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Crush enemies, abandon hope, and unleash endless waves of unrepentant sarcasm. |
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There's nothing to see here that's really out of the ordinary. Nothing really terribly interesting either, unless you like griping, gossip, grudges, and possible mental illness. If anything it's some small way to keep myself writing (though you'll see by the dates on the entries that it's by no means an effective way), as well as a means through which I can vent about any number of things that are pissing me off. Occasionally there's pie. Look: I'm not a normal person. I'm suffering from untreated depression and plagued by increasingly frequent migraines that pretty much render me bedridden for days. I've suffered a lifetime of abuse and neglect, and still have to struggle with unfathomable depths of low self-worth, not to mention the eating disorders. I'm a weirdo, a freak, an aberration of nature and human experience . . . but it doesn't make me interesting. So, you can read this if you want. I've got some social commentary that might be a little fun, and occasionally throw in a poem or two, but for the most part it's the ramblings of a stricken mind. Pay no attention to the woman behind the curtain; she's just trying to change her dress. |
| It's not hard to fly a plane: push the stick forward and the houses get larger. Pull it back and they get farther away, unless you pull it back too far, too quickly, in which case the houses get really large really fast. |
| So we had the holdiay concert last night. The orchestra sounded, as always, fantastic. The choir was tossed into Theaterspace, so we didn't get to hear any of the other performances. I weep, because some of the stuff that was "run" (meaning, started for the first few bars then stopped) during dress rehersal was just beautiful. I did not want to miss chamber orchestra! But, I did. Oh well. I can't say that I will miss the Poulenc. That song just feels angry. I will certainly not miss standing still for so long until any slight shift in weight sends daggers into every joint in my body. I can't help but feel for the older women in the choir; Mindy and Mary and that alto whose name I haven't caught yet, they have got to be suffering. I spoke with the alto is question, the one who looks like a mom (she does!), and she told me that she has osteoarthritis. She only mentioned her hands, but it also might affect the lower parts of her body. Of course, they might be smarter than me in terms of footware, but standing, standing, standing must be wreaking havoc with their knees. There is also an older gentleman in chorale, but I don't care about too much. He's not nice like the ladies, and besides that he was the guy who stood freakishly close to me during rehearsal for "Make Our Garden Grow." But, chorus is over for about a month. I saw Bradley's mom afterward. She did not recognize me from Brad's little thingy at Barnes and Noble nor from move-in day this semester, which made me sad. I think I gave her the wrong impression, though; she wanted to show off her new (used) car and offered to take Brad to dinner. She asked Thomas Sebastian and myself if we wanted to come. I declined, mostly because I like to know the parent a little better before I start getting chummy with them, also because I had no money on me (and she has to pay enough to get Brad through school), and I told myself I was going to do some work (*hack* sorry, just choked on my soda). But she asked if she had interrupted dinner plans between myself and Bradley* and asked if I was going to let him off the hook. I hope my presence leading up to these comments did not embarass Bradley. At any rate, my knees can now rest! I tried to catch a falling star, but all I got was this damn pixie. * Dear Readers Who Have Left Long Ago Or Have Not Entered College: A "dinner plan" for those of us who indulge in the on-campus lifestyle consists of walking to the area where food is prepared, splitting up to purchase what delectables attract our fancy,** and possibly walking back to the dormitory together. ** I'm actually lying; there's nothing delectable about college menus. |
| So, poetry is dead in our society. Not the American dead where all brain activity has ceased and the bacteria that digests food starts digesting the body from the inside out, more like the pygmy dead where a raging fever has caused the person to sink into a stupor from which they may recover, but it's still serious. See, the thing is, people like to progress by moving on to newer and more innovative things, but they forget that which came before. That's fine, if we're talking about diapers or vaccuum cleaners, but when it comes to art, such an approach robs us of some of the wonder and color of life. In favor of free verse and slam poetry, not to mention a heavy emphasis on politcal topics, Usa (as I fondly call the United States of America, which does not comprise of South America, Central America, and the part of North America that holds Canada) has been neglecting, for some time, the art of limerick. Not to say that contemporary poetry is of any less value or merit, I merely believe that no art form should be forgotten or neglected. Thus, I have come up with a way to bring the limerick back into the literary world as something other than a quaint, antiquated rhyme sceme covered only in literary history classes. I intend to write a book of poetry, comprised completely of limericks . . . limericks about yaks. Yes. Yaks. In keeping with limerick tradition of absurdity, I intend to focus on all topics about, for, illustrating, pertaining to, and vaguely related to yaks. Keep in mind that I will not be focusing on yaks as they naturally occur (listen to me, talking like yaks are an isotope), but rather that I will use a bit of imagination to make yaks appear in my poems as they do not in nature. I also hope, once this project is complete, to begin anew with a book of limericks (or perhaps another form of poetry not used much anymore) about a different animal. But yes: limericks about yaks. I know it sounds crazy, and it probably is. But hey, don't judge: I'm doing the world of poetry a service. I'm bringing lim'ricks back, one species at a time. I tried to catch a falling star, but all I got was this damn pixie. |
| Hello once again! You know, there are a lot of things that interest me: space travel, animals, food (normal AND bizarre, no thanks to Andrew Zimmern and that show I can't stop watching), sex (it's a fascination/fear kinda interest), politics, and innovative ideas. Really, I like to learn about everything. Sometimes, though, I learn things that I don't agree with, or particularly like. Sometimes, I read things that I find downright fucked up. For instance, check out this story I found on Crooksandliars.com: For green burials, the United States has at least six cemeteries that require biodegradable casings and for bodies to be free of embalming chemicals. The Forever Fernwood cemetery in Mill Valley, Calif., goes even further, according to an October Los Angeles Times story, banning grave markers, but, said the owner, “We issue the family a Google map with the GPS coordinates” so they can find their loved one. Okay, now this is just stupid. Number one, I’d like to know what is wrong with ROCK, which is a naturally occurring abiotic factor found in every environmental niche everywhere in the world, being used for grave markers. Maybe they are upset over the mining process through which stone for markers is obtained, but hey: stone quarries are not worse for the environment than say, growing lots of corn in the same field year after year for ethanol. Depleting soil versus taking soil away . . . not that big of a difference. Number two, yes, metal coffins, pointless as they are (most of them buckle and crack under the weight of the earth) are not exactly bidogradeable, but there’s nothing in metal, even processed metal, that isn’t already naturally occurring. I can think of rust being a cause for concern for some people, but they need to take geology; any kind of red soil gets its coloration from oxidation, and red clay isn’t exactly barren. Number three, if there’s concern about polluting ground water, map out burial sites to make sure the water table is below a certain depth, possibly add special soil, and dump the bodies in the ground; the soil will filter the water naturally. Embalming fluid might be a BIT of a problem, but I repeat: there’s nothing produced by decaying matter that’s new to the environment. If death juice were an environmental hazard, the planet would have been devoid of greenery by the early Triassic. I hate to say it, but it's shit like this that make people less likely to give a rat's ass about the environment. When people take such an extremist (and for those of us who've taken geology know, misguided) approach to solving a problem, the only people who will go along with it are other extremists. Moderates and thinkers (aka, the non-joiner types) who might support a cause such as stopping global warming are likely to see this and back away, possibly from all environmental causes. By going too far, too fast, the cause has been hurt. I tried to catch a falling star, but all I got was this damn pixie. |
| So anyway, I've been slaving away this past semester trying to juggle German with English 302 and the occassional hard-as-hell anthropology exam (hey, essay exams in which half the credit goes to information not asked in the question are REALLY hard!). I'll admit: I'm tired. I'm really really freaking tired of assignments and papers and presentations every week. Thus, when I was told I needed to write a ten-page paper detailing a fake grant proposal, I wasn't in the mood to deal with more research about more topics with which I am wholly unfamiliar. I wanted something interesting, something fun, and something that, for the most part, I could pull out of my ass without bothering to search for books to give me citable information. In addition to that, I wanted something that was halfway fun to talk about for TEN FUCKING PAGES. Nevermind that I could easily fill it up with information about how I will conduct my research and the places I can go and the people I can meet, it's still ten-freaking-pages. So I put on my thinking cap about something that might be mildly interesting to talk about. First I came up with the Clovis people, and a desire to track changes in stone and bone tools through Paleoamerican history. But, that's an assload of research I have to do before the end of the semester, which is about two weeks away. And that doesn't include the rough draft date which is, well, tomorrow*. So, I went with another topic, and you won't freaking believe that I plan to write a grant proposal that, though it will not be sent out, on this theory. My hypothesis: that aliens are a contemporary substitute for fairies in a world where nature's laws have been explained and the mysteries of moors, mountains, and forests are no more. My proof: alien abduction stories bearing immense similarities to stories of fairy abductions, including the theme of breeding with humans to strengthen the race; I tried to catch a falling star, but all I got was this damn pixie. * Actually, my professor is currently stranded in another country due to poor weather (actually the weather is fantastic, just not for flying), and therefore tomorrow's class at the very least is canceled |
| So I'm standing in line at the Taco Bell (Express) today, wondering why the wait is so long when only four people are ahead of me, when a gentleman talking on his cell phone moved his conversation to games. Not the "You sank my battleship!" games, or the "Jenga" games, or even the "I'm going to use my Llanowar Elves against your Goblins" games. No, the good ol' "I will kill things in a graphic manner" games. It started off as a convo about the new Mario game. I was interested at first, but honestly? A game where one person controls Mario and the other picks things up for Mario doesn't do it for me. But then he said something really interesting: apparently, Oblivion has made Game of the Year status . . . and the GotY edition is now out in stores. You must understand: not only are we talking about the game, which I've been told is at least twice as awesome as Morrowind (und Morrowind ist uber sehr toll [over very awesome]), BUT it also comes with all expansions FREE, all downloadable stuff FREE, which means like, an additional 200 hours worth of playtime (for completion of the game, that is; you can still play after all is said and done). So, yeah: Lyssa is excited. I tried to catch a falling star, but all I got was this damn pixie. |
| Why is it always so bleeding cold in the morning when I first get out of bed? No wonder I've been getting late starts this past week; it takes me twenty minutes just to achieve equalibrium with the surrounding atmosphere. But anyway, I had this AWESOME dream before my fucking alarm woke me (that just HAS to be the case, doesn't it?). It starts off normal, me and some of the Brunswick people talking about The Land Before Time series, and somebody mentioned that they should have stopped making the movies after the second one, and another person argued that the first film should have been the last. Then I started thinking about the first film, where Littlefoot is hanging out with his mother. During the dream, I thought that the reason Littlefoot's mother had died and he had to get to the Great Valley was because of a massive meteorite striking not far from where they were (wasn't it a "Sharptooth" attack and an "Earthshake" or something? I don't remember). Littlefoot's mother sees the cloud, presumably pyroclastic material (even though it was a meteorite and not a volcano), and screams for him to run. Why she doesn't run, I do not know. At this point, observer merges with that which is observed, and I was running frantically through a meadow with a lot of other people to escape the gas cloud. For some reason, I was not as afraid as I should have been. Then we ran into a forest which was very similar to the forest I reported in my last dream entry. I wasn't frightened at all by that time; it seemed to be a fitting end to die in the forest, and it would be pretty, too. Around this time, I became somewhat familiar with the people running around me. This one guy kept saying, "I'm Bob" for no apparent reason (at the time I thought he was trying to make friends so they could make a stand against the gas). There was a woman who was either a teacher or a scientist of some kind, and a young girl was with her, not her daughter I do not think, but I began to associate the two as going toether. I wanted to be friends with the girl, who seemed about 18. And so it went on, all of us running for our lives against a polyclastic cloud which seemed to have all the persistence of Micheal Myers and Jason Vorhees in its ability to keep finding us. So many times we thought we had outrun it, only to find the gas just around the next corner. For some reason, when the gas was not in site, we had gotten to some public place of business, maybe a mall, and the group of people I was in split up. "Bob" and the woman he was running with went one way, and being just behind them, I followed. I looked back and realized that the teacher and the girl had gone the other way, and I wanted to follow. Bob and the woman yelled at me for being foolish, but I wanted to be with the smart woman, wanted to fight by her side. They were really far away, but I tried to catch up. Suddenly, as they were turning onto a field, the gas came pouring out from behind the building. They tried to run away, but I think they were consumed. I wept and continued to run with Bob and his chick. At some point, we entered a military base that was accepting survivors and giving them protection. We had to go through a search before they would let us enter the "special" part where we would be safe and tests would be done on us to determine whether the gas had harmed us in any way. Basically, we had to strip, in turn, in front of the army guy and everyone in line for entry. It was a really asinine method: shoes came off easily enough, but we had to go through all these steps to get the rest of our clothes off, including pulling our shirts up, tugging them at the back to make them snug against our chests, and pushing our boobs together for ladies and fat guys. But something happened, and we were all told to get inside as quickly as we could. We all started milling around and chatting if we felt like it; most people went futher down the white, shiny hallway to see what doors were down there. One guy was talking to a kid who apparently was his son, and he seemed angry until the kid said he loved him. Then a nurse doing paperwork started scratching her arms and tugging at her shirt (by this time I realized that the gas caused the skin to get irritated and to feel tight). She collapsed, and the father grabbed his kid and they huddled against the wall. Pieces of masonry started falling from the ceiling, and then a flying beast broke through. It screeched and took off after the people down the hallway, missing me somehow. I went down after a few moments and saw a lot of dead people, one with part of the top of her head missing, some with their chests clawed open, and so forth. Suddenly, I knew that it wouldn't miss me, and that I was about to die. Then, the alarm went off. It's a shame; I really wanted to know whether or not I would survive. I tried to catch a falling star, but all I got was this damn pixie. |
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