Monday, February 28

writing paper this time, seriously.

Have procrastinated long enough to make a castle of small ink cartridges, useless pieces of ceramic, and converter plugs. Will post picture later. Shall make coffee, then conquer the world. I cannot believe this class is ending.

I am so relieved. Now, to make coffee, rearrange gerbera daisies in front of me, admire my mindsay blog entry, and then print out copies of the poems to analyse and mark up with my cool new pen.

Sunday, February 27


Didn't get it done. Spent three paragraphs explaining why Lotaria is probably a derivative of a nasty Sicilian slang word. Phooey.

Lentil soup, broccoli of the steamed persuasion, and Italian bread with French cheese for dinner. Gah. Oh, now I am all upset with myself.

ok ok tellya what

If I can get my outline done by the time I have to start dinner (half an hour) then I can start a webpage of photojournaling. Sorry, blogfriends, this is for people who know me face-to-face; it has pictures and incriminating details about me and my family on it.

I like playing with my webpage . . . we shall see how it all works out, really. I may end up getting a blogger for that site! that would be fun, except that I don't want another blog. I already have . . . a million. And by "a million", I mean "plural".

Ok! Now I have incentive. Ciao.


I can't wait until this summer. I am going to read books and talk to friends and sit by myself for long hours of time and have ice cream, too. I might even get to ride in a taxi! :D


Have listened to all of the answering machine shorts and sufficiently procrastinated to nearly head in the right direction for this paper. It is on Blake and irony. I like irony, but Blake and I don't always get on, especially as he is all over pantheist. He had his own mythology, his own important symbolisms--so we can't really interpret his stuff except subjectively and culturally.

Am listening to Michael Ball singing "Empty Chairs at Empty Tables" with the original London cast recording of Les Miserables.

Have figured out how to make a text-page better than the ones I'd been able to cook up until now. yay. Am still procrastinating. I think maybe I should make coffee and find a few more cushions for this chair. I feel like Cindy-Loo-Hoo.

Friday, February 25

even still & "walking on water"

I don't get it. Well, cognitively, I do.

I am constantly tired, and there is an undercurrent of sadness running swiftly through my head even though I can think of the funniest things, make myself helpless giggling, listen to happy songs . . . Just an enormous sea inside me welling with a tide of . . .

That sounds so dumb. All the cliches put together:) Well, it feels dumb too. I am making tea right this very minute, and will go upstairs to Sleep soon.

Almost finished with Walking on Water, by L'Engle, which is neat. I'm not used to reading Christian Inspirational stuff--rather, this book is on the struggles that Christian artists face. I get that, I understand that. It is certainly not a heavy book.

The next light book I want to try and read is called Fresh Brewed Life, but I'm only reading that because I've met the author and she can make me laugh till I'm gut sick.

Next book, hopefully this summer, which I have at least an hour to read before Sleep, is G.K. Chesterton's The Everlasting Man. When I am frustrated or want a different view of something I will open the book to any page and read a few paragraphs--it is sufficient to make me laugh and think and have something to pray about, too.

I look forward to the summer for that book too. These light books are all very well and good but they don't fill me.

Thursday, February 24


I wanted very much to write a crunchy Mindsay blog entry today but my fingers don't seem to have magic in them right now. How very frustrating. Gah. I am going to have more coffee.

So much to do today I'm going to scream, except that I'm still in pajamas and bathrobe at the kitchen table. Oh, drat drat drat.

*wrinkles nose*

Wednesday, February 16

in the lake of the woods

I am ready to sit in the middle of the floor and cry for the world. This book totally leaves me drained. There is nothing good in the world . . . also the same re: Life in the Iron Mills, which I just finished yesterday. I don't understand why people have to dwell on the cruelty of the world, the irrational violence of war, the confusion of total fatigue--the times when you forget how to cry . . .

Sheez. I don't presume to censor writers, but I would presume to teach professors how they ought to approach an intimate grief written with bloody hands, so to speak.

Don't go straight from Calvino to O'Brien, ok? Trust me on this one.

Monday, February 14

excerpt from "Tintern Abbey"

Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
And let the misty mountain winds be free
To blow against thee: and in after years,
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; Oh! then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance,
If I should be, where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
Of past existence, wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream
We stood together; And that I, so long
A worshipper of Nature, hither came,
Unwearied in that service: rather say
With warmer love, oh! with far deeper zeal
Of holier love. Now wilt thou then forget,
That after many wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear, both for themselves, and for thy sake.


Friday, February 11

at the behest of a friend

This is actually bits of a chat conversation between a Friend and I, but I've taken out her bits of the conversation because I didn't ask her about posting it. I said "I might." So, without further ado, I give you scribblings about "The Woman on the Roof with the Frenchman".

Once there was a woman on a roof. She was there running from her husband, a member of the boorish and inexorable bourgeoisie, who had no taste or recognition for her literary talent. "Wommin! Make me suppah!" he said, with blackish overtones. He had bushy eyebrows.

The woman on the roof sniffled pathetically, and continued reading her novel (The latest by Rapheala Di Scarletta), marking her favorite bits in it by dotting all the printed "i"s with hearts. The roof began to grow hot, and her romantic idea of stripping to her undies and reading cheap erotica soon began to evaporate. She grew thirsty. "Honeeeeeeeeey," she crooned sweetly to the door which led to the rest of the house. Bourge Wasey shut the door with a clang.

A man in a dashing red military outfit and outlandishly pale skin approached the woman with the novel on the roof, with only her socks and undies on . . . He had a French accent. She felt dizzy from the dehydration and incredible sex appeal of the Frenchman, but heard the children next door screeching and her heart faltered.

Should Bourge be at the flower shop? Or should her novel fall off the roof onto her husband and kill him?

Or should we skip to the children, who may or may not have been watching the scene from below?

Or should we move to Bourge, who is trying with the might of his bushy eyebrows to figure out how to boil an egg but is reminded of his wife's first child, who died stillborn? So he doesn't boil the egg. He sits and cries in the kitchen.

While his wife, in ankle socks and undies, seduces a wild Frenchman (also a fugitive of the law for cheating at cards, but she doesn't care; she doesn't play cards with him) on the roof?

the egg obviously has to do with his mother and his wife, for whom he has a similar love (they both take care of him e.g. "make his dinner") and his desire to boil the egg reveals his primal instincts to violence and love of killing.

Therefore, the Frenchman.

Couldn't be sexy undies either, they'd have to be Hanes or Fruit of the Loom. Sports bra?

OH! The Frenchman gets entangled in the sports bra while in the process of removing it, therefore signifying that he is trying to strip the woman on the roof from her agility and individual strength . . . which foils him in the end.

Maybe one of the kids next door could throw a piggy bank at him and blind him. Blinded by money, but still groping wildly for sports bras?

The Frenchman must have a moustache!

Thursday, February 10

hoping in people; a quote

"To love anyone is to hope in him always. From the moment at which we begin to judge anyone, to limit our confidence in him, from the moment we identify [pigeonhole] him, and so reduce him to that, we cease to love him, and he ceases to be able to become better. We must dare to love in a world that does not know how to love."

I don't know who it was by, but I got it from a book by L'Engle . . .

Wednesday, February 9

bah. leftover teen angst?

Sometimes I feel it is worthless to try and explain myself to people. It is very frustrating to be often misunderstood by those you think should understand you best. After this, I'm worried about what will happen if I do find somebody who sticks around and understands things. I feel a bit as if I will become an eccentric old lady who lives in an attic somewhere and teaches sharply--the kind of person who will not keep current in her field.

Oh yeesht, I cannot explain myself even TO myself here. What a pain. I am having a bad day, now. Gah. I need more sleep. I think I am getting sick.

Time to go read some Spenser. I've been wanting to read Faerie Queene.

my commic disaster

Sheez, one comma is all it takes:) I am replying to everybody's comments in this post, because I am spiting blogger for not allowing threaded comments and I can't seem to get along with tagboards and things that it takes CSS to compile together for something . . . blegh. I am replying here! Mwahaha! I am blogger, hear me type.

Lady Sandy of the Quill: It means a lot to me that you like what I write, so thank you:)

But some of these scenes that pop into my head or that want to be chased around and tackled onto paper are not parts of me, and I read them afterwards with a cup of very strong, very sweet tea just because I can't take them any other way . . . They are quite fiction, but not something I'm proud of writing. They record moments of what I'm thinking at the time, but they don't give me anything but a sense that I'm rewriting and rewriting the same relationships on paper--worse, they are ones I have never experienced and so I haven't a clue whether they are realistic or true. But I still can't figure out how they got into my head.

So if I write a book it will likely be some of the Real things, like studying and traveling. I can't make plots out of thin air. If I do write something fiction it will be a remake of a fairytale or a myth. That would be cool, but it takes a lot to make them "good". Mm. Ideas:) I like it . . . We shall see!

I still can't figure out what God wants me to do with this. He seems to have put the personal memos to me on hold so that I can see what I want and what I am good at but not what to do with any of it. I should be used to it, I suppose. Bwah. He will figure out something.

-Bravehearttttttt: Thanks:) I really don't put a whole lot of effort into the writing that goes on in this blog, but somehow there is a message speaking through me. I wish I could take all the credit! I hope you get sleep soon. I hate jet lag.

Brian: The idea that you read blogs is odd and out of form. Go away.

Tuesday, February 8

unorthodox blue thoughts: a thesis on cloudy mumblings.

Am easily falling into fluid sort of mood that involves an open mind--too open for my comfort--that will write sad, sweet things that have no meaning but to illustrate experiences conjectured but not yet tangible. Rather, things that will never happen, never be tangible because they happened to younger people. I used to imagine the same things as an eleven year old and I wrote better about them then than I do now. I've published some of it here, but I can never seem to capture the dark blue feeling of the time. I can never get it right! Gah.

These are the times when I listen to the mushy Evanescence songs and wish that I had taken dancing lessons once upon a time. But I don't really. Eww. I can barely walk in a straight line on a good day.

Also the times I wish I had taken piano lessons.

This is such a weird feeling. A good epic poem will dispel it, along with the admittance that I have no many non-ethereal objects around me; my lightbulb shines yellow, my headache is not at all romantic in any sense of the word, I have things like . . . toenails and eyelashes that get in my eyes sometimes. Stop thinking in such a nonsensical manner, my dear. No more tea. Maybe a nice glass of wine or . . . something . . . Back down to earth, no silliness about it, s.v.p.!

And I still wonder why I can't write the same thing and stick to it! If I were to practise that, would it become refined and tend to a good story?

Monday, February 7

I succumbed.

Take my Quiz on!

tea consumed on mondays: 5 gallons

Lots of work, as usual. I'm thinking about tripping back to Mindsay if I can get my things done today. My writing is difficult to make out anyway . . . drat it all. I'm torn, anyhow. I miss Mindsay scribblings but I can't seem to let them flow out of my hands the way they used to! Bweh. Am stuck with bloggering here boring things. Am feeling pessimistic, obviously. Will pass when caffeine hits system satisfactorily.

So much junk to do today am already feeling as if self must break a sweat trying to write ninety miles an hour. Graaaaa. Ok, so as a reward for getting these things done today I can:

A. go to il gym tomorrow.

B. do more classwork and hence drink more tea

C. read a chapter of something I like after dinner.

I shall now be preoccupied with What I Am Going To Read When I Finish My Work that I will be unable to finish my work and be sullen tomorrow morning.

Saturday, February 5

snoring in the next room

Butt-sore again, and late finishing classwork. So much for a relaxing week-end. "Boy oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy!" in the words of Dr. Tart. I have had two Coca-Colas in the last two hours (12 midnight and 1 a.m.) to stay awake to finish these critiques. Graduate school should be a breeze compared to this.

Who wants to sleep forever? WHO WAAAANTS TO SLEEEEP FOREVAAAAAAH!!!!! OOOOOOOooooooOOOOOOOhhh, eyelids don't riiiiiiiiise . . . .

No I haven't been taking drugs to try and remake Queen songs.


Friday, February 4


I am not sure whether I like the way Coverdale talks about women in The Blithedale Romance. Apparently we are Eve-like creatures, paradisical in health and form, and only if we condescend to the bourgeois ideals with robust laughter and possibly more than a modest affair of cleavage do we totally fall from Eden. Brilliant minds and haughty have we, simple and elegant, never lacking anything if only we dress simply and smile sweetly.

Ugh. I am sure this isn't all he thinks as I haven't gotten to the part in the book where he infinitely prefers one woman above all others, who become necessarily pale in comparison, but right now it is driving me up the wall to be put on such a pedestal.

I know I am supposed to be humbled by the flattery of my sex. No more does it put me on a pedestal than it does him, being such an insightful brute. Hollingsworth, Heathcliff, Rochester, D'Arcy, Narl, Beowulf, Arthur, Odysseus . . . I am sorry for all of you.

Wednesday, February 2

what. a. pain.

My butt is sore from sitting on a foldable chair for ALL DAY writing for this crazy Modern Novel class. I have learned to love some things and tolerate some things but I will be glad when it is over and I can go back to Malory and Tennyson, McKinley and Tolkien. It is like growing up on chocolate and then being fed mountains of peanut brittle. Beautifully sweet analogy that is hilarious to me right now because it was the first thing I came up with and I am dead-tired. Why am I writing . . ..

good night.

Tuesday, February 1

denim jackets and wool scarves

Tired and sleepy, adorned with dorky jacket and her mother's old scarf, Our Hero mumbles her way from Calvino (who had entirely too many sex scenes) to Hawthorne (whose briar-thick allegory chokes the imagination) and wonders whether there is any leftover espresso in the pot.

Our Hero loves denim jackets and wool scarves. Our Hero is sleepy and wants to curl up in bed with a favorite novel and a cup of tea to dispel the disturbing images of Calvino and Hawthorne with their separate demons.

Truth be told, I'm feeling a bit stifled. I should probably go to sleep and think about it tomorrow. Think Scarlett O'Hara.

Our Hero slowly looks over the room, pausing at small objects as if she could move them away telekinetically. Realizing her feet will not comply with telekinesis, Our Hero sighs and wonders again if there is any leftover coffee. She is trying to sort through memories and rationalize some of them while justifying others; it is a very odd feeling and an unwelcome one when the night feels so old.

I want to go back to Dublin. Never mind; there is now fresh espresso.