I am a terrible college student, made evident by this crappy little forward (found in the title link) that I received in my Inbox this afternoon... gee whiz Dad, you are such a riot. Allow me to explain:
I- Thou Shalt Nap- I don't nap. It takes me about 2 hours to fall asleep, I can't stop worrying about things. I think I suffer from an anxiety disorder. I haven't seen a doctor or anything, but seeing commercials and playing with WebMD have made up my mind. Fortunately I don't have class until 10, so I'm able to get in some sleep, but insomnia gets old.
II- Thou Shalt Get Sick All the Time-I haven't been sick yet this year. Well, at least not physically. I did have a few manic episodes and had a few seizures, but they were just side-effects of the anti-depressants. (I've since stopped taking them because I was sick of the side effects, and everything seems to be fine.) I think I got food poisoning once from cafeteria food, but other than that, I've had a clean bill of health.
III- Thou Shalt Write Witty Away Messages-My away messages are song lyrics or quotes from poems. Sometimes they deal with my actual actions, like a quote from Faustus when I'm at class (lay that damned book aside/ and gaze not on it, lest it tempt thy soul/ and heap Gods heavy wrath upon thy head), or a Morrissey lyric when I'm asleep (last night i dreamt/ that somebody loved me/ no hope, no harm/ just another false alarm), but usually they're just witty sayings. I've never set an away message as stupid as the examples given, like "getting wet and wild....IN THE SHOWER!" I mean, ick.
IV- Thou Shalt Wear a Hoodie-I wore a hoodie occasionally in high school, but never as obsessively compulsive as the example. I now usually wear fitted t-shirts or dress shirts with jeans.
V- Thou Shalt Shit a Lot-I defecate just fine, thank you for asking... which reminds me--apparently Gandhi didn't ask people how they were feeling, he asked "Have you had a good bowel movement this morning?" (9th paragraph). I've got nothing to say to that.
VI- Thou Shalt Eat EasyMac-I've only eaten EasyMac once, inbetween matinees of "You Can't Take It With You," and haven't eaten any since. I usually eat hummus on tortillas or cheese Ritz Bits when I'm snacking, and I've had Ramen once or twice for a meal, but no EasyMac.
VII- Thou Shalt Hook Up-Just what kind of guy do you think I am? Unfortunately, I'm not that kind. It gets old, these Puritan morals of mine. I really want to, but I just can't--I bet it stems from the anxiety. It's been almost 5 months, and it's getting real old.
VIII- Thou Shalt Join a Club and Never Go to Meetings-I've joined a few clubs, but some haven't had any meetings yet. I wish I were exaggerating. On Earth Day, there was an email sent out to the Green Club, Students Sierra, HOPE (Help our Planet Earth), Progressive, and a few other eco-clubs, angry because none of the groups had met more than twice (and for the Green Club, the second meeting was a kegger). I went to a few English club meetings in October, but I was the only person to show up. I was at the right place, since there was a sign on the door, no one else showed up. Even though it looks like they've started up again (and planning crappy t-shirts), I didn't attend. I tried going to the GSA on campus, but each time I went, the activity was the president reading a few news articles aloud to the group. One time we watched a crappy copy of a news story on gay marriage, and I don't have the patience to sit through crappy meetings. But I did make an effort, until Pride Week pissed me off.
IX- Thou Shalt Wake Up Confused-I wake up fully aware of my surroundings. The air mattress helps with that. Plus I rarely drink, and never to excess, so I'm in control.
X- Thou Shalt Gain Weight-Actually, I lost weight. I lost 12 pounds the first two weeks of school. I didn't make any friends, and felt uncomfortable eating in the cafeteria alone. With the help of medicine, I've since regained my old weight and have gotten used to eating alone.
Wow that sounds pathetic.
Then again, I'm posting on a Friday night. It doesn't get much more pathetic than that.
April 30, 2004
April 29, 2004
As for me, I am a watercolor.
I wash off.
Well...your alter poet is Sexton...not nearly as
bad as Plath...but still...CHEER UP, JEEEEEZ!
Who is Your Alter Poet?(Quizilla)
It's almost the end of National Poetry Month, so I figured I'd take a quiz to find out which poet I am, and wrap up this month's theme. And I'm a confessional (i.e. suicidal) poet forever to be upstaged by Plath.
Then again, I'm a model and I won the Pulitzer. You don't see Louise Gluck or Charles Simic walking down any runways, now do you? Nor do you see Gisele or Marcus Schenkenberg forming coherent sentences. I'm pretty and smart-- it's a shame that I'll have to go insane, since I'm such a catch.
Next month should prove to be a lot of fun...
April 28, 2004
next to of course god america i
"next to of course god america i
love you land of the pilgrims' and so forth oh
say can you see by the dawn's early my
country tis of centuries come and go
and are no more what of it we should worry
in every language even deafanddumb
thy sons acclaim your glorious name by gorry
by jingo by gee by gosh by gum
why talk of beauty what could be more beaut-
iful than these heroic happy dead
who rushed like lions to the roaring slaughter
they did not stop to think they died instead
then shall the voice of liberty be mute?"
He spoke. And drank rapidly a glass of water
I'm up late and can't seem to get to sleep. I don't know what's causing this anxiety that's triggering the insomnia, but it's getting on my nerves, since I have a test tomorrow. I'm not worried about the test; it's just an in-class essay on a William Carlos Williams story. The symbolism is really blatant (technology vs. humanity), and that's the only thing that the professor cares about.
Anyways, since I can't sleep and the roommate is gone, I started alternating between news and informericals (nothing else is on), and noticed the similarities. I usually don't associate poetry when watching TV, but for some reason this little sonnet from Cummings popped into my head, and since it's National Poetry Month, I've posted it.
I am such an English major.
I've been waking up with
a monster of a backache lately. We're talking shoulders of concrete, a spine like a dried twig, and a lower back on which you could grate cheese. (I sound like a rejected Marvel superhero, don't I?)
I know what the problem is, and yet I'm doing nothing to remedy the situation. I'm sure some of my pain is the fault of the school sanctioned industrial cots, I don't think that's it's the source of all the problems--I bought an air mattress a few months ago, and while it's not great, it's better than the cot.
The problem is my body pillow. I sleep with a body pillow, and fall asleepdry-humping spooning it. Sometimes I even spray a little bit of my ex's deodorant so it smells like him (yes, I am that sweet pathetic). I contort myself into some awkward positions. I'm a big fan of sleeping in this position, because I'm a big cuddler, but because it's a pillow and not an actual person, I wake up almost cradling it between my arms and legs.
My ex and I used to sleep like this, which I really liked. Especially for the first few months here at school, I was a wreck because I hated it so much (I still do, but at least I'm getting used to it by now), and I always felt secure and safe in his arms. Aww....vomit.
Slowly but surely it turned more and more into this position, with me doing the 'illegal spooning,' which I suppose I should have taken as a sign. Now he sleeps in a different time zone, and I'm taking advantage of pillows in my sleep.
My roommate hasn't mentioned any moaning or groaning yet, so I think I'm fine, but if I wake up with a sticky pillow, I'm going to need to make some changes, post haste.
I know what the problem is, and yet I'm doing nothing to remedy the situation. I'm sure some of my pain is the fault of the school sanctioned industrial cots, I don't think that's it's the source of all the problems--I bought an air mattress a few months ago, and while it's not great, it's better than the cot.
The problem is my body pillow. I sleep with a body pillow, and fall asleep
My ex and I used to sleep like this, which I really liked. Especially for the first few months here at school, I was a wreck because I hated it so much (I still do, but at least I'm getting used to it by now), and I always felt secure and safe in his arms. Aww....vomit.
Slowly but surely it turned more and more into this position, with me doing the 'illegal spooning,' which I suppose I should have taken as a sign. Now he sleeps in a different time zone, and I'm taking advantage of pillows in my sleep.
My roommate hasn't mentioned any moaning or groaning yet, so I think I'm fine, but if I wake up with a sticky pillow, I'm going to need to make some changes, post haste.
April 27, 2004
No longer afraid of Virginia Woolf
The writer seems constrained, but not by his own free will but by some powerful and unscrupulous tyrant who has him in thrall, to provide a plot, to provide comedy, tragedy, love interest, and an air of probability embalming the whole so impeccable that if all his figures were to come to life they would find themselves dressed down to the last button of their coats in the fashion of the hour. The tyrant is obeyed; the [blog] is done to a turn. But sometimes, more and more often as time goes by, we suspect a momentary doubt, a spasm of rebellion, as the pages fill themselves in the customary way. Is life like this? Must [blogs] be like this?
Look within and life, it seems, is very far from being ‘like this’. Examine for a moment an ordinary mind on an ordinary day. The mind receives a myriad impressions-trivial, fantastic, evanescent, or engraved with the sharpness of steel. From all sides they come, an incessant shower of innumerable atoms; and as they fall, as they shape themselves into the life of Monday or Tuesday, the accent falls differently from of old; so that, if a writer were a free man and not a slave, if he could write what he chose, not what he must, if he could base his work upon his own feeling and no upon convention, there would be no plot, no comedy, no tragedy, no love interest of catastrophe in the accepted style.... We are not pleading merely for courage and sincerity; we are suggesting that the proper stuff of fiction is a little other than custom would have us believe it.
I forget where, but I vaguely remember someone writing something calling Virginia Woolf the patron saint of bloggers. I'm not a big fan of her novels (or of any modern novels, really), so I dismissed the person's post. Now that I'm reading some of her essays and critiques of literature, I can understand the connection. If I substitute blog for novel, as I've done in the quote above, it elucidates some of the problems I have with blogging, with how much information to give away, how much I should make my posts like my life, whether to provide comedy and tragedy or mere realism, whether I'm writing for myself or for an audience, little short stories as they are happening or small parts of a whole story, etc....
I just realized that blog posts about blog posts always bore me, so I'll end now.
April 26, 2004
Adventures in Pride Week, pt. 1
Tonight kicked off Pride Week here at school. This evening's festivity was a stereotype fashion show, where people dressed up as various stereotypes and lip synched to bad remixes.
There's nothing like an overweight drag queen lip synching (badly) to the Queer Eye theme song to remind you why people hate gays so much.
It was the extended version of the song.
Things went downhill from there.
I won't mention lighting or technical problems, but needless to say the gross incompetence when it comes to hanging lights and working a sound board aggravated my disgust.
I'm not sure what a "SM Leather God" is. I've heard of S&M Leather Daddies, but I've never heard of a "leather god." Even google is mysteriously silent on the issue.
For the lesbian part of the show, someone in a Hawaiian shirt and baggy pants walked around the stage, lackadaisically swinging a baseball bat to a Pink song. For the entire song. No lip synching, no dancing, nothing. They walked across the stage to the song. It got old.
If they're going to play Bitch and Animal, they probably shouldn't play two of their songs in a row; they tend to go a few minutes longer than they should, in my opinion. Also, if they're going to play a Bitch and Animal song about drag kings, they probably should have played, you know, the song about drag kings, instead of the one about dildos. There's a difference between dildos and drag kings...
When they announced "Raver Boy" I thought that they meant Circuit Queens, but it turns out it was an excuse to copy some fashion from Vice Magazine's 'don't' list.
Apparently, suicidal, gothic, druggie, alcoholic, and closeted youth have the exact same characteristics, and there's little distinction. Who knew?
There were a fair amount of gay stereotypes not represented, including big ones like twink, bear, AIDS, sugar daddy, chickenhawk/chicken, butch, lipstick lesbian, and rice queen. But there was a lesbian gym teacher represented, so I guess that makes up for it.
All of these are mild annoyances, for the most part. I wouldn't feel inspired to write this post if these were the only things that annoyed me. There's one more that really, really, really annoyed the hell out of me.
Straight Acting Gays. I wish I could remember the exact words, but I remember certain phrases, like "People who are straight acting hate all gays and hate the fact that they are gay. They find other gay people repulsive and refuse to associate with others gays. They closet themselves and refuse to admit they are gay." They were dangerously close to saying "Straight Acting Gays are the equivalent of black members of the KKK." I'm somewhere inbetween straight acting and twink, when it comes to stereotypes (though I'd rather be a person and not a fetish), so I was pretty miffed.
That was when I decided to go back into the closet for a while.
No more Morrissey, no more girls pants, no Calvin Klein shirts or expensive shoes, no hair product, no Tori Amos, no properly fitting tshirts, no Queer Eye, no Dudes off Campus, no singing in the shower, no reading the arts section of the NYTimes, nothing.
(Then again, I haven't gotten any action of any sort since November, so if there's an opportunity, all bets are off.)
There's nothing like an overweight drag queen lip synching (badly) to the Queer Eye theme song to remind you why people hate gays so much.
It was the extended version of the song.
Things went downhill from there.
I won't mention lighting or technical problems, but needless to say the gross incompetence when it comes to hanging lights and working a sound board aggravated my disgust.
I'm not sure what a "SM Leather God" is. I've heard of S&M Leather Daddies, but I've never heard of a "leather god." Even google is mysteriously silent on the issue.
For the lesbian part of the show, someone in a Hawaiian shirt and baggy pants walked around the stage, lackadaisically swinging a baseball bat to a Pink song. For the entire song. No lip synching, no dancing, nothing. They walked across the stage to the song. It got old.
If they're going to play Bitch and Animal, they probably shouldn't play two of their songs in a row; they tend to go a few minutes longer than they should, in my opinion. Also, if they're going to play a Bitch and Animal song about drag kings, they probably should have played, you know, the song about drag kings, instead of the one about dildos. There's a difference between dildos and drag kings...
When they announced "Raver Boy" I thought that they meant Circuit Queens, but it turns out it was an excuse to copy some fashion from Vice Magazine's 'don't' list.
Apparently, suicidal, gothic, druggie, alcoholic, and closeted youth have the exact same characteristics, and there's little distinction. Who knew?
There were a fair amount of gay stereotypes not represented, including big ones like twink, bear, AIDS, sugar daddy, chickenhawk/chicken, butch, lipstick lesbian, and rice queen. But there was a lesbian gym teacher represented, so I guess that makes up for it.
All of these are mild annoyances, for the most part. I wouldn't feel inspired to write this post if these were the only things that annoyed me. There's one more that really, really, really annoyed the hell out of me.
Straight Acting Gays. I wish I could remember the exact words, but I remember certain phrases, like "People who are straight acting hate all gays and hate the fact that they are gay. They find other gay people repulsive and refuse to associate with others gays. They closet themselves and refuse to admit they are gay." They were dangerously close to saying "Straight Acting Gays are the equivalent of black members of the KKK." I'm somewhere inbetween straight acting and twink, when it comes to stereotypes (though I'd rather be a person and not a fetish), so I was pretty miffed.
That was when I decided to go back into the closet for a while.
No more Morrissey, no more girls pants, no Calvin Klein shirts or expensive shoes, no hair product, no Tori Amos, no properly fitting tshirts, no Queer Eye, no Dudes off Campus, no singing in the shower, no reading the arts section of the NYTimes, nothing.
(Then again, I haven't gotten any action of any sort since November, so if there's an opportunity, all bets are off.)
Music meme: entire music collection randomized, first ten songs, with brief explications.
1. Shostakovich-Liberated Dresden-I love how political his works are. I don't associate classical music with political activism, but Shostakovich put himself on the line for his music, to the point where Stalin viewed him as a threat to the state. The greatest, most haunted, and most compelling 20th Century composer, I wouldn't be surprised if he were called the first punk rocker. The ending, an acerbic twist on "Ode to Joy," is one of my favourite moments in classical music. That isn't saying much, since I'm not well versed in classical, but still. I always want to write political songs/poetry, but they always turn out preachy and diatribic, so I have the utmost regard for people who can.
2. Bad Astronaut-Needle In the Hay-I downloaded this song because the original by Elliott Smith is one of my favourites of his. This pop-punk cover isn't bad, but it doesn't evoke the same provacative, stark, spooky atmosphere of Elliott's version. Elliott's version always makes me teary-eyed, and so the fact that I can mosh to it is disconcerning.
3. PJ Harvey-Snake-The 4-Track Demos version. I'm not that big a fan of this version of the song-the anger doesn't seem to be as focused as it is in the actual cd, and she sounds more constipated than ailing when she moans. I have a poster of her on the wall above my bed, and the sound of that gorgeous thing making such an ugly noise doesn't help the fantasies.
4. DJ Assault- Ass n Titties-The most catchy song in human existance. I had never heard the song until my friend Mel sang it in the car, and even her a cappella rendition while speeding down College Ave embedded itself in my head. I used to sing this song to myself while walking down the halls of my high school before I had heard the song. This raunchy electroclashesque song, with lyrics like "Stanky-ass bitches who need to wash up/Don't get mad if I don't want to fuck/You need soap and water/Soap and water" is a great booty shaker. I always put this on mix cds when I'm trying to impress the fellas and the ladies.
5. Patti Smith-Gloria-One of my favourite covers of all time. This proto-punk landmark, with its false ending, sizzles and rocks; the perfect way to spice up an old Van Morrisson song, with one of the greatest opening lines in rock history: "Jesus died for somebody's sins but not mine." Her androgynous picture on the album's cover (shot by Mapplethorpe) was one of my first exposures to females who didn't dress feminine.
6. Wheatus-Hump'em, Dump'em-A catchy song. I always thought that the title--"Here we go again, another hump 'em and dump 'em situation"--would make a good blog post title, but unfortunately I've never had the opportunity to use it. I think an instrumental version of this song is used for the theme song to Jackie Chan Adventures, which either makes the song cooler or lamer. I can't decide which.
7. Plastic Bertrand-Ca Plane Pour Moi-French surrealistic punk. My French is pretty atrocious, but I can understand some lines--4 colours going hop! in the gutter? Very pop punk, with a go-go like beat. My best friend Kat used to quote the song in class when the teacher asked a question and she didn't know the answer. "Et que la colle me manquera, Mme. Cimbalo."
8. Svelte-Five Alive-More pop-punk, this time about the joys of Five Alive. I don't like the juice, but I like the song. "You like 5-Alive and I like you. You like 5-Alive and you're cool.... I want to have some after school with you." How sweet. This song was originally given to me by a girl I dated in high school; it was her favourite band because they weren't 'scary,' like the music I listened to.
9. The Wild Party-Gin (Wild)-Showstopper from the Broadway show. A huge hodge podge of the songs, compiled into a dizzying, drunken frenzy. One of my favourite songs from a musical. When I was stage managing the kids show, I gave the director a ride home once , and tried to impress him with my knowledge of this song. He was a musical theatre major, and I thought that I could finagle my way into his pants...er, heart, with my knowledge of musicals. I had just gotten my drivers license, and he was an intern, so I should have known that it wouldn't have worked out.
10. Yeah Yeah Yeahs-Maps-This was 'our' song. I'm still not over him, even though it's been 4 months, and so I've been trying desperately not to listen to any of the mix cds that he gave me, or to any songs that I remember giving to him. It was fine, since most of the songs weren't on the radio. Unfortunately, this song became a minor MTV hit, and it's hard not to feel like a complete moron when watching a music video of your favourite band and you start to feel depressed.
2. Bad Astronaut-Needle In the Hay-I downloaded this song because the original by Elliott Smith is one of my favourites of his. This pop-punk cover isn't bad, but it doesn't evoke the same provacative, stark, spooky atmosphere of Elliott's version. Elliott's version always makes me teary-eyed, and so the fact that I can mosh to it is disconcerning.
3. PJ Harvey-Snake-The 4-Track Demos version. I'm not that big a fan of this version of the song-the anger doesn't seem to be as focused as it is in the actual cd, and she sounds more constipated than ailing when she moans. I have a poster of her on the wall above my bed, and the sound of that gorgeous thing making such an ugly noise doesn't help the fantasies.
4. DJ Assault- Ass n Titties-The most catchy song in human existance. I had never heard the song until my friend Mel sang it in the car, and even her a cappella rendition while speeding down College Ave embedded itself in my head. I used to sing this song to myself while walking down the halls of my high school before I had heard the song. This raunchy electroclashesque song, with lyrics like "Stanky-ass bitches who need to wash up/Don't get mad if I don't want to fuck/You need soap and water/Soap and water" is a great booty shaker. I always put this on mix cds when I'm trying to impress the fellas and the ladies.
5. Patti Smith-Gloria-One of my favourite covers of all time. This proto-punk landmark, with its false ending, sizzles and rocks; the perfect way to spice up an old Van Morrisson song, with one of the greatest opening lines in rock history: "Jesus died for somebody's sins but not mine." Her androgynous picture on the album's cover (shot by Mapplethorpe) was one of my first exposures to females who didn't dress feminine.
6. Wheatus-Hump'em, Dump'em-A catchy song. I always thought that the title--"Here we go again, another hump 'em and dump 'em situation"--would make a good blog post title, but unfortunately I've never had the opportunity to use it. I think an instrumental version of this song is used for the theme song to Jackie Chan Adventures, which either makes the song cooler or lamer. I can't decide which.
7. Plastic Bertrand-Ca Plane Pour Moi-French surrealistic punk. My French is pretty atrocious, but I can understand some lines--4 colours going hop! in the gutter? Very pop punk, with a go-go like beat. My best friend Kat used to quote the song in class when the teacher asked a question and she didn't know the answer. "Et que la colle me manquera, Mme. Cimbalo."
8. Svelte-Five Alive-More pop-punk, this time about the joys of Five Alive. I don't like the juice, but I like the song. "You like 5-Alive and I like you. You like 5-Alive and you're cool.... I want to have some after school with you." How sweet. This song was originally given to me by a girl I dated in high school; it was her favourite band because they weren't 'scary,' like the music I listened to.
9. The Wild Party-Gin (Wild)-Showstopper from the Broadway show. A huge hodge podge of the songs, compiled into a dizzying, drunken frenzy. One of my favourite songs from a musical. When I was stage managing the kids show, I gave the director a ride home once , and tried to impress him with my knowledge of this song. He was a musical theatre major, and I thought that I could finagle my way into his pants...er, heart, with my knowledge of musicals. I had just gotten my drivers license, and he was an intern, so I should have known that it wouldn't have worked out.
10. Yeah Yeah Yeahs-Maps-This was 'our' song. I'm still not over him, even though it's been 4 months, and so I've been trying desperately not to listen to any of the mix cds that he gave me, or to any songs that I remember giving to him. It was fine, since most of the songs weren't on the radio. Unfortunately, this song became a minor MTV hit, and it's hard not to feel like a complete moron when watching a music video of your favourite band and you start to feel depressed.
April 25, 2004
So close to Pantone 292, yet so far.
Yes, I'm a Leo, even though most times I don't seem like it. I tend to shun the spotlight, which seems ironic since I post my journal online for the world to see, and am delighted when I find that people link to me.
(I'm also a rat, for those interested.)
Anyway, Camellia is an ugly color, and this quiz thing is stupid and wrong. Let me eludidate.
Not to sound like an after-school special, but isn't everyone one-of-a-kind?
I may be smart but I'm sure as hell not silly.
I don't understand why loving and restless should be contradictory, and I sure as hell am an interesting combination of juxtapositions. I believe in legalizing marijuana but will never partake, and I believe in legalizing prostitution but against sex without love, but I do believe in sex without love. I want everyone else to have the abilty to be a libertine, but will stay a Puritan myself.
I'm not highly individual, I just like small groups rather than crowds, and am fine with a balance of love and security; I can do without the adventure, thank you very much.
I don't think I resonate with joy per se, but I do tend to wear my heart on my sleeve, so I guess that counts. I was called effervescent once, if that counts.
While I may need an increase of inner confidence, I refuse to wear such an ugly color, nor decorate my dorm room with something like looks like a watered-down zit.
(You can tell I don't want to write an essay about Hamlet and Ophelia's relationship, can't you? At first I wanted to write it calling Hamlet a mtf transsexual, but I couldn't find enough articles in scholarly journals, so I'm not motivated at all. I hate Hamlet )
(I'm also a rat, for those interested.)
Anyway, Camellia is an ugly color, and this quiz thing is stupid and wrong. Let me eludidate.
Not to sound like an after-school special, but isn't everyone one-of-a-kind?
I may be smart but I'm sure as hell not silly.
I don't understand why loving and restless should be contradictory, and I sure as hell am an interesting combination of juxtapositions. I believe in legalizing marijuana but will never partake, and I believe in legalizing prostitution but against sex without love, but I do believe in sex without love. I want everyone else to have the abilty to be a libertine, but will stay a Puritan myself.
I'm not highly individual, I just like small groups rather than crowds, and am fine with a balance of love and security; I can do without the adventure, thank you very much.
I don't think I resonate with joy per se, but I do tend to wear my heart on my sleeve, so I guess that counts. I was called effervescent once, if that counts.
While I may need an increase of inner confidence, I refuse to wear such an ugly color, nor decorate my dorm room with something like looks like a watered-down zit.
(You can tell I don't want to write an essay about Hamlet and Ophelia's relationship, can't you? At first I wanted to write it calling Hamlet a mtf transsexual, but I couldn't find enough articles in scholarly journals, so I'm not motivated at all. I hate Hamlet )
April 23, 2004
Poetry Month (living fast and dying young)
In a meme in my livejournal, I stated that my future dream career would be an author, ergo I'd die a starving artist unless I find patronage, i.e. a sugar daddy. Now, it looks like I won't have to worry about starving for too long.
According to an article in the Guardian, writing poetry poses a health risk. I've always thought that reading too much crappy poetry, about unrequieted infatuation, love from above the moon in June, teenage alienation, etc, caused serious damage, but as it turns out, it's poets who are living dangerously and fingering the mortal coil.
In a survey of about 2,000 artists worldwide, poets on average died at age 62, while playwrights at 63, novelists at 66, and non-fiction writers live until the ripe old age of 68. American, Chinese, and Turkish writers die significantly younger than the average. The actual article isn't available online, so I'm going on what the article says, and can't give real details.
Apparently, it's worst for female poets, who are more likely to commit or attempt suicide. They don't say anything about gay writers, but going by national standards, I'm guessing that gay poets have it the worst. Lucky me.
It's a good thing I've branched out recently to one acts and short stories. Maybe I'll last an extra few years, which, at least at this point of my life, doesn't matter too much; at either 62 or 68, I'll still be damn old.
Then again, I'm pretty level headed, so it's doubtful that I'll ever live fast, die young, or leave an exquisite corpse, so I probably don't need to worry that much.
But still, I'm pursuing a dangerous job, like lumberjacks, policemen, and construction workers.
Who would have thought that a poet would seem so butch?
(addendum: Thanks goes out to the lovely Intertextual, who recently reviewed my site. While I didn't paint the painting (that would be the lovely Elizabeth Peyton), he's still a great guy and made my day with his critique. In his defense about the painting mixup, there was a rollover with credit, but I had forgotten some quotation marks, so it didn't show up. I didn't mean to take credit for someone else's painting. I've added a link to the sidebar to help clarify things.)
(Also-Intertextual says that on his computer the font is Times New Roman, while on mine it is Garmond. If someone could leave a comment stating the font on your computer, that'd rock.)
According to an article in the Guardian, writing poetry poses a health risk. I've always thought that reading too much crappy poetry, about unrequieted infatuation, love from above the moon in June, teenage alienation, etc, caused serious damage, but as it turns out, it's poets who are living dangerously and fingering the mortal coil.
In a survey of about 2,000 artists worldwide, poets on average died at age 62, while playwrights at 63, novelists at 66, and non-fiction writers live until the ripe old age of 68. American, Chinese, and Turkish writers die significantly younger than the average. The actual article isn't available online, so I'm going on what the article says, and can't give real details.
Apparently, it's worst for female poets, who are more likely to commit or attempt suicide. They don't say anything about gay writers, but going by national standards, I'm guessing that gay poets have it the worst. Lucky me.
It's a good thing I've branched out recently to one acts and short stories. Maybe I'll last an extra few years, which, at least at this point of my life, doesn't matter too much; at either 62 or 68, I'll still be damn old.
Then again, I'm pretty level headed, so it's doubtful that I'll ever live fast, die young, or leave an exquisite corpse, so I probably don't need to worry that much.
But still, I'm pursuing a dangerous job, like lumberjacks, policemen, and construction workers.
Who would have thought that a poet would seem so butch?
(addendum: Thanks goes out to the lovely Intertextual, who recently reviewed my site. While I didn't paint the painting (that would be the lovely Elizabeth Peyton), he's still a great guy and made my day with his critique. In his defense about the painting mixup, there was a rollover with credit, but I had forgotten some quotation marks, so it didn't show up. I didn't mean to take credit for someone else's painting. I've added a link to the sidebar to help clarify things.)
(Also-Intertextual says that on his computer the font is Times New Roman, while on mine it is Garmond. If someone could leave a comment stating the font on your computer, that'd rock.)
April 22, 2004
the obscenity of art is shimmied into a room full of the word (art)
I registered for classes yesterday. I'm not pleased that the school fucked me over and failed, repeatedly, to send my transcripts in a timely fashion and trapping me here for at least another semester.
I've decided that if I'm to spend yet another semester at this stupid school, I might as well make it bearable by setting goals, and of course, by setting goals I mean creating wonderful pieces of art. Well, probably not 'wonderful' per se, but at least a large opus upon which I can spend my time. Right now I'm leaning towards writing a collection of short stories, all dealing with my (and by my, I mean the protagonist's) relationships with artists, tentatively entitled the obscenity of art is shimmied into a room full of the word (art), a line from a poem that I wrote. I've been brainstorming over possible story ideas, and I've come up with this list.
I've already written one story for the collection--it's about two writers living together, and how one threw his work away and placed all the emphasis on the other's. You can find it here, since it's about two pages long and that's a bit much for a regular blog post.
The other ideas that I have for the collection include:
-living with a famous artist, being paid on retainer for our tempestuous love affair--to argue with her, to rile her up, so that in the middle of a fight she would scream 'ART' and run into the next room to attack a canvas with the same intensity with which we were fighting.
-married to a struggling columnist, who would constantly ask me to come up with opening lines for his stories, usually while I was cooking him breakfast
-the night where Laurie Anderson (or similar) made out with me in a gallery somewhere, and the song she wrote about it
-bring home a controversial (probably overtly pornographic) visual artist for Thanksgiving
-gay cinematographer gets cold feet about his boyfriend's accompanying him to an awards show
-a diary entry, written by a photographer's fiancee, feeling degraded because in a review was described as an ugly person with an ugly soul
-going on a CNN show, defending my reclusive husband's art (he would take photographs of cities, and superimpose images of explosions, and was blamed for a terrorist attack)
-husband trying to convince me to dress up as a giant toad in his next movie (something along the lines of the Cremaster cycle)
-phone message left on a pianist's answering machine, asking whether he loved the piano more than he loved me
-helping a dancer stretching and preparing self for a rehearsal
-dating an indie rocker whose lyrics involve vivid depictions of decapitating and maiming me
-at library, being forced to do all of the historical research for a writer
-at a gay rights rally chanting 'we recruit' while boyfriend films it for a documentary.
-consoling a opera singer in hysterics during intermission because of a 'costume malfunction'
Right now, I can't decide whether or not I want everyone to be gay or not, or what form the ideas will take (fiction, epistolary, Dorothy Parker soliloquy, 1st person, 3rd person, etc). I thought that if I posted this here, people can leave comments as to any more ideas, and tell me which ideas blow chunks.
I've decided that if I'm to spend yet another semester at this stupid school, I might as well make it bearable by setting goals, and of course, by setting goals I mean creating wonderful pieces of art. Well, probably not 'wonderful' per se, but at least a large opus upon which I can spend my time. Right now I'm leaning towards writing a collection of short stories, all dealing with my (and by my, I mean the protagonist's) relationships with artists, tentatively entitled the obscenity of art is shimmied into a room full of the word (art), a line from a poem that I wrote. I've been brainstorming over possible story ideas, and I've come up with this list.
I've already written one story for the collection--it's about two writers living together, and how one threw his work away and placed all the emphasis on the other's. You can find it here, since it's about two pages long and that's a bit much for a regular blog post.
The other ideas that I have for the collection include:
-living with a famous artist, being paid on retainer for our tempestuous love affair--to argue with her, to rile her up, so that in the middle of a fight she would scream 'ART' and run into the next room to attack a canvas with the same intensity with which we were fighting.
-married to a struggling columnist, who would constantly ask me to come up with opening lines for his stories, usually while I was cooking him breakfast
-the night where Laurie Anderson (or similar) made out with me in a gallery somewhere, and the song she wrote about it
-bring home a controversial (probably overtly pornographic) visual artist for Thanksgiving
-gay cinematographer gets cold feet about his boyfriend's accompanying him to an awards show
-a diary entry, written by a photographer's fiancee, feeling degraded because in a review was described as an ugly person with an ugly soul
-going on a CNN show, defending my reclusive husband's art (he would take photographs of cities, and superimpose images of explosions, and was blamed for a terrorist attack)
-husband trying to convince me to dress up as a giant toad in his next movie (something along the lines of the Cremaster cycle)
-phone message left on a pianist's answering machine, asking whether he loved the piano more than he loved me
-helping a dancer stretching and preparing self for a rehearsal
-dating an indie rocker whose lyrics involve vivid depictions of decapitating and maiming me
-at library, being forced to do all of the historical research for a writer
-at a gay rights rally chanting 'we recruit' while boyfriend films it for a documentary.
-consoling a opera singer in hysterics during intermission because of a 'costume malfunction'
Right now, I can't decide whether or not I want everyone to be gay or not, or what form the ideas will take (fiction, epistolary, Dorothy Parker soliloquy, 1st person, 3rd person, etc). I thought that if I posted this here, people can leave comments as to any more ideas, and tell me which ideas blow chunks.
April 21, 2004
Caveat Lector:
This post will be a bit whiner, bitchier, and more self-depreciating than most. I hate whiny posts, so I thought I'd warn everyone.
It's the Day of Silence today, a day when all types of annoying gay and lesbian loud mouths in high school and college try and keep their damn mouths shut in order to appease some sort of guilt for not doing anything political for the rest of the year.
Told you I was bitchy.
I'm not going to complain about the school, because I try not to. Once I get started, it's hard for me to stop. And besides, they did things right this time. I received a free t-shirt, with the official day of silence logo:
It's a cheap iron-on, but it still looks fairly snappy.
I got my t-shirt yesterday, along with a handful of HRC stickers with disclaimers to hand out to people when they asked why I was honoring the day of silence. I helped organize the Day of Silence at my high school, and I know how hard it is to get everything set up. The GSA had their shit together, which was unusual.
Except for writing a few emails and a few AIM conversations, I've kept the day of silence. Besides, literature survives oppression, so it doesn't count, in my opinion. There's enough bad poetry by gay teenagers around the world to justify writing.
I'm bitching because no one noticed that I was silent. I have a big pile of HRC stickers on my desk. I never realized how few people I talk to on a daily basis. I say "Thanks" to the lunch ladies, maybe trading a quip or two (lunch ladies, in my experience, have always been a hoot), and that's about it. I might say thanks if someone keeps the door open for me, and I occasionally answer a question or two in class, just to speed things along. I only had one class today, which was an embarrassingly demeaning class on the introduction to poetry.
Now, I know my poetry. I went to a charter school for the arts, and my English teacher was the State Poet Laureate, and I know my motherfucking poetry. I won the poetry award in high school. I'm the only person to have two poems in the school literary mag this year. I have a poem on the front page of the English Alumni newsletter. I know my poetry, and the professor (who, thankfully, is retiring at the end of the semester) was butchering things right and left. It was really hard to keep from saying things like "It's called a metaphyscial conceit, motherfucker! And it's called a carpe diem poem, you know, like in that stupid movie?"
But I controlled myself. I was thinking of the children.
.....
So I started out with the idea to blog about how I don't have any friends, and no one noticed my silence, but now I've completely lost all desire to continue. I guess this post isn't as self-depreciating as I thought. Damn you, Chapelle's Show, for ruining my bitter mood.
It's the Day of Silence today, a day when all types of annoying gay and lesbian loud mouths in high school and college try and keep their damn mouths shut in order to appease some sort of guilt for not doing anything political for the rest of the year.
Told you I was bitchy.
I'm not going to complain about the school, because I try not to. Once I get started, it's hard for me to stop. And besides, they did things right this time. I received a free t-shirt, with the official day of silence logo:
It's a cheap iron-on, but it still looks fairly snappy.
I got my t-shirt yesterday, along with a handful of HRC stickers with disclaimers to hand out to people when they asked why I was honoring the day of silence. I helped organize the Day of Silence at my high school, and I know how hard it is to get everything set up. The GSA had their shit together, which was unusual.
Except for writing a few emails and a few AIM conversations, I've kept the day of silence. Besides, literature survives oppression, so it doesn't count, in my opinion. There's enough bad poetry by gay teenagers around the world to justify writing.
I'm bitching because no one noticed that I was silent. I have a big pile of HRC stickers on my desk. I never realized how few people I talk to on a daily basis. I say "Thanks" to the lunch ladies, maybe trading a quip or two (lunch ladies, in my experience, have always been a hoot), and that's about it. I might say thanks if someone keeps the door open for me, and I occasionally answer a question or two in class, just to speed things along. I only had one class today, which was an embarrassingly demeaning class on the introduction to poetry.
Now, I know my poetry. I went to a charter school for the arts, and my English teacher was the State Poet Laureate, and I know my motherfucking poetry. I won the poetry award in high school. I'm the only person to have two poems in the school literary mag this year. I have a poem on the front page of the English Alumni newsletter. I know my poetry, and the professor (who, thankfully, is retiring at the end of the semester) was butchering things right and left. It was really hard to keep from saying things like "It's called a metaphyscial conceit, motherfucker! And it's called a carpe diem poem, you know, like in that stupid movie?"
But I controlled myself. I was thinking of the children.
.....
So I started out with the idea to blog about how I don't have any friends, and no one noticed my silence, but now I've completely lost all desire to continue. I guess this post isn't as self-depreciating as I thought. Damn you, Chapelle's Show, for ruining my bitter mood.
April 20, 2004
I came out to someone the other day.
It was odd. I usually don't have to make any announcements about my sexuality. People usually just catch on.
I'm not a flaming queen by any means. My mannerisms and demeanor are perfectly masculine, or at the least androgynous. No one would mistake me for Paul Lynde in a million years, despite my ostentatious sunglasses (or am I thinking of Charles Nelson Reilly?). I don't have a lisp, I don't refer to gay guys as 'she,' and I don't own any tshirts with bland witticisms like '2 QT 2 B ST8.'
My downfall-- my gay Achilles' heel, if you will-- is in my walk.
Let me begin by prefacing that I say this in the most modest way possible; believe you me, if anything, I have far too little confidence in my body, but no one wants to hear about how I think I'm fat. I mean, I'm below what I should weigh by a lot, but I still see flab. But that's enough of that. Despite any qualms I may have with my body, I am able to acknowledge my strength.
I have badonkadonk. I have the junk in the trunk, dumps like a truck with thighs like 'what!', juice in the caboose, cushions for the pushing, an itty bitty thing with a round thing in your face, I'm a fine motherfucker who can back that azz up, I'm a big bootied bitch, ad infinitum.
In the words of Jessica Rabbit, "I'm not bad. I'm just drawn that way."
No, this isn't a pretentious exercise to see how many booty references I can come up with. I'm just saying that I know my attributes, and I know how to work it. And so I do. We're talking Pendulum here: I walk like a cheap stripper.
It wasn't a conscious decision, but something I've realized and something that's been brought to my attention; most people, when they see me walk, they realize there's a bit too much swish in my hips for me to like girls.
There was a story here. A few nights ago, I hung out with my roommate's best friend, who was staying with me for the weekend. She had lost the key to her own room, and had to wait until Monday for her new key to be made. The roommate was out of town, singing at his cousin's wedding, so she slept over. We went to see the show on campus, "Spinning into Butter," which was poorly written but well-acted. Afterwards, she invited me along to meet a friend from her Psych class whom she was meeting for coffee.
So we went, and had a good time. I mentioned something, I forget what exactly, but I think it was something to do with hanky codes or polare, and she didn't realize I was gay. She freaked out. Not in a bad way--she grew up in a small town; her graduating class had 43 students, and she'd never met a 'gay' before who wasn't comedic relief on a bad 90s sitcom. She started asking me all types of personal questions, which I didn't mind. She was so wide-eyed and earnest, it was hard to say no.
After coffee, as the roommate's friend and I were walking back to my dorm, I commented on how that was the first time that I'd come out to someone in a long while. She responded by comparing me to Will on Will & Grace, how I wasn't really GAY in capital letters, I was gay but not flamboyant, etc.
Then, when we were walking up the stairs to my room, she was a few paces behind me and commented on how my ass just wouldn't quit; it was mesmorizing, like a perpetual motion machine. She called it a 'swinging ball thingee that's on people's desks, and they're metal, you know?'
And that's when I realized why most people assume that I'm gay.
I'm not a flaming queen by any means. My mannerisms and demeanor are perfectly masculine, or at the least androgynous. No one would mistake me for Paul Lynde in a million years, despite my ostentatious sunglasses (or am I thinking of Charles Nelson Reilly?). I don't have a lisp, I don't refer to gay guys as 'she,' and I don't own any tshirts with bland witticisms like '2 QT 2 B ST8.'
My downfall-- my gay Achilles' heel, if you will-- is in my walk.
Let me begin by prefacing that I say this in the most modest way possible; believe you me, if anything, I have far too little confidence in my body, but no one wants to hear about how I think I'm fat. I mean, I'm below what I should weigh by a lot, but I still see flab. But that's enough of that. Despite any qualms I may have with my body, I am able to acknowledge my strength.
I have badonkadonk. I have the junk in the trunk, dumps like a truck with thighs like 'what!', juice in the caboose, cushions for the pushing, an itty bitty thing with a round thing in your face, I'm a fine motherfucker who can back that azz up, I'm a big bootied bitch, ad infinitum.
In the words of Jessica Rabbit, "I'm not bad. I'm just drawn that way."
No, this isn't a pretentious exercise to see how many booty references I can come up with. I'm just saying that I know my attributes, and I know how to work it. And so I do. We're talking Pendulum here: I walk like a cheap stripper.
It wasn't a conscious decision, but something I've realized and something that's been brought to my attention; most people, when they see me walk, they realize there's a bit too much swish in my hips for me to like girls.
There was a story here. A few nights ago, I hung out with my roommate's best friend, who was staying with me for the weekend. She had lost the key to her own room, and had to wait until Monday for her new key to be made. The roommate was out of town, singing at his cousin's wedding, so she slept over. We went to see the show on campus, "Spinning into Butter," which was poorly written but well-acted. Afterwards, she invited me along to meet a friend from her Psych class whom she was meeting for coffee.
So we went, and had a good time. I mentioned something, I forget what exactly, but I think it was something to do with hanky codes or polare, and she didn't realize I was gay. She freaked out. Not in a bad way--she grew up in a small town; her graduating class had 43 students, and she'd never met a 'gay' before who wasn't comedic relief on a bad 90s sitcom. She started asking me all types of personal questions, which I didn't mind. She was so wide-eyed and earnest, it was hard to say no.
After coffee, as the roommate's friend and I were walking back to my dorm, I commented on how that was the first time that I'd come out to someone in a long while. She responded by comparing me to Will on Will & Grace, how I wasn't really GAY in capital letters, I was gay but not flamboyant, etc.
Then, when we were walking up the stairs to my room, she was a few paces behind me and commented on how my ass just wouldn't quit; it was mesmorizing, like a perpetual motion machine. She called it a 'swinging ball thingee that's on people's desks, and they're metal, you know?'
And that's when I realized why most people assume that I'm gay.
April 18, 2004
Break out your credit cards!
I am worth exactly:
$2,419,320.00
I take cash, check, credit or money order.
I mean, it's either me or Samuel L. Jackson's old home, and with the current economy, I'd feel a bit wary about buying real estate at the moment...
$2,419,320.00
I take cash, check, credit or money order.
I mean, it's either me or Samuel L. Jackson's old home, and with the current economy, I'd feel a bit wary about buying real estate at the moment...
April 16, 2004
Two thoughts for today.
1. Last year at about this time, I composed a series of haikus about springtime. It was a school assignment, but a friend and I turned it into a haiku death match of Doom! I wish I could find them, but I think she has the notebook.
There's one haiku in particular that I wish I could find. The haiku below is something along the same lines, but it's not exactly the same, and it's not as good as the original (or at least not as good as I remember the original being).
2. I was cleaning through my cd spindle, and found an old mix cd filled with emo/newmo/pop-punk. I'd forgotten how much I like whiny boy rock--not for the music, mind you; more than a few songs in a row can become excruciatingly grating. To be specific, I like watching their videos (on mute) on MTV. There's something about earnest pretty boys making faces as if their lives depend on it that really amuses me. Especially faces like this.
There's one haiku in particular that I wish I could find. The haiku below is something along the same lines, but it's not exactly the same, and it's not as good as the original (or at least not as good as I remember the original being).
Ah Spring! A time when
a young man's fancy turns to
shirtless frisbee... Hottt.
2. I was cleaning through my cd spindle, and found an old mix cd filled with emo/newmo/pop-punk. I'd forgotten how much I like whiny boy rock--not for the music, mind you; more than a few songs in a row can become excruciatingly grating. To be specific, I like watching their videos (on mute) on MTV. There's something about earnest pretty boys making faces as if their lives depend on it that really amuses me. Especially faces like this.
April 15, 2004
The Top Ten Reasons To Be An English Major?
The English Club on campus has decided to give all English Majors t-shirts as some sort of showing of camaraderie or something. The following is what is on the t-shirts when they are handed out in a few weeks (once they have been tye-dyed).
The problems I have with the t-shirts:
1. Shakespeare is overrated, at least in my opinion. Then again, I'm in the Edward deVere camp.
2. No, it can't.
3. We do have to take math and science. We also have to take more social sciences and foreign languages.
4. A dictionary definition of BS is 'something worthless, deceptive, or insincere' --not exactly the words to evoke. Also, BS on a college campus also implies Bachelor of Science.
5. They misspelled 'synecdoche' and misuse the colon
6. Spoken English is a different major, found in the Communication Building. Plus, using 'DUH' to make your point isn't the coherent way to make a point. Shouldn't English Majors have a better handle on the words they use to express themselves?
7.Who the fuck, being of sane mind and body, likes writing essays?
8. As a general rule, poetry sucks--and that goes double for love poetry.
9. They use the wrong 'your/you're,' which I'm pretty sure is something covered in 3rd grade, if not earlier.
10. No, it's not. It's just different. English is subjective, while biochemistry is objective.
11. Also, the capitalization in the title is wrong-- The Top Ten Reasons to Be an English Major.
Also, it must be 1994 in EnglishMajorland, as they still believe tye dyed t-shirts are cool.
I know some of this is just me being facetious and elitist. I can take a joke. I know I can't get too angry about the Shakespeare line, nor about the BS, and I'm sure there are a few students who enjoy writing essays. The thing that really got to me was all the errors; I know my grammar and punctuation isn't always the greatest (I'm too big a fan of commas and dashes), but a roomful of English Majors, English Minors and Creative Writers should have caught some of the errors. I'm hoping that these were typing errors. I hope.
I'm thinking about making my own t-shirt, expounding reasons why I, personally, am an English Major. If you have any suggestions, leave a comment.
Why English?
The Top Ten Reasons To Be An English Major
1. Shakespeare is cool.
2. Quote enough of the text and anything can mean anything.
3. We don't have to take math or science.
4. BS. Lots and lots of BS.
5. We know lots of cool words like: synedoche, catharsis and onomatopoeia.
6. We talk it. Duh
7. Honestly, we kind of LIKE writing essays.
8. Impress your significant other with poetry!
9. If you use big words, people think your smart.
10. It's easier than biochemistry or something like that.
The problems I have with the t-shirts:
1. Shakespeare is overrated, at least in my opinion. Then again, I'm in the Edward deVere camp.
2. No, it can't.
3. We do have to take math and science. We also have to take more social sciences and foreign languages.
4. A dictionary definition of BS is 'something worthless, deceptive, or insincere' --not exactly the words to evoke. Also, BS on a college campus also implies Bachelor of Science.
5. They misspelled 'synecdoche' and misuse the colon
6. Spoken English is a different major, found in the Communication Building. Plus, using 'DUH' to make your point isn't the coherent way to make a point. Shouldn't English Majors have a better handle on the words they use to express themselves?
7.Who the fuck, being of sane mind and body, likes writing essays?
8. As a general rule, poetry sucks--and that goes double for love poetry.
9. They use the wrong 'your/you're,' which I'm pretty sure is something covered in 3rd grade, if not earlier.
10. No, it's not. It's just different. English is subjective, while biochemistry is objective.
11. Also, the capitalization in the title is wrong-- The Top Ten Reasons to Be an English Major.
Also, it must be 1994 in EnglishMajorland, as they still believe tye dyed t-shirts are cool.
I know some of this is just me being facetious and elitist. I can take a joke. I know I can't get too angry about the Shakespeare line, nor about the BS, and I'm sure there are a few students who enjoy writing essays. The thing that really got to me was all the errors; I know my grammar and punctuation isn't always the greatest (I'm too big a fan of commas and dashes), but a roomful of English Majors, English Minors and Creative Writers should have caught some of the errors. I'm hoping that these were typing errors. I hope.
I'm thinking about making my own t-shirt, expounding reasons why I, personally, am an English Major. If you have any suggestions, leave a comment.
April 14, 2004
April 13, 2004
Dorothy Parker
Today's poem (in honor of National Poetry Month) is brought to you by the Divine Dorothy Parker. She's quite the hoot; she's on my list of people throughout history whom I would invite to dinner, the others being Oscar Wilde, Leonardo DaVinci, Gertrude Stein, Thomas Jefferson, Rimbaud, Kathleen Hanna, Eddie Izzard, Mae West, and a toss-up between Tennessee Williams and Jake Gyllenhaal (scantily clad, of course).
(grins)
According to this site, before continuing on to the poem, you should find a French cigarette with an ivory cigarette holder (cloche optional). Dorothy Parker, is, at her core, supererogatorily melodramatic. The poem should be read in a sarcastic contralto, eyebrows arched, r's rolled in an Eastern European style. You cannot read Dorothy Parker properly without melodramatizing yourself. (I wish melodramatizing were a real word.)
(grins)
According to this site, before continuing on to the poem, you should find a French cigarette with an ivory cigarette holder (cloche optional). Dorothy Parker, is, at her core, supererogatorily melodramatic. The poem should be read in a sarcastic contralto, eyebrows arched, r's rolled in an Eastern European style. You cannot read Dorothy Parker properly without melodramatizing yourself. (I wish melodramatizing were a real word.)
Symptom Recital.
I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I'd be arrested.
I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men....
I'm due to fall in love again.
April 12, 2004
Let Godot Wait.
This weekend, in all my naked glory (or lack thereof), slightly inspired by that quote, I decided to write a little play. It's only a one-act entitled "Let Godot Wait," and it's pure Theatre of the Absurd: no names, no characterization, nothing. I call it lazy, and it's not that great, even. Here's the first few lines--
Yeah, I need a life. Or some talent. Or something.
One: (sighs)
Two: (storming in) I hate my life and want to die!
One: So do I!
Two: Yeah, but you mean it.
One: You say that as if it were a bad thing
Two: I'm just saying that you should mean what you say
One: How positively earnest of you.
Two: Who do you think you are, Oscar Wilde?
One: What are you saying?
Two: If the green carnation fits….
One: First I'll have to find a green carnation, won't I?
Two: Or you could wait and let the green carnation come to you
One: What is that, Taoism?
Two: Good things come to those who wait
One: Better things come to those who don't resort to platitudes
Two: Platitudes become platitudes because of their inherent truth
One: Platitudes become platitudes because of lazy orators
Two: Are you calling me lazy?
One: If that shoe fits.
Yeah, I need a life. Or some talent. Or something.
April 11, 2004
It's a Very Naked Easter, Charlie Brown!
This weekend, the campus is is completely dead.
Scratch that.
This weekend, the entire town is completely dead. Not only has the school cafeteria been closed since Friday afternoon, not to open again until Monday breakfast, but the grocery store a few blocks from campus closed its doors Thursday night, not to reopen until 12:01 on Monday. The Pizza Hut and Dominos are closed for the weekend. The gas station across the street from my dorm is conspicuously empty, as well as the Taco Bell and KMart. The school's parking lots are mostly empty, save for a few miscellaneous beaters scattered throughout.
The hallways are completely dead. Bad rap songs used to permeate the air, but now, there's only the sound of my footsteps. I've taken to singing aloud the song in my head, and my voice is usually the only thing audible, save for the buzzing of the florescent lights. All the doors are closed, and the bathrooms stayed remarkably clean. There are no announcements over the loudspeaker saying that there's a pickup softball game or that they're showing "The Matrix" in the lobby yet again. The halls don't even smell like cheap pot anymore!
I have yet to see anyone this weekend. I'm not sure, but I think I'm the only person who's staying on campus for Easter Break.
I love it.
In other news, in the commercial for 13 Going on Thirty, they totally play a song about masturbation in the background. I am tres amusant.
Since I have the place all to myself, I've been unleashing my inner nudist. My roommate is singing at his church at home, and he won't be back until Monday morning at the earliest, and I've been letting it all hang out all weekend. I've even walked down to the bathrooms au natural without worry. Admittedly, it was 2 in the morning, but still. Naked naked naked!
I must say that all this time spent alone and naked is doing wonders to help me overcome my BDD. 6'1", 145 lbs, and regardless of what people say, I see flab. Yes, I know that I'm clinically underweight, but I don't really believe it. While I still see flab, at least I'm getting used to it.
Sorry guys, but I don't own a digital camera, so you'll have to use your imagination.
Scratch that.
This weekend, the entire town is completely dead. Not only has the school cafeteria been closed since Friday afternoon, not to open again until Monday breakfast, but the grocery store a few blocks from campus closed its doors Thursday night, not to reopen until 12:01 on Monday. The Pizza Hut and Dominos are closed for the weekend. The gas station across the street from my dorm is conspicuously empty, as well as the Taco Bell and KMart. The school's parking lots are mostly empty, save for a few miscellaneous beaters scattered throughout.
The hallways are completely dead. Bad rap songs used to permeate the air, but now, there's only the sound of my footsteps. I've taken to singing aloud the song in my head, and my voice is usually the only thing audible, save for the buzzing of the florescent lights. All the doors are closed, and the bathrooms stayed remarkably clean. There are no announcements over the loudspeaker saying that there's a pickup softball game or that they're showing "The Matrix" in the lobby yet again. The halls don't even smell like cheap pot anymore!
I have yet to see anyone this weekend. I'm not sure, but I think I'm the only person who's staying on campus for Easter Break.
I love it.
In other news, in the commercial for 13 Going on Thirty, they totally play a song about masturbation in the background. I am tres amusant.
Since I have the place all to myself, I've been unleashing my inner nudist. My roommate is singing at his church at home, and he won't be back until Monday morning at the earliest, and I've been letting it all hang out all weekend. I've even walked down to the bathrooms au natural without worry. Admittedly, it was 2 in the morning, but still. Naked naked naked!
I must say that all this time spent alone and naked is doing wonders to help me overcome my BDD. 6'1", 145 lbs, and regardless of what people say, I see flab. Yes, I know that I'm clinically underweight, but I don't really believe it. While I still see flab, at least I'm getting used to it.
Sorry guys, but I don't own a digital camera, so you'll have to use your imagination.
April 10, 2004
Quote of the day:
Fucking him was like waiting for Godot;
he never came and I was happy when it ended.
Unfortunately, I can't take credit for that gem. It's by Regan. (poem found here)
he never came and I was happy when it ended.
Unfortunately, I can't take credit for that gem. It's by Regan. (poem found here)
April 9, 2004
The odd couple.
My roommate and I are a modern day "Odd Couple." I'm Felix, the fastidious neurotic who knows way too much about the arts, while the roommate is Oscar, a huge slob who is oblivous to the world around him. The only difference is that we both admit to being gay.
All right. I admit it--I've never actually seen the show, and am only going on parodies I've seen and what I can remember of the play. (I left during intermission as the high school's version was pretty damn bad.) But I think you have the jist of things.
And to answer what is sure to be your next question, no, we don't hump. Just what kind of boy do you think I am?
That expostion was probably superfluous and tangential, but whatever.
I started to compose a post about my roommate's obnoxiously laissez faire attitude towards life and the stupid situations he usually finds himself in, but I decided against it.
If I started writing about all the stupid things my roommate has done with his various stupid boyfriends, not only would I have enough material for a novella or two worthy of John Rechy and three seasons worth of a gay soap opera, but a few fey Wagnerian operas as well.
And I've known him for less than six months.
I hate to admit it, but gay drama can sometimes be amusing, as long as it's from a safe distance.
All right. I admit it--I've never actually seen the show, and am only going on parodies I've seen and what I can remember of the play. (I left during intermission as the high school's version was pretty damn bad.) But I think you have the jist of things.
And to answer what is sure to be your next question, no, we don't hump. Just what kind of boy do you think I am?
That expostion was probably superfluous and tangential, but whatever.
I started to compose a post about my roommate's obnoxiously laissez faire attitude towards life and the stupid situations he usually finds himself in, but I decided against it.
If I started writing about all the stupid things my roommate has done with his various stupid boyfriends, not only would I have enough material for a novella or two worthy of John Rechy and three seasons worth of a gay soap opera, but a few fey Wagnerian operas as well.
And I've known him for less than six months.
I hate to admit it, but gay drama can sometimes be amusing, as long as it's from a safe distance.
April 8, 2004
to the scientist I am not speaking to any more
I've received a few inquiries as to my AIM profile and accompanying away message. Both are excerpted from a poem by Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz. The complete text can be found here, and here's an mp3 link to her performing the poem, via poetryslam.com.
For those uninterested in adding me to your buddy list in order to read my profile/away message, I've excerpted them below.
You are more absurd than Ionesco.
You are more abstract than Joyce,
more inconsistent than Agatha Christie
and more Satanic than Rushdie's verses.
I can't believe I used to want to Sappho you.
I used to want to Pablo Neruda you,
to Anais Nin And Henry Miller you. I used to want
to be O for you, to blow for you in ways
that even Odysseus' sails couldn't handle.
But self-imposed illiteracy isn't a turn-on.
You used to make fun of me being a writer,
saying 'Scientists cure diseases,
what do writers do?'
I mean, have you ever gotten an inner thirsting
for Zora Neale Hurston?
Or heard angels herald for you
to read F Scott Fitzgerald?
Have you ever had a beat attack for some Kerouac?
The only Morrison you know is Jim, and you think
you're the noble one?
Go Plath yourself.
Your heart is so dark, that even Joseph Conrad
couldn't see it, and it is so buried under bullshit
that even Poe's cops couldn't hear it.
Your mind is as empty as the libraries in Fahrenheit 451.
Your mind is as empty as Silas Marner's coffers.
Your mind is as empty as Huckleberry Finn's wallet.
It's too easy to say that I like this poem because I can relate to it, since I used to date a scientist who wasn't as well-read as I, and now that we're no longer together, I'm missing him something fierce. I liked this poem even before I started dating the scientist, so not only is that reason banal, it's false. I like the name-dropping quality, and the mp3 of her reading the poem is kickass. I'm a big fan of slam poetry, and since she's the Slam Master Champion (I think), it's pretty obvious that I like her work.
I like that it's National Poetry Month because I can be lazy and post a poem and feel topical and intelligent, and minimal thought is required.
For those uninterested in adding me to your buddy list in order to read my profile/away message, I've excerpted them below.
You are more absurd than Ionesco.
You are more abstract than Joyce,
more inconsistent than Agatha Christie
and more Satanic than Rushdie's verses.
I can't believe I used to want to Sappho you.
I used to want to Pablo Neruda you,
to Anais Nin And Henry Miller you. I used to want
to be O for you, to blow for you in ways
that even Odysseus' sails couldn't handle.
But self-imposed illiteracy isn't a turn-on.
You used to make fun of me being a writer,
saying 'Scientists cure diseases,
what do writers do?'
I mean, have you ever gotten an inner thirsting
for Zora Neale Hurston?
Or heard angels herald for you
to read F Scott Fitzgerald?
Have you ever had a beat attack for some Kerouac?
The only Morrison you know is Jim, and you think
you're the noble one?
Go Plath yourself.
Your heart is so dark, that even Joseph Conrad
couldn't see it, and it is so buried under bullshit
that even Poe's cops couldn't hear it.
Your mind is as empty as the libraries in Fahrenheit 451.
Your mind is as empty as Silas Marner's coffers.
Your mind is as empty as Huckleberry Finn's wallet.
It's too easy to say that I like this poem because I can relate to it, since I used to date a scientist who wasn't as well-read as I, and now that we're no longer together, I'm missing him something fierce. I liked this poem even before I started dating the scientist, so not only is that reason banal, it's false. I like the name-dropping quality, and the mp3 of her reading the poem is kickass. I'm a big fan of slam poetry, and since she's the Slam Master Champion (I think), it's pretty obvious that I like her work.
I like that it's National Poetry Month because I can be lazy and post a poem and feel topical and intelligent, and minimal thought is required.
April 6, 2004
It's National Poetry Month.
Look at how I care.
No, really, I do.
I'm a poet,
and any citation as to my knowledge of that fact deserves punishment.
Fuck your novels, I'm a poet.
I'm a writer, and I'm right on!
Those lines were in a poem that I wrote. Obviously, they were edited out.
Actually, I'm in the middle of editing some poems of mine for a few grants and scholarships the school is offering. The awards are only $250, but there are 3 different scholarships/grants, and my English teacher last year was the state Poet Laureate, and I was her favourite... (grins). So I'm optimistic. Plus I'm the only student to have more than one poem in this year's lit mag. So they already like my work. I'm going to be extremely presumtious and say that I'm a shoe-in.
Just look at my hubris.
The following is a poem I'm thinking of including. (I'm allowed to submit up to four poems.) Since it's National Poetry Month, I thought I'd post it. The spacing isn't exactly right (damn w.bloggar!), and I'm a bit iffy on the ending. But whatever.
the synergy between love and war
you put my song first on your 9/11 mix
you called me up halfway through the state of the union to hear me scream at the set
we dropped everything & went for coffee when we saw the bombs dropping on Baghdad
it's hard now
I can't always be the great spokesman I try to be for you
I can't always update my notes on the atrocities whenever you're feeling too complacent
and need your fix for the day
you can't drop me as a lover
but keep me on as your do-gooder
to appease the liberal you want to be so badly
you can't call me up 2 days after the fact and say
< we should discuss things between us. we should also discuss the war because I think you'd be good at it >
how amusing.
it's funny cos you wrote me off as a guilt trip
cos you thought you didn't have enough time
cos you wouldn't let me qualify
cos you constructed the big ass wall to cover your tracks
see, well, the thing about that is
I was willing to wait
I was just as busy and I built walls just as big as yours
and you can't call me up, 48 hours later
so you can feel lectured
so you can have another stat to tell when you want to be righteous and indignant
you cannot use my left wing to flog yourself in penitence
it doesn't work that way
you're not allowed to use cheesy war metaphors like
-we fought like atomic bombs
-we were both loose cannons without a cause
-all's fair in love and war
is it fair that we killed 217 civilians during the first 72 hours?
is it fair that we used napalm on Safawan hill?
is it fair that you'll quote this poem in your poli sci class
and be praised for your topicality?
is it?
No, really, I do.
I'm a poet,
and any citation as to my knowledge of that fact deserves punishment.
Fuck your novels, I'm a poet.
I'm a writer, and I'm right on!
Those lines were in a poem that I wrote. Obviously, they were edited out.
Actually, I'm in the middle of editing some poems of mine for a few grants and scholarships the school is offering. The awards are only $250, but there are 3 different scholarships/grants, and my English teacher last year was the state Poet Laureate, and I was her favourite... (grins). So I'm optimistic. Plus I'm the only student to have more than one poem in this year's lit mag. So they already like my work. I'm going to be extremely presumtious and say that I'm a shoe-in.
Just look at my hubris.
The following is a poem I'm thinking of including. (I'm allowed to submit up to four poems.) Since it's National Poetry Month, I thought I'd post it. The spacing isn't exactly right (damn w.bloggar!), and I'm a bit iffy on the ending. But whatever.
the synergy between love and war
you put my song first on your 9/11 mix
you called me up halfway through the state of the union to hear me scream at the set
we dropped everything & went for coffee when we saw the bombs dropping on Baghdad
it's hard now
I can't always be the great spokesman I try to be for you
I can't always update my notes on the atrocities whenever you're feeling too complacent
and need your fix for the day
you can't drop me as a lover
but keep me on as your do-gooder
to appease the liberal you want to be so badly
you can't call me up 2 days after the fact and say
< we should discuss things between us. we should also discuss the war because I think you'd be good at it >
how amusing.
it's funny cos you wrote me off as a guilt trip
cos you thought you didn't have enough time
cos you wouldn't let me qualify
cos you constructed the big ass wall to cover your tracks
see, well, the thing about that is
I was willing to wait
I was just as busy and I built walls just as big as yours
and you can't call me up, 48 hours later
so you can feel lectured
so you can have another stat to tell when you want to be righteous and indignant
you cannot use my left wing to flog yourself in penitence
it doesn't work that way
you're not allowed to use cheesy war metaphors like
-we fought like atomic bombs
-we were both loose cannons without a cause
-all's fair in love and war
is it fair that we killed 217 civilians during the first 72 hours?
is it fair that we used napalm on Safawan hill?
is it fair that you'll quote this poem in your poli sci class
and be praised for your topicality?
is it?
At an obnoxiously early hour this morning
(NB-to a college student, everything before 10 is obnoxiously early), someone decided that it would be fun to critique my earlier post (or rather a crosspost in a bookreading community on livejournal), leaving angry messages on my AIM, incensed that I, and I quote, "was fucking with Conrad," and likened me to a 14 year old girl with a crush on her 8th grade English teacher, incapable of independent thought. (Of course I've edited the words so I wouldn't have AIMspeak cluttering up the page, e.g. u r lik a 14yr grl) The incensed AIMer must have had too much time on his hands (I'm assuming that it was a male), as he then found my deviantart account and proceeded to leave messages denouncing my ability to string together nouns and verbs in a rational fashion, which was amusing
Well, of course I've since dropped the community and blocked the AIM name, and I'm not taking any of the insults to heart, since they seemed so weak that not even Simon Cowell would use them.
In a note that may seem related but isn't meant to be, I'm currently fleshing out a little bio link to the sidebar. I can't decide how much information I want to give out and whether or not I have any pictures of myself that I would like to share. Speaking of sidebars, I've jumped on the kinja bandwagon. I might go back to blogroll, but I'm enjoying kinja, save for that it doesn't seem to recognize her existance.... Oh well.
Oh, and at the moment, it looks like no photos... sorry.
Well, of course I've since dropped the community and blocked the AIM name, and I'm not taking any of the insults to heart, since they seemed so weak that not even Simon Cowell would use them.
In a note that may seem related but isn't meant to be, I'm currently fleshing out a little bio link to the sidebar. I can't decide how much information I want to give out and whether or not I have any pictures of myself that I would like to share. Speaking of sidebars, I've jumped on the kinja bandwagon. I might go back to blogroll, but I'm enjoying kinja, save for that it doesn't seem to recognize her existance.... Oh well.
Oh, and at the moment, it looks like no photos... sorry.
April 5, 2004
Maureen Dowd.
You are Maureen Dowd! You like to give people sillynicknames and write in really short, non
sequitur paragraphs. You're the most playful of
the columnists and a rock-ribbed liberal, but
are often accused of being too flamboyant and
frivolous. You tend to focus on style over
substance, personality over politics. But your
heart is in the right place. Plus, you are a
total fox.
Which New York Times Op-Ed Columnist Are You?
I ususally don't post quiz results here, mostly because they're a sign of boredom and of teenage girl mentality, but for my addiction to the Times, I made an exception.
April 3, 2004
go Rimbaud!
Thus my sorrow always renewed, and seeming in my eyes more lost than ever,--as in the eyes of all who might have watched me had I not been condemned to be forgotten by all forever!--I hungered for his kindness more and more. With his kisses and his friendly arms, it was really heaven, a sombre heaven into which I entered and where I longed to be left, poor and deaf and dumb and blind. Already it had grown into a habit. I thought of us as two good children, free to wander in the Paradise of sadness. We were congenial to each other. Much moved, we used to work together. But after a profound caress he would say: "How queer it will seem to you when I am no longer here--all you have gone through. When you no longer have my arm beneath your head, nor my heart for resting place, nor these lips upon your eyes. For I shall have to go away, very far away, one day. After all I must help others too: it is my duty. Not that it's very tempting...dear heart..." Right away I saw myself, with him gone, my senses reeling, hurled into the most horrible darkness: death. I used to to make him promise never to leave me. He made it twenty times, that lovers' promise. It was as vain as when I said to him: "I understand you."
I hate it when things written one hundred years before I was born directly relate to how I'm feeling. Rimbaud was exactly my age (almost to the day) when he wrote that. Motherfuck why can't I be a literary genius?
April 2, 2004
Favorite female author?
Well, ok, but after this, I'm going to have a lot of promiscuous sex with dozens of hot frat boys and blog about it.
All right, so that's not going to happen, but still. What do I look like, bookslut or something?
First of all, it's hard to go wrong with the Brontes or Jane Austin. I like George Elliot and Mary Shelley. Well, I really liked Frankenstein, but I haven't read anything else by Shelley, but I assume that I'll like it. I like the short stories of Gertrude Stein (her novels can be a bit much at once, though), Dorothy Parker (her poetry is also kickass), Alison Baker, and Margaret Atwood.
But if I had to chose one author, it would have to be Carole Nelson Douglas. While she writes some dumb series about a cat that solves mysteries on its own, she also writes a fabulous series following the adventures of Irene Adler. Irene is, of course, the only woman to have ever out-witted Sherlock Holmes. The series tells the story from her point of view, and also tells of subsequent cases that require someone more discreet (and more qualified) than the world reknown supersleuth.
I must say that it took me longer to compile this list than I thought it would--I never realized it before, but I don't read a lot of female authors. I listen to a lot of music by female artists, though, so I assume that it all evens out somehow.
All right, so that's not going to happen, but still. What do I look like, bookslut or something?
First of all, it's hard to go wrong with the Brontes or Jane Austin. I like George Elliot and Mary Shelley. Well, I really liked Frankenstein, but I haven't read anything else by Shelley, but I assume that I'll like it. I like the short stories of Gertrude Stein (her novels can be a bit much at once, though), Dorothy Parker (her poetry is also kickass), Alison Baker, and Margaret Atwood.
But if I had to chose one author, it would have to be Carole Nelson Douglas. While she writes some dumb series about a cat that solves mysteries on its own, she also writes a fabulous series following the adventures of Irene Adler. Irene is, of course, the only woman to have ever out-witted Sherlock Holmes. The series tells the story from her point of view, and also tells of subsequent cases that require someone more discreet (and more qualified) than the world reknown supersleuth.
I must say that it took me longer to compile this list than I thought it would--I never realized it before, but I don't read a lot of female authors. I listen to a lot of music by female artists, though, so I assume that it all evens out somehow.
April 1, 2004
Civilization tames human passions, but it can't eliminate them.
Someone asked for a brief review of the books that I wasted my spring break reading, the ones I read instead of tapping some ass. Not that a significant amount of ass presented itself for the tapping; I think the most action I got all break was in some chubby junior's imagination who tried flirting with me while I was visiting some old teachers. Strike one: Wearing a tshirt that says "Let me get one thing str8: I'm not". Strike two: Fortysome pounds overweight, frosted hairtips, and black fingernail polish. Strike Three: Making mention of me on your xy.com profile, in the hopes that I would notice. Negative points to Jay, who pointed that out to me, and has proceded to taunt me since. I refuse to be neurotically his, for him to be my chubby shadow, following me in the hallways between classes. I would tell him to go Plath himself, but I have the feeling his poetry is more the 'no one understands me' variety and less like the world's greatest, longest suicide manifesto. He should just up and pull a Mishima or get turned into a tragic after-school special.
Now that I've got that out of my system, someone asked for reviews of the book, and ask and ye shall receive, or something corny like that. In the words of Bitch and Animal, I aim to satisfy, I aim to please, just give me some booty that I can squeeze.
Heart of Darkness was just stupid. Every other word was 'inscrutable,' 'indeterminable,' or similar. It's just bad writing, but I have to read it for class, so at least I got it out of the way. Though I thought I would hate a first person narrative about growing up in Afganistan, The Kite Runner was gorgeously written, probably my favourite book I read during break. The DaVinci Code currently tops the NYTimes Book List, so any review of mine is going to suck. But it was fun, and I felt smart while reading it because I was able to comprehend a few of the codes before the characters. While England Sleeps is by my favourite author, David Leavitt, whom I praised a few posts previously, so I won't now. I really liked it, though. Speaking of really liking something, If You Were With Me.... was some gorgeous short stories about gay guys. While the writing was crisp and clear, my favourite part was that in a collection of short stories about gay men, there was no whining about AIDS nor any angsty coming-out stories. It was good writing, to be sure, but it was good writing without cliched topics, which made it even better. The Goat (or, Who is Silvia) is by Albee, ergo it is genius. It won Best Play from Tony, New York Drama Critics Circle, Drama Desk, and Outer Critics Circle. Yes, I looked that fact up. Bite me. I'm not a big fan of modernist literature, My Antonia was pretty good, better than To The Lighthouse, definately. The Woody Allen Reader is a compilation of his monologues and scenes from his early movies. If you're into that sort of thing, you'll like it. If not, you'll not.
Now that I've got that out of my system, someone asked for reviews of the book, and ask and ye shall receive, or something corny like that. In the words of Bitch and Animal, I aim to satisfy, I aim to please, just give me some booty that I can squeeze.
Heart of Darkness was just stupid. Every other word was 'inscrutable,' 'indeterminable,' or similar. It's just bad writing, but I have to read it for class, so at least I got it out of the way. Though I thought I would hate a first person narrative about growing up in Afganistan, The Kite Runner was gorgeously written, probably my favourite book I read during break. The DaVinci Code currently tops the NYTimes Book List, so any review of mine is going to suck. But it was fun, and I felt smart while reading it because I was able to comprehend a few of the codes before the characters. While England Sleeps is by my favourite author, David Leavitt, whom I praised a few posts previously, so I won't now. I really liked it, though. Speaking of really liking something, If You Were With Me.... was some gorgeous short stories about gay guys. While the writing was crisp and clear, my favourite part was that in a collection of short stories about gay men, there was no whining about AIDS nor any angsty coming-out stories. It was good writing, to be sure, but it was good writing without cliched topics, which made it even better. The Goat (or, Who is Silvia) is by Albee, ergo it is genius. It won Best Play from Tony, New York Drama Critics Circle, Drama Desk, and Outer Critics Circle. Yes, I looked that fact up. Bite me. I'm not a big fan of modernist literature, My Antonia was pretty good, better than To The Lighthouse, definately. The Woody Allen Reader is a compilation of his monologues and scenes from his early movies. If you're into that sort of thing, you'll like it. If not, you'll not.
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