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Wednesday, March 30th, 2005
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11:14 am
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Reason #532 why I like Virginia so much: The calendar says it's spring, and Virginia agrees!
Also, I found this essay through friends of friends of friends, and I loved it.
( The Size 6 Harem )
current mood: sick leave, yeah!
current music: Moby - Slipping Away
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| Wednesday, March 2nd, 2005
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7:18 pm
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| Saturday, October 16th, 2004
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1:21 am - Poetry with Luis! It's 1998!
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More poetry for the poetry meme! (Apparently, I was ahead of my time last night.)
Peace
When will you ever, Peace, wild wooddove, shy wings shut,
Your round me roaming end, and under be my boughs?
When, when, Peace, will you, Peace? I'll not play hypocrite
To own my heart: I yield you do come sometimes; but
That piecemeal peace is poor peace. What pure peace allows
Alarms of wars, the daunting wars, the death of it?
O surely, reaving Peace, my Lord should leave in lieu
Some good! And so he does leave Patience exquisite,
That plumes to Peace thereafter. And when Peace here does house
He comes with work to do, he does not come to coo,
He comes to brood and sit.
- Gerard Manley Hopkins
and
This is just to say
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
- William Carlos Williams
and
Somewhere I Have Never Travelled
Somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever in each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
- e.e. cummings
current mood:  calm
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| Thursday, October 14th, 2004
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7:00 pm
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A poem I remember reading at Academy:
In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said: "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter - bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."
- Stephen Crane
current mood: peaceful
current music: The Eels - Wooden Nickels
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| Wednesday, September 8th, 2004
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11:06 am
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So. Here it is, my Massively Geeky Thesis for Maggie. You can blame her, for her incessant hating on my love. Being that I have loads of time on my hands, and loads of extraneous mental energy, I decided to write out something of an analysis of Snape. It was intended to just be an explanation of why I think he's so great, but it turned into a full-out character analysis, and then I just couldn't stop writing. I kept making statements and then having to back them up with evidence and quotes. I apologize profusely in advance for the obscene length of this thing. Mags, you might want to go pee and get yourself something to drink before you read this.
It's in four parts. Yeah. This is, beyond a doubt, the geekiest thing I have ever done. I had so much fun.
( Part One )
( Part Two )
( Part Three )
( Part Four )
current mood:  geeky
current music: Poe - Haunted
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| Thursday, August 26th, 2004
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10:31 am - Oselle, some sympathy?
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So on Tuesday night Rebecca and I were engaged in ( An Epic Battle Against a Roach )
Shut up. It's the most exciting thing that happened to me in weeks, even if it wasn't very pleasant.
current mood: waiting for the exterminator
current music: Mozart - Symphony #25 in G Minor
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| Monday, April 26th, 2004
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4:44 pm
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Eh. Monday. And rain.
( Frodos Dremes )
current mood: calm
current music: Barenaked Ladies - Alcohol
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| Friday, April 11th, 2003
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6:06 pm
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Somewhere I have never travelled
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
- e.e. cummings
Since the world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful today, I thought that might be appropriate.
And here's some Sylvia Plath to brighten our day:
Insomniac
The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole ---
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.
Over and over the old, granular movie
Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days
Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.
He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue ---
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.
His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.
Each gesture flees immediately down an alley
Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance
Drains like water out the hole at the far end.
He lives without privacy in a lidless room,
The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open
On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.
Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats
Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.
Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,
Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,
Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.
current mood:  artistic
current music: more instrumental Enya
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