I live ... if only to serve *It*

Koibito sent me an email expressing concern over my welfare, since I hadn't posted in 3 days. Guess that means I ought to let you people in on stuff. My life is hell. I haven't got the time for this. I'll see you on Monday, when *It* is over. Until then, *It* rules my life. *It* owns my ass. *It* is undefeatable. End.

Some Desert, This

Okay people. I'm getting frustrated. This must be the rainy season or something, because it has rained every day since Sunday here. We're an arid desert. Can you tell by looking at our weather? Of course not. The sun came out this afternoon, and that was nice. But right now, it's thunder and lightning all the way. I have this patio, and when it rains it sounds like a fountain, since all the rain from the roof gutters down on my patio. I'm almost afraid the power will go out with the noises outside. That would be bad because I have no good lighting candles here, and I can't effectively read with a flashlight.

My writing professor lives out in the boonies of the boonies. Last Monday, he got rained in. There was a note on the door apologizing that class was cancelled. This Wednesday, there wasn't even a note, but class was still cancelled, because his car had a flat, and the second car was marooned by the mud and all that. We set up a new class day for tomorrow, but as the freaking sky just opened up like this, I doubt he'll be able to leave tomorrow either. I just hope I get an email before I leave for class this time.

I bought pizza today. Domino's had a three mediums for five bucks apiece coupon, and I succumbed to the convenience of it. I now have little packets of three slices each sitting in my freezer and a few in the fridge. Instant meals. And cheap enough, provided I don't eat two or three packets at a time. That would actually be difficult for me now. I eat my meals regularly, and all, when I can, but I don't have time to eat much. Pizza is nice and portable, though, and I can eat it while I study.

Let's see. I got an A on my paper and presentation. That should thrill you. It does me. I have read my article for Friday, I understand it (!) and I have about a page of possible discussion for it. I have to reread it, adjust the discussion, run it by the professor, and start thinking of a paper topic. I read the Marxist, Reader-Response, and Gender articles for Turn of the Screw. I have a few things to say about Marxism and the novel, but not enough for fifteen minutes of lecture. That'll take some more work. I have yet to read the stuff for tomorrow's class, the Deconstruction and Psychoanalysis articles for Turn of the Screw. That’ll be next on my reading list. I’m going to take an F for participation tomorrow. I think I can afford it.

Derrida’s butter dish is plain glass, with the butter sitting inside a deep rectangular bowl, covered by a slightly etched lid that sits across the top. I was expecting something distinct, like maybe a porcelain dish with blue china patterns or whatnot. You know? If you’re going to go on about how your butter dish matches his, it might as well be a classy butter dish. Derrida, by the way, uses pineapple marmalade on his toast in the mornings. Right. I didn’t care either.

The movie was a whole lot of interview/philosophizing. It was liberally punctuated by lengthy, dramatic readings of excerpts from his writings. There was flashy camera work, optical illusions, spooky ghost music, and frequent artistic pauses where they obviously posed him and told him to stand there for a few minutes thinking deep thoughts. All in all, it sucked. It was like they took an ordinary life and tried to make us think it was somehow spectacular. Not that he led an ordinary life, but they filmed him eating breakfast, watching segments of their previously taped footage, crossing the street, and lecturing. All normal things, all everyday things. And then expected us to feel deeply connected to him. Or something. I’ll tell you how discussion goes. By the way, I do not recommend the movie. Just so you know.

My lights are flickering, so I’m gonna post now while my internet still works. End.

Pacific Tree Frogs

Just so you guys know why this post is so short. I had a good three pages of post written, and I pushed the wrong button, and it's gone. All of it. So I will merely summarize what was there, minus the snark.

I have almost finished my nonfiction article, ahead of time. Blah blah blah about you all having heart attacks.

My theory professor has the same butter dish as Derrida, and so she bought the movie of his life, featuring the actual guy sitting in his kitchen talking to the cameras about his theory. In this movie, you can see the butter dish. We have to have an extra class day to watch the movie. Gripe, gripe, gripe about how I had planned stuff out for the first time in my life and something went wrong. More blah blah blah about how it isn't really a big deal.

I'm about to finish my article, blah blah blah about frogs. Yeah, that was the title, and I was really going on about it too. But now you'll have to miss it, because I'm a bit sore about the wrong button thing.

Then I pushed the wrong button and had to start over. But after spending all that time crafting a fine piece of blog art, I can't afford to spend another however long that was crafting a replacement. Certainly not because of a wrong button. I would rename the post, but that was the only thing left over from the wrong button purge, so I'm attached to it. Silly, I know.

I was planning on telling you about the cheese sticks I'm eating, but now I'm just going to tell you that I was eating cheese sticks and post this.

I was eating cheese sticks. End.

Hee Hee!

The guy next door just sneezed, and I called through the wall, "Bless you!" So far, there hasn't been a response, though he did turn his TV down. I wonder if it freaked him out. That wasn't the musically inclined neighbor, it was the usually quiet one on the other side. All he does is watch television. That doesn't bother me. Oh well. Just thought you'd like to know. End.

The Cookies are Gone

If you were here right now, you hear the sounds of my life. These sounds include the pool children, the yippers (now back on opera for a time), and the bunnies upstairs. They've started early tonight. But you would also hear, if you listened very closely, the quiet sobbing of a girl who has eaten her last ranger cookie. Join me in a sigh of regret, people.

Actually, I am not crying over the cookie. Or the new lack of cookie. Anyway, I can't desire those cookies anyway, because we can only truly desire that which it is impossible for us to get. And I could go to the store, buy ingredients and make a batch of the things right now. So I don't desire them, although I certainly lack them. And that is sad, isn't it? Both that I understand (I think) that part of Lacan, and that I have no cookies.

Speaking of Lacan, I told you once of a joke about him that I couldn't remember. I think I remember it now. He goes on forever about the "presence of absence" in our lives. We're born without our mommies, and are forever deeply in lack of that which we desire, which, in his mind at least, is our mommies. Later theorists (sounds like terrorists, huh?) hold that our desire may not be to return to our mommies, but that we nevertheless have absence all our lives. So the joke is this: "A Lacanean Christmas--the absence of presence." Hardy, har, har. But I might remember it forever now that I recalled it this once. And I guess I could always look up this posting, if I do forget.

I had an encounter with ants today. It was not fun, and I think my friend finally figured out how serious I was when I had earlier mentioned my fear of them. I really need to get a handle on that. Ants are everywhere, and I can't spook like that next time I've walked into a pile of them unknowingly. Next time, I might not be about to cross the street, I might be on that street. It's not so much that I worry about people laughing at my antics. That's fine. They probably laugh about my hat, anyway. But I might not be in a place where it's safe to just flip out like that. But I am proud of myself for one thing: I might have started the shaking, I might have turned skittish until I reached my car, and I might have made an interesting spectacle, but it did not last as long as usual.

A side note about the ants here. They come in two sizes. The regular ants, all sorts, which are truly horrifying in large numbers, and the ANTS, which are about as much larger than the regulars as I can tolerate. These nasty things don't have mounds, they have holes in the ground. They look like funnels poked into the dirt, and the ants are *fast*. They are about the size of my thumbnail, and they come out in the rain. Had I walked into a field of those, I'd have done worse than panic.

Well, now you can all stop laughing at me, because I'm done talking about stupid fears that have no basis in real life risk to health. Instead, I am moving on to the two-hour nap I enjoyed this afternoon. I did my orange book reading, and decided that I was not energetic enough to get anything out of the white book, or the articles for Turn of the Screw. So I set my backup alarm to go off in two hours, turned off the living room light, and napped on my futon. Had I chosen the bedroom for this, I would not be awake and typing this right now.

Well, since I am awake, I might as well start the white book. I'll read a few of the articles, stop when I hate it, and then write about frogs. I'm taking my laptop to school tomorrow to do my frogs article before class. I might just stay after class too, since the office will be quiet. I'll just have to remember to leave before it gets dark. I don't like walking long distances in the dark. At least in unknown territory, and this is still that. It will be for a few months, probably. There's a gun emporium down the street that sells mace. I might get some. Then I wouldn't mind walking at night. I've got a knife already, but if I end up killing an attacker, they probably won't let me off on self-defense. Juries are stupid like that. I doubt I'll get jail time for macing some thug.

Oh well. As I stated previously, I need to go. Have to make up time for that nap. I'll be back later, as in tomorrow, probably. End.

I'd Sing For Joy, But That Would Encourage Them

My paper is complete, it has been properly filled with citations, and the reference page is correct. I could sing. But the people next door sound like the stereotypical Mexican dancers that go yip and ariba (spelling?). Or maybe like children playing at being Indians by yelling while they clap their hands over their mouths. I don't know how they come up with all the noises they make, really. They are some very creative people. Quite uninhibited. I ought to write a piece on them.

In any case, I put a few boxes away, and stored my aquarium. I can't afford fish and a cat, so the aquarium has to go for now. Good thing I never got it set up. I've now got a new theme song for reading theory. Beethoven's Pathetique. In case you were wondering, Koi, that's where the Yumi-dying-after-Shishio-shish kebobs-her theme comes from. Just figured you'd like to know. I knew I recognized it when we were watching the DVD, but I happened to stumble across it in my collection here.

Well, it's not even ten, and have a few articles to read for tomorrow, so I'll post this for you. Take care, my people. End.

We've Been Had!

So I’m writing about how our logocentric society sees writing as a threat to speech. And about half way down the fourth page, I suddenly decide that we aren’t really logocentric. That logocentrism is just a façade designed to keep the marginalized other out of power. And I go with the idea. But then about half way down the fifth page, I realize that we aren’t even graphocentric. That speech is just another form of writing, and the whole thing has been made up by the people in power. We’ve been had!

On the other sides of this rainy day (I thought we were in an arid desert people, meaning: no rain!), I didn't make it to Church. The story behind this is interesting. I'm sure. Last night, I posted my thing and read my paper to myself again. I finally decided to head for the bedroom at about two or so. Not bad, right? I set my alarm to go off at seven, and started staring at the ceiling fan. It puts me to sleep, really. All the turning...

But I now have more noisy neighbors. The feral teens were gone, which was good, but then the drunks came out. Not the potheads upstairs, or the opera freaks next door. But across the sidewalk and towards the parking lot, these people were out on the lawn drinking beer and calling for their dog. They were trying to catch it, and yelling encouragement (slurred, by the way) to the guy currently chasing it. He finally caught the dog, and held on to the collar while he dragged it back to the gate. The dog took a crap and they all laughed about that for a while. Then one of the guys started making out with the girl, who didn't seem very responsive, but wasn't telling him to get off, or anything. They were right in view of my window, and yes, I can be nosey. You would have watched them, too, don't deny it. So finally a younger girl comes out of the apartment and tells them she'll be late if she doesn't leave now, and then these two little kids start calling for their mommy, and the drunk woman who was being pawed goes inside. It was after three when they finally went inside.

Once it was quiet I fell asleep rather quickly, but when the alarm went off, I decided I didn't want any of that noise, and pushed snooze. Not a bad thing, really, I can usually push snooze a few times and not be late, since I arrive early on purpose all the time. But apparently I pushed snooze quite a few times, because by the time I realized I was pushing snooze and checked the time, church was in half an hour. I decided I couldn't shower, dress, eat and get there in that time, and sulked for a while, before getting up, showering, dressing, eating and working on this paper of mine. I hadn't intended to miss Church. It just happened. I can't wait until their stupid summer hours are over, and I can sleep a little before going to church. Oh well.

And that has been my Sunday so far. I'm going to eat lunch, call a classmate about the reference page (as in, if I only talked about my ideas and mentioned a few people, do I then still need to have a list of everyone who might possibly have had an influence on my paper?), and read for class. I might draw up an outline of my other paper, or start on one of my presentations. But I might not get that far. I'm going to bed tonight at around eleven, so that I can start my week with a little more energy.

Well, I'll be back some time. End.

Derrida Meets The Little Mermaid

My paper is about the threat posed to logocentrism by the introduction of writing. In one part of my paper, I had to fight with myself over whether I would include a great example of the importance of voice recognition. Unfortunately, I decided against it, because the example was Disney, and I didn't think that would go over well in a graduate level theory course. It was a great quote, though, and later, I plan to write an entire paper (for pleasure, if you can believe it) focusing on the use of voice in "The Little Mermaid." It would be a fun paper, but alas, I have to write this other one right now. I'm at four pages, and I haven't gone through and made sense of the bad places yet. So tomorrow, I will take care of that, write the next few pages, edit it down to five good pages, and check for accidental plagiarism. That means I add a whole lot of "so-in-so said"s all over the place to cover my ass. Last thing I want is screw up there.

I emailed my parents about the kitten decision. I got a message back from my mom, and she had a few points to bring up, but didn't seem angry or anything. I'm going to call her now, and cut this short...

Actually, that was a lie. I just decided to call half way through this. She's not happy about the cat, but she does understand my decision. She had a lot to add that I had not thought about, mostly bad, of course, but I found myself smiling at the thought that I might one day get to deal with those things. I told her so, and she sighed. Right now, the only thing that worries me is the money. But I can give things up, and live even more frugally than I do right now. No problem. I hope. By the way, if anyone wants to send me money, I would appreciate it very much. That will pretty much always be the case, so any time you have the need to rid yourself of a few bucks, send 'em here. They'll go to a good cause.

I have narrowed the naming down to three. Umbra tops the list, followed by Ludi and Etiam, which are tied. I think Umbra might mutate into Umber or Ember, but hopefully, if that's the one, I can keep it Umbra. I think I'll end up with a boy cat, which makes the other two higher up the list, but I don't know for sure. I haven't gotten to see the kittens yet to pick out the one I want. I'll be getting on of the dark dark brown and white stripy ones. Umbra and Umber fir perfectly with the coloring, but Etiam and Ludi sound more masculine. But again, I might be getting a girl.

There is a pack of feral teenagers out on the sidewalk by my bedroom, making feral teenager sounds. It's a party, I guess, or they're just "hanging out" at midnight. Don't they have better places to go? I hope they're gone in about an hour when I go to bed.

I'm going back to touchy-feely church tomorrow, and getting up at seven to finish my paper and get ready. And... oh my God... Is that...

People, there has been a disturbing change in my living space. I just noticed what look like blood smears on my wall about a foot up from the baseboard. Like someone wiped a bloody hand across the wall. There are dribble marks. It's real faint, and hardly noticeable, but it's there. And it's disturbing, as I mentioned earlier. Who bled here before I moved in? No one has bled here since, or I'd know about it. I'm not sure what I should do. It might be juice or something. Someone spilled it, and didn't get it all... Let me go clean that.

It's gone now; I attacked it with a wet rag.

Well, that little horror is over. I hope I don't find any more. If I do I might have to call the apartment people.

Okay. I should get the last page written, now that I've had a break and it will look like English again. You know, it took me longer to write this than it has taken anything else in a while. I wrote six pages in about two and half hours just the other weekend. Now it took me all day to even figure out what I was saying, and then to hammer out a whole four pages. Oh well. I need to add a lot, so that I can cut the stuff that makes no sense. And most of it will be gibberish, I'm sure. I mean, how *does* writing challenge the logos/truth ideal? This assumes that the western world is truly logocentric. My premise is that logocentrism is a fraud made to misdirect the efforts of the marginalized "other" and keep that "other" from realizing that with writing he or she can gain access to the true world of graphocentrism. Yeah. Another reason to cut the little mermaid. She can't write, she doesn't have feet, she sold her voice to the evil octopus witch, and the nasty eels are out to tip her boat. She obviously isn't on the graphocentrism train. Poor marginalized fish girl...

Um, yeah. I'll post and be done, I guess. I really do need to finish the paper. Or sleep. I'll dream of Captain Nemo from the however many leagues under the sea. He'll be hugging a crab and singing about the seaweed on the other side of the fence... Right before he marries the horny priest, because they're off the coast of Massachusetts, where anything is possible. God bless Massachusetts.

I can't tell if the add on the top of the page is dancing like that to get my attention, or if I'm imagining the strobe effect on my own. This is a bad sign... But since the rest of the screen isn't twitching like that, I'll assume it isn't my fault, although I will still actually post this instead of saying I will. Bet you didn't see that coming. Huh? End.

Return of the Dungeon Horticulturist

This will be short. Lucky me. It's Friday, for crying out loud, and I'm not done with my paper yet. I am done with the presentation, gave it at 2. I bombed, in my mind, but apparently I asked one really great discussion question, one that no one could answer and that kept us going until break. Then my turn was over, so there is no answer to my question. This is important to you all for one reason. Since the class couldn't generate an answer, and because there is no answer that people agree on that the prof knows about, my paper is to come up with the answer. Can you all say "damn it!" with me? If the brilliant buggers in theory land are grasping at straws here, what chance do I have? I'll tell you what chance. The same chance I have of getting anything like a clear answer about something until the second week of August. The same chance I have of ... I don't know, you come up with something impossible.

About that answer thing. This is taken, verbatim, from class.

Prof: [I can't remember what she asked, it was long and no one understood it after she repeated it a third time.]

Guy: [clearly as confused as the rest of us, but trying to get an understanding of the question] But wait a minute. Are we talking about taking the thing as a whole, or are we dividing it into sentences or something smaller like that?

Prof: [very excited by this development, leaning forward and grinning as she makes a gesture of exclamation with her index finger] Exactly!

Guy: [blinking with mouth open, before muttering to those around him] But that was a question. You weren't supposed to say "exactly."

End scene from class of doom.

You see what I mean? My brain is tired. I can't think of an answer to my paper's question. And to top it all, the other professor is ecstatic about my obsession with frogs (that's the topic I chose, desperate, huh?), and wants me to come out to his place in the country some night this next week and go frog hunting with his daughter. I can put it in my story/paper. My question, to which, I might add, I got nothing that resembled a satisfactory answer, was as follows: "Just when am I going to have time to get lost in the middle of nowhere on the outskirts of a nowhere town when I have all this other stuff I have to do?" I don't know how that will work out. More on that later.

In the meantime, it's the freaking weekend, and whether I'm allowed one or not, I'm going to bed now, and sleeping in until eight. My body needs the recovery time. Good night all. End.

Zombies and Fig Trees

You know it has to be interesting when the title mentions the two most fascinating subjects in the known universe, right? I mean, zombies are cool. They think they're dead, but they're grossly alive. I read that somewhere. Common thought, the more mainstream variety, I suppose, holds that zombies are a kind of automaton, reconstructed from dead parts, or held in a stasis between being physically dead, and not quite allowed to die yet. It's a strange concept, when you think wholesome thoughts. I don't by the way. Let my mother tell you. I don't write wholesome. But that's too hard to think about right now, and I'm talking about zombies, not depression. Zombies don't get out much, so they're kind of apart from the world, and they don't get enough credit for intelligence. Zombies are actually quite smart. If they were half as stupid as people imagine them to be, they'd be walking down the skin care aisles at Walmart, freaking people out. No, zombies know what they look like, and they'd rather avoid the painful reactions of the too, too solid flesh around them. So. Zombies. I'll return to those guys. Really.

Fig trees are perhaps the most bizarre trees I have met in a while. Yes, I meet trees. Get over it. I talk to them, too, do you mind? Anyway, fig trees can be moved indoors, and kept as office plants. I have encountered many fig trees in this function. Most are reasonably happy, although a few of them would like pets to keep them company. The fun thing about fig trees is that they hate being moved. Really. This isn't a bright move for a potted plant. It's in a pot so it's easier to move. That's the point of putting a fig tree in a pot in the first place. Ease of movement. Yet the tree gets defensive when it's moved even a few inches, and drops all it's leaves on the office floor. Now really, Mr. Fig, what did that accomplish? Now you're still in a new place, but have no leaves. Good job. Fig trees, obviously, are nowhere near as intelligent as zombies.

You see? I didn't forget the zombies.

This blog is supposed to be about my life, as the title sort of says, and by now, you're thinking I ought to change the title to something else. Maybe Life of a Dungeon Horticulturist? I'll leave it as it is, thanks, because both zombies and fig trees play a dominant role in my life right now. That's right. Zombies too.

You see, at this moment in time, I have a lot in common with a zombie. I feel dead, but I am alive in some ghastly way I cannot comprehend. Society seems to think I ought to be dead, but then reanimated or some such, but as I read wherever it was I read it, zombies are only fooled into thinking they're dead. This class, theory, of course, is a cruel, cruel master. Where the zombie avoids public places due to its appearance, I avoid them due to lack of time to go visit them. I do not yet share physical appearance with a zombie, thank God, but I do make some of the groaning noises, and I swear my joints creak when I put my textbook aside to go to the bathroom. When I get my kitten, he will be terrified of me, unless I manage to recover before then from this terrible, mysterious condition I've developed. Here's where the fig trees enter.

No, I have not dropped all my hair. Stop worrying. Or were you worrying? Probably not. It's a bit unrealistic, I suppose. But the fig trees. I was telling you about fig trees.

I now understand, due to the services of a truly selfless fig tree, the signified/signifier signs of Saussure. You may congratulate me, or pity me, as you wish. I'm immune to both by now. You see, the following will take place during my description of the moment in which it occurred to me just what Saussure was talking about. [shakes fig tree] means that the professor has grabbed the fig tree by its little trunk and shaken it rather harshly. She afterward complained that the tree was dropping leaves all the time and she couldn't figure it out. I ought to have told her for the tree's sake, but I feared for my grade. So I didn't say a thing. Shame on me. That's a performative speech; the act of saying it makes it so. Saying "shame on you" actually inspires/creates shame where before there might not have been any at all. But I digress. I do that a lot, huh?

I was frustrated enough to talk to the professor about all the things I wasn't getting. There were three really big ones that seem to come up in class all the time. One is the signified/signifier. The theory is that a language is made up of signs, and each sign is composed of a signified (the concept in your head) and the signifier (the sound or image you hear or see). I was thinking that the thing you saw was the tree (that was the example in the book, a tree), and that the word "tree" was somehow the other one.... in short, I didn't get it. The truth is (if there is a truth, which is doubtful) that the actual tree in question isn't a part of the sign. As she so magnificently put it, and I paraphrase, "the phoneme (sound) "tree" isn't [shakes fig tree] this. The concept "tree" isn't [shakes fig tree] this. [shakes fig tree] this has nothing to do with the sign." She put it about like that, and I mean, she really rattled that tree. I saw leaves dropping as she did it. The poor thing's probably bald now. A mere zombie of what it was before I asked the question.

On the upside, I get Saussure, which is good, because the article I present tomorrow, "Writing" deals with the bastard a lot. It also deals with Marxism, which I dislike, and Lacan, who was a grade A freak. I get Marxism, and Lacan remains a mystery to me even now. My zombie brain, though more intelligent than Hollywood would have you believe, was not capable of absorbing both Saussure and Lacan in the same fifteen minutes. All I get about Lacan is that he thought the unconscious had wires going under a door, and each wire was a chain of things which were not other things. Somehow, these ... I'm not even going to try. It won't work. I've already got a headache. She canna take any more captain or she'll blow. Or however Scottie says it.

So there you have it. I'm a zombie, or might as well be. There's a dying fig tree of wisdom in the professor's office, and it needs a kitten to keep it company in its last days on this earth before the ship comes to take it away to a place where there is no need for leaves, and there will be no more tears. Then I guess I'll take the kitten.

So I have changed my alarm clock to 7AM. This is a bad thing, since I rarely finish anything before midnight, and I go to bed and stare at my ceiling fan for an hour or so before I can fall asleep. I now get...someone do the math... X hours of sleep a night. I spend my mornings reading for the workshop class, my afternoons in class, my evenings reading for theory, and the few remaining hours worrying about all the things I'm not doing which I should be doing. And I'm starting to feel weaker again. I need to take things easier, and not do so much, maybe get more sleep, eat three meals a day, all those things... but I can't yet. I have two more weeks to go. I can make it. I'll fully recover from mono when I have time to, dammit. Until then, it can just leave me alone. I have a huge paper, a project, two little papers, and a presentation and a half left. (The half I have done is the planning. I get to present tomorrow, and should be sleeping now, but I couldn't, because I hadn't blogged today, and I just can't not post an entry, since I have about two readers, and while two isn't much it's all I have, and I'd rather not let them down because then I'll have one reader, or no readers, and that would be even worse than not having a kitten.)

I feel dead. But I am, in some ghastly way, very much alive. The theory class has destroyed my mind, while keeping the flesh intact, but the absence of a mind is beginning to take its toll on the flesh. Speaking of absence, Lacan has another thing he's famous for. Something that somehow forms a great joke when you reverse it, and that's supposed to help me remember it, but strangely, I have forgotten it at the moment. Oh well.

Just remember, there is no big T truth (that would be Truth); we are born wanting our Mommies, but we can never have our Mommies, and will therefore go forever consumed with heart-shattering desire and lack; our culture has planted its ideology so deeply in our brains that we instinctively agree to be mindless proletariats in the cogs of a giant bourgeois machine; we therefore shy away from and instinctively ignore anything that goes contrary to the brainwashing of our ideology; all discourse leads to further falsehoods; the more we talk about a thing, the closer we get to the Truth (if there is one, which is unlikely), but we can never get to it, even if there is one, which is unlikely, because it's like the half-life of a whatchamacallit; there are no jobs for people with PhDs, and the people with power will just trade us around in adjunct positions, never offering us tenure, because we make valuable fodder who try to please the masters in order to get tenure, but since we're sheep and not goats, this is all okay and we're supposed to like it. Is it any wonder I need a kitten? This class is so uplifting. I feel light and my spirit rests easy when I leave the school during rush hour every day, after walking across campus to the parking lot for losers who don't live there.

I'm going to go stare at my fan. Good morning, all. End.

Kitties and Tree Frogs

I am lonely. I need someone here at the apartment when I come home, someone who cares that I got here safely. I need someone who will look at me when I talk, or even just ignore me with style. I need someone to eat with, have fun with, and watch TV with. Or I will, when I have time to watch TV. In short, I need a cat. I'd say I need a roommate, but those always (always) have so many problems attached. They're picky about the food (you're always wrong), keep a different schedule (yours is abnormal), they talk to their friends all the time (strangely, you're not one of them), and have all sorts of annoying habits (I won't go there). In short, they're people. So I don't need a person, when I can have a cat. I would have to deal with the litter box. Well that's not exactly a real problem. I'd have to give it food and water. Well, I give myself food and water, so it shouldn't be all that hard, now should it? Actually, let me start over, logically.

The down sides of a cat include the cost of caring for the cat (food, litter, vet bills), the time spent on the cat (playing, whatever), the possible damage to stuff (cat chews on/shreds things), and the pet fees from the apartment (in total, about 400 bucks).

The up sides of a cat include the company, which I desperately need, the time spent on the cat, and the comfort of a furry creature nearby, which is different from company.

I can handle four hundred dollars, if that's what it takes. I'd willingly give stuff up for that, if I had to, and I would have to. I'd have to rearrange a few things around here, but that would be worth it too. It's just too solitary here. And the people I see at school are great, but when I come home, they don't matter anymore. I go right back to being alone as soon as I leave. And truth be told, I'd rather be alone with a cat.

Of course, I've had this discussion with my parents on numerous occasions, and each time, they have firmly steered me away from a cat. They think I don't realize what they're doing, but they are saying "no" in logical arguments designed to keep me from figuring out that they're saying "no." I even talked it over with my boyfriend, and we ended up on the conclusion of no. But you know what? If I've had this thought, this desire, constantly enough for it to come up so often, and if I'm unhappy with all the advice people are giving me, then there must be something about having a cat that is deeply important to me. I have wanted a cat since we left CA, and our cats, behind. I have wanted a cat for years, and now I'm not at home, where animals are forbidden, and I'm not in a dorm, where animals are forbidden. I'm in an apartment, where I can have animals. At home, in the dorm, there were people. I wasn't lonely. Here, there are no people, and I am lonely. And I can have a cat. But first, I must thoroughly get my reasons cleared in my head, and set up my arguments. Then I must find the money I need.

A friend in my office has a friend whose cat has kittens. I can have one when they're weaned in a few weeks. I'll be out of summer school then, and able to stay home with the cat, getting it used to the apartment. Then all will be okay when I start classes in the fall. This is the perfect timing. Everything is falling into place, except that my desires will be shot down by the parental unit as soon as I broach the subject again. I'm a little depressed about that, I suppose. I'll talk to them after I see the kittens. Then I'll be really persuasive. I hope.

Aside from that, I have this writing project I told you about. My passionate obsession. Remember? I was talking about parents, women ministers, cats and all that with the office friend, and she asked about my assignment. She still thinks I should be obsessed about not having a passionate obsession. I still don't think that will fly for the paper. But we started brainstorming about interests that would work, and I thought of frogs. I love frogs. I have little stuffed frogs that I drag everywhere when I have a bad dream, I have a squishy frog for stress, lots of little frogs on my desk, frog posters... I love frogs. And then it came to me. Poison dart frogs, the indigenous tribes that use them in hunting way down there in the rainforest, and then: "save the rainforest!" Ah hah! There it is. Frogs. Tribal customs. Rainforests. I like all those things, and while I'm not passionate about them, I am interested, and I will admit to a certain amount of obsession about the frogs. So. There it is. My topic. Maybe. I'll see if it gels with my Muse. If not, I'm off to search again. But it should fit nicely.

Well, I'm going to call and see about seeing the kittens. I might be back on to coo about them. I might not. I have a lot of reading to do, and I've been doing this instead of it. And talking to the apartment people. I caught them again. I'm getting to be good at that. See you next time. End.

A Word on the Misuse of Vocal Cords

About those yodeling, yipping, opera singing maniacs next door. They've now combined genres of annoyance. They now speak in singsong. This is the answer to my fit, I think. They've been quiet since dinner, and now, late at night, they start up again. Of course, I'm not angry at them right now, just stating the obvious for all of you (all two of you) who aren't here to hear it. They really are unique, the sounds these people make. Like animals, or joy riding teenagers. Wait a minute... is there much of a difference? Oh well. Let's all hope they sing, yip and yodel themselves hoarse, and then learn from that how to better use their God-given vocal cords. End.

Huh. Well That Went Well...

Hey again. That wasn't a very long nap, was it? I confess. I was curious. I had to see if it would work. It did, sort of. But it left that copied-out-of-an-email signature that I'm not fond of. I'll leave it up that way for now, so you can see it. If I do the email thing again, I'll probably be writing it from school. In which case, I'll get home and edit the post to get rid of the email format. But like I said, this one will stay, so you can see how it looks. I'll probably change it tomorrow some time, because I'm anal about things that way. We'll see how long it'll stay up in its current condition. Any wagers? I'd be interested to know what you think.

I brought a thing of grapes to school today. This just came to me, and I have to share. The grapes were fine when I washed them this morning, and they were fine when I nibbled on my way to school. But some time between arriving at school and eating lunch, they grew white fuzzies. I didn't know mold grew that fast! And I know a lot about mold. I grow it for fun sometimes to see what colors I can get.

This is getting random. That's a sign that I should get to bed. I'll be giggling next, if I'm not careful. Good night for real, people. End.

An Experiment in Blue

I have finished my paper, and now my Muse must sleep. She will digest what
she has written, and probably rewrite it tomorrow morning. In any case, I
can't work on it more tonight. I had to coax it into its minimum length,
and then after it reached that limit, it exploded beyond the maximum. This
paper has been a difficult child for me. I'm not happy with it, but it will
have to suffice.

I call this entry experiment in blue, because I am seeing if this "email
your post to the blog" thing works. And I needed something at least a
little snappy for the title, and my creative juices have been splashed all
over the place this evening, leaving the cup empty and the carpet stained in
risky lime. Oh, and my hotmail page is all blue. That might be a reason
too, now that I think of it.

Well, if this doesn't pop up in my blog the way I want it to, I'll just try
again the original way. But if you're reading it, I got it there somehow.
Maybe if you're curious you can ask me. Or wait until I break down and tell
you. I'll either brag about acquiring a new trick, or moan about the rising
rate of personal illiteracy when it comes to computers.

Huh. Well I ought to be asleep now, oughtn't I? I think I'll attempt this
and go do that. There will be another early morning post if my water isn't
hot when I shower tomorrow. After that, there will be a trip to the
management of this apartment demanding my utility check be returned until
such a time as they can provide me with quality. I'll settle for lukewarm,
actually. Or a little chill. But not what it was this morning. That is
unacceptable. I got an offer to go to a friend's apartment and shower there
if my water was too cold. I might take her up on that offer. You'll
probably hear about it whatever happens, unless I forget.

I'm really going to bed now. Night, people. End.

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Samurai Chefs

I arrived at my apartment and immediately ran my utility bill over to the office to pay it. Not a bad move on my part, since they're usually gone by the time I get home, and not there when I leave in the morning. I feel quite proud of my timing, thank you. My check of a whole seven or so bucks is safely in the hands of the people I needed to pay. It always seems so stupid to write a check for that kind of amount. Anything under ten dollars always feels silly. Not that I want to be paying more than that for utilities, or anything, but sheesh. You'd think I could do cash, but that would be worse, because then I have no money to spend making copies in the library.

That's seriously something I need to add to my budget though. That damn money devouring copy machine. You'd think they would give us graduate students a card that says we have rights to free copies or something. I mean, we're graduate students. We have offices, keys to every room in the building, and the outside doors as well. We're on payroll. We have insurance. But we have to feed our dollar bills and quarters to the god of replication. That strikes me as a little unfair. We've just managed to get out of undergrad, we're still broke from it, and we're about to embark on another two years of poverty before we can go flip burgers. Give us a break with the copy machine. I think we deserve it. We ought to have the code, or some other powerful set of numbers. I had the code to the copy machine in my undergraduate school. I wasn't even supposed to, but I *looks both ways* used it to make all my copies for sending out applications. Easily used two reams of paper, and more toner than I had a right to, even if I had been a faculty member. Now I am a faculty member (sort of) and I have to stand there trying to make sure George's head is facing the right way in order to make copies. I'm a bit disgruntled. You can tell, can't you? I thought so.

Well, I made it back to the apartment sans utility check, and made dinner. Macaroni and cheese, because I felt like eating something cheesy, and macaroni and cheese is comfort food for me. I had a pot of noodles that needed to be drained in my hand and was about to drain them when my phone rang. Sometimes we do stupid things. Don't deny it; you have done stupid things, and you aren't going to learn from them. You will do more stupid things. Lots of them. Perhaps you will carry a boiling pot of noodles from the kitchen into your bedroom to answer the phone. Perhaps you will reach across your bed to the far corner where you keep your phone. Perhaps you will spill the noodles on your bed. Maybe not. The stupid things you do probably don't match the stupid things I do. I think I have gathered all the noodles. I think my mattress will dry out tonight while I sleep on my futon. I know that my sheets will be clean and dry in an hour. And I know that you can substitute your own noodles for the noodles in the box, if you somehow lose the noodles from the box. It tastes just as good, and if you have lost the original noodles, you will need the comfort food.

The people who called, by the way, never got to speak with me. I haven't yet mastered my phone. Yes, that's right. I always manage to either push the button or not push it, whichever is the wrong option. I either never answered or I hung up on them. I looked at the caller ID function, however, and it was the Blood Center. I know they had to take blood to find the mono, so I figured they wanted to talk to me about that. So I set out to call them back, but the area code was not from around here. So I looked them up in the phone book, and they are from Michigan. Why is a blood center from Michigan calling me? I called on my cell phone and got the answering machine. I was first thanked for being a blood donor, and then told that they closed half an hour before they had called me. I was not invited to leave a message, and there was no helpful beep. In fact, they hung up on me after a suitable pause.

I figured, since I had the phone book out, I would look through it. I have always been trapped by phone books, dictionaries, encyclopedias, thesauruses, and all those kinds of books. Something will look interesting, and I'll hunt it down, only to be sidetracked by this other interesting thing... I have read the dictionary, cover to cover, twice. That should tell you how terrible it is for me to get lost in a phone book. I'm likely to just read all the entries one right after the other.

Well, I ended up reading the restaurant section, and I stumbled across something that, thankfully, broke my trance. I read it, and thought, I have to blog about that. And so I set the phone book down and started this. Thank you blog. What I found was this: "Shogun Japanese Seafood and Steakhouse." Its claim to fame is that it has the best teppanyaki in town, and that all the food is "prepared in front of you by samurai chefs." No kidding. Samurai, huh? They must have really fallen on hard times to be making food for Americans in a town like this one. I think they meant that the chefs wouldn't be French or something. But they said samurai, so when I go there, I'll ask about that. Although maybe that would be rude. I don't know. It's real close, apparently. I might go celebrate when summer session is over.

On a side note, or rather, a segue into something completely different, the opera/yodeling wonder wannabe neighbors have taken up yipping. If you could only see the expressions their yipping causes to flit across my face, you would fear. I think I'll develop a nervous tick in my face somewhere if they don't move on to something else soon. I actually yelled at them today. Something along the lines of: "Damn you! Stop yipping. I didn't like your singing, I didn't like your yodeling, and I hate your yipping! Why do you do this? Does it bring you some perverse pleasure when you piss me off like this? Do you want me coming over there? I have knives. I know where your vocal cords are, and I'd love to rid you of them!" At this point, there has been no response. It is strangely silent there now, but they usually stop for dinner. I wish they wouldn't. They ought to try yipping and swallowing at the same time. Repeatedly, until they finally choke to death. I'd wave a contract under their bulging eyes and have them sign it, swearing never to sing, yodel, yip, or anything like that for the rest of their lives, and *then* I'd save them. You know when something irritates you enough that your jaw clenches, your fists clench, your eyes roll up while the eyelids flicker, and then you just ... can't ... stand it anymore?

On a happy note, my interview with the crime scene went over quite well. I got three pages of descriptions, and that's not counting the two pages I have of the actual crime. This is going to be great. I'll write everything I have, and then I'll start to chop. This is a shorter assignment, which will be harder. But that's okay. Now that I have what I needed, everything will be fine. The Muse will kick me in the butt, and I'll just write away. Then later, I can cull out the superfluous details.

They're throwing a sub sandwich party for us on Friday, because they think we're all depressed and over-worked. You know what? The theory professor came and found us in the graduate lobby at lunch today, and seemed very concerned and disappointed by this party. Like it would somehow damage us to get our minds off of things. She seems to think that we should be thinking about our final projects then, not relaxing. I can't quote her exact words on that, but that was the sentiment behind them. She looked at the few of us who remained in the room, and told us that we didn't look at all stressed or anxious, and therefore didn't need this party. I told her that we didn't *look* it, no. She blinked, and then burst out into laughter. "Good answer, good answer!" I can quote her on that one. I don't actually think she wants to take this free food away from us or anything, she just feels that it would distract us, and she wants to keep us focused on what really matters, which is her class. So that's theory.


Aside from that, I have fruit flies. The whole city has them, they're everywhere. But they seem to only fly around where you are. Like they think you'll feed them if they fly around long enough, and act pathetic. I tell them it only works that way for dogs, but they don't listen. I don't think I can effectively communicate with fruit flies by means other than slamming them in textbooks. And that gets messy. Oh well. I am going to post this, and start writing my paper for tomorrow. Take care. End.

A Bright Morning, with Pot

The pot's not mine. I swear.

No really, the people upstairs are out on their patio and must think I can't hear them. They're hacking up a storm and talking about some guy who wasn't at work when he was supposed to be. "Cough, cough. Spit. Man this is good." The way the conversation sounds, they must be high. They just now went back inside; they're on their way to Denny's. Um, yeah.

My morning, however, has been quite bright. I was up nice and early at seven to bathe in the heart of an ice cube. This sounds difficult, as ice is rather solid, but it really isn't. You just have to wait for them to turn your hot water off. Makes for a very lively shower, much quicker than the one you might have taken had you been able to stay put in the water. I debated sponge bathing with hot water from the stove. Then I thought that would take much longer, and I wouldn't get any cleaner. If my water's still cold tomorrow, I'm complaining.

I am about three minutes from leaving to go see my crime scene. I'm looking forward to it. I have a pad of paper and I'll get to openly stare at things. Most of the time, I have to pretend not to be looking when I'm getting ideas. This time... heh heh.

I have six Cups-o-Noodles left after today's lunch. Time to go to Walmart. I don't have the craving for them anymore, but they're so damn convenient for lunches I think I'll just finish out the summer.

What else? Is there anything? Oh yes, there is! Congratulations to my close friend in Austin! I'm so happy for you! You need a code name for this blog! And my fish is fine now, without the medicine. Maybe he was just having a bad couple of days. And I need to come up with something I'm obsessive about that I can turn into a 15 page paper. A subject about which I am passionately interested. This could be trouble.

Okay, well my three minutes are running out, so I'll post and get to my reporting. I'm starting to feel like a journalist. I interviewed over the phone last night... Now I'm going to the scene... Creepy. Oh well. See you later tonight. End.

It's been bugging me...

Okay folks. Here's your chance. There's something that has been bugging me for the last hour and half, since I put it on the stereo for a little continuous loop action. I have been listening to Saint Saens. Specifically, I have been listening to the "allegro moderato" section of his Symphony No. 3 in C minor, Op. 78, "Organ." This isn't a problem, the thing is beautiful.

The problem is that I swear I have heard it before, used as the theme song or sound track to something. And I can't figure out what. I got it into my head a little while back that I might have heard it on the latest few episodes of Rurouni Kenshin I watched.

Spoiler warning!

That would be the set that takes place right after Kenshin gets blinded, and where Magdalia dies. Can anyone out there tell me if I'm right and can lay this thing to rest, or if I'm wrong and have to continue to wrack my brain for the place I've heard this before that was not on this CD? I know for a fact that there's one person out there at least who can tell me... Maybe there are more of you, floating in the eaves trying to escape my notice. Oh well. Let me know.

By the way, you can calm down. I had Swedish meatballs for dinner, along with buttered toast. No people. Really, as if I would go to such lengths... Enjoy your evening. End.

Stress Relief, More Crime, and Cannibalism

It didn't fall through after all, people! I got in touch with the girl I eat lunch with, and she gave me her husband's number, so I could call him and talk about the robbery. Apparently, the girl who was at the counter quit the next day, so she wasn't available for comments. Great! Not that she quit or anything, but that I finally got my story. Now I can spend my morning on Tuesday at the actual place, and I'll be there at the same time the robber was there. He's (that would be manager I talked to) already told the people who work there that I'll be wandering around taking notes, so I won't get asked to leave the store. This is a good thing, as it gives me all of Tuesday night to write it up. And then on Wednesday I can plan for my presentation on Friday, and everything's finally looking up.

I was supposed to have a presentation next Monday, a paper that Thursday, a second presentation that Friday, a second paper that following Monday, and then a major group project and paper either the same day or the following. For one class. For the other class, a little narrative non-fiction piece of, oh, about fifteen pages. That week. So I'm really excited that my project got switched to this Friday. That means my paper will be due Monday, and that gives me time in the middle of that week to write my non-fiction. I was holding on the Gender article, but finally saw that it wouldn't work, so I traded it for a colleague's article on writing. And you know, I think either one will work for me. So it's not that bad that I missed out on Gender.

So. My stress has cleared, and now all my stuff is more spread out. That nap on Sunday I told you about, it was only temporary, like I said. I'm a maniac again. But now I'm a not-as-stressed-out maniac. Much more relaxed. And I'm not even listening to "The Swan."

Speaking of birds, I finished that chicken and dumplings yesterday, so I have to scrounge up something for dinner. Not potatoes, I think, or egg rolls. Maybe a whole lot of cheese sticks. While that sounds good enough, I think I might regret that later on. Oh well. I'm hungry, so I'll cut this post short. I might come back later and tell you what I had. Or I might get wrapped up in my readings, and leave you to speculate.

By the way, we had a discussion in writing class today about whether or not it was ethical to eat people. Two of us decided that as long as there wasn't a murder involved, it was fine to gnaw on some guy's ribs. The other two girls in the class were a bit more squeamish than that, and would have died if they were ever in a position like the Donner party. Did I spell that right? Oh well. Dwell on cannibalism, while I go fix myself something to eat. End.

Family Pecan Trees

Hey, an extra bit of goodness for whatever reasons you'd like to dream up. It is still Sunday, and there's another post! What's happening? Has she gone mad? No. I was always a little unstable, though most people are slow to pick up on that.

I have just finished the impromptu assignment for my writing class. Make a family tree going back to your great grandparents, and tell a little story about everyone on the tree. Unless you know nothing, which is rare, so bring stories. Well, I have done this, and have three typed pages of tree and stories to go with it. May the class be satisfied. That's what they're getting. It took me a while to compose this thing properly, since it tends to be a bad thing to reveal one's relatives in a bad light.

In short, I have done not a lick more reading than I had done before I posted the last thing. Instead I sinned grievously against both God and Nature. I took a nap. I put my glasses on the pillow beside my head, closed my eyes for a minute ... or two ... or three hours. And it was good. It was better than I had ever thought a nap could be. When I got up, I wasn't upset that I had wasted my afternoon. That would have destroyed the sacred quality of the nap itself. Instead, I called home and got my family tree dictated to me. I had fun. I laughed, and not the nervous giggling of a sleep deprived, over-stressed psychopath, either. Genuine, gosh-this-is-funny, having-a-good-time laughter. Now, of course, I am two articles behind in theory, and have not read ahead so that I will have time to write my other assignments.

But you know, I find that I don't care. Sleep, I have discovered, is worth the inconvenience of a poor grade in theory. Mind, this train of thought will derail tomorrow morning, returning me to the previous psychopathic state of mind. But for now, I will revel in the joyous freedom of a nap well slept. And I will stay up late tonight, not because I have to read, not because I want to, but because, by golly, I took a nap and am wide awake. Which means that I might get my reading done after all. One can never be sure of these things.

Tomorrow for lunch I shall be enjoying a chicken flavored Cup-o-Noodles, and a gladware container full of red grapes. I might or might not add my last cookie to that, for dessert. *sniff* My ranger cookies are almost all gone. I have been avoiding eating them because I just know I'll have a horrible day and need a cookie to make myself feel happy. Those cookies are what my mom would put in our lunches my whole life. They remind me of my family. They make me happy. I need to make a batch, and not eat the crumbs until I have more. Maybe I can get my mom to send me some pecans from our yard. That way it'll be a real ranger cookie, with homegrown pecans and all. Ah, my eyes are misting over. I just love cookies, you know.

Well, while I'm awake, I'll try to knock out those articles. If I'm lucky, they'll put me to sleep by two am. Heh, heh. Well, I'll post your dessert and let you read. End.

Forward Little Boys and the Beginning of a Plague

Hey there. I succumbed to the summer hours, and went to the church my parents approve of. Apparently the ones down the street are heathens. But I won't get into that.

So about the *good* church. I was one of the first people there, because I wanted to talk to the pastor about his views on things, and where the congregation stood. But he was off with the youth group on a retreat somewhere, so there was no Communion to worry about anyway.

They have a nice building. I wonder what kinds of fights their building committee had when the thing was being constructed. I know too much church politics. They disgust me--they're more vicious than national politics, because these people are supposed to be brothers and sisters in Christ, where the democrats and republicans are supposed to hate each other and say nasty things about each other. I was very much looking forward to not having to be involved with anything other than attending. I can see this might not work. Let me explain.

The first people I met were these two old ladies, one of whom grabbed my arm at the elbow and wouldn't let go as they introduced themselves and grilled me for my personal information. What is your name? Where are you from? When did you move? Why? Are you a T-- student? What's your major? Oh, what do want to do with your life? Where are you living now? Come take this drug test. The last one is fake, but I swear they were leading up to it. The others are actual questions I was asked. I escaped the first line of defense and made my way to the inner sanctum, where I hoped to sign the book, grab a bulletin and pretend to be absorbed in reading it until service started. The man handing out bulletins leaned in real close as I was signing the book as though he was making sure I did it right, or that I wasn't from the wrong place. Then he handed me a bulletin with this weird, squinty expression on his face, and I went in.

Like I said, the building is beautiful. It's well lit, something that most churches aren't. It isn't all ornately decked out, but it isn't minimalist and run down. Everything is tastefully done and has a reserved quality about it. So for service atmosphere, this church is pretty good.

Since the pastor wasn't there, I will not take this service as any indication of services to come. It was led by an elder with one of those Texas accents that makes me cringe because it's so strong I can't understand what's being said. Everyone who spoke, in fact, had one of those accents. It was like the worst of Texas drawl had crawled into the building to ferment. I have lived in Texas for years now, but I have never heard accents that so assault my ears as these ones. Maybe it's that they all grew up listening to each other or something. There must be a reason.

In any case, it was the after service departure (or attempt at it) that scared me. I say scared. That probably isn't the right word, because I wasn't afraid, per say, just very uncomfortable. I prefer people to keep to their space and leave me to mine. This means I don't appreciate strangers reaching out from their huddle, grabbing me, and pulling me in to be introduced to their crowd. This happened. I didn't like it.

After answering their questions, one of them took me by the elbow (!) and steered me toward another little group, then proceeded to tell them all about me. They all stuck their hands out and one of them called another trio of folks over to meet me. I swear. Is there no such thing as privacy? Do these people think I enjoy being passed around like a lonely piece of meat, to be gossiped over and all that?

I finally escaped (I did a lot of that), and was about ten feet from the door when the usher who had given me the bulletin stepped in front of me with that same semi-suspicious look, and asked me if he had read correctly that I was from S--. I told him yes. He had. I was thinking about how ridiculous it was to be accosted by an usher over a possible misreading of your last place of residence. I didn't say anything like that, though. His face was only a little less forbidding after that, and he nodded and stepped aside.

Thinking my way clear, I headed again for the door. Only to be grabbed (!) by an old man who had heard I was from S--. Did I know his relatives there, they only went there for Thanksgiving and Christmas, and had a family reunion at such in such a place? I blinked. I tried in vain to recall any such names. I drew a blank. I told him so. There was a vast pause during which he seemed to be thinking of something to say to me. I told him to have a nice day. He (hard of hearing, I guess) asked me to repeat myself. I did, louder. He seemed confused by this statement, and returned it, unsure of what was going on. I told him thank you and ran for the door. Well, I walked, but I did so very quickly.

This is not going to be one of those churches where I can attend and go home. Everyone there wanted to know everything about me, and I think there must be a secret way out of the place for people who don't want to be sucked into the social time. I need to find it, because I don't want to spend my afternoon talking with these people. They're nice, but too nosy, too touchy feely, and too something else. Maybe the novelty of my presence will wear off and they'll ignore me.

You're probably wondering about the title. The plague should be obvious. That is the "fellowship" after church. One part of church I'd rather avoid, because I inevitably grow to know and dislike the people who push into my business and spread my personal life everywhere. Hermits like company, every once in a while. They like long distance company, or company that doesn't touch them. I am a hermit, more or less. When I go to classes or to school functions, I mingle and all that cool jazz. But at church, I go to mingle with God, not the other people there. I've maybe been turned off of fellowship by always being too informed about the nasty things these people do and say to and about their "friends," but I don't want to get to know them.

An aside note, before returning to the matter of church this morning. The people next door have decided to take up yodeling. That, and high-pitched yipping that I can only imagine is meant to imitate the screeching of tires on a sharp curve taken too quickly. They also yell/sing as though they were shrieking for joy at being in a fast car. I only insert this here because that is precisely what they are doing right now. Forget the children. Remove *those* peoples' vocal cords. Now.

As for the forward little boys. There was only one. While his mother was learning all about me from her friend the elbow grabber, the kid who was maybe preschool age, walked over to whisper something to me. He had both hands down the front of his pants and told me, in one of those kids' whispers that carry through the room, that the ants in his pants made his pee pee tingle. The mother's reaction was priceless. She turned red and grabbed his hands out of his pants (he promptly replaced them, as often as she removed them), and turned him around to give him a stern talking to.

So. I have read the Communist Manifesto, and all the other readings that Marx himself wrote. Now I have two articles to read from the other textbook, and theory will be finished! No, wait a minute. That's a lie. I also have a paper to write for it early this week so my last week of class isn't hell on earth. And I'm calling the Baptist church to ask if I can get an interview over there on Tuesday or something. The other one doesn't seem to be going through. Well, I had better go, then. End.

Potatoes

Yeah. Today I didn’t get a call from the clerk at Nothin’ Butt Smokes. So I didn’t go over there to describe the place. If I don’t get a call later tonight, I’m writing about the Baptist Church next door that got vandalized. It was less recent, but it’s closer, and there’s not likely to be much smoking. I’ll call over there Sunday morning and set up an appointment. It’ll be fun. I think. I wonder if they’ll talk to me. Yikes.

This “weekend’s” readings are about Marxism. I get to read the Manifesto of the Communist Party, something about Capital, and a few theory articles about that stuff. I never much got the concepts they taught us way back when in high school economics class. I made it a point not to take economics in undergrad. Now it comes back in the form of theory. How inconvenient. I’ve read about a fourth of my stuff, and that’s not so great, since I have the remaining bits tomorrow, as well as a family tree for another class, and the write up of the crime scene stuff.

Well I haven’t finished my readings for Monday, but I *have* read The Turn of the Screw, so I’m not behind per say, just ahead in other ways… I still need to read the critical articles in the book before I can call it done, but I have this terribly over active imagination, and can’t read ghost stories and all that after about three or so in the afternoon. Or my sleep gets really weird. You remember the Communion dream? That was normal. It was undisturbed. Uninfluenced by outside sources. Tonight, there might be problems. I almost hope the people upstairs get frisky again, because they’ll be a welcome distraction from the horrors my mind will concoct while I lie there afraid to close my eyes.

While I didn’t do readings, I have done laundry. And I did a few dishes. But I made many more dishes dirty in the process of making dinner, so I have accomplished nothing in that area. And my title up there does make some sense. I have mashed potatoes for dinner. I had purchased a large sack of them a few weeks ago, and they were starting to wrinkle, so I figured I had better make them into something I could eat for dinner before they started rotting or anything nasty. I made about half of them, and now have little Tupperware containers in my fridge filled with glorious white fluffy potatoes. They’ll go to lunch with me along with the Cup-o-Noodles I’ve accumulated.

Lots of carbs/starch, huh? Guess I’d better admit it: I fluctuate between not caring about the Atkins craze and despising it. I can no longer go anywhere and see healthy food. Instead it is all “Eat your heart out: Bacon bits are healthy now!” Whatever happened to a moderation approach to eating? Huh? A little bit of this, a little bit of that, and no cravings for carbs or fat or whatever, because you get enough of everything to be satisfied, and nothing is totally off limits. I like that approach, myself. It’s called eating naturally. Real foods, and enough of them. Not too much, mind, but not starving either. And so I had potatoes for dinner. I sprinkled some cheese on top, and they were very tasty.

A disclaimer to those of you readers who do not know me: I would never harm a child, animal, or any other living thing, regardless of age or whatever else. Saying things like the below comment prevents my anger at the children, animals, or other living things from getting out of hand. Please recognize that I have not, am not now, nor will ever in the future harm or cause to be harmed any children, animals, or other living things. As for the occasional crass, violent, or otherwise possibly disturbing comments I make, feel free to interpret them as I intend for them to be interpreted: as harmless nonsense that will never take place. If you interpret these things as serious threats to those children, animals and other living things around me, please feel invited to keep your *incorrect* interpretation to yourself, or to leave this blog. There. Now are we clear? I am a person venting, people, not a sadistic bastard. Got it? Good. Now if you want, keep reading. If this disclaimer has you scared or just a little worried, you might want to consider this posting ended for the day. You’re not missing anything. Here. I’ll make it easier on your conscience if it cares about leaving the post unfinished. END. There. Happy? You read the end. Now for those of you have senses of humor, or who aren’t inclined to take everything literally. Please read on.

The “children” in the pool are in need of a loaded semi-automatic. This sounds bad. Let me rephrase that. The beauteous cubs of our society’s sexual exuberance are joyously entertaining themselves in the sparkling pool next door to the apartment of your humble author by holding a “let us sing angelically at the tippy-tops of our lungs and judge which child among us can scream in this manner both the loudest and the longest” contest. In short, they’re loud and screaming, and if someone’s not dying over there to make that racket, I can certainly change that if this doesn’t stop soon. Yes. You’ve guessed right. I have no children. I don’t anticipate a change in this condition. Not for a long, long time. And when I do get married and have kids, people will just have to understand that my children’s vocal cords will have been removed at an early age. Surgically, mind, not with a kitchen knife or anything. It’ll be very humane, and they’ll learn sign language, which is much more preferred in my mind when it comes to the sounds of children’s voices.

Why do children feel the need to scream? If they just didn’t scream, they’d be so much more tolerable to me. Sass you, fine. Learn dirty words and utter them at inappropriate moments, fine. Refuse to be potty trained, fine. Eat only macaroni and cheese, fine. Throw up all over the furniture, fine. But screaming for no reason? Definitely not fine. If someone is attacking, or if there’s a bloody limb, or a tiger’s loose in the playground, or something serious that needs the attention of a nearby responsible adult, go ahead and let loose. Alert that adult already. But this constant crying wolf so irritates me that I imagine the severe punishments I would inflict on children who scream all the time. Like those ones in the pool. If someone isn’t drowning, or being otherwise in danger, for the love of God, shut the hell up. When it gets cold here, they won’t be swimming. I look forward to winter.

And for those of you who are such wonderful people that didn’t get frightened off by my disclaimer, I’ll throw in a tidbit that the squeamish are missing out on. Like you care. I know. But here it is. I need to go the fish store and get some medicine for my betta. The poor guy is too active, and kind of mashes himself against his bowl like he never used to. I changed their water (I have three at this point, which is a vast improvement over the sixteen I used to have), and the other two are still acting like themselves, but poor Albany has been unhappy lately, and I think he may have something. So I’ll go get him some medicine if I can find anything that matches his symptoms, and see if he doesn’t improve. The other fish, if you wanted to know, are Edgar and Kent. These three are the only ones left. Interestingly, they are also named after the only surviving decent characters from King Lear. Told you I think differently. And no, the others didn’t die. I gave them away to friends who wanted fish. I just didn’t want that many anymore. Changing water was an afternoon project, and there just wasn’t enough horizontal space for them. But anyway, don’t you feel special, because you stuck with me and got to hear about fish. Yeah. Well, I’m going to end this now, because I have to read the communist manifesto, and maybe go to bed some time. End.

Statues with Penises, Sun Burnt Toes, and Crime Scene Investigations

Quite a lot to talk about, as the title may hint. Today is Friday, blissful, wonderful, relaxing, and whatnot Friday. Fridays are followed by weekends for most people. It is nice; I know, I used to be one of those people. Now, alas, I have no weekend, but spend my Saturdays and Sundays holed up in my apartment reading. Or, as with this "weekend," investigating a crime scene. I will now begin to talk about -gasp- a class other than theory. They do exist.

My latest assignment in the non-fiction workshop is to pick a scene where a newsworthy event has occurred, and go there. Ask around, find stuff out, and get a good feel for the area. Then, write about it. What is the area like, what are the people like, etc? How is all this different now that whatever took place has taken place? Is it different? Kind of a neat assignment, except that most of what is newsworthy is also dangerous. So I have connections. A girl I eat lunch with has a husband. This husband is the manager of the chain of stores called, "Nothin' Butt Smokes." This store on 37th and Slide was robbed a week ago. The girl is going to ask her husband to get in contact with the person at the register, to set up an interview with me. Yeah. I'll spend my Saturday scoping out the area and writing up a vivid "What's it like now?" article. Then, whenever, but hopefully before Wednesday, I'll talk to this cashier, and get a few quotes and "What happened?" stuff to add to it. It'll be great. I'll be rich, and famous, and published, and then I'll wake up. Because really. It's an assignment for class that will never leave the room. But I can pretend.

So that's my workshoppping class. Theory involved penises today, and not the Freudian penis envy kind. I'm talking about real, sculpted from brass and erected in front of the Student Union building penises. And breasts. The girls have bare breasts, and the guys have little penises. None of this is very big, mind, as the figures are all smaller than the average human hand. But they are anatomically correct. And our mascot, depicted as a female, is stabbing this guy in the butt with her lance, as he tries to crawl away from her. Since all the people are naked, it's kind a terrible thing to have your mascot abusing someone like that. But in the name of art, and because it is really cool for the mascot to finally be a woman, and because of, I don't know, oppression through the ages or something, it's kind of neat. And after all, her lance is actually a whole inch away from him, so I think his butt's safe. The rest of the statue, the part most observers would overlook in favor of gawking at the penises, is a tornado of books, ascending from the White House, and a king and queen standing watch over it. All these little people are climbing the tornado, and sitting on books, or taking naps. And I really like this statue. It speaks to me. I can see myself pointing it out in any campus tour I lead.

And that leaves sun burnt toes. Those would be mine. Our theory class took a field trip to observe the statue I've been talking about, and we stood outside long enough for my toes to be sunburned. I had already had distinct tan lines where my sandal straps come across the tops of my feet, but now I have reddened toes to go along with it. But my floppy risky lime hat protected my ears, face and shoulders. I said it was a big hat, right? I meant it. My shoulders are protected.

Ah well. It is my brother's birthday today. Let's all wish him well. I certainly do. He's at camp right now, as a councilor. I think he's an excellent councilor, because he hasn't committed homicide yet. I would have murdered several children by this time if we had changed places. I don't deal too well with them. They irritate me. On purpose. I'm sure of it. But my brother is very tall, and very muscular, and somehow, very patient with these kids. It amazes me.

About that office. I love it. I have a huge desk, a really nice chair, two ceiling height bookshelves, and three great people to share it with. Well, two great people. Our fourth pod mate hasn't arrived, so none of us know him. But the three of us who *are* here like each other, know each other, and have class with each other. It'll be a good two years. We're up on the fourth floor, around the corner from the elevator, and down a short but easy to miss side corridor. We're secluded. It's great. I can see some student of mine some day trying to find me, and having a hard time. I'll have to give them directions on my syllabus.

Oh well. I'm getting hungry, so I'll post and be gone. End.

Risky Limes

So I decided a few days ago that I would need to buy a floppy hat, and a pair of men's cargo shorts. Then, I never did it. I always parked kind of close to the English building, and the walk wasn't long. Today, I parked in the Commuter lot. It's clear across campus, and there are no trees. I can cut across lawns and sneak through buildings where I don't belong, or I can go the long way around and follow the road. And you know what? I didn't stop by my apartment when I was out of class. No, I went straight to Walmart and bought myself a floppy hat. The color: "risky lime." And it is a bit risky wearing that color, because you can never match it. Ever. And it certainly is lime. Maybe a hint of chartreuse, but mostly lime. A bit like pale kiwi, but no, it's lime.

And here's the segue into theory. Any word has a meaning not of it's own, but made up of all the things which the word is not. There is a chain of things which the word is not, and after going down the chain, the "meaning" of the word can be deduced. It all goes back to Saussure, and his signifier/signified thing. Most of which I don't understand. But that's why the hat is not chartreuse, kiwi, pale green, yellow green, green grape, or any other number of light-ish neon green shades. Therefore, it is lime. Not only that, but it is risky lime.

Freud would have something to say about the risky. See, risky bears a certain resemblance to the word "frisky." And we (50-something, white, protestant men, according to theory) all know that frisky would appeal greatly to Freud, since everything goes back to sexual desires that have been suppressed. My need to step out from the crowd has led me to purchase a hat which states in its color my desire to take risks and flirt with the men I see. Freud could not be more wrong, however, since I already take risks, and even if I didn't already have a man, none of the ones around here are worth the time and effort to flirt with anyway. As for green, there's no telling why Freud thinks I chose green, but here's the truth: The other choice was red. And I don't like that color. So there.

Today was hot. Hot enough to make me go out of my way during rush hour to buy a silly looking hat. It wasn't where the hats are in the other Walmart stores. So I asked a lady (I belatedly noticed that she was little and old) where the purses and little old lady hats were. She smiled and told me they were by the jewelry. I think every "hip" youngster in the area wondered what I was doing. Some were vocal about it. Little disapproving grunts and the like filled the aisle. A few older women were looking at straw gardening hats. They gave me looks that said I was in their territory, and I had to be a certain age to ride the roller coaster. I shrugged and started flinging on hats. There was a plain hat with a loop of jingling trinkets strung on it that really appealed to me, but then I saw the risky lime. It was the only one of its kind, it had a wider, floppier brim, and the weave was closer to let less sun through. I snatched it up with a triumphant grin and plopped it on my head. The fit was wonderful. I felt so stupid in that hat that I couldn't stop smiling. This hat may be the best thing to happen to my people skills in ages.

I have an office now on the fourth floor that I can move into as soon as I pick up my key to the English building. I have access, once I get the key, to the entire building. I have power. I have an office, so I can store crap under my desk and put up family photos and look cheesy. I think I'll get my key Friday and risk a weekend to set up my office. Maybe not. But I'll be spending some time there.

I got my textbook in the mail today. Join me in a celebratory victory dance. This means that I will not have paid for the book twice by having to make copies all summer. I think I only spent about five dollars on copies, for a book that was supposed to be at the bookstore. All in all, not bad.

I'm going to go eat my chicken and dumplings for dinner, and start on the readings. We're beyond Freud, and into Lacan, who says that Freud was wrong about the Id, Ego, and Superego, since he was simply using that to repress his discovery of unconscious; thus, he followed the rules of his own discovery by repressing it as soon as it came to the surface. Lacan is kind of neat in that aspect, but if the professor says we'll be tearing our hair out with this guy, I think maybe the short reading assignment is a sign of lots of work.

Oh well. If I don't blog tomorrow, you know what happened to me. Lacan. Or someone decided my hat was offensive to their eyes and ran me over as I crossed a parking lot to get to the English building. Take your pick. I'll be in pain either way. Dinner calls. End.

A Word on Doves, and Freud

So I'm reading my stuff for theory, and prominently featured on the list for today is Freud's Interpretation of Dreams. Great. I love Freud. Smell the sarcasm. It's there.

So I'm reading, and I remember this dream I had before class yesterday. I had been reading "Rhetoric," I think, and dozed off, can you blame me? But the dream featured this goblet of wine. Only it wasn't clear if the liquid was wine or blood. I couldn't tell, and it seemed as though either could be just as right, or maybe it was both at the same time. But I was drinking from this goblet, and I set it down and walked away. Just for a little bit, because I remembered there was something I should be doing. And the wine/blood came after me. It rose up out of the goblet, and spilled over the sides, and stained my brand new carpet. It was as if the goblet was a spring, pouring forth the wine/blood, and it kept spilling and spreading.

So I picked up the goblet to take it to the kitchen, because I didn't want my carpet ruined, and I set it in the sink. And the sink filled up, and the wine/blood on the carpet started to spread and flow like a river in flood season, and I got this strange notion that I had to leave the apartment. So I did, and as I locked the door, I saw the wine/blood seeping out from under it, coming after me.

I never got the feeling that it was going to hurt me, and during the dream there was no feeling of ill will that I could detect, but afterward, when I woke up, I was freaked out.

And so I'm reading Freud. And thinking that the wine/blood is Communion, and God wants me to go to Church, because I missed so many Sundays. And he isn't mad, because he knows I was sick, and then that the Church switched hours on me, but he *is* persistent. And I guess that's that.

Aside from weird dreams, I'm still reading Freud. And thinking about my stomach. It's been oddly vocal lately, and sounds like a cote full of doves. And since I'm reading Freud, I can't help but relate the sound of doves, which are a kind of bird, to the chicken and dumplings I ate for dinner last night. Chicken too, is a kind of bird. And maybe my stomach's rumblings are being heard as doves as my mind's protest about having eaten the chicken and dumplings. I have three meals of it left over, and my subconscious doesn't want to eat any more of it right now, so it's interpreting the rumbles as doves, trying to convince my conscious that I still have plenty of chicken and dumplings in my stomach and don't need to add any more. Coincidently, I ate spaghetti for dinner, because I didn't want to eat the chicken and dumplings.

Doves are a sign of peace, and the religious symbol of the Holy Spirit, who is quite present during Holy Communion, being a part of the Trinity and all that. So. I've been reading Freud, and somehow, I have just thought of Interview with the Vampire, where a guilt-ridden fledgling vampire, Louis, eats doves (and chickens, actually) in order to avoid killing people when he feeds. On blood, as vampires do, of course. And in a later scene, Lestat, his creator, and his mentor or sorts, rips out a rat's throat and lets the blood drain into a wine goblet. He offers it to Louis, who is mortified by the whole thing, and says, "Here. You can pretend it's wine."

So. In sum, I should stop reading Freud. Yes? End.

Neighbor Problems, Problem Neighbors

So the people upstairs were going at it last night. Rather fiercely, from the sounds of bedsprings and the rhythmic bump-bump-bumping of something hitting the wall. I would have remained blissfully unaware of the goings on above me except that they woke me up from a sound sleep. At 12:30-ish in the morning. Maybe they stayed up late to not disturb the kids, but if that's their thinking, I worry about those kids. Because they're just in the next room. I'm a floor below them, and if I hadn't turned on some music, I'd have picked up a few pointers in the art of moaning. This went on for about half an hour. It got quicker, then slower, then louder, and all that. There was a silence when they were done, which lasted about fifteen minutes, by my alarm clock, but it turned out they weren't really done. Just taking a break. So after I fall back asleep, they start up again, and go for another half hour. These people have stamina. Or a loud bed. Because that is some intense physical activity I'm hearing, and these people must be in shape like something else to keep that up for that long. I swear, I know more about those people now then I ever wanted to know. I've been living here for nearly three weeks, and this is the first sex I've heard. They either just got together, or there's been some fighting going on, or something. Maybe they're just quiet most of the time. I don't know. I don't really want to know. It's enough that I know what I do. No, it's too much.

My horizontal neighbors sing. They take a single vowel, and experiment with all the different ways they can sing it. Always in vibrato, and always loud. But high or low or both in an annoying little duet, they hold that vowel until their lungs collapse. Sometimes they sing sentences to each other. It sounds like an Italian Opera, without the style. Maybe they're taking voice lessons and have to practice, or something, but it's more irritating than the upstairs neighbors having sex. At least the people upstairs sound like they're having fun. These people sound ... just as miserable as they're making me.

And then we move to the other side, still horizontally. The pool is right by my back door. This would be a good thing, right? I can take as few as fifteen steps and hop in the pool. Except that it's filled with shrieking children, and whistle-blowing adults. I can easily believe there's a massacre going on in there, complete with chainsaws and Chucky.

And that's my environment. These are the noises that comprise the soundtrack of my life. That I know, I've never met these people. But I know them fairly well, and they serve as inspiration to me: keep silent in your apartment, because anything you say can and will be heard by the people next door. All these noises also serve as a temptation: if I can hear them, they can hear me telling them to shut the hell up already. The question is, "Do I want to be the bitch next door, or do I want to remain unknown?" So far, the answer has been "remain unknown," but I sense that this will change if the people upstairs start getting frisky on a regular basis. End.

Hostile Takeover Turns Out Pleasant

Our shy people club's planned hijacking of the discussion in today's theory class went over quite well, as our members did most of the speaking. This is not to say that it was a quiet class or anything, as several riveting discussions took place, all of them boisterous. Professor actually stepped in to keep people from interrupting others instead of turning her attention to the loudest comer. It was nice. The readings were in English, the standard variety, so I am beginning to think "Discourse" was a bit of a fluke. There's still a lot to go, however, and while the writing is picking up, the ideas put forward are still questionable at best.

Workshop was transferred to a coffee house, due to some family obligations that put the professor in another part of town for the morning. No complaints here. The corporate boardroom setting is a bit stifling to our creativity anyway, and the coffee house had some terrific background music for one of the pieces we were workshopping. The real reason nothing intelligent is spawned in a corporate meeting is not that all the businessmen have mental problems. They're actually very bright, in the proper setting. But that setting is not the boardroom. That huge polished wood table with the high-backed, heavily-upholstered swirly chairs sucks the intelligent creativity right out of people, like tornado sucking Dorothy out of Kansas. Ah well. We'll be back in that room for other reasons the next time we meet.

Got to know one of the secretaries here during lunch today. Knowing the secretaries and being on better than good terms with them is the most practical thing one can do when one is inserted into new settings. The secretaries often can do more for you than anyone else, they often know more than anyone else, and they often are friendlier than anyone else. They are the best allies one can have in almost any dispute, because they can acquire backup in any form needed. So. I got to know a secretary. Excellent.

Still listening to "The Swan" but I don't know why anymore. I just turn it on before starting the readings. Maybe it puts me in the mind frame to tolerate the lofty, "I'm better than you can ever hope to be" language the pompous little bastards use in the articles I'm reading. Perhaps this is why theory is looking up. In that case, "The Swan" will become my theme song. Utter tranquility, patience divinely infinite, calmness spreading throughout the body...

Found a post office on campus! I'll mail my bills tomorrow, before class, and maybe even a letter. Ha ha! I'd have to write the letter to send it, and I lack the time for that. Strangely, I don't lack the time for this. Maybe that's because I'm keeping this thing and its twin thing alive for class next fall. Who can say? This is my venting, spewing forth of nonsense page. No one really reads it, or at least, no one ever comments, so it doesn't matter what I write. Not that I'd change anything if someone did read it... But I treat this as an outlet for the things I must never tell another soul, in person. And so, hurrah!--because if they're reading this, it isn't in person.

Oh well. The readings are thick tonight, and are joined by the rest of my workshop readings. So I must leave to take care of less pleasurable business. End.

Cup-O-Noodles!

Purchased thirteen Cups-o-Noodles today. Six chicken, six shrimp, and one beef. I'm not too fond of the beef, but decided to get it anyway. Ate it for lunch. Also have shampoo now, and a step stool, so I can actually use that top cabinet.

I made a gallant attempt to attend church this morning. I got dressed for it, left the apartment in time, and didn't get lost on the way. I was in time for the 10:30 am services, but when I got there, their "summer hours" stated that services started at 9. The frustration. This was the first Sunday when I wasn't bedridden or too exhausted to do more than putter around the place like little old retiree. And I missed church. Next Sunday I'm going to a church right by my apartment. The hours on their sign say services at 10:00 am. I can make that, and I *know* they have no freaky summer hours.

The whole concept of summer hours is a little disturbing to me. God is unchanging, so why shouldn't the times for church be that way too? And why earlier in the summer, instead of later? Summer is when all the students of all ages get to sleep in. School workers do too, I know, my mom was one for a long while. So doesn't it make more sense to have the services either not change, or start later? I suppose I ought to have called them and verified their ad in the phone book, but I really hadn't expected summer hours. Well, instead of church, I went to Walmart and bought groceries.

It's kind of ironic, in a way. For my theory class, we are to read an article called "Intention." I wonder if my intentions of going to church count for anything. I'll have to read the article and find out, won't I? I might get back to you on that, if I remember. Ah well. There's nothing more to say, so I'll post and be gone. End.

Some very lucid discourse on "Discourse" ... and other things.

Yeah, so I'm sitting here listening to "the Swan" by Saint Saens, which is this incredibly soft and romantic harp and violin thing from the "Carnival of Animals." It's on continual loop because it calms me down and I need calming.

I just read "Discourse" again, and every time I read it I hate the author a little more. Why is he published when he can't speak a lucid English sentence to save his ass, and I'm not? This is lucid, right? You can understand the language I'm using, and the words I use are right and proper, straight-from-the-dictionary words. I didn't have to make up a single one. The only things in quotations are the titles. Not so, with "Discourse." He hasn't appropriated the language properly, as Bakhtin would have us believe.

So my friend is married now, and I was one of her bridesmaids. I wasn't at the wedding, and it bites. The class I gave up my wedding attending rights for wasn't worth it. But my grade in that class *was*, so I guess it's all worth it in the end. It had better be.

I finished my nonfiction piece about a moment in my life. I wrote about when I met my now-married friend. We had hated each other from a distance, quite unabashedly, and were forced by unspeakable circumstances to room with one another. After a two hour conversation that was more like a blind date than anything else, we were very good friends.

Now we're something like best friends, although that is kind of grade school, and I have a small circle of best friends. Maybe they're just friends and my friends are all really just acquaintances. But that would suck, so my small circle is really filled with best friends.

Oh well. I need dinner, and the couscous I had for lunch was nasty. So no leftovers. I'll put it down the drain tomorrow when I feel like crap after reading for my class. It'll be fun. "Discourse" on *this*, buddy! Maybe not.

I sometimes wish I drank. People who drink always seem so laid back about stuff. They don't care, they just go to a bar and waste their time, money and mind. That's when I remember why I don't drink.

Haven't bought the Cups-o-Noodles yet. They're high on my list, right after shampoo and clam chowder. Man, I'm hungry. I'm going to go eat. End.