldn't feel less like challenging the world... and then I went and did anyway. Death to tyrrany. And also a shout-out to Jenn, who's my hero, and told the world exactly where it could go.

p.s.

On my way in from a walk tonight, I saw the guy who lived in the lounge last semester. He was camped out on his favorite couch again, sleeping. All is right with the world. = D

And also, compliments of Jenn....

You will go to jail for: Setting off cherry bombs on the roof of your school while yelling death to tyranny! Take this quiz at QuizGalaxy.com

the mad whose blessing you must accept without pity

"What if poets aren't crazy?"
- Charles Simic

I think I told pretty much everyone that Creative Writing class required me to walk around blindfolded. I don't think, though, that I told everyone why that exercise was important. I'm going to talk about it here, as a statement of faith.

When I was being led, it took only a few steps and a turn to lose my way. I could hear other people bumbling along, and a few muffled laughs as people bumped into desks or tried to navigate doorways, the shuffling of papers, and the murmur of a few other classes as we walked down the hall. The only thing I could smell was classroom smell - boredom, pencils, and coca-cola. I walked much slower, holding my hands in front of me as if I could guide myself by the feel of the air.

When Becky reached out my hand to touch something, I felt an intense delight that, in the darkness, something was there. When she reached out my hand to that weird mirrored sculpture in front of Boyer, I laughed out loud. To feel something there, and to feel it move but defy definition... In that touch, the world appeared. I was somewhere again.

Professor Perrin, when I went to see her, said, "Just let the process take you where it will." Writing every day is going to take you somewhere unexpected; make it your personal mission to find an image that you want to explore, every day.

I'm going to let the process take me where it will, until I reach out my hand in the dark and find something there. Whether my fingers recognize it when it comes, or it defies my understanding, I have faith that somewhere, there is some sort of delight, in which the world appears.

nihil curo de ista tua stulta superstitione.

So, apparently me pretending to be drunk is amusing. Liz definitely is. If we ever get around to actually filming the drunk character, it's going to be a fantasticly funny film.

The first week of classes seemed really short. Oh wait, it was only three days long.

I'm excited for the weekend. And, while creative writing class certainly doesn't seem to be very challenging to so far, I'm confident (and also slightly giddy, since it's after midnight) that something good will come from it. That might be rash confidence in my prowess as a writer and a self-motivated person, but I prefer to think of it as faith in the process of writing. It's kind of like the gospel. God's word does not come back empty, and a whole bunch of writing doesn't come back empty either. At least one good idea has to come out of three pages a day. It's practically a law.

And also, I think I caught the rhythm of Eavan Boland.

non curo. si metrum non habet, non est poema.

Here is the really bad poem I wrote for Creative Writing class.

I Am Not Sure

I like sandwiches
really a lot

and maybe pickles

although I’m not sure about pickles,
like I am not sure about you.

Pickles taste funny,
if there’s too much or too little dill,
and you’re funny too,
as if you didn’t have enough sleep one night when you were in the womb,
or as if dill addled your brain.

I think I'm subconsciously mocking a lot of poets that I know, especially T. S. Eliot and William Carlos Williams, but there's really only so much conscious mockery you can get into ten lines. It's not as "good" of a bad poem as the examples she read in class, but I feel like it's definitely pretty bad. So... sure, I'm at peace with that.

Mostly class has consisted of what I call doodle writing. It hasn't even hit the "noodling" stage. It's just random things that you write about mainly because you were told, looking for inspiration somewhere. I'm actually really good at the not having to write coherently thing. = D

And it turns out that three pages in the journal is not as much as it sounds like. I don't think it'll be a problem if all that doodle writing counts. I just think it would be nice to get some actual real ideas out of the doodle writing like I'm supposed to, so I can move on to the actuality of working on a story. I mean, doodling is all well and good, but it can get boring after a while.

In conclusion: I like quiet mornings, mornings without chapel.

class update:

I think it's gonna be OK. My biggest fears are now not of the class or the teacher, but of running dry. And also I'm afraid that when I sit down and try to write all that stuff she wants us to write, I'll find out I really don't want to be a writer anyway. But other than that, it's gonna be OK.

not to be a copycat or anything, but this was just too funny...

Which Homestar Runner character are you?

this quiz was made by jurjyfrort

Only I actually think I'm more along these lines....





Which Homestar Runner character are you?

this quiz was made by jurjyfrort


The only thing funnier would be if I ended up as a homestar.

Probably more updates after classes this afternoon....

braccae illae virides cum subucula rosea et tunica caledonia-quam elenganter concinnatur!

Today it was seventy degrees outside. Not the kind of weather that encourages one to go back up north for school. I mean, seriously, January the 2nd and it's 70 degrees. Crazy.

Well, my flight leaves at 1:30 tomorrow, and I'll be at college at about 7. See you then!

well, then.

Things are winding down here. Most of the family left today, and inevitably my mind is being drawn toward school. J-term. I thought I was excited about my creative writing class, but it turns out I just dread going back to homework and stress. Of course, now that there's no family or McWilkies around, I might've got bored. Or maybe I'd have made progress with my stories. As Aslan says, "Child, you are never told what would have been."

Actually, though, he does at one point tell someone what would have been. In the Magician's Nephew he tells Diggory what would have happened had he stolen an apple for his mother. So take that, Aslan. Even your author didn't have everything nailed down all the time. Probably mean of me to be encouraged by another author's inconsistency, but I only take a very little bit of encouragement.

I think Persephone is really and truly fixed, although if she breaks sometime soon, I never said that. You heard nothing.

"If you have any poo, fling it now."
-Madagascar

All the diamonds in this world
That mean anything to me
Are conjured up by wind and sunlight
Sparkling on the sea

I ran aground in a harbour town
Lost the taste for being free
Thank God He sent some gull-chased ship
To carry me to sea

Two thousand years and half a world away
Dying trees still grow greener when you pray

Silver scales flash bright and fade
In reeds along the shore
Like a pearl in sea of liquid jade
His ship comes shining
Like a crystal swan in a sky of suns
His ship comes shining.

- Bruce Cockburn