I'm beginning, more and more, to identify with the butterfly from Peter S Beagle's The Last Unicorn. My life seems nothing but a cobbled-together, jumbled-up mass of snatches. Snatches of thoughts, songs, and random mood swings.
Excellent well, you're a fishmonger. You're my everything, you are my sunshine, you are old and gray and full of sleep, you're my pickle-faced consumptive Mary Jane.
I was trying to explain to Mom why I like that book so much, and I discovered that I don't really know why. The closest I came was, 'The language is luminous,' and seriously, how un-descriptive is that?
You know better than to expect a butterfly to know your name. All they know are songs and poetry, and anything else they hear. They mean well, but they can't keep things straight. And why should they? They die so soon.
I love, I guess, the strange mix of Shakespeare, Hopkins, and modern pop songs. I love that it takes something so essentially postmodern in style and makes it beautiful. It makes me think there's hope for my generation of writers after all. Which doesn't quite make sense, because Peter S Beagle is definitely not of my generation, but heck, I'm a butterfly right now, so don't bother me with details.
No, no, listen, don't listen to me, listen. You can find your people if you are brave. They passed down all the roads long ago, and the Red Bull ran close behind them and covered their footprints. Let nothing you dismay, but don't be half-safe.
I also like the plot. I'm essentially enamored of fantasy stories, and this is a great fantasy plot. A unicorn facing a deadly unkown enemy in a darkened landscape, the most beautiful of all creatures pitted against the most depraved of kings, and a magician who can't find himself. Plus or minus a whole bunch of other mystical creatures, curses, blessings, and identity crises.
His firstling bull was majesty, and his horns are the horns of a wild ox. With them he shall push the peoples, all of them, to the ends of the earth. Listen, listen, listen quickly.
Who could not love the flash of sly humor that caused Schmendrick the magician? Schmendrick - I mean, c'mon. That's an amazing name.
Oh I am a cook and a captain bold and the mate of the Nancy brig. Has anybody here seen Kelly?
Another reason I love the book? The villain gets defeated in the end. I know, what a cliche, but I still love it. Especially since, at times, I say with Peter S Beagle: "The butterfly is a self-portrait, and so - the villain of the story though he may be - is King Haggard, with his dreadful hunger for a beauty that can never escape him, and his crippling knowledge that nothing is worth loving because everything dies in his hands."
It's you or me moth! Hand to hand to hand to hand to hand...
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Yes Andrew, you can be me for a while. I think that's a great idea. Then I can be a better writer for a while.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Maybe I just need a break from writing and poetry.
Maybe? Maybe is a hollow word.
It's happened before. It could be just one of those cycles.
I think that's wishful thinking.
What if it's just realistic thinking?
And if that's wishful thinking, what about all those years spent thinking you could be a good writer, or possibly already were a good writer?
And if all your english 'talent' was an illusion, what about art? People have told you before that you're a talented writer. Only your mother has ever told you that you were a talented artist. If praise proved false, how much worse will silence prove?
That's the point at which I can't find any reply to the empty-voice. Oh, don't worry, I'm not depressed or anything - it takes too much energy for me to be depressed. My temperament is not naturally one of despair, except in brief plunges. No, I'm not depressed. Just a little bit hollow.
On a good note, yesterday I got Paxton to fall asleep, all by myself. Let me tell you the whole story (you lucky people you): at about six he seemed tired, and just wanted to sit on the floor and hug his beach ball. So I thought, hey, I've watched Barb and Jackie put him to sleep a couple times. I wonder if I could get him to fall asleep? If I can't, he'll almost certainly start crying, and I hate it when he cries. I mean, he's got lungs! So I put him on my lap, and got a picture book, and we rocked back and forth and looked at the book for a while, and by six-thirty he was out cold. I'm telling you, proudest moment of my week. He eventually heard his mom's voice and woke up, but by that time she was coming to get him anyway. So I got to hold a sweet sleeping baby for like, an hour. And that was good.
Mom told me, "So, now say you're never having kids."
Well, sure, it's harder to say that after being around a really sweet baby like Paxton, but what are the odds of getting a baby like that? And it's not the baby stage I'm worried about - at least not once they start sleeping through the night. It's the whole, oh,-they-grow-up part. Frankly, little kids tire me. I'm not sure I want my own. Pre-teens make me grind my teeth. I don't want my own. Teenagers, by and large as a general populace, bore me. Or else they act freaking stupid and I feel like whacking them upside the head. Why would I want to be bored out of my wits by and yet responsible for a teenager? And, while, whacking them upside the head may be enjoyable, I don't think child protection services would approve. Adults? Eh, well.... frankly, who cares once they're adults? They move away and get their own lives and crap. And I can hang out with young adults or adults all I want without having my own.
Eh, not sure how I got on that topic. I'm going to go play games now. Age of Empires or Civilization or something. Or read. More books arrived yesterday.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Maybe I just need a break from writing and poetry.
Maybe? Maybe is a hollow word.
It's happened before. It could be just one of those cycles.
I think that's wishful thinking.
What if it's just realistic thinking?
And if that's wishful thinking, what about all those years spent thinking you could be a good writer, or possibly already were a good writer?
And if all your english 'talent' was an illusion, what about art? People have told you before that you're a talented writer. Only your mother has ever told you that you were a talented artist. If praise proved false, how much worse will silence prove?
That's the point at which I can't find any reply to the empty-voice. Oh, don't worry, I'm not depressed or anything - it takes too much energy for me to be depressed. My temperament is not naturally one of despair, except in brief plunges. No, I'm not depressed. Just a little bit hollow.
On a good note, yesterday I got Paxton to fall asleep, all by myself. Let me tell you the whole story (you lucky people you): at about six he seemed tired, and just wanted to sit on the floor and hug his beach ball. So I thought, hey, I've watched Barb and Jackie put him to sleep a couple times. I wonder if I could get him to fall asleep? If I can't, he'll almost certainly start crying, and I hate it when he cries. I mean, he's got lungs! So I put him on my lap, and got a picture book, and we rocked back and forth and looked at the book for a while, and by six-thirty he was out cold. I'm telling you, proudest moment of my week. He eventually heard his mom's voice and woke up, but by that time she was coming to get him anyway. So I got to hold a sweet sleeping baby for like, an hour. And that was good.
Mom told me, "So, now say you're never having kids."
Well, sure, it's harder to say that after being around a really sweet baby like Paxton, but what are the odds of getting a baby like that? And it's not the baby stage I'm worried about - at least not once they start sleeping through the night. It's the whole, oh,-they-grow-up part. Frankly, little kids tire me. I'm not sure I want my own. Pre-teens make me grind my teeth. I don't want my own. Teenagers, by and large as a general populace, bore me. Or else they act freaking stupid and I feel like whacking them upside the head. Why would I want to be bored out of my wits by and yet responsible for a teenager? And, while, whacking them upside the head may be enjoyable, I don't think child protection services would approve. Adults? Eh, well.... frankly, who cares once they're adults? They move away and get their own lives and crap. And I can hang out with young adults or adults all I want without having my own.
Eh, not sure how I got on that topic. I'm going to go play games now. Age of Empires or Civilization or something. Or read. More books arrived yesterday.
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Saturday, June 25, 2005
I'm sitting here, nursing a glass of strawberry milk and reading The Princess Bride (some things never change, no matter where you currently lay your head), one of the four books which have arrived for me this week. I feel, as more and more books arrive, like a very greedy kid at Christmas.
But that is not the point of this post. Greed and posting are both along the lines of bad habits, but that is where the connection ends.
I'm nursing a glass of strawberry milk, reading the Princess Bride, that classic, immortal tale of True Love and High Adventure, and wondering, do poets ever write anything funny?
No, seriously. Do they? Or even joyful - do poets ever write anything joyful? Or does it all have to be profound and deep and mournful: illuminating the failings of humanity and the beauty of language?
I think that's why I'll never be a poet. There's this other half of me (in opposition to the half that is nearly-poetic) that likes normal, happy, simple things. I like puns, and I like some of America's Funniest Home Videos, and commercials. There are a lot of amusing commercials. I like homemade applesauce, and cooking hamburger for supper. I like talking to my family, and going out to lunch with Grandma. I like turning Maggie's doghouse (at Dad's request and as Avery's cohort in crime) into crazy-hippie-cammo. I like books, and old hippie music, and curling up in bed on a rainy day. I like that lazy feeling you get on mornings you know you don't have to get up early. I like words like "Strawberry milk" and "dutch" and "hifalutin," which will never be on the top list of words to be included in a poem.
I like being happy. I think it would, all told, take too much energy to hold onto the level of loss and solemnity that seems to be required for good poetry.
Maybe I'm just too normal to be a poet.
Oh, and I realize there might've been some confusion - all poetry quoted in the last post was Louise Gluck.
But that is not the point of this post. Greed and posting are both along the lines of bad habits, but that is where the connection ends.
I'm nursing a glass of strawberry milk, reading the Princess Bride, that classic, immortal tale of True Love and High Adventure, and wondering, do poets ever write anything funny?
No, seriously. Do they? Or even joyful - do poets ever write anything joyful? Or does it all have to be profound and deep and mournful: illuminating the failings of humanity and the beauty of language?
I think that's why I'll never be a poet. There's this other half of me (in opposition to the half that is nearly-poetic) that likes normal, happy, simple things. I like puns, and I like some of America's Funniest Home Videos, and commercials. There are a lot of amusing commercials. I like homemade applesauce, and cooking hamburger for supper. I like talking to my family, and going out to lunch with Grandma. I like turning Maggie's doghouse (at Dad's request and as Avery's cohort in crime) into crazy-hippie-cammo. I like books, and old hippie music, and curling up in bed on a rainy day. I like that lazy feeling you get on mornings you know you don't have to get up early. I like words like "Strawberry milk" and "dutch" and "hifalutin," which will never be on the top list of words to be included in a poem.
I like being happy. I think it would, all told, take too much energy to hold onto the level of loss and solemnity that seems to be required for good poetry.
Maybe I'm just too normal to be a poet.
Oh, and I realize there might've been some confusion - all poetry quoted in the last post was Louise Gluck.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Nearly
Nearly a week after my last blog post. I wonder where my famed prolificness has gone? And by famed, I mean that I took secret pride in being able to write something every day about my life. Pride goeth before a fall I guess. Maybe I'm just going through one of those cycles. Retreat into the inner mind - then pop out into the world to get shot at for a while before retreating again.
I figured out that one thing that makes me feel like writing is reading really good, excellent writing. Bad writing makes me want to write too - but as soon as I've gotten enough distance from it to stop being mad, the motivation stops. Inspiration seems curiously related to digestion - you become empty and need to be filled, then you're full and you expel.
Louise Gluck:
Remember that time you made the wish?
I make a lot of wishes.
The time I lied to you
about the butterfly. I always wondered
what you wished for.
What do you think I wished?
I don't know. That I'd come back,
that we'd somehow be together in the end.
I wished for what I always wish for.
I wished for another poem.
I was thinking today that maybe one of the things I like so much about poetry is that it's honest. It's blunt. It's not just honest, it's brutal.
Nobody sees essence who can't face limitation.
You can't write real, good, right poetry unless you're honest. You really can't depend on people to be honest. I catch myself being dishonest toward people all the time - I put up an inscrutable face to keep them from seeing I dislike them. I pretend that I don't hate something because I don't want to offend anyone. I won't critique to the fullest extent because I hate tears.
But when you read a good poem you know. It's honest. It has no other way of being what it is. You can rely on it for that.
Honesty gives you clearer vision than you want.
But then, it's that strength of vision that gives poetry its punch - its fierce uncompromising clarity. There's a reason poetry is boiled down to the best and the fewest words possible to make it with and still have it accomplish its purpose. That's also the reason it has many layers - realization has a lot of layers. Truth is woven into a steel blade. I don't think it was born that way. Also, what poet wants to give away a lifetime of honesty to just anyone? If you're going to be that honest, you want only readers willing to take time to understand and love and return honesty for honesty.
Poetry is a great vast stillness that echoes and captures and changes. To understand its stillness you yourself have to be still. That's another thing I like about poetry. You can't rush at it. You have to live with it a little while. You have to form a relationship with the poetry. You have to ingest it. (See, I told you poetry was a lot like your gastrointestinal system.)
Poetry also lets you face the hard things, the honest things, with beauty. Yes, I'm saying this and it may hurt or enlighten or merely confuse - but I'm saying it beautifully, with music. The hard things have not killed my sense of beauty. Rather, I'm understanding the hard things because of beauty.
I wonder, if I have enough honesty to acknowledge that I don't have what it takes to be a poet - does that much honesty give me the right to hope that I someday might be?
The great man turns his back on the island.
Now he will not die in paradise
not hear again
the lutes of paradise among the olive trees,
by the clear pools under the cypresses. Time
begins now, in which he hears again
that pulse which is the narrative
sea, at dawn when its pull is strongest.
What has brought us here
will lead us away; our ship
sways in the tinted harbor water.
Now the spell is ended.
Give him back his life,
sea that can only move forward.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
"Patients are People Too,"
the title would read. Sam dreamed slowly as he fought with the copy machine, old, decrepit, that always started with a groan and made you think it was doing you a great favor by copying. It had discovered years ago the trick of creating guilt in the user and at the same time gratefulness, that it didn't break down - most of the time.
He thought his receptionist was much too hard on the patients. Surely they couldn't ask as many stupid questions as she claimed they did. They could surely not ruin their personal lives as easily as she implied, or try as many stupid stunts. Most of his patients' injuries could be reasonable explained - except the one patient who got his foot sliced off by a refrigerator door. His mother had driven the pickup through the front wall of the house, an intervening wall, and straight into the refrigerator. That one was a bit odd.
But then, he was new in town and new to the medical profession, so maybe he'd learn, if given time. Five years had obviously not been long enough. Or maybe he simply needed to acquire a medical attitude. He was prone, still, to give people the benefit of the doubt and give them an automatic measure of respect as human beings. Medical school hadn't managed to beat it out of him, and neither had his residency.
He sighed.
Maybe if he called it "Patients are Stupid People Too" and marketed it to precociously disillusioned college students as a satire in children's book form he could make enough money to hire a new receptionist with better people skills. And one who could actually type correctly. It gave him pains to see her peck away with two fingers.
As he passed around the corner, carrying his copies and pondering the inherent personality quirks of copiers, his receptionist sat up straighter and began typing full speed ahead - with all ten fingers.
I figured out that one thing that makes me feel like writing is reading really good, excellent writing. Bad writing makes me want to write too - but as soon as I've gotten enough distance from it to stop being mad, the motivation stops. Inspiration seems curiously related to digestion - you become empty and need to be filled, then you're full and you expel.
Louise Gluck:
Remember that time you made the wish?
I make a lot of wishes.
The time I lied to you
about the butterfly. I always wondered
what you wished for.
What do you think I wished?
I don't know. That I'd come back,
that we'd somehow be together in the end.
I wished for what I always wish for.
I wished for another poem.
I was thinking today that maybe one of the things I like so much about poetry is that it's honest. It's blunt. It's not just honest, it's brutal.
Nobody sees essence who can't face limitation.
You can't write real, good, right poetry unless you're honest. You really can't depend on people to be honest. I catch myself being dishonest toward people all the time - I put up an inscrutable face to keep them from seeing I dislike them. I pretend that I don't hate something because I don't want to offend anyone. I won't critique to the fullest extent because I hate tears.
But when you read a good poem you know. It's honest. It has no other way of being what it is. You can rely on it for that.
Honesty gives you clearer vision than you want.
But then, it's that strength of vision that gives poetry its punch - its fierce uncompromising clarity. There's a reason poetry is boiled down to the best and the fewest words possible to make it with and still have it accomplish its purpose. That's also the reason it has many layers - realization has a lot of layers. Truth is woven into a steel blade. I don't think it was born that way. Also, what poet wants to give away a lifetime of honesty to just anyone? If you're going to be that honest, you want only readers willing to take time to understand and love and return honesty for honesty.
Poetry is a great vast stillness that echoes and captures and changes. To understand its stillness you yourself have to be still. That's another thing I like about poetry. You can't rush at it. You have to live with it a little while. You have to form a relationship with the poetry. You have to ingest it. (See, I told you poetry was a lot like your gastrointestinal system.)
Poetry also lets you face the hard things, the honest things, with beauty. Yes, I'm saying this and it may hurt or enlighten or merely confuse - but I'm saying it beautifully, with music. The hard things have not killed my sense of beauty. Rather, I'm understanding the hard things because of beauty.
I wonder, if I have enough honesty to acknowledge that I don't have what it takes to be a poet - does that much honesty give me the right to hope that I someday might be?
The great man turns his back on the island.
Now he will not die in paradise
not hear again
the lutes of paradise among the olive trees,
by the clear pools under the cypresses. Time
begins now, in which he hears again
that pulse which is the narrative
sea, at dawn when its pull is strongest.
What has brought us here
will lead us away; our ship
sways in the tinted harbor water.
Now the spell is ended.
Give him back his life,
sea that can only move forward.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
"Patients are People Too,"
the title would read. Sam dreamed slowly as he fought with the copy machine, old, decrepit, that always started with a groan and made you think it was doing you a great favor by copying. It had discovered years ago the trick of creating guilt in the user and at the same time gratefulness, that it didn't break down - most of the time.
He thought his receptionist was much too hard on the patients. Surely they couldn't ask as many stupid questions as she claimed they did. They could surely not ruin their personal lives as easily as she implied, or try as many stupid stunts. Most of his patients' injuries could be reasonable explained - except the one patient who got his foot sliced off by a refrigerator door. His mother had driven the pickup through the front wall of the house, an intervening wall, and straight into the refrigerator. That one was a bit odd.
But then, he was new in town and new to the medical profession, so maybe he'd learn, if given time. Five years had obviously not been long enough. Or maybe he simply needed to acquire a medical attitude. He was prone, still, to give people the benefit of the doubt and give them an automatic measure of respect as human beings. Medical school hadn't managed to beat it out of him, and neither had his residency.
He sighed.
Maybe if he called it "Patients are Stupid People Too" and marketed it to precociously disillusioned college students as a satire in children's book form he could make enough money to hire a new receptionist with better people skills. And one who could actually type correctly. It gave him pains to see her peck away with two fingers.
As he passed around the corner, carrying his copies and pondering the inherent personality quirks of copiers, his receptionist sat up straighter and began typing full speed ahead - with all ten fingers.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Love to Dad, Because it's Father's Day.
Can I just say that this was a really fun father's day?
We ate things and talked about things and remembered things. And ate more things. We ate a lot.
...and it was cool. I'm not sure I really know what to say other than that about it. Other than: "Whoahoho, it's goin' down slow...."
...And I've been thinking about so many things lately, but I just don't ever really have time or inclination to type them out for everyone else to read. I guess I'm just delving more deeply into the "life of the inner mind."
Oh, I remember one of the things I've been thinking a lot about lately. Sacredness. And of course honesty, but you've all heard me rant about honesty probably fifty million times before. But lately sacredness and purposefulness, or perhaps a better word is deliberation. Or intentionality, but that sounds like corporate double-speak. Or church double-speak: take your pick. What I was wondering, quite simply, was this: what makes something sacred? Is it sacred in its own right, or does the way we behave towards something make it sacred? Why do I have such a postmodern view of sacredness when I propose to reject postmodernism?
I also thought this: A good way to live is like right poetry. And I'm not sure if that means anything to anyone else, because my definition of 'right' poetry could be all moonshine. I'm not sure though, that I care if my definition is moonshine or if that phraseology means nothing to anyone else. I feel like, for once, I don't care what anyone else thinks, and I don't care if I never write well, or get published, or am hung in a gallery (wow, that sounds suicidal.... haha.). I'm not sure if I'm lazy, apathetic, or simply content. But whatever it is, it feels good. I'm not afraid, right now, of not being enough. And I have to say that's one of the things that's haunted me longest.
And I'd love to know what percentage of sentences and paragraphs I start with the word "and."
And wow, that got really off the topic at hand: father's day. Yay for fathers. = )
We ate things and talked about things and remembered things. And ate more things. We ate a lot.
...and it was cool. I'm not sure I really know what to say other than that about it. Other than: "Whoahoho, it's goin' down slow...."
...And I've been thinking about so many things lately, but I just don't ever really have time or inclination to type them out for everyone else to read. I guess I'm just delving more deeply into the "life of the inner mind."
Oh, I remember one of the things I've been thinking a lot about lately. Sacredness. And of course honesty, but you've all heard me rant about honesty probably fifty million times before. But lately sacredness and purposefulness, or perhaps a better word is deliberation. Or intentionality, but that sounds like corporate double-speak. Or church double-speak: take your pick. What I was wondering, quite simply, was this: what makes something sacred? Is it sacred in its own right, or does the way we behave towards something make it sacred? Why do I have such a postmodern view of sacredness when I propose to reject postmodernism?
I also thought this: A good way to live is like right poetry. And I'm not sure if that means anything to anyone else, because my definition of 'right' poetry could be all moonshine. I'm not sure though, that I care if my definition is moonshine or if that phraseology means nothing to anyone else. I feel like, for once, I don't care what anyone else thinks, and I don't care if I never write well, or get published, or am hung in a gallery (wow, that sounds suicidal.... haha.). I'm not sure if I'm lazy, apathetic, or simply content. But whatever it is, it feels good. I'm not afraid, right now, of not being enough. And I have to say that's one of the things that's haunted me longest.
And I'd love to know what percentage of sentences and paragraphs I start with the word "and."
And wow, that got really off the topic at hand: father's day. Yay for fathers. = )
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Kick Rear!
As much as I want to right now, I just don't feel comfortable using the other word for 'rear' in a G-rated family-oriented blog. But, disregarding my word-choice difficulties, I did totally kick rear, both in my lab today and in my biology test on Tuesday. I got one of the highest grades I've ever gotten on a test. And today I finished my supposedly-two-hour lab in about 45 minutes. It was the perfect antidote to Saturday's lab debacle. I got in, did the experiments by myself, and got out. Not to mention getting all the right answers. Take that, biology lab!
Considering the fact that I got up at 7 this morning, drank some much-needed tea, spent two hours in class, went to work and worked for eight hours, then ate dinner on the run, drove over to Calhoun, and did my biology lab, getting back at about 8:15 (that's over thirteen hours, just for you math retarded people), I'm in a very good mood. Of course, Paxton did actually walk over to me this morning and ask to be picked up. Who wouldn't be put in a good mood by that? And I did kick rear on both my test and my lab. And I had curly fries for dinner. I love curly fries. Also, since I did my lab today, I have Saturday completely free to do stuff. That hasn't happened in... oh... a year. You can see why I'm excited.
I need to call Candace. I keep wanting to e-mail you (just in case you see this), but I don't have your e-mail address anymore. I lost it somewhere along the line, or messiah's address book ate it or something. I know it's faeriedust, but I have completely forgotten what e-mail service it's at. So If you see this, you can e-mail me with your current e-mail address (mine is mm1296@messiah.edu) or you can just wait till I call you, or something. I'm not thinking very clearly at this point, but no doubt something will work itself out.
And... now to bed. Because otherwise I'm going to pass out and drool all over my keyboard, and "you just can't pour that much spit into a robot and expect it to function properly." Or... something more related to actual computers... and less ludicrous in this context... but which is also bad. You fill in the blank.
I wanna run faster, but this old leg won't carry me,
I wanna be, I wanna be....
Maybe I could run
Or maybe I could fly to you.
But do you feel the same when all you see is blame in me?
Yeah, and the wonder of it all
is that I'm livin' just to fall more in love with you....
Or maybe it's more like:
She moves like a golden serpent all day long
She moves like a golden serpent all day long
she lights a candle when the day is gone
she likes to give me honey when I'm down
she likes to give me honey when I'm down
If I ever was a king, she was the crown
She can chase away the devil with a song....
[and because of copyright laws I suppose I should cite the artists of the above. Delirious? is the first one, and Bruce Cockburn is the second.]
Considering the fact that I got up at 7 this morning, drank some much-needed tea, spent two hours in class, went to work and worked for eight hours, then ate dinner on the run, drove over to Calhoun, and did my biology lab, getting back at about 8:15 (that's over thirteen hours, just for you math retarded people), I'm in a very good mood. Of course, Paxton did actually walk over to me this morning and ask to be picked up. Who wouldn't be put in a good mood by that? And I did kick rear on both my test and my lab. And I had curly fries for dinner. I love curly fries. Also, since I did my lab today, I have Saturday completely free to do stuff. That hasn't happened in... oh... a year. You can see why I'm excited.
I need to call Candace. I keep wanting to e-mail you (just in case you see this), but I don't have your e-mail address anymore. I lost it somewhere along the line, or messiah's address book ate it or something. I know it's faeriedust, but I have completely forgotten what e-mail service it's at. So If you see this, you can e-mail me with your current e-mail address (mine is mm1296@messiah.edu) or you can just wait till I call you, or something. I'm not thinking very clearly at this point, but no doubt something will work itself out.
And... now to bed. Because otherwise I'm going to pass out and drool all over my keyboard, and "you just can't pour that much spit into a robot and expect it to function properly." Or... something more related to actual computers... and less ludicrous in this context... but which is also bad. You fill in the blank.
I wanna run faster, but this old leg won't carry me,
I wanna be, I wanna be....
Maybe I could run
Or maybe I could fly to you.
But do you feel the same when all you see is blame in me?
Yeah, and the wonder of it all
is that I'm livin' just to fall more in love with you....
Or maybe it's more like:
She moves like a golden serpent all day long
She moves like a golden serpent all day long
she lights a candle when the day is gone
she likes to give me honey when I'm down
she likes to give me honey when I'm down
If I ever was a king, she was the crown
She can chase away the devil with a song....
[and because of copyright laws I suppose I should cite the artists of the above. Delirious? is the first one, and Bruce Cockburn is the second.]
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
So today was a good day primarily because of this:
I wrote a poem.
Well, sort of. A rhythmic phrase came into my head, which I roughed out into a poem outline, which I will later write out in full and revise, and maybe then, after a lot of work, I'll have written a poem.
But it's something, something that hasn't happened in what feels like forever.
Today was also a good day because I got to take care of the Dupper boys this afternoon instead of working in the office. Don't get me wrong - I like clinic. It's not bad. It's interesting at the least. But who wouldn't want to take care of three hilarious smart fun kids instead?
The Dupper kids are freaking smart. I tried to play Battleship with Trenton, and didn't realize until about 20 minutes into the game that he didn't even know all his alphabet yet... let alone knowing how to work a grid. But he was smart. He caught on quick. He also beat me at baseball on the gamecube, although that took less work. I suck and can never remember the controls. The older Dupper kids are fun too, although I got to talk less with them because Aaron and Avery were playing with them. The baby, Paxton, is an adorable bubbly baby who talks and sings to himself all the time and actually doesn't cry all that much. He wasn't at our house today - although I'd have loved to have him. I guess she thought three kids under 12 and a baby would be a bit much for me to handle, and maybe it would've. I dunno. Anyway, that was way cool.
And I took my two tests, and while I didn't kick butt or anything, I think they went pretty well. Our professor just enjoyed scaring the crap out of us about them, and they weren't as hard as I'd been expecting. That still leaves him on my list of 'bad professors', but it moves him up a couple of spots. Technically I suppose he's in the gray area between good professors and bad professors, but since most of the time he annoys the crap out of me, he stays on the bad list.
Class today was also nice, in a way, because of the test. I only had to listen to people talk for half an hour, rather than two hours. It was a decidedly nice change.
And the annoying hick lady? Didn't even speak to me. Take that, forces of darkness! Booyah!
I wrote a poem.
Well, sort of. A rhythmic phrase came into my head, which I roughed out into a poem outline, which I will later write out in full and revise, and maybe then, after a lot of work, I'll have written a poem.
But it's something, something that hasn't happened in what feels like forever.
Today was also a good day because I got to take care of the Dupper boys this afternoon instead of working in the office. Don't get me wrong - I like clinic. It's not bad. It's interesting at the least. But who wouldn't want to take care of three hilarious smart fun kids instead?
The Dupper kids are freaking smart. I tried to play Battleship with Trenton, and didn't realize until about 20 minutes into the game that he didn't even know all his alphabet yet... let alone knowing how to work a grid. But he was smart. He caught on quick. He also beat me at baseball on the gamecube, although that took less work. I suck and can never remember the controls. The older Dupper kids are fun too, although I got to talk less with them because Aaron and Avery were playing with them. The baby, Paxton, is an adorable bubbly baby who talks and sings to himself all the time and actually doesn't cry all that much. He wasn't at our house today - although I'd have loved to have him. I guess she thought three kids under 12 and a baby would be a bit much for me to handle, and maybe it would've. I dunno. Anyway, that was way cool.
And I took my two tests, and while I didn't kick butt or anything, I think they went pretty well. Our professor just enjoyed scaring the crap out of us about them, and they weren't as hard as I'd been expecting. That still leaves him on my list of 'bad professors', but it moves him up a couple of spots. Technically I suppose he's in the gray area between good professors and bad professors, but since most of the time he annoys the crap out of me, he stays on the bad list.
Class today was also nice, in a way, because of the test. I only had to listen to people talk for half an hour, rather than two hours. It was a decidedly nice change.
And the annoying hick lady? Didn't even speak to me. Take that, forces of darkness! Booyah!
Monday, June 13, 2005
Heh.
I might as well have taken a vow along with Liz, for all the frequency of my posting.
Life is good I guess. I'm a bit bored every now and then, but the ideas are starting to come to the surface, even if I can't really make myself sit down and get them started. I decided, more or less, that if I can't make, I'll ingest. Maybe what I need is to go back and sit down and figure out what exactly I think good writing and good art are, so that I have some sort of idea toward what I'm struggling.
Wow, that makes me sound clueless. Ok, well, I admit it. I am clueless.
I'm not sure why I keep writing or making, because frankly I suck at it. I guess I've just gotten addicted to the adrenaline of creativity... or... something. Dang, that makes it sound like cocaine or bungee jumping.
Oh well. I'm sure at least someone out there knows what I'm talking about.
I've also started getting used to this structure. I don't feel incredibly tired and braindead when I come home from work anymore (or at least I didn't today or Friday), and I've started to be able to get some work done outside of my actual workplace. Like studying tonight, for the two tests I'd forgotten about, and which I'm taking tomorrow.
Can I just say that I should've taken physics? I can see myself getting semi-excited about physics class, at least until it got hard. Biology I just find freaking boring. And stupid.
Heh. The two things I find hardest to forgive, all wrapped up in a single class: southernness and stupidity. Yep. It's going to be a long eight weeks.
Wow, I miss you college peoples. It sucks to find out that wherever I am I'll be missing someone. Here I'll be missing you, and there I'll be missing my family and home peoples.
That sounds kinda like a song. "[Doo doo doo], wherever I am, [da doo doo doo], I'll be missing someoooooone...." Take it away!
Haha... er....
Life is good I guess. I'm a bit bored every now and then, but the ideas are starting to come to the surface, even if I can't really make myself sit down and get them started. I decided, more or less, that if I can't make, I'll ingest. Maybe what I need is to go back and sit down and figure out what exactly I think good writing and good art are, so that I have some sort of idea toward what I'm struggling.
Wow, that makes me sound clueless. Ok, well, I admit it. I am clueless.
I'm not sure why I keep writing or making, because frankly I suck at it. I guess I've just gotten addicted to the adrenaline of creativity... or... something. Dang, that makes it sound like cocaine or bungee jumping.
Oh well. I'm sure at least someone out there knows what I'm talking about.
I've also started getting used to this structure. I don't feel incredibly tired and braindead when I come home from work anymore (or at least I didn't today or Friday), and I've started to be able to get some work done outside of my actual workplace. Like studying tonight, for the two tests I'd forgotten about, and which I'm taking tomorrow.
Can I just say that I should've taken physics? I can see myself getting semi-excited about physics class, at least until it got hard. Biology I just find freaking boring. And stupid.
Heh. The two things I find hardest to forgive, all wrapped up in a single class: southernness and stupidity. Yep. It's going to be a long eight weeks.
Wow, I miss you college peoples. It sucks to find out that wherever I am I'll be missing someone. Here I'll be missing you, and there I'll be missing my family and home peoples.
That sounds kinda like a song. "[Doo doo doo], wherever I am, [da doo doo doo], I'll be missing someoooooone...." Take it away!
Haha... er....
Saturday, June 11, 2005
We Never Understand the Times We're Passing
I can't write. I'm sizzling with repressed words, somewhere in the deep of my mind, but when I go to sit down and write, they dry up, or sink down past the unreachable.
I can't paint or draw. I want to, but when I go to actually paint or draw or even design a bag for my mother's jewelry box, I just stare off into the distance, my mind a complete and total blank slate. Blank slates are all well and good, but weeks of one gets boring, not to mention frustrating as all crap.
Who knows? Maybe I wouldn't have found the stupid people in my lab this morning quite so frustrating if I wasn't so preoccupied and frustrated with my lack of artistry. I got so frustrated I snapped and started bossing people around. We got done, too, once I started bossing, but it wasn't very pleasant for me and I doubt it was for anyone else either. Especially not that stupid hick woman who had to go and act all know-it-all and then be all polite to me because we're in the same class. Grr. And the stupid campus with no pay phones except in the one building which is closed and locked tight, because who the hell in their right minds goes to Calhoun on a weekend? And then the pay phone at the gas station - I picked it up and there was spider webs all over it. I just stuck my hand in spiderwebs.
Then Grandma and Mom and I went to a local artists' show at a little gallery here in Decatur. I feel like there have to be relatively talented artists somewhere around here, but there wasn't much evidence for their existence at the show. Eh, I'm probably being harsh. But I can do better than half of them, and that's honestly not saying much. I guess I'm irritated with the people who submitted bad works to that show because I feel it's not fair that I can't make anything and they can, but I could do it better. Does that make sense?
The Death of an Artist - slowly going mad because of a bizarre lack of vision.
Although yesterday I did sit down with a piece of poetry I thought I hated, and I found that I loved it after all. Trying to beat it into shape didn't quite work, but when I met it on different terms.... I didn't think I'd butchered it so badly after all. I hadn't realized, before, that poems have their own personalities, and sometimes demand to be met as equals.
So there's rain in the darkest of valleys.
I can't paint or draw. I want to, but when I go to actually paint or draw or even design a bag for my mother's jewelry box, I just stare off into the distance, my mind a complete and total blank slate. Blank slates are all well and good, but weeks of one gets boring, not to mention frustrating as all crap.
Who knows? Maybe I wouldn't have found the stupid people in my lab this morning quite so frustrating if I wasn't so preoccupied and frustrated with my lack of artistry. I got so frustrated I snapped and started bossing people around. We got done, too, once I started bossing, but it wasn't very pleasant for me and I doubt it was for anyone else either. Especially not that stupid hick woman who had to go and act all know-it-all and then be all polite to me because we're in the same class. Grr. And the stupid campus with no pay phones except in the one building which is closed and locked tight, because who the hell in their right minds goes to Calhoun on a weekend? And then the pay phone at the gas station - I picked it up and there was spider webs all over it. I just stuck my hand in spiderwebs.
Then Grandma and Mom and I went to a local artists' show at a little gallery here in Decatur. I feel like there have to be relatively talented artists somewhere around here, but there wasn't much evidence for their existence at the show. Eh, I'm probably being harsh. But I can do better than half of them, and that's honestly not saying much. I guess I'm irritated with the people who submitted bad works to that show because I feel it's not fair that I can't make anything and they can, but I could do it better. Does that make sense?
The Death of an Artist - slowly going mad because of a bizarre lack of vision.
Although yesterday I did sit down with a piece of poetry I thought I hated, and I found that I loved it after all. Trying to beat it into shape didn't quite work, but when I met it on different terms.... I didn't think I'd butchered it so badly after all. I hadn't realized, before, that poems have their own personalities, and sometimes demand to be met as equals.
So there's rain in the darkest of valleys.
I'm Dancing on the Edge of I-Don't-Care
And that just about sums it up.
Lots has been happening, but frankly, at the moment, I don't care enough about my blog to blog about it. Stuff is good.... I'm tired of class.... Dad has cool magnets we've been playing with.... I wrote again today at the coffee shop.... work is going pretty good.... got my first paycheck today.... Maggie's still being a dog, but I'm coming to terms with that.... I never get to sleep in.... So I never get to stay up late.... Except oops I kinda just did but I shouldn't have. We had strawberries for dinner last night and I thought of Liz and the union and playing games... and I even quoted her correctly.... And I'm sleepy, so I guess I'll go to bed.
Rest in Peace, all y'all.
(and by that I don't mean die.)
Lots has been happening, but frankly, at the moment, I don't care enough about my blog to blog about it. Stuff is good.... I'm tired of class.... Dad has cool magnets we've been playing with.... I wrote again today at the coffee shop.... work is going pretty good.... got my first paycheck today.... Maggie's still being a dog, but I'm coming to terms with that.... I never get to sleep in.... So I never get to stay up late.... Except oops I kinda just did but I shouldn't have. We had strawberries for dinner last night and I thought of Liz and the union and playing games... and I even quoted her correctly.... And I'm sleepy, so I guess I'll go to bed.
Rest in Peace, all y'all.
(and by that I don't mean die.)
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Bruce Cockburn
So... I kinda have this song of Bruce Cockburn's really stuck in my head.
We go crying
We come laughing
We'll never understand the times we're passing
Oh, could be the famine
could be the feast
could be the pusher
could be the priest
always ourselves we love the least
that's the burden of the angel-beast....
It seems sort of appropriate. I'm so tired right now I'm not understanding anything. = )
Today was good I guess. Long, again. I can tell I'm going to be incredibly irritated with my biology professor before the class is over and done. Ah well. That dumb annoying hick lady didn't talk above five minutes today, so that was nice. Paxton didn't immediately start bawling when he was left in my care, so that was a huge ego boost. I sometimes think the only reason I'd ever have a kid is so that at least one of the little buggers wouldn't be scared silly at the sight of me.
Mmm.... I got back from work today, and ate and all that good stuff, and when I went to my room to change out of my work clothes, there was this beautiful magnolia flower sitting by my bed. It's those kinds of things that you really miss at college. People don't do random "I love you" things, at least not very often.
'Night all. Happy sleepings, happy wakings. Happy blossoming in the newly summer sun.
Oh unanswerable affliction of the human heart:
how to divide the world into acceptable
and unacceptable loves.
We go crying
We come laughing
We'll never understand the times we're passing
Oh, could be the famine
could be the feast
could be the pusher
could be the priest
always ourselves we love the least
that's the burden of the angel-beast....
It seems sort of appropriate. I'm so tired right now I'm not understanding anything. = )
Today was good I guess. Long, again. I can tell I'm going to be incredibly irritated with my biology professor before the class is over and done. Ah well. That dumb annoying hick lady didn't talk above five minutes today, so that was nice. Paxton didn't immediately start bawling when he was left in my care, so that was a huge ego boost. I sometimes think the only reason I'd ever have a kid is so that at least one of the little buggers wouldn't be scared silly at the sight of me.
Mmm.... I got back from work today, and ate and all that good stuff, and when I went to my room to change out of my work clothes, there was this beautiful magnolia flower sitting by my bed. It's those kinds of things that you really miss at college. People don't do random "I love you" things, at least not very often.
'Night all. Happy sleepings, happy wakings. Happy blossoming in the newly summer sun.
Oh unanswerable affliction of the human heart:
how to divide the world into acceptable
and unacceptable loves.
Monday, June 06, 2005
A Real Post?
I so feel like you all deserve a real post. So here goes. My attempt at a real post. Hold onto your hats, it could be a wild ride.
Haha.... Right. Wild.
Today didn't start off so hot, because I overslept my alarm, but I made it to work ontime, so although I didn't get a shower... it's all good. Paxton, Dr. Dupper's baby has started teething, and he was extremely grumpy today. Also, I'm a strange person and he was left alone with me, and he was upset. In short, he cried a lot. I also got left on my own for the first time, and that was... interesting.
And my dog smells really bad, even after his bath. He smells like dog. Icky.
My original to-do list today was "1) get to work 2) survive work 3) be slightly ticked off with the world 4) go home and sleep." I did a lot of thinking though, in and among random story ideas, and my revised list ended up being 1) dance in the rain. Check, sort of. Danced in the parking lot after work, although by then the thunderstorms were over. 2) Laugh loudly. Check. Paxton is the cutest baby ever, and when he looks like he's so happy he just can't stand it, you can't help laughing too. 3) Read poetry. Check. Louise Gluck:
The Greeks are sitting on the beach
wondering what to do when the war ends. No one
wants to go home, back
to that bony island; everyone wants a little more
of what there is in Troy, more
life on the edge, that sense of every day as being
packed with surprises. But how to explain this
to the ones at home to whom
fighting a war is a plausible excuse for absence, whereas
exploring one's capacity for diversion
is not. Well, this can be faced
later; these
are men of action, ready to leave
insight to the women and children.
Thinking things over in the hot sun, pleased
by a new strength in their forearms, which seem
more golden than they did at home, some
begin to miss their families a little,
to miss their wives, to want to see
if the war has aged them. And a few grow
slightly uneasy: what if war is just a male version of dressing up,
a game devised to avoid profound spiritual questions? Ah,
but it wasn't only the war. The world had begun
calling them, an opera beginning with the war's
loud chords and ending with the floating aria of the sirens.
There on the beach, discussing the various
timetables for getting home, no one believed
it could take ten years to get back to Ithaca;
no one foresaw that decade of insoluble dilemma - oh unanswerable
affliction of the human heart: how to divide
the world's beauty into acceptable
and unacceptable loves! On the shores of Troy,
how could the Greeks know
they were hostage already: who once
delays the journey is already enthralled; how could they know
that of their small number
some would be held forever by the dreams of pleasure,
some by sleep, some by music?
4) Really look at people. I decided that the biggest problem with my writing is that my characters are all two dimensional. I also decided that the reason my characters are two dimensional is because I see real people as two dimensional. So maybe if I can really see real people, I can really write real people. Definitely not check. I sort of forgot about this resolution five minutes after I made it.
5) Ask the hard questions: Is this real? Is it worth saying?
Why is rain one of those ridiculously captivating things?
And even more than rain, the just-after-the-rain sky. I could look at it for hours.
On the way home from work today, after a long long day of 10 and a half hours, screaming babies, disgruntled and ill patients, and complete weirdness, I saw a rainbow. I was coming up over a hill and just about to round a curve, Jars of Clay playing loudly on the radio, and immediately in front of me, over a field glowing gold against a slate blue sky, was a rainbow.
I feel like my hold on joy is about as tenuous as that rainbow's hold on the sky.
It's funny how we think of rainbows as a huge sight that dominates the sky, whose colors are bright and overwhelming. In the abstract they're so clear. In reality they're just the opposite. They're wispy, ethereal, and they disappear if you look at them too long. They're subtle. If you're not looking, you may not see it. They do, however, dominate the sky once noticed. I guess I'm sort of saying there should be this greater faith metaphor there within the rainbow. I guess I'm also sort of saying that I don't know what it is, but I feel like it's important. Judge for yourselves. Take it as, perhaps, an oddly constructed piece of poetry, where your part in the conversation is to decide if it's important enough to figure out or not.
To me it was definitely a symbol.
You were there when I needed you,
You were there when the skies broke wide, wide open.
Haha.... Right. Wild.
Today didn't start off so hot, because I overslept my alarm, but I made it to work ontime, so although I didn't get a shower... it's all good. Paxton, Dr. Dupper's baby has started teething, and he was extremely grumpy today. Also, I'm a strange person and he was left alone with me, and he was upset. In short, he cried a lot. I also got left on my own for the first time, and that was... interesting.
And my dog smells really bad, even after his bath. He smells like dog. Icky.
My original to-do list today was "1) get to work 2) survive work 3) be slightly ticked off with the world 4) go home and sleep." I did a lot of thinking though, in and among random story ideas, and my revised list ended up being 1) dance in the rain. Check, sort of. Danced in the parking lot after work, although by then the thunderstorms were over. 2) Laugh loudly. Check. Paxton is the cutest baby ever, and when he looks like he's so happy he just can't stand it, you can't help laughing too. 3) Read poetry. Check. Louise Gluck:
The Greeks are sitting on the beach
wondering what to do when the war ends. No one
wants to go home, back
to that bony island; everyone wants a little more
of what there is in Troy, more
life on the edge, that sense of every day as being
packed with surprises. But how to explain this
to the ones at home to whom
fighting a war is a plausible excuse for absence, whereas
exploring one's capacity for diversion
is not. Well, this can be faced
later; these
are men of action, ready to leave
insight to the women and children.
Thinking things over in the hot sun, pleased
by a new strength in their forearms, which seem
more golden than they did at home, some
begin to miss their families a little,
to miss their wives, to want to see
if the war has aged them. And a few grow
slightly uneasy: what if war is just a male version of dressing up,
a game devised to avoid profound spiritual questions? Ah,
but it wasn't only the war. The world had begun
calling them, an opera beginning with the war's
loud chords and ending with the floating aria of the sirens.
There on the beach, discussing the various
timetables for getting home, no one believed
it could take ten years to get back to Ithaca;
no one foresaw that decade of insoluble dilemma - oh unanswerable
affliction of the human heart: how to divide
the world's beauty into acceptable
and unacceptable loves! On the shores of Troy,
how could the Greeks know
they were hostage already: who once
delays the journey is already enthralled; how could they know
that of their small number
some would be held forever by the dreams of pleasure,
some by sleep, some by music?
4) Really look at people. I decided that the biggest problem with my writing is that my characters are all two dimensional. I also decided that the reason my characters are two dimensional is because I see real people as two dimensional. So maybe if I can really see real people, I can really write real people. Definitely not check. I sort of forgot about this resolution five minutes after I made it.
5) Ask the hard questions: Is this real? Is it worth saying?
Why is rain one of those ridiculously captivating things?
And even more than rain, the just-after-the-rain sky. I could look at it for hours.
On the way home from work today, after a long long day of 10 and a half hours, screaming babies, disgruntled and ill patients, and complete weirdness, I saw a rainbow. I was coming up over a hill and just about to round a curve, Jars of Clay playing loudly on the radio, and immediately in front of me, over a field glowing gold against a slate blue sky, was a rainbow.
I feel like my hold on joy is about as tenuous as that rainbow's hold on the sky.
It's funny how we think of rainbows as a huge sight that dominates the sky, whose colors are bright and overwhelming. In the abstract they're so clear. In reality they're just the opposite. They're wispy, ethereal, and they disappear if you look at them too long. They're subtle. If you're not looking, you may not see it. They do, however, dominate the sky once noticed. I guess I'm sort of saying there should be this greater faith metaphor there within the rainbow. I guess I'm also sort of saying that I don't know what it is, but I feel like it's important. Judge for yourselves. Take it as, perhaps, an oddly constructed piece of poetry, where your part in the conversation is to decide if it's important enough to figure out or not.
To me it was definitely a symbol.
You were there when I needed you,
You were there when the skies broke wide, wide open.
Sunday, June 05, 2005
So....
I... don't really hate anyone anymore.
Today I hated everyone, and the entire world, and wished God had never made humans, especially not me. I tried repeating the mantra, "I'm OK with it, I'm at peace...." but that didn't work. Then I tried repeating the mantra, "I'm not here right now, I'm not here right now," but that didn't produce results either. I eventually tried both "I will not kill anyone, I will not kill anyone, I am a pacifist" and "go away, leave me alone, don't speak to me, don't look at me, don't touch me. Go away, leave me alone." None of those had the desired effect - first choice being the sudden implosion of every single human being on the planet, and second choice being the sudden appearance of a soundproof, sightproof, and entranceproof room in which I was completely enclosed, perhaps with some soothing music, or better yet, complete silence.
Then I went to the quiz meet, entirely against my will I might add, and somehow.... it was just all better. Abbi was there, and it was really good to see her again, and all those cute little B quizzers that for some inexplicable reason like me.... Yeah. I dunno. I'm not particularly happy with the South in general still, but I don't hate the whole world now.... So yeah, it's all cool, and I really am at peace with it.
Thank you all for listening to this long and rambling... thing. And for not biting my head off for biting yours off yesterday. I really am tired of being mocked and made fun of, but I can handle it, because I love you guys, and whatever you throw at me has got to be good in the long run right?
Today I hated everyone, and the entire world, and wished God had never made humans, especially not me. I tried repeating the mantra, "I'm OK with it, I'm at peace...." but that didn't work. Then I tried repeating the mantra, "I'm not here right now, I'm not here right now," but that didn't produce results either. I eventually tried both "I will not kill anyone, I will not kill anyone, I am a pacifist" and "go away, leave me alone, don't speak to me, don't look at me, don't touch me. Go away, leave me alone." None of those had the desired effect - first choice being the sudden implosion of every single human being on the planet, and second choice being the sudden appearance of a soundproof, sightproof, and entranceproof room in which I was completely enclosed, perhaps with some soothing music, or better yet, complete silence.
Then I went to the quiz meet, entirely against my will I might add, and somehow.... it was just all better. Abbi was there, and it was really good to see her again, and all those cute little B quizzers that for some inexplicable reason like me.... Yeah. I dunno. I'm not particularly happy with the South in general still, but I don't hate the whole world now.... So yeah, it's all cool, and I really am at peace with it.
Thank you all for listening to this long and rambling... thing. And for not biting my head off for biting yours off yesterday. I really am tired of being mocked and made fun of, but I can handle it, because I love you guys, and whatever you throw at me has got to be good in the long run right?
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Haha....
Wow, went through a major mood swing today. Happy as all crap, then despairing as all get out. Then happy as all crap again.
I think that I sort of find it comforting that people don't take my talent/identity crises all that seriously. I mean.... I dunno. It's just oddly comforting.
I'd forgotten how good it felt to putter. I think I could get used to this puttering thing.
Aaron's brilliant analogy:
"Deep throat approaching the White House and saying, 'Hey, you're breaking the law! You shouldn't do that!' is like some guy who's getting the snot beat out of him in an alley saying, 'You know that you've now crossed the line into second degree assault? There are penalties for that!' "
Haha, yeah, laughed a lot at that one. Not sure if I got his exact words right, but you know I love you anyway Aaron, right? = D
I think that I sort of find it comforting that people don't take my talent/identity crises all that seriously. I mean.... I dunno. It's just oddly comforting.
I'd forgotten how good it felt to putter. I think I could get used to this puttering thing.
Aaron's brilliant analogy:
"Deep throat approaching the White House and saying, 'Hey, you're breaking the law! You shouldn't do that!' is like some guy who's getting the snot beat out of him in an alley saying, 'You know that you've now crossed the line into second degree assault? There are penalties for that!' "
Haha, yeah, laughed a lot at that one. Not sure if I got his exact words right, but you know I love you anyway Aaron, right? = D
The Fun Ones
Here's a survey thingy. But only the questions I liked.
1. Pierce your nose or tongue? They say that actions speak louder than words.
5. Single or Taken? (to quote Alex) "Single! And ladies (this is a quote remember), my phone number is 879 - 3065!"
6. Simple or complicated? I think I already missed the simple train.
7. Law or anarchy? Hm, good question... do I spring for goody-toe-shoes or masochistic rebel?
9. Grey or gray? Preferably the British spelling, because the british just rock my socks off.
11. Color or black-and-white photos? What kind of cruel society would make one choose?
12. Sunrise or sunset? Sunrise I think, although I like sunset too. Moonrise is also pretty freakin' cool.
17. Is it POP or SODA? Pop!!!!!!1
18. X or O in Tic-tac-toe? "Circle gets the square." Ah, I'm so glad they worked their butts off and became stars so they can play tic-tac-toe on telivision... my heroes.
24. Tall members of the opposite gender or short? Taller than me but less tall than, say, Chewbacca.
26. Emerald or ruby? Emerald. Green is my favorite color after all.
28. Left or right? (this one's for you Jenn!) Bob and Tom.
29. 10 acquaintances or 1 best friend? One best friend
37. Cat or dog? Kittens!
40. Hard cover books or soft cover books? Hardcover
47. Hugging or kissing? (just to be inflammatory) kissing! (hahaha.... I make me laugh sometimes....)
48. Corduroy or plaid? What kind of cruel world would make you decide between one good and an even greater but completely different good?
49. Happy or sad? Oh, sad, definitely. I love being sad. I wallow in it. I know y'all do too.
50. Purple or green? green
and, just for kicks, my own special # 51 and #52.
51. Southern accent or no southern accent? None, although I think I'm developing one in the presence of hicks.
52. Kiri or no Kiri? KIRI!!!!!!!!!!!
Hahaha.... Wow, I'm in a good mood today. Freaky. I didn't even get to sleep in.
1. Pierce your nose or tongue? They say that actions speak louder than words.
5. Single or Taken? (to quote Alex) "Single! And ladies (this is a quote remember), my phone number is 879 - 3065!"
6. Simple or complicated? I think I already missed the simple train.
7. Law or anarchy? Hm, good question... do I spring for goody-toe-shoes or masochistic rebel?
9. Grey or gray? Preferably the British spelling, because the british just rock my socks off.
11. Color or black-and-white photos? What kind of cruel society would make one choose?
12. Sunrise or sunset? Sunrise I think, although I like sunset too. Moonrise is also pretty freakin' cool.
17. Is it POP or SODA? Pop!!!!!!1
18. X or O in Tic-tac-toe? "Circle gets the square." Ah, I'm so glad they worked their butts off and became stars so they can play tic-tac-toe on telivision... my heroes.
24. Tall members of the opposite gender or short? Taller than me but less tall than, say, Chewbacca.
26. Emerald or ruby? Emerald. Green is my favorite color after all.
28. Left or right? (this one's for you Jenn!) Bob and Tom.
29. 10 acquaintances or 1 best friend? One best friend
37. Cat or dog? Kittens!
40. Hard cover books or soft cover books? Hardcover
47. Hugging or kissing? (just to be inflammatory) kissing! (hahaha.... I make me laugh sometimes....)
48. Corduroy or plaid? What kind of cruel world would make you decide between one good and an even greater but completely different good?
49. Happy or sad? Oh, sad, definitely. I love being sad. I wallow in it. I know y'all do too.
50. Purple or green? green
and, just for kicks, my own special # 51 and #52.
51. Southern accent or no southern accent? None, although I think I'm developing one in the presence of hicks.
52. Kiri or no Kiri? KIRI!!!!!!!!!!!
Hahaha.... Wow, I'm in a good mood today. Freaky. I didn't even get to sleep in.
Friday, June 03, 2005
Eagerly Awaited, I'm Sure
Here is your update, which, I'm sure, has been eagerly awaited by a rapt audience.
Heh. Right.
Lots has been going on, and I keep thinking of lots of things I want to tell everyone, and I started writing them all down in my notebook (which I was trying to take my biology notes in - it all kept getting tangled up with my latest idea about my office girl story anyway, so I figured, why not add in just one more thing to confuse me? And... to be totally honest, it's not like I use my notes to study. They're just sort of there, mostly because I think I probably should take notes.) but then for the past couple days I just don't have the motivation to type them all into blogger. So... you're not getting them.
And anyway, who would want to read uncensored ramblings from Mackenzie's head?
It turns out that on Fridays we get out early from work, usually at about 3. So today after work I decided, hey, I'm going to go to Java Jaay's and study, because I can't study at home. I get completely and totally distracted, not to mention losing all motivation. So I did. And it was great. I'm thinking of making it a weekly tradition. I can leave work, go there, get coffee or an italian cream soda or something, and study or write. I can take my portable CD player, and even my computer, because they have wireless internet there. They also have really cushy chairs and some tables littered throughout the entire place. They're only open from 6am till 6pm, but I'm intending to be home for dinner anyway, so it doesn't matter much. I've been really wondering how and when I could fit in writing time, and this could be it. I could just set aside a firm hour or so (or however long the spirit takes me), and write in a coffee shop in a cushy chair. I also like the fact that writing in a coffee shop sounds like the epitome of bohemian/college student/author/esqueness. I mean think about it, the communists used to meet in coffee shops, and they've always been kind of a center for pretentious upcoming artist/college student types. You also read about authors writing in high-tech wireless equipped cafes all the time, with their trusty laptops by the side, and perhaps a dictaphone or something in case a lightning briliant idea strikes them.
Heck yes, that's what I want to be: a bohemian/college student/author/artist/esque type. Too bad pretension seems to go with pretty much most of that.
At any rate, I raise my glass of coffee in a toast to all of you! Happy Friday!
Heh. Right.
Lots has been going on, and I keep thinking of lots of things I want to tell everyone, and I started writing them all down in my notebook (which I was trying to take my biology notes in - it all kept getting tangled up with my latest idea about my office girl story anyway, so I figured, why not add in just one more thing to confuse me? And... to be totally honest, it's not like I use my notes to study. They're just sort of there, mostly because I think I probably should take notes.) but then for the past couple days I just don't have the motivation to type them all into blogger. So... you're not getting them.
And anyway, who would want to read uncensored ramblings from Mackenzie's head?
It turns out that on Fridays we get out early from work, usually at about 3. So today after work I decided, hey, I'm going to go to Java Jaay's and study, because I can't study at home. I get completely and totally distracted, not to mention losing all motivation. So I did. And it was great. I'm thinking of making it a weekly tradition. I can leave work, go there, get coffee or an italian cream soda or something, and study or write. I can take my portable CD player, and even my computer, because they have wireless internet there. They also have really cushy chairs and some tables littered throughout the entire place. They're only open from 6am till 6pm, but I'm intending to be home for dinner anyway, so it doesn't matter much. I've been really wondering how and when I could fit in writing time, and this could be it. I could just set aside a firm hour or so (or however long the spirit takes me), and write in a coffee shop in a cushy chair. I also like the fact that writing in a coffee shop sounds like the epitome of bohemian/college student/author/esqueness. I mean think about it, the communists used to meet in coffee shops, and they've always been kind of a center for pretentious upcoming artist/college student types. You also read about authors writing in high-tech wireless equipped cafes all the time, with their trusty laptops by the side, and perhaps a dictaphone or something in case a lightning briliant idea strikes them.
Heck yes, that's what I want to be: a bohemian/college student/author/artist/esque type. Too bad pretension seems to go with pretty much most of that.
At any rate, I raise my glass of coffee in a toast to all of you! Happy Friday!
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