Tuesday, November 30

on the discovery of a tantrum

Found a rant on somebody's blog that sounds as if they know me, because somebody I know has brought out all the points that this blogger brought out and then stapled them to my forehead. Am having very mixed feelings about this. Want very much to confront the stapler after having read this blog entry.

Am trying not to be mad, but am reminded of the hurt. Am told sometimes that I act like a martyr. Am trying to stop. However, every time I ask for help thinking differently, the people who are supposed to be helping me try to mold me into them . . . a hard fit that will have me broken in about four seconds flat. Am trying very hard not to give up on the relationship.

Have tried to do that before and must insist on my own person. It is difficult.
Yeah. It won't be long, now, though.

Of course, this is just from my point of view and sometimes I haven't a clue what is really going on when I experience a feeling. I try to know and learn . . . Dash it all. Today was so sweet.

Monday, November 29

educational planning

Witness me being excited:


I am so close to graduating I can almost taste it. I am SO happy. And depressed. I have to find a Uni with post grad studies somewhere or I will be Very Unhappy and probably die. Or at least end up working at McDonald's, which would happen AFTER I died. In hell.


But what am I to do? I feel like I just got out of high school.

poetry and sweat

Am tired, happy, and dusty-sweaty (& prolly smelly too). For some reason I don't really like spending relaxing-time or leisure trips with people as much as I enjoy getting something done, like stacking wood or writing a masterpiece or taking care of a kid or cooking (never washing dishes). I am not very good as a conversationalist, just never got the hang of it for some reason though I am trying to practice this dash'dly awkward art.

Floor is clean, dishes washed, classes nearly up-to-date, hands not pruny any more but self is satisfied. Can breathe more easily and intent on having my cup of tea after dinner tonight with a nice poem or two.

I'm learning to like poetry, but I don't think I shall learn to like red wine. It will take me a while to learn to like that stuff, and I can't read it. You can get drunk on poetry, though. Trust me, I have. Get all tipsy dizzy feeling and can't seem to talk right but mind is happily not-quite-present. Feet stumble slightly because perspective on world is not quite as it was an hour ago. That isn't all poetry, though. For instance, it would be hard to do that with Shel Silverstein:) Yeats, Lewis, Tolkien, Beowulf, Gawain are some. Shelley and Byron are worse at it. Skip the drunk feeling, go straight on to the hangover part.

oh I am an idiot.

Deadline for paper is next Sunday. Am going to go do dishes. Laughing may commence once I am out of earshot.


cereal for lunch. and a paper.

"Shredding and slicing, dividing and subdividing, the clocks of Harley Street nibbled at the June day, counselled submission, upheld authority, and pointed out in chorus the supreme advantages of a sense of proportion, until the mound of time was so far diminished that a commercial clock, suspended above a shop in Oxford Street, announced, genially and fraternally, as if it were a pleasure to Messrs. Rigby and Lowndes to give the information gratis, that it was half-past one.

Looking up, it appeared that each letter of their names stood for one of the hours; subconsciously one was grateful to Rigby and Lowndes for giving one time ratified by Greenwich; and this gratitude (so Hugh Whitbread ruminated, dallying there in front of the shop window), naturally took the form of later buying off Rigby and Lowndes socks or shoes. So he ruminated. It was his habit. He did not go deeply. Be brushed surfaces; the dead languages, the living, life in Constantinople, Paris, Rome; riding, shooting, tennis, it had been once."

Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf

Thank goodness this is a reaction paper and not a research one. Woot. More tea.

Sunday, November 28

certain copies of books

It is funny how one gets attached to certain copies of books. Tan leather-bound, thin, with gold edges for the Christmas after my decision to become a Christian. A black leather-bound, silver-edged wide-margin version that I bought later to satisfy my scribbling studies. A small pink pocket-sized New Testament, Psalms and Proverbs that my grandmother gave me (I wrote my name in it when I was four, and wrote my name in everything because I finally could, but could never bring myself to carry around a pink book).

I recently lost my study version and was feeling a little bit traitorous and not at all comfortable reading out of The Message (contemporary translation, not bad but definitely lacking) at night. Thankfully my more familiar copy was found in the trunk of the car (where I had left it once upon a Sunday).

Same goes for other books, though. I am very picky about copies of Tolkien and Lewis. Don't tell, though.

Oh, sleepy girl, go to bed!

Saturday, November 27

roomus coldus est.

Bwah. Am tired. Have long day tomorrow. Am going to sleep. Will dress warmly tomorrow and eat Chinese food for lunch. To self: bring at least one textbook and stint not on the bringing of fun books, such as fiction or novels or or or or something a lot more fun than Mrs. Dalloway, of whom I still must endure fifty more pages and write a paper on before Monday midnight.

Stupid of me, I know, but one day we will get the hang of it, won't we, Benson?


A post on Marlowe and Ralegh's poems about that silly shepherd and nymph are finito. Wootwoot. I am on a roll.


a toast

I am kind and wonderful, and have just finished a belated but excellent entry on Lyly's Euphues passage in our NAEL. Ha! So there! On all of you! I hope Humphrey likes it or I shall be absolutely ticked off at him. Even if it is late.

Everyone lift your glasses: To me!

good grief!!!

I spent all that time going over alliterate and antithetical qualities for so many of those stupid (well, now they are stupid. In a few minutes they won't be as much so.) medieval pieces and the one that was easiest was the one that I could have done with a snap and a whirl.

And I can snap and whirl pretty fast.

Why does Prof. Humphrey want this particular piece analysed when it is so easy and why did he not recognize the hard work of my other analyses when they were a good deal harder to come around? I don't understand. The ways of professors are infinitely beyond me.

how funny

The only thing to do was to pelt him with sugared almonds.


meaningless entry

Just said goodbye to a bunch of guests and am now thinking seriously about some Renaissance poetry. Sonnets, in particular. Am also highly considering leaving dishes until this afternoon. Dash it all, it is afternoon already. What a funny way to live the day.

Somebody is filling up the fireplace, somebody else is talking about moving the furniture about, and others are getting their bearings sleeping on the couch and trying to figure out the meaning behind the damask pattern of material on said couch. Yet another is downstairs on a chronic videogame split.

I would like a cup of tea, please, and a veto option on classes. Oh, Christmas break cannot come soon enough. I love them dearly, you know, but they tire me out. Like some people I know, heh. Let's not get too deep, shall we?

Right I am going away. Will blog on Mindsay, which means must think nice things. Ha ha. Wish new Harry Potter book would come out.

Friday, November 26

life's little joys

Thanks be to God for the ability to stand up straight and the gift of really nice people and the skill with which I have learned to wash dishes and therefore not have to socialize with aforementioned really nice people too much. I am very thankful for not having as bad a cold today as I did yesterday or for the past week.

I am tiring now, in the evening, and my hands are getting weaker even though my appetite is fully present and happy to oblige a plate of leftovers and several cups of tea.

Good evening. Back to Septimus Warren-Smith and his dashed apathetic nonsense.

bestest friends and warm socks

Now I am wrapped in an old cardigan of my dad's, wearing socks that he bought me from a business trip to Germany and pajama pants from Victoria Secret back when she had secrets that reached down to her ankles.

Am tired but clean and am feeling happy that I might see J.K. Rowling creeping around in cafes in the very near future. Oh, am so sleepy and tired and just talked for long time with bestest friend in the world, who is angel and one of the best people in the world. Ever.

Sweet dreams, and may the dream fish bless thy rest.

Tried to post this last night but it wouldn't go through for some reason. Odd. Anyway. There you have it.

Wednesday, November 24

back with a vengeance

Not well yet, but am getting self excited about Christmas by listening to ohletmeguess whatamIlisteningto Trans-Siberian Orchestra!! Vacation is going to be fun. I am going to get some schoolwork done tonight! Seriously!

I am naughty. I made myself a pot of espresso and I intend to procure not only one shot but the whole pot and bring it to the clandestine meeting place of My Room.

My sister just brought me tea. I love her.

People on Mindsay are so nice. If I hadn't established a reputation there I would rave on and on every few minutes there but I like the change, too, so this is ok. There is just no community over here. People over there are cool. Blogger people are just individuals. I'm sure some of them are perfectly alright. Just not as good as Mindsayers.

Now, to take a the shower and to do some of a the schoolwork with the the compy.

Tuesday, November 23

rerun of yesterday, I'm afraid

Nose still raw and throat still sore (though now coughing up great gobs of phlegm; makes cat think I am throwing up balls of hair like she does, and is most disturbed), TSO on again, morning light indiscreetly intrudes through slats of window. Cat most annoyed at room's lack of warmth. Classes loom above my head. Want to take Nyquil and go back to bed. Should prolly turn on Norah Jones instead.

I know, my entries are short and miserable. I have another blog for the nice/creative stuff. There are nice people there too. I am just perpetually tired.

Monday, November 22

beginning to feel like winter

Am still cold and sleepy but happily mumbling along to Trans-Siberian Orchestra in most fascinated way. Nose is not so bad now, but throat is killing me. Posted things and am still upset with Prof. Humphrey. His name is now Humphrey, doesn't mean it is on legal documents, of course. Prof. Deidre (not her real name either) has been very nice to me recently, so she gets points.

Time to go to sleep, but I'm afraid I will be cold. Wrote a blog entry for Mindsay today and got a quick rush of replies and well-wishings. I'm feeling very warm-fuzzied and glad to have friends online like them. I am beaming at my bulletin board.

Oh, and I added another group of paper-scraps to my room on the back of my door--my new year's resolutions. I never think of them on new year's eve so I'm thinking of them now and putting them up now. I take them a little seriously and do try to complete and conquer them. I completed one of last year's--"write more". Heh. Good night.

Sunday, November 21

oh the cleverness of me

Cat is on lap, roommate of laptop compy. Feel like am going to throw up or lose some important mental function through my nasal passages when a sudden bout of sneezing takes my olfactory sense to an astral plain of chaos. Ha ha.

Mrs. Dalloway is very sniffly and interesting in the same way that Joyce is interesting. I don't take kindly to people who portray homosexuality and/or suicidal tendencies in a way that is meant to be entertaining in a gentle sense. (Irony is different.) Perhaps I am taking life too seriously. I tend to do that, I know.

Lips are still chapped beyond ability to whistle and nose stuffiness has increased by 50%. Am now a mouth-breather, but resolve not to tuck sweaters into pants or hike pants up to bra line. Mouth-breathing, would like to emphasize, only temporary.

Want to write in paper and leather journal but cannot because hands are weakish and will not stay still or move the directions I want them to. Is stupid to be sick.

i like dayquil.

Nose = raw. Throat = sore. Eyes = puffy. Wish self was at church.

Saturday, November 20

postscriptum on last entry

No I was not drunk at time of scribble (DATOS). Am in physical discomfort and have major problem deciding what I think about Peter Walsh, because I am not sure if I do not like him. Have resolved that no matter the attachment to Peter Walsh or degree of affection, am still very much taken by Peter Wimsey.

How's that for double negatives! Ha! Let me continue on in that vein. While I sleep. We'll see if I get around to typing in my sleep. Maybe I should have taken limoncello (or however one spells that very sticky yellow sweet liquid alcohol) instead of a generic brand of stuff like Nyquil.

Good night, dusty, windy world. May your white sands be smooth and your forests be deep, your mountains be unconquerable and your seas inscrutable.

Yours truly,

miss rika

first impressions of peter walsh

He has been looking for reality, really, but finds no comfort in trying to help people who are not ready to be helped--a lose/lose situation anyway but in his enthusiasm he does not accept this fact--perhaps he is escaping from an emotion? Not love for Clarissa.

I wonder if that kind of love really ever eats you alive like it does in stories? Never having been in love with anything less than a dream, I wonder. Sometimes one comes across this idea of love, eros, that is so full of boundaries to be crossed that it seems an effort to ever find peace and they never do seem to find it, grow bitter, have lots of affairs with other people they don't love, end up artists who smoke cigarettes and have friends they don't relate to except in pain.

Or they throw themselves in front of trains or maybe out of windows. Either way, it is a pretty stupid way to go. People say love makes you do stupid things but sheesh if nothing makes you do anything. Choices. That is what I have to say about that.

loading from page "slow.edu" . . .

Still am in possession of inordinately sniffly nose, now raw and slightly red from frequent contact with handkerchief and tissues (respectively, not simultaneously). Am frustrated with both online teachers now and find school site to be inexplicably slow. High traffic on a Saturday night? Maybe are having problems with site and will wake up tomorrow and find all grades switched automatically to shining "A". Very unlikely but a nice thought all the same.

Forty pages of Mrs. Dalloway to read, and figuring out what there is important about Peter. Can't believe I have written this far only loading pages. Wow. Now must concentrate fully. Quick! To the bat-compy!

Teatro San Sniffle

Professor for whom have lost so much sleep replied to posts with short answer. Am going to cheerfully ignore him. Am tired of being nice to him right now, esp. as have cold and accompanying peeves.

Annoyances and peevish glances only relieved by excessive reading and mulling over The Nine Tailors. When I move out, I hope to have three cats. One of them at least will be named "Batty Thomas". Must get up motivation to do to other than sit in room and drink tea all day.

Must also write about last night's expedition to Teatro San Carlo, where we had our own box and where I tried not to sniff but failed miserably. Also wore make-up for first time since . . . a long time ago. Felt very nice to get home to fuzzy slippers and sweatshirts but was an irreplaceable memory. Wore high heels. Note to self: wear high heels only in great emergencies. Also go to Teatro San Carlo again and sit way way way up in the top balcony with a notebook for writing.

And find out which seats are the veriest cheapest. During matinees. Am in love with a theatre.

Doubly fascinating because have recently finished The Scarlet Pimpernel for the millionth time and T. San C. was around during the French Revolution.

Friday, November 19

colds and social schedules.

Am not feeling good. Have cold. Colds are from the devil. Esp. after I went through all that trouble to write such a good set of analyses! Well, maybe they weren't that good, but still. I am in no mood to hush my ego when my chest feels so tight that I might burst a lung if I had a fancy to yawn.

Heh. Yes. Well, I am going to go take myself a shower and clean the kitchen and take cold medicine. And make tea. I really really need tea. I NEED tea. Tea is good for you, and also caffeinated. I want to go back to sleep. It is useless.

Somebody had better post on my little typing binge in the classroom or I . . . will . . . uhh . . . POST some MORE. So there. I'll do that Monday, or something. Concert tonight, party tomorrow, church the next, and then antitheses in Medieval and Renaissance literature. Shockingly busy social schedule.

Thursday, November 18

john foxe

John Foxe is more of a narrative and like Utopia, I could find more alliteration in the beginning than throughout the passage. The following also includes one of those ubiquitous antitheses:

"Hitherto we have entreated of this good woman, now it remaineth that we touch somewhat as touching her end and martyrdom. She being born of such stock and kindred that she might have lived in great wealth and prosperity [...]"

The account of Lady Grey's death is more detailed with dialogue and elicits pity for innocence and the last "What shall I do? Where is it? Where is it?" had my eleven year old self crying softly looking at a painting of it in an art gallery in London.

it wasn't her wit that was askew, or was it?

I can't find as much alliteration in this except for a repeat of vowel sounds. There were a few lines; "Saint Stephen was stoned", "body and blood", and one longer passage I will recount in the following:

"Eighthly, he asked me if I did not think that private masses did help souls departed. And [I] said it was great idolatry to believe more in them than in the death which Christ died for us."

There were plenty of antitheses, though; I found three in one paragraph.

" . . . He asked me wherefore I said that I had rather read five lines in the Bible than to hear five masses in the temple. [...] Not for the dispraise of either the Epistle or Gospel, but because the one did greatly edify me and the other nothing at all."

The narrative style is more like Margery Kempe in tone, but clever and slightly saucy--it definitely comes straight off of spoken English. She seems to give more straight facts in an almost concise detailed account of who came and went and exactly what the process was like except that she does not show fear in her narrative and therefore evoke pity for the poor woman in jail.

very engaging

"[...] It rejoiceth not in iniquity , but rejoiceth in the truth [see the antithesis]: It suffereth all things: it believeth all things: it hopeth all things: it endureth [fill in the blank]."

I'm using the Geneva Bible example for ease of analysis. There are a lot of repeating phrases: "have not love", "all things", and "in part" are the ones that appear the most.

English translations of the Bible--obviously trying to get them out to the general public.

creator of tonypandy III

"The island of Utopia is two hundred miles across the middle part where it is widest, and nowhere much narrower than this except towards the two ends, where it gradually tapers. These ends, curved round as if completing a circle five hundred miles in circumference, make the island crescent-shaped, like a new moon."

The bold indicates alliterative words and the italics are an example of repeating sounds. Some antitheses:

"not rough, but placid"
"shallows on one side, [...] rocks on the other"
"uncouth inhabitants to such a high level of culture"
"first had laughed [...] were struck with wonder and terror"

And my personal favorite, "Men, not hens". As far as I recollect (maybe this is my youthful naivete in the Ways of the World as we know it) men do not lay eggs.

This is written in a very simple narrative style and yet "More wrote Utopia in Latin for an international audience of humanist intellectuals" (intro to More) so it wasn't exactly trying to get a manifesto out to the peasantry. Class notes (Ren. Poetry, Pt. 2) specify that More didn't believe that even the Bible should be open season reading for the general public.

All references shamelessly ripped from p. 511-512 of the NAEL vol. 1 except where noted.

Amazing. Completely amazing.

My favorite professor asked me to post something and I had a deadline for another class. It was not twenty minutes and several tracks from The Lord of the Rings soundtracks before I was finished with an analysis that was really not bad, if I do say so myself.

Suddenly the fourteenth century heckfire and tarnation sermons look like the pieces of gothic art that they probably are if I would take a fifty-third look at them from the right angle.

Sometimes I light candles and send up prayers for people I know, and let them be lit while I study. It isn't a Catholic thing or a Pagan one, just a remembrance and a reminder. Plus, somehow flames are calming. Don't ask me why and no, I am not a pyromaniac. But two of the three I lit tonight just went out:(

leftover pork

What to do with leftover pork is generally up to the person who finds it lying, forlorn, in a tupperware container in a refrigerator. A resourceful person, however, might learn the ways of refrigerator wisdom, remove the pork from the refrigerator and chaperone it with BBQ sauce. They might then cut up the pork into small pieces and put it into a saucepan with a few squirts of BBQ sauce to keep the poor things company.

Unobtrusively lighting the burner underneath the saucepan is vital to the operation. Soon, the small pieces of pork are warm and getting along well with the BBQ sauce and it is no time at all before the resourceful person whom I mentioned in the beginning of this entry has scooped them into the empty space between two pieces of bread and began to munch happily on their barbecue sandwich.

links. possibly turnips too.

I have just added some links to my page in celebration of having written and posted something about The Awakening, possibly my last, on That Class. And now it is lunch time, if you will excuse me.

calm. quiet. fools. I'll kill them all.

Somewhat more calm, Our Hero sits down with her paginated companions to a sup of milk and espresso and, in reserve, a large bottle of water that is in no way intimidating to the espresso. I am still frustrated with Edna Pontellier's suicide and my inability to produce coherent thought in an internet-based academic setting. I hope Mrs. Dalloway is more promising.

She had BETTER not commit suicide or I am going to have to speak to someone about counseling for all women above the age of 25 who are married to husband who can't read their minds.

modern morals: a novelty?

Excuse me if I make a sarcastic pun, but I'm rather upset with myself. Online communication is shaky if you use writing (a blog or regular article), writing (AIM or similar instant messaging), and writing (old-fashioned emailed letters) and sometimes even writing (forums and/or message boards) but to use only one of these options makes it very difficult to get a full picture of motives, personality, and skill.

On my online class having to do with the Modern Novel, we have conferences somewhat like a message board only with the instructor being a moderator and the students having obligatory replies. However, it is difficult not to repeat things as the system of organization for these forums is worse than a bravenet sci-fi fan forum and there are a good 100 posts per day to wade through as well as posting about five or six posts per week yourself.

I feel very much like slouching back to Medieval and Renaissance Lit. to comfort myself with a bunch of "therewiths" and "herebys" and maybe a "thither ye go". That atmosphere, though I have recently heard other students say very differently, is much more relaxing and easier to deal with. The teacher is stricter, but kinder, and the subject less ardently relative to the reader's interpretation.

I cannot wait to finish what I have for the day and read The Lord of the Rings until
I puke.

Wednesday, November 17

how to make really good ramen noodles.

Ramen noodles are tasty. Obviously this particular piece of wisdom has already absorbed into the consciousness of the fine fellowship of those gathered here. I would like to introduce a condiment that, when a teaspoon is added, creates a bright, almost broth-like toasty flavor to a cup of ramen. Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you VEGEMITE!

willful caffeination

Yay! Only on second pot of espresso and have already finished a rather dashing post about Joyous Garde and Lancelot and the use of the word "lay" in Malory's piece about it. On to An Homily Against Disobedience and Willful Rebellion. Tally-ho. I say.

I keep a daily organizer. I do. So sue me.

Oh, the joy of feeling clean and warm and thoroughly caffeinated. Fireplaces in the fall, leaves blustering about merrily, and the cats wanting to run in and out, very annoyed when the tips of their tails get a little too chilly for respectable feline taste.

Today we will be focusing on the beginning of Mrs. Dalloway, the very end of The Awakening, and an overview of medieval English prose. Hands and knees will smell like woodsmoke and the dirt from outside by the woodpile from trying desperately to keep fire in fireplace going at a rate that will keep the house warm. Bobby pins in hair will slowly and irresponsibly tumble down into absolute uselessness as day progresses.

Fingertips will remain cold until the afternoon when tea is taken very hot in large mug which fingertips will cling to. Well, it is either that or the fingertips get held to the fire while laughing maliciously at the thought of a post on the genealogy of Arthur and whether or not he had any sons.

new theme change

And I said that it was good.

Tuesday, November 16


Very hard class, ENGL 310--Medieval and Renaissance Lit. under a strict teacher. Been hearing other students talk about him and it hasn't been good, but that is weird. I have gotten steady good grades from him the whole time through two classes. I have to admit Arthurian Lit. was easier than this one but anyway, the point of this post--got my midterm grade back! IT IS AN A!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I want you to know I mean each and every one of those exclamation marks. Oh yes I do. Time for a celebration. Um. Right. *grin*

a note of subjectivity crept into her tone. note. whatever.

Am trying to wade through a bunch of discussion questions in this online class and find a few to respond to, but we are so morally different that the things I would like to contest have to do with our own subjective responses:) How utterly annoying, since I know I am particularly unable to keep my big mouth shut.

late breakfast and dear chores.

I'm quite surprised at the number of people who visited my blog yesterday, but that was prolly because I updated three times. Ha ha. What they don't know is that this is my overflow blog, talking to myself. I wonder what kind of people read it? I sort of know, on Mindsay, but of course one can never REALLY know.

Is that what makes blogging interesting? I dunno.

Anyway, time for a very late breakfast and starting in on those mundane chores that I hold so dear to my heart when writing stupid and LONG papers. Well, they are long when they take me that LONG to write them. I wonder if there is espresso left . . . ?

Four times. I updated four times.

Monday, November 15


Paper is done, sent in, gone to join choir of no-see-ums. Time for me to be going to the sleep. Thank you all for joining us here on "Anstruther" but I digress . . .


slowly chugging ahead.

Five pages. Still much to explain. Thankfully will be done in 2.5 pages. Lessee, that done by 11, then time for references and a cover pages to put in. Oh, yeah.


I am a little over a fourth done writing this silly thing. I've decided to give it 8 pages instead of 10. *sigh* Wait, wait! make that THREE WHOLE PAGES!!!

I also cannot wait until the next Harry Potter book comes out.

things to do when am done with strangling yeats:

  • sweep and mop

  • clean off desk

  • move class info for Arthurian Legend to desktop compy

  • put box of clothes into top room

  • get trip photos from Ireland developed

  • prepare playlists for forthcoming iPod

  • put down big ugly green carpet

  • revamp .mac homepage

  • find out what that annoying dripping sound is that echoes ONLY on THIS FLOOR
  • first real paragraph

    Yeats' connection with Greek mythology was extensive and existed on several levels. Ward notes (p. 12) that Yeats identifies himself with a burdened Pegasus in his poem "The Fascination of What's Difficult" when he speaks of his work at the Abbey Theatre trying to please audiences and still stay true to himself as an artist. As time progressed, Yeats came to portray himself as Proteus in the poem "At the Abbey Theatre", asking the audience whether they could restrain him to writing crowd-pleasing works.

    Yeats also took subjects from Greek mythology and used them as a means to describe how he felt about issues in his life. His infatuation with Maud Gonne inspired him to write many poems, one of which stands out for our purpose because in it he compares Maud with Helen; "No Second Troy". As Yeats grew more and more involved with the occult, he mused on the symbolism of the historical gyre in relation to the omniscience a Greek god in "Leda and the Swan".

    In all of these lyrical pieces Yeats is able to describe aspects of himself and the world as he perceived it, Yeats concentrates on himself as identfied with an immortal figure. One cannot help but wonder if it never crossed his mind how very close the story of his life is to that of the Flight of Icarus.

    I've made it easier to read online and skipped running at the mouth about the bibliography but here is the final draft of the first paragraph. Am going to get more coffee and work on next bit about Yeats' da.

    spiffy jackets and sad-looking ponies.

    Today we will be focusing on thrashing to life a somewhat sad-looking pony named Yeats. Well, I didn't have a Pegasus but I still insist he pull a burden. That is an inside joke between Yeats scholars and me because who would have read such a poem and remembered it?

    Suddenly I have a strong urge to watch the extended version of The Fellowship of the Ring for the 45th time. Hah. Wonder if it has been 45 times? No clue. I'm bringing it along this winter to watch while traveling. Can't wait to travel.

    I like this jacket, speaking of LOTR. Back to work. Tally-ho!

    Sunday, November 14

    cannot speak french but can wash dishes.

    Have washed dishes and made self cup of strong sweet tea. Suddenly wonder whyever one is writing a la Bridget Jones but am too busy to pay very much attention to such trivial details. Besides, is fun. Except Bridget never says "heh" and I say it all the time.

    Still feeling crummy and stupid and very boring as I cannot seem to get Icarus and Yeats quite reconciled in my head. They were fine this morning! Why on earth cannot I get them right now? Is it not yet late enough in the evening?

    Have resolved to use Blogger for quick, boring updates like so. Mindsay is reserved for better and more optimistic works of ramble. *sigh*

    Time to sing along with French pop songs. Did I mention I can't speak French?

    smooth skin.

    Am utter failure. Cannot finish stupid paper. I really hate myself in moments like these. Gah. Will go cheer self up by washing dishes.

    Saturday, November 6

    drunken shepherds

    I found a medieval play in my NAEL that gives me pause; I'd fain learn more of this. Any second thoughts about majoring in Medieval and Renaissance Lit.? Yeah, yes, yea. This stuff is hilarious. "Christ's cross me speed!" says the shepherd who is about to see Christ in his cradle.

    It puts me in mind, really, of an old play I saw back when my best friend and I used to be able to see plays together--it was called Mysterie and it was, suitably, a Mystery Play, like the ones of old--and the recurring theme was the trinity of a man, a woman, and a tree. It was complete with drunken shepherds stealing sheep from each other and though rather "sely" made their witnessing of Christ's infancy very funny. No, it isn't heretical; Christ had a sense of humor too, trust me.

    Ok, anyway, back to work.

    Wednesday, November 3

    edna pontellier

    All the trains of thought that Edna Pontellier goes through in her mind over the course of the book so far I have already had and had done with. She reminds me enough of myself to hate her. I'm having a bit of a hard time trying to keep my temper with her. Why is it I am having trouble disconnecting myself from the things I read lately? The merest wisp of emotion in a bit of writing is enough to bowl me over and leave me a bit out of breath. Bweh! Away with it all!

    Even my daydreams are no consolation at all; they are somehow stale. My night dreams are unhappy and strange. I do not feel like writing letters to my friends though I have a good many to reply to at the moment. I keep picking at the skin around my thumbnail; it is bleeding now . . . I feel as if all of my distractions are to naught, but then what am I supposed to be thinking about if it is forever evasive of my conscious searching?

    Perhaps I need to be cheered up or maybe have a glass of wine or a pot of coffee or a nap . . . I don't know . . .