I'm a Manic: So What?

I've got nothing to do, so I thought I might as well press how much I completely adore the Billy Bragg + Wilco duo. I had the take the music off a while ago because John was wanting to practice his cello and needed to "be able to think" . . . (though my thoughts on this are that it was because he wasn't into it much . . . sheesh.) Furthermore, I thought that I would add a couple . . . (yeah) . . . of pictures to illustrate my mania.

Really, don't act like you didn't enjoy that . . . especially the one of Jeff Tweedy sleeping (featured above.) I enjoyed it because not only is it of Jeff Tweedy, but he's also sleeping . . . which makes me slightly envious . . . (also, on a side note, my couch has a crazy pattern like that as well . . . ha.) Gee-whiz, I need to get a grasp on life.

The Parents are Driving in Creating a Weeklong Event of Me Being the "Perfect-Hostess."

I suppose last night was just one of those nights, because it seems my mood has shifted once more for the hopeful. Today, it much like all those other days . . . I woke up and went to morning service and afterward John picked me up so we could go out the market. His parents are coming to stay with us this week . . . which makes me nervous. I don't know. They're nice people, but I don't know if I'm completely comfortable with them staying with us for so . . . long. I'm just not the "perfect-hostess" type, and it took a good hour or so of grinding on me before John convinced me to agree to it. Hmm . . . we'll see how it works out.

Oh, today I woke up feeling for that country, folkish, rock mood, so I put on Billy Bragg & Wilco's "Mermaid Avenue" and it just hit the spot.

AHDNSHAU DHSUISIEWXXN AUWIQO NFJI FNDIEWNSNCJX NAJSQP DMD NSNAKDIIERN RNJCKLH ISHFDIOGG FUSG!

I've gotten better and the sickness has left my body for the most part. Now I am just dealing with the return of the sleeping sickness and life and everything and on and on. I suppose its just that time of year, February . . . when the buzz of the "new year" drops and leaves that empty pit of the following 335 days left for the year. Myself, I'm just a little down . . . the sickness brought me down . . . the return of not being able to sleep brought me down . . . living brought me down. Well . . . John's pulling in for the night so I think I will try to as well. I think I've made my point as well as possible for now.

Oh, in more news, I've hooked myself on a Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin kick. I don't know why. They're from Springfield, MO where my brother is currently residing, though I knew about them before he even lived there. I'll expand later . . . for now I need to finish turning all the lights off.

The Sickness Makes Another Appearance To Help Me Catch Up On My Much Needed Sleep.

I woke up yesterday with a bad case of the sickness, you know, where everything comes up and nothing goes down. For a couple hours there it seemed like my entire body wanted everything out . . . maybe even an organ or two as well. It started the moment I awoke (finally on my own will) and began to brush my teeth . . . maybe it was the toothpaste or the brush, either way the moment I began to scrub my back molars, the contents of my stomach decided to exit. I got hit with a wave a nausea and fell softly to the floor.

Somewhere between that moment and the following minutes, John was awoken by the noise and fumbled sleepily into the bathroom to find me pale in face lying on the bathroom floor. He saw me and the mess in the sink and quickly acted. Pulling me up and ushering me into the bedroom to change (of course, asking me first if I was going to hurl again) and then medicating me with aspirin and tucking me back into bed. Like a good guy, he even cleaned up the mess. I suppose that when you know your with a good guy, when they're willing to clean up your sickness and then even go to the trouble to supply you with orange juice (even if it doesn't stay down) and take you temperature. I had a slight fever of 100 . . . ah.

The doctor diagnosed me with stomach flu . . . again. I must be susceptible to it . . . Either that or the doctor had no clue and is just pushing his white pad and big words at me to get me to leave. Whichever, today I felt a little better. By 5 o'clock I was able to stomach dinner. I had some Kashi hot cereal with bananas. It was as good as possible.

In the meantime, I've been listening to Neko Case excessively and obsessively since yesterday afternoon. She's who I listened to the last time I was sick. I suppose she has that quality about her that I crave when I'm bed-ridden and weak. I mean, there's nothing better for sickness than that sense of woman empowerment that she radiates. Plus, I had to have somebody that would be folkly enough to wean me of my Neutral Milk Hotel kick. She fits into both requirements.

Well, I am going to nap . . . I think this had finally released that built up tension from lack of sleep . . . because I've slept more in the past two days than I have in the past month. Ah, it feels good.

My Aquarium Spiel.

I'm still having troubles with sleeping. Tonight the problem seems to be getting to bed, as I laid down to rest nearly two hours ago and have since gotten back up again to occupy my time. John's still awake so I suppose that's comforting. Of course, he's watching some sort of documentary that seems to be a million hours long and vegging out on fruit . . . I went to the market yesterday and stocked up on everything good that they had in store.

Along with finally getting out to go grocery shopping, I also accomplished a lot more yesterday than I have in the past months. Nearly two months ago, I got this great . . . and by great I mean GREAT . . . deal on a this resale aquarium . . . I wasn't actually looking to invest in a new tank set-up but the deal was too good to pass up. So anyways, I bought this tank, 175 gallons complete with pumps, filters, heaters, everything. It's been sitting somewhere between my kitchen and living room ever since I bought it, because I didn't have the time to invest in the set-up and didn't want to think about what to begin to put in it . . . I didn't want to think.

As an aquarist, I've been through a lot . . . a lot of tanks, a lot of fish, a lot of set-ups, and a lot of strip-downs. I wanted to try something moderately low maintenance, but also something that would suit the tank, because 175 gallons . . . well that's a lot of tank. I have a 200 gallon already and I know that its a lot to handle. On my whim yesterday, I decided to set-up everything.

I went with a brackish river set-up. It's something different for me, because I haven't had a brackish tank in forever, and when I did it was a mangrove swamp. I planted most of the tank pretty heavily . . . because I aesthetically like a lot of greenery . . . but I also left a good portion of open swimming space . . . I also put in lots of driftwood and natural rocks.

I must say that the end result is quite stunning, and it really brings the room together with such a big centerpiece being there. I ended up placing it up on the main wall that runs along the living room. My other four tanks aren't in out in the open, like my 200 gallon and 55 gallon are in the bedroom and the two smaller tanks, a 10 and a 30 gallon, are in the supposed dining area; so I thought it would be a nice switch to have one in the open.

I'm going to start a trial stocking period sometime next week. I'm just going to pick up a couple Sailfin Mollies and give it a go. In a couple more weeks, I'll finish stocking the tank entirely, with some gobies, chromides . . . and if I get up enough spunk to give go with puffers, I'll put a couple of those in there.

Well, the movie's over and I think John's pulling in for the night, so I think that I will try to do the same. Toodles.

Jump, Run, Go, Fun: Why I Felt to the Need to Bore Others With My Completely Drab Listening Choices of the Present and the Past and Even the Future.

I didn't doing anything of interest today . . . unless you consider napping interesting. Therefore, I thought that I would update my current listening choices. I believe I was last stuck somewhere between The Raconteurs and The Essex Green and maybe with a little bit of Belle & Sebastian through in the middle somewhere. Lately I have been in a folk-like mood, you know, something just melodic and clear. Yesterday this tab was filled for me by Damien Rice, which was a switch for me, since I normally . . . well, never is a better word . . . listen to him, but yesterday I had one of those cravings for something . . . and he was the first thing that popped into my head and it just fit. The only reason I have any of his albums is because a friend gave it to me a while back because he thought I would "dig" it. Apparently, he was right.




My Damien rice fit ended in the later hours of yesterday evening, but for my first awakening, which came an hour earlier at 1 a.m., I was in a different mood. I put on The Divine Comedy because it has that drive, but isn't too "loud" so it wouldn't wake John up. I love Neil Hannon's voice. Its so . . . beautiful . . . if that's the right descriptor? Its is just so . . . indescribably great. I have three favorite voices in music, and he is number two . . . number one is Jeff Tweedy . . . and number three is Bonnie "Prince" Billy.

My second awakening at 6 a.m. was accompanied by Neutral Milk Hotel. I actually finished that kick only hours ago at 4 p.m. I hadn't listened to them in quite a while, so it was so refreshing, because forever ago, like eight years or more maybe, they were on top three for listening overall. They were second . . . with first going to Wilco . . . and third to Belle & Sebastian. I don't know what happened to them, but I just now remember why I loved them so.

In the most current hours, I made quite a switch by moving from Neutral Milk Hotel to Of Montreal. I don't particularly know what compulsed me to do so, but I am enjoying the switch of styles. I think I go the idea because out of random closet dig, I found my lost Of Montreal tee that got lost somewhere between me buying it at the concert and me coming home . . . I've been searching for it for over a year, and I didn't even find it when I packed up and moved and then upacked, but somehow it made the journey with me without being discovered.

Ah. Now I'm going to go and take another nap . . . I've done everything I needed to do for today.

Classes Canceled, Alarm Clocks, and My NREM: Why I Wish I Could Be Like a Normal Human Being and Go To Sleep.

I don't know what I'm going to do. As if becoming a habit, my current sleeping patterns refuse to realign and play nice. This has been happening for a while now . . . you know the story . . . I finally get zapped out by a sleeping pill at midnight and then once two or maybe three a.m. rolls around I'm back at awake and ready to roll. By the time I eventually pass out again around 5 a.m., there is only an hour or two left of good sleep before I have to wake up again. However, my problem arises there . . . because somewhere between 5 and 7 o'clock I go into this deep comatose state, that only seems to be awoken with the help of four alarms and a sound knock on my backside from John. Oh, really, I don't know what I'm going to do.

I went to the doctor, and he told me that everything seemed fine. Ha. I don't feel fine. I feel like somebody tied me to the train tracks and I'm fighting to find my way off of them before the train comes and lobs my head off and dismembers the essence of my being. However, I don't think it would be quite appropriate to tell a doctor such things, so I just nod my head and take the pieces of white scribbled paper he hands me.

Then, as usual, I get a day like today. I fell asleep around midnight and I woke up at around 2 a.m. and fell back into sleep around 4 a.m. Two hours later my third alarm begins to go off and I'm still passed out without even hearing it. At some point a very sleepy and annoyed John rolls over and turns it off while somehow shaking me awake. I wake up and get ready to go. On some whim, I end up checking my computer before I leave, only to find out that classes were canceled. At this point, any normal person would shirk off their clothes and crawl back into bed for a couple more hours of sleep. I remained awake despite the extreme pull upon my body begging for rest.

In the end I ended up waking John (again) as well. He made breakfast. It was as good as it could be, for being a 7 a.m. morning with the snow falling outside and while the rest of the world is cozy in their beds. I was just wishing I could do the same.

Health, The Buzz, and An Anti-Drug Campaign: Why I Gave Up The Sugar For a More Healthy Alternative.

Okay, so I got to thinking that I would healthen this page up, because its been candy mania since 10 o'clock this morning. I thought I'd go a little more healthy. You know, something for the kids, to show them that there is more to life than a buzz (who knows this post might even turn into a rallying point for an anti-drug campaign . . . ha.) In any event though, I decided to not make sugar the base of my lunch; instead, I went to the good old standard of the food pyramid.

I started with the dish on the right and ended with the dish on the left. Looks pretty nice doesn't it, and as a judging standard, none of the dishes included the colors hot pink, baby blue, or electric yellow, so I think I did pretty well.

John even came over and joined in . . . though I think the real reason was because he wanted to experience the lesser thrill of seeing what I had bought at the candy goldmine.

Candy Gold Mine, Gumballs, and Lollipops: Why I Felt the Urge to Maintain the Ultimate Buzz of Sugar.

So I went a little crazy. Who cares? It was a candy gold mine . . . I think that is all that I need to say . . . Candy Gold Mine . . . those should be words enough for any sane person. Right now, I am just sitting and writing in awe of my wonder upon a.) perchancing upon a candy store that I never knew existed and b.) actually loading up in the candy store that I never knew existed. It makes me feel like I'm eight again, when everything was real and possible . . . of course, when I was a child I never ate much candy . . . my father didn't allow it, so all of my experiences were of the sneaked, hidden in the closet kind . . . in other words my brother, when he lived with us, snuck it to me whenever father wasn't around.

I'm in awe, complete and utter awe of the possiblities of the candy universe. Maybe I'm just crazy, but there are only so many chances in the life of an "adult" that one gets to have fun. I'm using one of those chances right now.

I love gumballs. Too bad the flavor lasts about ten seconds and then you have to pop another one in to get that rush of pink flavored goodness. By the time your gum chewing experience your jaw is in major pain and the wad of gum you've been smacking on is about the size of China. I suppose thats the major downfall of the gumball, and because of that I prefer chewies and gummies better. It's a two in one combo, because not only can you savor the yummy flavor but they are also chewable like gum, but you never have to worry about flavor going bad or having to dispose of it in one of the many ways that gum gets disposed . . . under the table, on the sidewalk, in your seat . . . but never in a trash can.

I had a couple of other bags of gummies and ropes, but alas, they didn't survive the trip home. I'm a sucker for gummies . . . and chewies . . . especially if they're grape or really any kind of fruit flavored. Ah, this is the joy of candy bliss . . . or maybe its a buzz of sugar . . . I can't really tell right now.

The Raconteurs and The Real Definition of Torture: Why I Found Myself Loathing the American Political System After a Morning of Reading Chomsky.

It's begun to snow again. What a shame. Monday it was quite warm, nearly 60 degrees. The following day, Tuesday, within the early hours of the morning there was a dramatic drop to make an entire afternoon composed of blizzardy winds, snow, and temperatures of around 15 degrees. Walking from building to building, my eyeglasses iced over, and my hair got matted down wet and iced from the snow. Yesterday it was okay, however, today the snow had begun to fall yet again. Therefore, I am stuck indoors today, listening to The Raconteurs. I don't really have a reason for putting them on, but they seem to be fitting . . . I guess. I'm actually not a big fan, or really any sort of a fan, of Jack White, but I'm forgoing that at this point, because I like Brendan Benson enough forgo it.



I'm still working on the Noam Chomsky book. I'm only a fourth of the way through, and it seems like I'm not making any progress. Once I got about thirty pages in it stopped making want to fall asleep and instead began to make me slightly angry. At that point he was pointing out that the legal advisers of Bush sent him a memo noting to him the legal definition of torture, so as the administration could use that little factotum as a defense legally to ward off claims and charges under the international law set by the Geneva Convention regarding war crimes and torture.

It states, "In 2002, White House counsel Alberto Gonzales passed on to Bush a memorandum on torture by the Justice Department's Office of Legal Counsel. As noted by constitutional scholar Sanford Levinson: "According to the OLC, 'acts must be of an extreme nature to rise to the level of torture. . . . Physical pain amounting to torture must be equivalent in intensity to the pain accompanying serious physical injury, such as organ failure, impairment of bodily function, or even death.'" Levinson goes on to say that in the view of Jay Bybee, then head of the OLC, "The infliction of anything less intense than such extreme pain would not, technically speaking, be torture at all. It would merely be inhuman and degrading treatment, a subject of little and apparent concern to the Bush administration's lawyers."

The text goes on to the further state that Mr. Gonzales advised the President to rescind the Geneva Conventions as to "substantially reduce the threat of domestic criminal prosecution under the War Crimes Act." Chomsky then goes on the broaden that the US called for the adoption of this more "interrogator-friendly" definition of the term so they could "justify the torture of detainees in Guantanamo, Iraq, and Afghanistan, and elsewhere as well, it appears."

Furthermore, when I began to read that the Bush administration's 'tactful' legal advice from Gonzales was proven sound, due to the cause that in November 2004 they began a campaign with a preliminary bombing with the intent of driving out all but the adult male population out of Falluja. The text goes on to say: "While the preliminary bombing was under way, Iraqi journalist Nermeen al-Mufti reported from 'the city of minarets [which] once echoed the Euphrates in its beauty and calm [with its] plentiful water and lush greenery . . . a summer resort for Iraqis [where people went for] leisure, for a swim at the nearby Habbaniya lake, for a kebab meal.' She described the fates of these bombing attacks in which sometimes whole families, including pregnant women and babies, unable to flee, along with many others, were killed because the attackers who ordered their flight had cordoned of the city, closing the exit roads."

It goes on and on and on. I could go on and on and on. I suppose it is upon reading such things that I lose faith in the government, the administration, those that violate and manipulate law to prove and become to the benefit of their own unjust causes. In addition, I guess, if everybody read people like Chomsky, or even watched his lectures that on film if they're not into reading, everybody would realize their strong-seated ignorance to support a political cause for the reason of one being labeled "Democrat" or "Republican." Either party is as twisted as the other and neither deserve to have a place in the high office.

Sleater-Kinney, Noam Chomsky, and a Dozen Baked Goods: Why I Found Myself Awake at Three A.M. Popping Roasted Chicken Out of My Oven.

This weekend I have found myself in one of those, angry girl moods, and therefore decided to satisfy my repression by turning the music on Sleater-Kinney because . . . well, they fit the mood. I've also been having problems with my sleep patterns lately (my sleeping pills don't seem to be working anymore) and I've found that at 3 in the morning Sleater-Kinney works. Not that it puts me to sleep or anything, but it, works that magic and soothes . . . makes me feel not to crazy for pulling out the kettle and putting some tea on . . . or pulling out the chicken I bought at the market the previous day and roasting it, like I did this morning at 3 o'clock.



I was having one of those cravings. I cooked some pasta and made a broccoli and cream white sauce. In the dessert category, I managed to finish a batch of snicker doodle cookies and two cakes, one chocolate and the other vanilla, before 8 o'clock this morning. Once finished, I rung John up and told him to find his way over because there was no way that I would be able to eat all of the food without vomiting profusely. He got here at about 9 o'clock . . . it didn't take him long since I mentioned cake and cookies . . . really who could refuse?



We watched some movies. I read my book, Failed States . . . after my Ginsberg kick I found y way back to it. Its still pretty intense . . . a lot of . . . words . . . and facts . . . supplemented by more words. But, I'm pulling my way through it, just like I pulled my way through all the other Chomsky's that I read before it. It's just going to take awhile.



There is one sure thing, though, whenever I read Chomsky I always find a way to fall asleep, sleeping aids working or not. I passed out about ten pages after I began reading, whether it was influenced by pure exhaustion or the words I was reading, I'll never know.

Beatnik Mood: Three in the Morning Come a Bang Bang Bang while I'm with You in Rockland.

Today, I was set on mixing things up a bit, therefore I woke up to the sound of a cowbell in the first seconds of "California Waiting" by King of Leon. It was actually quite refreshing, you know, after being so keen on the melodic side for the past few days (excusing maybe the couple "intense" moments that Bonnie "Prince" Billy, Belle & Sebastian, and etc can have) I just wanted to break free and experience something else . . . you know something that fit the mood I was and am currently occupying.

I suppose the entirety of my mood was set into play by the current material that is presiding on my reading list. After my wonderful stint with Darkness Visible by Golding, and that short period I spent with Running with Scissors, and then onto a conquest into the mind and world of junk in Junky by Burroughs, I was kind of on one of those kicks. You, know those, beatnik kicks, where you just want to run out get some morphine and become a user yourself. To calm that urge and rid myself of those "unhealthy" thoughts, I pulled out the old standby, Noam Chomsky. In a sensible world, I would never own a copy of any of his works, however, the world is not sensible, and alas! I own more Chomsky than I could ever wish to. This one was entitled Failed States: The Abuse of Power and the Assault on Democracy, from the title you might be able to assume how intense the read could be . . . I it a fourth of the way through before I had to stop. My eyes were bleeding . . . metaphorically, not literally.

It was after that heavy read that I found myself in another beatnik mood. I wanted something with passion, with words for life, and inspiration for . . . something yet to be described. In most situation like this people would look to Kerouac, however, as stated previously, I am in a fit with him and all of his pretty passages. In dire need, I finally pulled off the shelf something that had been discarded long ago, out of a certain . . . uneasiness towards poetry. At the time, I could withstand Plath and Browning, but as a purely fiction girl I'd was just beyond breaking point if I read anymore stanzas. However, now, I am on a total and complete Ginsberg kick. I had like a handful of his works on the shelf mailed to me by my brother when he was having a inspirational crisis/revelation (yes, my brother mails me books as well as music . . . but, again, he still can't use the tele. I think he finds some sort of simple pleasure in using the postal system.) I looked through the first couple pages and stacked them on the shelf.

Here, now, I am completely crazed about his poems. The wondrous flow of words, the repetition, and the unsurpassed singular beauty of them. He makes me feel alive somehow . . . or maybe its the music. Could be both.

Ding Dong! A Silly Song, Sure Do Say Somethings Wrong, Smile Awhile, Forget the Bile, And Watch It All Come Down.

I have really no complete idea of why I have recently picked up the knack of writing about my current listening choices, but for some reason its what I feel like doing, so I'm going to stick to it. Today I kicked off the morning with Bonnie "Prince" Billy. I was in the mood for country and I really love his voice. Its so . . . soothing, like it makes me want to lie in a down of feathers and sleep eternally. It that nice melodic tone, not folky enough to be folk just country enough to be country . . . except he isn't one of those commercial country artists that can do nothing but sing about their dog, their booze, and their woman.

However, I have a problem with my Bonnie "Prince" Billy album. So, I got it from my brother, he mailed me a burned copy like he does every once in a while when he uncovers a gem . . . (Yeah, its weird . . . He won't call me on the telephone and as of last year I hadn't talked to him for years . . . but every once and a while I would get packages of mixes and CDs in the mail from him for me to listen to . . . just music, maybe once and a while a note scribbled on a napkin . . . what a strange relationship we have . . . but anyways.) The only problem is that since the disk is a copy my computer doesn't immediately recognize it, so I have manually search for the album information, however, in my case, the CD has an extra unknown track at the beginning of the disk. I have searched and searched and for the life of me cannot figure it out. Its really unnerving. So if anyone has any information about why my copy of "I See a Darkness" has 12 tracks rather than the normal 11 or the bonus Japanese version of 13, please comment and give me some answers.

Oh Yeah, She's Losing It.

Today, Essex Green is gone from my play list and I and since switched to Belle & Sebastian. I'm in one of those pure and innocent kind of moods and well, that is what Belle & Sebastian is for me, pure and innocent, which in all cases I know it is completely untrue but I like to to make myself believe it. Right now I'm onto their album "The Life Pursuit" and previously I was listening to "The Boy with the Arab Strap" and next it is going to be "Tigermilk. Whoo. Who. I found this cartoon online depicting lines from on of their songs. Its really kind of cute.

In other news, I finished Running with Scissors. I don't understand the hype. It was a quick read and had some good moments but also some particularly bad moments. I would never good as far to call it good literature or anything. After I finished that last night, I picked up the better Burroughs this morning and started to page my way through Junky: The Definitive text of "Junk." Its an easy enough read and because its written more as a personal narrative, it makes it better to understand. I also don't think that he uses his cut-up method for this either . . . which in some ways is a loss but in others its a plus.

In some ways I kind of find it lacking that certain spark that his novels like Naked Lunch and The Soft Machine and The Ticket that Exploded had. They just were so . . . inspiring in their crazy convoluted style. I am the only person among my group of friends that particularly cares for Burroughs. They're all Jack Kerouac kind of people when it comes to the Beats. I on the other hand would put Burroughs before Kerouac any day. He has so much more promise to me and everything takes a second look to understand. Kerouac is less convoluted, easier to intake, and then coated with pretty passages with "deeper" meanings. He's too transcendental, too Thoreau. If I wanted to read something that sounded like Walden I would have read Walden not Walden under a different title with a subtext of drugs, sex, and everything else that came with the Beat Generation.

But, whatever.

Why the Kite Runner is Awful Compared to William Golding and the Essex Green.

I am still on my Essex Green kick that began in the later hours of yesterday afternoon. Since early this morning I have been listening to their albums Cannibal Sea and The Long Goodbye nonstop with exception for around 10 o'clock when I broke away for awhile to listen to Clap Your Hands and Say Yeah. I had this strong urge to sing along with "Satan Said Dance." You know the words, and if you don't, well, you should. Well anyways, I had one of those urges, you know, to hear that mumbling voice. Its kind of soothing. However, after only a couple of song from Some Loud Thunder, I switched back to Essex Green. I suppose I'm just in a melodic kind of mood . . . and oh yeah, I'm posting today a real picture of them, rather than those very green photos of Essex that I posted yesterday.

Along with listening to Essex Green, this morning I finished the book I was reading, Darkness Visible by William Golding, the master of all things wordly. If you haven't figured out I am a complete and total Golding fan. When I found Pincher Martin on the shelves in some used bookstore I had a mini-frenzied-joy-attack. I started jumping up and down in the aisle, because you would believe how hard Golding's work is to find, almost all of it is out-of-print, so the only way I have made my way in finding the collected works was to search out of print book sellers on the Internet. So anyways, more to the point, I finished Darkness Visible and it was either beautiful, wonderful, mind-blowing, or everything, I can't decide. It was just so poignantly written . . . it evoked every emotion in me . . . stunningly.

Here's a passage from the text:

"The figure was a child, drawing nearer. As they picked their way past the new crater they saw him plain. He was naked and the miles of light lit him variously. A child's stride is quick; but this child walked down the very middle of the street with a kind of ritual gait that in and adult would have been called solemn. The captain could see --and now, with a positive explosion of human feeling --why this particular child walked as it did. The brightness on his left side was not an effect of light. The burn was even more visible on the left side of his head. All his hair was gone on that side, and on the other, shrivelled to peppercorn dots. His face was so swollen he could only glimpse where he was going through the merest of slits. It was perhaps something animal that was directing him away from the placed where the world was being consumed. Perhaps it was luck, good or bad, that kept him pacing in the one direction where he might survive."

And another:

"Matty was now fixed in a different position so that skin could be transferred from one part of his body to the other. It was a condition of some absurdity and the other children in the burns hospital, none of whom had much to laugh at, enjoyed his plight. Grown-ups came to entertain and console him but no woman held his undamaged side to her breast. She would have had to contort herself to do so. His smile went unused. There was rather more visible now to the casual visitor; and these, hurrying to their own unfortunates, were repelled by the sordid misery in which Matty passed his days, and they flashed sideways at him and uneasy smile which he interpreted with absolute precision. When at last he was cut loose, and having been as much as possible repaired was set on his feet, his smile seemed to have gone for good. The blasting of his left side had given him some contraction of the sinews that growth had not yet redressed, so he limped. He had hair on the right side of his skull but the left side a a ghastly white, which seemed so unchildlike it was an invitation by its appearance of baldness to discount his childishness and treat him as an adult who was being stubborn or just silly. Organizations ground on round him for his benefit but there was little more that could be done with him. His background was probed and probed without result. For all that the most painstaking inquiries could find, he might have been born from the sheer agony of a burning city."

Weren't those so . . . powerful? Now just imagine the entirety of the book being like that, as these passages only came from the first chapter. For me, they seem to be proof enough that Golding was and is the Master of prose, and well-deserving of his Nobel Prize for literature. The only thing that irks me is that most only know him for Lord of the Flies, and treat him as if that was the only book he ever wrote, because he wrote much more, and in some cases his other works are undoubtedly more poignant and powerful than Lord of the Flies. My personal favorite is The Spire . . . I think it demonstrates everything he demonstrated in Lord of the Flies only it was better.

Now I am in the beginning chapters of Running with Scissors by Augusten Burroughs. A friend of mine gave it to me, because she said that it was wonderful. I, of course, had heard of it, but was never much into it . . . I wasn't even into the movie when it came out, so I never saw it. However, I thought I should read it anyways . . . for the experience, if not, just to be nice. I will say that the only Burroughs for me is William Burroughs, though, he fills the spot completely.

I just keep telling myself that it won't be as bad as The Kite Runner, which was one of those mainstream books, now turned movie, that everybody loved . . . except me. I hated it . . . no, I slightly loathed it. The situation was one of those comparable to the Seinfeld episode where everybody but Elaine loves "The English Patient" and as a result they shun her for it. People would go, "what? you don't love the kite runner? why not? are you crazy? its great! oprah loves it! you should to!" It would actually get very intense these verbal sparrings that others and myself would have . . . I would defend myself continually pointing out everything in the text that I . . . disliked . . . and they would with things like "well, the new york times loves it and they're smarter than you," as if that was an actual defense.

I'm hoping that this book doesn't do turn into one of those . . . the beginning is okay . . . I hope it gets better.

Snowflakes Falling in My Eyelashes.

I just keep looking out the window to see little flakes fluttering on the the other side of the window pane, falling down into the pit of the city below, with all the walking people (as rare as they are even) sheltering their faces from their specks of wetness. I went out in the weather earlier to get to work and then walking to and from building and building. Driving, or moreover, commuting home was a sullen trip with all of the sad drear that the overcast sky was shedding on the world.



Right now I happen to be listening to Essex Green which I suppose doesn't fit the white and grey mood that the atmosphere is setting for me. Of course being the kind of person I am, typed in Essex Green into a stock gallery to get some stock footage of Essex Green to put in this post. However, they really didn't have a way for me to get the disambiguation away from Essex in England, and separately, green as color. This is the best thing I got. Of course, I'm using the images anyway, because I'm in need of something to lighten up the mood. Its a little too drear around here.

I think that now I am going to go and make some soup and lentils. I bought all the ingredients at the market last night. John is supposed to be coming over later after he gets off of work, and if I don't start preparing for dinner now it will never get done. I'll fall asleep and before you know it John will be shaking me awake asking where the supposedly wonderful dinner is. I would hate to disappoint him after all the soup he's made for me.

Pretty City in the Wintertime.

Today is a nice day for a walk outside. I'm not saying this because the weather is particularly nice out of doors, but rather I am saying it because it feels like one of those days, you know, the shout in the air, wind in your face, beautiful being kind of days. I just wanted to fall asleep in it. Of course, now that I am think I am kind of glad that I didn't fall asleep in it because seeing that it is only 25 degrees outside and there is and abundant amount of snow on the ground, I might have caught a cold.

. . . What can I say?

The quiche I made last night for dinner turned out quite well . . . so did the babka. However, I ended up roasting the chicken a tad bit too much, so it ended up being a little . . . rough. The snow peas were a mistake in themselves, because I picked them up not at the all natural organic produce market like I always do with my fruits and vegetables; instead, I went a little nuts and decided to just pick some out at the produce section of the supermarket. It was a bad mistake because they tasted like trash. I can't decided whether it was my rather . . . shifty . . . cooking ability that made them so, or if it was because I've been eating fresh produce for so long that I actually taste the difference. On a further note, I ended up brewing some splendid tea that washed away the bad taste in my mouth.


I suppose I have just lost my touch in picking out good vegetables and fruits. The fact is that I haven't had a single good wholesome meal since finals ended. Its been a severe series of overeating mixed with a craze of snacking. I even cut out fruit . . . This morning I picked up a banana to have for breakfast and it felt like I had never tasted one before. I suppose I just forgot that biting sweetness of a not yet entirely ripe green banana. In less words, it was the best thing I had tasted for awhile.

Of course, I'm glad that I didn't pick these bananas up at the supermarket. John brought them over because he said that I needed to start eating healthier foods, rather than the crap that I had so recently been shoving down my throat. He also brought over some pears . . . which are fruit that I have not always been privy to . . . but I had one for lunch today and it was quite delicious. It had the right amount of juice and flesh to make it just succulent.


Along with not eating any fruit I've also caught a case of the lazies . . . as I've mentioned in the previous posts. I've into the habit of lying in bed all day, drinking tea, and reading these monstrous books, while falling asleep . . . even if its the middle of the days and the sun is shining bright through the neighboring window. Sometime after I woke up for a munch on a breakfast banana and sometime before I ate that pear for lunch, John came over and had to pull me out of doors. He pulled me along with him through the park and and to some shop he wanted to visit and then back home so I could fall dead back onto my mattress.


Well, anyways, bad habits will die tomorrow . . . or at least I hope they do . . . I don't think I can keep this up for long.

The Error of My Ways.

So I suppose I could say that I have been a little . . . distracted. Over the past weeks I have spent more time sleeping and reading and lounging and being than I have ever in the entirety of my existence. I now am beginning to realize error in taking up all of these bad, lazy habits . . . because in a few short days, I will be back to the grindstone, working. For now, I am going to treasure these last remaining moments and try to break the mold vacation had given me.

On a lighter note, I finally made it to the grocery market today, and have fully stocked the previously stark cabinets. Tonight will be a wonderful dinner of spinach quiche and roasted chicken breast complete with snow peas and decadent dessert of chocolate babka. I'm going/went a little crazy in the kitchen tonight . . . I'll tell you how it tastes later.

C.R.A.Z.Y.

I have finally gotten around to writing a new post . . . things have been a little busy, or if not busy then just kind of hectic in the holiday rush and whatnot. Just to say, I finally made it back to the city only two days ago and from there I had to unpack the car, the suitcases, my coat pockets, and myself. I have just spent the better length of a week with a family speaking tongues I could not understand, eating family delicacies that I would never dare to put in my mouth, and feigning ignorance to all the prying questions touching on the nature of my and John’s relationship with each other. I mean, what does one say to an aging grandmother that is trying with all her willpower to ask in broken English when the wedding was taking place? I felt a little said after telling her that we were in fact not getting married and that we were not even really dating. Her face went a little flat . . . of course, and then she waddled over to John and with what sounded like very fierce words that were later translated to me as her demanding him to tell her why we were not getting married. Crazy, I know.

Other than those sorts of same mishaps, the week was . . . interesting . . . oh and Chicago was wonderful. The big city was booming as it always is. It was weird spending Christmas day in a hotel, but it wasn’t that bad. Mother was as good as she could be . . . had a little bit of lichen growing on the tombstone, but hey, it’s granite so it’s a natural process that should be occurring.
The flight back was nice. I slept, because well hotel beds do not provide as much comfort as one would expect.

Well, now I am going to settle onto the couch and take another nap . . . maybe I’ll read or something before I fall asleep . . . at least that would be a little bit more productive.

Finally, A Break.

I made it through finals. I was excited. Now I am just waiting for grades to be posted and whatnot. With Christmas coming around the bend, I am enjoying this, in my opinion, well-deserved break, by "vacationing" with my brother in Missouri (exciting, I know . . . ) Tomorrow I will be driving back to the city to nap for the rest of the day, so I can wake up early on Saturday to catch a flight to Chicago with John to go and see my mother. This is my first winter without her, so I'm going to go out and get some nice bouquets of Christmas flowers to put on her grave. I think she'd appreciate it, since she always loved the flowers in the wintertime. John's going for support. I suppose he thinks I am going to break down completely and throw myself across the tombstone or something (even though I told him I would do no such thing.) I think he just wants a reason to go to the big city and not have to deal with the big foreign family reunion that is awaiting him in St. Louis (which we are going to anyways, but just arriving a day late.) I'll get to hear him translate for me Norwegian and all those funky languages his family speaks. I told him it sounded like fun, but he just shook his head and laughed at me. I guess I don't understand.

Driving Makes Me Sleepy.

John and I got back from St. Louis today at around 6ish. The trip was enjoyable. We went around to all the museums, visited his parents, ate some really nice "cuisine," etc. The killer about trips like these is always that long 4 hr drive back. It just gets so monotonous. I tried to not fall asleep. I willed myself to not fall asleep. But alas, I fell asleep, which was bad on my part because I had so much work that I could have been doing. When we got home neither of us felt like putting together dinner, so instead we got some carry-out Chinese. It was sub-par to the meals I have been having lately . . . just a tad bit too salty.

Well, I better go and get some more sleep. I have a final to take in the morning . . . yay.

Waiting for My Ears to Thaw.

I just got home. It was a late night at the office again and I have a feeling that tomorrow is going to end up just the same, since class isn't in session on Friday and next week is finals week. I am just tired of dealing with people. It gets so repetitive after a while that I get so wound up and I never have a chance to deflate.

It is still cold here. I lost all feeling in my face in the walk from my car to the flat. I lost my hat with the poof-ball on top and cozy ear flaps on the sides, so everything just hits me right in the face. I tried to wrap my scarf so it would kind of block the wind out, but alas, it didn't work.

I was so glad when I got in to see the John was still here and had kept dinner warm in the oven. It was a nice warm vegetarian lasagna with rye and garlic toast, a side of fresh broccoli and snow peas all tumbled together, finished with the best fruit pastry I have ever had (it was from the gourmet bakery down the street). Yum! Yesterday he surprised me with, not tomato soup like he said; instead, it was fusilli pasta in a Gorgonzola and walnut sauce with a side of very delicious winter melon soup. It was superb beyond all comparison.

Tomorrow I think he's planning something with chicken or turkey . . . some kind of poultry. I'm looking forward to it. I told him to not begin cooking it until later in the evening though, because I don't want it to be cold when I come home . . . that always kind of ruins it. Friday, however, on my day off we're driving over to St. Louis to visit his parents for the day. We're staying up there for the entire weekend though, to take in the environment and lifestyle, go see the art museum (it always has good exhibitions), and mingle with some of John's old college friends that still live in the area. It'll be nice, since I never get to go anywhere new unless its for work or school. I've forgotten what it feels like to actually have fun and enjoyment while on holiday.

Anyways, my feet are getting cold and I am having a really strong craving for some hot chocolate. Weird, I know. I think I'll go and put the kettle on to make some.

An Early Leave Makes for a Great Surprise.

I actually got to go home early today! I mean, yeah, I was planning on coming home early anyways, but I'd like to think that I was somehow scamming the system to do so . . . it makes me feel like I am actually accomplishing something.

The real reason for my early leave is that I had a doctor's appointment. It was boring. I always hate sitting in that little room with the bed/chair thing draped in that white meatpacking paper. Its too sanitary, too clean. I suppose I'm healthy (I know that all any reader is thinking about right now is 'I wonder what she's got'). It was just one of those 'routine' once every couple of months checkups. The doctor prescribed a different brand of sleeping pills, the others I was taking weren't working. That was about it. Then I went home.

Now, I am going to take a nap or something. John's over, making an early dinner or late late lunch. He said it was going to be tomato soup or something, but I didn't see him bring in any tomatoes. I'm guessing that was just a cover and that it is going to be a surprise.

Sleeping with Soup.

Its Sunday night and I'm at the office, like I have been for the past four nights. I have learned to live here. I think if I brought in a sleeping bag I could unfurl it underneath my desk and nobody would even know . . . and then I wouldn't even have to think or worry about the commute home. It's getting boring here, and I had to take a break, so I thought I would write something. The only thing I have to look forward to for the rest of the day, is that John said he was making soup for dinner tonight, and he making at my place so I don't even have to walk up the street to get it. He said it'd be ready when I got home . . . whenever that is. I wonder what kind it is . . . he makes such good soup, with little chunks of everything fresh and delicious. Plus, its like 20 degrees outside with this nasty biting wind. It makes the day even worse.

Ugh. I Need a Vacation.

I'm probably not going to get to write anything for a while, seeing as finals are beginning next week. Therefore, I'm going to be a little busy, with students trying to study and myself trying to study. I don't know how I am going to juggle it all, but I suppose I'll manage. See you in two weeks, by the 15th I'll be out of this mess and onto trying to wind down and relax.

Cats Like Chicken Liver.

I'm back at it at school . . . yay. Even though I forwent the holiday . . . I ended up eating oatmeal with a side of chicken liver (yeah, I know, its a weird combination) while lounging on the sofa . . . I did enjoy the break that came with it. I stayed up late and woke up early without feeling the repercussions that I would have been allowed if classes were in session. However, there is s half-sort-of downfall: I am now feeling the aftermath of those choices . . . I mean its 1 o'clock and I can't keep my eyes open. Its not natural. I think I'll take a nap.

Smog: How I Remembered That I Really Hated The LAX And Really Loved Those Fluffy White Pillows.

I got back from LA at 10:00 last night. There were a whole bunch of delays at the airport and I had this crazy layover in Denver. I don't know what cause the delays, but I am supposing that it was this thick smoggy, foggy, cloud layer that was laying low over the city. Once the plane went up through it, it looked like gray snow from above, laying peacefully on the ground below with the little peaks of mountainous ridges pushing through. It was kind of beautiful . . . at least until I remember that it wasn't fog but smog.

The airport was just as I remembered it: crazy, dirty, crazy. I was almost glad to get out of their and then onto the plane. Or at least I was until I found out the the plane was packed. Then I took back all of my wishes. Ugh, now I am just sleepy. That two hour time difference took its toll on me. I met up with some other colleagues from the region that I had congregated with in the past, and they were going on and on about going to this place and that place. I finally just had to say "Hey, I've gotta go. Your midnight is my 2 am and I can't handle that right now." Good thing they didn't put up a fight or I would've had to pull out my mean-tired-side.

And, oh, the HOTEL . . . better known as the Kingdom in the Clouds. I have never slept in a bed like that in all of my life. As a po' girl, I sleep in the wagon if I'm on an over night trip . . . the seats fold down . . . or if I really have to I'll go to one of those mold-on-the-walls-bugs-in-the-showers kind of cheap cheap motels. This was not a "cheap cheap motel." This was one those revolving-gold-door-bellhop-in-the-foyer-feather-pillow kind of hotels. The bed was so cushy. I just wanted to wrap myself up in those fluffy white sheets and die (in the good sense).

Hmm . . . I guess I should say something about the lectures and whatnot, but there wasn't anything of interest.

Thanks for 200 Years of Repression

I can't sleep. I was just thinking about how once I get back from LA that I will get to have a break from classes, thanksgiving break. I have resolved that I do not support thanksgiving day. I came to this conclusion a long time ago and have since stopped celebrating the holiday. Here is the reason:

Seeing the basis that the entire holiday was founded, people usually ask me why I am so unpatriotic towards the idea of the genial helping of the natives towards those poor starving Anglos. After long thought I decided that the entire basis of the holiday was and is a sham. As a native person myself (I'm registered through tribe and everything . . . and my native blood is actually the reason Mr. Gates gave me a scholarship,) I feel that it seems a little contradictory for me to support the Anglo in his bountiful celebration provided by the harvest of my people when during the next 200 years, Mr. Anglo would make it his priority to crush out and kill all remnants of my culture. The way I am interpreting it . . . natives gave their harvest as a gift to share (as the story goes) and apparently the Anglos were picky and didn't like it, or maybe they found a hair in their food, so they reaped savage slaughter upon all natives in the coming future (this is the part of the story they don't tell you . . . the curtain just falls as the meal is served and we all assume it worked out fine.) So the question is why would any reasonable person think that I would want to support that?

Why would anyone support the restrictions of a person's rights until the reforms of the 1970's and beyond? Maybe I am just taking the entire issue out of hand, but ever since I was eight and was forced to be subjected in a school play to the stereotypical generalizations that have been and were made about my culture, it just infuriates me a little bit that people always conveniently forget that their thankful nation was built on greed and plundering at the expense of the native peoples. I suppose that is why all those people with Anglo-dominant views towards immigration puzzle me. I just want to say: hey, if you're trying to keep the roots of founding America . . . you might as well go back to Europe as well. However, that's an entirely new issue, in which I have not the time or effort to discuss.

Mr. Gates and the LAX.

I think today is a good time for my yearly thanking of Mr. Gates. Most people think I'm rash for thanking him, seeing as he is a giant corporate mogul, but I have to say that I owe everything in my life to Mr. Gates . . . well maybe not everything, but a lot of most of it. He paid for the entirety of my education, and is still paying for it (thankfully). Therefore I think that for just one day a year, I should thank him for the hundreds of thousands he has devoted towards myself, because I can frankly say that without him I would never have went to college (I couldn't afford it by any means) and would now be stuck at some dead job pushing numbers for some other corporate person that cares even less about my existence.

Oh, and on further note. I'm leaving for LA on Thursday to go to that conference, I hope it is enjoyable (cough, HA) or is at least as enjoyable as Chicago was. I have to say that I am not a big fan of LA, though. Its a boring city to me, no character, no charm, more equivalent to the heart of evil takeover (yeah, I watched that documentary on how LA was born out of the deception towards farmers and the damming of a river that led to the destruction of subsequent miles of farmland . . . it very informative). However, I've actually never been there . . . with exception to the hours I've spent in LAX, on the shuttle to a hotel, and in a hotel. So, I suppose that is what makes it kind of boring. Eh, its all the same isn't it?

What Can I Say . . . Oatmeal?

You know you've sunk low, when for dinner, all there is, is oatmeal . . . and even worse is when you actually start craving it like I did. Ugh. I'm a hopeless case . . . I kind of don't even feel bad saying that I enjoyed it, in all its mushy bliss.

Being a Fruit-Enthusiast.

Now I know, I am very . . . particular . . . about my fruits. I just love them so, which is something that every now and then gets some sort of off hand comment meaning to hit me in the low end by calling me "weird." Being a fruit lover does not make me weird . . . it makes me . . . neurotic. I spent three hours at the market today trying to decide what to get. I was craving a perfect pomegranate but the ones they had were a little too mushy for my taste. The bananas were over-ripe . . . and the kiwi . . . they didn't even merit words. I had to settle for some grapes.

Ah! How I love a good grape! They must be some semblance of a heaven on earth. I went with a bag of red Concords. I also picked up some blueberries. I had some on the ride home . . . delicious. I was planning on smashing some up with a bit of pomegranate (but you see how that worked out) to make quite a fruitful (HA) smoothie, seeing how that's the new fruit trend these days. Yesterday it was strawberry-banana (yeck!) and today all I'm am seeing on the the shelves of fruit juices is something with a blend of blueberry-pomegranate.

I don't know what the deal is. I can't believe I am actually rambling about fruit. I've lost it. Oh yeah, I put in some good pictures. They make my mouth water.

"Death of the Moth" by Woolf.

Moths that fly by day are not properly to be called moths; they do not excite that pleasant sense of dark autumn nights and ivy–blossom which the commonest yellow–underwing asleep in the shadow of the curtain never fails to rouse in us. They are hybrid creatures, neither gay like butterflies nor sombre like their own species. Nevertheless the present specimen, with his narrow hay–coloured wings, fringed with a tassel of the same colour, seemed to be content with life. It was a pleasant morning, mid–September, mild, benignant, yet with a keener breath than that of the summer months. The plough was already scoring the field opposite the window, and where the share had been, the earth was pressed flat and gleamed with moisture. Such vigour came rolling in from the fields and the down beyond that it was difficult to keep the eyes strictly turned upon the book. The rooks too were keeping one of their annual festivities; soaring round the tree tops until it looked as if a vast net with thousands of black knots in it had been cast up into the air; which, after a few moments sank slowly down upon the trees until every twig seemed to have a knot at the end of it. Then, suddenly, the net would be thrown into the air again in a wider circle this time, with the utmost clamour and vociferation, as though to be thrown into the air and settle slowly down upon the tree tops were a tremendously exciting experience.

The same energy which inspired the rooks, the ploughmen, the horses, and even, it seemed, the lean bare–backed downs, sent the moth fluttering from side to side of his square of the window–pane. One could not help watching him. One was, indeed, conscious of a queer feeling of pity for him. The possibilities of pleasure seemed that morning so enormous and so various that to have only a moth’s part in life, and a day moth’s at that, appeared a hard fate, and his zest in enjoying his meagre opportunities to the full, pathetic. He flew vigorously to one corner of his compartment, and, after waiting there a second, flew across to the other. What remained for him but to fly to a third corner and then to a fourth? That was all he could do, in spite of the size of the downs, the width of the sky, the far–off smoke of houses, and the romantic voice, now and then, of a steamer out at sea. What he could do he did. Watching him, it seemed as if a fibre, very thin but pure, of the enormous energy of the world had been thrust into his frail and diminutive body. As often as he crossed the pane, I could fancy that a thread of vital light became visible. He was little or nothing but life.

Yet, because he was so small, and so simple a form of the energy that was rolling in at the open window and driving its way through so many narrow and intricate corridors in my own brain and in those of other human beings, there was something marvellous as well as pathetic about him. It was as if someone had taken a tiny bead of pure life and decking it as lightly as possible with down and feathers, had set it dancing and zig–zagging to show us the true nature of life. Thus displayed one could not get over the strangeness of it. One is apt to forget all about life, seeing it humped and bossed and garnished and cumbered so that it has to move with the greatest circumspection and dignity. Again, the thought of all that life might have been had he been born in any other shape caused one to view his simple activities with a kind of pity.

After a time, tired by his dancing apparently, he settled on the window ledge in the sun, and, the queer spectacle being at an end, I forgot about him. Then, looking up, my eye was caught by him. He was trying to resume his dancing, but seemed either so stiff or so awkward that he could only flutter to the bottom of the window–pane; and when he tried to fly across it he failed. Being intent on other matters I watched these futile attempts for a time without thinking, unconsciously waiting for him to resume his flight, as one waits for a machine, that has stopped momentarily, to start again without considering the reason of its failure. After perhaps a seventh attempt he slipped from the wooden ledge and fell, fluttering his wings, on to his back on the window sill. The helplessness of his attitude roused me. It flashed upon me that he was in difficulties; he could no longer raise himself; his legs struggled vainly. But, as I stretched out a pencil, meaning to help him to right himself, it came over me that the failure and awkwardness were the approach of death. I laid the pencil down again.

The legs agitated themselves once more. I looked as if for the enemy against which he struggled. I looked out of doors. What had happened there? Presumably it was midday, and work in the fields had stopped. Stillness and quiet had replaced the previous animation. The birds had taken themselves off to feed in the brooks. The horses stood still. Yet the power was there all the same, massed outside indifferent, impersonal, not attending to anything in particular. Somehow it was opposed to the little hay–coloured moth. It was useless to try to do anything. One could only watch the extraordinary efforts made by those tiny legs against an oncoming doom which could, had it chosen, have submerged an entire city, not merely a city, but masses of human beings; nothing, I knew, had any chance against death. Nevertheless after a pause of exhaustion the legs fluttered again. It was superb this last protest, and so frantic that he succeeded at last in righting himself. One’s sympathies, of course, were all on the side of life. Also, when there was nobody to care or to know, this gigantic effort on the part of an insignificant little moth, against a power of such magnitude, to retain what no one else valued or desired to keep, moved one strangely. Again, somehow, one saw life, a pure bead. I lifted the pencil again, useless though I knew it to be. But even as I did so, the unmistakable tokens of death showed themselves. The body relaxed, and instantly grew stiff. The struggle was over. The insignificant little creature now knew death. As I looked at the dead moth, this minute wayside triumph of so great a force over so mean an antagonist filled me with wonder. Just as life had been strange a few minutes before, so death was now as strange. The moth having righted himself now lay most decently and uncomplainingly composed. O yes, he seemed to say, death is stronger than I am.

I thought that I would post this since I really liked it. Virginia Woolf inspires me in some . . . unknown way. I think it has something to do with her ability to use words in a way that I could never imagine to use them. They flow through with her voice in such an indescribable way.

SEE.

So yeah. Things haven't gotten any better . . . actually worse since the end of the semester is approaching and now everything is turning into crunch and cram time. To kind of lessen this strain on myself . . . (otherwise make myself think the strain is less) . . . I provided a nice pretty picture with this post. See, isn't it nice? It is a bit of work done by William S. Burroughs (yeah, I know, the writer . . . turned artist . . . artist in the later years of his life) . . . . . . (He used to take shotguns and shoot paint cans onto canvases . . . and then scribble a little bit on top.)

. . . I am knitting a hat to stay focused.

Hiya. I have been in a hole lately. I don't know why. Its just like everything was on the top of the world and then, BAM, the big crunch happens and everything wiped out. I think I have pinpointed the cause. A certain someone admitted certain "emotions" and well . . . that created a muddle. . . seeing how it makes me obligated to return said "emotions." The problem: I gave up on "emotions" a long time ago, too much of a hassle, so I became aemotional towards everyone ( . . . get the tricksy wordplay? its not a typo . . . ) I told said person about this and he thinks I'm lying, I believe the phrase was "jeez, if you're going to lie to me at least make-up a believable story . . . what do you take me for, a stupid?" It kind of sucks.

On a good note, however, I get to go to a conference in Los Angeles in two weeks. Exciting.