miss rika's MindSay Blog

well met

antipodes — 2003-11-12T02:11:00-05:00

what can I say? I've got another blog running around somewhere but I need to discover how it works before i post a link. Why do I have a blog now? I dunno. I'm procrastinating on my Shakespeare homework. Yeah . . . Doesn't this weblog thing make you guys feel vulnerable?

I've been reading Romeo and Juliet for homework this week and I just got through Act III. Dorks, all of them. But there are some neat quotes that come out of Shakespeare's silly eyelashflittings.

Like Gregory saying "To move is to stir, and to be valiant is to stand; therefore, if thou art mov'd thou run'st away." which is great cause Sampson was making a fool out of himself talking about the C.s and M.s

This is cool too--shows that at least somebody thought that emotions aren't all there is to the Mind (not like R or J actually act likethere is):"Black and portendous must this humor prove, Unless good counsel may the cause remove."

And then one of my favorites--and it doesn't just reply to the eros of Romeo and Juliet, either--

"O brawling love! O loving hate!
O any thing, of nothing first create!
O heavy lightness, serious vanity,
Misshapen choas of well-seeming forms,
Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health,
Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is!
This love I feel, that no love feel in this.
Dost thou not laugh?"

I found out, on the next page, that the past tense of "help" is "holp". I'll show it to you if you don't believe me:) Shakespeare was a nut.

But then there's something Lewis said in thebeginning of MC that made sense when....erm. its the other way around. This makes sense--"virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, And vice sometime by action dignified."

Ok, now i really gotta move . . . I still have Stuff to do before I head over to start pretending like I'm setting up chairs.

:)

smokey colors and the feel of paper

antipodes — 2003-11-13T12:11:00-05:00

You know the feeling you get that's just a contented sort of daze that you grin fuzzily at until you either wake up or fall asleep? Mum bought me some new paper and ink for school: D Yes, I know that sounds odd to the general public, but . . . the feel of a blank sheet of paper! opening a new bottle of ink! The smoothness of writing with new ink on fresh paper with a good fountain pen is not to be slightingly thought of. Yeah, I'm sorry but these blogs don't cut it for me: )

Of course, I'm here typing about it, aren't I? How ironic. I can't use them tonight because my pen is already full of ink and the pages of my notebook are covered with the scattered pencil markings I made during Class tonight. I'll give the whole kit a purification rite of a weekend and then start afresh.

it is the coolest thing to go downstairs in the dark and see through the window a hazelnut grove with the wind ruffling the leaves like I did Joel's hair. Only the wind in the grove is like a child the same way Tom is--really as old as the hills, but there is a wildness born of long sustained innocence that you can see in their eyes. The eyes of the wind; now that sounds poetic. It is the same way that Merlin was in That Hideous Strength. I saw it in the intelligent eyes of a reptile once, and then in the curve of Ramone's back as he leapt to the window sill. This is beginning to sound silly, but I can't think of another way to explain it: ) You know what I mean, tho, right?

sigur ros' untitled album is the best . . . too good, in fact. I'm getting tired. And I have to Write some People tomorrow . . . anybody wants to meet me for caffe I'll be There in the Morning and right before Class.

"A pleasure is full grown only when it is remembered." csL

o, fallacies are not for me!

antipodes — 2003-11-14T02:11:00-05:00

last night's class was weird . . . it is a beginning class where our first assignment is to give informative speeches for about 5-7 minutes. I did mine on cochlear implants. One girl stood up to do hers on a "personal" topic, which was also common among the class. She apologized for not being well prepared becaue it was difficult for her to talk about such a personal topic in front of people. She then proceeded to generalise about what would happen to people who were in her position. She said it happened to all people of this same characteristic. I don't know whether she understood what she was saying, but she asserted quite clearly a judgement on the class that we would all turn out to "vent" inapproriately on our family members on account of the job we had, that those of us with a more extreme version of the aforementioned characteristic would come home to our families unrecognizeable because of the change that became in us.

Then it began to come around as more generalisations about how she "went through" and suffered so much. She blamed her point of view on other people and mentioned things that sounded like something Lewis would have heard from an Inner Ring but that didn't exist since we all shared in common what she spoke of so it sounded a little embarrassing. I've had the same feeling when approached by a Christian of a certain denomination who talks about "those Baptists" or "those Catholics" as if they were a separate race of people.

As I see it, she stood up there in front of the class and told us how awful we all were and how what we are and what we do is harmful to her. Mind, she is old enough to make her own decisions and old enough to have broken away from all this she abhors. But it was humiliating to have this temper tantrum of catharsis stand up and apologise because it was a personal subject that was hard to speak of for her. No harder for her than for the rest of us.

I am on an equal status with her as far as how much she is affected by this characteristic, and I totally disagree with her on the subject. I have grown up learning ho to be responsible for myself (not that I'm perfect at owning all my faults, but I do try to discern what is my fault and what I can do about conflicts) and knowing about this "internal locus of control" concept.

I don't typically get very angry at things like that--give me a build-up of wrongs against somebody and I'll slowly burn to a boil--but I could hear my heart beating and hear my voice quiver and go down about an octave when I raised my hand after she asked for "questions". I said something to the effect of "I appreciate you presenting your point of view, but I am offended by some of the things you are saying about us." And then I mentioned two of her points that galled me most. I tried to be kind and graceful as much as I could, but I wanted people to know that it was offensive, not that I disagree with her. It was supposed to have been an informative speech. The logic she used as horrendous. She generalised her experiences to the rest of us as fact, and the blamed so much on other people that was of her own choice. That may sound like opinion from me right there, but (e.g.) if you blamed me for your dislike of the color red then I would give you a curious look too.

It is my opinion that she has some things to work out with her family system and that she needs a class in Fallacy. I freely admit that I still feel angry and ashamed of her as a part of the group that we represent. But, I know that people can be in bad spaces and need to be heard, also make bad choices.

Several people came up to me at the end of the class. "You got *spirit*, girl," said one of my fellow hecklers in the front row. "Can't you leave her alone? It is hard enough for her to get up and talk about it without you trying to beat her down about it," said the guy behind me. The teacher addressed my comment by not making eye contact with me but telling the rest of the class how important it was that we not use strong words like "offensive" when we didn't mean them so harshly but that it may have been a better persuasive speech than informative one. I thanked him for handling the situation gracefully but I needed to let the class know rather than just the girl that what she said was not true about a lot of us. If it *had* been a matter that would have affected just a couple of us then I would have spoken to her after class.

I had an hour before my ride home so I got a hot chocolate *thanks, hamish!: D* and sat outside on a park bench and tried to calm down.

film at eleven.

P.D.B.W.

antipodes — 2003-11-15T11:11:00-05:00

Anybody figure out those initials and I'll give you . . . some pocket lint. I don't even have a pencepiece in my pocket for a caffe.

I love getting books in the mail . . . I ordered two of them eons ago and finally got one of them on Thursday. The bookseller I bought it from sent the package not with a barcode stamped bit of sticky paper but the way you are supposed to send them--acres of colorful stamps!! It quite made my yesterday since I sat in front of the fireplace and read for the longest time.

Church tomorrow! Oh that reminds me. I'm very disappointed in Buechner's view on homosexuality. Drat the man. And now I must be off. I leave you with a quote:

"We are not called to rightness but to righteousness; we are not called to correctness, but to courage; and we do not need answers half so much as we need eachother."

--I forgot the author. If you want to know I'll find out.

souls

antipodes — 2003-11-16T07:11:00-05:00

I was writing a response to another comment about souls and I said something about the Holy Spirit. I discussed it and thought it out and its absolute bosh. Don't listen to me! I made an analogy comparing apples and oranges in the same basket.

I'm not feeling very talkative tonight:( I'm going to talk to my Friend.

ciao all!

a poem

antipodes — 2003-11-17T09:11:00-05:00

I do not write poems often. When I do, the ones that rhyme are usually silly ones or do not rhyme well. My rhythms are not schooled or honed. When I write like this, most of the times I do is because I am trekking trudging questing wading through a valley. Here is a shadow of last year:

--a premature confession--

some dark, glowing coals--quietly burning but very, very Alive
sit deep inside the soul
and fester
are waiting silently, shamefully, underneath the cover of polite, insecure
Skin of body and ashes.
skin and ash keep it hidden and restrained from revealing itself to full daylight
where, in roaring upon the body of ash--comes to the surface and
cathartic'ly twitches
mutates into flames.
Relieving the ash of the seething, burning fires within itself,
this Kraken lets loose a rage that rids the world above it of new wood
fresh sap is turned to bubbling, boiling tar that appears as glass skeletons
trees turn to naught but black scaffolds.
From a distance, it looks out of place
something doesnt click
for we cannot see the twisted flesh from far away
to those who know him, though, the fire has scorched them too.
They know about these Krakens, who do not die
upon confession.
But the ash thinks itself cool and sweet--for it knows only itself
ignores the pleading, groaning, cracking of the oaks and elms
thinks not of the truth and grace of the forests
but now the ash is selfishly comfortable
a wide gape-toothed grimace (thinks it is a pleasing smile)
invites others to share in his orgy of ignorance
his shame is his glory
and we are repulsed.

-copyright 2002

I welcome ideas to better the poem, but it isn't going in for publication or anything so I would much more welcome your thoughts on the content rather than the form. thanks for taking the time to read it : )

richard II, V.v.

antipodes — 2003-11-17T03:11:00-05:00

I have been studying how I may compare
This prison where I live unto the world;
And for because the world is populous,
And here is not a creature but myself,
I cannot do it; yet I'll hammer it out.
My brain I'll prove the female to my soul,
My soul the father, and these two beget
A generation of still-breeding thoughts;
And these same thoughts people this little world,
In humors like the people of this world:
For no thought is contented. The better sort,
As thoughts of things divine, are intermix'd
With scruples and do set the word itself
Against the word,
As thus: "Come, little ones," and then again,
"It is as hard to come as for a camel
To thread the posterm of a small needle's eye."
Thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot
Unlikely wonders: how these vain weak nails
May tear a passage thorough the flinty ribs
Of this hard world, my ragged prison walls;
And for they cannot, die in their own pride.

There! This si what I am deciphering. I've decided that the prison can be his body and the nails fingernails. I have five pages of this stuff ready to send in, five more on this passage and then it will be Off! Yahoo! Any comments about this one?

Has anybody else ever READ Richard II?

of an afternoon

antipodes — 2003-11-18T01:11:00-05:00

sigur ros is putting me into a reflective mood. For sadastras' record, sigur ros' music is airlightinty blue and has stripes depending on the song and album. () is the one I'm listening to now . . . that brings up another sort of question.

There are afternoons where the light is blue--so blue it tints the air so that everyone walks through mist or water. Breathing slows to a discernable beat and if you stand still too long your heartbeat sways your body. You even *blink* slowly. I find myself standing by windows a lot, feeling out the eye of the storm; not analysing, but just experiencing. There's a feeling of Somebody knowing you, your thoughts, feelings, experiences, your dragons and swords and wounds. If you could put it into words, it would be something like "Thou art thyself, and I embrace thee. The struggles I see in thee will never fade, and I do not apologise. Endure! There is a home waiting for thee in the End." It's hard to see that into words since the feeling is just of a presence. It is very much the feeling you get in the eye of a storm. A deep sorrow and an acceptance of the fact that I have promised to "make it" to whatever end fills my very being. Every rain drop slows it's path to listen, and every cloud's turmoil is filled with the power of this numinous Presence. The quality of the light and the air feels so sharp in your lungs, and the sorrow is almost breathstopping. If you could move beyond your heartbeat you feel you would weep.

It is so peacegiving and frightening. Anybody else have moments like this?

(Oh, a note that I found out recently: in olden times, it was thought that blue light denoted a dwelling of angels or demons. Interesting: )

respite from research

antipodes — 2003-11-19T09:11:00-05:00

Spent an hour and fifteen minutes writing and researching, analysing and erasing. My paper is too opinionated and entirely too wordy. I refuse to revise! It is now sent in. I think I've now completed roughly 70% of my Shakespeare class' grade.

Anyway, it is time for a break. Weirdest thing--when I went to the College of Orange and Olive Stripey Chairs I could go for two and a half hours of intense studying and still feel like I understood the material but right now I just feel blank. After half of that time! Maybe it is the waking up at five thirty. But ya gotta admit, seeing the sun rise should make up for it. I dunno.

Peter Wimsey made a brief appearance in "Gaudy Night" and my heart almost skipped a beat. Harriet Vane is alright, but she hasn't the sense of humor that Peter does. And that's half of what makes the reading so much fun! Yes, yes, I read some this morning, but that was only because I arrived before the computer lab opened and what else could I do but go have breakfast? All sorts of odd people come into the bar at that time of the morning...I love to people watch then.

BUT this morning was April in Oxford and the dons were returning from their respective hideaways. Harriet felt dismal about La Fanu and Peter was discussing Things overconfidently with a Count.

In six minutes I must relinquish my fluid typing for a somewhat more stilted manner in which there will be much mouseclicking and many articles to Print.

The time has come (even if I am not a walrus)
To talk of other things,
Of speeches, and computers,
And of dead Shakespearean kings;
Of why the lab technician snores
Or whether he's trying to sing.
teedumteeday we'll sing toDAYYYYYY! of why IRCs ping!

lessee...

antipodes — 2003-11-20T03:11:00-05:00

there is a desperate professor two or three seats away from me who cannot seem to get some Essential Graphs to print for his Class Tonight. He is loud, and his voice sounds a little like my mother's brother's joke-telling voice. Oh, yes, we know he is worried now that his voice goes up an octave. And then the Blessed Lab Technician is brought in to take out the forces of the Netwreck Printer and suddenly all Forces are cowed by the solid looming bulk of the BLT. The printer hurriedly vomits twenty economics graphs and perches utterly unmoving against the wall. However, the BLT is merciful and returns to his swivel chair.

*chuckle* well, what can you expect? I've been in and out of libraries and computer labs all day today. found some pretty cool articles on fantasy in fiction and morality, but the organising of the facts is not half so interesting as the facts themselves. Rearranging the limbs of the flogged warhorse Violence in VideoGames would not have been so distracting.

I have a half of a headache dancing behind my eyes and my fingers are cold even with the sleeves of my sweatshirt pulled up to the first knuckle of my thumb. The tip of my nose is cold. My feet in my sneakers ache. My hands shake when they're not typing. Tap, tap, tap, goes my left foot. It is work to keep my eyes focused today! Not to mention my brain.

But I still have five more bibliographic entries to write (with abstracts) and a class this evening. Then the sweetest of days will arrive at my window tomorrow morning, and the sun will smile upon me since I'll still be in bed when it rises. Friday! What magic in such a pragmatic word.

Now. Allora. I shall retreat into the hood of my sweatshirt and continue to transfer worried expressions from my textbooks to my monitor. I'm really quite talented, I flatter myself.

sleep . . .

antipodes — 2003-11-21T01:11:00-05:00

"Do but consider what an excellent thing sleep is: it is so inestimable a jewel that, if a tyrant would give his crown for an hour's slumber, it cannot be bought: of so beautiful a shape is it, that though a man lie with an Empress, his heart cannot beat quiet till he leaves her embracements to be at rest with the other: yea, so greatly indebted are we to this kinsman of death, that we owe the better tributary, half our life to him: and there is good cause why we should do so: for sleep is that golden chain that ties health and our bodies together. Who complains of want? of wounds? of cares? of great men's oppressions? of captivity? whilst he sleepeth? Beggars in their beds take as much pleasure as kings: can we therefore surfeit on this delicate Ambrosia? Can we drink too much of that whereof to taste too little tumbles us into a churchyard, and to use it but indifferently throws us into Bedlam? No, no, look upon Endymion, the moon's minion, who slept three score and fifteen years, and was not a hair the worse for it."

--Thomas Dekker

forevergreenman

antipodes — 2003-11-22T10:11:00-05:00

it is the time of year . . . .

don't you love it when people say that? I don't. It's either accompanying a sentiment that is shared by hardly anyone except that intimate group of friends of which I am not a part, or it is followed by a caramel-sweet cliche. But I use it all the time, so I have really no cause to complain.

It is the season . . . here we go again. ahem.

Though not particular to any month or season, I'm feeling empty. It is so hard to genuinely want to be with people for a good that is greater than your own. The very feeling makes one apart in the sense that one most wants to be *a* part. Maybe I am feeling full of emotion--like the froth on the top of a wave from "the inconstant sea". Who said that? I don't remember. It doesn't matter.

I'm listening to Christmas music now. Conspiratorily, of course, and just between you and me *nudgenudgewinkwink*, I think it helps to feel a little more at Home. But froth and foam fills my head. So transient. My emotions are so transient. I almost hate them.

Anyway, I must go to sleep. I have a gathering of fellow souls tomorrow. And besides, if I wake up early I can get a caffe . . . I make light of things, don't believe me. But I want to leave you with a quote. This goes along with feeling vulnerable, for all those that are following Other Threads.

"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket -- safe, dark, motionless, airless -- it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable...The only place outside Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers of and perturbations of love is Hell."
- C.S. Lewis

rank status

antipodes — 2003-11-24T10:11:00-05:00

I find this word amusing. In Shakespeare, there is one time where Lady Capulet is called "a lady of rank" don't ask me where, but all I could come up with by my tired hamster-wheel'd brain was that she smelled . . . I posted that on our class conferences. I hope I don't get blacklisted for finding R&J so funny; prof. just posted that he was reading I.v. on the train the other day and started crying because it was so "tender". I regret that I don't understand his point of view. But I find it humorous.

Thanksgiving is coming. It is inevitable. The days march (they *do* march, you can watch them on any $5 calender with those nature pictures they rearrange every year) onwards (say that word out loud, it's beautiful: "onwards"!) and soon, very soon I will be learning how to put together a seven layer salad (nevermind, there are vegetarians present so no bacon bits--*SIX* layer salad), a spiral ham, a baked turkey (apologies to the veggiephiliacs), pecan pie, pumpkin pie, sweet potatoes, green bean casserole (the one with the crunchy onions on top yumyumyum), and all that nummy stuff. Of course, byt the time the Hour to Eat actually comes around, you know who will not be hungry? We will have baked, mixed, stuffed, layered, poured, thickened, washed, dressed, filled, sliced, diced, chopped, mashed, et al. for two or three days so it will all be old hat! Which is not strictly true. See, you can't believe what I tell you all the time because half of the time if it comes out of my mouth then I've changed my mind by the time it gets to your ears.

Anyway, I really have to get back to work. REALLY. dash it all I HATE coyness. I need to find a christmassy picture for my blog. Puddleglum is satisfactorily gloomy and expressive of my temperment but I need something Else to be amused by. New pic! New pic! A quest! Alright, a quest.

*hums benevolently to her keyboard*

"You are in fact Human?"

antipodes — 2003-11-25T10:11:00-05:00

It was the oddest thing, yesterday, to sit out in a courtyard with an apple and a book and the warm sunlight, and read Plato's Allegory of the Cave. I had been wanting to read it, because Digory did ("It's all in Plato!" and "What do they teach them in these schools?") but I never got around to it even though I did merf "The Republic" from somebody's Office. About a week ago I heard a student expound giddily on the Cave (he wants to teach Philosophy someday and if he ever gets over relativism I shall hand him a diploma) and that clinched it.

I worked all morning in the Lab and then, dazed, stepped out into the sunlight of the courtyard. The sort of aery gold was pressing on the stones and filling the air with such a warmth I it might have been a taste of ambrosia. Of course, Neddy Ware would just say it was going to rain. And it did, but not yet.

If I had read the Allegory before then I would have laughed at myself--coming out of my own sort of cave, with shadowy objects and prisoners chained from hand to neck and not able to move. Only the computer Lab isn't that bad.

I made a delightful munching of an Apple (haven't wanted to have solely fruit for lunch in forever) and sat in the sunlight for a still half hour. There, now you see what I do for lunch break when I don't go to sadastras' former haunt.

And now! I need to do other things than laze around the house in flannel pjs all day. Get to work! Wash the dishes, do your laundry, clean your room, study, cook things!

Must I?

Yes.

*sigh*

a song

antipodes — 2003-11-26T12:11:00-05:00

I've been listening to this song muchly over the last couple of weeks . . . I know some people don't like Jars Of Clay, and I can't honestly say I love all their stuff, but just take it for the lyrics this time . . . what do you think?

--Worlds Apart --

I am the only one to blame for this
Somehow it all adds up the same
Soaring on the wings of selfish pride
I flew too high and like Icarus I collide
With a world I try so hard to leave behind
To rid myself of all but love
to give and die

To turn away and not become
Another nail to pierce the skin of one who loves
more deeply than the oceans,
more abundant than the tears
Of a world embracing every heartache

Can I be the one to sacrifice
Or grip the spear and watch the blood and water flow

To love you - take my world apart
To need you - I am on my knees
To love you - take my world apart
To need you - broken on my knees

All said and done I stand alone
Amongst remains of a life I should not own
It takes all I am to believe
In the mercy that covers me

Did you really have to die for me?
All I am for all you are
Because what I need and what I believe are worlds apart

I look beyond the empty cross
forgetting what my life has cost
and wipe away the crimson stains
and dull the nails that still remain
More and more I need you now,
I owe you more each passing hour
the battle between grace and pride
I gave up not so long ago
So steal my heart and take the pain
and wash the feet and cleanse my pride
take the selfish, take the weak,
and all the things I cannot hide
take the beauty, take my tears
the sin-soaked heart and make it yours
take my world all apart
take it now, take it now
and serve the ones that I despise
speak the words I can't deny
watch the world I used to love
fall to dust and thrown away
I look beyond the empty cross
forgetting what my life has cost
so wipe away the crimson stains
and dull the nails that still remain
so steal my heart and take the pain
take the selfish, take the weak
and all the things I cannot hide
take the beauty, take my tears
take my world apart, take my world apart
I pray, I pray, I pray
take my world apart

Written by Jars of Clay
Copyright 1995 BridgeBuilding Music (BMI)/
Pogostick Music (BMI). All rights reserved.

sacrifices

antipodes — 2003-11-26T02:11:00-05:00

I can't stop crying. My eyes are stinging and my throat burns, my nose is running and I could barely control the knife . . . It was so hard to not walk out of the room. Candles were lit and the oven was on and the room was so hot . . . I HATE chopping onions.

But it's over now. A dozen of those stinky things! And after that, garlic. My hands smell like soap and warm onions. Two more minutes of this and then back to work: ) So I hope everyone has a good thanksgiving day (the americans among us) tomorrow; I do not regret in the least that I shan't hear the yells of football fans.

I have a few old songs in my head and I'm remembering other autumns. The kitchen here has been full of "do you remember"s today. It is such a comfort to hear several voices lifted in song while they work. Maybe that is just a human that I find safety in joined voices and steady companionship, but--and no offense meant--the feeling I express comes from female voices; I was just wondering at how different it would be to hear a tenor or a baritone join the weave. There's a totally different feeling.

*hums*

Anyway, I'd best be off. Drat the class I have tonight.

the Magic

antipodes — 2003-11-26T10:11:00-05:00

'Praise God from whom all blessings flow,
Praise Him all creatures here below,
Praise Him above ye Heavenly Host,
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
Amen.'

"When he had finished, Ben Weatherstaff was standing quite still with his jaws set obstinately but with a disturbed look in his eyes fixed on Colin. Colin's face was thoughtful and appreciative.

'It is a very nice song,' he said. 'I like it. Perhaps it means just what I mean when I want to shout out that I am thankful to the Magic.' He stopped and thought in a puzzled way. 'Perhaps they are both the same thing. How can we know the exact names of everything? Sing it again, Dickon. Let us try, Mary. I want to sing it, too. It's my song. How does it begin? 'Praise God from whom all blessings flow?'"

--"The Secret Garden", by Frances Hodgson Burnett

thanksgiving day

antipodes — 2003-11-27T03:11:00-05:00

here we are! The day is Today. I've pulled away from the company a little to wait and see if my Friend is online. She and I planned to meet for a few minutes today--she's home and her family will not have their feast day celebration until later. So those of you know were worrying that I was escaping, no, I didn't try to escape from you! I'm sorry if it seemed that way. But I'm not sure how . . . well, anyway. I have a valid excuse: REALLY: )

fanks to alterego for the cd, I'm importing the songs to my compy now. Some of these songs I have, like Adiemus . . . good stuff . . .

ten more minutes and I must be off back dowstairs, I don't want people to think I'm *totally* antisocial, even if I am today . . . but that's beside the point. Soon we will "bring out the tall tales" and hopefully the Caffenapkin Professor will find something to do with the flute mum used to play . . . if he can make anything of it: ) that thing is so old . . .

the flowers that Prof. C brought are beautiful tho, very enchanting. Maybe nobody will notice too much if I carry them around the house with me. Humm.

I like all the Moby stuff, but will that get me labeled as a heretic by Certain Others? Perhaps I should think before I admit this.

Drat it she's not on yet. I guess I'll be going back down . . . *sigh* her folks prolly put her to work. grrr. Off I go, then!

*mumbles and braces self*

grateful nights

antipodes — 2003-11-27T11:11:00-05:00

My friends (we must no longer call them "company") have said farewell and are on their respective ways home. Honestly, I'm horribly nervous at parties, and I thought this one would be particularly strange-feeling for me (don't ask me why I think it was being the fault of the corn pudding burning) but it took only a short while to breathe freely again. How cool is that: ) I did find out, tho, that my former introverting way at parties has outgrown itself. I feel a change in the wind from the north . . .

I've had my three tablespoons of a pale white wine and have been contentedly heading towards the embrace of "this kinsman of Death" wherein I will abandon the responsibility towards the dirty dishes on the countertop that I will have to deal with tomorrow.

The windows in my room are open, tho the shutters are closed, and the sound of the rain is brought in by a soft fall of autumn wind . . . and I'm all poet tonight! This would feel so silly to say in person: ) I've tried to get several sentences out but it only comes around as something Tolkien would have laughed at for lines of an Elf in "There and Back Again". Elves were silly in the book; all those "tra-la-la-lally"s is probably what it did them in.

*sigh* time to update, then to Sleep.

One more thing.

According to Plato (did he believe there was a God? I feel silly asking that) can I say that human love, to some extent, reflects God's love?

an embryo earth

antipodes — 2003-11-28T10:11:00-05:00

a poem a wrote a long time ago: ) well at least it seems like a long time. erm. anyway.

--an embryo earth--

before the Voice of Stars was ever heard
by the first-born of the infant dust,
there was a void in which some one was listening
for what would soon become this sacred earth.

over dark and pastless waters of eternity
was hovering, in form of mist, an ancient spirit,
which has always been and wilt forever be
lord of earthly and celestial souls

He hath created worlds,
one beyond mortal understanding
a firmamental paradise, a kingdom in celestial realms
a place which our weak human minds would die to grasp

yet another paradise was framed
but waters claimed the earth till completed were His thoughts.
and then the first beam of Light was forged;
the fire of light was built by his designs.

first giving the light a source
separating it from darkness
He was the morning, evening wellspring
He called the light day and darkness night.

so the first dawn crept over waters
for the time began from sunrise on
the mid-day sun shone over endless sea
and it was the birth of a new day.
----------

I am uncomfortable with it because it sounds like a draft: ) and I'd certainly be glad for refinements.

beastly philosophy

antipodes — 2003-11-29T04:11:00-05:00

"'You do not believe me then?' he inquired.

'Well--no,' I said, hesitantly, wondering if this might anger him. "Any number of mirrors have told me otherwise.'

'You will find no mirrors here,' he said, 'for I cannot bear them: nor any quiet water in ponds. And since I am the only one who sees you, why are you not then beautiful?'

'But--' I said, and Platonic principles rushed into my mouth so fast that they choked me silent. After a moment's reflection I decided against a treatise on the absolute . . . "

--"Beauty", by Robin McKinley

darkening skies

antipodes — 2003-11-29T04:11:00-05:00

I'm cold, today, inside and out. Feels like my heart is sluggishly crawling from annoyance to exasperation to sorrow to resignation. All of which I know is stupid--I have trained myself better than this! Not all of those years were in vain, were they?

drat this feeling . . . why can't it leave me ALONE! Logically, I know it doesn't make sense for me to feel this way. But then, what an oxymoron: ) "doesn't make sense for me to feel."

I'm going to . . . go do something else. I think I'll go out and sit on my balcony and think for a while . . . but . . . grr. After I make some tea.

the matrix: revolting

antipodes — 2003-12-01T09:12:00-05:00

To all those who sat in my vicinity, I heartily apologize if you thought the same parts were not funny. Who else cause all the Pink Panther parallel lines?? Prolly only zephyr: ) And the silly lines like "You can't die." and the equally embarrassing "Yes I can." More than that, of course, since the directors are harping on Trinity's adolescent defense of Neo. As if he couldn't stand up for himself. And then, when Trinity--erm "Trin"--and Neo are on Naiobi's ship and it crashes, Neo is so observant . . . It was so SILLY! I would see it again in short spurts because it was cheesy enough to amuse me.

*sighs and settles down*

I am breaking at noon if anybody wants to go for caffe . . . otherwise I'll be in my courtyard reading. Not at G today, tho--I'm at C to actually get some *work* done . . .

What I'd really like to do is sit at that little cafe I found one time when the car ran out of petrol and I got fed up so I coasted into the parking lot and left it! Quiet and bright and peaceful and very student-oriented. C is definitely not student oriented.

tangent! let's try this again:

I'm at C to actually get some *work* done . . .

lol.

a lean and hungry look

antipodes — 2003-12-01T01:12:00-05:00

I read this one aloud twice today (once in the library where I was stared down and the other time in an open courtyard with one audience member) but it still strikes me as pret-ty neat. I've said the same thing myself in different words and not half so gracefully, before. Without further ado...

"Cassius,
Be not deceiv'd. If I have veil'd my look,
I turn the trouble of my countenance
Merely upon myself. Vexed I am
Of late with passions of some difference,
Conceptions only proper to myself,
Which give some soil, perhaps, to my behaviours;
But let not therefore my good friends be griev'd
(Among which number Cassius, be you one),
Nor contrue any further my neglect,
Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war,
Forgets the shows of love to other men."

--Brutus in Shakespeare's "The Tragedy of Julius Caesar"

and here is one more that reminds me of Ray Bradbury's autumn people, and also reminds me of people I know...but I am going to omit the not-nice bits from it and just give you the portrait of a general character. Beware the broken pentameter! And the disrespect for copy-laws.

"...Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look,
He thinks too much; such men are dangerous.
He reads much,
He is a great observer, and he looks
Quite through the deeds of men.
Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort
As if he mock'd himself, and scorn'd his spirit
That could be mov'd to smile at any thing.
Such men be never at heart's ease
...And therefore are they very dangerous."

--Caesar in Shakespeare's "The Tragedy of Julius Caesar"

draws a blank

antipodes — 2003-12-02T10:12:00-05:00

stupid subject lines.

So, after that mesmerizing post by ifothelawon, what is there to say? My mind is full of images . . . can I feel "pale in comparison" to that?? ; ) But seriously, I meant to check all my email and look at people's blogs and now I can't think because I've got all that running around in my head. Instead of setting free my imagination like they usually do, I am arrested . . .

Today I woke up late, at 8 a.m., and I could feel my dream slipping away from me. I seem to have a different consciousness when I dream; have you ever woken up and felt like you were hearing the last few lines of a conversation you weren't supposed to hear? The first voice seems to be the one that runs beside me in my dreams, and the second one is the voice that runs beside me when I do things in the sunlight.

voice 1: "Don't forget to tell her about the sky today."

voice 2: "I won't. Don't show her the Building until later, she hasn't seen it yet."

voice 1: "Oh the building. Right. It is time--her eyes are opening."

voice 2: "Ok. I'll meet you when the moon sets."

voice 1: *inhales*

voice 2: "Don't let me down."

voice 1: *exhales and shrugs*

And then they both fade out. The dream-voice fades out altogether, like someone hanging up a telephone, and the waking-voice merely turns silent and watches. But in that moment between sleeping and consciousness (forgive me the cliche') they seem to commune. To decide what to do with me, perhaps. Don't ask me how a voice shrugs either, I only feel them.

Has anybody ever felt that? If I try to reach my waking-voice now, it stubbornly remains silent and un-touchable, like a vision. The dream-voice is gone completely, away.

That's another thing, tho--when I become sleepy in a quiet place and when I am able to think by myself for an hour or so, I can feel the presence of the dream-voice, like it crept up quietly and took it's place next to the waking-voice and both "too brave to say a word", they observe my thoughts and confer with themselves. I feel most at ease when they are both present and watching, because they'll know what to do when I dream that night. I trust them to take care of me.

How very odd! says a voice from the corner. But not one of my voices. I'm not sure what this all means, but I doubt that I merely dream it.

Anybody else felt the same way?

: )

stalling

antipodes — 2003-12-02T11:12:00-05:00

The morning I spent at G doing slightly useful things. I mean, at least it felt like preparing. Getting all those personal details out of the way so I could really Work. But all that seemed to happen were those fun little “personal details” that make me laugh. Then I took the bus to C and sat at the caffe bar for a long time with friends. A truly fun time, even if I feel so funny in a group. Kept wanting to retreat into my greenly sweatshirted hood. But it was so nice that we all migrated to a restaurant to eat and talk some more. I feel like I lapped up the grins and laughs and talking that happened there too; just felt like I couldn’t get enough of it! What a very lonely feeling. Usually I can be content with material to work with and my thoughts to understand, but today all I wanted to do was to experience.

But then this stupid class got in the way. Stupid, stupid class. I semi-ignored it until an hour beforehand when I decided a hot chocolate would help me study. Soooo, I went in to the hamish haunt to find some hot choc and then there was a friend, studying just like I was (going to)! This called for a study group! But we ended up not talking about our classes. Well, no matter, it is more important to be talking about more meaningful things. But I still understood more about things and I felt more rested after having talked.

A half hour left until class. Brave as I was, I left the restaurant and--lo and behold!--I saw a friend thru a window! So I opened the door. Got hugs from everyone. See you later. Yeah, I’m stuck here tonight for classes. Yeah. See you later. *sigh* I actually began to walk to class. Got halfway there and remembered two errands that wouldn’t wait, one of them being my ride home. They were important!!! So I turned back. My errands done, I resolutely set my face towards my classroom when all of a sudden I was confronted with a smile and a wave of another friend! It is only polite to say hi. Yeah, I know I’ll be late for class, but I don’t really want to be there anyway *whinewhinewhine*. Two seconds later I was headed towards class with a guide so I wouldn’t get lost. But again, interesting conversation. I hope it wasn't just me who is sapping companionship from these people because it would not be very nice of me.

I don’t think I’ve ever wanted so badly not to be in a class. When I got into class (just a teensy bit late) I was able to hit it with full force since they were playing with logic and our teacher needs to know more about fallacies.

But, good heavens! doesnt anybody die from that kind of situation? I didn’t get any work done but I don’t feel guilty at all even if I am quite sure the consequences will be Grave tomorrow. I just feel clingy, now. I hope I didn’t seem totally off my rocker. I kind of felt that way tho: ) I didn't mean to bore anybody! I really did enjoy our conversations!

*mumbles and blushes a little*

petulant and guilty

antipodes — 2003-12-03T01:12:00-05:00

dash it all! I hate my conscience. It doesn't have any qualms about disappointing my family, but it has definite qualms about sending papers in late when I've put them off till the last minute. However! here I am, blogging when I should be doing my little database project.

Today was a day of Enforced Shoe-Shopping and I am deeply traumatised. I was so traumatised that I had a cappuccino at noon. My mind is running in circles, not because I had the caffeine! Oh, no! That doesn't bother me. I haven't a clue why my mind is going in circles. I used to write on coffee napkins or odd-shaped pieces of paper in the Starbucks across from the College of Orange and Green Stripey Chairs and just write until I felt my hands feel calm. Now it is typing. It seems better to type here than to write. Can't relax writing here. Must be typing . . .

So, why isn't my mind clearing? The Desperate Professor is sitting at the computer that is two away from mine and talking to a man who is on the other side of me four computers away. His voice is SO LOUUUUUD!! Perhaps he is helping my mind not work. It would be very convenient to blame it on him.

Or maybe it is the spearmint gum that someone has addicted me too. Who *was* that, anyway???

I sigh entirely too much.

pity, please

antipodes — 2003-12-03T02:12:00-05:00

I am feeling so sick . . . am going to lay down somewhere. Everyone feel bad for me, ok? Lots of pity and sympathetic flash ecards. *lurches out of the computer lab*

*grins wryly*

yawn

antipodes — 2003-12-03T10:12:00-05:00

home now, safe but a little unsound. More blogging tomorrow. I have a feeling I will need tea tomorrow. Slept all afternoon and skipped class to curl up on the floor of the library next to Sk8board Hall and nap.

Why am I blogging?

I am going to sleep. ciao tutti.

oh my. laughs

antipodes — 2003-12-05T10:12:00-05:00

I just tried to type something in the subject box and all of a sudden this little drop-down menu came up with the option "And thErE I wAs...nAkEd And stAndIng knEE dEEp In grEEn jEllO...thEn I rEAlIzE thEsE ArEn't my pAnts" and I quote! This is not from my blog, trust me. But . . . umm . . . knee deep in green jello. You can imagine my surprise. I was all ready to write a long whiny post about holiday season and feeling sick and watching movies when all of a sudden BAM! there's this little drop down menu that totally defeated me. I'm sorry if you're not laughing, but this will keep me smiling for the rest of the afternoon.

*rests arms for a minute*

Ok, time for my nap. Falling asleep again. Stupid flu.

*grins lopsidedly*

home on a weekend

antipodes — 2003-12-06T02:12:00-05:00

I close my door behind me and see the mess I've created in front of me . . . how do I *live* in this mucksty?? I have so much to do and so little motivation. I almost don't like coming home on the weekends because I have so much to do here, so many things to work on and to worry and to mend. And I have so much Stuff.

Collected and dusty things remind me of other times. I need to simplify, get rid of this stuff. It isn't like I use most of my things. Not nowadays, anyway. I have boxes to go to thrift stores, but also boxes of things I want to keep for my children (I don't want them NOW of course, but it's still frustrating to have all this stuff). And little knickknacks of sentimental junk. Books I don't need. Boxes of records and papers that I use only occasionally. Remnants of old hobbies! I have candlemaking supplies, stained-glass-painting tools, herbal medicine jars and bottles, calligraphy pens! Rubber stamps and paintboxes, a table loom, and a box of sewing supplies (wherein lies all the materials for a hideous quilt). Got to do something with it all or I will suffocate in the dust! Got to chuck it all away, I don't use most of it anyway. Besides, whatever will I do with it when I scoot off to wherever it is I'm going next? I thought I pared down coming *here* but not enough for my little brain.

Now I'm feeling all grody.

And in approximately a half an hour (deaf/italian/myfamily time) I will be helping to entertain a group of my mother's friends. Let's try and fit me into an SJ box for a little while for some socialising! It isn't really horrible, I'm just being cruel. But I do feel a bit neurotic about the whole thing. At least it is tea and caffe. I mean, that's prolly how it began is that people were getting together to meet eachother but they all had to have some kind of stimulant to make them less nervous . . . *mumbles and snorts*

I love naps in front of fireplaces--that's what I did most of yesterday. But let me back up a little *beepbeepbeep*. We all went to a movie with some friends (this is always fun and the movie really was good; I want to see it again) and I'm so glad I was sitting down the entire time cause I kept shaking . . . I hate being ill! It is "all very vexing, you know." And then after the movie things were sort of hazy and everything was funny inside my head until we went home, where I was mothered with a big ol' mug of tea and a wool blanket and a big red creaky rocking chair by a roaring fire. Drifting in and out of sleep with my feet warmed by a friendly choir of flames is just what I needed . . . lucky socks and raggy sweater notwithstanding! And I read favourite bits of favourite books . . . these things make one well.

*mumbles about more tea and pruny fingers and socialising before grumbling into a nicer shirt and brushing her hair*

and now, dear readers, I must be off. Affectionate embracefuls to you all, with hopes for your afternoons to be think-ful.

waiting on an angel . . .

antipodes — 2003-12-06T06:12:00-05:00

I am going to spite all of these electronic expressions of introspection and go sit out on my balcony, curled up in a blanket and watching people put up Christmas lights. If anyone cares to join me, there is definitely room but you must bring your own blanket because I'm selfish that way.

The stars are out, now, better hurry, or we won't see when the other Christmas lights come on.

*hums "greensleeves"*

snowsnowsnow!!

antipodes — 2003-12-07T06:12:00-05:00

just had to let you guys know, it is snowing!! I'm very excited: ) ai-ai, you should all be here to sit by our fireplace and watch the snow with us!

*hoomhumm*

monday; almost exam times

antipodes — 2003-12-08T08:12:00-05:00

At seven o'clock this morning, with the sun still behind renaissance clouds, we were on the road to work. For myself, I was to school work and my first final exam of this semester. I have it here beside me all printed in black and white with an acceptably and maybe appropriately formidable font across the top, which says:

ENGLISH 403
SHAKESPEARE: THE EARLY WORKS
FINAL EXAM

Oh, yes, my friends, you should be scared. I can feel no malice towards my Professor. I can feel no malice towards these few sheets of innocent printer paper on which happened to be marked my sentence. I cannot even grumble at the BLT because he snores . . . erm sings. *I* am relieved!

There are wreaths over some of the doorways I walk past on my way here. Women chatting in the caffe bar exchange recipes for Christmas cookies. Christmas music bounces gleefully from stereos!

This morning I witnessed someone else's childhood memory of a Christmas. Two Someone-Elses'. Turning the corner outside our house we drove by a man walking with two small children. It is a holiday here (so there is no school today), but such small children out already at such an early time; and in the cold! I was nudged by a memory of being cold early in the morning to look at their faces. They were all grinning the same grin--all of them, not only the Short Ones--except that the children's were smeared with chocolate from the half-munched cornetti in their hands. The man, who laughed, was carrying also a pastry-bag and a leaning tower of styrofoam cups.

This all took about the space of about two seconds.

And then, when we turned out of our town onto the Road, we could look back and see snow on the mountains. Snow! White and prolly crunchy stuff, soon to be smothered in clouds. I anticipate the morning when I will stumble downstairs in my slippers to look out the window and see a layer of white over our yard, a ridge of frost on our gate, and tracks of snow on our street.

But for now, I am in a windowless room full of computers. I still have my jacket on in here because the heater ain't so great for this building. I've got two weeks of posting to catch up to (how does Cassius shape the way we think of Julius Caesar?) and a final exam to appease on top of a persuasive speech (have mercy!) and some tedious-ness-es connected with my computer class.

Can't wait for noon! I hope my courtyard is sunny. I've begun to read "Paradise Lost" and it is easy compared to Shakespeare; Book Two is scheduled to unravel today.

*grins and twirls in her swivel chair*

absolute bosh

antipodes — 2003-12-08T01:12:00-05:00

I spent a rapt forty-five minutes with Milton in Pandemonium, which by rights ought to have been much warmer. My hands are cold again.

Now I must find another place to sit until the tempered complexion of celestial ethers (shakespeare-miltonian for "weather") turn warm again. Besides, I should have someplace for rainy days In Case. But I dislike the hamish haunt muchly when there is no hamish there. How I do love to complain: ) Where does one *go*?? Yes, the library. I should go to the library. Thank you.

I have one post left to make on my online class discussion board before I mumble my way to do a few mundane errands and then to caffe or a hot chocolate. That's one of the things I love about being myself is that I can buy myself hot chocolate and walk around looking at the world through my very own eyes. Don't get me wrong--I like buying other people hot chocolate too: ) And I want to try and see the world through other eyes. But that's different. *squirms in her seat trying to explain*

Anyway, I should be getting back to work. I'm at C until the 15.30 'bus and I will be done before then. I will spot for hot choc./caffe if anybody wants to give me their insight on Milton! Cliffs notes need not apply.

At least I've gotten a lot done today.

I wish there were more Wimsey novels.

*reminds everyone within hearing distance that her hands are SO COLD!*

using up time

antipodes — 2003-12-09T12:12:00-05:00

I had the best of intentions of waking up at 6 a.m. this morning, I really did. But I seem to keep getting sick. Last night I couldn't even stay downstairs to watch a movie w/ everyone . . . doubled up on my armchair upstairs trying to muster up the energy to change into pjs. Waking up at 6 didn't happen. Or, rather, it did. But I let go of the well-intentioned bit and went back to sleep.

In the interval between sleeping and snoozing I prayed a plaintive prayer, a complaint in a whiny little teeny voice. You see, the subject for my persuasive speech hadn't come to me yet. So I whined shamelessly and like a cartoon bubble there appeared in my head a thought! A suggestion. I committed it to memory and went back to sleep. Now all I have to do is find enough stuff on the net to agree with me. Doesn't have to be totally true: )

God has given me so much all in one short space of time that I have wanted--not needed, understand, but *wanted*--I feel so humbled. I hate feeling humbled! I like better to feel humble. I have friends, I have good grades, I have a beautiful home, I have the best family anybody could ask for, I have the opportunity to do anything I want to do . . . but I don't know what to do with it all.

I'm going to finish my persuasive speech tonight and give it to the class, and then that will be the last assignment for that class before all I must do is to warm the seat of a swivel chair. Well, and that silly paper. But that doesn't count, I can write that in two tuh-whoos.

But I really don't like reading about other people's school assignments, so why am I making you read mine? I just have to think . . . it helps to write and to think, but it definitely isn't a show of how witty a writer I can be (lol).

Tomorrow I am renting two small children and taking them out to lunch over my lunch hour (before and after I will be spinning wheels about my Shakespeare final exam). They should definitely refresh my idea of youth and grins and why I am not married with kids in the back hills of West Virginia.

heehee. I have this great thing to write about but it isn't coming off of my fingers; MAN! I was just telling ifotyermomwon how good an entry it would make but now I can't write about it! Maybe after break (1230-1300 @C if anybody feels like hot choc I will buy! pls post below w/ your favorite color) I'll be able to write.

Now, to write an Outline . . . yes, I'm a J, I know . . .

*brandishes highlighters and pens at her fresh new pad of paper*

I'M GOING TO KILL HIM!!!

antipodes — 2003-12-09T01:12:00-05:00

If STEVE plays that STUPID song ONE MORE TIME!!!!!!!!!

that DOES it im going to the MOON!

*sprouts fangs and horns*

page 92-93

antipodes — 2003-12-10T01:12:00-05:00

"We have no reason to harbor any mistrust against our world, for it is not against *us*. If it has terrors, they are *our* terrors; if it has abysses, these abysses belong to us; if there are dangers, we must try to love them. And if we arrange our life in accordance with the principle which tells us that we must always trust in the difficult, then what now appears to us as the most alien will become our most intimate and trusted experience. How could we forget those ancient myths that stand at the beginning of all races, the myths about dragons that at the last moment are transformed into princesses? Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us act, just once, with beauty and courage. Perhaps everything that frightens us is, in its deepest essence, something helpless that wants our love."

--"Letters to a Young Poet" by Rainer Maria Rilke

I don't see how anyone could mistrust the abysses of this world, not truly mistrust them . . . Well, at least I don't think so. As metaphors for the abysses in the supernatural world, I can see why one would fear them. But as pure matter (mortar, stone and wood) *shrug* No, see, I am taking it too literally. He means the abysses in our spiritual world . . . but why should we not fear them? They are numinous. We should fear malevolent numinousity, I know, but he doesn't say that here.

Why should we always trust in the difficult? Maybe I'm missing something from the context of this letter. But I see no reason to trust in this: ) I can see where I know God is guiding me and I will, to use a phrase that Wakefield Folk know, "trust the process", because I know there is something Higher than what I'm seeing . . . I hope this is what he means. I think this is what he means.

Because if this, then I understand why it can become my "most intimate and trusted experience".

Something helpless . . . maybe. What frightens me is myself. What frightens me is my power over myself. And I am helpless to do Good for Reality without help . . . I have Help. humhumhum. So am I myself the dragon and the princess and the knight in between them that must be brave?: ) But the dragon is not helpless. The dragon simply *is*. That analogy doesn't work. Chuck it!

Now that I've mulled over this I am in a better mood, believe it or not. I'm not on a high but I feel more relaxed. My mind is going to be paced and rhythmed for a little while now, so I will be able to study.

What an interesting day: ) the Short Ones I had charge of today were very polite but very much boys. Like something from Ray Bradbury, all you autumn people! They reminded me of Dandelion Wine. There were no lines on their faces, no traces of sorrow or resoluteness or surrender. Truly beautiful. We read "The Polar Express" on the steps of my sunny courtyard and we had sandwiches for lunch. They munched on cheetohs.

an intuitive chuckle

antipodes — 2003-12-10T04:12:00-05:00

Wildly scribbling a loopy font, a suave blue pen issued ideas like rounds of shot. The student who belonged to the pen glanced everywhere desperately, frantically gleaning inspiration from "The Trip Planner Deluxe" and "The Hitler Virus" for his thesis on weight loss. Presently nose-to-college-ruled, Our Hero began a deadly assault on cherry bon-bons.

An hour later.

Two textbooks only lay on the table, tight-lipped and silent witnesses with mouths full of various and sundry page-markers. But lo! also on the table lay reclining an open binder of the three-ring variety, picking its teeth with plastic divider tabs. The presiding judge swept his gavel towards the top of the hour. Both witnesses and cocky attorney raised their subject headings expectantly for the verdict.

Suddenly a jury of post-it notes issued from a sigh across the table. An angel chorus of Fiat car-horns graced the library through it's disapproving double doors.

"I gotta go type this up!"

And the periodicals tittered.

--author note:--

this was dashed off, there is little thought put into the metaphor or grammar, and I was laughing. but it *did* look like that, really! The periodicals actually fluttered and made a giggling noise as he "dizzily turned the corner and by Jove he was gone" *grins* Ok, so I have to catch the 'bus now!

Thanks to thee, oh Lanky One, for the inspiration!

*scurries to the bus stop*

blue-eyed ibbles

antipodes — 2003-12-11T01:12:00-05:00

To nap, or not to nap: that is the question:
whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
the D's and F's of outrageous True/False tests,
Or to take arms against a sea of term papers,
And by plagiarizing fail them? To sleep: to nap;
No more; and by a nap to say we end
The caffeine head-ache and the thousand hungry grumbles
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd.

whistling beethoven

antipodes — 2003-12-12T02:12:00-05:00

I've been scribbling my outline for about an hour, and I have it done now--it is so crazy what a day at home can do for my mental state. Rhythm and rhyme reapply themselves to my limericks of thoughts and I smile every now and then when the punch lines hits . . . I can't believe some of the stuff I'm actually putting down on this paper! How utterly inane! But I suppose it must be done.

I have traditional study music of classical (beethoven) and jazz (dave brubeck quartet) and they've been running full tilt too as I scribble, but in the middle of "Rondo: Allegro" for the third time, I realised I had been whistling it. I whistle to Beethoven. Mmm. But it helps me study! How weird. Maybe if I whistled in the computer lab it would help me study. I will conduct a study next time we go.

Now to write the silly paper. I'm freezing here too, but at least there are cats to help me type and Mum brought me tea and a biscotti:)

almost there . . .

antipodes — 2003-12-12T07:12:00-05:00

two presentations, a self-analysis, and an actual examination to go!

my conversation this month is down to the level of grunting gullibly to the glib sarcastic humor of my friends and the two staple subjects; the weather, and everybody's health. "Oh? And your family is in good health?"

The little blinking icon in my AIM message box sits tapping it's own rhythm to itself blithely like a metronome to a piano that hasn't got KEYS.

things that make me happy:
--no more speeches
--no more enforced readings of shakespeare
--not having to get up before 6 until monday
--warm detergenty-smelling sheets on my bed
--smell of my clean hair that I am not going to have to braid and let dry overnight
--the bashed in face my of alarm clock

p.s. Congrats, you have answered most or all of these
questions correctly.This just goes to show you
that you know alot about LOTR and you are
prolly a HUGE fan( juss like me).Give me a
message and rate my quiz(I like messages)!

* The Hardest LOTR Quiz You'll Ever Take *
brought to you by Quizilla

just got to see me thru another day

antipodes — 2003-12-15T08:12:00-05:00

Here I am again, for the last real monday of the year, in my accustomed place--my fingers are cold, the tip of my nose needs thawing, my feet are just a little sore, and inside I can't stop laughing at myself. And there are the ubiquitous cawing pilgrims who cannot keep the holy silence of our little electronic shrines. My faithful friend of seven years, my dear cd player, is grinning out a cd mix I made. I cannot *tell* you how funny all of this is, I keep wanting to laugh my head off hysterically at the entire business! I wish you could see it with me.

But it is so odd! I feel so very aware of breathing, hearing, seeing, and feeling. My fingerprints feel coarse when I rub my hands together, the music sounds particularly clear today, and it isn't so much that my sight is clearer but that I am more aware of my seeing things. I can consciously feel my every breath. And I haven't a clue why it makes me laugh so much inside.

anybody else do this? *finds the construction down the hall especially amusing just now*

The band concert I went to yesterday will have to wait, I'm afraid. It is almost 0900 and I really must get to work. Maybe I can drawpoint it and come back to it before noon . . .

*thinks maybe she should change her name to quickbeam*

origami sing-along

antipodes — 2003-12-15T10:12:00-05:00

Being positioned in the center of the bleachers, it became difficult for our planned Wave to come about. The stubbornly deaf people on the end of the rows did not help any, so we tried different tactics. Crowd-surfing down the bleachers, I agreed with my compatriot, would be fun. We contemplated a mosh pit. However, these things wouldn't have gone over well with the parents of those who were playing in the High School Winter Band Concert.

The young musicians played old tunes and there was a student teacher who led the opening band. I wasn't sure if I felt bad for nearly mistaking her for one of them, but then her skirt was too short for her to be a student. *sigh* What is into student teachers these days?? I wonder if she led well. I wish I knew more about it. Anyway, there was a saxophone-ist in the second row who played particularly well. Of course, nobody else has heard her solos. She has played songs especially for me, she plays them just for me and nobody else:) Well, sort of. *grin* (I will prolly get a slap for that comment.)

And the chorus sang only one of the staple Christmas songs! I was muchly surprised. But "Carol of the Bells" is sung by every choir, every Christmas. Every chorus but mine. I never got to sing it. *sigh* I will recover someday. I suppose this is everyone's sacrifice-0I don't sing so I have to recover and if I did sing, there would be more people in psych wards? Not a Christmassy thought! Out it goes!

My compatriot began to feel restless. She fidgeted with her hands neurotically until in a sudden swooping moment, my programme was gone! and in it's place there lay an origami figure that began to chew a hole in the Caffenapkin Professor's sweater (he was sitting in front of us). A pair of sparkly eyes gave us a mild reproof and then went back to her music. The origami programme made it's rounds and then sang along with the chorus. I think it was confiscated before the End.

Afterwards they had--they always have--cookies and punch. Punch that lines your lips with red stains like koolaid. *Like* koolaid? And the cookies. Oh, the cookies. Well, I can't say anything about them I didn't have any. *sigh*

No, I moved through the crowds, creating a path for myself as I brandished a potted poinsetta that was filched for ten euro from the concert hall. I wielded my weapon well, for I scared several people out of their seats in order that I might place the potted plant on it's princely pedestal.

and THAT my friends, was a snapshot of the high school band concert. I wish I was a better musician so I could give you a rundown of the good and bad points . . . but it was fun:)

p.s. I found out that if I am sitting on bleacher seats and I leave my hair down behind me, everyone on the back row will have an opportunity to tread on it.

blithely giggling

antipodes — 2003-12-15T03:12:00-05:00

i have the coolest friends. Oh yes, all you who are conditioned raters will throw this one to the dogs, but I am feeling particularly grateful so you can go . . . boil . . . *hesitates*

I *do* have the coolest friends. The go for caffe with me, they let me grin and giggle and talk and be quiet until they are blue in the face and they get my stupid jokes and laugh at me when I do stupid things and make me feel better when my soul is pale and thin . . . they do not touch me carefully, they like me even when I'm quiet, they hang around even when its past their lunch hour and all I'm doing is throwing french fries at them . . . and they watch geeky movies with me and throw rotten tomatoes at the characters we don't like. I need to write a poem or something. Something more than giddily singing their praises here on a web log.

I can't wait till Christmas break.

*victory dance*

last post of the day, I promise:)

antipodes — 2003-12-15T03:12:00-05:00

I was thinking about Christmas. I was. And I thought to me that I really want to go downtown and get hot chestnuts and munch them and go take a walk down by the beach. I think I want to do this on Friday. IIIIIIIII think I don't want to do that by my lonesome. Or maybe I do. Let's seeeeeeee . . . *mumbles to self*

enfolding wings

antipodes — 2003-12-16T09:12:00-05:00

I can't divine within myself to find why everything seems to beautiful today. I don't know why my mind is reawakened . . . or do I? I hoped for this; I prayed for this!

We left a half hour later than we normally do, so I saw the sun rise not from walking outside, but from the slits in my shuttered windows; dark morning blue to a twixtlight aqueous ether to something at last aerial and dawn-like. The air was still faintly blue (you know how it feels when you seem to be walking and seeing things underwater?) when we went outside.

It was Windy.

The grey-green of every leaf on every tree and the dark dust of bark on the bare trees just made me pause, they were so very exquisite. I suppose it may become a blustery afternoon if the clouds turn out right:) The Cold did not freeze my lungs and make me cringe into the warmth but let me relish the cleansing of my face and neck; I could breathe it, pull it past my throat into my lungs where it acted like some kind of drug. Tired and awake and feeling alive and at peace.

I can't help but smile at the way the light of the sun was breathing over the clouds as I rode the 'bus this morning, the way the silhouetted mountains were guarding me.

Now I've got sigur ros () on and I am filled with a kind of contentment that you can't get any other way than as a gift. My head knows this isn't right, my head screams to let the rest of me know that I'm fooling myself, that life will continue like it always has.

And it will.

But these are the moments that strengthen and defend me. I think I understand, now, what it feels like to be enfolded by the wings of God . . .

je-ru-sha ab-bott!

antipodes — 2003-12-17T08:12:00-05:00

Confession! I slept until 1330 today. I knew I didn't have to get up early and I knew I had a final tonight, and I knew I would feel awful when I woke up. But it was nice to lay sleepily in bed for as long as I wanted to. Mum was playing some music downstairs, and every now and again a cat would hop onto the bed and wonder at me if I was awake yet. One of them persisted in finding a nook to curl up in and eventually made one for herself by nudging my arm out of it's normal position and curling up on my ribcage; a very tickly experience. I deposed her with a giggle but she was a bad sport about it and resettled herself on my feet.

I feel extremely well rested but I'm quite aware that I'll be up late tonight curled up in my armchair with a candle and a pile of books and probably a cat or two. How delightful:)

Now--there were several things I scribbled yesterday that I wanted to write but I didn't get to, so I shall make the best of them here. It is odd how I've been getting back into my writing "kick" by drafting on paper or spontaneously pecking at random keyboards. Two or three pages at the library, print; an idea that refuses to be typed and must be written quickly in the margins of my class notes; a quote that demands a fountain pen. I keep writing! I realised that I've got at least twenty pages of stuff for the past seven days. But I digress.

One of the Lord High Impeders of Progress and Head Parking Lot Thief appeared yesterday with subtlety prepared white lines that infiltrated the parking garage one Friday. It was thence we knew he came. He conducted the traditional ceremony of manipulating his minions into a dreamlike state. They sing the tune of the Great Vespa (formerly the BLT) in unison, and then file out of their cave with solemn faces, blinking at the sunlight.

There is a movement, a secret revolution, seeded in this place, to have a New Order of the Moped branch. Members will wear symbolic full-length reflective vests as uniforms. All very hush-hush, you know.

I had homemade cookies for lunch yesterday. Yummmm. The Little League's mothers are good cooks. It is Christmastime, surely, now.

I heard a brass pseudoquartet play carols in honor of the coming of the Lord High Impeder. I heard them play specially loudly for the benefit of the CaffeNapkin Professor, who condescended to stand with me and teach an Incredulous Person about spit valves. My mother says that spit valves on trombones are nasty particularly when the players are highschoolers who have good aim.

and there was a piece of my yesterday and some of my today. Strike that. Reverse it. *grins*

p.s. I'm not sure Friday is going to work; one person has an exam to turn in at C, another may have work, etc. So do we want to hike it to the evening? Or postpone it? Or . . . I'm open to ideas.

bleary-eyed mess!

antipodes — 2003-12-18T09:12:00-05:00

I hate for every post to be about how cold my hands are, but I'm in the lab again and they are freezing. I have two thick layers of clothing underneath my jacket and I left my hair down so my neck would be warm. But I'm still cold! I'm actually inside a building and still have all my layers of clothing on (excepting the scarf, which would be detrimental to my typing ability). My lips are so chapped. They got layered with some anise-flavoured chapstick stuff that I keep catching whiffs of when I turn my head. Yumm.

This is my last day at C this year for the purpose of studying. I have a speech tonight and then I am finished. I think a celebratory hot chocolate is in order. At least a hot chocolate. Too bad Mizz Chris isn't here to go to Starbucks and laugh at me. I miss her laugh and the way the light hit the lines on her face. I miss her eyes and the way her hands moved when she signed. She was so much fun! Is so much fun. I wonder how she is.

I used to go to the Starbucks across from the College of Orange and Green Stripey Chairs. None of them could spell my name without asking two or three times (pronouncing it was even more fun when they were done spelling it) so I always went in as Beth. People in my class used to tease me that I'd stolen Beth's drink. Poor Beth, I wasn't above stealing her cafe' latte on my way to class. But I could tell if I'd met people at Starbucks because they'd all call me Beth. *grin* That was fun. Chris and I used to go there before we headed off to CSUN for the day, and everybody would be sleepy-eyed and giggly but they'd remember us.

*yawn* I post too much. Do I post too much? Ah, well.

grins to all of my readers today; if you don't revisit my blog before Christmas, a merry one to you!

WOOT!

antipodes — 2003-12-18T09:12:00-05:00

I got an A in my Shakespeare class! woot woot! definitely a celebrating night! But I got a B on the final exam, drat him. *dances* I got an A! I got an A! wheeee!

don't get excited snappy. calm down. good snappy. nice snappy. SNAPPY CALM DOWN!!!

event update

antipodes — 2003-12-19T01:12:00-05:00

hot chestnuts are on the fritz. so is one of our vehicles. And I can't find a train schedule. And I worked in the kitchen of a small pizzeria until midnight. So . . . we'll just see how this goes . . . *YAWN*

thanks for letting me tag along today, brian:) that was fun. hope you get your paper done on time! *wonders if she could teach the trojan thumb war game to anyone*

hamish! thank you for the ride! you are a godsend. Your boss had better give you a half-day on Sunday . . . *crosses fingers*

to others, who Know Who They Are, thanks muchly for singing to Paul Simon at the top of your lungs:D That was great . . .

finals are over, guys. they are over and done with. now I'm going to sleep.

*smiles drowsily and somewhat lopsidedly*

MONSTERPOST! cough

antipodes — 2003-12-22T01:12:00-05:00

The last evening of final exams, I went out to celebrate with friends. Sounds normal? Good. Well, it wasn't. These friends, aunts, uncles, cousins; most of them don't even share a language with me. The women wear stiletto heels and have dark hair, olive skinned almond eyes laughing at you all the time. The men, resigned to their tables at the restaurant; all of them wear shoes that are always very worn. How do men wear out shoes like that? I don't understand. Anyway. I was wearing neither heels or house-shoes, but my favorite boots with orange laces. Huh. That whole paragraph was about shoes. I don't usually notice people's shoes, so it was odd, ok?:)

It was a wedding party. I missed the wedding itself because I was giving a speech on "the immortality of the soul", at the time, but nobody seemed to mind very much when a few of us dropped in late. The room was dark and vibrant--the colors of the faded posters on the walls and the faces of the people were the same, but you could see how different were the festive clothes, the tablecloths, and the flowers.

Flowers! there were so many of them, on every table. How tantalising it was to have them in the middle of the table. Not even at a place where one might inadvertently breathe a little deeper to catch a little bit of their frangrance! No! In the center of the table, with stems short enough that all you could politely do was to sit and admire them from afar. Infuriating.

We had to worm our way through the crowd to our friends at the other side of the room--past the karaoke and the man playing the keyboard, through a group of people dancing to the music. They weren't couples, for the most part, but people who were keeping themselves out of mischief by playing with the small children, twirling and stepping on toes and looking up and down and holding hands. Little girls in plaid dresses, shy little ones, were looking up bashfully at our faces as we passed by.

The food was Yummy. There was a cold buffet of unfamiliar and delicious foods that I attempted to sample but only got a mouthful of about half of what was left--even after being hours late. Sitting down, I was bombarded by napkins, plastic forks, and two or three different people pouring me water and wine or yelling at others to do so. I sneaked a little of the bottled coke (which two glasses were mine?) as well--did you ever notice how much better coca cola is from bottles than from cans? Incomparable. But anyway--the wine was good even though I'm not overenthusiastic about the red stuff, the food was all home made and all exquisitely tasty. If people would only stop trying to kiss me hello then it would have been easier but ah, well.

As a seat on the other side of the table emptied (yes! one nearer the wall!), I merfed it and was able to see what had been behind me--the adults were beginning to dance. The styles of the dances changed sporadically from pseudo-Russian to Italian to a free-for-all sort of whatever-you-call-it that always confuses me. But they seemed to be having a great time all the same.

Suddenly the music went up about fifty decibels and hit a crescendo to a loud beating of techno-whoosa-whatsits that sounded like drums . . . I haven't a clue how to say it, obviously, but several people cringed visibly and gave dirty looks to the DJ. Granted, it wasn't really all that appropriate for the event, but so long as you surrender to it and don't try to calm your mind or make eye contact it feels so strange: freeing and exhausting. *I* liked it. Why did I add that to my description? I don't know. But I don't turn my music up that loud or listen to that kind of stuff very often so it was something strange for me to think about. Back to the party.

A photographer in a boxy brown jacket was dodging like a dragonfly through the crowd of people, stopping to hover in the air for a moment and snap a picture and then moving on. So many people smiling! It must have been easy to look for a picture of someone beautiful. But I haven't any earthly idea how he worked it out because the room was so dark and the shadows so pronounced . . . Well, we shall see. Doubtless we will see pictures soon.

The bride, eight months pregnant and looking quite exhausted, sat behind a table at the far end of the room, watching people dance. I watched her for a moment--she looked a little distracted now, and turned her head. No longer looking at the dancing, she sighed and seemed to be remembering something else, missing some piece of the puzzle. Someone else noticed me noticing her . . . "Her parents couldn't get a visa to come. She has no family here." She was all alone! Well, I can't say that her husband wasn't any comfort for her, but to have a piece of your history witness a glimpse of your future is a gift and a reassurance that I wish she might have had. She looked less wistful and more sorrowful.

Her husband's brother was also married; both women were pregnant at the same time, though at vastly different stages of the process. But how odd it must be! To live in that kind of house. I wonder what they saw when they looked at the small children who were dancing. They are such very different women, too; their superstitions are also vastly different. I hope it works out alright:) I am inclined to laugh and shake my head at the whole thing.

Suddenly my friend and I were assualted by people plucking at our elbows to stand up and wait for the bride to throw the bouquet. We both locked our feet under our chairs and braced ourselves with demure "NO, THANK-YOU!"s. Luckily, they gave up on us. A beautiful fourteen-year-old girl caught the bouquet and smiled a perfect smile for the bride, who was delighted. I hate those silly superstitious bits of weddings. Note to self: do not do this at my own wedding.

I was feeling warm from the wine, and comfortably full of food, and beginning to relax. My body was warm but my mind was reeling in exams and things--I was beginning to be sleepy. But it was almost over--the wedding cake! The wedding cake was something I was curious about. People always have odd wedding cakes. (If it is "always" can it be "always odd" or is that an oxymoron?) Anyway, it was good but soaked in liquer. Couldn't finish my third bite of it.

Then right afterwards there was sherry. Home made sherry is YUMMY!! I'm quite sold on it. It tasted like cherry syrup and wine and something so sweet and hot that it made you want to remember cold nights. I remember my throat felt like it exploded, I was so warm. Feels funny right now because my fingertips and my nose are cold again. *sigh* I don't suppose they'd allow me to bring sherry into the library.

And then people began to leave. More kissing. A few of the women gravitated towards the kitchen. I followed them, knowing that the inevitable was soon to transpire. The dishes. They weren't so bad, but there were four or five of us doing them until midnight, plus a multitude of men trying to help clean up and mussing things around. Plastic forks, paper plates, and breaking glasses . . . I was told that the preparation was much worse than the cleaning up. I tip my hats to those who prepared it all.

And now! Time to end the monster post. Not sure how to finish it now . . . but anyway, that was what I did on the final night of exams:)

intermission

antipodes — 2003-12-22T12:12:00-05:00

Yeesht, what a long post that was. I had to scribble notes on a napkin during the meal and I know I didn't do any of it justice. You just can't capture something like that . . . Well, I still want to remember it. Maybe I'll write it up in earnest and keep it in a file with my journals. Someone will find it long after I am dead and use it for a fire-starter.

I thought about writing something on caroling, too--everyone seems to have:) I love that, I love caroling. And I had some of the nicest Christmas presents last night. There is nothing, nothing, nothing, like sitting by a fire with friends and sipping hot drinks and talking about Things. Appreciative and affectionate thanks to all of you.

I wish I could say everything here that I have wanted to, but good grief, it is hard to work these things out on a keyboard and a monitor:)

a merry christmas to you, if I don't see you before then!

love always,

rika

winter solstice

antipodes — 2003-12-22T11:12:00-05:00

Well, here we go:) I’ve been one of those infuriatingly tiny-timly people today, “Merry Christmas” and “Happy Holidays” every turn and corner. I hope this offends no one when I smile and wish you a happy holiday. Some people are so very humbug about the entire business. As for me, I haven’t even felt it to be Christmas until just lately so I don’t have time to be bah-humbug-ismic. I’ve got to cram all the christmassiness into my thoughts while I can because January is usually a perfectly dismal month for me. “But back to the presents.”

It was really funny a couple of times when I wished someone a merry holiday. For instance, the lady who grumpily takes my dollar for a small hot chocolate. I ordered with my usual nicety/politeness and when she returned with the lumpy-looking swampmush I belted out a cheerful holiday greeting. For my dollar I not only procured what might be called a “hot chocolate” if you couldn’t taste the lumps of Swiss Miss, but also the return of my lent-out grin. Then there was my fan club in the caffe’ bar. They don’t smile at me, they just don’t. I’m not sure why. I do try and appease the Tip Jar often with small coins (since I go in there nearly every day I think I should at least get some return for my money) but maybe it is only a mischevious demon and not a demigod. Anyway, I was yelling back another “Merry Christmas!!” to a former classmate as I opened up the door and when I entered I received at least a grin and a greeting from the people that I’d seen but didn’t have the privilege of aquaintance. So my “merry christmas”-es seemed to go off well. Most everybody smiled. And that, my dear Reader, is quite a feat for some of these people. I’m sure you have seen them.

I have been thinking lately, muchly thinking, and muchly writing. My new year’s resolutions will take a little thought. I saw “Love, Actually” the other night. I can’t believe, looking back, that I didn’t walk out of the movie. I can explain my inaction well and in full, but it doesn’t excuse me . . . and I have said things I wish I could take back. But I should not be posting this on this kind of blog:) I want you to see optimistic and creative bits and pieces of me . . . I’m adding this to my resolutions list now . . . *sigh*

One of my other NYRs is to get to sleep in good time. *yawn* That one I don’t mind beginning now.

peaceful slumberings:)

waiting for cats, with her son Jim

antipodes — 2003-12-23T11:12:00-05:00

I woke up this morning to a bell-like wind-noise hugging and tugging at the walls of my house. Warm and defiant, I huddled underneath my four inches of comforter and wished vainly for a maid.

“Hot chocolate and buttered toast for breakfast, after that my room needs tidying. One more load of laundry to be done, and then I need nothing until my afternoon cup of tea. Would you close my door, please? I’ve got Christmas presents yet to wrap.”

Then it would be easy to hop out of bed into my slippers, throw my warm bathrobe over my pajamas, and sit down at my table for breakfast and a chapter of something christmassey. As it is, I was the first of my sisters to see that not only was there a strong wind outside but it was carrying with it gusts and whirls of snow! Unfortunately, none of it has yet decided to take up residence on anything but our car which must be coaxed out to the street today, poor thing.

“[She] tried to say ‘Humbug!’ but stopped at the first syllable.”
--Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

. . . one hour into the future . . .

The snow is sticking on the ground and in the windows of the houses across from ours. Not even an inch of sticky snow has fallen yet, though the temperature is dropping slowly and I plan to spend most of my day in view of the sky and the snow. Elanor, my plump and adorable feline companion, has buried her nose in the crook of my elbow as I’m trying to type, but she doesn’t seem to mind the constant tap-tapping of my hunt-and-peck typing (I can hear you laughing from here). She is so warm and so soft and small and afe m fec0tionate. And she likes to helpme type. I am abjectly dismal for those of my Readers who are allergic to cats. av

It has just been discovered that my Christmas Eve will not, as previously thought, be spent lazing around the house reading and being generally useless to the rest of humanity, but chopping and cooking and making things. Not the whole time, of course, but I suspect a pretty deal of it. *sigh* Hey stop that, no more sighing. Hey-nonny-nonny, and all that rot from Much Ado . . .

*hums to herself*

merry christmas:)

antipodes — 2003-12-26T12:12:00-05:00

The holiday season, this time of year, is such a catalyst for Things. I don’t understand all of it, but I’m left in awe of the obvious and apparently supernatural “meddling” that goes on. I mean, you never really think of “God’s fingerprints” except as in a child’s song, but seriously this time, guys--this time it took my breath away. It was enough for me to feel so taken care of. I also feel totally guilty and violently ambivalent regarding several Issues . . . but how my heart is moved to feel tonight! How do I express this? Maybe I should be sticking to more mundane things:)

The feline to whom I pay homage is now experimentally curling on my new grey sweatshirt (generic-looking but my mother has this odd knack for buying things that will last forever and fit just the way you want them to). She (the cat, not my mother) has eaten the daisy from out of my little juice-glass vase and was looking quite smug about the whole business when I dragged myself up the stairs to my room.

Speaking of stairs, what color do bruises typically turn after they have been a deep grapley purple? I have two beautifully elliptic ones from slipping on our stairs the other day.

Two of my Christmas gifts--both from my parents--were cds. One of them is of Luciano Pavorotti singing love songs in Italian. The Small Furry ones present laid back their ears when he began to declare “ti adOOOOOOOOROOOO!!” I venture to imagine that this cd will not become one of those I sing along to. The other cd will get me in more trouble, I think; it has some singable songs on it:)

Tomorrow I’m going to doctor my seriously chapped lips with lip balm and calm my frizzled nerve-ends with a cup of tea. I shall sleep late and wake up warm . . .

merry christmas, all:) warmest hopes for a need-fulfilling resty time from the ordinary days we all endure . . . may you sleep deeply and remember only pleasant dreams upon awakening.

“From noise of Scare-fires rest ye free,
From Murders Benedicite.
From all mischances, they may fright
Your pleasing slumbers in the night:
Mercie secure ye all, and keep
The Goblins from ye, while ye sleep.”
--r. herrick

farewell for the present

antipodes — 2003-12-26T05:12:00-05:00

I’m taking a trip to Someplace that seems to be Far Away. I shall be gone for some time, away from this writing outlet, and I shall miss it . . . But it will be an exercise in journaling again:) Most of my entries there of late have been somewhat of a certain mindset that isn’t written here--and likewise you don’t see that part of me. So future great-grand-nieces will read my journals and find my moods to be drastically changed because of this odd thing called a “blog” that I should be keeping records of. Those of you that pray for travelers, I’d be grateful for a moment if you can spare one:)

The new Jars of Clay cd I got from my parents is excellent--I wanted to share one of my favorite songs from it, but my computer isn’t loading the official site . . . so I’ll just post the lyrics.

“only alive”

I'm a fair weather friend
I'm a colorless view but I'm willin' to make a deal
If you think you can make some faith here inside
I'll drive off and marry you

I'm only alive with you
I can't get by and I won't get through
So put me in the river and let me say I do
I'm only alive with you

You're a sight for sore eyes and a newborn cry
In a year where there are so few
If you throw me a line, I'll show you in time
I'm fallin' in love with you

I'm only alive with you
I can't get by and I won't get through
So put me in the river and let me say I do
I'm only alive with you

Though my heart has been torn by loves I have worn
And I'm tempted by them ever still
I tremble inside when you walk in the room
You hold my affections and will

I'm only alive with you
I can't get by and I won't get through
So put me in the river and let me say I do
I'm only alive with you

have a happy new year:)

introverting

antipodes — 2003-12-30T07:12:00-05:00

Walking thru Firenze, Venezia, Pisa, and countless little villages, I can feel myself want more and more to become something Very Solitary. I've had some odd thoughts lately too, old thoughts coming back. I have a recurrent nightmare that made it's appearance more than once in the past few nights, after I thought it had gone completely from my head after it was gone for at least two years. Haven't woken up to a fright like that in a long time:)

I've heard Montresor's voice in Venezia, echoing off of wet stone. Fortunato grins and leers and finally screams quite soberly from a number of store windows . . . Venice is no place to be claustrophobic.

I've thought about becoming a writer, a nun, committing suicide, moving to England, going to school in Oregon, getting married (scariest of all). Nightmares haunt me, rain surrounds me, and my feet are wet. My nose is still cold, in case you were wondering.

And I ate a vegetarian sandwich at an autogrill. Yum.

I thought I wouldn't be posting, I really did . . . but libraries are infinitely more friendly than grocery stores. I am sorry to confess it, but they are. True to my word, tho, I have written pages in my paper-and-leather journal. aye-aye. ok.

time to go, now. I will sleep in a hotel room, tonight. And I miss my friends. I do, even tho I have become a little more shriveled into myself. My soul feels a little more confined to my physical parameters. What an odd thing to say:)

Ok, well, I'll post about Pisa or something when I get back home. Home:) There, I said it where everyone can see it.

*hums something in minor key*

panama

antipodes — 2004-01-04T08:01:00-05:00

I am home again, among familiar things. The cat to which I owe my services greeted me condescendingly at the door and allowed herself to be comforted by shedding as much hair as she could manage onto my sweater. Maliciously grinning in the light from the hallway lamps, the staircase awaited me coiled and ready to spring: in a fit of affection it let me pass unhindered. Going outside for a second armload of mathoms, I was greeted by our butler--a small, squat fellow with shortcropped gold hair and bright brown eyes named Tony. He was speechlessly blithering something about puppies when I left him to carry in a flock of captive waterbottles.

I have so much to write about! Not that I'm normally short of material, but . . . to give you a good idea of it, I fleshed out a third of my paper-and-leather journal this last week--the last half of which has taken me since late ottobre of last year to muddle through . . . so many things have I seen . . . I need a hot chocolate. Erm. Maybe I will make myself a pot of the vanilla-almond tea that was gifted to me for Christmas.

And I didn't think I would miss my study routine but the whole idea of staying home for another few weeks is making me uncomfortable. Until tomorrow, when my conscience will find me napping in front of the fireplace with Nora murmuring in her chair next to me. But then, I miss my friends. I should like very much to take them all to Fellini's and drink milchkaffee and sit and talk for hours. What a very odd thing for such an introvert, to miss so many people.

I am amused. So is Nora.

nostalgia . . .

antipodes — 2004-01-05T09:01:00-05:00

here I am, back at the lab, in a fit of nostalgia. The Great Vespa was most benevolent and happily whirring away his ditty about Christmas being over (finally) . . .

I have a stack of books, beautiful books, to work through for a class that starts this month--Dickens, Melville, Emerson, Conrad, Hawthorne, and a host of others are clearing their throats and shuffling their notes, waiting for me and my cappuccino-conducter's-wand to begin the show. woot woot woot! I love new books. They are like drugs. Like . . . *muses for a moment* caffeine! The long wait in the Cave of Registration was totally worth it to find my little mound of djinn-books. major woot!

so, my friends are done spelunking in the Cave of Registration (those that walked with me anyway) and now we are enjoying the Harry-Potter-Christmas-Holiday-ish feeling checking out our new books. J.K. Rowling did quite an excellent job of describing the before-school-anticipation and the post-Christmasness feelings. But, I digress.

I am ready to go hide in the movie theatre and nap during a movie, and then go home and make a pot of tea and cackle over my pile of treasure, because in another two weeks they will be curses and filthy little trashy novels, if I know my mood swing patterns . . .

*hums the 1812 overture*

and--woot!--i get to see a good peppering of my friends today. I am ent-- . . . Some beanified punk acoupla computers down keeps yabbering on about neutering people with toenails. Does he mean toenails as a tool or toenails as a criterion? Nevermind: I don't wanna know. *blinks intelligently and returns to more cheerful subjects* . . . What was I going to say? It's gone now. Drat him and his be-plaid-ed companion.

*mumblegrumblefrickamutterchuckle*

now, to surf the blogs until People get off for lunch hour . . . I'm so glad to be back.

time at home

antipodes — 2004-01-06T07:01:00-05:00

What a different feeling I have today than when I had my studying binges or my adrenaline rush for final exams, or even the sudden and utterly complete mental chaos of the first week of hols. A respite like this feels so strange, not like weekends--eyes of seven-day storms--but like . . . humm. I don't really feel like reaching for a metaphor for that one.

Attired in raggy jeans and one of my father's worn out shirts, I sternly reapply several escapist hairpins and . . . I hear an ever-familiar voice call me for supper. Strange, isn't it, how those voices I have heard all my life? Some people don't grow up with that one sameness--"Mom" doesn't have one voice, or maybe the entity that they attach to the concept of "mother" is voiceless and nameless and near-imaginary. Knowing what it is like to have that familiar a voice makes me deeply, deeply regret the pieces of human nature that let some people not have mothers . . . also makes me reconsider the ethics of enforced sterilisation:P But seriously, I want you to know what it is like to have that contented feeling I have when I hear the voices of my parents . . . Granted, not when they're annoyed (at me) or being particularly human:) but you know what I mean.

And that rambly bit has cost me an annoyed call, because she really was calling me for dinner . . .

*hightails it downstairs*

Our Intrepid Hero ahemcough

antipodes — 2004-01-08T01:01:00-05:00

oh, my beautiful entries! They keep getting eaten. Well, my fault really . . . I'm one of those silly people who close out of all extraneous windows obsessively, but sometimes I get a little click-happy and close the wrong windows. *nervous laugh*

Our Intrepid Hero has every reason to be in a state of readiness to accomplish daring deeds and make the world a better place by tomorrow at teatime. She woke up this morning. woot! She courageously hopped (can one hop with courage?) out of bed and shrewdly chose a pair of socks in which to face the marble staircases that lay in wait for just outside the bedroom door. Across the landing, the remarkable Toothbrush and Hairbrush sang choruses of gargling nonsense for two and a half minutes each. Nonchalantly (or was it lazily?) she made her way downstairs for a lukewarm cup of tea and, not willing to face the cold of the afternoon in a chilly solitude, stoked and poked the fire salamanders in the living room fireplace so that they would mutter for another hour. Then she went back upstairs and hen-pecked at her keyboard until her feline henchmen tittered their amusement audibly.

And then she sat at her keyboard, gazing blankly at the accompanying monitor. She did this for a little while longer, trying to see whether there was one of those "magic-eye" pictures hidden in the pixels. Her dressing gown began to feel an inadequate warmth-keeper. She shivered. In six graceful moves that tilted a picture frame, touched the head of henchman no.1, and stubbed her toe, a sweatshirt appeared over the head of our Hero and the world was right again. Everyone exhaled with relief.

As we can all tell, I'm feeling brilliantly inspired this morning.

I can't wait until classes begin again. By then, my living quarters (mental as well) will be somewhat less chaotic and easier to think in. I love being able to sit down to a (somewhat) clear table with a cup of something yummy, warm socks, and my favorite armchair. The feel of mechanical pencils and fountain pens, sound of beethoven whistling, breathing the light air of my room when the windows are wide open . . . the least I could do is have all that ready by the time the term begins. And now this entry is rambly and long and ready to be quit of. Besides, I want my cafe' latte . . .

woot! ROTK on friday:)

lach en annûn!!

antipodes — 2004-01-09T05:01:00-05:00

thanks to brian, Hero of The Hour, I just saw "The Return of the King" for the first time. I have a lot to say about it, the most prominent of which is "WOOT!" and the rest can wait till later. I'm going to see it again next Friday. And I bought the soundtrack too, and am listening to it presently.

And I've just realised that my time would be much better spent reading the books over again, and drooling. Yummy, soggy books.

side note--I'm glad in the movie they preserved the feeling that Aragorn deserved that kiss from Arwen, sheesh I remember reading in the books . . . after waiting forty years, I mean . . . and Sam was so much like Samwise (except that he never beat Gollum, to my memory) . . .

white boards and stackable chairs

antipodes — 2004-01-10T01:01:00-05:00

White boards and stackable chairs are essentials for every business meeting, workshop, or conference. If it can be managed, please bring a non-spillable coffee cup that can be (a) with a design from an insurance company that is faded beyond recognition (company and/or design) or (b) a stainless steel mug with a Starbucks, Peet's, or Eddie Bauer logo in black rubber. Speakers are to wear either very comfortable shoes, or stilettos (the latter only applies to women--men may opt for blue socks instead of black or vice versa). The air is to be kept cold and stuffy. The hallways are to be tiled, not vinyl, stone, or any carpet but that matted-hair-bur-bur sort of stuff that attracts massive amounts of chewing gum and white hard-candy wrappers (also pocket lint). Khaki pants are the basis for our outfit of choice, and if you can secure a briefcase--by all means!! If your budget allows you a laptop, then yes, bring it. The more confusing electronic devices that can beep while a speaker is presenting, the better.

Now, I didn't really just go through one of those meetings, but the setting just made me think of it. Oh, that's another thing--we didn;t have any potted plants. Potted Fyccus, if at all possible. Ferns are too dentist-office-y. No, you see, my conference is one that is for families. Therefore we had not only mothers with season-appropriate earrings, but also fathers wielding coloring books! Oh yes! One of the fathers went against the grain, though, and allowed his son to create a triptyche of Junior Asparagus stickers on his forehead. This I found to be particularly distracting.

The conference is centered on Families. No, this was not a hokey crosswaffle "family workshop" . . . it really does teach manipu--I mean communication and respect . . . which I find to be particularly desirable, especially for those families that attend Denny's Anonymous meetings weekly (mine never had any problems, of course). But sometimes the makers of the charts, graphs, and other propaganda get a little overboard in their attempts at efficiency. Graphs have more than two lines of thought on them, charts are double sided, and cards are laminated. Example:

The first of their charts for the family thingamabob is labeled something to the effect of "Family Foundations". The chart is clear, concise, and well-put-together except for one thing. The introductory chart is double sided, laminated, and the tops of all of them are connected by two metal rings (like the ones in three-ring binders only huge). So, when you flip on chart, the opposite side of the chart before that one can still be seen on the rim of the easel. On top of "Family Foundations" lay in large black print "Sex, Drugs, and You".

*sigh* I'm sorry . . . *laughs*

And now I have five minutes exactly to skedaddle upstairs and re-enter the cold, stuffy air of the conference room. Four minutes. Since I'm a facilimatator I should prolly be there. Erm.

*skedaddles*

if you give an N a pencil, she'll get distracted.

antipodes — 2004-01-11T10:01:00-05:00

Dumb subject lines. I even have things to blog about and they mock me. But anyway. I did have things to write about, I did--I had a full plethora of smells and tastes and sounds and thoughts that I wanted to hum about but then I got distracted. First, I gazed blankly into space for the inspiration due to the subject line, as I often do, but I accidentally focused on my old flower press.

I got it for Christmas one year from my father's parents. We sat opening presents in their living room with approximately thirteen other cousins as I tore the tape from the shiny wrapping paper. A picture of small faery-children dancing on the top of the wooden frame was the first thing I saw, and then the bright red bolts that held the papers inside.

When we lived on the East Coast, I used to press flowers to put in letters to my friends. A few of my sketchbook pages (the one with the purple cover) have pressed leaves and flowers in them. Before we left for the West Coast, I took leaves from my favorite plants in our garden--the rosemary had tiny violet flowers on it then, and I took a small dark rose from the trellis on the side of the house. Leaves of mint and thyme frame some of my journal entries from that time . . .

I took leaves from my favorite Reading Trees. Some of the trees along our walking path to the park grew flowers in the Spring--I used to tuck sprigs of them into my best friend's thick, beautiful braid . . . I took flowers from that tree and put them in my press.

The flower press is dusty now . . . I must begin to use it again--it doesn't only preserve plants, it preserves memories . . . but anyway, I was saying. I got distracted. And then the cat jumped in my lap.

Or, I shouldn't say "the cat" because we really have two (that are each, in their own ways, very fine). Elanor is the one that jumped in my lap, my plump and adorable one. Ramone the Cosmic Bisqit is most of the time too boyish to sit still for very long. So, anyway, I was petting Nora and listening to her purr and thinking about how I should sit and read for a couple of hours tomorrow because I have a lot of reading to get done, and Charles Dickens does take a little while to sink into, even if you have read his stuff before or enjoy his style or both (which I have). And then I realised that I should pick up Emerson's essays too, and the bits of Blake's poetry that are assigned. Then--I should really get on the ball using my organiser. It is already half way through January and I haven't written in it, like I meant to before Christmas. Well . . .

And, like I said, I was getting distracted . . .

I suppose this day''s entry will have to wait until tomorrow:)

*hums*

"I like deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by."
--d. adams

overcastness

antipodes — 2004-01-13T02:01:00-05:00

afternoon

I love my life. I can go trip down our marble staircase in my blue rag socks, cords, and a tshirt, hair flying with or without hairpins, and make it into the kitchen turning on the toe of my bluest, fuzziest, stripiest slippers. Returning the milk to the refridgerator and kicking the door shut are automatic now . . . pouring myself some espresso on top of the milk, blankly staring at the window for a second, then humming my way back upstairs to read.

My shutters are open, but the windows themselves are closed, so I can see the overcast sky and the odd light playing on my balcony, but it is still shut out of my cozy room. I love overcast mornings. Even when I have to drive through a drizzly sort of fog to get anywhere. The pavement seems wet and dark and earthlike, and the sky seems to be an entity of itself. Trees are blurred with the wind and speed of my traveling eyes, but their thousands of shades of greens don’t go unnoticed.

Time to turn on the Dave Brubeck Quartet, time to put a sweatshirt on because the afternoon is getting a little cold and I’ve done my messy chores for today. And I’m going to take that walk later this evening. Gotta walk for a minute, breathe some different air.

So, that’s where I am today:)

p.s. on a more sulky note, I miss my friends that I have pocketed in different parts of the world. this is very selfish of me because I know they’re having perfectly splendid times doing what they love, but I miss them all the same. “I am youth, hear me whine!”

evening

pruny fingered once more, whistling to Dave Brubeck . . . got a good bit of "A Tale of Two Cities" read, thankfully, and realised how much I liked Charles Dickens. I forgot how much I love to read his stuff:) So windy and rambly and out there somewhere . . . utterly a romantic . . . got a lot of work done today too, which was nice.

Most all of the woodpile is in boxes in the garage now, and some of it is burning merrily . . . kitchen is clean . . . my room is swept . . . my organiser is begun . . . and I'm sure all of that is just fascinating to all of you, seeing my count on my fingers the mundane doings of my physical life . . . go back and reread the bit about Dickens.

So, yes, now I need a cup of tea. Yes, I think tea is in order. SOMEBODY MAKE ME SOME TEA!!!!!

My room will soon be a haven for studying. My armchair will be cleared of the things that come out of my pocketses when I get home, the trunk at the end of my bed will be stacked with books, my computer desk will stay clean, and my little table will be scattered with undusty bits of paper and ink and random pens. My book stands will be full of books that I'm actually reading and not just gazing at fondly as I pass them. My bed will be made up so that I can lean against the pillows at the top end and catch the light that comes through the window in the afternoons. *hums about studying*

When the weather gets a little warmer I can drag a quilt out onto my balcony and sit and read on my little bench with a cup of tea or a cafe' latte or something . . . maybe I can finagle to get a sister or other unsuspecting family member to come by every now and then . . .

go to sleep. that was a long entry.

*yawns*

"The sun shone and the clock ticked."

antipodes — 2004-01-14T01:01:00-05:00

The natural curiosity of humanity allows me to entertain the idea of practising my climbing abilities on the partition between my balcony and my neighbors'. Their toddler has been steadily crying all this morning. I can hear his crying broken or altered by the way his mother holds him; sometimes his voice wavers when she pats his back or when she walks quickly across the room. I can tell when she leaves the room by a particularly loud screaming sort of sob, and a wilting relieved sighing noise when she re-enters. Poor thing(s)! The Little One must be sick.

Seeing as I have a stuffily inclined nose and am drinking tea for more than comfort and taste, I can see where he might be in a similar predicament; only, suited to age and temperament, I am not curled up in the arms of my protector with my hair in a mussy tangle, crying loudly and helplessly. I sit in the comfort of an outwardly placid composure, accompanied by a large mug of tea, typing away superior and condescending sentiments about the helpless infant on the other side of my bedroom wall.

I wonder what it is like to be a house-wife . . . I wonder what it is like to be anything but who I am! Gah. If I can keep my mind on one track wondering, then I can think the thought through thoroughly (alliteration intended), but when there are so many options my mind just kind of shorts out and whimpers at me.

Who was it said that Dickens was an INFP? After finishing the first book in "A Tale of Two Cities" I heartily agree with you. To untangle myself from the little pity-inducing bleeding-heart-vines, I ate meat for lunch and read "The Battle of the Pelennor Fields".

I wish I could have heard Tolkien read that bit aloud--he was such a moving speaker and even with Rob Inglis reading it (no offense to him, of course--if anything, deference) I just get thrills down my spine thinking of Eowyn's laugh, Eomer's stricken fury, the unfurling of Arwen's gift with the return of the heir of Elendil. *sigh* Pitiful, I know, but everything I've ever wanted in a good story is in Tolkien's histories . . .

Curiouser and curiouser.

antipodes — 2004-01-15T06:01:00-05:00

Not to be redundant, but I've had the oddest experiences today. I was nauseated and dizzy and belabored with a carsick headache when riding in shotgun on a level road. I was asked for advice by someone thrice my age and education and felt as if I knew exactly what to say. I ate something at the old Hamishaunt Place (that in itself is an oddity). But for the appearance of Sir Hamish himself in a brief epilogue of my journey, I saw none of my habitual companions. And, last but certainly not the least of these startling events: I was witness and accomplice in the extroverted moment of a practically invisible member of staff at an Office of Perpetual Responsibility, who consequently played the eight minute version of Don McLean's "American Pie" at twice it's socially-appropriate level (and sang with a not-unpleasant voice).

To repeat the sentiments earlier professed; curiouser and curiouser! But I am so tired that anything I say now will be anticlimactic to my Day.

Miss Manette is getting on my nerves, as is Charles Darnay and Mr. Lorry. Mr. Lorry in particular, reminds me of Mr. Bumble. "Business, business!" To Halifax with it.

The dear Mr. Carton, of whom we should all be so fond, has done himself the credit to be witty, observant, and too fond of cowardice. People who get drunk because they have an unrequited love don't deserve it . . . yes, that sounds quite harsh, but who ever showed they loved a person by getting drunk for them? Love should inspire you to be a better person than you are. Carton has just been dubbed annoying. I know he redeems himself in the end, but I hope he doesn't continue in the same vein he now all through the rest of the book because presently he is just the sort of person to write a teen-angst-daily-event blog. I should like to sic Mssr. SnaPpy on him.

There, now it is quite all out:) I should now go read Emerson's essay on Self-Reliance and calm myself down. The library, though freezing, affords an upstairs half-room with leather couches that make particularly nice napping-spots (if you can stop shivering).

Has anyone else read "A Tale of Two Cities"? What were your impressions?

*hums to herself*

bigelow tea bags

antipodes — 2004-01-16T11:01:00-05:00

This morning I watched someone, deliberately and with visible concentration, pour applesauce from one of those little plastic containers onto the steering wheel of his car while he was driving. I'm sorry to burden you with that piece of information but it is an image that through a wearying day has still dominated the spoonful of grey matter set aside for "bloggable things".

And, I'm finally beginning to think more about "A Tale of Two Cities". That is, I've made friends with the book itself. What I really want to do is to read "Pickwick" though, and be entertained. Why is it that I always want to be entertained?! Dash it all! I should read a good five pages of Byron for penance. But! I am a coward, so I'll settle for Robert Frost who, by pure coincidence, is immensely entertaining:)

I look forward, tomorrow, to traipsing to and fro upon the earth with one of my favorite pairs of purple socks. Not solely, of course:) but somehow the promise of purple socks makes the day look just a tad less terrifying.

And I leave you with a short poem. I first had this up in magnetic poetry on our poetry board downstairs, but I'm afraid it might disappear soon, so I'm recording it here. It is about the nature of Death (all you who plan on referencing Terry Pratchett I beg have mercy:) and it is from a definitely Christian perspective. (Speaking of, I will get back to that debate, after the weekend is over.) And it is shorter than my comment on it. Here goes:

"If never a son was in the sky,
Then nothing could nature sanctify.
Through night we breathe a heavenly doom
As from earth emerge vine and bloom."

--r.m. (use only with permission of the author, etc.)

rhinocerous jackets

antipodes — 2004-01-17T12:01:00-05:00

Everybody is typing clack-click-clack around me. It is raining outside, and the air is a grey color that is only emphasised by the white-dirty walls in the building I've been spending hours in. Yes, I love rain. But the color of my eyes and the color of the rain is the color of my mood, right now . . . I prolly shouldn't be blogging. I may just delete this post. This blog is cheerful enough to kill a rhinocerous! There, a silly comment. Maybe I'll work my way into a better mood:)

I can feel the muscles in my back aching because of the tension I've been feeling from the people I've been working with. What is it with me, anyway? I seem to be one of the people whose state of mind directly affects their physical states. If I get nervous enough I faint. If I get angry enough, I can't hear . . . usually just in the forms of aches in various places or my hands shaking. It is utterly inconvenient. *whine*

Ok, let's think for a minute. There will be a few more hours of this, and then we go home for the afternoon. If it is raining at home, how about I open my shutters in my bedroom so I can see the rain. Make myself some caffe' or tea. Take off my shoes, wash my face, put on slippers. Curl up in the Ugly Red Armchair and breathe for a few minutes. Then turn on "Adagio for Strings" by Samuel Barber. Focus on small, sensory things. And then pick up my journal and write a sigh to end all whines. Yes! Cringe! It sounds awful. I certainly haven't written myself into a good mood, now, but *shrug*

I'm out of time for lunch break. Yop, this entry is going to be deleted when I get home. Read it now, exclusive entry!

*retreats into green hood of sweatshirt and runs up to catch a bite of lunch*

P.S. several hours later; I'm not going to delete it, I changed my mind . . . *sigh*

L., E., & F.!

antipodes — 2004-01-18T08:01:00-05:00

Few people realise that the translation from the French that we all commonly know as "Let them eat cake!", the famous line from Marie Antoinette, actually translates as "Let them eat leftover pizza!"

If you can figure out the title then I'll buy you a caffe' or a hot chocolate or a pear juice.

*looks around*

I have nothing else to say tonight.

sniveling:)

antipodes — 2004-01-19T11:01:00-05:00

I am perhaps a little too eager to see school start up again. My blog seems to become increasingly more boring as I have more free time. Why is it writers always like to have those odd vacation-type things where they will "finally" be able to write? I don't see how it works, because I always have an easier time of writing when I have other, more pressing things to do.

Erm.

Let me rephrase that: I write more and better when I shouldn't be.

As of now, I've begun a thousand entries for this update and can't choose or elaborate on one of them. And I started the next sentence after that one a thousand times before I just gave up and wrote this one.

So, imagine me sitting at my computer sniveling into my mindsay account and wishing desperately for a set routine of familiarity. An odd thing to be wishing for, I know, but I need it right now.

I shouldn't listen to trance, it feels like a thousand voices shouting at once, like a long, intense battle cry. But I'm only on the winning side for the first thirty seconds. After that it turns into a chilling, beating sort of chant that penetrates . . . *exhales*

nvm.

haiging

antipodes — 2004-01-20T11:01:00-05:00

Occasionally, I like to flip through a catalogue or two and hum a little bit at the things advertised. Mostly the things I ogle at are books and fountain pens and little gadgets that cater to different study habits. You may not think there are many different obsessive ways people can study, but I own a set of highlighting pencils, two book stands, a pair of amiable fountain pens, a leather portfolio-like-folder, and little paper-thin copper page-holders that fit right over your page so you don't have to dog-ear them or lose post-it notes.

But I digress. Or, rather, I was going to digress onto a different point, but I am semi-mental and sentimental about studying. So, scrolling up . . . In a Bas Bleu catalogue (http://www.basbleu.com), I read a blurb from one of the books, about "birding". Not in the sense of "giving someone the --" but in the sense of "admiring, identifying, arguing about, or even just noticing" the little flying squeaky things that inhabit our celestial ethers. Interesting concept in itself, because it means that I book.

In my experience, I've heard several unorthodox ways of identifying birds. One, nestled in the aforementioned blurb, is made up of two classifications: "duck" and "non-duck". This system is of the ultimate practical ability and I applaud it but for the fact that I like to think I can differentiate between an emu and a penguin. In a dark alley it is perfectly possible to distinguish a duck from a penguin, but maybe this is not so between an emu and a penguin. At any rate, I still think the system valuable.

Another system, used by one of my Environmental Studies lecturers, is the same as Mary Poppins' (or so she claimed): all birds are nondiscriminatingly referred to as "sparrers". Admirable in the age of Political Correctness, I must say.

Walking up the stairs just now (put water on for tea), I wondered at Beethoven's "Andante Con Moto" having vocals. However, I think it is merely that the Little One next door has just been put down for his nap and is appealing the decision loudly.

*hums on this*

harbingers of the new term

antipodes — 2004-01-21T10:01:00-05:00

The past few awakenings from my nightly repose, I have been the recipient of a most foreboding tickly feeling in the back of my throat. This signifies that I am going to have a cold and/or a sore throat. My intake of tea has increased and use of sugar decreased. I have considered lemon in the tea, but it means that my tastebuds may not be completely happy with me. However, they may need to step to the wayside in deference to other more important functions such as breathing.

What a joyous thing it is to have a clean handkerchief! All of you who say it is unhygienic, buzz off. Tissues scratch and leave me a nice white moustache. Hankies are infinitely preferable to such battlescars. Besides, if you actually wash your laundry then there isn't much danger of catching the cold a thousand times over. Anyway, why am I justifying my use of hankies? Am I insecure about snot or phlegm? Well, my parents never humiliated me for using tissues or hankies.

But I did log onto a chat to extract sympathy from my friends who turned out to sympathise, put me in the corner, and then have a riveting discussion about snot bubbles. I refused to demonstrate, tho, as my cold is not so bad yet.

And now I need more tea, not to mention some PTSD counseling.

fond of quiet evenings?

antipodes — 2004-01-24T08:01:00-05:00

The recipe for success in an "evening out" I enjoy usually begins with the application of purple stockings to my small hobbit-feet. Also included is a hummable tune. The rest of it is pretty flexible, but it is a good idea to involve books some way or another. And coffee. Or tea.

But not loud music.

Why is it I seem to be the only one in my ellipse of amiable companions (as opposed to the conformist "circle of friends") that prefers a semi-quietness to the brash emotion of a loud band? Even if the band is really good . . . I'll go to a concert and enjoy being with my friends (that's what really makes the evening anyway), but I can never seem to bring myself to feel a natural affinity for the Eardrum Knockabouts. Can't quite figure out why.

*remains puzzled*

p.s. I've been having a lot of trouble visiting other people's blogs or posting my own updates due to the recent server problems. My brain is slowly filling up with things to write and my paper journals are once again bearing the brunt of my frantic must-write-this-or-something-down's . . . *sigh*

long hair

antipodes — 2004-01-25T11:01:00-05:00

I'm not quite sure what it is about long hair that makes people want to touch it all the time. Whether it is thick, thin, curly, wavy, straight, black, blonde, stripey-purple, layered, permed . . . doesn't matter. Some kind of magnetism (or maybe it is just static electricity) draws childlike hands to finger strands that wisped their way over a shoulder.

I used to go with a group that led a church service at a nursing home; we would sing a few requested songs and then read a few requested verses, and then we'd just go around and talk. Being one of the quiet ones, I tagged along behind one of the older more experienced people and would fetch and carry and feed and smile. They liked to see young people. My most vivid memory of that place was of one of the women there--we met her in her room because she was bedridden, and she had silvery-grey streaked hair and a husky voice and skin like dark chocolate. She talked more than the others, for which I was thankful, and she had bright eyes that were still very alive.

She beckoned me closer to her side until she could reach out an arm to touch me, and I thought she would pinch my cheek and tell me how sweet I was to come and visit a poor old woman (I'd had several of those already, followed by sonnets of praise for their own daughters) but instead she smiled and put her hand on the top of my head, let it run a comb through down to my shoulders. "There," she said, "there, now. Thank you, chil'." And then she gave me a half of a laugh and it was time to go.

Well, there you have a not-very-muchly published memory. I had forgotten about that woman. Yes, I am an ungrateful wretch. But here is someone to redeem me--the Small One who reminded me of that visit.

I was in an airport this evening waiting for the arrival of my mother. It is a Sunday, today, and I went to church this morning and spent the afternoon studying (Wordsworth is a breath of warm, clean air compared to clumsy-oaf-Byron). So, I was still in my sunday-dress, complete with uncomfortable shoes and a nice-jacket. My old raggy magic jean coat is beginning to embarrass my associates. But I digress. The point: I left my hair down.

We found my mother amidst a crowd of old men securing their scarves and young women in tight bleached jeans hugging and otherwise embracing alternate groups of young people . . . one person held a sign that had Russian characters on it. A small toddler ran between people, the little pom-pom on his hat bobbing like a chuckle across the room to the windows which, when you breathed on them, made a lovely drawing surface. Right. Back to my story.

My rebel companion and I relieved our mother of her luggage and began to make our way through the slowly swelling crowd, when I saw out of the corner of my eye, a little hand raised to touch me as I passed. My first thought was "beggars" and the next "thieves" (both of these for which I am unsure whether I should be shamed or not) . . . but it was just a Small Someone who was waiting with his mother (now scolding him) for another arrival. He'd reached up and let two or three fingers run though my hair. I assured his mother it was alright and tossed a smile at the Small One before swinging the suitcase behind me and tripping over the tile floor out to the parking lot.

I don't know why I wrote about my hair. I meant to write about more frightening things, like finding pictures of Britney Spears smuggled onto one's blog and the speechless threats that run through one's head afterwards, but they'll have to wait.

For all those who don't have a clue why I wrote about my hair, it is nothing special except that it is long. I can sit on it now, it is long enough to . . . it is a brown, nondescript color with a bit of red in it if I spend a day or two in the sun. I have only one curl, which is bobbing almost below my chin at present. I'm very proud of it. Right now I've coiled it into a messy bun and garnished it with hairpins. And now I will braid it like I always do before I go to sleep. Sleep . . .

I am glad mindsay is back again; I can't seem to quit writing. I used to just use coffee napkins and ruled paper from my schoolbooks, etc. but this is kind of convenient:) Ok . . . sweet dreams!

an oddly lovely day alone

antipodes — 2004-01-26T04:01:00-05:00

I have always wondered what kind of people actually took poetry audio-books and actually listened to them, and I found the answer in my own iTunes playlist. John Updike's "An Oddly Lovely Day Alone", Jimmy Santiago Baca's "I Am Offering You This Poem", and David Ignatow's "The World Is So Difficult To Give Up..." are on the top of the list (not counting Tolkien, of course).

And my first edition hardback of "The Dark Tower" (C.S. Lewis, ed. Walter Hooper) came yesterday! I carry it around the house with me as I work and beam fondly at it every few minutes.

And I've had an oddly lovely day alone today. The repetition, pattern, and rhythm of daily chores are somehow comforting. The feel of things, the smell of things, the way light reflects off of things as the sun sets . . . Very S of me, really. Mondays seem to do that to me, for some mysterious and unexplained reason.

My room is as predicted, ready for studying and muddling and humming over things, but as it is a Monday I'm not sure if I should be allowed to get anything done, really. Tomorrow I'll be up early and ready to take a liberty stand with my leather portfolio in one arm and a cappuccino (how does one spell that, anyway?) held high, marching decisively into the computer lab and getting a lot of Things done. But today, today, today I don't really want to be anywhere but where I am.

Shoddy Lands

antipodes — 2004-01-27T12:01:00-05:00

I feel like I've been a Weapon of Mass Disappointment over the last twenty-four hours and am sulking.

I was going to look up a bunch of poems (hang Byron!) and analyse them to death for the morning, but I arrived late at the lab although just in time to wave to one of my friends as the door closed on her for an eternal hour-long class. Hang the class, boil the lab, I wanted to talk to my friend!!

And my day began on duck feet anyway so I shouldn't be surprised, but I'm still frustrated. I woke up late, missed my morning of studying (I get my best work done in the morning), and then my dear sweet mother made me breakfast! I was humbled, and chewed carefully on one side in the back of my mouth since the new implants that the borg-orthodontist put in are becoming painful. Mommy also let me use her Special Thermos and gave me a hug and said it was good to be home. Yes, I used the word "mommy".

So I had a cup of vanilla-almond tea (a Christmas present from my parents) and read bits and pieces from "The Dark Tower" outside of the library. Feeling a little bit better but still in an entirely self-pitying mood, I entered the library. And here I am.

Now I realise I'm just tired.

I sat for a moment in silence after typing that last sentence and a person in a plastic jacket, plastic pants, and carrying two grocery bags has walked by at least three times. What an interesting, most infuriating sound. And then I totally cracked up because I was annoyed at the personified White Noise . . . Once I get a minute to step back and look at myself, I am infinitely amused.

Dude, I'd better start work. I'm getting Byron out of the way first, and maybe by the time I'm done searching through the vomit of previous critics my friend will be out of class and we can go have coffee. Or something.

a tugging at my heart

antipodes — 2004-01-28T12:01:00-05:00

"Ok, let's tackle this:)" That's the first thought that ran through my mind when I wrote the subject line. I hate that accusing, reprimanding, superior subject heading--it objects to tangents unless given a vague, broad heading like "trees" or "tomorrow", under which anything is a metaphor or a simile (or like one anyway).

A tugging at my heart. First thought that appears here is "instinct". If I feel this, it is like my emotions running away with my body and mind; like an interminably cold, sand-dredging wave that splashes over you and leaves you paralyzed in the water, momentarily helpless. Like a tree in a very strong wind, endure! And it will make you stronger . . . but it does try to break you, oh it tries to break you. But it will only torment you unless you give in to it.

Sometimes this instinct is helpful in allowing you to accomplish showing you care for someone, but other times it is simply inappropriate and immature. In the perfect moment, you can harness it to a greater good and use it's wildness as a communicative tool. That sounds odd, but take me at my word. I suppose you might compare it to harnessing wind in a sail--it can buffet and shake and shrive but if you have a sail and the wind is going in the direction you want to go, then you can harness it and fly over miles of wilderness in that you might otherwise have been lost and destitute . But use it wrongly and you may starve to death, be humiliated and tormented in the halls of your own memory. And be the instrument of letting your companions show how gracious they can be.

It is always a struggle to use--I have a wild creature inside of me that will not be tamed to the pleading of my mind . . .

And that entry sounds very very strange, but I'm going to let it lie while I go do dishes and stock the fireplace from the woodpile in our basement. And to those who remember this subject in a faraway conversation, I am rehashing it, so there.

*hums*

expression of Self

antipodes — 2004-01-29T04:01:00-05:00

Sometimes, for no apparent reason, my ability to express myself verbally plummets to the very embodiment of the word “dumb”. Absolutely ridiculous, I know. Ah! But there I go again, making fun of myself. Now, cut it out while the rest of me tries to work things out.

(There are always two sides of me that bandy words back and forth. One of them is always sarcastic and mocking the other one critically and sometimes—only sometimes—illogically. The other one is sympathetic and very gullible, but she can be sweet enough when she isn’t pouting.)

So where was I? Right. Well, I found exactly or almost what I am feeling in Shakespeare. Odd? Yes. Entirely. Brutus’ lines kept running through my head today (and walking through an empty house last night). There are only a few reasons why I would really like Shakespeare and one of them is because of his avid study of human nature. He doesn’t always portray it in the most flattering or innocent ways, but there are some pieces that are almost hidden in his plays that made me gasp at the accuracy of his judgement.

Cassius: Brutus, I do observe you now of late:
I have not from your eyes that gentleness
And show of love as I was wont to have:
You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand
Over your friend that loves you.

--Brutus:--Cassius,
Be not deceived: if I have veil'd my look,
I turn the trouble of my countenance
Merely upon myself. Vexed I am
Of late with passions of some difference,
Conceptions only proper to myself,
Which give some soil perhaps to my behaviors;
But let not therefore my good friends be grieved—
Among which number, Cassius, be you one—
Nor construe any further my neglect,
Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war,
Forgets the shows of love to other men.

Cassius: Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion;
By means whereof this breast of mine hath buried
Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations.
Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face?

Brutus: No, Cassius, for the eye sees not itself
But by reflection, by some other thing.

Cassius: 'Tis just:
And it is very much lamented, Brutus,
That you have no such mirrors as will turn
Your hidden worthiness into your eye,
That you might see your shadow. I have heard
Where many of the best respect in Rome,—
Except immortal Caesar!—speaking of Brutus,
And groaning underneath this age's yoke,
Have wish'd that noble Brutus had his eyes.

Brutus: Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius,
That you would have me seek into myself
For that which is not in me?

Cassius: Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear;
And since you know you cannot see yourself
So well as by reflection, I, your glass,
Will modestly discover to yourself
That of yourself which you yet know not of.

Of course, there is definitely more to the dialogue to that because Cassius’ and Brutus’ characters develop much more fully and take not entirely different ways. But that is a good picture of how I’m feeling.

To those who dislike poetry, I am sorry for you: ) But it was an incredible thing to be walking through my house last night trying not to scream and suddenly Brutus’ voice was in my ear, with lines so rhythm’d and exact that I felt he might as well have been standing behind me.

into the Common Language

antipodes — 2004-01-30T01:01:00-05:00

Sheesh:) The moment I mention Shakespeare everybody runs for cover. I've put it into informal speech. Have at.

Cassius: I wanted to let you know that I noticed you haven't seemed yourself lately. You haven't been as kind as you are usually--you're entire countenance is different and I feel like I can't do anything to get to the man I used to know.

Brutus: Oh, no--it isn't what you think. If I look angry, it is at myself. I've had some things to think seriously about recently and they've been really bothering me. I'm not willing to share them yet, but maybe they have made me seem a bit more thoughtful than I usually am. I don't want to give my friends the wrong impression (and you are one of my closest friends) but I have to think this stuff through. I may need to step back from things awhile but I just want you to know it isn't because of you--I just have to think.

Cassius: Then I was wrong. I've actually been thinking so much about you that I haven't been putting my own affairs to rights. But I wonder if you actually see yourself.

Brutus: Of course not, I've got a personal bias. How can a man see himself unless he has something to reflect his image onto?

Cassius: Yeah, you're right. But it really is a shame there isn't some kind of mirror in which you could see reflected what a good person you really are. A lot of people like you the best--the best save our king--and they speak well of you. A lot of people wish you would be more ambitious.

Brutus: I think you're looking for something in me--ambition--that I don't have.

Cassius: Listen: you know that mirror reflection we were talking about? Well let me tell you what I see, and I'll be like the mirror. I'll give you a clear unbiased reflection of yourself and believe me, you'll see things you never saw before.

for emily, whenever I may find her

antipodes — 2004-01-31T11:01:00-05:00

Simon and Garfunkel are the sweetest respite from Percy Bysse Shelley that I think can possibly be found. My entries for the next little while will, I predict, be full of naught but foof and fluff. Because that is what I have been stuffing my head with. Shelley can make a breathtaking spectacle of a mountain and a ravine, and Wordsworth makes a fabulous picture of Tintern Abbey. Keat''s Odes are beautiful if one understands the ssssymbolism (symbology, to Boondock fans:)

And, yawning, believe me when I tell you that that stuff is thirsty work. I long merely to finish the evening's class and walk to the Barnes and Noble down the street, humming up the escalator to the cafe' area and the armchair in the corner that is Mine. I want to crawl in and sit with a book in front of me, not necessarily reading, and just let that all sink in. I can't even remember the symbolism of Tintern Abbey even though we spent at least an hour on it.

I'm beginning to nod off now--I imagine not many people would stay up after that class to write amusing things in their weblogs, but then I'm weird. So, has anybody read anything by the poets mentioned and what was your first reaction? If you haven't, don't mention Ezra Pound or I will hurt you . . . : )

sleepyheaded in italy,

your faithful writer

"a traveler from an antique land"

antipodes — 2004-02-02T01:02:00-05:00

I spent yesterday in the company of a group of untimely idealist-poets, who had all the wrong ideals. Well, not all of my companions were of such an ungainly sort: ) Some of them were positively delightful epitomes of English majors, shrewdly human professors, young married women, and thinkful friends. Some of them may choose the join the idealist-poets in their pursuits but hopefully will have better minds.

Emerson, whom I could not seem to understand or agree with, was made a little more clear to me as well--"the American Romantic" is what they called him for a little while. But he did write some beautiful things that I definitely could say "amen" (or for the younger generation, "rock on") to; such as the following, which I address to you:

"Traveling is a fool's paradise. Our first journeys discover to us the indifference of places. At home I dream that at Naples, at Rome, I can be intoxicated with beauty, and lose my sadness. I pack my trunk, embrace my friends, embark on the sea, and at last wake up in Naples, and there beside me is the stern fact, the sad self, unrelenting, identical, that I fled from . . . My giant goes with me wherever I go." --r.w. emerson

Of course I cannot run away from myself or my entire past. They are, like my joyful addiction to coffee, always with me. Through inspirational or motivational books or lectures you have heard the same silly information about shucking baggage and coping with mistakes that I just deleted from this post. But doesn't he express it well? I liked the image that popped up in my head.

On a lighter note, melted cheddar cheese on an "everything" bagel is one of the best lunches ever, except a salad with craisins, roasted walnuts, and ranch dressing. Or an apple.

This entry seems so silly to what has been going on in my head the last few days and nights. But those thoughts aren't coherent yet. Now I'm on an expedition to Mont Blanc, and I have solved the puzzle that Shelley so mused upon, drat him.

*runs for panama hat and bamboo walking stick*

tintern abbey

antipodes — 2004-02-03T04:02:00-05:00

I have seriously blushed thrice in the last twelve hours; an insult, a compliment, and my patience dashing itself upon the leering rock of my short-temper when dealing with a Loud Professor (about whom I will say bad things if I don’t stop now with the single aforementioned adjective). My first caffeine fix today sits in front of me, or rather a little bit to the left since I’m facing the computer—and I usually have a café latte in the morning but here I am with a cappuccino after noon . . . !

I can’t help thinking that there must be some direct correlation, obscure is it may be at present.

My work-day was spent sapping enjoyment from the companionship of my friends and now I have nothing of scholarly substance done. Concentration hangs by a thread! Do not be worried about my blogging, though—I have to have some kind of writing activity to relieve these silly thoughts that scamper and caper rambunctiously through my mind. I suppose it is a little like letting an energetic child play hard until she is sleepy enough for the nap she is supposed to be taking.

I cannot wait until summer, when I can sit outside on my tiled balcony to read Dandelion Wine and The Martian Chronicles and feel the breeze tugging a little at my t-shirt. Iced tea and breathing deep of a warm, sweet air. I can almost smell clean laundry and the green scent of trees, not to mention the odor of fresh bread that seems to hover on the “right temperature” days. Wordsworth was right in that he said memories and dreams of happier places can sustain us in the business of metropolitan chaos.

Right, well, I think I can work now. GAH! The computer lab is closing due to another unexpected class . . . *sobs with head in arms*

update: ROFL! Proof of the all-pervading Sense of Humor has just manifested itself in the computer lab. Our Blessed Lab Technician, truly best be he, looked at his watch and shooed everyone out in a hurry--the computer was needed for a class at 4 p.m.! Everyone out! He is so sorry!

As my things were spread out over my desk, I scurried and hurried over my books and the thousands of windows I had open on my computer desktop. Just as I was about to close the whole operation down, BLT said "Whew! I was worried for a minute, but I guess people are late for their four o'clock class." What class, I asked. "Oh, it is an Italian class." Weird. I could picture my eyes narrowing. Who was the teacher? Mine own. I swallowed my impulsive Klingon war cry and asked in a Vulcan tone doesn't that class start at 5.30 p.m.? "Oh, does it?"

So, here I sit with the computer lab virtually (pun intended) to myself and no Loud Professor! WOOT! I haven't been so happy since . . . yesterday:)

TUH

antipodes — 2004-02-04T12:02:00-05:00

I must confess something here which will dismay my female readers and confirm the horrible suspicions of the male population. Yes! I am about to reveal why women stay in the bathroom so long. Well, I suppose I would get lynched if I covered the entire topic, some of which is so mysterious that even I, having been member of the female sex for quite some time, still do not fully comprehend. So I refuse to speak of the domestic sphere but will delicately touch on the matter of public restrooms.There are no distracting boxes of cosmetics, no particularly fascinating wallpapers, and not even those half-mat bathroom rugs that conspire to trip pitiable victims of human-ness. Entering into a public restroom, one can see nothing of eminence that suggests a temptation for the female population of the world to spend inordinate amounts of time within the small and usually smelly enclosed space.What our eyes typically skim over as we survey the modern grotto is the air-hand-dryers. These marvelous pieces of invention are the temptation of all who use them. Merely discarding hazardous materials such as scratchifying paper towels is not good enough for us. To those of us who have offices and cubicles, we know the air conditioned hallways of our workplaces can be formidable. To those of us who sometimes slink through freezing movie theatres with our naturally warm companions, we know the comfort of these life-giving hand-warmer-thingies.Now, what to say? I see you are all in shock. I have to leave you in this state, unfortunately because I have an online class that is screaming for attention. Maybe I’ll have time to brush up and give you all a debriefing later . . . *sigh*

eeeeOOOOOeeeeeO...

antipodes — 2004-02-05T10:02:00-05:00

the bespectacled duo
A SMALL OBSCURE PUBLICATION Two young women were apprehended this morning for attempting to commandeer a large king-size mattress from a semi-truck which was unloading a crate of them outside a nearby hotel.

They ran across the courtyard shouting gibberish like SUSHIIIIIIIII!! and JAAAAAAAAKE! and threatening to steal cars with a suspected felon they addressed as Marc. (That's just the kinda thing you did with Marc.)

They proceeded to a small mini-mart and were spotted for attempted shoplifting of laserdiscs. Unfortunately what they did not realise is that laserdiscs are not foldable nor can they fit inconscpicuously in one's back pocket.

Conspiratorily munching on a Skor bar and a York peppermint patty, respectively, they returned to their hide-out encumbered with the aforementioned mattress. To complete the epic saga of their journey, they dragged their loot upstairs to a well-respected *cough* office building and sang "For Emily, Whenever I May Find Her", a song later identified to be of the Simon and Garfunkel species.

What the events of this morning foretell or forbid is not yet known.

unpeopled reminiscience

antipodes — 2004-02-05T10:02:00-05:00

fade in

As stress builds up enough to give me a bad headache and a wet handkerchief, I try to find some familiar place to escape to for a while. I lean my elbows on my desk for a while, rubbing my temples and trying to think of a place I can go for some peace and quiet - our own busy house certainly wasn’t the place. Then it hits me: my garden.

I walk out the back door and close it carefully to stop it from slamming noisily. I button up my coat; it’s cold outside now. I decide to head down the steps from the deck to walk towards my garden bench. Right now, the garden looks awful. My younger sister and I had removed the soil from it earlier this fall because my plants had died of the damage a passing hurricane had caused; we still hadn’t found the time to put in the drain that we wanted to. I had salvaged a few plants which are now positioned around the bench in terra-cotta pots. All in all, my garden is pretty scraggly, but I suppose it is still my garden.

I sigh and pause in front of the bench. A few falling leaves land on the bench along with a cold blast of wind. I sit down on the bench and hug my arms tighter to my sides. The wind is stronger. I wiggle my toes inside my shoes - it’s freezing. I look up and I can see the cloudy sky between the gaps in the trellis where there should have been roses. I had had hopes of roses covering the trellis; last spring we planted them, and only two or three thorny tendrils had made their way up to the trellis; I had a total of five blooms all year long.

Next summer, I like to dream, will be better. My neck aches from looking up so long. I rub it with my left hand and I glance at the fountain. I’d been so excited when we put it in that summer. Now, in late November, there are a few scrawny water cabbages and lots of floating leaves almost covering the surface of the water. Every now and then a spontaneous spurt of water from the solar-powered fountain ripples the water as clouds pass the sun.

Right now, my garden would probably seem almost barren; a place of disappointments. Not in my mind - next spring it will be alive again. Right now it is quiet. Peaceful, even. It is a place of planted hopes, not shattered ones. Like bulbs you plant in the winter that bloom in the spring. Even after all my and my family’s work (and the hurricane’s), my garden doesn’t look like much. But, with time and faith, it will bloom again.

I check my watch and find out I’ve been in my garden for over an hour. My headaches is somewhat lessened, and my nose is very numb. I think I’ll go back inside.

fade out

I wrote that when I was fourteen years old:) alterego's post reminded me of it and so I dug it up and hummed over it--the other place I used to go was the library; they have in the back a small row of cubicle-desks that had huge wide tables and semi-comfortable chairs, and my favorite one was by a window . . . So. I know I'm copying. But I got nostalgic!

*hums*

obfuscational tendencies

antipodes — 2004-02-07T11:02:00-05:00

Everyone has days when they want to stay in bed all day. In my oh-so-very-humble-opinion it ought to be a rule on Saturdays. However, I find that due to mundane things like laundry and the Puritan work ethic of Herman Melville I am kept in a trance-like state that seems to happily coexist with a craving for plain black tea with lemon.

I don't know what happens precisely during this stage of the process; although I can satisfactorily clean house even to the point of switching out tablecloths, there is no way in Zimbabwell that I will be able to concentrate on "Billy Budd". Suspiciously I glance at my studious friend who seems to plow through the religious symbolism and nautical terminology with an unnatural ease even if he does count the pages (there are eighty-nine). Meanwhile, I spent my time in a more helpful way: I giggled inanely at the illustrations I'd made in the margins of my notes for last weekend's class.

Had my morning not begun on duck feet I would be more astonished at the tendency of my nose to wrinkle in distasteful observation of the world beyond it. But then, why should I be so oddly inclined to sarcasm? I was able to spend an hour or so with my father today. I had the honor of spending the entire day with a friend who always manages to make me smile. My mother came home after teaching all day and cooked an incredible meal for us. I got to see my younger sister smile by the light of the sun. Not to mention Will Farrell came for dinner. And dash it all--I have clean socks!!!

So I end my day feeling utterly useless but very taken-care-of.

*sigh*

consequences of a dream

antipodes — 2004-02-08T10:02:00-05:00

It is the oddest thing to wake up and remember only one thing, one solitary shade of one's dream. Also odd is to wake up and see it still night outside; I am used to the blue underwater twilight of early antemeridian hours and the invasively warm sun of the later hours.

Only a few moments after it happened did I realise my lips had traced an affectionate greeting to a figure now embarked impartially on another dream. Immediately my curiousity was shaken and defeated. Whom did I address? A child? A sister? A parent? A lover? My cat? How disturbing to think of such affection being given to a phantom, such endearment practised on a shadow.

Anyway. I need some more sleep and hopefully this silly sore throat will take a hike. No more ponderings for me tonight:)

blogging venice, part one

antipodes — 2004-02-09T08:02:00-05:00

The following is an excerpt from my journal. This isn't all I felt and thought, so take it with a grain of salt . . . : )

that night
laundry room of hotel

Alright:) More comfortable now--at least my writing surface doesn't move all that much as the train did.

So . . . Venice.

Cold, wet stone and bricked, walled passageways, lost British tourists.

Coldness, seeing my breath in the air, wishing I was alone. Odd, isn't it? I wondered when it would hit. The same feelings I've been trying to grow out of. I mean, I've been trying to grow out of the selfishness of the etiologies. The feelings themselves have naught wrong with them--t is the actions that I took based on fulfilling those wants. Needs? Wants?

All I wanted was to be solitary. I want, still want to be in solitude. To be quiet in a quiet place, to want so much an inner peace . . . to feel real by feeling silent. To feel claustrophobic! Venice is not the place for such feelings. I could nearly hear Fortunato's voice echoing through the streets: "For the love of God, Montresor!" and dying screams. What a strange city.

Walking to San Marco's Basilica was like walking into a cave; deep, dark, glittering with hidden things, presided over by a thousand High and dusty ghosts of empty people. Stern and orthodox. But the candles were warm. Suffocating marble, wet and colorful; like thousand-year-old mathematicians' secrets of alchemy flower-pressed into stone . . . Gold on the ceilings. So high, so tall. Saints must have to peer out of there to see small, distant souls. It felt very impersonal.

We chased pigeons outside, and decided that "the rain in Venice stays mainly on the terrace" was enough of a rhyme to satisfy Mr. Higgins, drat him. We also thought that the slushy-rain could be abbreviated to "slrain", but came to the conclusion that it all sounded a bit obscene.

Spent a lot of time walking on small wet stones on the pavement, feeling wet and cold and claustrophobic--saw markets and expensive restaurants, tourist shops, and a thousand glass beads.

Dad's heart was set on riding in a gondola. Can anybody tell me why? Don't answer that.

I had an odd premonition about the whole gondola thing--I didn't want to go. Not sure. No logical reason. I was persuaded to go, stomach-flipped every second. Got back fine, tho. I still don't like gondolas.

But I forgot to mention the gondoliers. Those who weren't calling out for people to take them out and earn lots of money, were on their cell phones. Gondoliers on cell phones--this was not something I added into my calculations, even with all the modern things I expected that didn't turn out to be present in Venezia:)

had a half of a gondola-race! Well, we tipped our guide 10€ if he could get ahead of the gondola right in front of us and he did! The guide of the other gondola looked at us oddly while Morgan pretended to paddle with her hands.

"What're you doing?!"

"Racing!" and a grin.

"Ok . . . "

"Ciao, Stefano!"

And we did tip him. Offered five more if he could pass a motor boat but he declined . . .

blogging venice, part two

antipodes — 2004-02-09T08:02:00-05:00

The following is from actual experience. My writing ability can't possibly match up to the actual experience of this tour; those who read this and have experienced it will know this. I'm leaving off a conclusion on this one until I can match it well. I hate conclusions. Anyway: Venice: )

We stepped onto the bus that took us down the canals through Venice to different stops, the most popular of which seemed to be San Marco's Plaza. Piazza. Whatever. Our tour guide pointed out sights to note as we passed . . . "Well, here we are in this cold . . . wet . . . miserable . . . sludge. Anyway, what a morning to be in Venice! Please do not gnaw on the railing of the bus . . .

Quick! Everybody to this side of the boat! That lovely young woman in the passing gondola is the Queen of Venice. Queen Roxy. Yes, her name is on her sweatshirt, as you can all see."

There on the wall we see a mural of Princess Alice, the Princess of, erm . . . Venice. Observe her pants--they are called high-waters. She made them popular for women's fashion in Venice during the early fifteen hundreds."

The bus came to a stop and our tour guide became restless. Frantically casting about, she seized on an old building across the waterway. "LOOK! There's a building! And it's OLD! See the pretty green triangle thing on the top? There's people in there. And it has stairs, too." This seemed to calm her down a little and we all breathed easier when the bus continued on.

"This is Venetian green sludge, growing on the sides of these buildings--yes?" We all glared at the fool who dared ask a question. A timid fellow, scratching his forehead with an uncapped ball-point pen, asked whether they ever cleaned it off the buildings. We all looked at him with utmost skepticism and waited for the tour guide to pronounce judgment. She judiciously rearranged her hand-knitted and stripey beanie and hemmed for a moment as if trying to remember something. "Yes . . . uhh, yes. Actually, they harvest it." Several people looked puzzled as the tourist squeaked a further comment. "When?" she looked at him with new interest, "Every August, I believe." We all clapped appreciatively.

Seagulls of various and sundry dispositions began to sing to us. Some of the tourists decided to sing back. Ever gracious, our guide integrated the odd noises into our tour. "And these are, ladies and gentlemen, genuine flightless Venetian seagulls. Oh wait, its flying. Does anyone have a cell phone . . . ?"

"It is glove day on Tuesdays, ladies and gentlemen. Feel free to pick up one of the free gloves that have been placed in the water for your enjoyment." We left several cackling tourists bobbling in the water of the canal for the free gloves.

Next she pointed out a signpost on the side of one of the buildings. As we passed it, an open space came into view, like a market or something. Our tour guide said that it was all a sacrificial ground for animals. Queen Roxy presided. However, the gory details would have to be saved for a more expensive tour. Shhhh in the back, please!

"Can everyone see the complete agony on the faces of those men on the walls? Their wives chopped off their heads and put them on poles. Why? They forgot to put down the toilet seat. Now you know why Venice is the way it is today." A few of the gentlemen near the back of the bus looked a little paler than was healthy for them.

"Notice, these lovely Venetian blinds on the windows. Yes, the panes are Venetian too, I'm sure of it. And the PACE flags. Does anyone know what "pace" means?" Yes, absolutely correct. It means "piece". As in: 'Do you want a piece of me, boy?'"

meanwhile, back at the lab

antipodes — 2004-02-10T01:02:00-05:00

Yes, back in my dragon's lair of thoughts and dreams . . . With every thought you take up, you become a little more like me. You ought to know this is the way dragons' lairs are.

Is the blurb gone on your friends' list? Good. Well, I'm confused again. Not that anyone else should be surprised. Every time I get an answer I come up with more questions! I know unanswered questions make up the entire human condition, but that is no excuse! My pithy form should have The Exception! Thankfully, you don't have to know everything about a person to love them.

I'm going to mumble this over in the library. If you have Answers, come and see me! (If you have more questions I will send you away without your toenails.) But if you have sympathy or caffeine you may offer them up and I will gracefully (HAHAHA!!!) accept them with all deference to the pilgrim.

Why is it that all Italian remedies for coughs or sore throats involve alcohol? Wine-soaked pears, brandy with honey, etc.? Most people would enjoy this, I suppose, but I'll stick to black tea with lemon, if you please. Good day to ye all.

sugar plum bibliographies

antipodes — 2004-02-11T12:02:00-05:00

At last I feel a little bit at peace; surrounded by books and holding the world before me in a clickity mechanical pencil and a new, clean pad of paper! All of the grody things that normally go on in my day are suddenly gone and I can focus in on one or two things. Libraries have a way of making one feel secure for a little while.

The research for my paper is pretty much done and consequently I am in a semi-lucid state of mind. I wonder if you can get high off of the smell of books. Bookdust. Hummm:)

I'm going to scare all of the children off of the second floor so I have a place to study.

update: I despair. Middle School is out and I shall have no peace. *sob*

cablouis

antipodes — 2004-02-12T08:02:00-05:00

There are several things in my life that I will just here and now admit that I will never understand. The most prominent in my thoughts, presently, is why the nearest grocery store (now that I am stuck in this area of town) does not open for another two hours.

"That's so stupid!" I exclaimed to my companion who, not recognizing that my large travel-mug (snap lid, dishwasher and microwave safe) was still half-full of coffee, asked me what I meant. He is so patient sometimes that it drives me nuts-o, but when I want to think something out loud he is a wonderful sounding board: if not for his affinity for what I would consider dubious shortcuts, a perfect driving companion. By asking me what I meant by my comment, I infer that he disagrees and thinks I am being over-reactive.

"Why is it stupid?" he asks.

"It is extremely inconvenient to me at the present moment." I grumbled my punctuation to this statement and looked despairingly at the half cup of precious liquid left in my travel microwave-dishwasher-safe snap-lidded mug.

"You're an introvert. You're not supposed to say things you don't mean." He gave me a look and one of my hairpins fell down the back of my shirt. Gah.

Interesting, tho. Sometimes we pay so much attention to words that the ratio of affect-to-language is skewed. I hate that because I do it too much and when I don't have the silly excuses of distraction it just shows me how thoughtless I can be. Enough introspection for this morning.

Well, if the grocery store has lentils and onions *sob* I will be making a large pot of lentil soup today for lunch (which is going to have to be all'una perche' the stuff takes an hour to cook and the only bus that leaves after the grocery store opens will get me to the kitchen at noon!). If it doesn't then I will have taken the late bus for nothing and I may as well die here and now--BLAM. That's right, sportsfans. Ka-blooie.

I got me a paper to write and a good twenty chapters of Melville to plow through. So, yeah, I'm prolly going to be kept a little out of mischief today:)

*hums*

evening falls . . .

antipodes — 2004-02-13T05:02:00-05:00

The image we have of the sun setting in the evening is so conditioned by the media. Have you ever actually stood at your window, in the parking lot, your backyard, and not merely make an observation and take a mental snapshot labeled "sunset", but I mean really watched the death of the day? It takes about twenty minutes of your time and a view of the western horizon.

I am goading my inspiration with a cattle prod to get this paper written, but I do have a good bit of it done. I wish it would rain. I think I could write better if it began to downpour outside, and the sky turned black and the rain looked silver-grey like steel . . . ach! Close the little green door of your imagination and go back to work, dear.

*hums*

I still wish it would rain.

light words

antipodes — 2004-02-14T09:02:00-05:00

Once again I am completely espirit d'escalier in my reactions to events and have no recourse but to write about them. Of course, I have a better writer than myself to say what I mean, but in a struggling effort to write to you from myself and not use Hawthorne's black veil I have bravely put my quote at the end of this entry.

I take things too seriously: what people say to me, the jokes I don't get, and small gestures of annoyance and affection that I think too hard about. "Oh, good," I hear from the peanut gallery, "She has finally looked in the mirror." Please, I see the irony, but bear with me:) I strive to be less sensitive, but at times the only way I know that you need something to comfort you, to love you, is because I sometimes see things with that sense. So, it is a tool I'm still learning how to use.

The opposite is also partly true--I shrug and laugh a little only to brush my hair from my face and find tears on yours. That laughter is my defense against the seriously finality of our humanity, it isn't mocking you. If anything, laughing lets me know that there's hope in all of the tomorrows that I've saved for you. These tears are bound to Time, and there won't be time or trouble where we're going (credit to Sydney Carton).

Yet I must apologize for my raised eyebrows, pursed lips, my unpractised affection. How am I to answer you?! I do love you, I promise. I just don't know what to do with it to show you in a way that doesn't compromise either of us or lessen your comfort to cry, to grieve, to be frustrated.

This letter is not to one person alone but to several, so don't anybody come out and ask me whether I've gone nutso:) Just know that these are things I struggle with, for you.

'But it is the way of my people to use light words at such times and say less than they mean. We fear to say too much.' --j.r.r. tolkien

smirking

antipodes — 2004-02-15T11:02:00-05:00

In the dawn of Time, a lot of novels used to be serialised for magazines--all of Charles Dickens', Lucy Maud Montgomery's, all used to come out as little pieces in a magazine. Their poor audiences had to sit raptly on pins and needles for something like a month to get the next installment of the story. Nowadays with our idea of instant gratification, oh the agony! The complete and utter misery! "A month?!" we say, "It may as well be forever!!" Well, maybe it isn't a "we" thing--maybe it is only a "me" thing--but who could wait five years for the next Harry Potter?

Somehow in this modern age I feel a certain smugness as I read "[end of installment 12]" in "A Tale of Two Cities" because contrary to the poor sighing masses of the earlier era, I have an antipodal way of readying myself for the closure to the cliffhanger. What do I do? All of you sit at your computers slackjawed and drooling with suspense, I know it.

Smugly and cackling with superior satisfastion, I turn the page. What a relief it is to have the whole volume of a book in one's hands . . .

:)

brahms

antipodes — 2004-02-16T10:02:00-05:00

Somehow, I seem to remember ages ago, dressed up in muslin and with shiny shoes, walking down a garden path behind my sisters and my mother. The dappled moist grass below the spacious breathing trees was illumined by a vibrant, verdant green light that skipped and laughed after twin shadows. I remember I was small enough that the hedges were too tall for me to see over but that the trees were not too tall for me to climb.

But there was no climbing trees that day--we trailed behind my mother, who wore a long flowered dress with a wide skirt that one could hide one's face in when anybody got too near, talked too loudly. She smelled like perfume that day, but I remember more the smells of the trees and the flowers of that garden. There was a paved walkway that was meant for meandering, and which let you wander by a duck pond. Nobody was feeding the ducks, though, and we had no bread.

Our fingernails were clean and our hair brushed back, my sisters and I all wore barretts in our hair. Mine was a brown tortoise-shell comb, but my hair was wispier then--and a lighter brown--and I was enjoying the breeze that walked towards us, I remember. I think it must have just rained; the leaves on the hedges had glossy bright leaves and the grass was so springy. To take my shoes off and wiggled my toes in the grass and listen to my sisters talk would have been second best to the dream I recall that was playing itself through my head.

Now when I look back, I think "How very solemn I was!" and I wonder if my eyes were so studious and dark as mother tells me they were.

Two drops of bergamot, five of rose oil, and then light a match beneath the oil burner. Handmade lotion with lavender and chamomile (did I ever tell you I made lotions?) and wash my face with rosewater. Quiet music plays in the background and Nora, my feline companion, sighs as she sleeps on the back of the armchair behind me. Study a chapter or a psalm for a few minutes. Read a chapter of one of my favorite books. Alright, maybe it was two chapters. Blow out the candles, turn off the music, listen to Nora protest when I turn out the last light.

Now, I'm feeling very old-fashioned:) Good night . . .

tues-day

antipodes — 2004-02-17T10:02:00-05:00

Back to blogging in the computer lab again! The dear Professor whom we all know and love, with a Verloc voice (only cheerful) is actually being quieter than he normally is while tutoring a student. BLT got new shoelaces today and so is ecstatically telling his pals as they filter in for generic-looking book boxes, as well as reading up on sleep apnea. We are all afraid that one of our fellow patrons is gone forever back to the world we forsook . . . Dork. He didn't even say good-bye. Research and reflection logs of my day are to be found in journals, web logs, remembered conversations, research notes and bibliographies, and the difference in place of my bookmarked pages. Also in the level of water in my water bottle.

A most traumatic thing happened to me today. A fly was buzzbizzing around my little styrofoam cup of latte macchiato (sp?) and it fell in. Dumbfounded, I watched the little fly swim laps around it's little pool while a part of my mind continued it's conversation with my compatriot on the other side of the table. And worst of all, my cup was full.

I'm going to go sob out my sorrows on the breast of "The Secret Agent" and he will make me so depressed that I may even get my Italian homework. Poor Joseph Conrad. I must agree with a friend of mine (who ate an apple turnover as a part of her lunch) who said that his novels tend to weigh one down, make one reflective but sorrowful. My comment, much less eloquent, was "Ugh. Depressing." But then I haven't finished the book yet.

Drowning my sorrows. Right.

miss watriss

antipodes — 2004-02-18T03:02:00-05:00

There is something sacred about the first opening of library doors in the morning. All of those books, just waiting for and watching you make you wonder whether the librarians don't incline their heads slightly towards the masses of dust-jacketed hardbacks before unlocking the doors. The children's book section is still quietly colorful and a thousand picture books muse introspectively before the children come in.

I love spending days at the library--information coiled and ready to spring at your fingertips--just touch a cover of a book! The smell of libraries is so delightful. Dusty and new and papery, we breathe it in like Perelandrian air, fresh and clean and renewing to the senses before we plunge into another world. My writing seems a bit full of other entries and cliches today.

Ray Bradbury's library of Green Town, Illinois, is what is going through my head--Miss Watriss who purple stamps the books, dusts from China is swept up through the corridors by a man most people will never know is a hero to stand up to the best of them. Under N for Nightshade? Or W for Will Halloway?

I think I shall have to come back after I get a good bit of this research done--does anybody have strong opinions about Christina Rossetti?

endurance and perseverance

antipodes — 2004-02-19T01:02:00-05:00

I'm being intolerable again (posting poetry) but I edited this one, just one line. Somehow it seems that in the spring, especially februarian mornings and evenings, I need a little more encouragement than a smile. Yesterday I spent all day in the library studying and I cannot wait for the weekend. (Oh, how I miss you, dear heart! I would give half my kingdom to share a pot of tea with you.) So aside from the ado of clearing throats and inclining heads:

"Now hollow fires burn out to black,
And lights are guttering low:
Square your shoulders, lift your pack,
[Take up your Cross] and go.

Oh never fear, man, nought's to dread,
Look not left or right:
In all the endless road you tread
There's nothing but the night."

--a.e. housman

forms of beauty

antipodes — 2004-02-20T06:02:00-05:00

I've been reading so many old poems lately, of hope and fear and love and death, that a sighing contemplative spirit seems to have settled on my back and shoulders like the quilt that I curl up in on my days at home. I have been lighting candles and looking out at the stars, not to mention forgetting to recharge my cell phone.

Thoughts spun like cobwebs form a cloak that weighs me down into absentmindedness. Wordsworth and his ideas about remembrance of these "forms of beauty" in "lonely rooms, and mid the din / Of towns and cities" recur to me.

Psht. Nobody normal will have read those poems:) In normal terms (hey! I hear some sighs of relief: stop that immediately!): I've got my head stuck in the clouds again. Oh well; I am really going to get a shock when I reread the first Peter Wimsey novel (my reward for finishing this class).

On The Discovery of a Sister

antipodes — 2004-02-21T11:02:00-05:00

*ahem*
O Thou that sleepest, curled so drowsily upon my bed twin-sizéd,
I prithee move before thy sleep becomes a deeper rest;
For I am also in deficit of what thou so lately needed
And haven't any qualms about the riddance of a guest
Who presently occupies the place where I like to rest my own head.
I hover anxiously around the place, watching the "pest"
Though a dear beloved I apologize to have thee so naméd
Thy place in thine own bed I must insist you take, lest
I become the monster in the closet you so lately fearéd!
So OFF TO YOUR OWN BED (and let our sep'rate dreams be blest.)

--an original whim by yours truly

church service

antipodes — 2004-02-22T11:02:00-05:00

I went down to the sea today. The air was chilly and soft and blew a few raindrops here and there. The rain was not enough to have to make me lose my reverie and wipe off my glasses, but wet enough to make the ground slippery, to make me walk slower than everybody else so that I could be of sure footing with my clumsy feet in Sunday shoes on wet cobblestone. I know now why women always looked like they hung on the arms of the men they walked with--they did, but because they had to . . . it is an interesting experience to walk in nice clothes with nice shoes in downtown Napoli (where there are small surprises left by the native mongrel canines, left every other step) and feel as if you might fall over if you walked any faster. Gah, I felt so silly:)

But anyway, the feeling of Spring was definitely apparent in the air, even though it was still too cold to take off my jacket. And now I jump to a different part of my day (I am too tired to be playing with transitions!), just fast forwarding to fifteen minutes later: when I sat among friends and let myself be welcomed.

The way they greet people here is to kiss them lightly on both cheeks (if you have glasses, you get good at dodging), and maybe a hug. In America there are ways of waving, shaking hands, etc. that you greet people with and they seem to be more impersonal; you have to be half-way affectionate to greet someone with a kiss.

The older ladies of the congregation are sympathetic to my inability to communicate (as of yet! as of yet!) but are always very kind to me--somehow after being so flustered by the craziness of the morning, their soft-skinned, warm, gentle greeting was very comforting . . .

Huh. Well, that entry seems to come off on an odd note, but I've tried to say what I meant:) I wonder if it makes sense?

*hums on this*

poetry

antipodes — 2004-02-24T12:02:00-05:00

I didn't think I wrote poetry all that much, but I've written quite a bit. I found out all this while sifting through my blog entries for something worh putting on my family website--I have a lot of this kind of stuff! Well, myabe not a lot of stuff, but enough to make me blink. I haven't written this muchpoetry in a while--the sudden influx is prolly to do with my Shakespeare class last term and my Lit. one this time (we studied English Romanticism then to). I've also posted a lot of other people's poetry *blush*

I'm going to post links! I've made the worst decisions today, being late for my carpool and feeling crummy, not to mention having a lot of writing and reading that has to do with being a student. So, after not being able to concentrate, I hereby give up.

short and rhymey
http://antipodes.mindsay.com/2004/01/16/

"to nap or not to nap"
http://antipodes.mindsay.com/2003/12/11/

about the creation of the world: "an embryo earth"
http://antipodes.mindsay.com/2003/11/28/

a short piece of "the walrus and the carpenter" by a college student:)
http://antipodes.mindsay.com/2003/11/19/

fire, melting glass, burning trees: "a premature confession"
http://antipodes.mindsay.com/2003/11/17/

And as an added bonus--a few lines of stuff I wrote in the margins of my notes for computer class, last term.

The first I must explain: I sat behind a nervous man who wore a hairpiece. A particularly loud sniff or cough might bowl him over, I was afraid, or at least he would have lost his locks.

I stare at the clock
and despair of my fate
for daren't I scare
the toupee from his pate.

Don't look at pronunciation! I was playing around and giggling the whole evening; one of those times when everything was funny.

Sitting at my desk I spy
a clock upon the wall
but its distorted in my view
for the glass rim is tall
I creep along to move my desk
but then clear to all
would be my attempt to reach
the clock upon the wall.

And then one that doesn't rhyme--I had trouble connecting with the teacher this term. She seemed a bit air headed and I know she was not competent in her field. She stuck to an outline and treated us like children . . .

Fifteen minutes until break
and I feel bad for counting
but I know she's counting, too,
and I sympathise.
(but it really shouldn't be that way . . .)
Ten minutes and she smiles at everyone's comments;
five minutes and she's giddy that we still have something to say.

I was certainly not inspired to learn any more about computer science:P Luckily I had a few fellow hecklers in the class who made it worthwhile.

rave on, john donne . . .

antipodes — 2004-02-25T11:02:00-05:00

I am on a roller coaster. A thousand things done in one morning that I didn't expect to get done in three,with time to write a blog entry!

Allow me, for a moment, to dance my victory dance. *victory dance* Tipping my pillow to owners also of red, green, and yellow ones, I say a hearty "hey-nonny-nonny-HO!" I miss those days. If anybody here does remember, have a Jammy Dodger and a vanilla latte on me.

Best of all, one of my favorite seasons has come. Outside our house there is a hazelnut grove (a few roastable chestnuts thrown in for good measure) that sways in the wind and has dusty leaves--it is where our woodpile is; it has a rusty gate and holes in the fence, and the trees have been bare all winter. My mother called me to the window the other day--yesterday it may have been, or the day before--and she pointed me to look out at the trees. Fuzzy and green misted, there are tiny new leaves over all of them!

What shall I do to celebrate?

closed for winter

antipodes — 2004-02-26T12:02:00-05:00

HA! GeeOff is starting a BLOG! Everybody go visit at

http://caffenapkinprof.mindsay.com

*grin*

Now, I have nothing else to say right now but I have to get to work somehow or another and stop compulsively checking the blogs of my fellow compatriots. Ermmmm. I'll post something more intelligent when I jumpstart my brain with this lovely little canned brown syrup.

*sigh*

feeling contrary

antipodes — 2004-02-27T06:02:00-05:00

Ambivalence crowds my thoughts so that nothing very intelligent can waddle through to my fingertips. I play with my little Starbucks finger-puppets, which usually have no trouble inspiring me to focus on something. My little purple-and-orange monster puppet whimsically sticks his tongue out at me, and the little adorable snow man sings opera.

Fine, I think, be that way. My brain continues to play with little noisemakers while my hands wait impatiently on my keyboard. There are some things today that really must get done, I tell myself.

Resolutely, I tempt my mind with music. Mesmer plays Beethoven and Samuel Barber . . . but of course my brain isn't listening. It yearns for a ballad, so I give it something melancholy in a minor tune. My hands clench and unclench, wondering if they could come up with anything to put down on their own, but they only end up straining uselessly.

More coffee and a handful of sweetened dried cranberries. Right! I can do this! Deep breath. I actually get a paragraph stamped out before my brain sidetracks to the window again.

Well at least I blogged. That always seems to get me into a better writing mood . . . Erm. You know what I mean.

*rolls eyes and laughs at herself*

think happy thoughts

antipodes — 2004-02-28T06:02:00-05:00

Always after getting out of this class, all I want to do is curl up in a corner and bawl my eyes out. I feel exhausted and physically weak. A hundred years ago I would ask to sit for a moment in a ladies' resting room so that I could breathe freely; not because of those silly restrictive clothes they wore then but because of how dumbly tired I become.

Here my sweet respite is in the library with its hard chairs and wakeful flouresence. Sweet respite indeed. I am slowly learning that I could hate this place with very little trouble. But it is so inconvenient for me to hate it. Hard lines, light wood, hard seats, bright lights, uncomfortable reading areas, watery silence, stark air. If I ever find a book to check out I always feel like I have escaped with it.

stupid cell phones . . .

ruskin

antipodes — 2004-02-29T07:02:00-05:00

To completely skew Ruskin's idea that we should surround ourselves with beauty so that we can think great Thoughts, I intend this very evening to stumble downstairs to my basement. What is in my basement that makes it so desireable to stumble down into, you ask? A new couch that has turned out to be very curl-up-on-able, hot fresh pizza napoletana, and both of my beautiful sisters laughing at a movie. Wrapping myself up in an old quilt and curling up downstairs is always comforting.

Anybody got any favorite comfort-movies? My last was "Breakfast at Tiffany's".

Anyway, I'm late. I was going to write a thank-you to all of my friends who made my weekend easier and sweeter, but it seems that everybody who reads my blog that knows me has done quite exactly that. I have to figure out some way to show you guys how cool you are . . .

*thinks*

who AM I, anyway?

antipodes — 2004-03-01T05:03:00-05:00

I hate scholarship applications. Who am I? What do I plan to do with my life? What are my plans for getting where I'm going? I don't even know the answers to these questions, so I end up making up something that changes the next week. These silly people ask me who I am when I haven't yet even a clue. "Make a list of the awards you've won and the things you have done for other people." Well, that is basically what they ask. Even if I did do a lot of things for other people or win a lot of awards, would I want to flaunt them? No. Dorks, all of them.

I'm going to grow up to be a writer. I have a blog and I journal like there is no tomorrow. I shall be, as an eighteenth century male poet said, a "mad scribbling female". I shall be a starving student. I have other interests too, if you want to hear about them (or you could just go to my blog*sarcasm alert*). I like languages and books. I hate sentences that begin with "I". I wanna be a better person tomorrow than I am today. I wanna help people come closer to knowing what to do with what goes on inside their heads. I wanna be a good person (a nod to Gilbert Grape). And I have a plan for that.

I love the best I can. I learn in so many ways--not least of which is University, of course, but I mean, come on:) I yearn and hope and search for what is true and right and honorable and noble and when I find it I hold it like an antidote to my human poison, like water to my parched and cracking lips. Let it kill me! But I want that so badly I'd give up my soul for it. I'd offer up my soul to it.

That's why I should have your money.

You wanted this:

I am a student who is always learning from many different sources including my involvement in my community, full-time attendence at So-and-So University, and I work part time in order to help pay for my classes. For my present goal, I would like to become a Nurse. I am a life-guard at Community X swimming pool and I teach first-aid on the weekends, as well as volunteer babysitting. I work hard and have an almost perfect GPA, with competent scores on all of my scholastic testing. I deserve this scholarship because my goal is to give back to the community that sponsors this scholarship and though I have worked very hard I am still not able to make ends meet as I go to school. BLAHblahBLAHBLAHBLAH.

I unclog my nose at them.

I don't really want to be a writer. I don't know what I want to do with myself . . . but I still hate scholarship applications!

meanwhile, elsewhere . . .

antipodes — 2004-03-02T09:03:00-05:00

For some reason unbeknownst to me there is a half a roll of toilet paper sitting on the network device next to me. A half of a roll, mind you. I remain suspicious of these apparitions; first a network device and now a toilet paper roll! A half of one, no less!

BLT and I have been discussing the Mormon church and all the unpopular ideas that stem from that kind of discussion--he seems to have spent yesterday evening having dinner with his wife and two young men who are on a mission from Joseph Smith. His wife, who is Italian, apparently tried to make them Italian caffe'. A sweet-looking young woman came in and spoke in a practiced voice--turns out she subscribes to the Mormon church. I hope I hadn't said anything I oughtn't, but I do think I was courteous enough to satisfy Mrs. Higgins.

I have so little time and so much to do and I want to blog about more things than I ought! My mind deceives my emotions and my emotions lure my mind, horrific writing assignments crowd my portfolio, half of my friends are ill without my permission, and I can't find the breathing space of a moment to even do my housework.

*stealthily pours another cup of tea*

p.s. I haven't got my cell phone today. Don't try to call me. I wonder where I left it . . . *sigh*

impazzire

antipodes — 2004-03-03T09:03:00-05:00

I do, on occasion, -muggle --legal things into our library. I have been observed to be accompanied by a discreet but crackly pouch of almond M&M's or a conspicuous styrofoam cup full of something unnameably caffeinated. Today my thirst overcame all practicality of mind and the suspiciously bottle-shaped bulge in my sleeve emerged into an Arizona iced tea (original, with lemon). I feel compelled to relate to you the fact that my hands are in need of thawing.

Few combinations of entries into my vocabulary indexes can produce the apt expression of the utter frustration and chaos that inhabits my mind of late. (How's that for a sentence!) Having said this I shall now proceed to develop a great affinity for banging my head against the cardboard walls of this so-called library.

Someday, my friends, someday . . . *wags a finger at the construction next door*

fillet of fiasco

antipodes — 2004-03-03T11:03:00-05:00

GAH. Just about everything I have tried to do today has one miserably wrong and it isn't even noon yet. Ok, breathe, child. You're being an idiot to overreact like this.

I took the 10.45 and on the way I thought I should really take a vacation on my own. I can't decide whether my destination should be Firenze or Venezia . . . just for a weekend, you understand. I just wanna go someplace away from things and journal my little heart out. I could go by train and take one change of clothes. My rucksack would be practically empty! I have got to take some time away to write . . . *itchy fingers*

Planning vacations I will never take always seems to calm me down somehow. Or--mentally rearranging my bedroom furniture, complete with time of day and added bookshelves. Also--Bronte and Wordsworth had it all right and good when they talked about Imagination and remembering things "midst the din of towns and cities".

I dunno--there's that hole-in-the-wall cafe' on the canal in Venice where I could take up a whole table for ten hours.

office memo

antipodes — 2004-03-04T11:03:00-05:00

This morning I observed a member of the respectable bourgeoisie, complete with drab cardigan and ominously khaki pants, slide on the slippery soles of his footwear and look as if he relished it delightfully.

He carried no briefcase and wore no name tag. His involuntary tonsure and private inward smiling made me incredibly suspicious and so I remained in my hiding place behind the potted fyccus until after he has slid through the swinging doors and ran two steps at a time up the staircase. He was, in effect, a most unusual person to meet when one is in possession of a bottle of apple juice.

sincerely yours

being a cockroach

antipodes — 2004-03-05T06:03:00-05:00

This is an excerpt from one of my very favorite books--it just seems to make a lot of sense to me right now. Not that I'm going through something like Tom went through, but . . . *shrug*

'D'you remember what he said about having your heart ripped open?' said Tom after a while.

'Yes, I do.' Theodore had sat rubbing his ankle, easing the pins and needles that had resulted from sitting awkwardly immobile for a considerable length of time. 'He said it was part of the necessary pain of following Jesus.'

'Ripped open. That's what it feels like. Other times it doesn't feel like anything. I walk around like a man lost in the fog; things that were familiar looking alien and bizarre. My life doesn't feel like home any more. I feel as though I've been cast out of my own heart, wandering. And then the grief comes again, swelling and rising inside me till I'm maddened with it. Last night . . . last night I lay on my bed tearing at my belly with my hands, retching, trying to void myself of the pain of it . . .

'Five minutes. If I could talk to him just for five minutes. "Th-ank y-ou, T-om . . . T-ell m-e about it . . . L-ove h-as n-o def-en-ces, T-om. Y-ou kn-ow it's l-ove wh-en it h-h-urts." He . . . he . . . oh, I'm sorry . . .' The wash of it overwhelmed him again. He lay on his back feeling the tears welling hot in his eyes, and trickling cold down into his ears, weeping helplessly, torn open with grief.

'Psalm a hundred and twenty nine,' said Theo. '"Supra dorsum meum . . ." um . . . how does it go? "Supra dorsum . . . "'

'Whatever are you talking about?' Tom's voice quavered peevishly between his tears.

'Psalm a hundred and twenty-nine. "The ploughers have ploughed upon my back, and made long furrows"'

Tom sniffed, and considered this, sniffed again. 'Yes . . .' he said. 'That just about says it.'

--p. wilcock "the long fall"

the ticket-of-leave apostle

antipodes — 2004-03-06T11:03:00-05:00

Somehow it is comforting to be reassured of the existence of one's elbows.

http://www.bibliomania.com/0/0/15/27/10320/1/frameset.html

tinterning

antipodes — 2004-03-07T10:03:00-05:00

I have been tinterning all day today and every time I try to write something here it just doesn't come out quite right. "Not connected," I think. I keep hearing strains of music I used to listen to, echoes of things I wish I'd done, seeing a glimmer of a smile on somebody's face that I haven't thought of in years. I feel so young, so new. There is so much time ahead of me, so much to learn! I am so foolishly young.

It is a pity, truly, that it is death to live in Shelley or Byron's Romanticism. No restraint . . . it is so much of our self-control that makes us who we are, though. Freedom means not always that you are free to be active in activities but also that you are free to refrain from participating . . . who said that? Drat and confusticate the lot, I know I've heard something like that recently. Well, it wasn't original. But it is still true. And I'm rambling. Such a silly girl. Such a sleepy girl! I had better run off before I say anything I'll regret:)

In the mean time, imagine a twelve-year-old me sneaking back to the car on a Spring morning after church services to read Tennyson and sigh over "In Memoriam". It still makes me cry.

I leave you with a thought from Matthew Arnold, from "Dover Beach", which I read aloud this morning.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

journaling and sewing

antipodes — 2004-03-08T01:03:00-05:00

I've just finished another journal! That makes seven volumes of them, now. Someday I shall have a bookshelf of them, I think. My next one is larger than the last one, and of the same company, but with a lighter, softer leather and lined pages. I love the smooth feel of paper and the clean look of things before I write. Date, location, thoughts. Date, location, thoughts. Sometimes a snippet of a book, sometimes a newspaper clipping, occasionally a poem in between, even less commonly, a drawing!

Since my most grueling class is now over, the muscles in my shoulders have loosened and the roaring in my ears has silenced itself . . . I feel refreshed, though. I want to pick up a book off of my shelves, turn on music and listen to it without headphones and in my own cd player, and just sit downstairs.

Or maybe I'll take out my embroidery hoop and sew the face of the cliffs that shield the the dragon in the middle of the drawing. Humm. Did you know I embroider? Well, I do. I cross-stitch old fashioned things; they aren't cheesy or corny like Snoopy pillows or Disney figures on coasters. I like the oldfashioned tapestry idea . . . I have sewn three old-fashioned samplers, and I'm working on a real tapestry of a dragon and a castle with a cloudy sky above and a grey sea behind . . .

*hums*

echo--echo--echo

antipodes — 2004-03-09T10:03:00-05:00

I couldn't make him out at first, in the dim light--some of the ones in the hallways had gone out, you see--but by the time I had, his greeting had already met my ears. At first I think I must have been standing in the light for him to recognize me, but those of you how know me will laugh--I left my hair down today. So, there is a picture of innocent me, walking down the hallway, ready to emerge into the light and head for the library.

"Hello, darlin'!" he said loudly. "BWAH!!!" is what happened in my head: let me add that the acoustics in this part of the corridor are terrific. As he passed from the shade and into the light, I recognized him--a man of personal acquaintance but also of rather a high office in our college.

"Rather a high office". Erm--well, he sort of runsthe whole operation. Several passers-by who recognized him gave me an odd look but all I could think to do at the present was to say "Good morning!" confidently, with a smile, and keep walking. I turned the corner and waited for his footsteps to fade away into another shadow of the broken lights in the hallway before I walked out of the building.

:)

in pursuit of hats

antipodes — 2004-03-10T09:03:00-05:00

The end of the term is very close now. A few finalities have taken place: one final exam, pencil marking in my organiser for another one tomorrow, and the releasing fact that extension dates are past for all papers, all homework, all scribbling pleas. Even now, things seem to be at a little bit of a stand-still.

When I daydream, I find that most of it is remembering things from past times. Here comes the point where I miss what used to be! I specifically remember sitting on a hotel couch in August and thinking that the euphoria induced by the new and different would not last forever, that I would have a few months. And here I am. Drat and confusticate this feeling.

Is this what it is to be homesick? Gah. No, can't be. See, I've had so many different homes in different places, but there are those small idyllic things that stick . . . Prolly painting pictures of Egypt:)

In recompense for my rambling, allow me to leave you with the following profundity:

"There are very few moments in a man's existence when he experiences so much ludicrous distress, or meets with so little charitable commiseration, as when he is in pursuit of his own hat." --c. dickens the pickwick papers

raindrops

antipodes — 2004-03-11T01:03:00-05:00

It is a grey and rainy afternoon; the kind of afternoon that cartoon artists emulated in all those Disney movies. Plipdrip, plop, drip . . . splip, drop, ditditditditdit!

Starts out slow with large sploshy teardrop shapes and then spitters along with evenly spaced uniformly medium-sized drops that don't bite with needle precision or splash the back of your neck but evenly and with utmost modesty pick their way onto the pavement and discreetly into the shelter of a drain. They don't disfigure the light of the morning so that you aren't sure of the time, but apologetically they paint the sky a light coat of grey-blue.

My favourite contemplative moods are on rainy days whether like this one or the stormy thundering sullen-clouded days, or those days where the rain is like a driving screen of adamantium drops . . . *smile*

With a nagging feeling in the back of my mind that I should be writing something else, I am reminded that my bus leaves in twenty minutes. How nice of it. Other times I'm not half so eager to take the bus but on a rainy day when I don't have to drive, I can think and hum and look out the window.

Such a closed-in feel: closed inside the world, closed inside a room, closed inside myself. I like to curl up cozily inside myself in the center of the bus--you know that spot where the wheels create a sort of bump? that's my spot to put my feet on--and smell my clean hair and warm my hands inside my jacket pockets.

When I get off the bus, I'm going to go get something warm to drink, and read a bit of The Pickwick Papers.

Oh the comfort of a benevolently rainy day!

*hums contentedly*

:)

the paisley couch

antipodes — 2004-03-12T09:03:00-05:00

I am feeling up to the task of rearranging my room. I must do it every few months or . . . or . . . umm . . . Well, I like it that way. I've written letters to people that I should have written months ago, I've finished a paper, I took a midterm, I washed the dishes, and I procrastinated a few more things. There is nobody home but me--rare occurence! I'm in fine shape to do something drastic to my furniture.

So how does one go about rearranging obstinate toe-stubbers?

The first thing is to go on a diet of dry cereal. Cheerios and Honey Bunches of Oats (with Almonds) are both acceptable, the latter being the most recommended. Intermittent glasses of milk and those huge squeeze-bottles of water are great! Chai tea is alright if you must be snooty about it.

No classical music allowed! Something cheesy and old, if you please. Or an audiobook; one of those old radio-mystery shows. Keep in mind, though, that whatever it is must be loud enough to cover the sound of scraping furniture and at least stifle your exclamations.

First place to start is the bed. Where do you want to move the bed?? Stand in a clear spot on the floor or the desk or some other relatively flat space, and spin around in a circle until you are dizzy. Whichever spot your nose is pointing at gets the bed. Move everything else out of the way to make way for the bed. Then do the same thing with whatever pieces of furniture were inconvenienced by the bed. Make sure the monsters under your bed have been able to move satisfactorily, then replace the baseball bat by your night-stand.

By the time your neighbors or roommates shout things like "Armageddon!" and "Eviction!" you should have, if you took my recommendation, a milk moustache. At this point it is appropriate to shuffle all the pictures on your walls.

Take down the books off of your bookshelves and dust each page individually. The ink may be fading. The characters may have made a different choice in chapter seven than you remember. Were the pages really acid free? Place bookmarks in your favorite parts. Rearrange according to color.

Take an experimental nap. If you wake up on account of nightmares, repeat the process and don't blame me.

bittersweet grace

antipodes — 2004-03-13T10:03:00-05:00

Several people have told me that I've earned my vacation this Spring. Weird thing is, though, I can't feel I've done much but waste my time.

I know that sounds awful, but I have so much . . . and I hardly feel that my getting tired on school nights and enjoying myself over the friendships I've been granted amounts to anything near what I have been given. It sounds prideful--I do enjoy what I have been given, I do, but I know I could do more. I want to repay it.

Which is dumb . . . the whole concept of grace should be brought into play . . . but it so galls me that I could be doing more. I hate accepting grace, down to the traditional acceptance of feminine physical weakness, I hate it . . . Very humbling. Humble pie chokes, though, I think I must be allergic to it. *sigh* I know the problem, I know the answer, the challenge is swallowing it.

p.s. I know I was going to post about "Henry V" that I saw tonight but I will have to post on it later . . .

"we few, we happy few"

antipodes — 2004-03-14T09:03:00-05:00

Today, I attended a church service in someone's private library. The librarian was not present, and so there were those of us that drooled unabashedly at the sight of such rows and walls of volumes. The sermon was particularly difficult to follow as well because it was interpreted from English and Italian into Afrikaans. Somehow I think this made it much more simplistic and not to mention easier to be distracted by the rows of books that I was so very close to. During the break someone I sat next to leaned over as if to greet me but instead queried guiltily "Do you see any Plutarch on your aisle?"

Funny, too, how the preacher kept reading from our text with the fervor of one who relates a personal revelation that the rest of the world feels as if they have realised . . . It was so different from the recitation of Henry V's similar desperate creed that was unfurled by an actor last night. "We few, we happy few, we band of brothers!" he cried as he knelt by my elbow.

This morning these were traced to their origins about brotherhood using foreign words and phrases like "brethren" and "in spirit and truth" that cloud and clot the imploring cries of our supposed prophets to the men who do not know the old stories.

Where listening to the recitation--nay, it truly was the unfurling of a banner-creed--I was inspired and my spirit refreshed, I could not feel myself so affected by the quiet, eager stammer of the sermon.

[enter Dramatic Irony]

lorenzo

antipodes — 2004-03-15T08:03:00-05:00

There are no short or ungenerous visits in Italy. Of this I am certain.

Laden with a roast, green beans in some kind of casserole, potatoes and carrots from the roast, and a dish of apple crisp, we were led into the main kitchen. I felt very American. But then, we're not going to cook them all-familiar things for dinner. (For all of those who weren't hear or didn't know, Lorenzo has been born *smile*) Valentina's mother-in-law led us upstairs and made us partake of some kind of candy before we went in to see the mother and child. "For good luck," she said.

Valentina herself was resting in bed with the child in her arms. She was wearing an old-fashioned lace gown--it had been in an array of gifts at her wedding reception, her mother-in-law reminded us--and even though she seemed back to her sweet smiling self there was also another air about her that was unfamiliar. Maybe she was relieved about the Little One being born healthy and home from the hospital alright. Maybe it was just me; I'm not sure. Is there a supreme and permeating air about new mothers that anyone has noticed?

Anyway, Lorenzo is predictably small and warm and reddish-looking. His hair is dark brown and long, and his eyes are a lighter brown than his hair, and much more serious-looking. His eyebrows furrow very easily and his hands are such miracles, so tiny and yet so complete. The tip of my finger was too big for him to take a fistful of, though he tried studiously several times.

They let me hold him for several minutes. There is something awe-inspiring in holding a newborn; such a tiny shrine for such a young soul. It was very sobering to think that one day he will have to struggle with the world as we do. I very much just wanted him to rest in his mother's arms for as long as he could; there won't be enough time as he would wish for that comfort. However, before I passed him to the next pilgrim he blinked at me with a serious look on his face and then proceeded to yawn a very endearing and lopsided yawn.

As soon as he was out of my arms somebody persuaded me I know not how to eat a marzipan cookie. I have a strong suspicion that it was shoved down my throat and I was brainwashed afterwards, because after that the room became a little full and we retreated to the kitchen, wherein lay a bottle and five small glasses of hazelnut liqueur that we were held at gunpoint to consume as we made a valiant effort for the door.

Eventually we made it home, as you see, but hardly unscathed. Now I have dishes to do, so if you will please excuse me . . .

:)

traveling books

antipodes — 2004-03-16T09:03:00-05:00

I am leaving for a four-day trip to read and journal and walk around an unfamiliar city, to scurry from cafe' to cafe'! What books should I take? Already on the list is:

--Robert Fagles' translation of "The Odyssey"

--Charles Dickens' "The Pickwick Papers"

--bible (NIV)

--waiting until the very last minutes to stuff one of a stack of them into my bag

As you see, there are two entries left. Suggestions welcome!

*hums on this*

waiting around

antipodes — 2004-03-17T05:03:00-05:00

Listlessly mumbling from one room to the other, I wish time would go faster. Time to go to sleep, then wake up and then depart! I hate that right-before-you-go feeling that leaves you helpless to do much or start new projects. The mindset of travel has set out before me . . . Tomorrow! Dawn! Let me go!

"I have a view, I have a view."

antipodes — 2004-03-18T10:03:00-05:00

I am where I set out to go! I have not seen any tightly-stuffed armchairs with the contour or colour of a tomato in any drawing rooms that I have visited. (Quite frankly, I have seen no drawing rooms at all.) But I have met clergymen who, contrary to Mr. Beebe, act like them.

There are no oubliettes or secret entrances to my room that I can tell of, but I wasn't given the chance to investigate the wardrobe, which is tall and painted white. I am quite assured in my belief that it does not have the quotation "Mistrust all enterprises that require new clothes" anywhere to be seen, which may or may not be a pity.

Fagles' translation of "The Odyssey" is delightful, I am reading book V right now. The other books were the Bible which I will be reading something from tonight, and an entirely forgotten suggestion not even listed here. I know, it is disappointing. But it does have to do with Florence: "A Room with a View". Also I brought along "At the Back of the North Wind" as a gift to someone who, by the way, enjoyed it immensely. He nearly fawned on it. He cooed over it. He sends his thanks to the West Wind. Delightful reads!

Anyway, the ride here was somewhat uneventful and I am surprised at my lack of fluttery nervous feelings even as I went out after dark alone to buy myself a celebratory dinner, which I spent talking to two students from America who happened to be sitting next to me. One of them had read Nathaniel Hawthorne's "Young Goodman Brown" and discussed it while his companion wrinkled her nose at me behind his back.

But now I must go. Others await the computer and my eyes await the beautiful view of the top bunk bed's mattress springs.

The weather is warm and soft, but I am enjoying my time alone even though I miss you . . . *hums on this*

:)

in Santa Croce with no Baedeker

antipodes — 2004-03-19T11:03:00-05:00

I walked to Santa Croce today with not a Fodor's, not a Dorling Kindersley, not an idiot's guide, and certainly no Baedeker. I have read some of their entries though and they do not tell you very important facts, for example; that Piazza Santa Croce smells from top to bottom like sausages. Hot sizzling yummy sausages. This is because there are stand for sausages interspersed with those devoted to baby clothes, dried fruits and nuts, not to mention other various and sundry household appliances. And the fountain does not spray. It does not even trickle. There is nothing to it.

And for my life: how did Lucy get lost in Santa Croce?! It is so small and nearly perches on the Arno--there is no room to get lost. Even a visitor like me can get to where I'm going by the Ponte Vecchio. You don't even have to be clever or wear a blue military cloak or be a conservative. I went into the church by the "believers' entrance" but couldn't bear to go in the front for fear of the wrath of a sister. She might never have forgiven me the heresy. I shall drag her in one day and we will find "the Giottos" with no help from anybody. I do hope we don't see any hateful bishops.

I visited my favorite shop; more of a museum really. The old man recognized me, I think, because he let me in to the second half of the room that is normally shut by a little gate--so no longer did I bend over the gate precariously to peer at titles by a dim light; I could make a fool of myself drooling and sighing over them at close range. He laughed and smiled and waved at me as I left, though; I think he did not mind my youth so much this time.

Tonight I made myself dinner with the things I brought plus a nicety or two from some of the shops here--lentil soup (with ta'leya), that was slightly burnt because of an impressionistic saucepan, and an artichoke with less adventurous lemon-butter. I cooked among the shower of chatter and clishmaclaver of half-grown women; it afforded not as much intellectual stimulation as amusement. One of the girls sang in repetition anything that was said. Another talked incessantly about her boyfriend who accidentally spilled gelato on her shirt as he tripped over a cobblestone. They unanimously agreed that they should have a "spa night" which sounded, if truth be told, a little frightening when spoken of in a Georgian accent. I concentrated very hard on my artichoke and repeated my memorised bits of Wordsworth to myself.

My legs are tired, my mind is weary, and tomorrow is another day. I have written very much in my journal and consumed unchristian amounts of caffeine. I wonder if they have much hot water for showers here.

*yawn*

family rumours

antipodes — 2004-03-22T02:03:00-05:00

Due to a school essay that one of my siblings is writing, the subject of U.S. immigrants came up after dinner. Most people that have been subjected to American History in their courses of study are aware that a good influx of people sang our anthem loudly in foreign accents in the 1860's. Some of them were gypsies, of course. Gypsies are pervasive, like dandelions.

In particular, or so my father relates the story from his mother, there was a Hungarian gypsy (with a name that we've forgotten how to spell, but begins with an "H") that somehow got into our family line. By all accounts it was intentional and quite respectable, and very exciting to look back on. He was an educated man who knew more than a few European languages and had a large library of Latin books, of which it is said that he read often. It is even said that he played with the Emperor's children when he himself was a child!

And my father says that when my grandmother, his mother, looked over into my crib when I was so very small, she said "If only this girl will have curly hair, she'll look just like them!" by which she meant his descendants. She still says that I look like him the most out of our family.

I have a roundish face that my other grandmother swears is very German, and brown hair which is too long to be quite curly. However, when it dries after my shower if it is still down you can see a few whimsical curls at the ends where it isn't weighed down so much. (There are Those who dispute this, but just because They have a plethora of curls I don't suppose They should grudge me my few brave stragglers.) The bent for languages still exists, as does the affinity for Latin.

It is exciting to think one has gypsy blood cavorting through one's veins:) But it is only a family rumor . . .

:)

antipodes — 2004-03-24T03:03:00-05:00

My blog's calendar has become a little dappled after its write-and-true streak of a little over a month. But "oh, well". The school term is beginning again next Monday and then I shall be busy enough to take a break and come here.

Syllabi are all printed off, my pencils have new lead in them, and my study table at home is clear enough to be called one! My organiser has little scribbles in it (yes, I keep an organiser) and the first chapters of my textbooks mostly read. I am a student, I am, and quite a compulsive one. It is all very sad, or so say all of my procrastinating friends. But so exciting!

The only really scary thing is that my scleep schedule will be messed up beginning next Monday:( No more 9 a.m. awakenings!

*sob*

surgery

antipodes — 2004-03-24T11:03:00-05:00

If anybody has a second in their day to toss up a prayer, I could use one or two! I'm going in for a minor surgery on my mouth, and the following day promises to be a little bit like one of Douglas Adams' merry-go-rounds (if he had one). My orthodontist has the brain and sense of humor of a wooklar.

*braces herself to enter the Bluebeard chamber of orthodontology*

lopsided smiley

antipodes — 2004-03-25T07:03:00-05:00

Thanks to all those who offered hopes and prayers! The surgery went alright and after a day of serious sleepiness and a good heavy dose of Jane Austen I feel a bit better, even if everything still does taste like blood. Stupid mouth wounds. Another year until my Borg implants can be removed (I tried to protest but resistance was futile).

It is a marvelous thing to have only a local anesthesia during a surgery. The sensation of someone excavating your palette with miniscule knives and scissors not one to be duplicated. With a sharp pick and an evil grin the oral surgeon pulled my gums away from an imbedded tooth and pronounced an oracular and unexpected "Wow!" His suddenly beady eyes appeared over his mask in an unmistakably maniacal gleam.

I wanted very much to ask him what he meant by this exclamation but he turned to his assistant (not the one with the tomato-hating boyfriend) and asked something about an inquest he supposed she saw on TV last night? to which she replied in the negative. I could see he was a little disappointed and hoped it wouldn't affect his work too much but he began whistling a repetitive calliope tune that to this moment has played incessantly in the torture-chamber of my halls of memory.

My wonderful, haloed sisters have earned their crowns in patience and consideration, kindness and caffeine/chocolate provision. I am deeply indebted to them. To those of you who never had sisters, envy me. To those of you who did have or have sisters, mine far surpass yours :P

The rest of my day now consists of what is typically called "puttering about". Again, thanks so much for your kindness!

*smiles a little lopsidedly*

heath anthology of american lit.

antipodes — 2004-03-26T02:03:00-05:00

John Smith is the most boring writer I have ever put my imagination to. Colonnialle writares ere soe BORING. *holds breath until she turns blue* Melville would be a relief.

*grumbles*

lohengrin

antipodes — 2004-03-27T02:03:00-05:00

My great grandmother married a man because he had a fabulous horse-and-buggy and she read novels with frivolous gilt designs on the covers. She also fed my mother and uncle schnapps when they were home sick from school and was addicted to cocaine (when they still put it in Coca-Cola). On my mother's senior prom night she and her brother and their dates skipped the party to play canasta with my great grandmother, who fed them chocolate chip cookies and 7-Up. I'm told she astonished people with her frequently muttered entries of a sailor's lexicon. But back to the novels.

One of them that my mother loved, and was given upon the death of my great grandmother, is "The First Violin" by Jessie Fothergill. At first I eyed it in suspicion, as I do all Victorian novels, but during my sixteenth summer (in which I had also read "Jane Eyre" for the first time) I devoured it, illustrations and all!

Mind, the pictures are quite hideous. The moustaches that the German men wore described in the book are quite specific to the person, though in the illustrations they look as if they had been forgotten and added at the very last moment. The women wear inordinate amounts of shapeless poofy fabric and their faces are as pale as Lilian Gish's.

It happens after Wordsworth but probably before motorcars, and begins pastoral England. Refer to Ms. Austen's novels, which the heroine read aloud to her sisters in their youth. In a breach of innocence and reluctant benevolence, the scene changes to the Köln train station, where our heroine promptly gets lost, and I shan't tell you any more because I'm afraid of giving away something.

But now I must go finish it! I read by the fireplace in a chair and on the carpet and at the dinner table and then at 2 a.m. I moved to my bedroom, where the book remained propped up on my knees for another two hours until I got to a very sad part and had to stop. Now I must finish the book.

Applesauce is yet my best friend next to motrin, and cold milk next to that. But I can still only chew on one side of my mouth.

And so I must remain,

your friendly neighborhood mutant bovine chipmunk

allegory and applicability

antipodes — 2004-03-28T03:03:00-05:00

“I think that many confuse applicability with allegory; but the one resides in the freedom of the reader and the other in the purposed determination of the author.” --j.r.r. tolkien

Except that our individual views can twist things to interpret them as we will . . . it is sometimes beautiful to see something plainly meant and clear-cut. Barely anything in this world is so clear-cut as allegory.

*goes hunting for another motrin*

an inimicable tuesday

antipodes — 2004-03-30T08:03:00-05:00

The new term dances before my eyes. A jig, I think, is its object, but terms have difficulty with knee movements, I hear. Brandishing a large, flappy literary anthology in my face, the new term grins hideously and bows before the idol of the English language. Homage to speech! Homage to writing! Homage to the noblest of all, to reading!

"BLEGH!" is what I say to that. I said it this morning when I woke up at six and I will say it again. I did repeat it, indeed. My bus to the BLT's part of town is not on time. In fact, it is late. I am quite vexed and a little put out. I shall take the late bus, if it please His Grace to appear, and be late! late! late!

My speech consists of something that sounds like someone whose tongue has been half cut out and has an added lisp. It is utterly painful to speak. The west wind spoke my words for me last night and I signed to her; there is some use in knowing a manual language! Except, of course, when one's interpreter happens to be of the nature of a certain impish fiend called Puck.

Anyway, I ordered some yummy snacks from http://www.justtomatoes.com a little while ago and they are finally here! But they are all crunchy things and so I am forced to be Tantalus. The only difference is that I am not perpetually standing chest-deep in a pond.

And now I must be off to study and pore over volumes of half forgotten lore. Did anybody ever think there might have been a reason they were forgotten?? John Smith's "Generall Historie of Virginia, New-England, and the Summer Isles" is a perfect example of this kind of material.

inexorable loneliness and doubt

antipodes — 2004-03-31T12:03:00-05:00

Despite the possibility that this may be used against me later, I'm going to post something from my last final exam. This was my favorite essay from it; the favorite piece is about the "inexorable loneliness of individualism." It is not even very good--we were rushed! Forgive its unpolished nature.

Essay Question #1

The Romantics gave the world a sense of freedom in their feeling, and a mistrust of institution. With a mistrust of institution evolved a sense of indivualism. The rising popularity of Darwinism and the inexorable loneliness of individualism combines with the nagging blaspheme that science and religion may not agree together create a doubt in the existence of the Divine. This can be seen well in Afred, Lord Tennyson's "In Memoriam" and Matthew Arnold's "Dover Beach".

Tennyson has just lost his dearest friend and is in the throes of a heart-tearing grief and asks in this poem the same question Job asks and we ask: why do bad things happen to good people? Tennyson's doubt is on a lack of knowledge--he continually says "we know not" (15, 21) or "he knows not" (10), first introducing the leap of faith all Christians take in "believing where we cannot prove" (4). Tennyson reaches the center of his thought--the crossroads--when he says "we have but faith: we cannot know" (21) and half-echoes the ending to his first stanza (4). From then on, we know that Tennyson has decided to believe despite all his doubts and "wandering cries" in woe--instead of repeating that "know not" phrase, he replaces it with a positive "we trust" (23) and "I trust" (39). In the second half of the poem he cries the age-old "help me believe!" because he knows his strength is small.

In "Dover Beach", Matthew Arnold seems to reach the crossroads that Tennyson did, but Arnold never saw the two roads diverging and, not looking around, plunged over the edge of the (Dover) cliffs. He seems helpless to do anything about the "melancholy, long withdrawing roar" (25) of the "sea of faith" (21). He lets go entirely of his faith in anything (including himself) and holds only to his own personal experience (last stanza) and a love which seems faithful to him. The benign power of Nature is absolutely disintegrated in the light of his personal reflections. Arnold gives in to his doubt in this poem, but holds to a desperate hope in another (fallible) human love.

Tennyson reached a full questioning and rebirth of his faith, while Arnold only sees the first part of this process. The seeming clash of religion and science coupled with an increasingly individualistic spirit cause these men to question their ideas of Truth and in their poems they reflect the doubts and fears of countless others in their respective spheres.

announcement

antipodes — 2004-04-01T09:04:00-05:00

I am getting married. I know that will come as a shock to most of you, but bear with me:) I met this guy--Will--over the internet and we've been writing back and forth for about three years now. He lives in Canada and has two little kids from his last marriage (his wife died in a car accident).

Will is a violinist, has a good steady job, and he's ready for me to fly out and meet him any day. I'd planned to go off to college next year in Canada--they have good sign language programs there--and we could have lived together, but we've decided that it would be better if I just went ahead and bought my ticket for the end of this week.

I'm so excited! To all my friends who read this and will see me soon: I didn't want to scare all of you like this, announcing it on my blog. On the other hand, it gives you time to think about it before talking to me. So, please be happy for me! I can't wait till you meet him.

(April Fools. Whew.)

wilt thou leave me?

antipodes — 2004-04-02T12:04:00-05:00

Sometimes, when I was very much smaller, I would get a breathtaking fear that my mother would leave me alone, with nobody to take care of me. Don't ask me why--my mother and father were still married and, I thought, happily so. I had both sets of grandparents who would gladly have looked after me if anything had happened to mom or dad. But still, in my wildly frantic thoughts there was a way that I might get lost or lose my mother. What was I supposed to do to take care of myself then, I who could not even yet make my own bed or fold a shirt or get butter to melt on toast?? What was one to do?

"Mommy," I would ask nervously, "Mommy, are you ever going to go away forever?" I had friends whose mommys had done so. I had no real doubt about my mother willingly leaving me, but for some reason my logic couldn't get away with itself. After all, I had been proven wrong about how to spell "fantastic".

The question was always worth it because she would tell me "Rika, wild horses couldn't drag me away from you." A sense of relief would flood my little body from my bare feet to my twiggy brown hair.

Later at night when it was dark in my room after we'd said our prayers and sang our songs and had one last drink, sometimes I could feel the black void of the universe crackling around my bedposts and under my mattress, but I never had to be too afraid, because my mom would come for me before things got too bad.

Even though I am much taller now and no longer go barefoot all the time in the summers (even though I like to) and can make my own tuna sandwiches, I still have horrid days, doubter's days. I no longer fear my mother leaving me. I know she will someday, for a short time, but that will be a trifle.

I was reading a book of old poetry the other night, as I do every night, and I found something that made me hear as clear as ever my mother's voice in her reassuring "wild horses couldn't drag me away from you!":

"Many waters cannot quench love;
rivers cannot wash it away."

And the inspiration for that was the inspiration for my mother . . . :)

journal of a mystagogue

antipodes — 2004-04-03T07:04:00-05:00

My soul-wrenching longing to be a better person has been put to shame in a rather confusing admission of humanity. I find many of my actions today quite disgusting and more abhorrent than most people would profess necessary, so I won't go into them except to finish out this entry (we all know I am hopelessly talkative online and so indeed you must quit this page should you not wish upon yourself my inane mumblings).

Self-control is something I strive for and I lost it today. I strive to teach myself, and find only what I knew before: that I am a fool. I don't mean "fool" in the "stupid" sense, but just a selfish and headstrong girl . . . accusations of my pride, I realise, didn't even affect me. I know I am proud. What is it Emerson said? "My giant is always with me." or something like that. Heh. I quoted Emerson.

"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken."
- C.S. Lewis
'The Four Loves'

I'm not broken. I hesitate to wonder if I have ever been so. But certainly my fluttery little beating heart is wrung by its own foolishness.

I've prayed before that though God wrench my heart out by the very veins that give it blood, be it His. Looking up and over my balcony rail, beyond the smoke of a few house fires, I can see small white shrouded figures leaping amid blue fire. My dear, affectionate little valkyries.

update

antipodes — 2004-04-04T03:04:00-05:00

my brain is feeling strangley akin to a snowglobe. I need a nap and a cup of hot tea. GAH! Now I must run, I hear my professor (teacher of the most horrible class I've yet taken) coming this way--I estimate one more minute. Ha.

*dashes like mad to Somewhere Else*

these are the times that try men's souls

antipodes — 2004-04-05T05:04:00-05:00

As the title so aptly suggests, my feet are cold. But I'm not sure the guy who wrote that quote was specifically talking about toes; he addresses the season of Summer in the next few sentences. Well, some people can just be confused about life, I guess.

My nose has been buried in a brightly-covered Heath Anthology (vol. 1) today, reading the Adams' letters and Paine's Sense-ible pamphlets and a number of other introductions, prefaces, et cetera. I have also broken 0.7 pencil lead in numerous places trying not to be frustrated with one of my other professors. Lots of schoolwork! Outlines are jotted on suitably lined notecards, lists are made in spare sheets of organiser paper, margins of textbooks have been illustrated in a deft and dextrous manner.

As of 10:00 this morning, Odysseus lied distinctly, deliberately, and in a most long-winded fashion to his loyal swineherd, whose compensation was to be the namesake for the required chapter reading. Odysseus at least owes him a cordial cup of tea. Abominably rude thing to do, what?

I also came across a stanza of a poem that I find apt and comfortably said. Hence I will bother you with it now. I tried to say the same thing in my Feb. 14th entry, but as usual, poetry is not only richer to the sound but also of a more densely concentrated meaning.

"From schoolboy's tongue no rhet'ric we expect,
Nor yet a sweet consort from broken strings,
Nor perfect beauty where's a main defect:
My foolish, broken, blemish'd Muse so sings,
And this to mend, alas, no art is able,
'Cause nature made is so irreparable."
-a. bradstreet

postscript: In my weekend class which inspired such vehemence and violence done to my pencil lead, I did at least learn that I could remember most of Hardy's "The Darkling Thrush" and a good deal of Blake's "London". However, I was mistaken in thinking I could remember more than snatches of "Dover Beach", and so I illustrated Hardy's poem in blue pen and shades of grey pencil lead in a conveniently wide margin.

good morning.

antipodes — 2004-04-06T08:04:00-05:00

I hope you are feeling more awake and positively inclined than I am. I am having one of those days that Wordsworth and Emily Dickinson (with their praise of Imagination and its ability to take you away from the moment) would applaud if they but knew of it: the dancing-sugarplum images of my waking mind involve little but my comfy but hideous red garage-sale armchair at home, with me in it, doing nothing.

What a nastily long sentence that was. I shall feel better in a few hours, after I get some work done . . . so much of it to do . . . Will I ever think in a logical, straight line?

(RHETORICAL! It was RHETORICAL!)

update blog

antipodes — 2004-04-08T01:04:00-05:00

Having plaited my hair and planted it on the top of my head with some flag-pole-length bobby pins, the next obvious step is to pop an Altoid tangerine sour candy into my mouth and wriggle my fingers above the keyboard, hoping for something brilliant to leap off the edges of them. Not much of genius really ever does, but nobody can say I didn’t give it my best shot. Before you take a picture, please let me strike a dramatic pose. Thanks. Ok.

Now before we all collapse under the weight of my brilliance I think it’s time for a coffee break . . .

One of the defining moments of Spring here is that when I wake up in the morning, the whole place sounds like an orchestra rehearsal—birds chirruping and warbling, peeping and singing, calling and whistling. I should like to bring them all into full swing with a conductor’s wand but when the sun actually rises they all take up their voices and wing it home. All that ruckus only to be disappointed! We turn on music from our car stereo to console ourselves and then head off humming and slurping past the mountains.

I’ve been having a bit of trouble actually writing things down fluidly, lately, and I’m not quite sure why. It is bothering me though . . . I am really missing my old campus and its environs. I still have a healthy functional memory about where things are and what people’s names are but it isn’t quite the same, here. The feeling of belonging isn’t around at all! Perhaps my solitude isn’t as severe here and that it what frightens me. Anyway, enough of my self-reflection imposed upon the patient Reader. I will traverse the immeasurable distance to the library this afternoon and slay my dragons there.

Is there anything you guys want to hear about from me? Elizabeth posted something on my last entry and I asked her the same question, but I’m curious . . . post anonymously if you like. I may not be answering immediately as I may not have something already written or inspired, but there is a good chance I can answer you:) Besides, it might help me get back into the swing of things . . .

untitled

antipodes — 2004-04-09T10:04:00-05:00

Alright; deep breath, everyone! I'm going to post a story I wrote a million years ago. I'll post it in installments so you don't have to choke, and it is fairly simple . . . the only problem is that is has no title. Suggestions welcome:)

Once upon a time in a faraway land, there were two neighboring kingdoms. In these kingdoms, there reigned two Kings. They were both great warriors, and boasted over many a hearth over whose army was the largest or the strongest. They often paid lavish compliments of feasts and fine horses, new weapons and gold to each other. The two were great comrades.

One night, King Gregory was standing at the hearth of his friend as he often did, and his face was very grave. “Marcus,” he said, “it is high time you faced the truth.” King Marcus looked up, startled, but then his thin face grew merry, suspecting a joke. Gregory stared at the fire intently, and his eyebrows became a straight line of thought across his broad forehead. He shook his head to indicate that what he was about to say was certainly no jest.

“Marcus, there has been thievery between our people. A week ago, my clerk told me that the cook told him and that the dairy maid’s sister’s husband’s brother plowed an extra furrow. Across the border. From my land to your land.”

“And?” said King Marcus. Gregory looked at him and wiped the sweat off of his shining face with a none-too clean handkerchief. Marcus would have laughed at the streaks the dirt made across his forehead if it were not such a serious moment. Gregory was clearly worried.

“The fault is mine, my dear friend. It was my people who plowed on your land.” He frowned and looked at his feet, awaiting reproach. Marcus sat undisturbed, covering himself in a cloud of tobacco smoke from his pipe.

“And what if he did? My groom told me the other day that the falcon trainer’s niece’s sister-in-law set rabbit traps on your land.”he paused, looking up “I didn’t think you’d mind,” he added.

“That’s all right, then?”queried King Gregory.

“Quite so, old friend,”affirmed King Marcus. Then they both thought the whole thing was rather silly, and once one of them started laughing, the other joined in, and then neither of them could stop. They were finally laughing so hard that King Gregory began to cough, and King Marcus had slid out of his chair. Then, when both had calmed down long enough to speak, Gregory said “Let’s just not let it happen again, shall we?”

* * * *

untitled too

antipodes — 2004-04-10T03:04:00-05:00

Waiting for laundry to get done downstairs, I'm curled up on the couch with "I Capture the Castle". It has been awhile since I read it--this time I am older than Cassandra and I'm feeling oh-so-much wiser than she, although once I say that to myself I know I'd probably make the same mistakes. Except that I would have avoided most all of her problems because I don't like to dance . . . Anyway, here is the next bit of the story.

The months gathered on, and both appeared to have forgotten the incident. Why should it bother them - they were great friends! Still, the seed of discontent had been sown.

There was a great feast at Michaelmas that traditionally took place in Gregory’s hall, and many people, rich and poor, old and young, attended while the snow fell and the wind roared outside. King Marcus, placed at the seat of honor, was picking miserably at his plate of venison, when Gregory noticed he was not eating, and ladled gravy and pudding on Marcus’s plate for him, heaping it very high. Marcus looked agitated, and motioned for him to stop as the gravy-pudding mixture fell onto his purple velvet robe.

“I’m sorry, Marcus,”said Gregory through a mouthful of boar meat. He did not look sorry at all, but then again, Marcus thought, Gregory was, after all, very absent minded. And then, why should Marcus care if there was a spot on his robe? For the sake of the friendship, he would endure his friend’s shortcomings and forget this incident. Why had it ever bothered him before? Marcus forced a smile.

* * * *

There was a time when Marcus was laid down with matters of state, and had to postpone his hunting trips and late night feasts with Gregory, which happened to both of them some time or another. Gregory sent him a fresh killed deer, which, he boasted, he had shot off of Marcus’s own land. Marcus was indignant.

“Gregory! How dare you? First you steal my land, then you spoil my best robe, and now you poach off of my land!?”

“I never! It was you who let your people poach of my land first, then you didn’t even tell me! You refused my kindness and become stiff at Michaelmas! Now you refuse a gift from your friend!”

“A gift, Gregory?! The deer was my own - it was on my land!”

“Have it your way, then!”said Gregory, exasperated.

“I will, if you don’t mind! Now please, I am busy!”

Gregory left the castle in a fine temper, and Marcus buried himself in his stacks of paperwork. Neither spoke to each other for a few weeks.

Then, one day, a messenger came riding to Gregory’s castle, bearing a message that said:

“Gregory,
Let the enmity between us be forgotten. I wish nothing more than to have a good friend again. I wish you well.

-King Marcus”

Gregory sent a letter back, saying:

“KING Marcus,
I wish to be as we have been, but how can I if you will not punish your people for the wrong they have done, and apologize for your own?

- your FRIEND, Gregory”

When Marcus received the letter, he crumpled it up and threw it in the fire. He did not want someone who wanted to buy and sell friendship. He was willing to forgive Gregory for his shortcomings! It was not Marcus who was in the fault!

Gregory, who assumed that the message had not reached Marcus, tried several more times, and then both of the Kings pretended the other did not exist. To further this operation, Gregory and Marcus began to build walls, each starting at a separate end of the kingdom, and built a thick huge wall allowing no one in or out, and no trade to be passed in between. There was a dispute after the boundary lines, but it soon came to an end after the messengers could not get through the walls to deliver the hateful messages. The people of both lands grew sad, and sorrowed at the quarrels of their kings.

* * * *

untitled trees

antipodes — 2004-04-11T11:04:00-05:00

Last piece of the story:) This is where a title would come in handy. Thanks for reading! Soon we will be back to our normal programming.

Gregory sat in his throne room one day, receiving the people’s sorrows, governing trade, and doling justice from a very uncomfortable chair. He rested his ample cheek on his fist and stared idly at the moats of dust in the light streaming in from the large windows. He wished he did not feel so bored. Even hunting did not appeal to him any more. The room became suffocating to him, and he rose from his chair to get some fresh air. Maybe it would do him some good.

After all, he thought as he strolled through the once well-tended gardens, the world was not as it had been. The famine was growing steadily worse - ever since Marcus had been so hurtful. And it was not Gregory’s fault! He had had over twenty complaints today only about the lack of food in the land, and that so many were dying. It used to matter to Gregory. Not any more. Even the garden in which he now stood was laid bare and wasted - not a flower on the bush, and it being high summer!

He walked into the shade of the stone buildings, and through the courtyard to his throne room once again. Just then a last messenger came in and bowed low, laying before the unhappy king a letter, very plain and ordinary. Gregory stretched and then reached down to open the letter that lay at his feet. It was an invitation and it said something of that there was to be a feast, and could he attend? Transportation would be at his door, and he was not pressured to come, but all the same . . . Gregory looked up. The messenger had disappeared. He glanced at the letter. A feast would be good, even now his belt was two sizes thinner in these famine-driven lands(even though it was not actually much, considering Gregory’s size)! He would go.

He called his manservant, and half an hour later Gregory was on the road. There were no windows in the carriage in which he rode, and all was quiet and dark and smooth. He found himself beginning to get drowsy after some while, and was finally lulled into sleep such as he had never known before.

When he awoke, there was a soft knock on the carriage door, and he stepped into the sunshine, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He was swept into a great marble hall, where his coat was whisked off and he was led towards a great wooden door. It opened at his touch, and before him he saw a great table laden with many foods. His mouth began to water. The smell of the food was almost overpowering to him. He was starving. He sat down quickly, and his host bade him eat, which Gregory needed no further encouragement. Strange enough, Gregory could not remember afterwards what his host did look like, or sound like. He could not even remember his name! After a while, Gregory could not lift another spoonful to his mouth. He was tired and fed.

Then his host, the Lord of the Banquet, said softly, “This feast will be here, if ever you are in need of it. I replenish it all the time, it is never empty.” Gregory sleepily muttered his gratitude and his great thanks. “Only,”continued the Lord, “If you would be so kind as to take some to your friend, who, I believe, lives across the wall?”Gregory sat bolt upright. “No!” he said. “That I will not do.” The Lord of the Banquet looked sad, but helped the sleepy King to the waiting carriage outside, and said nothing more of the request.

When Gregory reached his own palace, he thought over his decision. It was too late now. Too late for Marcus, and too late for himself. The feast would not be there. It was an illusion. It had never been there at all! He would not believe it! Gregory made his way to his throne room and sat down in his throne.

* * * *

Far away across the wall, Marcus stood gaunt and tired at his battlements. Dark circles were permanently staining the area under his eyes. He sighed as he contemplated jumping to the ground below.The famine was spreading over his lands too.

* * * *

Years passed, and the land was laid waste. The people were starving. The Kings were proud. Unmarked graves of those who had starved to death were scattered across the land. The Kings grew gaunt and gray, but they held fast to their foolish, selfish pride.

* * * *

Centuries later, we learn that neither King relented and that both died unhappily. Gregory went mad, and hung himself in his chambers. Marcus drank a bitter poison. The land was barren for a thousand years, and the country mourned.

santa fe

antipodes — 2004-04-12T02:04:00-05:00

External distractions and internal interruptions disallow me from concentrating on the simplest of tasks. "Let me read you a chapter of" and I'd really rather be's intrude incessantly, bombarding my feebly struggling sense of obligation to any type of classwork. At least I am writing a little of my own, here, instead of copy-pasting old stories and asking questions that will take me much longer than necessary to answer due to my musing and mulling.

I have RENT on repeat in my head and on my computer, and I'm seeing the words "Santa Fe" everywhere.

I've also torn the cuffs off of my oldest grey sweatshirt; a sign that I need to either get rid of it and start carrying my long-neglected embroidery project around the house with me again, or that I should go on a mending spree. Should I mention that I'm not especially talented at mending things? And I've skipped four lines with one colour accidentally on my embroidery, but it means naught but that I shall shift the way the wind blows over the sea-grass in the picture.

I hear there are great restaurants out West.

*sigh*

saint-exupery found!

antipodes — 2004-04-13T09:04:00-05:00

One of my many symptoms of ungeekity is that I do not know how to make a hyperlink here. Oh well. I have posted the link anyway. If it is a hyperlink or completely nonfunctional by the time you get to read it then I have been Experimenting. Mwahaha.

Some of the literary blokes here might want to check it out, particularly if you like to draw boa constrictors swallowing elephants that often get mistaken for hats (the boas not the elephants).

I have spent too much time beaming benevolently at my keyboard and fondly at some fora, and now I must concentrate my radiance on my patient Heath Anthology. Film at eleven.

"France finds crash site of 'Little Prince' author Saint-Exupery"

latte macchiato & trogdor converts

antipodes — 2004-04-13T03:04:00-05:00

Some of you, especially those who read this because they don't believe I possess vocal chords, will groan to read the first half of my subject title. I am going to post on it one day, a sonnet of praise for my caffeine fix! One day, my little minions!

(but not Morgan, since she bought me my present caffeine fix *grin*)

Back at the ranch, corralled into computer chairs and transfixed at our feedbag monitors, I have suggested to BLT that he play trogdor instead of solitaire and he surreptitiously grumbled into his keyboard. But there may yet be hope. He hasn't snored for the past hour.

As for me, I have been glancing dubiously at Heath and bowing low to the network printer that has served me so well today. Oddly enough I can't wait to be home and reread some old books.

Steadfast in my cowardliness do I avoid thinking of the friends that will be leaving soon . . . pray, pray, pray.

ribbitribbitCROAK

antipodes — 2004-04-15T10:04:00-05:00

A few startlingly concrete events have brought me back to my pithy three-dimensional world with a jolt that would have tickled Jove's big toe. I could be more specific, but the depth of all the mighty voices of the gods would pale in comparison to my voice, which is showing the baritone effects of a sore throat. Besides, I have been introduced to a hallux that would have knocked Jove off the list flat. Time to read some Robert Browning and sneer at myself in the mirror.

To top off all of the other scathingly present trespasses of the world that intruded upon my personal space bubble, let me but add a moment which was surely evidence of the existence of the Improbability Drive that powers our Volkswagen camper. Loaded down with various and sundry textbooks (including a suspicious Wodehouse novel), I struggled valiantly and with an excellent soundtrack to the doors of the hallway, wherein lies a staircase and an Eddie-an elevator.

Two things occurred to my senses. First, my eyes took in the sparklingly clean floor, the proudly shining doors of the elevator, and the layer of moist dampity that made every surface slippery as a soapy fish. The next thing that chorused to me was the overwhelming smell of ammonia. I knew then what had transpired. The smell became suffocating even through my raging sinuses.

Laden as I was with cumbersome baggage I made a half dash, half wild sliding motion to the elevator. My assumption was that I should escape the smell and the slipperiness of the outer hallway by taking the elevator, but no! Oh, no! The inside of the elevator had been doused with the stuff! The floor was a flood of ammonia-smelling gunk! I could almost see some Puck creature laughing his little head off. I braced myself against an odorous wall and endured the flight to the next floor.

Anyway, I've also been looking at other colleges. I want to transfer. I like this one especially. And, my bus is about to leave without me.

*wrinkles nose*

the sky is falling

antipodes — 2004-04-16T01:04:00-05:00

Lots of things are drifting down from above me; rain and cigarette ash and the smells of woodsmoke--not to mention the wistful restlessness that circles you before it rushes headlong into your throat as a lump, takes the warmth from your fingers and toes, and sidles into your mind, whispering doubts. I hear footsteps above me--is she awake or is it the echoes from next door?--and somebody at the corner uses their car horn.

Two pages written, now, and not a drop of coffee to be had in the house. I've already downed a pot of tea, too, but it isn't the same (no, I'm not suffering from a caffeine headache).

I have notecards and scribbles, papers and textbooks strewn out all within my arms' reach and over the cover of my bed. The latter has attracted two cats who are curling neatly and recklessly sprawling, respectively. They both bury their noses in tight-curled paws and scratch their ears on the corners of the Heath Anthology of American Lit. and my psychology textbook, which appears to be chewy, so sayeth my cat.

I've stopped listening to RENT and have been breathing for a little while to Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings. I need to find some Peter Gabriel, too, while I'm at it; that and some Moby, with appetizers of Sigur Ros.

And tea. Hey, ho, and more tea!

look upon endymion

antipodes — 2004-04-17T01:04:00-05:00

"Gaudy Night", one of my hoarded mystery novels, always leaves room for ramblings of my own mind; I heard someone call it wondermongering once. Anyway, Wimsey (and I swoon) says something about the worst sin of a passion is to be joyless . . . and then a thought was brought to my attention, so I mulled over it.

When I first began to shakily take a stand for myself, educating myself on more than geography and mathematics and how to deduce motive from form in literature, I found myself sitting across from a man who asked me a question I should have known the answer to. The room smelled dusty, and I had been nervously fidgeting. My name pronounced correctly was startling enough, but I heard his words: "What do you hope for?"

I remember blinking, looking down, blushing. What a very revealing question. I remember hearing other people's replies:

"I wanna have a house and a wife and three kids."

"I would like--I mean I want a family someday, and a job that I'm good at."

"I want to move out of my parents' house and go to college."

Silly, now! But my little serious self couldn't even laugh at herself as much as she does now (I am still practicing), and so she took the question quite to heart.

"I want . . . I hope . . . I would like to be useful. I want to make a difference for people. I mean, if God has me do something I'm good at, so be it, but if I don't enjoy it naturally, I mean if I'm not happy but I'm still doing what he wants me to do, then . . . " I took a deep breath. I'm still not adept at talking to people, especially in a group. " . . . I don't have to be content with myself. So long as God is content with me--this is what I hope for."

Blushing furiously and infuriatingly, I could only just make myself look back at my listener, who had cocked his head to one side and remained entirely straightfaced. My compatriots at the table looked a little confused and I could see one girl trying not to laugh. My professor let out a short breath and gave me a very kind look, saying quietly "That is admirable, but it is also a quick recipe for burnout."

And I can't help wondering: is that what I'm doing now? I seem to have left a good many things behind. If it isn't visible in those who know me, just allow me to see within myself a clench-jawed endurance set in slowly. I will get through this. is what I hear inside myself. I am always half-sick, constantly tired, and often pessimistic; it is only with great effort that a little button is pushed that says "momentary optimist".

It does sound entirely stupid--why would I defeat myself like this?--but this is just my easy way of thinking it out: writing.

praise God from whom all [scholarships] flow!

antipodes — 2004-04-19T02:04:00-05:00

How thankful I am that I buried myself in novels and Wordsworth this weekend! I return feeling the exhaustive effects of a sniffly cold and the exhilarating joys of a scholarship award in the mail as well as the smug feeling of having the house to myself for the day.

I look forward to some enlightening discussion on Homer's "Odyssey" this weekend. I haven't finished the book itself quite yet, though I'm nearly done with it. I love the paperback copy of the Fagles' translation. Thick pages with uneven edges, a modest though rich cover, and a highly readable and humble font. The thickness of the book itself is perfect, fitting into one's hand in a very inviting manner. It has everything to match Heath.

Even with all of this running through and dancing circles around my brain, I still remember "The First Violin" in a most Tinternian manner. I simply must get a copy of Lohengrin.

rapunzel vacations at dover beach

antipodes — 2004-04-19T07:04:00-05:00

Nothing like cleaning on a rainy day (once you're done, of course).

I'm back at my computer, back at my little hub of music and unspoken poetry, with little or no inspiration to write the paper I have this idea for. I've closed my shutters against the cold spring rain and opened the inside windows in order to exchange senses: sight for sound. Now that spring has really set in, the sun retires in the evening rather than the afternoon.

I'd love to make an analogy of a Rapunzel weeping for a tryst with her lover, who is warm and comes with the summer, quenching her tears. He redeems her tears, bringing out of them the good sweet caress that nourishes his spirit . . .

(In other words: since it has rained in the spring and the sun comes out in the summer, plants grow and in a cosmic sense it is continuing the cycle of life, death, rebirth. That is the equation; I have given you the definitions of life and death for the analogy, what is the rebirth part?)

However, it would be copying from a more fitting story. Is spring the virgin maiden or the mother whose child has been borne away? Because of the respect owed grief over eros, Ceres and Persephone take precedence.

And besides, the prince--if you remember--fell from the tower into a batch of roses (this is before thornless roses) and was blinded, wandered around the world until Little Ms. saw fit to make noise while she sought him (singing, I think).

LOL I can just see it now; they meet each other finally in the dark "like ignorant armies that clash by night" and then are startled back with a "melancholy, long withdrawing roar". ROFL. I amuse myself. See the link to "Dover Beach" if you want to read the rest of the poem.

slimy subject

antipodes — 2004-04-21T08:04:00-05:00

Being like St. Paul is a dream of mine; this is why when I found this post, I was curious. Laughing at a common experience in the second paragraph, I decided to read on. I have my ideas about the matter entirely decided and consider the subject annoying because I blush at the least provocation, but with the tease of mentioning Paul and this writer . . . well, I should spare you the ad and just tell you to read all of her backlogs. Read all of her backlogs.

So, anyway, I'm stealing her Muse. Is there anybody here who is the least unhappy being single? Oh? Lots? Is there anybody here who is the least unhappy being married? Oh? Lots? Good grief. *rolls eyes*

I don't get it, anyway. Everyone has an element of loneliness to them. Humanity is a lonely existence. Even married I cannot imagine such an intimacy as to reach those inner parts of me . . . weird. Sure, it would be great to have a friend so close to me even as a boyfriend, but I'm a person without him. Ache? Pang? Dart? Wrench? Sometimes, yeah, but . . . you get over it . . . Maybe this is just me. Is there something wrong with me that I don't think I need a husband? That I don't want a boyfriend? Applications for friends are always open . . .

Heh. I've never had a boyfriend:) Like Ms. Jen, I've had so many brothers-that-I-never-had I don't know what to do with them . . . but unlike her I'm horrid about presents. Maybe I'm saying I'm not ready for that kind of intimacy? Weird. Don't count another blog like this!

*wrinkles her nose*

dreams of summer sans orthodontistry

antipodes — 2004-04-22T03:04:00-05:00

That's it! I'm fed up. Barbaric alchemists that call themselves orthodontists have just messed around with my mouth again, playing with sharp pointy objects and randomly poking the aformentioned point things into tender places of my mouth. "Let us add some wires to poke you more," and "just a few more plastic and rubber chains to help you speak." OUCH! My mouth HURTS! I shan't be speaking a lot at all. They also made me miss my bus this morning; all of the possible morning buses, in fact. I say we hang them all.

Anyway, I have a midterm tonight.

I am the proud new owner of a 12" iBook.

I look forward to the holidays.

My class on "The Odyssey" is coming up soon!

And I fell asleep on the bus--something I rarely do here. Blegh. How tossed-around one feels afterwards. Hopefully I will be done with my homework by a half-hour before I must take the midterm, and with any the luck the midterm will not be as difficult as dreaded.

A west wind kept me company today, and I am glad of her. I've missed her around; perhaps I shall see her more as summer comes through . . . Can't wait to get my compy:)

truth, belief, and faithfulness

antipodes — 2004-04-23T11:04:00-05:00

This may be a hodge-podge of different pieces of literature that not everybody is familiar with, but this has been a theme that somehow my mind has been opened to lately; don’t ask me why:) Perhaps it is the many anniversaries that have been presenting themselves during the last few weeks? Cycles of death and rebirth are what it all boils down to; if you want my opinion, it is all on account of Spring.

I don’t intend to try and shout myself hoarse making small talk about values and philosophy to people who have eagerly shoved pencils into their eardrums and don’t even know what they mean when they say that they “don’t give a damn”. So, I didn’t write this to preach my beliefs to you. This is going to be a long post, but if you decide to skip bits of it, skip the bits I wrote and just read the quotations.

Believing that there is a Truth that lives in me and isn’t me—that guides me and protects me and disciplines me—is very, very uncomfortable. Trust me. It is more startling to think that there are lesser beings like Him but not Him, that aren’t human but invisible, that pull me in a tug-of-war with my self-will. I think this is what Tolkien meant when he wrote about Frodo’s battle with the Ring; all Christians carry Rings of their freedom of choice, encompassed in a body of human nature!

“Dear friends, do not believe every spirit, but test the spirits to see whether they are from God, because many false prophets have gone out into the world.”
--st. john

Often, we fail in our quests for our respective sangreals. Christians are never totally faithful. We doubt all the time; the important thing is that we keep coming back to the same answers. Not to say that we should sin for the grace we are given—this is about as sane as saying that you should be a cutter for the adrenaline rush—but that there are always second chances for the weak and proud, and aren’t we all? (If you answer no, please click the back button on your browser.)

“I built another temple to a stranger and gave away my heart to the rushing wind; I set my course to run into danger. I sought the company of fools instead of friends. You know I’ve been unfaithful; my lovers were in lines, while you were turning over tables in the rage of a jealous kind. I chose the gallows to the aisle and thought that love would never find me, but hanging ropes will never keep you and your love of a jealous kind . . . but I’d rather feel the pain all too familiar than be broken by a lover I don’t understand—because I don’t understand . . .”
--jealous kind (adapted)

And no, we don’t always decide to take that incredible risk and run the gauntlet Hall-of-Mirrors. When we do, it is as painful as having your heart dug brutally by fingernails from the cavity in your chest through ventricles and blood vessels and a fine web of sensitive nerves, through your ribcage; in fact, I believe it actually does happen like that (just not usually physically).

“’I beg of you . . . for the love of God . . .’ the words came slow and slurred, ‘to forgive me . . . and admit me . . . and admit me again . . . to this house . . . here to do penance . . . amend my . . . life . . . and serve God . . . faithfully . . . until death . . . ‘”
--brother thomas

It is my personal fear (one of them, anyway) of not recognizing the Truth when I see it face to face. Oh, I see familiar concepts everywhere in how I should treat my coworkers and friends, in the manner that I attempt to conduct myself respectfully, in the way that I hope to shed light on the world as I see it.

How am I to surrender to an invisible conqueror? How does one know about these spirits that John talked about? Most lies are believable—that is what makes them dangerous. So I know what I am doing is wrong, but what happens when I wake up in the middle of the night and find nothing but void darkness above, below, beside me? Where do I start walking towards? To go on in this void would be hell, to which Dante appropriately replied “abandon all hope, ye who enter here”.

“But don’t fault me, angry with me now because I failed,
at first glimpse, to greet you, hold you, so . . .
In my heart of hearts I always cringed with fear
some fraud might come, beguile me with his talk;
the world is full of the sort,
cunning ones who plot their own dark ends.”
--penelope
the odyssey (fagles’ trans.)

All this sounds really serious—I’m just thinking out loud:) Gah, what a world we live in.

The most humbling, terrorizing thing about this “Truth” thing is that I cannot live without it—I look for it everywhere, through all times and all minds I encounter, I must find it. And when I do, it is as if I’ve seen a candle float by as I ride across from Charon. Or, for those Lord of the Rings fans, it might be like the strength given at the sound of the words “Elbereth Gilthoniel!”. It is more than inspiration, it truly must be the only form of Love.

“Though my heart has been torn by loves I have worn and I’m tempted by them ever still, I tremble inside when you walk in the room—you hold my affections, and will. I’m only alive with you . . .”
--only alive (adapted)

my ithaka

antipodes — 2004-04-25T07:04:00-05:00

At first I contemplated walking to a small grotto that we sheltered in yesterday, but then I realised that the winds outside were very strong, and that the little corridor-alley that winded to it would be treacherous waters. So I stole downstairs for a half of a cornetto spread with just a little of nutella and crept back upstairs to exchange blinks with my cat and choose a book to curl up with. I suppose weekends must be kept sacred somehow, and I will be home tomorrow.

My weekend of "The Odyssey" is over. Not what I expected at all, but cool. I'm trying to weasel "Lord of the Rings" into my paper somehow. I should get a midterm and a final back tomorrow, as well as drive a thesis to bang. I have a respect and fondness for the Odyssey that I didn't have before, which is why I like taking this professor's classes. Somebody else could have ruined it entirely.

I admit to listening to Moby sometimes. Sorry to disappoint some of you. However, I can still hear Little Tyke through the walls of my bedroom, crying. Probably it is time for his nap.

Remaining excited about summer hols, I wonder: what is the battery life of my new computer? I wonder whether things will look the same? What kind of new, modest bilboards will adorn the highway partitions? What new books will be out? What will I want to write? Will I still feel so naturally discontented? Will I find a direction to walk in? At least find me a reason why!

sweaty-toothed madmen.

antipodes — 2004-04-27T12:04:00-05:00

It is one of the most frustrating things I have ever had to deal with that I cannot see how people see me. At least here I can pick and choose what I want to say, what I delete or edit or screen or disallow comments on. Yeah. Well, I can acknowledge it here in front of God and everybody but in person, how does one do such things? Totally at a loss.

And hang everything! No matter how much I try and change, I've always got a hanger-on telling me I've just done exactly what I've been trying not to do. To top it all, these scream-sliding valkyries are sending postcards to the furies, who would like a mutual acquaintance with me.

I'm not trying to hit myself over the head here, I just want to explain it all to myself. I think it is time for another story or poem or . . . something.

Summer hols, dahling!

attention: complaining ahead

antipodes — 2004-04-27T02:04:00-05:00

And the computer lab is cold. Back here again, and I'm getting sick of both slave narratives and women's rights activists. And I have a few strands of hair that won't stop dangling in front of my face, no matter how many times I put them back.

Feeling sick and crabby and not a little tired, I'm finishing up homework. I do have a bright spot in my week, though, in that my professor is going to allow me to use Lord of the Rings as a comparison to Homer's Odyssey, so this should be a fun paper. Whee!

I got to have coffee with my mother this morning, which was nice. I love having such a mother. My compy should be here next week, and I am excited!

I am thinking about taking up a writing project this summer. A story or a poem or something! Plots are the most difficult things; I refuse to rewrite Lyrical Ballads in free verse.

Drat the whole thing. All I want to do is curl up and let the earth swallow me.

gilraen

antipodes — 2004-04-28T11:04:00-05:00

What a harrowing night was my last, looking into the faces of dead warriors. I found Tolkien's work inspiring long before they began making the movie, and already have pictures fixed in my mind of what some things look like; especially places like the Dead Marshes and the tower room in Cirith Ungol. Not only are they vivid in my imagination but also my memory.

I know Tolkien "cordially disliked allegory in all of its manifestations" but he did believe in applicability, and on this count I can say that I have been to these places . . . he seems to have broken all of his heroes in a fastness of heart that I really am shocked at. In the questioning of themselves and their quest, their quality is concentrated and refined into mithril rather than gold or silver or steel:) The failure of the Nine is in Boromir, whose picture I have up on my wall not for the actor that played him (though I will stand and applaud Sean Bean for a worthy performance) but because he reminds me of the parts inside myself that would have taken for itself.

How pitiable. But those books are among my very dearest: I've given up on keeping my edition of the books on any kind of shelf since they inevitably end up on my study table. I'm always rereading one or another part of them . . .

"This is a bitter end to our hope and to all our toil!" [Gimli] said.

"To hope, maybe, but not to toil," said Aragorn. "We shall not turn back here. Yet I am weary." He gazed back along the way that they had come towards the night gathering in the East.

--"lord of the rings" by j.r.r. tolkien

Oh to find a leader of men such as Aragorn:) Truly, then even Arthur would have no place.

pointing pigeons

antipodes — 2004-04-30T12:04:00-05:00

A long time ago on a coast far away, there were youth hostels and bookstores and coffee shops and health food cafés.

The youth hostels are important to our story as the setting, the bookstores are the answer to the question “What the heck were you doing in lots of youth hostels and coffee shops?” and the coffee shops explain themselves (I mean, come on). The health food cafés serve the purpose of identification: just where do you suppose I was?

Anyway, I was just listening to Keith Jarrett’s “Köln Concert” and remembering a road trip two years ago.

Mwahahaha.

Only the hardy among you survive; third party summer road trips are not for the weak at heart. So, I won’t tell you the whole thing. I have enough in my journal to last us through next year about this trip, though:) No, that wasn’t a threat.

Ok, let’s think Monterey Youth Hostel, right before they caught that murderer/rapist right up the coast. I will believe easily that I met him and had a conversation with him, since we shared the same hostel in freak coincidence (?) more than once. That was exciting after we found out who he was in the news a week later. I want you all to read this as your homework.

This was the same trip that had a more immediately frightening encounter in the guest kitchen with some Finnish teenagers that were about to leave their dishes on the rack without having rinsed them. “Irresponsible!” we say; “Lazy.” others comment, wrinkling their noses, but I don’t think they knew how to wash dishes. Rinsed, yes, soaped, yes, rins—noooo. A few others, startled, tried to explain that letting soap dry on dishes does interesting, painful things to your stomach but they grunted and left, knitting their eyebrows and giving us weird looks.

Turning to put something in the refrigerator, there was a sign that discouraged people bringing in alcohol. It read, with the numerous additions, something like this:

This is an ~~alcohol~~ FUN free establishment. Please leave all ~~alcoholic~~ FUN & ~~beverages~~ ENJOYMENT outside the hostel.

My favorite hostel was Pigeon Point, in Pescadero. It was a lighthouse. At the same table, late at night, we shared oatmeal cookies (we were the only ones who really came prepared, I think; at least in the cookie department) with a Quaker and her daughter (a painter), a German Qigong instructor who was even shorter than I, and a cook who arrived late with her son, a geeky sort of person. I don’t mean to label anybody with those terms, but just to show you how varying we were.

Excuse me if I grin while I remember it. While writing this entry I took out my journal from the time when we were on this trip and my-oh-my, the people we met! The books we read! The coffee we drank! The cherry pits we spit! Spit? Spat? Sput? Spitted?

for tom, theo, james, and francis

antipodes — 2004-05-01T11:05:00-05:00

I don’t know whether I am being taught the value of grace or of emotional well-being.

Either way—or maybe both—lead me to wonder: what else am I totally unaware of that I lack and am missing or destroying? I feel someone laughing deep inside me, and someone else looking on in dispassionate curiosity. Yet another wants so deeply to burn within me a passion that will make me beautiful. They have plowed my back deep furrows of flesh that hurt when I laugh and open when I cry. I want only to be held close and safe, to give myself up totally and completely to Him who loves me enough to put salve on my wounds and to dress me in white.

I fight my tendency to humiliate myself and find myself torn between whether I deserve it or not. “I am not to judge!” I tell myself, whispering fiercely to my knees, which I’ve pulled up against my chin. For a few moments I feel wracked with revulsion and I want to vomit, then my throat breaks and makes some kind of croaking noise that people don’t write about it novels or portray in movies—it makes us small and transient, vulnerable and pitiably human beings. It is one of those times when there are only a few tears.

Tomorrow I will have pleaded desperately for this fire to stop burning within me, but the strong, gentle voice that calls me “my love” will push the stray hair from my eyes and tell me that I swore my heart to Him, and He is only doing what I asked Him to. My eyes red and puffy, nose all swollen and red, it will take some strength of will to whisper “I do” once more and let Him hold me close. My last sob will leave in a shuddering sigh.

Funny, though; I never seem to want for will to endure.

sunday afternoons

antipodes — 2004-05-02T06:05:00-05:00

It is a Sunday afternoon, as I type this. Not the kind of Sunday afternoon that Douglas Adams references as “the long dark teatime of the soul” because I have already had my tea, and those intolerably excruciating minutes have passed in the slow ritual of redressing myself for Sunday evening.

It used to be that I would run up the shabbily carpeted stairs to my room after we got home, and change quickly into khaki pants and a nice sweater before curling up with a book. On Sundays we were rarely allowed to do anything messy because not only did we attend church on Sunday mornings but also a sort of evening bible study which was tedious except for the beauty of summer evenings on a wide green lawn, surveyed by ladies in modest floral prints and men in khakis with jackets hanging over their arms. At about this time, it was appropriate for us to give our knees gloriously grass stains and climb trees in order to shove others out of them. There was also a green fire escape from which one could satisfactorily throw many gumballs or other seedpods at innocent and usually adolescent passersby. I still hate wearing khaki pants.

Now it is that I change into something comfortable and old and sit at my computer pecking at assignments that can wait until tomorrow. I twist my hair into a tangle and feed it placating bobby pins, which hold it at bay above my neck. A mug of espresso and milk is procured and secured on the left side of my desk. Oh, wait—I forgot to do something; I splash my face with water and clean my glasses on a handkerchief or my t-shirt or the cat—the cat!—who wiles his way onto my lap and purrs triumphantly as errant fur fountains into the air towards my nose.

Today (unlike the cat) I smell a little like perfume. It is the first time I’ve worn perfume since something like 7th grade, and it is making me feel a little grown-up and Susan-ish.

Funny. I’ve been feeling so young and so old today. I have passed points, reached inns and harbors, from which there is no return. And yet—every morning I look up at the sky as if I had seen it there for the first time, like coming out of Plato’s Cave.

Right. Well, my jeans are probably out of the washer by now.

right, ho!

antipodes — 2004-05-02T10:05:00-05:00

I haven't been myself for a little while, but I'm thinking about moving back in with me. I shall restrict my dragons and accompanying valkyries to a moleskine. Time for some exercises in optimism.

Really.

seated in a window

antipodes — 2004-05-03T04:05:00-05:00

For some strange whimsical reason unbeknownst to my conscious mind, I have always wanted a window-seat. Not for use as a morgue like they did in Arsenic and Old Lace; where is your mind!? No, I wanted a window-seat to read upon. It still boggles my mind as to why, but I think some of it may be because of Miss Brontë’s Jane Eyre, who used to hide behind the curtains on rainy days and read there, or maybe because that is where we first find Will Stanton from The Dark is Rising. Then again, maybe it was because of those fairytale anthologies that never failed to have illustrations of a girl in a sweeping floor-length skirt and long flowing hair sitting in one of the aforementioned seats reading a volume of unjustified size or gazing out the diamond panes of the window into European hills.

I made exception to the flowing skirt in the picture because I much preferred blue jeans, and my hair was not particularly flowing nor was it curly like the girls’ in the pictures but still, I was known to be a chronic book-carrier and imagination was better than all the flowing skirts and curly hair in the world. Besides, Jane Eyre’s hair wasn’t curly and Will Stanton never wore a skirt (as far as I’m aware).

But wistfully though I knocked on the insides of wardrobes (just to make sure) and eyed many a three-inch-wide windowsill, the only suitable ones I could find were divided up into houses that were not mine. Until now! This house gained instant approval of its windows by having a very wide marble sill to a window that overlooks a hazelnut grove. The other windows are huge, and have balconies attached until you get to the top floor, where the windows are like attic windows—small and oddly but very appropriately shaped. I say nothing of how cold the wide windowsill is in the autumn, nor of how stuffy and hot it is upstairs in the summer. As of now the present season subscribes to neither summer nor fall but tarries in spring.

I spent this afternoon smugly on my marble windowsill, mulling over some papers I must write. The sun was so gentle and strong; my face became warm and the breeze was just cool enough to make me want to drink it. Closing my eyes for a second over my work I realized that every part of me was comfortable. Opening my eyes, I stole Lord of the Rings our from under The Odyssey and flipped through to find bits of poetry.

Now the afternoon wears on and the sun has been succeeded by a layer of kind clouds, which deign to leave behind remnants of warmth in the tile and on the marble. I shouldn’t be surprised if it began to rain.

to the man in the grey flannel suit

antipodes — 2004-05-03T10:05:00-05:00

I'm aware that the sonnet's penultimate line
Is besmeared by a spelling mistake.
But I also assumed--surely that fault is mine
That the meaning you all still might take.

Now I could be wrong because I know the face
Of this poem that my list has hosted,
I suppose th(e)y confusion might be the case
So I remain glad that you posted:)

leftover big macs of the mind

antipodes — 2004-05-04T10:05:00-05:00

I could valiantly struggle against the leather portfolio and its cohorts of paper and index cards but instead I vanquish them all by setting my keyboard on top of them in order to write. I am student, hear me roar. *cough*.

I’ve just realized that in two weeks, my online class will be over and I will be accompanied to my note-taking sessions and other various collegiate activities by a new laptop computer that is smaller than most of the books I carry around. No, I do not boast—I have absolutely no desire for a PDA. I like the feel of a laptop, typing away merrily. It is closer than a PDA to feeling like an honest-to-hardback book, anyway.

My online class that I am currently enrolled in can go hang itself! It is almost over! Although before the end, I realize that I will not have to write the dreaded ten page paper but an inexorably ominous fifteen pages! Woe is me! And woe to my teacher for assigning fifteen pages! She will certainly regret asking me to write more than the popularly allotted ten. Ha. So there. My scathing boredom will scour her mouldy wits into thinking fondly about that leftover Big Mac she’s been waiting to heat up for lunch.

Gross! Eww! Ok, that grosses me out more than the thought of Italy in August sans antiperspirant. Let’s return to the comforting thoughts of taking vengeance on my professor. How much more can we beat the dead horse? If I ever own a dead horse, I’m going to name him Shakespeare.

evening thought

antipodes — 2004-05-04T11:05:00-05:00

My hands still smell of onions and I purloined the rest of the coffee. I am beginning to yawn, so I had better head off to bed.

sweet dreams:)

a library day and no mistake.

antipodes — 2004-05-05T05:05:00-05:00

Today it was as if I knew instinctively that it was nearing the final weeks of the college term. My old highschool rucksack was slung on my back (it is bigger than the shoulder-bag I carry now), I was once again in my raggedy but ultimately comfortable green hooded sweatshirt, and I was wearing shoes specifically chosen to combat the obstinate squeakiness of the library staircase.

At nine o'clock this morning I stood outside the library, smugly full of scrambled eggs and orange-cinnamon rolls, orange juice, and a few shots of espresso smothered in yummy cold milk. My gratefulness to my mother did not even dent the overcast sky, though.

The library unfortunately opens at 0930. Ever since my college physics class I realise just how much fun it is to play with gravity and inertia and bookbags . . . Please don't be alarmed. My books remain intact. I read the better part of the chapter where Faramir questions Frodo while waiting for the doors to open.

My first vulture dive went to the computers, and then the reference section. I gathered to myself the minions of anthologies and various references and piled them on top of my leather portfolio, like Gus from Disney's Cinderella carrying corn kernels away from Lucifer-librarians (except that I made it up the stairs).

Arranging my belongings and indentured servants carefully I swept along to the corner store and splurged extravagantly on a new mechanical pencil and a package of post-it notes. I also smuggled a two litre bottle of water up my sleeve. That wasn't too difficult on account of the wide sleeves of my sweatshirt, except the part about going upstairs.

Lunch hour inevitably brought crying children and mothers that created white noise by shhhhing their startlingly acoustic offspring. It occured to me that while at home, I hear an incessant chatter of gossipy wildlife, it is in the library that I hear the incessant chatter of identical keyboards, icons of the corporate dynasty. What a pretty phrase.

I ate lunch at a place with blaringly red-and-white-striped tables, grating radio noise, and was accosted several times by people wearing similar attire, topped with sombreros. So long as I kept shouting my order at them, everything seemed to be fine. I left in a hurry.

I got half of my Shakespeare outline done (very chaotic) and am exhausted. The rest of it will be held at bay until tomorrow by the beginning of my "LOTR-I-mean-Odyssey" paper's research and reflection. Especially the reflection bit. I reflect best when napping.

By the end of this term I shall be sneezing post-it notes.

yawnic symbols and freudian zippers

antipodes — 2004-05-07T12:05:00-05:00

My new laptop is here! I am blogging from it. Delightful creature. What a long day, though. Please do forgive my sleepiness as I write. Oh my *grin* It was funny. Consequently, I must apologize once more to the male population of my readers. Read on, or not, but don't say I didn't warn you.

I attend lectures on literature. I do, oh yes I do. They are sometimes tragic as I see war and disease tear the hearts of writers, see them go mad with grief. Sometimes the classes are a little more spirited; for instance, the one on Ralph Waldo Emerson--a man who deserved his name. This one, though it was the stereotypical dark and stormy night and we were studying Edgar Allen Poe, was hilarious. Situationally ironic would have been a better term for it.

Happily chatting about my computer, I opened it up and turned it on. A chorus of blue pixels greeted me with an angelic chord. I beamed at everyone over the top of the screen. A few people deigned to acknowledge my prize with annoyed looks. Undaunted, I swept my book bag from the chair next to me onto the floor. Placing my portfolio next to it, I felt a soft snap behind my left shoulder blade. Slightly puzzled, I shrugged and sat back up in my chair as the teacher closed the classroom door. Suddenly I felt that something was monstrously off-balance. I blinked and opened my mouth to say something. Imagine my horror at finding that our break would not be for another hour.

Chuckling at myself after the break (the offending article lay limp and defeated in the bottom of my book bag), I sat back down as the teacher presented some questions to review as we studied our pieces.

"Poe's mystery stories," she said, "have been interpreted many different ways over the years, and I am giving you questions accordingly so that you can see different perspectives on the beginnings of the mystery genre." Well, maybe she didn't say it that formally, but that's what she meant. I smugly chortled to myself. I had done this before. Many times before. It was boring, but at least it was easy. Mentally I congratulated myself, but oh, too soon. How the proud fall!

"I know there are three of you who have studied this last question more thoroughly than the rest of this class, and I'd like you three to tackle number four." I looked at it and blanched. I sputtered to no avail as the teacher asked me to join two others on the opposite side of the room. Whimpering, I followed as she directed. Out of shock and dismay, my most productive movement yet was to type out the question.

"Name some psychological and sexual allusions in 'The Purloined Letter'."

This may not seem too scary to some of you, but this particular story is full of pipes and needles, magnifying glasses and a gun "without a ball", beds, chair legs--smoke, fire, "filthy blue dangling ribbons" with calling cards--and secrets. Suddenly it because very clear to me and very apparent that everyone else was writing with pens and pencils while I used my open laptop computer and was devoid of a certain essential piece of elastic where most of the others were parading theirs (not the two guys, of course). The teacher fidgeted with her white-board marker. White? Marker?

And I could share it with no one! Jeni, I missed you! Oh, you would have laughed. Gratefully, I caught a ride home with my sisters and mother, to whom I was able to relate the episode.

I'm so excited about this compy:) I'm going to write my "LOTR-I-mean-Odyssey" paper tomorrow and work on importing some music, not to mention changing the desktop picture.

*Y(O/AW)N*

slowly but surely the summer

antipodes — 2004-05-07T09:05:00-05:00

I look forward to the summer, something not quite usual for me. Last summer was interesting but because guilty persons are aware of and may peruse this blog from time to time, I will sigh and say no more except to smile wryly. At any rate, this time last year was more hectic than the present. Somehow that makes my immediate troubles seem a little smaller. I know I hate it when people will reference things I'm unfamiliar with, so let's put those last few sentences behind us, shall we?

Blegh. That makes it sound like I don't write for myself, and I do.

The summer is coming up faster, though, and I can begin to give those days names! Slowly, details are coming into view. I've put music on my computer, transfered files, installed applications. I even looked at my to-read stack with a calculating glance rather than a wistful gaze.

And now I'm tired.

I fidget with my hands, trying to figure out what to write next. Right. That means I should get back to work.

*sigh*

a habit of wondering

antipodes — 2004-05-08T10:05:00-05:00

Somehow in the middle of this paper I have time to write a page or so for my blog. Well, I shouldn’t have time. The paper is a meager ten pages due tomorrow, and I already have five of them done and polished. Well, sort of polished. No references yet, but I shall be using plenty for the paper. I must make this paper something I will like. I’m not sure I would forgive myself if I did a shoddy job and handed it in that way. It would, of course, scrape a good grade, but this is something I love.

Anyhow. I’ve been dreaming, dreaming of writing. I love sitting at my computer and scribbling over scraps of paper with books piled around me and papers flying every-which-where. I’m happy this way. I could do this for a long time and not get tired of it.

Journal after notebook after 5MB .doc . . . : )

it is the best of weeks, it is the worst of weeks . . .

antipodes — 2004-05-09T11:05:00-05:00

With a triumphant squeak, I finished my ten pages. Sitting back down at my computer to write my little joys out and save them to be forever un-dusty in a computer document, I feel momentum for the last week of term coming up. Flanked by Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Tolkien, and Homer, my new laptop cheerfully burbles along on its way.

Grandly, I continue in Dickens' vein: this week is the week of midnight refridgerator raids, it is the week of skipped lunches; it is the week of matching socks, it is the week of missing socks; it is the week of fruit juice campaigns, it is the week of caffeine orgies; it is the week of obsessive studying, it is the week of compulsive procrastination. In fact, it is a time so much like the present that historians barely distinguish between the two until they realise that the discrepancy lies in the fact that my clock is running ten minutes slow. Heaven help me! I love Dickens.

I would laugh if it didn't hurt my mouth so much. I'm going to murder my orthodontist! (And yes, I have a plan. Grrrr.)

Anyway, I was up in my room with an inspiration in my head that though wanting to express itself was not read for a pencil or ever a keyboard. Thankfully, it became distracted by a friend who picked a few words that I used to manipulate the following poem. I wasn't really on the bridge, but I assume it is kind of smoggy up there.

Composed upon Maddalena Bridge
1 May 2004

Napoli has not a thing to show more fair:
Dull would he be of the soul who could pass by
This nigritude of smog, and never sigh.
This city doth like a death shroud's garment wear
The smog of early morning--thick'ning air
Castel Nuovo, Chiese, San Carlo, they all lie
Open unto poison, to the sky,
All bright and glittering in the smoky air.
Never will the sun a sky of ultramarine keep
In present splendor Pompeii's treasured hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a deathly calm so deep.
The rivers glideth at their bitter will--
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still.

(inspired by William Wordsworth's "Composed upon Westminster Bridge", and William Blake's "London")

singing carrels

antipodes — 2004-05-11T12:05:00-05:00

Here is the test of will, strength, endurance, and my grade point average: can I sit in the library until class writing my Twelfth Night paper and not pick up any other novels? I feel a little like Tantalus. I simply must write my paper but those books are so tempting . . .

Horror-struck, our heroine makes a gigantic effort to walk past the fiction section.

Alright. That does it. I'm not that strong. Let's say that at 1630 I will go get myself some caffeine or gelato or something. I miss seeing my friends, too. Drat it, finals are almost over!

*stares, hawk-eyed, over the library carrel for anybody she knows*

a gathering of thoughts

antipodes — 2004-05-12T11:05:00-05:00

Twenty five pages in two days, leaving a trail of post-it notes wherever I go, I'm reaching the end of the semester. Summer hols are coming up sooner than I ever thought they would and I'm making up book lists, to-read lists, and return-to-so-and-so lists. I feel so tired, and so exhausted of people and academic word-plays. Everyone seems to fit into an essay format--the poets of us are sonnets--and some of us are patchy free verse efforts. It would be nice if people published works cited or reference pages that weren't smeared with cigarette butts.

Anyway, that was my profound thought for the day. I'm putting on Patty Larkin's "Regrooving the Dream" cd, and remembering long, faraway days when I took my lunch breaks alone and scribbled notes on coffee napkins. They don't give you easily-write-on-able napkins here even if you ask for them. That is one thing Starbucks is alright for, I suppose.

Twenty five pages in three days! I do that easily in my journals, but academic papers on few subjects are rare for me to rush through like this. Well, we'll see what kind of grades I get on this stuff and then I'll be shocked or sigh despairingly. I ought to get good grades, I think . . . The whim of my professors is what dims my thought now. I'm sure they'll pick something logical . . . no I'm not. *sigh*

Five more pages tomorrow on something American and I'm free until Friday, whence I will with leaden spirit log on once more to my online class and take from it my final exam. My cat is trying desperately to curl comfortably on my lap. Poor little Elanor; her nose is cold. Mmm. My nose is cold.

Surreal as this evening was, I've decided that I have another quotation from Shakespeare that I like:

"I wear not motley in my brain." --Feste, Twelfth Night

:)

postscript: congrats to me on my sixth month anniversary of blogging. whee.

muddling through

antipodes — 2004-05-14T10:05:00-05:00

Upon my return home from lands unknown and their weeping valleys I was discovered to have remained in my extremely inconvenient temper. Retrieving my dinner and nuking it vengefully, I retired to my room. Reluctantly leaving my dear computers alone while I ate I snatched an innocent-looking paperback that happened to be passing b. and found that one of the pages had been dog-eared. Interesting, I thought. You know, when you turn over the corner of the page and then grownups and librarians yell at you for ruining their books? Well, I only dog-ear paperbacks (even then I'm not sure it is entirely forgivable). But I thought "Interesting" and left it at that.

It so hap.s that this particular book was a novel. Are you surprised? Shut up. It was a novel.

What is of import regarding this child-of-an-author so relentlessly disregarded on my table is that it was of the Wooster and Jeeves type. Don't ask me why it was disregarded; I think it has to do with something distant and flowy called "finals". What a toothy word to say. Not to say toothsome, but toothy. As I seem to recall, they were about as tedious as an aristocratic sitting room with the glamour of a proletariat boudoir. So, pretty boring. I read a piece out of the Jooster and Weevesy thing and it lifted my spirits considerably.

Unfortunately for us galliforms, the week so contemptibly spoken of continues with the speed of something going purty darn slow. I'm listening to Nickel Creek and Cat Stevens, and now the sun has set and I'm typing in the dark. Five more pages tonight and then I can go be an even more tedious socialite tomorrow. A picture of bars on the windows of Alcatraz decks out my desktop. Dude. I am so ready to read as much fiction as I write nonfiction.

Meanwhile, I remain your aff. blog addict.

wet hair and a dialup connection

antipodes — 2004-05-17T11:05:00-05:00

It is funny how writing here has inspired me to write in different places as well, but sadly it means that I neglect this blog in favor of paper and leather and new-email-windows. I really like this blog, but somehow it may not be possible for me to keep updating it like I have, even though I write, I scribble, I fume, I giggle.

I have had a little more time recently to pick up an odd chapter here or there, but mostly it was sitting in the sunlight and breeze of my porch reading about old-fashioned lime-vanilla ice cream that let me breathe for a moment. That, and finishing "Right ho, Jeeves!". I read a chapter of Pickwick on Saturday, too, though, so I find my time a little redeemed.

What odd times these are! I can feel myself reaching the end of the term, feel new times coming on, sense somehow that there is something familiar and altogether unfamiliar right around the bend of time.

I'm loving my new laptop, and reveling in the weather that is allowing me to wear t-shirts. I jumped in puddles with my sister until every bit of my legs up to my knees were soaked. Thankfully, my carpool didn't notice, or didn't say anything if they did.

Went to church on Sunday in an interesting part of town, where somebody proved herself quite the photographer and someone else showed himself once again a gentleman. From thence we came to a concert where we got to hear a delightful person show herself to be rather a good musician:)

Oh my, I'm not explaining this well at all! It was such an incredible experience, yesterday. I tried to write it out in my journal last night but I was too tired, so I jotted down phrases and odd things. Perhaps I shall be able to write it all today after my paper is done. That's right, folks, one more five-pager (easypeasy) and then one or two two-pagers. Yay. If I finish them all today I will call myself beautiful when I look in the mirror tomorrow (my hair in the morning is something frightening, trust me).

Alright. My internet time is limited and so I must be off. Poor, neglected blog.

*sigh*

the culinary sport

antipodes — 2004-05-19T11:05:00-05:00

Much as I love my family, my friends, my compatriots, my fellow members of the human race, I do not like cooking with other people. I really don't have that much affinity for the sport anyway, since I have wonderfully uncooperative hands when it comes to cutting things and flipping eggs in a pan. I have a marvelous scar on my left hand as a result of the joint venture between my slow left hand and a maliciously suicidal piece of chinaware.

That doesn't have anything to do with why I don't like cooking with people, really, I suppose. Belting out broadway songs is hard when you have other people present too. Maybe that comprises a short part of my inimicable bent towards groups with meat cleavers and frying pans. But I have to go to sleep in a few minutes, so let me move on to a subject that won't give me nightmares.

I'm almost in denial about my last exam tomorrow. I have written the essay, I typed and collected my notes. I even studied a little. Just a little. I love run-on sentences.

Housework will comprise a good deal of my life for the next dusty month. I will learn what Robin McKinley calls the art of washing a floor (I have avoided mopping since the time I slipped and fell, hitting a thousand funny bones and spilling the wash water that tsunami'd all the way to Australia). The rest of it I have done before--the sweeping, washing dishes, cleaning bathrooms, meal plans, doing a thousand loads of laundry at one go, shopping, watering plants, all that junk. It is amazing how much time it takes to do all that silly stuff, but even better when people come home and say "I'm so glad to be home."

Meanwhile, of course, my bedroom will remain the pigpen of the house because I will be too busy catching up on the reading I missed when I was doing the rest of the house. Whitman is out, Bradbury is in: it is almost time to read The Martian Chronicles.

Sweet dreams, say I to my window-friend, who looks just like me, except for the shadow that reminds me of a young Miss Anne Shirley. That reminds me: the book with Rebecca Dew in it must also be read this summer.

Has anybody heard of Wizard's First Rule by Terry Goodkind and if you read it, what are your thoughts? It was recommended to me a while back, but I didn't get the chance to read it.

Meanwhile, the Little Tyke next door who shares a wall with me and is now not quite so very little, is also crying. His voice is louder now. Oh my. Sweet dreams, Tyke. Honestly, please try . . .

post-exam literary criticism

antipodes — 2004-05-21T11:05:00-05:00

Back in the deep and dusty recesses of my mind I am watching myself. My distant operator in the control tower of my brain giggles wildly as the machine made in her image maniacally swabs the decks and conducts flocks of dripping chinaware onto a landing pad that looks suspiciously like a drying rack.

That is the reason that I didn't write the simple statement following: "I have been getting rid of my adrenaline rush from the end of finals by cleaning house." Why would I write that when I want to have the fun of blabbing on about control towers? People can interpret my ramble is many more amusing ways than you could if I gave it to you on a platter like that. Freud would say that my superego has male genitalia, Marx would say that my aristocratic scholarly pleasures were fulfilled by plebian activities that followed them, and feminists would propound that I've been trying to live a collegiate life against the wishes of the oppressive male-dominated society and that I'm relieved to clean house because it is a socially-accepted occupation for a woman of my age. Oh the horror of these warped lenses! The doldrums they elicit.

While you digest that tidbit from my fount of wisdom, I'm trying to wave my magic mop to bop the ugly heads of my valkyries in an attempt to turn them into muses. I hope the next Lemony Snicket book comes about this summer, and I can't wait to see the new Harry Potter movie this June.

pre-dawn spectres

antipodes — 2004-05-22T10:05:00-05:00

This is something I wrote when I woke up early this morning. It is now late at night and I have headache. I'm going to sleep.

Have you ever been awake in the twilight hours before dawn? I mean seriously, not just "Well I had to get up early for work…" or "Yeah, but I was working out…" but woke up with a shiver of fear and expected to see an unknown someone's face inches from your own when you opened your eyes? I guess most of us remember that kind of thing when we were Very Very Small. Call it the bogeyman and let it be! Or you could call it a spectre; a dementor—a spirit! a ghost! a Fright! a monster! Poe wrote about them. Homer did too. They were old enough that even Tolkien wrote about them. Hawthorne scribbled them as well. All of the old stories have them: Arthur and his Knights and their visions (assuredly not from LSD), Homer and Odysseus with their shades and shadows, Africa's old religion of gods and spirits, and—for a friendly jab at one of my instructors—even Jews and early Christians recognize the malicious supernatural!

In any case, that is why I am down in my basement on the couch with a cat on my lap and a quilt over my feet at a pre-dawn 4.30. Cold juice is fine for early warm mornings; I'm drinking carrot-orange-pineapple or something likewise as sweet and orange-looking. The clothes drying machine is roaring an incoherent chorus of hallelujahs and the echoes are caught in the lint sieve. I'm playing music of my own from iTunes on my laptop.

The dryer is done, and perches with a cheerful expectancy in the corner. That means I've been down here for over three quarters of an hour. I do like being up early by myself, but I hope my body doesn't make a habit of it. I like to keep late hours. Perhaps I should have just read Leviticus or Deuteronomy until I was swept back to sleep.

opera!

antipodes — 2004-05-23T09:05:00-05:00

Funny--my school term is over for the summer and I've already begun compulsively researching things. Those of you who know me are presently sighing, groaning, wailing, and pulling out your teeth and hair, but there isn't really the need to do that, honestly. It is most unbecoming.

This time it is opera. I want to see Lohengrin. I also have a morbid fascination for Wagner—his music reminds me of drinking coffee for the first time. It was bitter and thin, and scalding, but there was some dark taste that made me take another drink just to prove to myself that it was there. It wasn't the caffeine (shame on you for thinking so), I sure, but now I like espresso smothered in cold milk. I like Wagner in small doses too.

I am enamored of the Flight of the Valkyries—listening to the whole thing in full, not just that broad and intrusive theme that everybody remembers and hums admonishingly to frighten their children or coworkers.

But back to Lohengrin. I heard about it in a book that my great grandmother read as a young woman and passed down to my mum, who let a dear friend and I borrow it over our sixteenth summer. The book itself, The First Violin by Jesse Fothergill, has a theme taken from the opera, and the opera is inspired by an old myth.

Oh no! They groan once more. Old myths are fascinating! Archetypes are models and myths are templates . . . the words "allegory" and "applicability" float through the smoke that inevitably fills up my brain when I'm not looking. Anyway, I want to smell the dusty beams of an opera house and read a programme by the light of a chandelier! Someday I will get adventurous and put on some perfume when I go . . .

dickens the lobster

antipodes — 2004-05-26T01:05:00-05:00

Headphones are remarkable. I keep wanting to spell "remarkable" with a "c", don't ask me why.

I've gone back to touch the collegiate world today after a week of wonderful release, but it shan't be too difficult, I hope. I am registering for a summer DE class (online) that is all on Arthurian Legend and I'm drooling over the possible textbooks! My summer will be spent lugging around books from coffee shop to coffee shop, the inbetween times filled with relatives and bookstores. At least, this is how I hope it will be. What with road trips cross-country and all you can't really tell these days.

Boring paragraph. Buh-leted!

Now, my dear, reconcile yourself to the wondrous facts of the summer. The air will become hot and sweltering and you will have to go about buying t-shirts and wearing those funny three-quarter-length pants, clutching wildly at cool drinks and hoping desperately that your skin doesn't crisp in the sun. Bweh. Did I mention that I am not the type to lay our in the sun? It isn't that I don't like to, but the results are disastrous. Have you ever seen a cooked lobster? Not that my skin is blue to begin with but the end result is awfully similar. Except that lobster shells are hard and my skin is not. I'm sure it will turn out to be a very profound analogy if you take it very much farther.

Anyhow. I'm still getting my bearings along the vacationary lines. Looking forward is difficult but at least I have distance education and my laptop to console with me. It is difficult to concentrate on writing, for some reason. I haven't even been able to finish a book lately—I get a few chapters into it all and then I just kind of drift off. I find it most alarming. Is Charles Dickens really boring?? It cannot be!

corn fritters and leftover blog entries

antipodes — 2004-05-27T01:05:00-05:00

I wrote this last night. Yay for leftover blog entries.

Today was one of those lethargic and apathetic, reactive days that I abhor and run from. That is, of course, when I recognize them. Dramatic irony is the kind of irony where the audience knows something that the player does not, and hence they see the inevitability of the player's actions backfiring as well as the reason.

Remedy for that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that isn't indigestion: working with my hands. Whether it is firing chinaware into the oblivion that is my kitchen sink or savagely wreaking havoc on the surrounding foliage, it helps to alleviate that grumpy bored feeling. Besides, I also have financial aid stuff to fill out for Uni. [Insert a variety of puking noises here.]

I hope the absent members of my family will return with My Big Fat Greek Wedding. I want to see it again; it made me laugh. As a fellow windex fiend, I especially appreciate some of the finer points of the film. I also wish they would be home so that I can eat dinner. Corn fritters await My Royal Highness.

Just as an author note, they came home with "Ferris Bueller's Day Off", which I did not watch, having drifted upstairs to do dishes during one of the more boring scenes in "Star Trek: Insurrection". Revenge is mine (?).

I am proud to say that I am getting the hang of the whole mopping business. Even if I haven't gotten it quite all down yet, I'm giving the tiles of our kitchen another swimming lesson tomorrow.

It seems to me that my head is full of silly wanderings today, so I'm going to leave you and try to read the signed, first edition Amelia Peabody book that I got for Christmas. To spite textbooks the world around, I'm going to try and read it all at once. So there! Mwahaha!

And I didn't even open the book! *Sob* just as I updated, the feline sorcerer named Ramone somehow landed himself softly on my lap in front of my computer and I became Very Very Sleepy, just like those old horror movies. After I awoke with a start as he flexed his claws into the underside of my arm, we stumbled upstairs and continued our communal napping session with me on my bed with the pillow and him grumpily mumbled onto my compy-chair. Cats.

hypocrisy and hysteria

antipodes — 2004-05-28T08:05:00-05:00

I sat at my laptop for years, my Muse in a state of puzzled exile, until I realized my dire and inexorable fault in the delegation of my writing rituals. I left my coffee on the kitchen table. Even now I have not actually risen from my chair to execute the task of walking, closing my fingers around the glass, and carrying it back here. No, I am still here. But it does go to show that merely understanding the unknown hindrance eliminates it, at least somewhat. On a cosmic level, I'm sure you can relate.

People have made movies about it, so you can see that even the popular media has taken this up as something that the General Public, whom they dumb down in the most humiliating way, can relate to. The irony about the media and the GP is that it is entirely a vicious cycle of symbiotic relationships. As an offended member of their individualist society, I protest wildly by blogging for all I'm worth.

Speaking of blogging and vicious cycles, not to mention the GP of America, I would like my grande café latte (with no sugar) in a mug, now.

On a lighter note, I got a copy of Lohengrin from the library today as well as my textbooks ordered for the Arthurian Legend class. Among the required reading lie not only Tennyson and Malory but also Charles Williams and Monty Python! I haven't been this happy since I first read A Tale of Two Cities!

espresso-and-milk anonymous

antipodes — 2004-05-29T09:05:00-05:00

I'm not sure why it happened, exactly, but I do know how. It happened one summer, when I took a particularly grueling biology class with a lab as well as an intensive art class.

It was an all-day affair, sometimes very messy, for five days a week, and eight weeks. Within a short time, I had a routine down of getting up and shortly after, my new computer starting up and listening to Dave Brubeck's Take Five CD. We had an espresso machine back then and I would press the button for my espresso, pour a glass of milk over it, and then study for an hour before I went to class. It was my only time really by myself until about 11 p.m. that night, excepting the half-hour break between classes that I didn't spend with my roommate, who was taking the bio class with me and needed study help.

Ever since then if I get up early in the morning or do any hardcore studying, I simply must have my milk-and-espresso. Sometimes fruit juice will substitute, but the stuff is so expensive! Memories of mornings seeing the sun rise over my iMac flatscreen while tupping thumbs to Blue Rondo a la Turk are attached in a deeply rooted and affectionate way to my milk/espresso addiction.

How did it become a writing thing?

Well, while I study there are times when my brain cramps up and I can't think. I start breathing through my mouth and furrowing my eyebrows. I flex my right hand and hunch my shoulders. Altogether it is an uncomfortable experience. To alleviate that nasty bout, I will write something, anything that comes to mind. Usually it is not very good, but I file it into a box I keep, called "Personal Miscellaneous" and there lie a thousand scraps of paper. The habit evolved from not only writing while studying but just writing for inspiration, but I was so used to my glass of cold milk that it became Essential.

What a boring entry. But I said I would post it. Oh my. To mask all of this I will post after this one something I wrote a million years ago. It reminds me a little of what college has been for me and what I dream it could be.

*sigh* Ok, more coffee . . .

idealistically: being a college student

antipodes — 2004-05-29T09:05:00-05:00

As a student, I had the best life. Those years I love, full of jazz and coffee and bright early morning cold. I had a room in an apartment house that was right next to a small coffee shop that had a grand piano in the corner and the smell of pastries from the shop down the street. You’d never believe how perfect those years were. Staying up late to study at nights, the housefull of cramming students would hear strains of the musicians drumming away at the ivory keys of the piano. And a faraway laugh could be heard.

In the morning, it would be bright and cold, and the brick front of the apartment building would be open to the warm morning sun. By noon, you wouldn’t want to stand in front of the building--it was bright and warm and bitingly cold. But it is still morning and I have skipped a few hours. Let me go back.

In the bright cold mornings when some of us would wake early to work or for a class or because we could not sleep for the academia racing in our thoughts, the air would be blue. I mean--blue. Not like the air was reflecting the sky before the sun rose, but like the sky had not yet arisen with the sun, so that it was truly--the air was truly--blue. Everyone swam underwater in a freezing blue universe which the fireplaces and warm dry air of houses expelled for so short a while.

The windows would cry mournfully as you opened them to let a cold air come into the bedroom. And there would suddenly be a stampede of feet over the frozen tile for the bathroom. Heat began to spread from that area of the house, as well as the kitchen, and sometimes a fire would be lit in the grate of the study, where ghost-eyed and famished students would spend late nights. I remember briefly the books stacked in everyone’s rooms for want of shelves, I remember the echo of keys played for heartier lives than ours, I remember the cold of the early mornings. My college days were a kind of heaven and a paradise that I would go back to . . .

under wings of Gold and Silver . . .

antipodes — 2004-06-01T12:06:00-05:00

I see the possibilities of my becoming many things. I see a woman in full right who can look people in the eye without fear and make a stand for what she believes in, loving and gracious. Then there is the "sensitive" little extra, who struggles to keep her head above water; her hands shake and her eyes falter. The small details of these people frighten me.

It is so strange to see how my dreams of myself change by simple new knowledge. Sometimes it makes me afraid to move; porcelain and brittle--even alien--to the very loves that make up the ghostly keystone to my half-finished arch of goals.

All of my analogies sound foolish in the light of "whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable". Some kind of joy is missing; is it a test? Feel something but sorrow! Feel something! Feel something but self-pity! Stop hiding!

Yep. After my shower, I'm screening this post and then I'll write a scholarship essay. If I have time, I'll mop and sweep and try to scrub down the bathrooms. Maybe I'll be able to finish another chapter or two to Jane Eyre. I wish I could be like Helen Burns.

not much, really

antipodes — 2004-06-01T06:06:00-05:00

afternoon

The sky outside my window is watching, like me, a mass of living clouds that are making their exodus to the brooding sea. The sea is has such character, such personality, that writers of all shapes and sizes are awed into blubbering. Some of them get it right, and some of them fall back into colorless, timeworn phrases. Poets express the sea, and sailors . . . what do sailors think of the sea? Rarely do you find a sailor who is also a poet. Poe's Dupin said that rarely do we find mathematicians and poets, but I don't know if I believe him.

This dejection during Spring is always something I dread. In the Fall I can revel in the very wet and soggy leaves. I have only met a few people like this, and they tend to have other similar oddities to myself as well. One of my friends like this says that he calls them "autumn people", after Bradbury, but I'm not sure of this either. That is, I dislike Bradbury's surety of inherent evil in these autumn people. And yet there must be a reason that I don't like Spring.

I hope it rains today.

evening

No rain, but my scholarship essay is over and I took a shower. Now I smell good and feel like I've gotten something done today. Yay me.

I cannot wait until June 7th, when I can access my online class. Oh, for an occupation, for new books, for a study!
*sigh*

beads of rain water

antipodes — 2004-06-02T05:06:00-05:00

" . . . and with that kiss, the spell was broken." Not really a kiss--more like licking my chin. Not that it matters; at any rate, it was at this point that I deemed the whole episode "not cute". Cats don't seem to realize that watching them bathe their paws is relaxing but allowing them to wash our faces is a different matter entirely. I do not find it in the least relaxing while in possession of the knowledge that the aforementioned tongue has been in various and sundry places.

Today was a day worthy of wardrobe spelunking and long hours of puzzles. The cats ran in and out of the house with beads of rainwater clinging to their fur. It rained on and off; I suppose the sky thought it was making up for yesterday when it was being a tease for hours on end. There is a little blue behind the clouds today, but not enough to be seriously a danger to my mood.

Out of the wet, wild world, the cats come padding inside like travelers for a short respite. I keep wanting to ask them where they've been and why they look so serious, but they only give me warning looks and turn to their water bowl.

After mopping the downstairs, the floor was wet and I was resting in a temporarily relocated rocking chair with a plastic cup full of iced tea. It will frustrate some of you know that I was on the third cd of the Recorded Books Inc. version of The Fellowship of the Ring. I could quote most of it, and another prisoner of the wet tile grinned at me and quote the consecutive lines. I love my sisters.

Two letters from friends in the same week! I must get to writing. I have more friends than just these two that I owe rambling epistles to. And the coffee is done on the stove.

I'm not sure why it is a relief and a joy that it did rain today. I almost wanted to laugh in relief. I call it "strange" because I don't know why, but I suppose it all has a natural explanation that I will understand someday.

So exhausted! This calls for a nap and some espresso.

austen meets tennyson, housecleaning

antipodes — 2004-06-03T10:06:00-05:00

I love Europe for the fact of cheap plane flights. I'm thinking about a trip to England for a few days. I doubt I'd have enough to stay near Oxford or Cambridge, but I have enough to let me see a few places without totally emptying my piggy bank. Though I have a certain affection for the place I live in now, I feel little akin to it. How frightening hoity-toity is that? But don't badger me! I'm looking for Home.

A battalion of towels is waiting for me to send word for their transfer to the washer, while a militant but wet array of pants tumbles blindly around in the dark administration of the dryer. I'll soon have a load of white socks to go in. I shall call them the Light Brigade, for I know they'll most of them come out without their matches, as is the tendency of so many socks, and in a literal sense they will come out much whiter than when they entered. Or at least, such is the hope I entertain.

Until such time when my laundry is done and I have clean apparel I will apply my time to wandering forlornly about the house in my bathrobe, perhaps seeking solace in the friendly smiles and soothing music of my dear little computer. "Wild, scribbling, females" indeed. Bweh! Who was it said that? Somebody in the British romantic era, or maybe early Victorian. Those oddities of society have come to be the matrons of our pithy youth! Look at the girls who watch Pride and Prejudice or Sense and Sensibility every weekend religiously! Look at those who curl up with books like Northanger Abbey when their womanly but infinitely unfeminine week of pain marches through the month. Jane Austen, the Misses Brontë—those perils of their society—have all become quite happily situated with the comforts of feminism and ignorance (if not destruction) of social class that we leer at today. Good to them, and pity on them.

Mind you, I say this all as I cringe from Fanny Price. Wimp.

new textbooks

antipodes — 2004-06-04T01:06:00-05:00

I think this chair has finally become suitably accustomed to my butt. I can't be sure, of course. That is—I haven't really taken the time to get used to life with a laptop downstairs (much less the whole idea of "life" in general as it surpasses 42), and so I'm not sure how long these types of chairs usually take to accustom themselves to one's seating posture and habits. To handle the strain, I ingest massive amounts of espresso and am in the process of speed-reading one of the Brontë novels. I'm almost done with it, and will hopefully be quite through with it on the 7th of this month.

"Why?" is the word I see frozen on your shocked and lifeless lips. Because I am a kind and generous person in my ego of egos, I'll help you: Why am I setting a date on when I should finish a Book? Isn't that blasphemy? Am I afraid of lightening and large rocks that tumble down the mountains into my house at night, crushing my bones into proverbial dust?

I plead! I beg! I grovel in the most self-deprecatory way! Then slowly I rise with a black bundle under my right arm. I . . . have . . . received . . . my TEXTBOOKS for the coming summer term. Welsh, German, English, and French authors all, scribbling about Arthur on Round Tables! One of the names is unknown, and this is exciting. It should definitely be different from The Odyssey, which was also epic poetry, and there is definitely more to link it to my favorite stories. Summers should always be full of old stories whether two-year-old rereads or genuine mythopoeic dust-volumes.

Now you see my reason for speed-reading Jane Eyre and accustoming the chairs of the living room to being discomfited of their solitude.

"to imagination"

antipodes — 2004-06-06T12:06:00-05:00

It's funny what I write when I really don't have all that much inspiration to carry me forward. No tangible subjects present themselves attractively or with any real gusto, and so I turn them over, pass them by, and wave for the next subject to come into my holy of holies, the throne room of my mind, my imagination.

Oh, that reminds me . . . !

I love that feeling when I'm writing because it usually means that I have something else to say and that perhaps I might say something to remember today. Not that I ever do, but it is a comforting thought.

I was about to say that people who are reminded of pieces of poetry at profound moments are quite odd and I begin to terrify myself by finding my very own self among them. Wordsworth's Tintern Abbey is one I find often coming around in my head, and I absolve myself of the next heresy of being reminded of Shelley's Mont Blanc. The one that most suits me at present is Emily/Jane Brontë's To Imagination, especially the second stanza.

"Dork," mutter a few of the perturbed people that have actually read this far, and some others will probably do as I did when reading a similar journal entry a few years ago, and wonder why and how and if they could think such things. I confess my state of "dork", and find myself blinking rapidly at the thought of my actually coming to the point of saying "It was like Wordsworth said" or "Hey, Donne said something about that". Curiouser and Curiouser.

Irrelevantly, I wish that Dorothy Sayers had written more Lord Peter Wimsey novels and that Jane Eyre had not been such an utter idiot, that Rochester had had some sense of the rational mind as well as that of the romantic. I content myself with rearranging my bedroom furniture until such a time presents itself that I may take that last plunge into the passionate midnight finale of a novel.

unlit candles

antipodes — 2004-06-07T12:06:00-05:00

In the dawn of time when I was in the seventh grade, I spent my summer and weekends in the garage. Fixing cars? Lots of my friends hope for a horror story that keeps me from brandishing hammers at my vehicles now, but no. I sheepishly admit to not even being able to drive a standard shift car . . . I was making candles. I listened to a good many audiobooks and had some lovely adventures with spilt wax and wax models of my hands, and lots of different on-sale-at-a-candle-factory, end-of-season, warm-wax smells. A lot of the candles actually burned correctly, and I look back upon that as somewhat serendipitous.

I used up the last of my candlewicks last night in two candles, one of which I am dubious of. It was the weirdest thing to melt a sweet scented wax, arrange the wick and mold, all in an ordered and habitual way as if I had done it a thousand times. Well, I had, but it was a million years ago! It was strange and oddly comforting.

What I'd really set out to do was to lessen the number of boxes that proliferate underneath my bed. I ended up making a few nice candles and a million and one bars of soap. I appeased my family by throwing bars of soap at them while I decimated the kitchen. I kind of missed my smelly, dusty, sweltering garage with my cassette tapes from the library.

I must begin writing in my paper and leather journal again; I can feel one of those amusing but tortuous self-esteem swan-dives coming on. Perhaps it is just part of a cycle of testing and refining and I needn't analyze it further, but sheesh. I must puzzle out the riddle of cogs and wheels that make up pride, humility, self-esteem, and honor. Right now, all is chaos and I am crying at every few intervals of emotional stress. Moronic, if you ask me. As I type the last remark, my cat sticks her tail into my ear.

a toast: to you!

antipodes — 2004-06-07T11:06:00-05:00

I am drinking mint tea and becoming increasingly drowsy. I'm sure my bathrobe is not very becoming, but I rely on the allure of my blue fuzzy slippers to detract from the "dazed in headlights" look that would be all too apparent if I had a webcam.

I've not had a particularly brilliant day but I end on the note of feeling a wry hope for humanity and a grin for the ones I walk down cobblestone streets with. I thank you for enduring and smiling and tolerating me:)

Sweet dreams to all and sundry! Mint tea is $0.30, brandy is on the house . . .

:)

half-naked, bourgeois lentils

antipodes — 2004-06-09T01:06:00-05:00

A scant half hour ago there was a half-naked man on the couch downstairs, savagely destroying aliens on a far away planet he controlled from a console he called a "laptop". Sitting at my kitchen table was a remarkable woman who swore never to wake at 8 a.m. because it would mean that the bourgeois society we live in--the couples in their thirties who have plastic mobiles over their children's beds (who already have gender-identity problems) and also have dogs that poop all over their yard--has corrupted and finally conquered her. Therefore we sit and talk about our friends that we have made over the internet, wishing to be depressed so that Breakfast at Tiffany's would be really really exceptionally good, like it is when we are depressed.

I made some banana-strawberry bread today, and my mother ate some. She did not keel over in her dying throes but mmmed and licked her lips and walked calmly upstairs. I await tomorrow when others will try it and perhaps prove to me that they will not have to turn into lentils, for lentil soup is one of my few tried-and-true-ALWAYS recipes. I like my family; I don't want them to turn into lentils. It will be exciting to see if it is edible, and even more exciting if it tastes remotely yummy.

I don't cook much. Me and my pillow have some things to talk about now.

:)

p.s. I wore flip-flops and rolled up a few inches of my jeans today today. Summer is coming.

thin and stretched . . .

antipodes — 2004-06-10T11:06:00-05:00

Perhaps I am finally starting to de-stress a little. Surfacing to my mind are memories from the last few years, things that I haven't really gone back through in my head. Betrayals and kept promises touch my mind when I'm doing the most mundane things, like washing the dishes and sweeping floors.

Even now, though, I feel myself entering into a chaos of mood swings—I'm depressed and think whimsically of tracing the blue veins of my wrists with the kitchen knife I hold in my soapy hands and then the next second I'm crying in fear of something I can't see and don't understand; the next second after that all I want to do is breathe! Air is sweet and colors are vibrant, and I have so much to live before me.

It all finished out with the strains of some music I'd heard years ago and couldn't remember exactly. Exhausted, I lay down for a nap and woke an hour or so later utterly un-refreshed. A shower usually washes away such gloom, but it only made me realize that I'd left my clean shirts downstairs and that I neglected to wash my new favorite socks.

I want to make plans for Midsummer's Eve. Right now they extend to a glass of wine sitting on my balcony watching the sunset and imagining Things.

icarus the ceiling fan

antipodes — 2004-06-11T11:06:00-05:00

The ceiling fan holds my cat enthralled. For a moment I stood near the center of my room and looked upwards, gazing intently and squinting to see if it was something to do with the light, but to no avail. Ah! Now the bobbing motion of companion's furry head has ceased to be consistent: she points her ears in different directions, trying to pay attention to two separate and distinct featurettes of the evening but succeeds only in catching signals from a cell phone line and someone's cable internet hookup. Nauseated, she turns and saunters out of my room to vomit on a particularly shadowed bit of staircase.

Left alone, I ponder the deeper things of the universe like why I rarely read science fiction and how all my t-shirts got raggedy over the winter. The ceiling fan, uncaring, swirls and twirls in an endless and inexorable circle, poor hopeless machine. Will-less and soulless, ever in Lethe, climbing towards a fate with wings that turn and gyrate but never fly. I dub it Icarus.

It is so strange to realize the might-have-beens that inhabit little alcoves of a dimly lit hallway in my head. Images flicker and sounds that weren't there echo softly. I usually avoid the place entirely but tonight it has brought a luminescence on a far alcove in the corner.

A strange fascination with Mordred and Morgoth, fallen angels and channeled demons, seems to run over my head like a breeze that heralds dusk and nightfall (Yes, it is a little poetic, but take it to the point where the only reason I make this analogy is because I've felt a cool wind after a warm day and it comes to my mind that yes, night is falling; all this in my college campus parking lot which is, if I may say, not incredibly poetic). To venture into darkness with a bright sword and a resolute vengeance thrills and inspires. The red deliciousness of blood and the feel of a blade striking stone; darkness and unfamiliar rendezvous with hooded figures to share secrets and find chains in a watery darkness with a cold curiosity and a voice in my ear—all these things I sometimes feel my imagination would gladly hold and caress, but then I realize that there are some I have seen who were great and fallen wingless from their eyries.

If you don't like Lord of the Rings cease to read on, for I make an analogy:

Saruman was like this, I think, in his first moments. He was great and wise and good, once, but his study of the world was through Rings, not through birds and beast like Radagast, or shadow and flame like Mithrandir. An unhealthy interest in such darkness cannot lead to desirable ends . . . and besides all of that, who could imagine Saruman as one of those old hippy-goth creatures that prowl sun-tan parlors and rebelliously drink black coffee instead of honeyed green tea?

breaking news:

antipodes — 2004-06-13T01:06:00-05:00

I've been reading over my last few entries and realise I must confuse some people. My life is not all gruesome and strange or depressing. The problem is just that I don't always smile when I'm happy . . .

In fact, I just put warm clean sheets on my bed and my hair smells clean like shampoo, still a little damp. I wished on the undomiel elessar tonight, and I got a letter from a friend. I bought myself a book today. Tomorrow I shall remember to bring my favorite pencil and then I shall write in my journal, which is always nice.

And, it occurred to me as I was stacking dirty dishes the other day that most all of the people I respect and admire, that I know personally, do approve of me and are maybe even proud of me. This is a big ego-boosting thought to hear the echoes of their voices or the flicker of their hands and the tones of color and sound.

p.s. I cannot wait to reread The Belgariad and The Malloreon. Silk and Beldin forever! *grin*

new afternoon havens

antipodes — 2004-06-13T11:06:00-05:00

After a day of wandering a museum and finding new afternoon havens, I sit down to my laptop and the little corner of the colossal internet that I affectionately call my blog.

I'm about to finish up with Jane Eyre and am finding the characters in it to be more and more like aspects of myself, St. John most of all. I do resolve, though, to try and not dwell on my confusion, which has been called sullen. St. John would approve, for it is serious and I am sincere, but Jane would find me stifling and amusing. Rochester would find me a bore because I have not the passion-under-control that Jane let loose like a Fury. I do not quite understand her, but I feel a bit like a mix of Helen Burns and St. John Eyre Rivers. I should like to be a mix of Peter Stanhope (Descent Into Hell by Charles Williams) and Helen Burns.

It is a strange thing that I have been drawing so many parallels between things I've seen and heard or read and they have been wonderful thoughts, the kind that I mull over and savor like wine, slowly getting tipsy on language and the printed word. However, they keep slipping quietly between tracks whereupon barrels down the Reality Train.

Oh great. Another train analogy. I suppose I rode one too many of them today. On that note, my feet ache and my hair keeps slipping from its bobby pins. I let it down when it got cool today and how nice it felt. It is within a scan few inches of my knees, and as I have wanted it that length since I was Very Small, I am a little excited. I wonder if I could get it down to my ankles?

a limerick. to my college office.

antipodes — 2004-06-14T10:06:00-05:00

It's amazing what colossal stress
The financial aid office makes less
When I realise I'm ready
To stop being petty
And let them fix my money mess.

contented sigh

antipodes — 2004-06-15T10:06:00-05:00

I'm going to begin studying in earnest tomorrow morning, and would be even more eager to begin if I had the textbook that my reading assignment is based off of. I'm busy printing things off to read tomorrow, underline or shade, and muse on. I am Very Happy right now:)

Also, I've done a lot of work on the icons community here on mindsay that has been set up so that we can have a convenient place to argue and agree about books, poetry, writing, writers, et cetera. Do stop by if you have a minute. The only entries currently up are the ones I've written, which tend to be longer than what I expect will be the normal entry length. I just have a big mouth, that's all.

My eyes are crossing now, and my feet complain. Mopping, sweeping, cleaning, scrubbing; I feel as if I've gotten so much done today . . .

*contented sigh*

bridget jones and king arthur's mother

antipodes — 2004-06-17T02:06:00-05:00

Alright, I have a big mouth. At least I admit it. But then, you are the one reading my blog, and so I wonder . . .

Remember the story of Uther Pendragon and the woman he raped, Queen Igraine. Arthur came of the union, and that is what most people remember, passing by the curious character of Igraine herself. I don't mean to be a feminist or her advocate to modern literature, but all the same, I'm curious about her. That is, of course, taking for granted that all the old stories are true.

She was "called a fair lady, and a passing wise". That phrase might daunt to begin with because of the phrasing, but it means that she was beautiful, and that her wisdom surpassed many others'. Interesting, though—she must have had a mind for politics, because she was summoned to the parleys along with the other knights, to discuss peace treaties.

She was married to the Duke of Tintagel, and once, as they sat at a parley in Uther's halls, warned him that Uther wanted to sleep with her, so they skipped out of Arthur's castle in the dead of night. Arthur was love-sick as Romeo for Rosalind and Absalom for Tamar, and so like a fool he waged bloody, savage war upon them. By subterfuge, cowardice and the aid of Merlin, Uther went in form and shape of the Duke to Igraine after killing her husband outside the gates of his own house.

Making a long story short, Igraine married Uther. She bore Arthur and was made to give him up for Sir Ector to raise (not her choice, nor do we see her reaction). When Uther died of some sickness, she "made great sorrow". It had to have been some time later after Arthur was given up, but did she ever love Uther? Did she cry when Arthur was taken from her at his birth? How did they know she was wise?

Malory, Sir Thomas. Le Morte D'Arthur: The Winchester Manuscript. Ed. Helen Cooper. New York: Oxford University Press Inc., 1998. pp. 3-8.

After that lovely academic and slightly wistful bit of entry allow me to throw caution to the winds for a moment and confess something. I have absolutely no qualms or discomfort sitting awake in my living room on an expensively upholstered chair, in my threadbare pajamas and faded on-sale men's bathrobe accompanied by some holes that used to be socks. Why this sudden freedom with reckless abandon? I've just seen "Bridget Jones' Diary", the movie, for the first time and feel myself not quite so clumsy after all. Cheap way to get an ego boost, to make fun of people who get paid to act silly, but at 2 a.m. you can hardly expect me to think rationally.

memories (?)

antipodes — 2004-06-18T12:06:00-05:00

On the ride home, through a windy greyness, I dozed, waking up with stories and images in my mind, on my lips. This doesn't mean I'm drooling on books, it means I could see things I might have read or seen very vividly while in that half-awake mode that is right before "lucid dreaming" on the continuum.

A pre-Raphaelite Rapunzel leaned out of her tower, one arm outstretched to something beyond the scope of the picture frame. Pre-Raphaelite? Clingy Roman robes and wispy hair, pale skinned with delicate-but-elegant hands. Her mouth is slightly open, but her hair is flung behind her—how did I know it was Rapunzel, anyway?

"You clung to me," in the pleading voice of the Beast (from Robin McKinley's retelling) and the fear and shame of Honour. Brown velvet, the smell of pine and clean water and something wilder underneath. I've never heard his voice so clear before even if I've woken with the scene in my mind before.

"Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments." What was the next line? Oh yes, "Love is not love that alters when it alteration finds…" But that's Shakespeare! I have disavowed Shakespeare. Well, I take at least that bit back. I like that sonnet; it is less about mush and more on constancy (rare for Shakespeare).

Oddly enough, also came into my mind the mysterious but good figure of Mrs. Whatsit. Argyle socks, Wellingtons, a trenchcoat and numerous sweaters followed by a fondness for Russian caviar! She says "Wild nights are my glory," and I've just remembered her floppy felt hat.

Thank goodness for rain and wind. Today is sunny and annoying, like polyester sweaters. Come swiftly, autumn.

compy lab nostalgia

antipodes — 2004-06-18T02:06:00-05:00

Just a few more minutes until my laptop reaches %50 battery power and then I can go sit in the bar until my friends appear to retrieve their movie tickets. Until then, I keep my company with The Great Vespa, who has been absent from my blog entries for much too long. My routines have changed since I first began my blog, and the computer lab sees less of me. I'm sure everyone is distraught at my absence, but some things must be borne. Chin up. I'll sign autographs here one day.

I saw "Edward Scissorhands" last night and declared it to be one of my favorite movies. Johnny Depp gets definite eccentricity points for this one, and Winona Rider is a little bit redeemed. Avon ladies must now be smiled at. I knew a guy, once, who sold Avon products.

I wish I'd brought my journal along. My fingers would much rather be holding a pencil than typing on this cheap plastic keyboard. Soulless keyboard.

Also on the forefront of my regrets is having to give up ASL interpreting for a while. I so miss those classes, I miss the language, and I miss the people. How very strange. I should write to some of my old classmates and whine.

Compy battery is prolly done now.

I want to go to Egypt and ride the Nile, see the pyramids! I wonder what Bill Forrester thought of them?

work, dear.

antipodes — 2004-06-19T01:06:00-05:00

I feel like the Grunge Queen of the World. Blegh. It is time to get some work done and clean up my study spots. I've been listening to RENT and Stavesacre. Erm, it is in a mix, actually. I tried to publish it on the iTunes Music Store but it only had 6 of the songs. So here I reproduce the list for you. I freely admit to listening to some odd music, but listen to the individual songs before making judgments; I am not all over dc Talk nor do I avidly adore the Goo Goo Dolls. I've only ever heard two songs from Savatage. What a strange mix.

work, dear.

Another Day (Original Broadway Cast: RENT)
Might As Well Dance (Patty Larkin)
Acoustic #3 (Goo Goo Dolls)
Gold and Silver (Stavesacre)
What If I Stumble (dc Talk)
Exodus (Evanescence)
Keep Waiting (Stavesacre)
What You Own (Original Broadway Cast: RENT)
Inside my Heart (Iona)
Believe (Savatage)
The Edge Of Water (Jars Of Clay)
The River (Rich Mullins)

uneath rede

antipodes — 2004-06-20T07:06:00-05:00

"Buckle down to studying, steady your shoulders, stop slouching, don't drink so much caffeine, read less novels and for heaven's sakes, girl, stop staring into space." The tragedy of my mien is that not even a single noble thought arises from my staring into space, or at least not one that I can remember. At most, a limerick appears in Rumpelstilstkin form dancing around a hayfire and singing riddles of my firstborn child in exchange for an hour of concentration on my studies.

Egads! Summer term is afoot!

[enter CRUEL TYRANT and LIZARD]

antipodes — 2004-06-22T08:06:00-05:00

Studying shall commence in foreign places! Coffee and tea shall be consumed from unfamiliar mugs! For I am going on a trip with a few friends. Actually, one of them is my mother and the other is a cordial acquaintance, yet nearer my mother's age than mine. I feel a little like I'm going as a companion but it is also a trip for me to study, so really it is more like a hermit-crab-companion. Paradox? We shall see.

After dueling with mop and broom, gnashing teeth at crusty silverware and brandishing a dishrag in an effort to appease those who will be staying home, I am sweaty and dust-smudged but happy. The skin on my hands is tight and dry, thanks to Ajax with bleach and the stains in the washroom sink, so it feels funny to type.

My cat gives me a wry, exasperated look from over his wriggling lizard he's just brought in and asks a rhetorical question with a mighty dignity and majesty that makes me feel small and inconsequential. "Why should the human slave be tired? It has done nothing all day; there are no treats and scarcely any insects to show for it." I have yawned and I think it annoys him, but then he cavorts at the foot of the stairs with a lizard whose batteries are not yet depleted and forgets me for the time being. "I've a right to be tired!" yell I to the cruel tyrant who so oppresses me.

To spite him, I'm going to take a long hot shower and imitate His Grace by napping on my favorite chair until the Others come home, at which time it will seem as if I have been reading MacAddict and drinking café lattes all day in my sweats and fuzzy slippers. If they say anything, I shall roast them.

lesser demons

antipodes — 2004-06-24T01:06:00-05:00

I remember the peanut butter smell of my lunch box in elementary school along with the high heels my teacher wore and the fact that I missed the Easter Egg Hunt together with the demons on the playground. I don't mean bullies, I mean beings that gave you freckles when they pinched or kissed you. Very interesting, the things you learn on the playground as a child.

They strangled babies, you know.

There was a hollow palm tree near the seesaw that had a baby's body in it. The baby's mother haunted the bathroom and would creep up behind you if you looked in the mirror. When the moon was full, she would run an icy finger around your neck and kill you if she caught you alone. (This was at first why I thought girls did not go to the bathroom alone, but I learned later that American bathrooms were not haunted.)

There was also the ghost of a nun that lived in the woods behind my friend Pamela's house. The ghost would wail and scream and you could see her on night where there were no clouds, forever running away from the Spanish conquistadores that raped her and starved her before she ran away to the forest.

Anyway, we were just talking about things like elementary schools, and my first and second grades were like that. There is more, there is always more. I should journal it. Crazy how close some of it is believable. That is, if you believe in the supernatural, especially if you believe in demons.

I looked up some of it to make sure I wasn't just making memories out of thin air, and lo! behold! two magic links:

http://guam.org.gu/hemplo/taotaomo.html

http://www.af.mil/news/airman/1002/spirit.html

Bonus link ahead. This is a story that my first grade teacher told us. It was confirmed by one of my friends over a game of Super Mario and some unsugared Kool-aid. His father chewed beetlenuts that made his teeth yellow and were excellent to throw at annoying older siblings. But I digress:

http://guam.org.gu/hemplo/namo.html

chapter one

antipodes — 2004-06-26T01:06:00-05:00

This I wrote during the beginning of our trip, riding in the car. First day entry, now we're on the third day and I've barely had time to journal as we spend so much time in the car. Luckily today is more or less a rest day I have reserved to study. Yay.

The roads going east and especially north are empty and straight with the whole patchwork farm tourist brochure picture on the left. I want to close my eyes and just be warm, but the ocean is on the right, and I have to keep my eyes half-way open to see it. Oceans, seas, powerful and inexorable (very poetic, you know)—I miss seeing the sea everyday and being free to walk down to it. It’s a different sort of power from the sky or a mountain, and not the kind of thing that Shelley dabbled in with Mont Blanc.

Warm, warm, warm, and my hair is still a little damp. Ingeniously (well, it is me), I took all of my bobby pins out and laid out my hair in the back window. I'm sure it looks hilarious, but my hair is drying. I've nixed my chance of smelling the sea because I remembered to bring something for my lips, which started to get chapped five miles from home; it smells like aniseed. Funny, how I keep paying attention to the small things. Usually I'll try and get back to my thoughts before I'll listen to my unhappily damp hair or dry lips.

In the two front seats, they are talking over the issues that need to be talked over before the real topics of conversation come to view on the horizon. It is fun to listen in on context-building conversations. Don't get me wrong, I participate when I can get a word in edgewise.

The air is so warm and, though I hate to admit it, reminds me of the sounds of lawnmowers and Chinese take-out, not to mention watery soda. Fans running, beach calling, and the soundtracks of summer movies. Oh, and picking blackberries with friends, procuring for ourselves spectacular sunburns and putting ourselves in dire need of frozen yogurt.

Such a lazy drive, now the sea is gone. My companions are now discussing the map instead of the DSM-V criteria for schizophrenia. I see they are coming to grips with the important issues of life, the universe, and everything. Uh-oh.

postscript: towel has so far been used as an engine rag and to hide my laptop.

i miss my cat

antipodes — 2004-06-28T11:06:00-05:00

Another belated entry. More to come after I sleep.

It is odd to find myself taking communion at one in the morning, especially with my apparel including but not limited to socks that say "boys are smelly" across the toes. There are some times in life where one does do such things, though.

See this is another reason why I like laptops—I'm writing this in the dark a little after one o'clock in a dormitory somewhere in Firenze. I've just the most remarkable dinner in a place I would like to take Peter Wimsey to; I'd nearly wondered whether I was going to make it through the evening with the chatter, car horns, and plans-awry when suddenly a knight in shining armor (or maybe it was just the waiter?) came and brought a bottle of YUMMY yummy wine to the table. Of course, the kind of wine I like is sweet, white, and more like kool-aid than anything truly alcoholic, so I think you might have had to down three bottles to get tipsy. I drank one glass over dinner. I just like the taste of wine sometimes, and don't find many that I like.

My second savior came in the form of a man I had discussed books with months ago. The west wind gave him a novel about the people At the Back of the North Wind (George McDonald) and I was the messenger; apparently he enjoyed it very much. We spoke of books and puns, of cabbages and kings (why the sea is boiling hot and whether pigs have wings), and I got several recommendations and an offer of access to their personal library, which is an Honor. Very excited, I am, oh yes I am. These conversations saved my evening, indeed—my whole day.

I am learning a few things about traveling with the kinds of people I'm traveling with. We have very different tastes in music, for example. I do not like country and am not overfond of pop music. I am the only one of us who thinks this is funny. Chocolate is good for you. In fact, a vitamin. A friend of mine uses nasal spray to stop himself from snoring. I also met a man who is doing his Ph.D. study on the Italian perspective on the transatlantic situation during the 1500-1600's. I bought a book on Venice and got recommended a book by Anne Moore.

I miss my cat.

dante, jeeves, and the mabinogion

antipodes — 2004-06-30T11:06:00-05:00

By rights, I should be industriously ruining my eyesight on The Mabinogion and our school's wonderful setup for online classes. My professor is encouraging, which is relieving and interesting, because the subject matter is sometimes hard to make out. I have several posts to respond to and a good deal of reading to run through. I'm glad to be reading such old things. I have a cup of tea and good music. All should be well. However, I prefer to complain. Next paragraph was deleted and rewritten.

I saw Dante's tomb, on my trip up North. It was surprisingly unadorned—more Latin than architectural flourishes—and the differences between light and darkness were brought to my attention. That's the kind of stuff I like. People who actually have a meaning (besides pride) in their work . . . or is it all in my head? I have read but very little of Dante.

Right-ho, Jeeves. Off I go!

content but for a moment

antipodes — 2004-07-01T01:07:00-05:00

I am sleepy, and tired, and for a moment, content. My room is warm with a stir from the open window and Icarus, The Ceiling Fan helps the breeze along through my open door. My cat is lying on her back precariously balanced on the top of my ugly red armchair. I just got notes from two instructors telling me that my hard work paid off, and I talked to a friend over the phone for a little bit. I spent the evening watching Abbot and Costello movies and eating pizza with another friend.

Oh, that reminds me: it is now summer in Italy. Officially and formally so! How do I know this? I have friends in high places who know Things, and I so happen to see that on my pizza tonight there were some leaves of fresh basil. In the winter there is no basil, shaky-flakes, or a pale and wan little wimpy green strip that was once basil. Now the leaves are fresh and full and tasty, which means the sun has come back, it is warm, and it is time to stay inside lest I shall be burnt to a crisp.

I'm getting a glass of cold milk before I curl up with another chapter of Pride and Prejudice and then I will bid the world a sweet dream and a good night.

to venice, and autumn, and an inexorable rain

antipodes — 2004-07-01T09:07:00-05:00

I'm inundating myself with RENT and Lohengrin alternately. Oh, and Celtic mythology relating to Arthur. The Celts were the only people who had a sense of humor about those things . . .

I went to see Harry Potter 3 again today. It is one of my favorite movies, I think--the third book is the best of the lot so far--and the movie is very close to the book. I dislike Sirius even more, though, and Lupin is esteemed even more. I love having sisters. Thanks for going with me, my-very-own-The-Gert:)

In my reading, Mr. Collins has just married Miss Lucas. I like Mr. Darcy more after he struck (or tried to strike) up a conversation about books with Elizabeth. I wish I could get quite a portrait of that particular Miss Bennet because she seems to be charming and clever and social enough but then declares herself to be quite the opposite and everybody agrees with her.

My birthday is coming up. I told my friend, whom I affectionately call Moose, that it shall be a respectably irresponsible year. At least, I hope so. I'm going to travel and read and write and be a general nuisance. I have the general nuisance part down but I'm afraid I'll have to practice the rest. A little over a week left until the fateful day when I shall celebrate it somehow or another. Any ideas? I'm thinking maybe a mug of tea or a cup of coffee with friends. Or maybe a nice book.

I keep spacing out and wanting to read some Lord of the Rings again; there is everything good, lovely, noble, true, and worthy in them. Very refreshing to escape to someplace so totally different and so very much the same as the world I see when I open my eyes in the morning.

convalescing

antipodes — 2004-07-02T11:07:00-05:00

It's so funny how sometimes I see myself. Of course, it is never in very useful ways ("Heavens have mercy, I was so thoughtless" or "I just manipulated all of my companions into stopping at such-and-such a place"), but it is a sort of reflective insight that makes me a little uncomfortable and a little rested. I seem to "see" that I am convalescing after a nasty bout of whatever it was I had, and am now slowly getting better. It feels emotionally what it was like physically to recover from a particularly nasty case of pneumonia I had a few years ago.

I'm listening to a new favorite song, sitting on my bed which is only covered in sheets because it is too hot for blankets. All the blankets are crumpled at the foot of the bed. I hope there is cold yogurt tomorrow for breakfast.

pulling away

antipodes — 2004-07-03T07:07:00-05:00

Every time I sit down with a thought in my head to write a poem, I remember why I try to find some other way of expressing myself. Someone will someday find my efforts at poetry and have a good laugh at me, and wonder whether I was serious or silly or sincere. They can go to . . . Pittsburgh. And I will write prose. With a pen. Or a pencil. And then I will eat pasta. Perhaps.

I'm having a maroon sort of day. Perhaps I ought to go wash the dishes.

I don't mean to sound like a martyr, dash it all; I actually feel this way! You don't seem to get it. What is your perspective may not always be true, no matter how "true" you perceive it to be. Why should I feel as if I step on toes with you? Don't you dare give up on me, you've gone too far to step out now . . . Have I done something to hurt you? Only tell me what it is. Is there something I have not forgiven? I forgive it. Nothing could be bad enough for me to deserve this . . . this absence.

There, that is a long-driven out rant to nobody in particular. Not now, anyway. I mean it used to be, but I find myself pulling away from things.

A.B. critics

antipodes — 2004-07-05T12:07:00-05:00

Arrogant but careful, daringly effusive fiends gather here iconoclastically jabbering. "Kafka lends much naïve opulence." Perhaps qualified raconteurs, sensing tension under veils, withdraw, xenophobically yielding zeal.

ha. I knew I could make myself laugh.

it's a comfort to know

antipodes — 2004-07-07T04:07:00-05:00

If there were ever a person in the world who did not sleep well last night and whose name begins with an R, then we would get along famously and maybe even be on speaking terms.

I had coffee at a familiar place today, though I do not go there often any more, and the experience gave me the opportunity to philosophize sleepily over a cappuccino. This is the result of my deep thinking: it is a comfort to know that there are some constants in life. The fact that Enzo will always be grumpy is one of them. He will always serve you coffee and grunt at you if you ask for a napkin, and he will always scowl if you are in the caffe' and he wants to go smoke cigarettes outside. Thank you, Enzo.

Feeling very grumpy after a mishap that would not allow me to put quotes on some t-shirts, I bought a book and ice cream and sulked for a good hour. Procuring comic books for a f(r)iend, I glared furiously at the sunny air and sky that threatened to ruin my birthday, and then made faces at myself in the mirror and read Robert Browning until I couldn't frown. Last year on my birthday there was a storm and thunder, lightning on the horizon over fields of who-knows-what Midwestern American farmers grow. It soaked us through trying to get to the dusty old van of my cousin's.

Please, if it is not any trouble, may I have a thunder and rain storm on my birthday?

farewell for the present

antipodes — 2004-07-09T08:07:00-05:00

So, I'm packing today. I do have some things piled in a suitcase, but I was busy doing Other Things yesterday and didn't quite get around to finishing it all. However, turning on Sigur Ros in the morning does nothing to stimulate concrete thought and I lean heavily on the excuse that my compy battery needs charging before I put it in my rucksack with all my textbooks. If any Readers are willing to put forth a prayer for safe travel and the well-being of my companions, I would be most appreciative, and thank you.

Here are some books I should like to return home with:

the complete poems of robert browning

working copy of the silmarillion, by j.r.r. tolkien

the stones of venice by john ruskin

maybe some p.g. wodehouse

something by chesterton, on the theological side

I shall be away for a few weeks and will probably have time to blog, but it will be in the midst or in spite of numerous cousins, aunts, and avuncular relations as well as those a generation removed from them. My email, for those who would like to reach me, is [antipodes (at) gmail . com] and if time allows, I am usually pretty good at replying.

(Note to self: my mother had a Bad Religion song stuck in her head. What does this portend?)

Well, um, bye:)

sojourning

antipodes — 2004-07-14T08:07:00-05:00

I am in a faraway place with my very oldest friend, and we are discussing matters of importance with light words and silly jests. Mispronunciations mingled with ancient shared memories make us laugh.

I spent several hours in an English bookstore and intend to do it again soon. I may paint a wall and return some library books as well as visiting a cinema cafe, or whatever those things are called. I am sitting on top of a trunk that comprises a makeshift windowseat.

Here is something I wrote last night:

Finally here, I think. Sit down and resssssst, said me the Master as a lot of other hardworking ants continued stretching muscles and generally making me look very foolish in my green hooded sweatshirts and jeans typing away on my spiffy little laptop. I just used to the word "spiffy"; this classifies as something very new to the world—the whole "elf children in the dawn of time" thing that Treebeard said. I think they just called their leader a wuss. They seem to every time their leader says anything. His commands are more or less unintelligible anyway, so I remain solemn and observant. I wonder if it appears that I am very amused? Shhhh.

The air is full of whappings and thwappings of bodies hitting the blue and red mats on the floor; weird black sort of skirt things arm our defenders along with white shirts and funny colored belts. Don't ask me, I say. I've no clue what's going on. This is something a bit unfamiliar to me. I grin, and hope they do some sword work.

Some of them are hissing, some giggling, some grinning with concentration; this is fun, I say. "Be respectful while you're attacking," says somebody who looks a leader. Or at least sounds like one. The lady next to me gazes at a basket catalogue and sometimes looks upwards for her friend. My companion plays a gameboy to the right of me.

Nice to have my fingers on the keyboard again, even half-idle as they are most of the time.

dusty memories and odd jamful toasts

antipodes — 2004-07-16T12:07:00-05:00

I spent the morning listening to Phantom of the Opera and drinking hot chocolate with a friend in her Spare Oom. I had never heard the entire opera before but would like to read the book and see the actual opera . . . except that I don't like dressing up and acting politely. At this point I'd much rather be curled up in pajamas and clean hair listening to a recording.

The only pause we took served to break our fast with toast and butter and exotic jams that an aunt had made. I had Asian Pear on one half of a piece and then Honeysuckle on the other. Both were excellent. The Honeysuckle one tasted very much like a seedless blackberry jam. Curious.

The books that I checked out time and time again from the old library are mostly all gone, rented out or hidden in dark corners. To spite the thieves, I brought a stack of books on King Arthur to a roomy carrel and intend to hoard them here.

Now back in the living room at her house, I grin and post at a few places while we read things together. It is so pleasant not to have to finish half of my sentences. How I wish you knew her!

nacho soup

antipodes — 2004-07-17T09:07:00-05:00

I am now in possession of a copy of Robert Browning's poems, The Everlasting Man by G.K. Chesterton, and an anthology of poems about the sea. This means that I am livable again. Unfortunately I haven't had the time to chew on them yet because I've been studying.

Well, sort of. I took a break last night and went to go see Spiderman 2 at a cinema café, which was really rather fun:) My friend and I only had nachos and iced tea, but the proportions of each were so fascinating that I am writing home about it. The nachos, called "Mission Impossible Nachos Deluxe", had every possible nacho topping on them, which comprised a soup with croutons masquerading as a few disconsolate tortilla chips. The sugars--I mean iced teas were in huge gallon cups that you had to drink half of it to see the show through them. What makes it all the more interesting is that we were sitting all the way up front except for one row and completely to the right of the screen!

Nevertheless, I really liked the movie. A lot. I want to buy it. Except that I don't like Mary Jane very much.

Browning calls. I've just finished a nice post for my online class and am now listening to my friend play themes from Phantom of the Opera on the piano. I woke up with "Masquerade" in my head, which amuses me greatly.

balrogs and silly walks in airports

antipodes — 2004-07-18T08:07:00-05:00

The soundtrack for this leg of the journey would be something like "The Galaxy Song" by Monty Python (whenever life gets you down, Mrs. Brown . . .) on single song repeat. Oddly enough, a balrog checked our baggage and tried to deny us seats, but we vanquished her snarling in the end by flying to the ramp and cackling wildly as the doors closed rather melodramatically behind us. A new fiend met us in the airplane, a small airplane, and she was called a Flight Attendant. Really it was obvious that she could have been nothing else but a guard of the citadel—loyal to a mad steward who twisted and kept a thousand rules. Apparently our baggage offended her personally although by all standards and regulations it was completely harmless.

Speaking of harmless: the security guards that pass carry-on stuff to the airplane are not the brightest people in the world at a certain airport down here. I have met other nice ones, but these were just hideously horrid. If incompetence could propel you towards your fate and doom, they would be in Hartford, Hereford, and Hampshire in short of 15 seconds no turbulence expected. I was wary to open my compy after the flight went underway for fear of it being damaged. Dorks, all of them.

And then the worst news of all is that my sister (alias "my very own the Gert") has not yet seen Spiderman 2 and I can't discuss it with her. That is why I am sitting in an airport terminal across from Waldenbooks and some closed souvenir stands, consoling my compy after its long haul in that stuffy backpack. A large woman in a shiny red shirt and stiletto heels wobbled past me just now carrying a young toddler to whom I tip my hat as the next Houdini. The voice over the terminal has a Southern or Midwestern sort of accent that reeks of stereotypical America. To prove my point a fifty-year old man just walked by in wrinkle-resistant khaki pants, a stain-resistant shirt with those flap things on the sleeves so you can roll them up and that weird sort of flap in the back for air flow. He wore new sneakers and a sun hat with a croakie on his sunglasses and a spiffy roller-luggage that probably came from Brookstone. You could almost smell the guidebooks emanating from the smaller mesh pocket of his designer extra-rugged, enforced padding, ergonomically correct backpack. He probably drives a modest semi-Suburban assault Vehicle. A younger man just danced by trying to sneeze in the most amusing manner. This resulted in a kind of a silly walk that might be able to elicit a gov't. grant to perfect it. It almost elicited a guffaw from me.

Right. Boarding passes. Drat and confusticate American commercial airlines. Dashed tedious way to travel.

a very different kind of Spare Oom

antipodes — 2004-07-20T10:07:00-05:00

I drink more tea than coffee on vacations, and sometimes wear my socks in bed. My meals are more regular, too. This time I am at my mother's parents' house and I am drinking some kind of nondescript orange-spice tea that everybody drinks while a visitor in anybody's kitchen in the late evening time of summer.

A few people came to call, and my grandfather is still on the phone. Grandma is dozing in her chair in the living room. I have no doubt she is trying to remember something she forgot to do or forgot to tell Grandpa to do, because she ought to be in bed by now. Nighttime is for young people and guests who cannot sleep—anyone who has read mystery novels knows that.

My mother, still young, has her computer next to mine. She is laying down on the guest bed with its pink coverlet and has one hand on the mousepad while the other is holding up her chin. I am leaning against the wall gingerly, hoping that the wheels on the bed are too rusty to move and deposit me on the creak-ful hardwood floor. Mum also has orange-spice tea. Grandma makes it very strong, because she re-learned how to make tea while she lived in Ireland, where tea tends to be very strong. While they were not looking, I put several teaspoons of sugar in mine. Anyway, mum is getting tired too, and then it will be me.

I shall sit at the other end of the room reading a chapter of my book by the light of an unfamiliar lamp until my eyes begin to droop. Then a small non-allergenic, fabric-muffled voice will call my name, and I will know it is my pillow. Even the pillows have pink flowers on them. However do they manage in nearly every guestroom to have pink accessories? It boggles my mind.

Someday I will have a guestroom decorated in yellow and brown polka dots and paint the wall in swirls, and I will have normal typhoo or Yorkshire gold or some other plain tea to drink at bedtimes.

perfection

antipodes — 2004-07-22T10:07:00-05:00

Rather rumpled and in a blustery mess, I have the supernatural power of the Green-Hooded-Sweatshirt. It allows me to pass between raindrops, getting wet only where raindrops hit me, and reaching the slippery paved patio of an old house and scrambling up several steps through an open door with aplomb that would set Martha Stewart's teeth on edge. It thundered and lightninged for several hours this afternoon and I sat inside curled up on a hairy armchair with an enormous cat-weight on my lap, reading the climactic end of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. There is hardly a better way to spend that kind of an afternoon, let me tell you.

I just checked into my online class and found that somebody posted a compliment to me, inciting me to beam benevolently at everyone in the coffee shop. They didn't seem to mind but nobody beamed back, to their detriment, I'm sure. I have successfully chomped on two chocolate covered espresso beans and restrained myself from eating the whole packet of them at once, a fact about which I am very proud.

I keep having to blow cat hair off of my nose. The silly cat that was on my lap kept getting startled by people creaking boards on their way into the room and would shoot out layers of fur like porcupines shoot out quills. Looking down, I realize that now my sweatshirt is a lighter shade of green on the front and on the arms. Nice, white kitty.

How can anyone say no to jazz after hearing the Dave Brubeck Quartet? Answer me that, eh?

a smug sunday

antipodes — 2004-07-25T04:07:00-05:00

It never means anything to anybody to wake up to the sound of rain, anymore. So clichéd! Well, it is different when you actually do hear the rain and see the world outside your guest bedroom window a bright grey. Cold rain, too; I smugly threw a sweater over my Sunday dress and put on sneakers instead of the normal low-heeled blister-proof slip-on things. This is infinitely better than dressing nicely and not being comfortable, which is common enough on Sunday mornings.

At the coffee shop, still huddled into my sweater, I decided that I needed to make a confession to the world: I am that annoying person who spills sugar on the tables: now you know. I have become an excellent balancer of coffee cups on few-lane country highways. But I flatter myself; I really was not doing a very good job as I listened to my mother and grandfather as they vehemently agreed on subjects of religion and politics. The road was wet and dappled grey, and the trees and bushes were dark and bright with rain, and so very green.

I miss the small country churches a little, or maybe I just miss the singing. Old songs, like "Glory-Land Way" and "There is a God" are so much fun to sing and harmonize to. There is no air conditioning in the building, and no heat, so no one held it against me that my sweater wasn't traditional. The sermon was an expository piece on Isaiah chapter three, the first bit of which reminded me a little of Minas Tirith.

My midterm for the Arthurian Legend class that I'm taking is frustrating me as it is my first real senior-level class and I have no way of really seeing what my professor's testing style is like. I love this class, but it is hard! Tuesday is the day, though, and then I will be free for a little while to obsess over Browning.

It has stopped raining.

tis a nap devoutly that I wish

antipodes — 2004-07-28T05:07:00-05:00

No place to plug in the compy and I'm, running out of caffeine. So sleepy . . . all I want to do is to drift off slowly into a sluggish heartbeat and close my eyes. My eyelids feel rusty. And my nose is stuffy with a midsummer cold. A scourge on stuffy noses, I say! A plague on the midsummer cold!

My midterm has been changed to tomorrow afternoon. Until that time I am on a trip with some friends. How very strange. Most of it involves helping Mum on her compy and walking around different bookstores listening to the chatter of people involved in politics. Not to mention a little bit of potted-planting. Potted Planting is an exercise that involves acting as noticeable as a quality-made potted plant. Nobody notices their existence unless they fall over or talk or do something uncharacteristic of a plastic tree.

You see, I don't play guitar, and I haven't got into comic books. I do not like to browse university bookstores for five hours on end when the ENGL section has not been stocked yet. I do like sitting with my first fell swoop of loot from a bookstore, in a coffee shop reading and thinking and writing. Unfortunately, I have forgotten my book in our vehicle.

I should like to be a writer someday, I think. It is a nice dream, and an entertaining one. I should like to be a teacher, too, in a university. And maybe have a flat. Or a tiny house. With a cat.

A previously posted poem is pertinent:

To nap, or not to nap: that is the question:
whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
the D's and F's of outrageous True/False tests,
Or to take arms against a sea of term papers,
And by plagiarizing fail them? To sleep: to nap;
No more; and by a nap to say we end
The caffeine head-ache and the thousand hungry grumbles
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd.

happy birthday to harry potter!

antipodes — 2004-07-30T10:07:00-05:00

I've just been rereading Gaudy Night by Dorothy Sayers and I must say I love the way she writes. I still do not like Harriet Vane all that much, but I am appeased by the concepts and settings that Sayers places in her stories. Very, very good book. Read it by Thursday next and be able to present the major themes in an oral presentation of fifteen minutes in length.

I'm still in awe that the midterm is actually over; it seems so strange to be halfway through this class.

My mother's mother made blackberry pie tonight for dinner, with the yummy crumbly stuff on top. I listened to my friends laugh and grin at common jokes and remembrances. It is strange how much comfort I place in friendships that have been alive for so long.

I'm also seeing myself more in things I'm reading and watching and comparing. It is almost like putting templates and frames onto a picture that is me, and seeing where some of the lines fit and don't match up, the better to see the whole picture. I have been in a bad space for the last few months and I think I'm finally catching up with myself. If you noticed, I'd be surprised. People are always telling me how I don't express myself well . . . funny, that I love writing to express myself? Well, it is easy to write about light things and minor annoyances. Anyway.

New theme design changes on icons, thanks to a friend for the help:) I've just finished a huge mug of milk-smothered espresso and am absolutely in love with this coffee shop. I love American coffee shops: the natural habitat of students and mad scribblers. I happen to be both and am happy to call these places home.

scene: deserted kitchen

antipodes — 2004-08-02T10:08:00-05:00

On this longish holiday we are taking one and two-day trips into the country or to a different city. What made this one special was my purple toothpaste. Yes, purple. I think it is lavender and mint (some Herbal stuff from here) and it taste's rather softer than normal stuff but still has a sharper minty bite to it. Bite? Get it? HA! I am so funny. *cough*

A new couple of books and a new cd await my attention. I have plenty to keep me busy until next year, counting the books of Browning that I felt like I stole from their places, they were so cheap . . . and I still haven't found a full copy of Ruskin's "Stones of Venice" anywhere that isn't online. I don't like shopping online for books even if I am eager to get them through the post. Plenty of Browning and Sayers and Chesterton and other things to get me through, though, of course. I hope Rowling comes out with the new Potter book soon; the natives are getting restless.

As soon as we got home and I unloaded what I could see of my belongings, I made myself a shot or two of espresso and brought the last few chapters of Harry Potter 5 and my compy to the deserted kitchen to commune with and calm down my imagination. What a flighty thing it is, too.

Drat it all. I'm nearing a lot of change right now, (in fact, I feel like I've touched a mental portkey) and am feeling increasingly frustrated with myself. Exam results have not come in, my scholarship paperwork is in jeopardy of being lost along with my luggage, and I am about to go home. Not that home is a bad thing or that I have put my paperwork inside of my luggage, but it would be too long a story to repeat here and tedious as all get out for anybody reading it. It is tedious for me; that is why I dislike it. I even typed "try and write something cheerful" at the top of this page before having a real go at writing.

A lot of good things happened today, I'm just feeling lousy for some reason. I'm going to finish my book and my coffee and hopefully feel a bit better. Anyone know how to manage a Cheering Charm?

Sorry for those of you who don't like Harry Potter. It is my saving craze/grace right now.

my inner voice is upset with me

antipodes — 2004-08-03T10:08:00-05:00

I took a quiz on Quizilla and it told me my inner voice is crying. I really didn't provoke anything to the level of tears today and so I'm trying to appease my inner voice with raspberry flavored hot chocolate and listening to the Harry Potter 3 soundtrack, which is actually quite good. My inner voice is being, as per normal, quite uncommunicative, but one must bank on the almighty omniscience of the Quizilla.

My assignment over the month break from my Arthurian Legend class is to read "Tristan" by Gottfried von Strassburg. I haven't begun it, but hope to as I travel tomorrow. The horrid thing is that I must choose either to read that to myself and study it or read aloud Harry Potter 3 animatedly to my sister and pause to speculate wildly about the newest book. Any votes? Tristan is still weighing on my mind as a "should" and possibly even an interest. I admit to feeling guilty.

Right. I've sat here looking at my keyboard for the last five minutes trying to ignore the persistent pestering of a cousin and I'm not making it any farther. Perhaps if I read a book he will notice my eye gaze is not directed in a conversation-welcoming fashion.

Poetry frightens people. I shall read Browning aloud to him until he screams and runs away. Ha.

bertie botts

antipodes — 2004-08-05T07:08:00-05:00

I was just advising somebody on what to write (anything) and how to write it (everyday) this afternoon because she said that she was no good at it and I said I loved it. I do like writing. It is real and thinkful and alive to write. I could not stay me and not write. Reading more so. My soul would shrivel if I could not read. Who wants a shriveled soul? Not me.

I've been journaling more lately as my connexion to the internet has been intermittent and short and my battery power has mostly been used, I admit, to watch movies and answer emails. I've got my music going now with "The Postal Service" which I can't take all the time but right now it just seems to be what I need to hear. I don't know, It is a little difficult to explain.

I'd like to maybe start a Harry Potter community here on Mindsay. Maybe, of course. There is one, but they don't seem to read posts much. Hum. I could maintain it . . . Anybody think one way or the other? It wouldn't be the most intellectual or anything, ust speculation and links and hopefully discussions:)

All the last paragraphs have begun with "I". What a horrid ego I have. I think I need to feed it more chocolate or coffee or something. And books. I don't think it likes books too much . . .

intermission

antipodes — 2004-08-07T11:08:00-05:00

Sleeping in airports is not really fun when you are cold and there are no couches. Trust me, I just experimented with the concept last night: results quite conclusive that my eyes are crossed and I am still sleepy.

I have a wonderful exposition on Time to post here, but it is on my other compy. Unhappily, the people here are quite unencouraging of my ethernet cables or my laptop next to the desktop compy. You'd think it was taboo or something:)

Right. Well, I'm being called off after fifteen minutes so I'm going to go bury myself in Oxford and a college that doesn't exist, in company with friends I have never met.

*sigh*

wimseycal fowl and Time in General

antipodes — 2004-08-09T10:08:00-05:00

I awoke with the sounding fanfare of my yawning compy and found not only that the battery had lowered itself to scandalous standards (the shameless hussy) but that I happen to be sitting in an airport, awaiting a flight that will take me away to, perhaps, the place that I have been in the habit of calling "home". It might not, of course, but there is always a chance.

Old places and new places all mix so that at no geographical coordinates can I ever place a flag or sign that states it as my home. That place must be forever in my mind somewhere. Prosaically, I suppose one might call it my heart, but then it isn't in my heart. Silly words that mean different things for different generations. Dictionaries are fabulously tiresome records, not guides, to the contemporary language; doesn't anybody know that any more?

America is such a new place, so young and green, compared to the Italy I've been walking on for the last year—the stagnation of time there seems to present all of them in a way that makes you believe in ghosts and premonitions. America is such a place that gives humanity overweening confidence and makes us dream of perpetual youth. Not that either perspective is good or bad, though I must eventually take sides, I suppose, but time seems such an alien thing to us sometimes that I wonder if it really doesn't belong to us? Like the fact that doesn't everybody feel alone? Isn't that logically . . . stupid? Silly girl:)

"How fleeting are all human passions compared with the massive continuity of ducks." –p.d.b.w. 'gaudy night'

harry potter website

antipodes — 2004-08-11T03:08:00-05:00

I begged to play with a harry potter community here on Mindsay and have been accepted graciously into the admin. Gert has done a great job designing the site with me, so if you don't like the books or movies, at least there is aesthetic pleasure in art, right? Haha, oh I am so funny.

Anyway, stop by the site! I think it is going to be fun:)

abstract entry: hope revisited

antipodes — 2004-08-12T12:08:00-05:00

It is great to come back home with new eyes. Even some small things I feel I'm not so inured in them that I can't see a few things that could be improved. Somehow distance gives one a better feel for balance. Maybe I'm wrong and just exhausted, but I am so happy to come home and see differences and change and new things happening. I'm really into my studies now, and the break is starting the leaven my mind—I see possibilities for my next paper, I have a few new textbooks for the fall term, and I have a new sort of determination that is setting in despite the jet lag.

Of course, some people reading this would look at me and say that no, I am not determining to face new things, I am determining to dig my heels in till my legs break (has anybody seen Spider-Man 2?). It is a new perspective, I remind them, but it doesn't have to be their perspective. I'm facing the things I think I need to face, not the things they think I need to face. Horrible of me? Perhaps.

It is hard to keep the tie between what I need and what I want, much less than what I want and what people want for me. I'm brought back to a question that a man asked me once: "What do you hope for?" I still don't know the answer, but I'm doing my best to say that I'm trying to be useful as well as to understand love.

Purify me, be the scourge to all that is wrong and useless in me, ask me to tear out my heart with my own blunt fingernails, but make me real, let me only reach for what is true and I will be content. There are some days when I don't feel that yearning for reality, and that is what frightens me. So coming back home, I can breathe a little deeper and see a little clearer.

Sorry to those of you who can't stand my abstract entries. Heh.

:D

jet lag and dusty serifs

antipodes — 2004-08-13T06:08:00-05:00

Jet lag is a novelty when you are thirteen and get to giggle with your siblings or friends late at night when you don't feel sleepy even though you should. I am not thirteen. In fact, for almost all intents and purposes I have ceased being thirteen or even twelve, when people tend to be a bit more sensible. I say all this to say that I am awake at 0630 drinking some strong plain tea in the blue twilight of my kitchen.

I did tedious things at four o'clock, like trimming my toenails and trying not to hum. This is the time when you can hear the machines in your house breathing and when the air seems to be stillest. Sneezing is hazardous here.

Five was a bit more exciting as I got into the spirit of being awake and I cleared out a lot of books from my bookshelves that I've been meaning to do for a while. Just to be sure many of my books ended in the places they did last time I read them, I checked meticulously that page 568 came after 567 and that 704 did indeed come before 705. Some of my favorite parts in a few of them seemed to be fading at first glance so I read them over and made sure there were so dusty serifs.

Before four I mostly lay in bed trying to see magic pictures on my ceiling.

The time has come—because the line of sunrise has reached the cats' food bowl—that I put some laundry through the machines and try to get some studying done. I'm nearly halfway done with Tristan who is cleverly disguising himself in a manner Shakespeare made fun of by taking up the name "Tantris". Brilliant. It may delight or repulse any number of you to know that I must read Joyce's Dubliners for a class this term. I should start that too, I think . . .

three sugars. yes, lots and LOTS of cream. Now.

antipodes — 2004-08-15T02:08:00-05:00

Right. Ok. I am fine, really, really, really;
I will not tell people off for being loud and patronizing.
I will not tell people off for being loud and patronizing.
I WILL NOT TELL PEOPLE OFF FOR BEING LOUD AND PATRONISING, DASHED BENEVOLENT TYRANTS!

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Six and a half. Seven. Eight. Nine. Nine and a half. Ten.

I am calm. I am caaaaaaaaaalm. I, the very me, the most exquisite moi, am SO CALM. Calm like a sociopath, I mean a crocodile.

ms. lydgate and prof. snape

antipodes — 2004-08-16T03:08:00-05:00

I've deleted this entry about five times, and it is three in the morning. I know I write every day for a reason, sometimes just because I can't shut up and sometimes because I have something to say, and sometimes because something in me wants saying and I never figure it out until it is on paper.

J.K. Rowling finally had pity on us and answered some great questions in an interview she had with the Edinburgh Book Festival. I'm quite curious to know more about Professor Snape, not in the kinky way that a lot of fan sites suggest but just because we know so little about him. Perhaps it is my overwhelming idiocy that I have trouble believing very badly of people, perhaps a bit like Ms. Lydgate in Gaudy Night. There are exceptions, of course, but Snape is not one of them. Imagine, comparing Sayers to Rowling! At least I have the comfort of knowing that Rowling does put Sayers on her favourite authors list.

I'm also feeling a little bit smug and guilty because I'm skiving off my homework for today . . . luckily the chapters have been short, but I really must start on the Irish stories soon or I'll be scrabbling to catch up in the most abominable fashion this September.

Autumn is almost here, and then I will feel much more alive, thank goodness . . .

tally ho, what what?

antipodes — 2004-08-17T09:08:00-05:00

There. I have finally finished updating and rearranging things on the four different websites that I try and keep up (three of which are thankfully on Mindsay), and it is not yet 9 a.m., so I shall have to begin the studying.

First comes Tristan whose story is getting better on account of a scaly, bloody dragon and an equally sly Steward, not to mention a harpist-lord who tries to steal away the lady fair but ends up relinquishing her for the simple fact that he cannot stop her incessant crying. Gottfried van Strassburg tells us confidentially that it is the gift of women to be able to cry when they want to. I resent his writing style. He keeps harping on Love and how Love must override all programs that are currently running on both operating systems. Frankly, my dear, I'd really rather not fall in love if it is at all like G van S's idea of it. Drat the man.

I made sticky iced orange rolls this morning for breakfast and they were yummy. Perhaps I shall conceal them from the rest of my housemates and gobble them, scarf them, snaffle them away! Or not, seeing as I would get mobbed on my way upstairs by hungry (albeit sleepy) vultures.

On to studying! Tally-ho!

rex manning day

antipodes — 2004-08-19T02:08:00-05:00

There are some things I absolutely love about being me and being in my family, like creeping down two floors to the basement of my house, in which lies a borrowed TV and a dubious VCR. Yes, some of us poor souls still have them. That's the only form we could watch "Empire Records" in anyway. Speak of the devil—excellent movie.

The only real problem is that when I have my arms full of a gigantic mug of coffee milk and clean sheets, it is the hardest thing to make out the small grunting noises and large gesturing motions of my sister while she is doped up on triscuits. Luckily I have studied, albeit shortly, interpreting gestural communication, and therefore could make an accurate guess that her boyfriend sent her an mp3 of his latest guitar solo.

Being the wiser of us three, I was the first to initiate the box of mini-wheats into our conspiracy. Did you know that if you have four boxes of mini-wheats and those little paper things you cut out of the bottoms that you get a Spider-Man watch? This was beyond my ken until the credits began. When you are handed a box of mini-wheats and grunted at in a threatening manner there is usually only one thing to do, though. While the triscuits went to her head, I passed the box back over to the other side of the couch.

I finished Tristan today and, like so, lightened the mood a bit. That is why I am up at 3 a.m. listening to Flogging Molly. Hehe.

alliterative vanilla lattes

antipodes — 2004-08-20T04:08:00-05:00

A friend of mine is a traveler today, and while I waited for her to finish her last minute trial-by-ordeals, I began to read Dubliners . . . I had forgotten how involved with colors Joyce is! It is something to be marveled at and smiled upon, really.

Joyce takes you quite out of the world you see with your eyes and gives you incredibly vivid pictures and when you think about it, he doesn't really use incredibly rich words or anything. Perhaps it is the key words he drops that fit like a thousand keystones . . . but I digress, and wax abstract . . .

I like the way he writes dialogue, too, using the dashes instead of quotes. It makes you think you are reading somebody's journal without the feeling that you've done something you oughtn't. I hate my conscience, sometimes. It gets in the way of my curiosity.

I made myself the first vanilla latte I've had in ages, and now I am going to turn on the air conditioner, read my book, and try not to freak out about getting my Arthurian Legend class midterm grade in two days time.

how to make an alliterative vanilla latte:

Cut the caffeine with cowjuice proportionate to personal preference, and heat it as hot as you've the habit of having it. Add a very small vial of vanilla, totaling two teaspoons tops per pint of potion. Supplement with sugar and stir.

I am too pompous to be reading.

antipodes — 2004-08-24T04:08:00-05:00

Is it true that I have sat here for about fifteen minutes at one open document window so that I could write a blog entry? Yes, yes it is. My head has been stuffed full of organization and planning that I begin to face downwards, look at the details of stuff I probably shouldn't be focusing on, and have an inordinate wish to compulsively change the tablecloth on our dining room table. Don't ask me why, it just is.

One of our cats, Ramone, is sitting on my lap and keeps trying to rest a paw on the mousepad, which, although amusing, does nothing to help me get my work done. I'm toying with the idea of blaming it all on him. I am utterly useless for reason I cannot explain.

I planned to read the rest of Dubliners today, and maybe start on one of the six plays I must read in Modern Irish Drama. I'm not particularly eloquent at visualizing plays as I read them because I tend to skip over the names of who is speaking, and then I have to back up and consequently lose a lot of the dramatic pauses and points and jokes that might have been executed gracefully and with exquisite poise. I end up chuckling.

I do not like the word "chuckle". Perhaps it would be more prudent to say that I end up "chortling". Yes, that is better.

I end up chortling.

Chortling disrupts the feline poise of the small mammal balanced on my lap. It still makes me pause to feel the warmth breath of this little thing so alive that is napping on my lap like a child. Except that kids don't have furry tummies or whiskers that are content-o-meters.

Right. Go read Joyce. BE INSPIRED! DO SOMETHING! I still can't figure out what would get my brain going! Drat it all!

worthy endeavors

antipodes — 2004-08-26T12:08:00-05:00

Lots of work done today, and so invariably my spirits are a bit on the happy side of things. Academic work checked off with lauds, and almost as much scrubbing and sweeping of floors and bathrooms and dishes, seems to give me at least a sigh of relief if not downright contentment. There is a lot to do, still.

I've gotten further in Dubliners but haven't had the guts to finish it yet. Joyce is sad and disillusioned; a disappointed contempt colors his curiosity and observation of people. Skeptics will love this book, I think, as will people-watchers. However, the people-watchers will be depressed and the skeptics made curious. There is a price to good reading, you know.

Fireworks are going off outside and there is a party for a young boy across the street. I doubt I will get too much full sleep tonight . . .

for the readers . . .

antipodes — 2004-08-26T11:08:00-05:00

I finally finished Dubliners and must admit to Joyce that the last story, though long, was definitely one of the best of the group. It reminded me a bit of Charles Williams' introduction to Descent Into Hell and Ray Bradbury's description of the lonely streets and closed shops the night of October the 24th in Something Wicked This Way Comes, all the while demonstrating Dylan Thomas' A Child's Christmas in Wales in the way that an almost childish enthusiasm and absolute realism creates nothing less than the simplest of poetry.

That sounds really dumb because I have compared James Joyce's work with practically everything now, but I guess that happens when you write something that people deal with universally. We are all human, are affected by human events, and therefore good writers seem to be amazingly original when all they tell us is what we knew all along and just needed to be reminded of.

I'm listening to Loreena McKennitt's music from several cds and trying to wind down mentally . . . if I don't sit here and murmur to my keyboard I will inevitably wish I had as I lay upstairs in my bed trying not to hum to myself and read another chapter of my current bedside book, Walking on Water, by Madeleine L'Engle.

(It is about being a Christian artist. While I haven't found too much real meat in the book, I'm enjoying the way that she writes, and the quotes that she puts in, and the way she cannot cite things properly.)

With that parenthetical remark, I must remind everybody that I am very very happy with my online class (Arthurian Legend) and hope to heaven somebody will have posted something of substance by tomorrow when I get to check on it all. With my other online class (begins on the 30th), I must exchange a textbook because I was mistakenly given Norton's World Masterpieces instead of the English Literature volume 1, 7th edition. I hope we have to read Sir Gawain and the Green Knight again, because I have read it and dubbed it interesting.

modern chivalry (?)

antipodes — 2004-08-29T04:08:00-05:00

There are some times I really like being a member of the female sex. My hands are not muscled, my hair is long, and the skin on my face is relatively smooth, give or take a dimple or blemish. I also like curling up on the couch with my feet tucked under my long skirt, like now.

The fragility of femininity bugs me sometimes, though. I want to be my own, sometimes! That sounds weird, and I know one reader at least is rolling their eyes; maybe it is just that I don't particularly find it easy to make myself vulnerable by admitting I'm weaker than men are? Perhaps it is personal pride. What a very revealing statement. Let's steer away from that; I've been wriggling my fingers over the keyboard for five minutes after writing that last sentence and I still haven't come up with anything intelligent to say about modern chivalry.

Still sleepy, I wonder if it would be a good idea to fall asleep on the couch? The house is quiet again, and it is, after all, a Sunday afternoon.

expressions of modern chivalry

antipodes — 2004-08-30T01:08:00-05:00

I think modern chivalry exists. I think there are a few men who know the boundaries of respect, strength, and tact enough to deserve being called gentlemen. I am sure some women know the limitations of vulnerability and the limitless grace that are the trademarks of a lady. It is just difficult to see all this in the light of tradition and cultural conventions. Trying to reassess what we mean by "chivalry" is a difficult thing as most of the time it is seen as rudeness because sometimes "modern" chivalry totally refuses the traditional fashion of expressing chivalry . . .

Why is this? Perhaps it is because the acts that express chivalry are outdated.

Before I go to that, I must assume that there is a widely accepted stereotype of chivalry that includes men holding doors open for women, carrying things for them, helping them in and out of cars and up from seated positions and women accepting graciously the proffered help and assistance of men when it is offered in the aforementioned forms (there is more to this but I am writing a blog entry, not an essay).

I no longer wear sweeping skirts with trains, nor do I wear corsets that might make me faint if the weather turns hot. I am not hampered with purses and parasols. Therefore, I do not need doors opened for me by men when they refuse to walk through them if I happen to reach the door first. I do not need help getting out of cars or off of the floor where I had been sitting. I don't object to people carrying heavy things for me if I find them too much, but sometimes it is just ludicrous that I should not carry my own books.

Not to say that chivalry should be utterly abandoned; I admire gentlemen who can be insightful enough to let me borrow their coat when I'm freezing to death in a place I hadn't expected to be cold (I usually bring my jacket anyway). Thank you to anybody who has ever offered me their umbrella! There are just certain outdated practices that ought to be dropped.

It feels a little bit like I've been given the right to wear pants but not to walk through doors by myself, yet I've been given a lot of work to do sans servants who wash dishes and people don't rinse off their plates . . . That is, there are other ways to show chivalry. Times have changed.

thank you, mea culpa, and An Expression of Dismay

antipodes — 2004-09-03T11:09:00-05:00

Sorry for not having replied to everyone below for so long. I've been having a difficult time getting things around for the new semester and keeping up house for five people . . . I have learned several things over the last few days and one of them is that I need to practise cooking more if I don't want to frighten the natives.

I changed my mind a day after writing the post. It appears that I am one of the few people who are so stubbornly fussy about being independent that it becomes a matter of personal pride (see the post before last). I therefore must apologize to those I offended and displayed utter ingratitude to. Your sense of modern chivalry is not wrong because I don't happen to like it. Your actions reflect that of your gentlemanliness; your intention is the kindest. I ask for your forgiveness in the matter and will take my qualms out back and strangle them humbly.

And! Thanks to everybody who responded! I'm sorry not to be able to reply to all of them, as they were most of them wonderful arguments. I came back after changing my mind and did indeed read all of them.

Epilogue: I spent all yesterday evening reading about how to pronounce Old and Middle English to gear up for the reading of Beowulf I have today; 70 pages of poetry with probably just as many footnotes creates in me a longing to read something like Wind, Sand, and Stars. For dessert I get to write a page or so about Tristan and try not to puke.

beowulf was not photogenic

antipodes — 2004-09-05T09:09:00-05:00

I spent most of my Sunday morning having a bad hair day reading fifty pages of Beowulf in a very un-photogenic café. And, it was cold. And I think I have been talking in my sleep, which bothers me.

I finally watched When Harry Met Sally for the first time and have laughingly decided that a friend like Harry might be fun. Except that I dislike sex as a conversation topic for all seasons, at which Harry would probably say that I hadn't had enough of it to have an opinion on the subject (in stronger terms of course). He would be right because I think he is vulgar, which means he is wrong . . .

My paper-and-leather journal has been getting more attention lately, which is why you haven't seen me here. I got an incredible compliment this week about something I care about from someone who had a right to an educated opinion on the subject, and my best friend here left for good, not coming back; I also almost lost my temper completely with one of my parents in a crowded public place and started to cry, which is something I almost never do in crowded public places. I'm quite put out about it, actually.

Come swiftly, autumn.

no subject

antipodes — 2004-09-08T10:09:02-05:00

Hello. I'm sorry I haven't posted recently but Adam and Brian had not configured Mindsay v3 for all browsers and have been utterly unhelpful in allowing me a way to access my blog. Ergo, I am unable to access Mindsay from my home computer. I'm going to copy my entries from here into another program and keep it as an archive, but since I can't blog here, I shall be moving. Drat! I am frustrated.

New address is http://anstruther.blogspot.com and I will be sorry not to see you all again on Mindsay, but do visit me at my other place! It needs housewarming flowers or something:(

tentative hello

antipodes — 2004-09-11T04:09:33-05:00

Hello from Safari. Testing, one, two, three. If this works then maybe I will be able to skip back to Mindsay . . .

other hours

antipodes — 2004-09-11T06:09:57-05:00

I have been away discovering the world and other blogging realities, fighting dragons and the like. I vanquished the dragons. I wonder if the squeak of rusty armor bothered the people that wore it more than the dragons they fought while they wore their armor? I don't know. But I'm glad to be back at Mindsay--it now works on Safari and I can do the basic functions of posting and replying and meandering around the Mindsay network.

Communities don't work, and won't for another month or so (says Adam), so both the literary group and the Harry Potter group will have to hang tight for a little while. I may not be able to reply to everybody's comments because that function is still acting up. This will still be my creative writing blog, but I am keeping Anstruther for posting notes about my classes and general running-off-at-the-mouth since I tend to do that quite often. I do need to practise writing, though . . .

Thanks to everybody who was kind enough to ask me to stay; I really would have missed you! Back to regular programming, I suppose:)

a poem and a sunday

antipodes — 2004-09-12T02:09:17-05:00

This evening, I bid you not draw to the fire

for my tale's naught of dread nor is it of desire

but the normal and regular dredges of days

that seem ever to loom even when the rays

of the sun are all quietly folding the earth

into sleep, which though most of us lay in our berths

might not bring such rest as we're apt to expect

but please don't let me distract from my subject.

I had an interesting but normal day today, in which I wore stripey socks. I usually try to wear interesting and comfortable footwear even if they don't really cooperate visually to the general public. I would make a horrible name for stars worldwide if I happened to be one, which, thankfully, I am not.

Also interesting is the fact that today is a Sunday, and I am a Christian (at least I find it interesting). I went to church, like most Christians do, and was asked, on the spur of the moment, to help with children's church. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this harrowing activity, it is keeping the children occupied by teaching them biblical truths and stories, usually in entertaining ways. Puppet shows, skits, and games are the standard fare.

Let me make one thing clear: I am not good with children. I do not generally like them when I have to deal with them face to face. Somehow, I found myself behind a puppet stage with an eagle puppet named Emily falling off my hand, playing "Simon Says", and let me tell you nobody was more dazed than I was when we stepped out into the bright sunlight.

Isn't it odd how you see people in jeans and t-shirts or cargo pants and a tank-top and then when you see them in a three-piece suit or a nice dress it makes you blink and have a sudden paradigm shift in trying to figure out who you've been talking to for the last few weeks?

Now the cat is throwing up on the carpet and my musings are cut short by moist bits of half-digested cat food on the only carpeted area on this floor. How do they know? Some things are beyond my ken, and the way cats time their bodily functions is one of them.

unrecognized glory

antipodes — 2004-09-13T05:09:10-05:00

"Provided he is an artist of integrity, he is a genuine servant of the glory which he does not recognize, and unknown to himself there is 'something divine' about his work."

--t.k. ware(whoever he is)

I got this out of a book by Madeleine L'Engle and I like it. It says concisely what I have meant all along about art. That must be why we quote things. So sleepy! And a pity it is--I wanted write about somebody else washing my hair, which hasn't happened for many years. What a weird experience.

african or european?

antipodes — 2004-09-14T06:09:05-05:00

What an excellent and academically unproductive day. Make no mistake, I enjoy studying. In fact, our present subjects are becoming more interesting because we are starting on reading about the Holy Grail. We all know what that means and it is only a matter of time before I accidentally insert some links that go not to the Camelot Project but to a site about a particular band's search for the Holy Grail, which turned out to be not so holy anyway. Silly English kniggets.

However, today was not one of those days where I was at liberty to read anything I wished.

Those of you who have tasted my cooking will be happy to know that I have added some recipes to my arsenal that do not have lentils in them! I repeat, no lentils! And it isn't a soup! Oh no! I can now roast a chicken and successfully broil eggplant. Yes, oh yes indeedy I am dangerous now.

Tomorrow is going to be busy and I will have to try and get some reading done. I expect it will be mostly in the evening though, and I will stake out one of those comfy leather couches in the library. Anyone coming within a radius of five feet gets bombarded with 100 dBs of Arthurian legend recorded by a Frenchman.

it must be a thursday

antipodes — 2004-09-16T05:09:47-05:00

"I never could get the hang of Thursdays" seems to encapsulate my first conscious thought after the events of the morning.

This is the kind of day where after having prayed for those around you, the prayer you most want to say is "please, don't let them see me, let it be You" and then you close your eyes and hold your breath for the plunge into being something you don't feel, and trying to feel things you really aren't inclined to feel at the moment. Everyone has these days.

A storm came this morning, and our windows leaked. My older sister is sick and laying on the couch right now. The dishes are a mess, and my responsibility. My classwork has suffered the last few days and I must uphold my grades to get through this class. We found a cat that had been run over by a car, and it has had to be put to sleep. The bloody jacket it was wrapped in is in the washing machine. I am physically exhausted and emotionally still half asleep.

I'm listening to Moby ("Alone" and "The Rain Falls and the Sky Shudders") and I'm going to make myself some espresso. Do the dishes. Pick up the living room. Post on my class conferences about The Wanderer and Ezra Pound's translation of The Seafarer. Read some of the Mabinogion and compare it to Chretien. Make sis some tea. Put the clean jacket in the dryer. Just, take things one things at a time I guess.

hymn to the internet

antipodes — 2004-09-16T06:09:11-05:00

Having incited a few riots and repeatedly voiced the obvious--not to mention done the dishes and made myself coffee--I feel better. I love Mindsay for the fact that there are a lot of caring people here, even if they don't agree with you. Do I border on calling us open-minded? Nevah! :) Thanks to everybody who wrote with sympathy in reply to my last post. I'll . . . buy you coffee someday. Or something.

It is still taking awhile to get used to v3, and I still don't feel comfortable just spouting off something fun here, for some strange reason. It is like getting a new mechanical pencil to draw with, and trying to fit your hand around it so that it feels more a part of your arm is as difficult as some really really difficult. Slowly but surely I am getting to know the nuances of the creature.

I posted a great entry on one of my classes (see my other blog for the slightly-abridged transcript) and got great reviews on it from the professor (yay! tough one, this time). The internet is such a great tool--normally I would have to lug a ton of books to class but online I can just link to any reference.

Hopefully there will be more storms tomorrow, and that it will be colder. I have already, in faith that autumn will indeed arrive in the near future, wrestled a box of sweaters down from atop my wardrobe. We shall see . . .

nostalgia just ain't what it used to be

antipodes — 2004-09-17T06:09:35-05:00

I seem to be entirely out of temper with people today. I am fairly sure I have annoyed just about everyone in my household to a good extent. Normally I try to avoid that kind of situation but today I seem to be particularly prone to being a nuisance. Since I happen to be good at it, I relegated myself to the basement to do laundry and finish some reading for my Arthurian legend class (story of Perceval).

I also got an email from an old friend of mine, which quite threw me off balance. He is getting to go to a conference in a few days that I would love to be at, and is in a job I would love to have. His position in the communities he belongs to is enviable. However, I could never do what he is doing. Last time I sat across a cafe table from him he was in the process of a burn-out, which I discouraged with many jests. He'd also just left a relationship, and is now moving in with his current interest . . . he is a very different person, I think, than from when I knew him.

Getting his letter threw me back to a time of eager endurance and cautious confidence, and reminded me that I once thought just as highly of one field as I do of literature, which I'm delving into presently.

Now I want to go back in time a little bit, but it feels also as if I'd paint that time in a haze of good feeling that accompanies nostalgia. Meh.

Drat it all! It is still difficult to write here. *waves magic wand*

dinner table conversation

antipodes — 2004-09-18T06:09:57-05:00

Not too long ago, I was sitting at dinner and somebody mentioned the condom-purple-flour-bomb event in relation to the Batman incident. "Robin" was apparently taken off of the stage due to some MPs who threatened him with guns. But . . . what if they had been caught climbing over the fence? "Uhhh . . . I thought I saw . . . HEY!"

Even worse would be the condoms.

"What have you got there . . . ?"

Just one of those fascinating revelations that cues a blog entry.

a comforting thought

antipodes — 2004-09-19T07:09:25-05:00

I would not be very romantic or pitiful to find lying unconscious on the lawn outside our house if my life was a horror flick because I wear sweatpants and t-shirts as pajamas, not lingerie. Thankfully my life in not a horror b-movie. I couldn't afford the hair, anyway.

in love with a figure of speech (?!)

antipodes — 2004-09-20T06:09:37-05:00

WHY in the name of St. Praxed and Chicago do I so love a satire? Irony, irony, irony in all forms and senses is such a drug and a delight while making me shudder all the same. It isn't something I aspire to--I could never be a vessel of expression for witty and clever but excruciatingly painful remarks. I haven't the simply haven't got what it takes. I trip over my own feet and break at least a dish per week. But I still love irony in all of its manifestations . . . unless it makes me uncomfortable, of course . . .

mein lieber schwan

antipodes — 2004-09-21T06:09:47-05:00

Rather a prosaic evening, I think. My hair is drying, candles are burning lower in their holders, my two-cup teapot is being slowly emptied as I busy around getting things ready for tomorrow. My face is ointmented and my hands cleaned and lotioned. I don't pamper myself quite like this very often but I imagine plenty of women used to. But then, I listen to Wagner before going to sleep. I don't think they used to listen to Wagner before going to sleep. *sigh* I got a lot done today, and am going to the library tomorrow (yippee!!) to write an outline for a short paper which should, in all fairness, be relatively painless. I wish I could read faster. On that note, Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings is on now and I am slowly fading. May the dream fish bless thy rest.

no admittance except on party business

antipodes — 2004-09-22T08:09:06-05:00

"Then Thursday, September the 22nd, actually dawned. The sun got up, the clouds vanished, flags were unfurled and the fun began." Today is September the 22nd, and that means it is the birthday of both Bilbo and Frodo Baggins. Congratulations to them! Traditionally on this day there is somewhat of a party atmosphere, very short speeches, lots of reading, and at least one dish of fungi to be eaten at a main meal. Tea, elevenses, luncheon, second breakfasts, midnight snacks, dinner, and supper are all celebrated as well as the normal meals. *grin* Well, sort of, anyway. I can't eat that much. :)

project procrastination #8915

antipodes — 2004-09-23T08:09:19-05:00

I have Bridget Jones' Diary in my rucksack, checked out surreptitiously from the public library last night at about 9 p.m. and escorted outdoors by a Norton Anthology. I've been wanting to read it since I saw the movie, which made me laugh. Not a favorite, but I have a feeling it will be one of those reads that you plow through in an afternoon-to-midnight sitting while sitting atop one's feet. We shall see. Somehow today is appearing me as somewhat odd, as if something or someone, somewhere was cackling maniacally while picking the nose of a voodoo doll that looks like me. This is the kind of thing that only an IV of strawberry yogurt and the Prisoner of Azkaban soundtrack can cure!

you guys have to see this . . .

antipodes — 2004-09-23T12:09:04-05:00

"There has been a big push in the last several years to diseminate the theories that tie the holy cup to the feminine form." (from a classmate) ROFL LOL!!!

autumn is here, and I can breathe now.

antipodes — 2004-09-24T12:09:28-05:00

Autumn winds are blowing now, and I'm finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate on class work. I have a five page paper due on Sunday and shamefacedly with a slightly blank stare do I admit not even having begun it. Fall is distracting. Clouds are coming across the sky these days, grey and looming. Sometimes it rains a little and I love the afternoons. My favorite books are coming out more often (was it useless to try and put them on shelves?) and I am taking tea up to my room at night while I do the last bits of studying and night-reading . . . It's getting colder, colder, and sweet to think about. Gotta go write a paper. *grin*

good night:)

antipodes — 2004-09-25T06:09:18-05:00

Grendel and garish company will be Organized into paragraphs and Ordered onto pages, then the paper will be Done and sent in. Tomorrow. Neglecting not my feline friends, I place my feet on one side of the bed Gingerly, and then my head on the pillow-- Hair still quite wet, but smelling nice--and Then I plan, in all solemnity, to be somnolent. --me

a bookish entry

antipodes — 2004-09-26T06:09:09-05:00

I can't seem to stop. Drat it all. It isn't as if self-disclosure is an addiction if it is only whimsical silliness that hasn't really much to do with reality, is it? I could and do write pages about my books on my bookshelves. But I also hold two blogs, a reading journal, and a normal journal along with a box of scraps of paper that I find and write on. I've just realized, by the way, that none of my favorite books have been written within the last twenty years. Oh wait, no, one of them has--"Beauty" by Robin McKinley, and that's right on the edge--but none of the others. Why am I feeling smug? Because I am so tired. Of course. It isn't logical, dear, says an invisible Miss Blossom. (Miss Blossom is from "I Capture the Castle", which is an excellently written book even though the characters are infuriating.) Well, I finally finished that paper:) Yay! I sent it in, and I'm really crossing my fingers, cause this isn't a hunky-dory class. I'm saving a good bit of "historical" readings for tomorrow. I plan to intersperse Geoffrey of Monmouth with Bridget Jones, which should be infinitely more interesting than it was the first time around with only Malory to console me. An awful lot of books have crept into the post. I'm going to go read the bit about the Houses of Healing and the healing of Meriadoc from none other than the Lord of the Rings. And maybe a bit from "The Silver Chair" about Jill Pole, to whom I feel an overwhelming kinship at present, for no reason I can name off the top of my head. Good night.

jazz and a wool sweater

antipodes — 2004-09-28T10:09:26-05:00

I'm all comfy in an old sweater of my dad's and jeans so worn in they're worn out . . . and stripey socks. Stripey socks make you happy. And coffee. And big-band-jazzy-stuff that makes you want to close your eyes. Classwork is really being annoying lately because there is so much of it. The actual material looks really fun:) We get to study the return of Arthur! Somehow I think he will come back one day. However, on top of that there are more French romances (gag) and a couple more pages (read: "volumes") of Malory to plow through. Luckily some of this stuff I have done and it will be great for a review, but it means more classical and less jazz and certainly less fun-reading for a day or so. Somehow I've had a really big shift in thinking over the last day or so and now I feel I know a little bit more of What I Am Supposed to Do, which is excellent. I've been wanting some kind of sign for weeks and months. I have a couple long journal entries to write on paper . . . On that note, I'd prolly be heading off. I'm getting itchy wondering about Arthur and Avalon, or maybe it is just this wool sweater.

weird-ed out

antipodes — 2004-09-29T11:09:41-05:00

Some people in my classes just don't comprehend the world outside of English Comp.; it got so bad that I had to pull out a couple volumes of Robert Browning and read "The Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister" muttered aloud to myself before I could go on posting. Marxism and Feminism have very little place in actual reading unless you are a paranoid schizophrenic or a hungry Ph.D. student. Also: how you feel about a text is not important. This class is not on Relativist Perspectives of Medieval Literature. Go talk to somebody who cares. I'm going to continue coldly biting all the heads off of a plate of gingerbread cookies and vindictively crunch them into little pieces.

try not to panic!!! more coffee!!!

antipodes — 2004-10-01T06:10:13-05:00

It is October and my reading list is going to get really full, really fast. Waking up in an uncomfortable position trying to avoid the claws of my cat, who is not a morning person, I realised slowly and painfully that I have very little time left before the end of this term and the start of a new one. Time to freak out! Lots of math to do for my trip, figuring meal prices and bus tickets into one enormous and hideous amount of money, and where is my jacket? I need a jacket to take with me. What books shall I pack? Any besides textbooks? Where is my volume of James Joyce, anyway? *sigh* I am making some espresso right now, and am going to catch up reading The Playboy of the Western World while my jeans are in the dryer. I haven't read it before, so that means first we check out online sources and commentaries . . . sounds like a horrible thing to do, and I wouldn't dare do that sort of thing with a fun book, but this is Studying Stuff . . . Coffee is done and it is time to read and try not to panic about packing.

butterflies at picnics

antipodes — 2004-10-02T05:10:21-05:00

My room is nice and cleanly, and my studying coming along nicely. Butterflies are wriggling about in my stomach very oddly but quite expectedly; I cannot wait to be where I'm going. I will try and blog from there; I'm still waiting on an email about a free wireless network near where I'm staying. Tomorrow I am going on a picnic. I made brownies, from a box. *sigh* Oh well. Someday I will make them from scratch and be known far and wide as a surprisingly good cook, but right now while I'm trying to read about the death of King Arthur from half a dozen--I mean a million--different sources, I had better stick to simple stuff. Time for sleep and good dreams, and a chilly awakening in the morning. Rag socks! Boots! Sweaters! All hearken to me!

I know what beef tea is.

antipodes — 2004-10-03T03:10:00-05:00

I spent an interesting day today. But I hate it when other people begin their blogs that way because what they did that day was interesting to absolutely nobody but themselves and, perhaps, conspiracy theorists. Fascinatingly--yes, that is a word--I had a day full of shopping (read: "feeling ugly" and "decaffeinated in purgatory") and the aforementioned picnic, where I met some friends of mine who were visiting from out of town. Only one of them was missing--the Mrs. to the present Mr. Gardiner. Now, their names are, of course, not Gardiner, but as they remind me of that family from Pride and Prejudice and as they too enjoy a good Austen binge once in a while, I shall dub them so. I did finish Translations today, which bodes well for my calendar. This means there are only two more plays that I must read as well as the other eight chapters of a history book, which is much better now that it has reached the political satirists and literary gurus of the age. So the end of this entry leaves me exhausted, drinking a cup of soup broth. They used to call it "beef tea" but then if you ask somebody nowadays what a cup of beef tea is who will know what you mean? Nobody except those enamoured of Austen-ian-ism. I am also listening to Stavesacre's "Keep Waiting", which has probably never touched a theme of Austen yet it remains on my playlist of good music.

malory pilloried.

antipodes — 2004-10-04T04:10:24-05:00

I took the time to write a paper journal entry today that ended up being something like five pages long, and now the rest of my mind is halfway out into space, dabbling in and dallying at every shiny object it perceives. Therefore my history lesson in incomplete, I have not even begun Malory's last story on the death of Arthur and the continuing saga of Lancelot and Guinevere, and I have only just printed out a copy of tomorrow's piece of catechism: A Modest Proposal by Jonathan Swift. I saw a picture of him and must say that I dislike men in wigs. An empty teacup to my left and a juice glass with a glug of a hideous peach chardonnay to my right. More tea, or more koolaid? This is the moral dilemma of the evening. I have the hiccups, as well, which are not helping me maintain a dignified or solemn composure suited to the perusal of a volume of Malory. Am still inwardly and very vainly congratulating self on marvelous paper, imagining a thick volume in print with my name in the author's place. Due to awareness of vanity, there is a conscious call to read more Malory. Oh dear.

electricians, j.k. rowling, and . . . MORE malory!!!

antipodes — 2004-10-05T08:10:58-05:00

I was drooling over tourist guides and bus maps for my trip when I was suddenly interrupted by some electricians who wanted to fix our house, which was inexplicably out of electricity at the time. House now worky fine and I grazie-mille-d them out the front gate. Do all electricians look the same? J.K. Rowling has answered the infamous poll question and I am very depressed that more people will be killed off. This is most distressing. I hope they won't be major characters, like Hermione or any of the Weasleys or anybody from the Order. Or Neville. Why won't they give a release date for the sixth book!? I am dying, here, with only Malory to comfort me. By the way, Lancelot just got an arrow in his butt. Serves him right, if you ask me. And--what is all this fad of wounded knights sleeping with their married lovers and leaving blood from their newly reopened wounds on the sheets? Not only is it immoral but it inconsiderately puts the laundresses off their lunch.

musings of an exhausted one

antipodes — 2004-10-06T04:10:33-05:00

I have just royally ticked off one of my housemates, received my final exam (about 3000 words to write before Saturday), and been apprised of the fact that there is a big project coming up for me sooner than I thought I would be dealing with it. And I am one of those foolish people who doesn't like conflict. Suddenly even the very small details seem sharp and defined--my cat's neck is soft and has a more downy sort of fur than his back, and he purrs like a baby rattle. My shoulders feel heavy and weighty, as if I once had wings and lost them. There is a forgotten (probably broken) clock somewhere about in the room and I can hear it ticking. I have two dirty teacups in my room, one dirty glass, and one mug with the coffee I'm drinking tonight in it. Ugh. I'm fighting the urge to have a pity party. I'm not sure what to think about to get my mind off of this dumb heavy feeling. If you can spare a moment, pray for me? Suddenly the voice of a young Anne Shirley (or was it Cordelia?) said "Tomorrow is a new day." Somehow the figures of Sir Kei and a certain prince of Drasnia snort at Anne and that makes me laugh:) Oh sheesh, all in one entry I am now feeling a bit better. These are the hours of Robert Browning, and the Spanish Cloister, and making faces a myself in the mirror until I laugh.

from a luxurious by very ugly red armchair

antipodes — 2004-10-08T05:10:33-05:00

The white dry-erase board hanging on my wall is covered in black and green scribbles about sacred kings and ritual combat. My cat is on the back of my armchair, resolutely putting the headrest out of shape. The sky is very blue with very few clouds and therefore I regard it with slight resentment. More clouds, please. I sit in the middle of the room in my ugly red armchair with my back to it and am listening to the musical sounds of my neighbors' respective vacuum cleaners and crying children mixed with the sounds of housing construction. I'm not sure exactly where everybody is working today but the acoustics make it so that my window is a repository for curious noises. This day and the next are my days for writing this exam, and I have most of the material outlined. If I can get all the outlines I have today written out in longhand then tomorrow I can save for revision and the last essay. So long as I have a set plan in my head and stripey socks on my feet I have confidence that this won't last forever.

revisiting language and two new poems

antipodes — 2004-10-11T01:10:19-05:00

It is amazing how interesting my day was to me, and how little I am able to communicate my personal interest to anybody else. They would not find it interesting. However, I can usually drum up a few details that make my world a little bit more accessible to others. I had the opportunity to sign more today (not quite as ASL as I used to be, unfortunately, but that is good because the people I was signing to were not as ASL either), which was really very nice because I have missed it very much. I'm actually quite selfishly hoping to hang out with them more often so that I can sign more. That language holds an unutterable appeal for me--not because of its beauty or community, but a sort of hypnotic . . . well, didn't I say it was unutterable? I feel as if my hands are weaving when I sign. Enough of that, I can see I'm weirding a couple of people out. I am so relieved that that one exam is over; it was such a fun class and I have learned very very much from it, but that final was difficult for me. I'm trying not to hold my breath until Thursday when the grades are supposed to be posted. I love upper level classes because there are no Scantrons, no little bubbles to fill in, no letters to circle. I'm posting a part of a poem in my other blog about the exam and a question in it if you care to read anything un-prosey of mine. Now, I focus on Chaucer! Lots of Chaucer to read in the next week, I think, but that should be nothing in comparison with the speed with which I must finish reading a "short" history book. They are fooling you when they say it is short. History books are always too long. More tea . . . I need more tea . . .

you know you are a book addict when . . .

antipodes — 2004-10-12T06:10:19-05:00

I simply can not estimate the approximate amount of clothes I will have to take with me to where I am going, or their weight. I know I will take about seven books, which will take up about a third of my carry-on maximum weight. This is very wrong; I am having to use a bathroom scale to figure out how heavy my suitcase is while approximating happily about my books and laptop compy. I mean, how cold is fifty degrees F anyway? Fifty degrees fahrenheit means it is time to read "Something Wicked This Way Comes" and "The Halloween Tree" and "That Hideous Strength". And to wear slippers. My grades should be coming in soon for my Arthurian Legend class. I love that class, really I do. Or did, anyway. I'd love to read more about that and can only respect the editors of the NAEL for adding a section on the return of Arthur. I'm even considering finishing up the Cretin's last story, Cliges, which my professor says is his masterpiece. I am not a little nervous about my grade on the major paper, though. I turned in one paper to this prof. and he thought it very fine--so did I, but then it was one of my creations--and this last longer paper I dislike very much. For the sake of my exam grade I hope he likes it but for the sake of integrity I hope he grades me down for it. Bwah. We'll see how it goes. For now, I have finished Juno and the Paycock this morning and have decided that I don't particularly like it, and have procrastinated reading more history. I hate history books that do not deal with concepts. Names and dates are totally not my thing unless by some strange chance it happens to relate to Harry Potter or Robert Browning.

sleeping drowsyfoozles. with scarves.

antipodes — 2004-10-14T04:10:34-05:00

I am wearing a fuzzy scarf that a friend gave to me as a Christmas present. This is nothing strange at all, except that I am wearing it around the house on top of my normal clothes looking very sleepy. No, I am not drunk; just a little drowsy is all. You must admit, though, that is you had such a wonderful scarf you might wear it around the house too. One should never save favorite articles of clothing for too few special occasions. I must find some way to justify this absurdity. My final exam grade came in for the Arthurian Legend class and I passed with figurative confetti and champagne. Now I am feeling very puffed up and smug. It shouldn't last long, though--I have another class to argue through as well and it might be a bit difficult to work through it tomorrow: the end of the week approacheth. I'm rather nervous about that now. I always have something to be nervous about. However, I am not nervous about my scarf. Or about autumn. I love autumn. It makes me sleepy. It does not necessarily follow, though, that you should never be nervous about things that make you sleepy. I would be wary of fallacious logic in that particular area. Sleeping drowsyfoozle. Time to dream. May the dream fish bless thy rest.

inkblobs and slubgobs in a mundane reality

antipodes — 2004-10-15T02:10:45-05:00

There. I have signed up for the few required classes that I have left to take for my degree. Well, almost. I may have one or two more that have squirreled themselves away in a back corner of my paper work. I am feeling very brave and not a little relieved. However, required classes are boring. The ones I've procrastinated on, anyway. I hate them: they are nasty, spiteful little monsters that slubgob their way into my academic utopia! Disgusting. Slimy inkblobs! Leftovers for dinner (very yummy, they are, too) and clean sheets on my bed along with the knowledge of my reserved classes give me a feeling of mundane routine that, though satisfying, is a little boring and . . . well, routine. Luckily my life doesn't go on that way forever. I feel it once, and then whoosh! A car crash or a new friend or a trip or a book comes along and relieves the monotony of the dull muggle world. *grin*

Of all things, I forgot to bring a handkerchief.

antipodes — 2004-10-17T10:10:39-05:00

I am at an Insomnia Cafe writing out everything I plan to send from the free wireless at the Chester Beatty Library, where I will have a cup of Indian tea, or something at the Silk Road Cafe. Right now, lunch is some yoghurt and muesli and a grande cafe latte with my dear friend Trimey (the name of my computer) and my Moleskine journal, in which I am taking notes for classes as well as reflections and which I have yet to name. I was afraid I would regret not having brought my headphones from the hotel, but they are playing a soothing soundtrack of Enigma. There is a man reading a tabloid to my right, and to my left there is a gaggle of women in their thirties who remind me a lot of Bridget Jones talking of relationships and using broad generalizations to protect specific freckled faces and curly headed smokers from rank exposure to the masses. Poor men, all of them. I wonder why the other guy is reading a tabloid? That would make me the more curious, as people rarely read tabloids in public places that are not the grocery store. I suppose I am as odd as any of them, pecking away at my computer keyboard with bobby pins a-flying. I've just pushed the bobby pins back in, but they are in the spirit of the location now, and rebellion is in the (h)air. It is really cold here, when your professor takes a meandering walk through St. Stephen's Green and stops at every statue to expostulate on the state of Irish politics in relation to the current situation in Iraq. The fact that it is very amusing can easily be ignored until the event is quite over and one is warm and caffeinated, like now. My roommate's name is Joy, and she has platinum blonde hair and likes to watch cartoons in the morning. We agree that Rick Steves, though very competent as a travel writer, does not like Dublin or Venice but we are compassionate, however, and forgive him just this once. At the moment we were too tired for revenge, anyway. She also has a 40 gig iPod, so it can be friends with Trimey. My professors are remarkably observant and dedicated (they remembered how to spell my name) but rather absent-minded (when did the first Queen Elizabeth die, again?) and both of them love the stories and people behind all these places we're visiting. The people at the guesthouse are kind and funny and very good at what they do--best service I've had anywhere besides the last place my family and I stayed here a good seven or eight years ago (gave us candy bars with our tea). Ah, but this entry is long and though I have much more to say (and will probably inflict on my other blog in the next few days), I have only an hour left over lunch break to write notes from the past hour's lecture, finish up my latte, throw a euro coin in a fountain at St. Stephen's Green and meet up with everybody at the front entrance.

when we were jung and easily freudtend.

antipodes — 2004-10-20T03:10:31-05:00

Crazy. I just came downstairs to the common room of the hotel and opened up my compy to charge it and voila! A wireless network! I asked the management who is tonight an elderly sort of genial person who helped me find an adaptor for my compy to charge it with in the first place and he says that he is aware of the existence of the wireless and has no objection to my making shameless use of it. So YEAH! I have waited like a good girl until my roommate is out of range of spontaneous popping-into-the-room episodes before scarfing down my dinner, a kit-kat bar, and getting to work on my papers and essays and other procrastinated things. I did have some yoghurt with granola before that--"tsk tsk" me not--but I haven't the time for an Irish meal tonight. Besides, the only real restaurant (a pub with a back room where people are squished into tables and chairs) within a few minutes walk is already full and has gorgon waitresses. Perhaps if I am a good girl and finish my papers then I will afford myself the luxury of a hot chocolate. I wouldn't mind a cafe latte with an accidental splash of Bailey's, though, that's for sure. I've filled up a little over half of a moleskine notebook (not page-size, but not the pocket ones; I don't know what they are called) with scribblings and babblings about history and double decker buses and odd classmates and what I had for breakfast, and I've still got a couple of days left and a long research paper, so it should be nice to fill it all up and be able to give it a coherent title instead of a date or vague epitaph on it's cover. Found out that the noises keeping me awake last night were several of my classmates in the room opposite who came in drunk and giggly and began to rearrange the furniture in their room. I hope Joyce sobered them up today. I wish I liked Joyce, but he had sex with too many women for all the wrong reasons, got drunk on a regular basis (like his hated father), and wrote horrible things about people who deserved it much less than he did himself. Good night.

the zen garden at the writers' museum was droopy.

antipodes — 2004-10-22T10:10:19-05:00

The common room is quiet and dim because of the rain which has been coming down all day, spattering my glasses as we walked and now hitting the skylight of the breakfast room in my hotel. Everyone is inside museums or huddled in doorways waiting for buses or squinting through the blurry grey city persistently pushing through many-face'd crowds (how did any poet call them nameless?) to get back to somewhere. I should be writing an analysis of some plays that we have seen over the last few days, but it will take a little thinking about since I walked out of one of them--it was obscene, boring but for the disgust rendered by the obscenity, and had nothing to tell the world that it should be reminded of. I talked to an older Irish lady who, by the way, was very hard of hearing, during the intermission. My innumerable and houdiniac hairpins must have identified my silhouette, I think. Anyway, the dear woman told me that she thought it quite out of order but assured me that of course the others would be better, nicer plays and who was the second one by? Yeats? Oh, was it Yeats? She thought maybe it was Lady Gregory, who was rather an odd duck in her opinion. I am afraid that one of my professors is quite upset with me over it, but I had a vengeful thought about her today: she and Joyce would not get along. He would not like her. Why does she dress so conservatively (almost to a Victorian standard, only wrinkle-resistant) when she thinks so liberally about sex and drugs and poetry? Oh yes, because it is cold. When I was at the elevator waiting to go to my room at the hotel, a worried classmate looked me in the face quite intensely and asked me whether everything was ok. A little bit worried about her state of mind, I replied in the affirmative. Another classmate came in to borrow some crackers and cheese from my roommate (don't ask me how he was going to give them back) and gave me a look, and said loudly "Well, the more I think about it, the more I LIKED IT." Capital letters used are not editorial but are owned of their speaker. I expect he wanted to get a rise out of me, but I'm afraid I laughed and went back to my notebook. Drat drat drat. One of the younger people just came in and is reeking of perfume and eyeing the guy across the table in a very calculating manner. Oh yes, and she just asked me how I was doing. I am leaving. I think I am allergic to the vibes. Plus, they are emitting loud and high-pitched giggling noises. A mating call?

mutual surprise episode about a luxury hotel!

antipodes — 2004-10-24T07:10:20-05:00

Feeling not a little shocked and quite physically exhausted, I did the only thing that quite made sense to me: I made myself a cup of tea. Please be informed this is an automatic Mini Bar system and therefore any movement of products will be directly charged to your account. Thank goodness my tea was not part of the mini bar, which I saw when wondering if the refrigerator was a Sony. Oooh, and neither is a packet of a Cadbury's hot chocolate mix. Reserved for time penultimate to the sleeping bit. Having taken off smelly socks and groaning shoes and thinking with a sigh how absolutely providential it was that I happened to bring an extra pair of socks (proof that there is a God), I realized that the skin around my fingernails is all cracking and nastified. Ow ow ow. Lotion! Need lotion, rooting around bag for lotion, why I did I not repack before I left? Oh: because I was scribbling madly as is my wont, but this time for a demanding flashing-eyed Academia. Still no lotion. Stupid lotion. Hotel bathrooms always have lotions and conditioning shampoos and little paper-wrapped soaps. Is that the bathroom or the closet? Glass panels are confusing, all frosted and wavy. I feel like a fish, only fish don't have fingernails. Ah! Yes, bathroom. Light switch? Woohoo! Found it on the first try. Oh my. Conditioning shampoo: "Zest of Lemon". Liquid soap: "Hint of Apple". Bath and shower gel: "Gentle Orange". LOTION! ("Cool Cream") Good grief. Nice smells, though, very nice smells. Walking back out into hallway. Hallway is cold. Step back into bathroom. Wiggling toes undecidedly for a moment. Bathroom floor is heated! Call Ripley's! and the Enquirer! The tea, though from a tea-bag, was not bad. Taking a pirate-load of coins out of my pocket, I realise that they all have little gold harps on them, playing "Eire". I put them all face upwards so I can look at them. Repacking a little bit to find a few necessities, I found a multitude of sugar packets all stuffed into a pocket. Suddenly it dawned on me: I collect condiments. A Finnish mustard packet (Sinappi), a Japanese powder coffee-creamer (Creap), and several Irish sugar packets (Cafe Sol, Insomnia) are showing or will be coming soon to my nearest bulletin board.

we'll wander back to hearth and bed . . .

antipodes — 2004-10-24T06:10:55-05:00

Mealtime on the plane. Everybody takes out their sandwiches or orders monstrously expensive pieces of cardboard from the trolley. I am content with my cafe latte and promises of leftovers at home. Feeling very sleepy and generally content, and smelling slightly of lemongrass, I've put on my playlist of .mp3s from The Lord of the Rings movies. Sir James Galway is playing Faramir's theme on panpipes. Gotta love Faramir--Tolkien wrote that interrogation scene so well; it is so revealing of the characters while staying utterly in character with the story and not stopping for unnecessary narration. I am sorely missing my copy of those books that I usually carry with me. Guess who is turning on her audiobooks of LOTR when she gets home? (Hint: me) The stale air, recycled and limp, is being filled with the smell of sandwich meats and mayonnaise. All I can see out my window is darkness but for the light on the end of the wing of the plane. Oh yes, and the reflection of my hands and computer (I think I've made two Mac converts this trip as well, by the by). It feels so good to be going home.

overplayed reaction

antipodes — 2004-10-27T05:10:25-05:00

After having read so many plays in the last month and having seen at least three during the past week, I have begun to write one of my own. It is my first effort, and will probably be very short and have an intolerably lame ending; this is the price an addict must pay for reading Oscar Wilde and J.M. Synge, W.B. Yeats, and the whole Abbey Theatre group. I will maybe post it in anstruther when--if--it is finished for the perusal of willing innocents. I'm really rather dubious about the whole thing, because I didn't mean to write it. I bought a new notebook for writing my midterm study guide in (I've run out of spiral notebook pages for drafts, and I do really like them for try-outs and ideas) and when I turned the page after having written down the definition for synecdoche and suddenly my pencil took control of the situation and wrote two lines of dialogue without my knowledge. I added to them their obvious answers, and then the next bit seemed obvious, so I wrote it down too. I've gotten three pages of dialogue down as well as the setting and some of the ending. Maybe I will never finish it; it is a little embarrassing. The premise was an idea that someone I know was enamoured of Byron's Don Juan, but I bet she wouldn't like him if she met him. I've put it in more playful terms, I think, and softened the blow a bit. It isn't based on Don Juan. I could not bear that. Instead, it is based on something popular by John Donne. Very adventurous and impertinent for me to write about, I know. I may not finish it. To tell the truth, I'm rather shocked it is sitting so easily in my notebook. It ought to be ashamed of itself.

post-midterm fiction bingeing

antipodes — 2004-10-28T08:10:56-05:00

Have just sleepily completed a healthier and more memorable alternative to getting drunk by myself: one pot of espresso followed by a fiction binge and a new sweatshirt. I've just read the second Bridget Jones book all the way through in the space of about 12 hours and am feeling tipsy with the shallowness of it all. I do not count calories or weigh myself regularly, nor do I smoke, so the italicized pieces above her entries must suffer the wrath and abstinence of my comfortable lifestyle. Aforementioned Dreaded Exam is over with. For at least another 72 hours I will not have to deal with Margery Kempe or Julian of Norwich or litotes or synecdoche. There are times and places for all of this, but today was . . . just . . . not it. Somehow I feel a justification in my plans for repeating my personal fiction binge--at least for an hour--with The Grim Grotto, which was smuggled in to me by some international travelers who said I mustn't look in their luggage because of the highly volatile nature of possible Christmas gift inductees. They took tea, admired my sweatshirt, and trudged upstairs while I continued reading. It is now past two o'clock in the morning, a deliciously quiet hour. Am so tired. Am so irresponsible. Only one cure for guilty feelings of irresponsibility--try to give yourself an ego-boost by pretending that you are better than people who are a little less responsible than you. It works, trust me. The sink is half-full of dirty dishes, and here I sit at my keyboard with a blog entry. Espresso is gone, book is over, and my eyelids are beginning to droop. A fond and somewhat tipsy adieu to you all.

naggrumpy. mfine.

antipodes — 2004-10-29T06:10:09-05:00

My mind is, as Lady Gregory's Cap'n Boyle says, "allus in a stat o' chassis!" which is an extremely dignified way of saying that I can't get my mind around simple things like untying my shoes or leaving my dirty dishes in the sink so that I can double, bubble, toil, and trouble over them tomorrow morning. Frankly, am feeling like a socially vapid mess of misfiring nerves after trying to be around other human beings where poise and grace are essential fashion accessories. I need to start a new journal and read some serious Browning, or maybe I should just stop blogging late at night and try going to sleep.

Lily Potter and Felix Felicis

antipodes — 2004-11-01T07:11:33-05:00

My mind is in such a muddle; I need a creative distraction but unfortunately I don't think it is going to happen--today is the start of a new term and I have a class on The Modern Novel to begin and post oodles of information. Very interesting, I'm sure. More coffee, please, and a few daydreams to mull over during odd moments. It is worth noting, though, that J.K. Rowling has opened the door again on her website, giving us clues about the sixth book! You have to solve a bit of a riddle in one part. Since Hallowe'en has just passed, I thought it was particularly appropriate that she give us some extra clues; usually in the books it is an important time as the plot is just getting into character (ha ha). Worth noting too is one of the chapter names revealed: Felix Felicis. How very nice. Something about "happiness", since that is what the roots of those words mean in Latin. Felix Summerbee was the name of inventor of the cheering charm (thanks). Charm? Lily was good at charms. We are supposed to learn about Lily and her gift for charms in the next book, as well as discover something hugely important about her (thanks). Perhaps that chapter is about Lily Potter . . . My theory, vague and therefore possible. *grin*

trivialities

antipodes — 2004-11-03T02:11:42-05:00

I love election week, it has made everybody cranky for as long as I can remember. Anyway, I was in a bad mood today for a while because of Kate Chopin and Edna Pontellier but thankfully Austen and Darcy pulled me out of that funk. Oh how trivial I sound, and I know it. I need to pick up my embroidery again; I messed up on it awhile ago and haven't had the courage to fix it properly. I would also like to read The Ring and the Book by Robert Browning, and get the photos developed from my trip to Ireland. Dream dream dream. Now, do I have any suggestions on what to write about for my Ireland paper? Ten to fifteen pages of anything Eire-related! Anybody curious? (not me!)

the awakening secret life of the scarlet pimpernel. and a bee.

antipodes — 2004-11-05T08:11:57-05:00

I have just finished The Awakening, by Kate Chopin. What a stupid, selfish moron. Blithering idiot! Now I must do a comparison on the two Lebrun brothers and pretend to be very interested or at least intelligent--both of which will be an interesting process to watch, as I realized that my attention was diverted last night to watching movie trailers for an hour and found them utterly more interesting than Edna Pontellier's lack of introspection. One feels that the narrator was also a callous person, to have abstained from the simple act of telling her character what she was doing to herself and everyone! I've also just been given the gift of The Scarlet Pimpernel, a marvelous book my mother read to us when we were younger. I'm excessively fond of romantic ideals and therefore am distracted by them especially when presented in print with such a lovely feel of paper and words between my hands. Christmas is coming soon, and I'm having a good deal of trouble not listening to Christmas music and not reading Christmas books. One of the ways I've been avoiding Christmas music is to just listen to the ones about winter, not about snow and read the bits of books about Christmas that aren't really centered on Christmas. Very satisfying to a conscience like mine. That's several books down on my to-read list, now--The Secret Life of Bees is up next.

perhaps autumn sneezed?

antipodes — 2004-11-07T06:11:25-05:00

There is a fire in the fireplace and a storm outside--autumn is belatedly making a real appearance in my world. In fact, it is enough that I am sitting at midnight at my kitchen table drinking a cup of strong vanilla-almond tea with a dollop of cream and blinking furiously to keep my eyes open. My paper-and-leather journal, which I will hopefully fill up before the new year begins, is sitting next to me, pages comfortably murmuring and settling into their bindings. Moleskine or homemade paper or standard journal or Venetian leather-bound? I've been collecting journals to fill up because I know I will continue to write in them. I've actually begun to look for those Christmas presents I meant to get to months ago--a sure sign the holiday season is hot on my heels. I don't object to the holiday season and gift-giving, traditions with trees and nativity scenes and people wishing for peace and silent nights. Paul and Art are playing lazy songs through my stereo and I'm thinking about traveling on the trains, a long cold trip during which I will huddle in a huge jacket and feel warm except for the tip of my nose. I'm also missing my best friend. I wish she was here so much it seems I could open the door any moment and find her pink-nosed and grinning with her eyes smiling and her hair wispy. We would sit and look at the fire and read our books, work on schoolish things and end up talking about everything and nothing and maybe go for a walk. Oh, for her companionship! I miss you muchly, dearest.

merry metaphysical mathoms

antipodes — 2004-11-10T07:11:44-05:00

Got all my new textbooks, and it looks like Italo Calvino will be the best--closely tied with Faulkner. All of this is triply providential because now I can return the copy of The Awakening I've been reading. This class is certainly interesting even if it is not enthusiasm but a morbid fascination . . . It sounds very satisfying to say that there is a fireplace warming my toes and a cold rain outside. If only I had an endless cup of tea. I am going Christmas shopping today, and will undoubtedly find myself in a hilariously frazzled state of mind when I am through with it. I never like buying things but I do like giving them. Remind anybody of mathoms? Who knows offhand what a mathom is? I'm getting nervous about my Ireland paper, due this Monday with not a word of it done. I really am having problems actually caring about it right now. I will pull a Scarlett O'Hara and say I'll think about it tomorrow. So ha, but really what I'm thinking begins with Rhett Butler's "Frankly, my dear . . . " and maybe it has something to do with my being absolutely transfixed to an irrelevant novel.

happy anniversary!

antipodes — 2004-11-12T07:11:48-05:00

It is my one year anniversary of blogging on Mindsay today. The occasion, grand as it is, calls for another cafe latte and a chapter of a novel! Here is a link to my first appearance on Mindsay. A pall of gloom and a intuition that Armageddon might be near has informed me that the deadline for my next paper is rapidly approaching. I'm sure if people have read a little or talked to me within the past couple of days it will be apparent that this paper is somewhat of a burden to me. The Romantics wrote odes to inanimate objects in a fit of similar abject misery. Like most days of complete irony, the sun is shining brightly. I'm sure it hates me. It cannot even contrive to have a decent, respectably rainy day at my disposal. Time to read a bit of Wooster and Jeeves, maybe?

thank you, and more about books.

antipodes — 2004-11-14T12:11:18-05:00

Thanks to everybody who sent good wishes, nominations, and grins my way. I'm rather smug at having gotten through a year of blogging and hardly even noticing the time fly by. I am also writing two other places regularly, so as it comes out I have done a lot of writing. Let it be known that for once, I have fulfilled a New Year's resolution (albeit a very vague one: "write more"). Am in the middle of writing a paper on Yeats and I'm finding it finally a bit easier to write now that I have discovered how close a story he has to Icarus. However, still about five pages of outline to go, and then the actual writing will go tomorrow. Oh, right, and still a few more questions about The Awakening and narrative voice, irony, and all that jazz. Then we will be done with that, hopefully: ) Anybody read Mrs. Dalloway? The darkness and wind is laying violent siege to our house and yet somehow I seem to be able to manage a mug of Cadbury's hot chocolate and warm pajamas. There is a fire in the fireplace downstairs, and the lights flicker every now and then. If I hadn't already read it this summer, it would be a perfect time for Jane Eyre but I think I may have to read The Nine Tailors as soon as Mrs. Dalloway is sufficiently underway. There is no way I could read enough of Peter Wimsey's most excellent wit.

roommate problems.

antipodes — 2004-11-17T06:11:13-05:00

I am beginning to be reminded of last fall, which means that there is at last somewhat of a routine to my daily mumblings. I am not in the school lab much any more, now, but at least I am able to do a bit more at home. After a night of juggling ideas and mental pushups it is the nicest thing to do the dishes or bring up a load of wood from the garage to the fireplace. Sweeping is a delight. Yes, that is warped. The only real problem with my staying home much of the time is that my plump and usually adorable feline companion Elanor and I do not share the same taste in music. I happen to like Paul Simon's Graceland and the cd that Bobby McFerrin and Yo-Yo Ma did together but she lays her ears back and settles herself resolutely but with infinite grace in the middle of whatever I am doing. I also know it is autumn because we have already run out of Cadbury's hot chocolate mix. In revenge for such a horrible miscalculation I will have to drink coffee and tea and be hyped up on caffeine when everybody gets home. That will show them.

Do I deserve this TERRIBLE FATE?!?!?

antipodes — 2004-11-19T06:11:48-05:00

I am paying for my crimes I committed in my fifty million past lives. How do I know I was reincarnated? Fifty million? Yes. Why else would I stay up half the night to imparting some intriguing pieces of wisdom to my online classroom and then wake up with puffy eyes, achy head and throat and back, and a particularly evil stuffy, runny nose? Perhaps I ought to be writing a post with excessive and extravagant antitheses (antipodes?) and alliterative clauses. I love how it all works together, especially in More's Utopia, which, by the way, reads like a science fiction novel of the stateliest kind. I cannot wait to read Religio Medici and the other stuff in our anthology by Thomas Browne. Wouldn't you know it, I can even bring Wimsey into a discussion about Browne! Wimsey happens to have, in his jacket pocket, a book of Thomas Browne, the cover stamped with the Wimsey family crest ("As my whimsy takes me"). He had it in Gaudy Night anyway, because somebody filched it from his pocket while looking for matches to light a cigarette. But books will always keep my mind off of such mundane and hopeless things like colds. I need tea, though. Lots of tea. Good thing I only have a short assignment for The Modern Novel class due on Saturday. I will try and follow up my chunks of wisdom in the Medieval and Renaissance Lit. class on Monday with another excessively wordy and possibly whimsical post. I am not attached to the Medieval way of thinking as I have come to know it through this class, but truthfully, I love Medieval and Renaissance literature. *swoon*

Colds are do fud.

antipodes — 2004-11-22T07:11:35-05:00

I hab a gold. Yes, I do. I also hab a sduffy doze. By boor throat. Sdupid glasses! I hade school righd dow. Sobe day I'b goind do graduade ad thed do bore school, esbescially when I hab colds. Bost of by day codsists of layig id bed, egcept for od glorious hour whed I feel well edough do ged up oud of bed ad ead sobthig. By eyes are puffy. By lips are chapped. I still caddot believe I hab a cold. I hobe dobody calls on dhe phode because by voice souds really fuddy. Dhe best thigs aboud colds are siddig id frond of a fireplace widh by zizder, who bade be abble cider ad thed we had hobe-bade giggerbread cookies. Id the shabes of dragods. Ad ode of dhe cads deigded to sid od by lapb. Dice kiddy. Ab very very ready for Chrisdbas holidays. Wish onlide glasses would suddedly dizabbear. Ab goig do lie dowd agaid. Good-afderdood do you all. *SNIFF*

campbell's chicken soup

antipodes — 2004-11-24T08:11:35-05:00

Do not be fooled by typing. Nose remains stuffy. It takes a lot to ease oneself into the good graces of a cat. To please my cat I have been stuck in bed with a cold for nearly . . . a long time. She sits on my lap, chases my feet under the comforter whenever I move them an inch, and talks to me when she feels inclined to impart feline wisdom. Now it is time for my Apple commercial. I am SO GLAD I have my laptop compy to work on while I am sick and resting and being a general nuisance to the rest of the house. I can read, write, do a little bit of work on my online classrooms, and watch DVDs!!! When I can stay awake long enough to, that is. I am even feeling benevolently towards my copy of Mrs. Dalloway into which I have only read about 50 pages but even still I am allowing it to sit quietly in the bookshelf next to my bed. I am growing kinder in my state of illness and can already see myself writing lots of inspirational books in manner of Christopher Reeve with witty brilliance of Stephen Hawking. Am now ready for sister to come home and heat up Campbell's Chicken Soup for lunch, as all normal and healthy foods being prepared with marshmallows and brown sugar for tomorrow's Thanksgiving feast. Thanks to everybody who were so kind enough to write me get-well messages:)

my frazzle capacitor

antipodes — 2004-11-28T05:11:12-05:00

I did say to myself that I should write more, and I have been, but it has been scholarly work these last few days--nothing of import to the Mindsay community, I'm afraid. I tried to explain alliteration, antitheses, and euphuisms to several of my conversational companions; they took offense at such an inoffensive topic and asked me politely if I would quell my needless rudeness. I have no desire to repeat the ordeal here, I'm in no mood to have my heart broken. Contrary to any common sense I may have retained from my pre-internet days, I spent an evening at home resting up my frazzle capacitor and getting in touch with friends. Dinner was an exotic mix of instant ramen and vegemite. I put on flannel pajama pants and fuzzy socks and a sweatshirt and left my hair down. I am consequently sleepy and have resorted to listening to certain Christmas songs on repeat. However, it is a contented sort of sleepiness. Now is the time for sleepiness. What would you think about me posting notes on Christmas poems every day or so? I'd like to do a study of some of them; I have a small anthology that includes writers from several different walks of life (conservative Victorian, agnostic, occultist, Christian) so it wouldn't be totally concerned with one viewpoint and dull. Ok, seriously this time. I am going to sleep. Good night:)

quo vadis. again.

antipodes — 2004-11-30T07:11:34-05:00

I am at present very excited about finishing my Bachelor's degree, an event which should happen within the next year, if all goes well. I have worked hard, have done fairly well, and am finding things that I love to do. Books, books, books. I shall have a new pile of them next term as well:) The only problem I really have with graduating is: where to go next? I will need a job and a place to stay (will they have graduate dorms?) and . . . a major. What am I to do? Where am I to go? Quo vadis? Nathless, I am excited about finishing something, coming to a milestone of some sort. It is that perfect stage where the deliciousness of a few more classes meshes with the promise of something new and exciting.

merry christmas!

antipodes — 2004-12-02T04:12:47-05:00

I have begun to tease out how to discuss Christmas poetry and ended up following the outline of the anthology I have, which has different groupings of poetry by events (the Annunciation and Advent, the Nativity, Songs and Carols, etc.). I have also chickened out on discussing it here, and have set up another blog for it. I hope this works out alright; I've never tried a study like this before! I've only posted the introduction so far, but I'm hoping to finish a paper and write the first real entry for it tomorrow. The theme is still in progress until I can get my experts to look at it:) Meanwhile, what do you think? You can post there if you feel like it. That might be best. Hum.

concrete and chronological nonsense

antipodes — 2004-12-04T07:12:29-05:00

Having left my laptop downstairs, my morning musical fix was postponed until after breakfast, when the dreaded "You are running on reserve power" notice announced itself to my desktop. I did not swoon or cry, but took immediate and effective action. It remains to me this morning to finish up the dishes and do class work. I am hating my classes right now, or at least the Modern Novel one. Am sick of the Dalloways and Walsh and the Warren Smiths. All of them are looking a lot like their detestable Hugh Whitbread, right now. But I shall prevail, and then I shall write about Christmas poems, which are infinitely more fun. Or perhaps I shall read Twelfth Night, which I must again for the Renaissance bit in my beloved Medieval and Renaissance Lit. class. I'm not particular about Shakespeare. My first post was on Shakespeare; I was taking a class on him then. Somehow my writing creativity is going down, down, down, this morning. I am writing only about concrete things! How did this happen? A feline form is giving me terrible glares from our absurdly cream-colored couch. Time to bury myself in literary figures and find the answers to life in the bottom of my espresso mug. I must admit, though, that I expected bettter of this December morning.

OK! sheesh! I give up!

antipodes — 2004-12-04T07:12:31-05:00

mumble grumble peer pressure frickamutter 1. I washed dishes with a rapist/murderer (only I wasn't sure of it at the time; we were staying at the same hostel and it came out in the news a couple days later). 2. I whistle to Beethoven. 3. When I was in kindergarten (or thereabouts), I wanted to be a King when I grew up. 4. I have never cut my hair. 5. I have read all of the Princess Diaries books. 6. I have a little entity that lives in my hand and talks to people, mostly asking them not to pee. 7. I used to wear one of these constantly . . . 8. . . .because I had a rare fungus growing on my head that had to have medication on it 24/7. Now I have a dent in my skull because of it. 9. My first professional certification course ended with my boss standing up and announcing to a hundred or so higher-ups that he was hoping I would hook up with his son. 10. I have eaten squid (Korea), cactus (California), wild pig (Guam), truffles (Italy), blood sausage (Ireland), a whole gummy alligator (?), and vegemite (eternal and ubiquitous). Not all in the same dish, though.

what I have been doing

antipodes — 2004-12-10T04:12:51-05:00

I have been studying. A lot. I have a lot of stuff to write. And I am taking a final exam, full of essays and a paper I am supposed to have written. Sometime later this week I will reply to everybody and post properly. For now, you may have an introductory paragraph I wrote for one of my essays: First of all, I must protest the absurdity of the question. I find it painful to choose one piece of prose or poetry to represent English literary history to the masses of impatient and mostly bored undergraduates of my generation. Not that they should be subjected to the entire contents of our textbook's pages on Medieval and Renaissance literature, of course, but the exposure of undergraduates to any more knowledge gives them an unprecedented responsibility to be curious, a quality in one's character that is not only very harmful to cats but also disastrous in the way it interferes with the public school system. "Ignorance," proclaims one of our great Poets, "is like a delicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone" (Wilde). This idea is likewise radically unsound to throw literary pearls in the mouths of undergraduate swine, but for the sake of this essay I am willing to forego my qualms on the subject and bestow upon my readers the wisdom of a humble scholar.

what I did over Christmas hols.

antipodes — 2004-12-20T07:12:54-05:00

Am having a marvellous time in Scotland, though my continued efforts to surprise a certain author at numerous cafés remain fruitless. I have bought several books, not meaning to but being drawn by phrases and promises of laughing softly in conspiratorial fashion on trains and aeroplanes. Have lost much of my inspiration to write and end up scribbling perfectly non-fictional rubbish in my travel journal. Sickening. Shameful, really.

There is an appalling lack of espresso in Scotland. I very nearly collapsed on the first day of withdrawal but have bravely made it through the last few days, which were quite harrowing despite haggis, whisky, fish & chips, tea, and sticky toffee pudding. Oh, and the delicious, nearly ineffable “smashing orangey bit” in an unchristian number of jaffa-cakes.

I love the accents here, I don’t know any of the hymns in church, and I adore the tea. We have taken up with several other Americans-living-in-Europe-and-vacationing-somewhere-else-in-Europe, which is very funny. They live in France and like very obscure branches of music. One of them likes William Faulkner with a drastically casual affectation while the other shyly admits to watching Star Trek and reading novels and is in desperate need of Robitussin.

I am at the library and must be away to places unpronounceable and hopefully caffeinated, so I bid you all a merry Christmas if I do not appear before then.

P.S. I saw, in a shop window, a model wearing full highland dress and a Santa Claus hat. It was disturbing.

ten things you will not believe about my holiday

antipodes — 2004-12-25T06:12:16-05:00

1. I did dishes to the sound of someone playing a bagpipe in the next room.

2. I discovered that the original ambrosia was haggis.

3. I was actually eager to drink whisky.

4. Christmas Day went practically without a hitch.

5. I did not open any presents that day.

6. Nevermind about ten. My internet time is running out. Harry potter out on July 16!

my somewhat not-punctual replies to comments

antipodes — 2004-12-27T11:12:20-05:00

Sorry I am so late at replying to everybody's scribbles in the margin of my mumblings! I am doing it now, though, which allows me a little time to my lonesome while drinking massive quantities of tea and humming incessantly. It is so good to be home. Film at eleven:)

sleep-eyed muses covered in bookdust

antipodes — 2004-12-31T04:12:17-05:00

Even knowing the publication date for the next Harry Potter book is not a consolation of any kind for my having been deprived of the internet for a good and hefty 24 hours. Neither is this a consolation for my writing habit which has deteriorated to the stage where I cannot seem to blog every day any more than I can keep myself from drinking more than two cups of coffee a day. I cleaned. I cooked. I put up curtains and put down rugs. I soothed grumpy cats (fireworks, you know) and made tea for a sister (lemon zinger)! I am freezing cold but resolutely wearing my favourite black hooded sweatshirt (I don't wear black often) and some stripey socks. The stripes are the coolest. I love stripey socks. Can't wait to sit down and read a lot of my Christmas presents. Who could guess that a lot of them were books? Antonio gives the best ones, though--a book I've never even heard of which still promises to be good even at the cover! Last year he gave my sister something by Voltaire, which she read bits out of on a road trip. It had us all giggling to death and got me brownie points for being able to compare it with Euphues in a class this last term. I did read The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, which is a popular book (I seem to be reading a lot of them lately for some reason, I don't know why), and vaguely interesting. My mother will love it. My favourite fun reading so far is The Discarded Image: And Introduction into Medieval and Renaissance Literature by C.S. Lewis. Very nice, very funny. He talks about the theory of the Antipodes a lot, which is puffing up my ego brilliantly. A good new year to all! I am really looking forward to starting my two new journals and writing a bit about Scotland as soon as my Muse wakes up.

stress and relaxation: a thesis

antipodes — 2005-01-03T01:01:11-05:00

There are times when methods of relaxation are inextricable from the sanity of . . . well, people in general. Lots of people don't understand this concept even though they are victims of its inexorable consequences. Therefore what may seem to them a sporadic and maybe compulsive need for hand lotion or large cups of tea or long bubble-baths is really just a natural cycle of stress: tension, release, tension, release. For example, my mother will tell me, over our morning cups of tea, just how much work she must complete--so many papers to grade! so many students to write!--and then sigh and put on her coat because she must, of course, go down the road and talk to her friend for a few hours or at least water all of the plants in our yard (an unenviable task). Yet, when she returns, she is inevitably chagrined at the hours which have spent themselves and dutifully finishes her work (which she barely had time to do to begin with, you remember). That said, I feel no guilt whatsoever in having made up my to-do list for the rest of my vacation (it will be a modern novel itself when I am finished with it) and then taking a leisurely bath and browsing Quinlan Road's website while my hair dried. Smelling coolly of lemongrass lotion (souvenir of an unexpected visit to the Radisson hotel in London), our Hero calmly avoids responsibility once again! Tally-ho!

why don't I write?

antipodes — 2005-01-06T05:01:37-05:00

What is wrong with her, anyway? She never blogs cool stuff any more and she blogged something like four times in December. Sheesh. And those stories about Scotland she had all lined up? Nothing coming yet and she's been back weeks. Maybe she has been eaten by ravaging wolves. In Italy. Or maybe my dog ate her? Perhaps the relevant text ads on her gmail account up and swallowed her. Anything can happen in foreign countries, you know. Yeah, I dunno. I kinda wish bloggers would make some sort of announcement ("I am going to be a lame writer for the next THREE MONTHS") before they up and leave their established communities like this. Yop. I can't wait until I get back in the routine of writing and . . . stuff. Lame anti-climactic Slightly-After-New-Year's time! Am also not looking forward to stupid new term. Want to watch movies all Monday and take bubble baths every Saturday, with tea in the afternoons and full breakfasts in the mornings. Also! I need to wash my slippers. What a lame thing to do at the end of the holidays: to wash one's slippers. How can I wash my slippers when there is a new term starting, huh? How do they expect me to keep up with the world when my SLIPPERS are DIRTY!? GOSH.

illeism and a touch of whimsy

antipodes — 2005-01-08T07:01:25-05:00

It is unbearably late at night, after a movie, and I am absolutely appalled at the number of men I saw go in--unattached, mind you!--into a "girl movie" and sit through the entire thing! Absolutely appalled. Somebody please explain this to me. I am embarrassed enough to go see stupid movies like that but GUYS?! ALONE?! Or worse: TOGETHER!? Aw, man. What is up with the world? Of course, I say that after having made a clever but tactless remark to a woman outside the theatre (decidedly Smug Married: also with perm and unnecessarily porcelain/plastic/shiny metal earrings and seasonal sweater) who is probably working the cogs and wheels in her brain to think that I am sleeping with all my dad's coworkers. Oh, tactless me, who has a one-track mind in the direction of "harmless" nonsense that is often too naive to be out in public all by itself. But back at the ranch, our heroine congratulates herself on a productive day and wishes vainly that she did not have to get out of bed tomorrow. She whines to herself, complains to her mirror and then to her feline audience who, well used to the whimpering cringes of their minion, turn deaf ears and look sphinxically contented--not to mention unalterably smug. Our heroine fails to find the answers to life in the bottom of her coffee cup or the bathroom sink where she tries to read signs in toothpaste swirls. She shivers a little and squints out of one eye, stumbling and grumbling into her bed, getting out of her bed to turn off the light, and then getting back into bed before one of those calculating felines steals the warmest spot on the bed which she is too soft-hearted (wimpy?) to extricate said feline FROM! Our heroine begins long conversation with much punched-pillow and prays a comic prayer that she might catch the Sleeping Beauty virus and at least sleep without break until next week. Weekend. Yes, weekend.

an additional illeistic narrative regarding present states of consciousness

antipodes — 2005-01-11T05:01:24-05:00

Our hero (+) has been tentatively (-) diagnosed by a biased (-) but licensed (+) professional counselor to be situationally depressed, and she is unsure what to think of the idea. The condition of being situationally depressed would explain a good many phenomena that have appeared in her recent harvest of thoughts (+), but it would also mean that she would be joining the ranks of many others of her generation (-) that claim a more severe condition of being clinically depressed. Situational depression is a bind that most people experience several times in a lifetime, much like the adrenaline rush of terror or the itchy feeling of extreme confusion or the surprise one encounters in mirrored elevators, except for the fact that not many people know that you can be depressed without it being a socially pitied and much medicated beast. However, knowing that the small, red, itchy dots on your skin are called "chicken pox"--although for no discernible reason--does not make them heal up immediately. I do not think that even knowing why chicken pox are called such as they are encourages their disappearance, though I am willing to be proven wrong on this point. Prescribed by the licensed (+) but biased (-) professional were two things (in no particular order): 1. To know one's limits. 2. To pray about it. If only knowing one's limits were possible without testing them, thinks our hero; praying is something she does rather frequently. God (when you have a moment, this is not an important question), can I pray too much? Our hero pondered such thoughts as she sat earlier this evening in a cinema, listening to a tasteless soundtrack and a squeaky film projector. Realising that she has very little else to say at the moment and is rather exhausted, our hero yawns, and looks down at her clean, dry slippers and reminds everybody that the people in the textbook office all sympathised with her having to take Modern Drama this semester and having to use a textbook that is such a hideous shade of orange. Somehow this crumb of comfort is enough to make her laugh and wriggle her toes and decide to go to bed.

notice of absence

antipodes — 2005-01-19T06:01:05-05:00

I am taking a break from Mindsay and creative writing of this sort for a little while, perhaps a few weeks. I know I've already left for a week, but I thought I might be able to write but every time I sit down I just faze out. I am actually surprised it has lasted this long (over a year) and am sure it will return with time. I need to write another way for a while. For those of you who use this blog to keep in contact with me, see how I am, I am still posting other places. My other blog at anstruther will still be up, probably, but it is a different sort of blog. Not as fun as Mindsay. Me thinking out loud in a very un-prosey way. Right. Well, I'll be back once the new term gets underway and things in my head settle down and show signs of rational behaviour (ha ha). Take care:)

/hiatus

antipodes — 2005-02-07T12:02:37-05:00

It is really very strange to write completely factual things for a long period of time (more than five minutes) and I have been doing that very thing for several weeks now, trying to get back to my normal style of Things. It hasn't really worked all that well, but I get mad and angry more often. I am also incoherent as a consequence. For some reason, I couldn't write anything tasty either, and I still can't figure out why. But I am back, trying to regain what my fingers seemed to have lost in the cracks on my keyboard. I am very thankful to those of you who commented and sent smiles and kind thoughts my way. I do appreciate you guys a lot, and I am going to respond to the comments everybody posted while I was gone (soon, not right now; I am doing laundry). Meanwhile, I am dusting off my chair and keyboard, putting boring books back on their shelves, and making clickety noises with my favorite mechanical pencil. Someone put the kettle on:)

tenacity of mechanical pencils in the face of imminent danger

antipodes — 2005-02-08T07:02:55-05:00

There are some irresistible urges that storm my senses in a whirl of addiction: tea or coffee while I study, maybe, and the cry of skin for waves and fire and rain and fire that kills people in the city. I've noticed the same things in animals--my cat has a peculiarly obsessive affinity for the chewy consistency of the drawstrings on my hooded sweatshirts. However, I seriously doubt that anyone has really had an irresistible urge to read Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury or even Mrs. Dalloway, realistic though some of their characters may be. Depressing though the morals to their stories may be! But wait, we are at the point in time where it matters more that things impress people with their incomprehensibility rather than their eloquent reminders of something real and true; noble, and good. I am, I admit, a bit discouraged by the modernism that I am studying this term but I am contradicting it a little with some Blake and Wordsworth in another class and with the sisters Bronte, who will undoubtedly prove intuitive houdinis. I study many hours every day and have a plethora of empty mugs and cups around my study area. My bookshelves are dusty. But my cats, gratified by the company, have accepted me condescendingly into the fold as a prodigal daughter who has finally remembered her purpose in life. My sights are set on the end of the term, when I shall take my first summer break from university education since I started it. Modernism is a neevil to be reckoned with and I have mechanical pencils that can scribble about the worst of them. (See, I can be quite threatening when the occasion arises.)

(T)hat (G)irl (I)s a (F)rood

antipodes — 2005-02-11T04:02:18-05:00

Most of her readers are aware of Our Hero's affinity for a-traveling to and fro upon the earth when she gets a chance and funding for it. Well, she is going somewhere Northerly soon, and is very excited about it. All the qualifications for a restful week lie before her: a train journey, a supply of coffee and cafés to walk to, free wireless internet, English books, museums, free entry to art galleries, and maybe even something at the theatre. She will, of course, be working on her classes while she is there--Tim O'Brien, Edith Wharton, Wordsworth, and some Modern Drama--but she will be able to study in very scenic areas. Ha ha. Oh, she cackles, she cackles indulgently at her own plans to go Places; spoiled rotten! Meanwhile, Our Hero is coughing and hacking with a sore throat and trying to write a paper on a few pages of an inordinately amusing Calvino novel. If she can get five pages out today, she has the rest of it free to do house chores and read another textbook--Wuthering Heights. Fascinating stuff, this.

inspirational memos to myself.

antipodes — 2005-02-14T04:02:14-05:00

Today is a day that I will inevitably end up reading The Unstrung Harp. I have succeeded, in the last 24 hours, to fall down the stairs and bruise my elbow so that writing with a pencil makes me feel as if I am hitting a funny bone every time I try to end a sentence, as well as having been the bemused possessor of an incredibly stuffy nose and the inexorably following chapped lips. I cannot taste anything, which is just as well since I made a cake yesterday that I cannot now eat. In a bold spirit of courage or stupidity, I have not yet perused my fanlistings of university distance education classes to see What It Is I Must Do for this week. Resettling my flight jacket onto my shoulders in manner of Antoine de Saint Exupery, I feel suddenly as if I ought to be drinking French coffee and staring out into the rain with a sense of trepidation and calculating thought, hands paused over a well-used type-writer, waiting for The First Line of a Work of Genius. But I'm not. Not really, anyway. I have Italian coffee and no flight jacket and a well-used laptop and my elbow is really putting a damper on my sense of dignity (yes, I have one: call Ripley's). And I have to start working now. Since it is Valentine's Day, I suppose I ought to come up with a judgment or an insightful sentence on love and affection but I cannot really think of anything. My pen, as Anne-with-an-E would so state with a smile, is scratchy, or sharp, or stubby, and thence practically impossible to utilize in an attempt to write a very serious or accurate post about such things. Last year's entry of the same time is one of my favorites ever. I will not double post, but it is here if you wish to read it.

THIS IS THE POINT OF NO RETUUUUUUUUUURN...

antipodes — 2005-02-15T05:02:01-05:00

I have sent out an electronic flag of truce to my professors, informing them of my recently established defense system for my computer from my violent sneezing fits. I have begged them to excuse my tardiness in posting for my classes. I have also taken to putting on DVDs while I study. Did you know that both Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow and You've Got Mail have "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" on the end credits? Ah, yes. My subconscious is speaking to me about . . . vacations . . . yes, that must be it. While I mention You've Got Mail with its study-to-able soundtrack--as opposed to any of the Lord of the Rings films--it may be noted that I simply cannot be exposed to things about literature without Calvino (excerpt) coming to my head. Flannery and Ludmilla and Lotaria (ever notice how her name sounds like Lotharia . . . Lothario . . . ?) are all stares, glances, gazes, and looks that communicate quite directly with the feeling that somebody is watching me write or read. I suppose Calvino has conquered and bested one of his own characters as their (his?) own game in making his presence felt through every book even though he hasn't written them. Bah! If on a winter's night a traveler has so many different levels, and now that we have finished discussing it in class, my brain is teeming with more and better ideas about the many levels of the book. I hope not all Oulipo books are this infuriatingly good. I could reread them forever! *sigh* Back to Our Town, for Modern Drama.

minnesota & vietnam vs. new england & the lake district

antipodes — 2005-02-17T09:02:10-05:00

I have just finished In the Lake of the Woods, a harrowing novel that talks about the private lives of corrupt politicians, the atrocities of Vietnam, alcoholic fathers, and the horrifying and peculiar coping mechanisms so particular to the human race. Do not read it if you are unhealthy or would like to be refreshed by good writing. Although there is excellent writing therein and entrancingly so, the story overrides the style and the whole business induces suicidal thoughts in those of the Reader. There should be some kind of trigger-warning on the front of the book other than "National Bestseller", which, as everyone knows, has never said anything about the quality of the book. I'm afraid I write to a rather selective audience today--my own coping mechanisms for such a terrible study of humanity include homemade brown molasses bread toasted and spread with homemade strawberry jam next to a cold espresso-and-milk tonic and letting the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice run in the background of my studies, now relegated to Hawthorne and then Wordsworth.

being late. again.

antipodes — 2005-02-18T05:02:22-05:00

We have company tonight, and so I am procrastinating my part in the cleaning the house. It was knowingly that I stole back upstairs in bathrobe and mussy hair with breakfast to eat at my own table while I checked email and blogged a little. I am feeling much more at home now; it is easier to let the words come out of my fingers than it was when I first started back from my holiday. I look upon the summer with a hopeful (can one be hopeful and calculating?) eye. Where shall I go and what shall I do? Does anybody want me to write about a specific place (choose from: American coffee shops, Venice, small Italian towns, Florence, London, Cornwall)? I have a good many books I want to fit in during the summer, and I will hopefully finish a journal before then so I will be setting out with blank pages . . . But I plan too much. My latte is now sidling against the invisible half-way mark in my glass, and my toast is reduced to a crumb of the crust on a napkin (I peeled the orange downstairs). I want to sit on my balcony and blow soap bubbles at the world. All day. And read some Browning or Kipling. N.B. Put Kim on re-read list for the summer.

It was a dark and stormy afternoon.

antipodes — 2005-02-23T07:02:46-05:00

The last few days have been spent in conversations and activities mostly foreign to me, and I have had much foot for mouth in them. I mean, food for thought. Curiouser and curiouser. You guys know it has been a struggle for me to answer my post-graduate quo vadis? and it seems that I am getting somewhere with it, finally--still very slowly, of course, but at least it is going somewhere. To those who are praying for me, thank you so much; you are being heard:) My kitchen clock says that it is almost one fifteen in the afternoon. I am still trying to get rid of a headache and muster the strength to gaze into the living eyes of Wordsworth and Coleridge. Sometimes it feels callous to write down what I divine from poetry: should I apologise to the poem before I take up my pen (word choice: scalpel?). I have had a few heartening things happen in regards to my scribbling, though; I have been sick over the last couple of weeks and consequently late in handing things in. Naturally, I wrote to my professors and begged their pardon for being a nuisance. Later, snurfling, I opened my email inbox to find praises for my email and pardon for my work. The irony! Oh, the irony. Secretly in my heart of blogs I appreciate the laughter and approval of my professors, but in my outer consciousness I must say I am a bit puzzled by their easy grins. Meh. I have been puzzled by a lot of things in the past week.

a bit more humming

antipodes — 2005-02-24T05:02:43-05:00

It has been a while since I've taken a nap in the afternoon, but after swallowing half of Wuthering Heights in one go and a chaser of Coleridge's Rime of the Ancient Mariner, I totally deserved my three hour commune with our reclining rocking chair with my feet up against the radiator. No, I don't know whether I snored or not. I don't think so; the cats are still treating me as a mobile heating pad. The kitchen smells like smoke from something dripping in the oven, the bottom of the refrigerator is full of condensation and leftovers, and only for a moment was I able to slip into a world not my own today. That reminds me: I highly recommend that you all read Wind, Sand, and Stars by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. I recently recommended it to a friend and then found myself wondering why I didn't read out of it more often; maybe because I have quotes from it all over my walls? not finding a satisfactory answer, I retrieved my copy from its shelf and buried myself in about 20 pages time. Is v. refreshing; makes you feel clean, somehow. music: Espris d'ire et d'amour (Guillaume le Vinier/The Folger Consort)

pukey homoerotic romanticism & writters that are liers

antipodes — 2005-02-25T04:02:15-05:00

And today was Whitman and Dickinson, the homoerotic poets of the American Romantic era. Don't make me puke, I am already feeling sick enough. Tomorrow I will unfortunately have to devote to classes, which means very little fiction bingeing, and the last remnants of some tasteless study material that ought to have been burned long ago. I am still laughing at a bloke in my class who said that "Writters are liers by trade." and went on about how writers are villains who use their experiences and relationships with other people as a way to feed their greedy lust for money. I do agree that writers often take some inspiration from personal experiences and might make money off of their work, but certainly not enough to justify a caffeine habit; much less a villainous lust for cold hard cash. I want to write back to this man but I am very much afraid of revealing my true colors with a loud guffaw and inconveniently offending innocent bystanders. To quell this near-rabid desire to laugh hysterically at the idea of a writer making money, I am going to make myself a cup of strong, sweet tea, and read something funny.

The little men that drive the snowflakes must be dizzy today.

antipodes — 2005-02-28T05:02:16-05:00

A few things remind me that I don't live in a fairy-tale house today: (1) There is an accumulation of snow on our window screens. I am sure castles never had window screens, which is why I would have a bit of a difficult time living in one: I dislike bugs in my coffee in the summertime. Gingerbread houses would be miserable in the summertime if they lived in a Mediterranean climate, and if they weren't in a warm climate, why would they need screens? (2) There are no stowaways, goblins, or princesses sleeping upstairs. Both of my sisters are gone today and the cats are all downstairs looking at me and then at the snow, hopefully ("Make it stop, now?" is all slurred into one long "Miiiaaaoooow?"). (3) Umm, I can't really think of anything else presently. There is something reminiscent of Sleeping Beauty and Beauty and the Beast in the wilting flowers on the table. My hands smell like onions and are very cold, but I am sure Cinderella and Snow White both had to deal with that at one time or another. The fact that I am studying and will soon take a couple of exams is nothing, either, because of Lilith and Phantastes. Anyway, I should probably begin to study again.

ode on an expiring frog

antipodes — 2005-03-03T04:03:09-05:00

I take my title from Dickens, this morning, except I am not studying Dickens today nor have I had the opportunity to read anything of his since the Christmas holidays. The poem is at the bottom of the post. Don't cry when you read it. I have three essays to write for a final exam that is over at midnight on Friday, and I have only got the first half of the first one written. (I blame that on Calvino and his obsession with turning my mind inside out writing every sentence. At this moment I cannot tell whether my thoughts are apparent to all on a ticker tape or whether they are safe, only leaking out of my face now and then.) But the writers among you know that as often as not, you turn things over in your head, mulling ideas and dropping thoughts and concepts and character-sketches like pennies in a well until you find that you have inadvertently got a fortune in your hands that ought to be spent scribbling madly and justifying the consumption of massive amounts of expensive teas. So I have spent a long time curled up in my ugly red armchair in my favorite napping blanket, looking at the wall but not seeing it. I am hopelessly behind in turning in my assignments and so feel the irony of sitting in my ugly red armchair when I wish I could just take things out of my head and write them instead of having to organise them all first. Good writing is work, really it is. Can I view thee panting, lying On thy stomach, without sighing; Can I unmoved see thee dying On a log, Expiring frog! Say, have fiends in shape of boys, With wild halloo, and brutal noise, Hunted thee from marshy joys, With a dog, Expiring frog! (C. Dickens, ch. XV of Pickwick) p.s. Changing the subject entirely, today is Gerti's birthday! Go wish her a happy one!

fiction of the fifty word persuasion

antipodes — 2005-03-03T06:03:20-05:00

I succumbed to peer pressure once again. In pristine elegance and with music of the spheres, the world revolved. Light fell upon Mediterranean climes and yet our Hero still lay abed, exhausted with the night's studying. Soon, it became apparent that she would have her breakfast at approximately five o'clock in the evening. Then the sun set.

Small things, like exams, force you to realise that there is a God.

antipodes — 2005-03-06T05:03:49-05:00

Three midterms. One student. They will stop at nothing to break her! She will stop at nothing to get her postgraduate degree! WHO WILL SURVIVE? This week only on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday at 1-4 p.m. in the proctored exam room. Some material may not be suitable for children. Void where prohibited. It is going to be one hectic week, my friends, bloggers, countrymen! (I love Marc Anthony's speech at Caesar's death: "Brutus is an honourable man!" gahhh! Gets me every time.) After this week is over I get two weeks of vacation where I am under obligation only to read Edith Wharton's Ethan Frome. At the end of those two weeks but not before classes begin again, I shall go visit some dear friends whom I have termed the Gardiners because of their resemblance to that couple in Austen's Pride and Prejudice. They also lend out English books to me because they tend to get new novels before I do; I have The Secret Life of Bees to return to them. I also read an article today that said Melville had no sense of storytelling and that Jane Austen did. Good writer. I didn't agree with most of the article (actually a thesis on drama) but there are a few things I recognize! :)

I talk to security cameras, you know.

antipodes — 2005-03-09T04:03:01-05:00

I have spent most of the day in absurd mood swings, probably due to the ridiculous stress that I have talked about before. One exam is finished; that was on Major American Authors. The next one is on Modern Drama, and that is open-book. I have so many things to write, it feels like my finger-ends are buzzing. Conversations, quotations from books and stage directions from plays, opinions we all hear buzzing, a raised eyebrow and a dimly-lit hall, attar of rose and jojoba oil--forgetting my favorite pencil today and talking to security cameras about chocolate muffins. I am worried that I won't get all this stuff down before I forget bits and pieces. I know I have forgotten pieces already. Maybe I will be able to write over spring break. I certainly hope so. Meanwhile, I remain respectfully and in every seriousness, your obedient nuisance.

Frankly, my dear, I don't [like midterms].

antipodes — 2005-03-12T06:03:52-05:00

I have finished all my midterms and am now embarked on a mysterious quest, the nature of which is almost completely unknown but has so far involved Bailey's Irish Cream, a shoulder massage by a professional therapist (for FREE!), and llamas with bowler hats; maybe camels. I like to call this quest "Spring Break". However--all Heroes must sleep, and I am a Hero; a Sleepy Hero. My esquire, Pillow of the Downy Interior, is calling me to counsel of Morale Tactics and I have a feeling this will be a very meaningful conversation. And so I remain, your obedient nuisance.

Did Julius Caesar, like me, wear ankle socks on the Ides of March?

antipodes — 2005-03-15T09:03:23-05:00

My ego, still agreeing with itself emphatically over last night's masterful preparation of a tasty a and wholly vegan meal, has put itself to the colossal task of cleaning my room today. It is finally getting warm here--and that is saying something, because we live half-way into the mountains--and so a few changes must be made. The hideous turquoise rug must be taken up from the floor and be made to whisk itself away until the leaves fall in the autumn and my toes wish for more comfort than my slippers can afford. At least one cover must be taken from my bed. The cats will certainly be unhappy about that one. The heavier curtains can be removed (which also saves me from the danger of the feline fiends from tearing them down at will). They are a light green velvet, anyway, and create a sort of malignant caffeine-like stimulant when one awakens to the color clash in my room. My big ugly red armchair must be moved to a spot where I can catch the sunlight in the afternoon; my window faces west. I had it in a spot where I could put my feet on my radiator and curl up with a blanket to studiously review textbooks. I don't need that, though, if the summer keeps coming. I like changing my room, for some odd reason. That is probably why I my writing desk is an old tea-table with wheels and my compy that I use most often for scribbling is a laptop. Summer is also the season for chocolate-covered espresso beans, and I am about to snaffle all them in the house.

This is, indeed, an unparalleled delight . . .

antipodes — 2005-03-18T04:03:08-05:00

Our Hero, replete in majestic but threadbare bathrobe, pajamas, and slippers, wriggles her toes with gusto while munching on mouthfuls of blueberry scone and gazing upon a webpage that has afforded her a thrill of complete butterfly-inducing happiness. No, it wasn't pornography (some of you have dirty minds; tsk tsk); it was the submissions page for The New Yorker.

Fiction: fiction@newyorker.com

The Talk of the Town: talkofthetown@newyorker.com

Shouts & Murmurs: shouts@newyorker.com

Poetry: poetry@newyorker.com

Newsbreaks: newsbreaks@newyorker.com I could write something for the fiction article, she thought, or the poetry one! I'd have to see what the whole "Shouts & Murmurs" and "Talk of the Town" things are about, though. Certainly no silly newsbreaks. That is for other writers altogether, ones that do not ramble inordinately. Like so. "We prefer to receive no more than two submissions per writer per year, and generally cannot reply to more." Mahvelous, mahvelous. So neither has this fact startled her with too many restrictions or created in her any of Crane's sense of obligation (1). She looks forward to writing and researching for these articles on her holidays; the idea sounds much better than standing on the corner with the sign: "will scribble for books and/or espresso". Meanwhile, she will continue her multiple journals, blogs (2, 3, & the password protected ones) and daily book pleas (4). In five minutes she will find that Ramone the Cosmic Bisquit (5) has taken off with a half of a buttered blueberry scone and is gnawing on it by the door, which he has been howling at for several minutes. Mahvelous, mahvelous, she muses.

I tried to write you, but I forgot.

antipodes — 2005-03-22T07:03:13-05:00

Yes, well. I was going to write a bit more over the hols but it appears that my mind has been otherwise occupied. I have cooked and cleaned a mild amount and kept hideously disproportionate hours from my housemates, and done copious amounts of reading. The books so far entered as "finished" in my reading-journal thing are Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J.K. Rowling (actually better the third time around), Artemis Fowl: The Arctic Incident by Eoin Colfer (how did this get to be a New York Times Bestseller and why did I finish it?), and soon I will enter in The Course of Honor by Lindsay Davis (politics and sex-with-a-little-bit-of-love in ancient Rome; well written! two chapters left). Burmese Days (Orwell) is still to go, as is Shadowmancer (Taylor) and yet another reading of Pride and Prejudice (if you don't know, shame on you), as well as the assigned reading (Hear me groan!) of Ethan Frome (Wharton). Still haven't got the inspiration to write something I like. My fingers are itchy. Looks like it is journal time for the me . . .

U Po Kyn, Sub-divisional M. of K., in Upper Burma, was sitting in his veranda.

antipodes — 2005-03-24T08:03:27-05:00

Ladies and gentlemen, please mark off The Course of Honor on your avidly drooled-over lists of what I was going to read over the spring holiday. Too much sex, too much politics, but then--isn't that ancient Rome for you? Next is Shadowmancer, because I can finish it in the space of a day, or an afternoon. Young adult book, badly written first few chapters and suspiciously Christian references. The rest of the time shall be devoted to Burmese Days, the first sentence of which is the title for this entry. This calls for maps, of course. I love maps. Then Ethan Frome, who I am learning to dread--he heralds my midterm grades and the resuming of the perusal of the refuse of modernism. (And don't ask him what an assy-thingummy is. He's only longing to be asked. Say nothing and perhaps he'll go away. 1) But oh, I grow repetitive. I even had a fascinating day yesterday--what is wrong with my ability to go on about it?!

Like green and red playdough, literary genres are hard to mix.

antipodes — 2005-03-28T05:03:20-05:00

Our Hero glances at her bookshelves wistfully and turns back to her online classes, resentfully humming Frank Sinatra songs and clicking the track pad on her laptop maliciously. She cannot yet know about her midterm grades or attempt to face all of the material she should have read by this point. The Cafe' Latte Magnificient of Our Hero is at her side, on top of her recently edited cookbook. The room becomes motionless but for the twitching whiskers of the demigoddess whose altar is at the top of a weary and unalterably ugly red armchair. "The cookbook must give way," a cold voice says from behind Our Hero's coat rack. "It must be replaced," continues the voice, "by a Norton Anthology." It dawns upon Our Hero that the voice sounds strikingly familiar in its use of anonymous obligatory vernacular. She turns her head, quite unmistakably brunette, towards the voice and lets her fingers remain poised over the keyboard. Suddenly the world turns to shades of espresso-tinged sepia, a certain tenebrism dominating Our Hero's office. Her eyebrows flicker upwards once, and she acknowledges the presence of The Mechanical Pencil of Doom in her bathrobe pocket. "What?" she whispers, hardly daring to breathe; her mind is full of racing thoughts (probably caffeine induced, but she's not telling). "It is over!" shouts the cold voice in a high-pitched wail. "SPRING BREAK! It is OVER!" A shudder runs down her spine, and a tear likewise makes its way down her face.

Our Hero rhapsodizes, in blue.

antipodes — 2005-03-29T05:03:03-05:00

Resplendent in her usual robes of blue cotton--of the bathrobe variety--Our Hero hereby lifts her caffe' (with Bailey's Irish Cream) in a toast to the term's resumption of its natural course. This is the second day of Spring Break being brutally strangled by spiral-bound notebooks, and yet somehow she continues on boldly and with unflinching resolve. This could be on account of her being in a state of shock over having to face Arthur Miller again in the compromising circumstance of his play, All My Sons. Most unflattering. Two weeks being spared on Miller for a single class, one week on Keats for another, and then the Edith Wharton novel (another one of unfailing selfishness manifested in multiple plot devices) for one week. Our Hero smiles into her bailey-caffe and resettles her shoulders. In an act of complete rebellion, she intends to read Fine Cooking magazines over her lunch hour.

The undergraduate idealist speaks!

antipodes — 2005-03-30T05:03:08-05:00

I don't suppose many of you like to read medieval literature; t'sa durned shame, too. There are pictures of joy, honor, purity, and other good things in there, mixed with an intimidating and sometimes ridiculous sense of the fantastic (though mostly, I suspect, for the sake of irony). Can I help it if I am an idealist? An idealist who wants to study medieval literature? Forever? I don't think I can help it. Nope. I'm not doing as well as I'd like to this term even though I have gotten acceptable grades so far, and that still discourages the perfectionist that waddles around waving a spatula and a meat cleaver in either hand through the academic regions of my brain. So discouraged that I let my iTunes play further than I normally let it play while I'm pretending to be studious, and up came a medieval French song from my Folger Consort cd everything that Wordsworth and Emily Bronte said about memories being a comfort and a hope came true all at once. Now, if only I can win over all these silly undergraduate details with my charm and good looks (a bit difficult online), I shall be on the way to an "English"-speaking country that is full of Guinness and Innocent Thickies and the Book of Kells.

Our Hero's quests and follies expostulated:

antipodes — 2005-04-02T04:04:20-05:00

Yes, well, Our Hero has been very busy of late beginning some new quests and resuming old labours of the mind that accompany the fading twilight of the Break of Spring. Very poetic stuff, and she has lost nearly all of her motivation to continue. She is frustrated about this, but not about to give up. Did anyone expect her to? Let them be strung up by their toenails and pummeled to unconsciousness with a wet trout! She wishes me to say that she wouldn't mind the new Harry Potter book coming out early as a special victorious award for her heroic deeds. Our Hero also wishes to apologize for a lack of wit and laughs yesterday, the day of fools, because she was so busy ferreting out and giggling hysterically over others' hilarity that she totally forgot to do her own song and dance. [Personally, I haven't known many heroes to do songs or dances unless it is a total dream sequence.]

Why I am not an Imagist.

antipodes — 2005-04-04T05:04:59-05:00

Please do not search for imagist aspects of this paper; there are few, if any. I will use the common speech—English—but please be aware that I may intersperse my stream of consciousness with uncommonly lengthy words, contradicting myself with ridiculous alacrity. I shall not create “new” rhythms because, to stand on the shoulder of a giant, there is nothing new under the sun. My freedom of choice regarding the subject of my writing is absolutely restricted to H.D., as she called herself, her bisexual relationships and contradictory poetry, an “intense friendship” with Ezra Pound, Capri, anthologies, and Greek mythology (which isn’t really Greek because she took the ancient religion and skewed it maliciously to her own mysterious—that means “pointless” to readers of poetry—purpose). I shall indeed present an image, as imagists do, but it shall be one of the mind, more valuable than those of the eye but less valued (and more’s the pity if you ask me). I refuse to be clear-cut or hard in my ramblings unless it be hard in the sense that I dislike something with hardihood or that I am hardhearted against bad poetry. And concentration is the essence of none of my prose, thank you very much. I will doodle as much as I like. So there.

Our Hero makes herself a cup of tea.

antipodes — 2005-04-06T02:04:10-05:00

Well, sportsfans, it has been a wild day in Heroville. Our Hero has personally spent time in the philanthropic pursuit of advising dental hygienists and orthodontists of the nicest hostel in Dublin, Ireland, where they are both planning to go for St. Paddy's Day next. Our Hero personally doesn't go in for the whole drunken festival scene, though, but admits she is partial enough to Guinness on occasion. As a friend once said, all other beers are camel pee. Our Hero's story continues in a whirl of maniacal laughter caused by the innuendoes involved in a clinical psychologist's dangerous habit of cheating on his blender with an eggbeater. We said we could make any subject interesting and we did. More travel advice concerning the avoidance of the Sistine Chapel and the requirement of visiting Dante's tomb in Ravenna. Also San Marino, but I have the feeling that we will soon be able to all duplicate the effect of the lofty battlements by dabbling in Google's new satellite maps. Alright, well, she also procured some truly hideous slippers (olive green corduroy with turquoise embroidered flowers) and shampoo & conditioner for long hair. She's been wanting to buy them for some time but couldn't find them in one place. She also bought a pair of adventurous grey ankle socks. Suddenly blushing, Our Hero sometimes feels very frivolous buying things to pamper herself with. The slippers are comfortable, though . . . The Tea Magnifique of Our Hero has been brewing on the stove now for an incredible amount of time, now, and suddenly she feels the pull of scholarly obligations coming from a direction nowhere near the realm of her beslippered toes.

Our Hero rejoiceth in the state of weekendhood.

antipodes — 2005-04-08T07:04:55-05:00

"Marvelous, marvelous, marvelous is the end of the, end of the week!" That should be a line to a song, I just know it should. I've had an odd sort of writing spurt, over the last few days. That is, well, when I was younger, my mother asked me to write something for one of her bible studies, a story that would have a certain plot. The plot had to be disguised so that nobody would see what she was getting at until the end of it, when she would point out the relevant bits to the lesson. Odd as that sounds, and maybe very cheesy, it really wasn't a bad idea. I wrote the story practically without having to think about it. Almost a Tennysonian feel to it, the Victorian medievalism mixing into the same thing that French romance writers did to Welsh myths; very euphemistic and idyllic. But people rather like that sort of thing. Or at least, I do. And over the last few days I have written a page or two of fiction set in that place and time. I haven't a clue why, really; it just comes out that way. I find it odd that my first actual story is coming back to haunt me. Maybe I can rewrite it and redeem it one day. At any rate, if you'd like to read the fiction bits, I've posted them on my other blog. Meanwhile, I am going to take advantage of the weekend and read until I fall asleep.

Rejoicing continueth on contemplating the iPod Magnifique.

antipodes — 2005-04-09T10:04:29-05:00

The kitchen, once more clean, is the setting for Our Hero's next adventure. A Cafe' Latte of Infinite Splendour rests in an absurdly goblet-shaped glass next to the Laptop Magnifique of Our Hero. The Almost-Finished Journal of Epic Proportions lurks in the vicinity. She stands over her opponent victoriously but with mercy, and clicks out of the window that brought to light her online class and its monstrous modern poets. The demolition of order and light in the world cannot continue forever. She contemplates the motivation of the professor in having most of the texts online. Is this so that the students won't burn them later? Our Hero sighs, and checks MuggleNet and Gmail, wondering if she will read a book or sew a little or write something silly. Our Hero secretly cackles triumphantly over the ability to decide what she does on the weekends.

Our Hero blinks at a wet cat lying on her pillow.

antipodes — 2005-04-10T07:04:22-05:00

This weekend has been so short. I know, I know, common phrase. "Unoriginal." Well, so!? Lameness. I've been having a nice writing spurt recently, the purpose of which has something to do with fiction but otherwise I'm not sure. The people I'm writing seem to be younger than me and yet one of them is utterly unfamiliar to me at all turns and points. I wonder what he is thinking, sometimes. There is not even any plot to these vignettes, and I call that strange. But you don't really want to hear about that. You want to hear about my incredible sneezing fits and utterly unrelated culinary triumphs of the weekend. Well, I'm not telling any secrets or sharing any gossip about stripey socks or the unwelcome nature of Mondays, so you can forget I even mentioned them. Ah, Mondays. Well, tomorrow I shall again reduce myself to furrowing my eyebrows over books with orange covers. Also to making multiple lists of ridiculous length and complexity. And writing to my professors. What is to become of me when an entire seventh of my life is spent on needless, cruel Mondays?

Our Hero waits for the meds to kick in.

antipodes — 2005-04-12T08:04:14-05:00

I think we've had a repeat Monday. I participated in very few Monday-related activities yesterday due to a rock concert, so it appears that I must atone for it by a sore, red, itchy, runny nose and the rest of my body rebelling against me and my not having finished any work yesterday for my online classes: oh, let's say a headache--make that a double headache. In case anybody wanted to know, and I have already told my housemates, there are only 94 days until Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince comes out and I will be unavailable for comment (but not coffee) for at least two days. And I've been listening to the "Mermaid Song" and "Up in the Pyrenees" from Aspects of Love for reasons inexplicable other than a mesmerizing melody. I like the "Chanson d'enfance" song too, but it is in French and I'm hopeless in that direction. Thankfully, the ibuprofen or aspirin or whatever it is I took is now kicking into gear and I will go back to read headache-inducing modern drama and once again, for a separate class, The Sound and the Fury. One month till finals, and all will be well.

Our Hero observes a Thursday.

antipodes — 2005-04-14T04:04:29-05:00

More harmless but puzzling fiction, but this time the character is introspective. At least in the un-dialogue one. I still don't get why this is coming out, because it isn't the way I think, either. Maybe I shouldn't blog it until I do. Oh well. Our Hero remains unmoved in the face of closed offices, unavailable numbers, and vengeful orthodontic appliances. the iPod Magnifique has escorted her during the day, giving helpful advice and calming the savage beast. In a fit of Thursday, several hours were lost in the writing of several letters and the Time Management Execs had to apologize to Our Hero for the loss of precious Time. Our Hero was gracious and replied that if they pulled a few strings with the Letter Quality departments, all debts would be paid in full. Either that, or they could switch Daylight Savings Time around and allow a bit more sleep time for her busy Friday. Fridays, you see, usually involve the cramming of last-minute assignments and the beginning of last-minute papers. This Friday will be no exception.

You are reading the title of an entry.

antipodes — 2005-04-15T08:04:25-05:00

You are about to read Antipodes, a blog by one of the millions of people in the world who write things on the internet for no apparent reason. You are probably surfing on the internet and have gotten here by clicking on a link from another blog on Mindsay, or maybe you got an email from the writer and at the end of it, there is an inexplicable link following her signature: http://antipodes.mindsay.com (weblog). In any case, you are reading it now. You are particularly struck with the references to books and reading and academic writing. Will her papers never stop? But that isn't the sort of suspense that will keep you reading this blog, or any blog. You never liked writing papers while you were in classes. She wallows in a nightmare state that you wouldn't wish on anybody, but at least you can feel that yin and yang have balanced themselves out again, because she doesn't seem to disturbed with all this paper, just mildly annoyed. Better her than you! She seems to read only for classes and to write most about books that haven't been published yet. Will she write anything about the book when it is published and the pages have been checked and handled and perused to her satisfaction? And she writes about writing, too. Why can't she just have done with and be satisfied with writing? You don't want to read about somebody else writing about writing. It is like trying to think about thinking. She's running about in circles, and she likes it. Strange. Somebody has to do it, though. Ha, there is a word and a phrase there that catches your eye. Did she get that from a book, you wonder? You must make time to read these things, they are all very important to the World, and you will never have the time. Well, at least you can reply to something in it. Having replied to the entry and taken one last look at the blog, you wonder vaguely what she is like to meet. She reminds you of that person in the coffee shop who is always reading paperbacks, and that one person you always seem to meet on the stairs in the library. She was probably that kid in school who had the heaviest backpack because she couldn't stand to leave the library at home during the weekends. Calm and not at all controversial, and she doesn't seem to be genuinely upset about anything but academic incompetence and the dangerous frequency with which she encounters Mondays. It must be a nice blog, for its kind, but what an odd sort of state she must live in to be perpetually concerned with books!

Our Hero is happily surprised, and unhappily late.

antipodes — 2005-04-16T05:04:54-05:00

I'm afraid the young man in my fictional world has taken on a little bit of his own personality. I found him riddling with a king and humming to himself last night and am a little bit perturbed. I thought him less proactive in his studies. Now I wish I knew the riddles, but at least he is a little more defined with 300 words of description. I was rather worried that he would be cranky and reactive but inevitably attracted to the girl, so this is a nice surprise. She seems to be a bit young for him, anyway, and he was rather unsettled himself when he thought about falling in love. Perhaps it will be a friendship! That would be nice, and promises more interesting story-lines than lovers do. A few dragons and castles wouldn't go amiss, though; they never do. We shall see. In the mean time I must concentrate on the paper I was supposed to be working on yesterday, which is now due tonight. Thanks to everybody who nominated me:) I just looked at the Live! page and saw that I'm number three.

Our Hero bravely faces cherry-flavored cough medicine.

antipodes — 2005-04-18T06:04:58-05:00

What does one say to a day like this? I'm tired. I've played slacker, writer (I'm not being redundant), student, cook, hostess, maid, and lunatic today and none of them really seem to fit the bill for anything I'd label as "me" right now; I think I will forget about being all of them for the rest of the night and go through my ironic rendition of Other Hours in pajamas and a conspiracy with my pillow to take over the world by dreams. There is a little more fiction for today, but it isn't my favorite piece and I'm disappointed in Fiona, who might have been more mature. Maybe something happened to her, I don't know. Or it could be that this happened when they were all younger. Funny--the girl seems to be older, in this one. I don't understand. Maybe they are different people? Bah. I'm too tired to deal with them tonight. In slight confusion and utter academic unproductiveness, I do believe the time has come for the clock to strike, the moon to set, and me to go to sleep.

Our Hero has a pity party, and listens to Evanescence.

antipodes — 2005-04-20T11:04:02-05:00

It is one of those parties where the all the stoppers have been pulled, at least in the ways of tear ducts and nasal passages. The music of The Laughably Unhappy plays in the background from quality stereos, and the snacks are . . . can anybody guess? Tea and sympathy! You got it! I have to go to the hospital for whatever this junk is; I can't breathe and I feel like dying right here in the middle of the semester--the hospital should be able to do something about one or both of those things. Stayed up till four a.m. working on something for a class, which was unwise. All assignments from class no. 2 bashed into pickled smithereens on the floor . . . no assignments finished for class no. 3, and it is already a Wednesday! I could have sworn it would be a Thursday or a Monday when I woke up today! What a day. I must do something to make myself laugh. Current suggestions are as follows:

Joy in the Morning by P.G. Wodehouse

Mugglenet editorials

Pickwick by Dickens

another cafe' latte

journaling with my favorite mechanical pencil

playing with pointy objects (i.e. my never-ending cross-stitch project) Of course, you think, some of them would be books.

Our Hero triumphs over evil and eats a muffin.

antipodes — 2005-04-21T09:04:05-05:00

I could totally be dancing right now, if my hands weren't glued to the keyboard. I've just finished several monster posts for one of my online classes on a subject I hate! How, you ask? How?! I can tell you are enthralled, so I will tell you. There was a half of an essay hidden deep in the depths of the Norton Critical Edition of this book, and it explains what I've been feeling all along about this Faulkner rubbish. So, I quoted a bit of Hannah Arendt and used a bunch of exclamation points at them. Hopefully, that will serve them right. In celebration of this colossal triumph, I am building an arch. Well, not really. I'm just eating a muffin, a home-made banana-walnut-chocolate-chip muffin! Warm. With butter. I also wrote something today, which was surprisingly long at about 500 words with no awkward pauses. I'm very interested in their easy conversations; they never seem to have too much trouble discussing things like normal people do, and they seem very comfortable with each other, like brother and sister almost. Maybe they are cousins. I don't know. Anyway, it's there if you want to read it. Meanwhile, I am going to get some much-deserved sleep.

Our Hero writes a long vinaigarette. Erm, vignette.

antipodes — 2005-04-24T06:04:24-05:00

I wrote a vignette that is nearly 600 words long and could have been much longer, had not my computer clock glaringly pointed out that tomorrow has the misfortune to be a Monday. I am getting a little better picture of them, though I'm not sure whether he is tall and she is of normal height or whether she is short and he is average height, and I haven't a clue why there is a royal lodge or what they were doing that day. I know what happened afterwards into the night and the next morning but for anything past that, your guess is as good as mine. I almost wish I could put these in a timeline. They seem so normal, with commonplace conversations and have nothing really to do with a dynamic relationship. Should it be? Oh, well. Whatever. Wish me sweet dreams.

Our Hero blindly gropes for espresso.

antipodes — 2005-04-25T05:04:06-05:00

Do I think we have guardian-angels? Specifically, do I think they are corporeal and are capable of directly interfering with the concrete, three-dimensional objects that we take for granted everyday? Well, I don't know, but it would explain why my cafe' latte is disappearing at an abnormal rate this morning; assuming I do have a guardian angel, we were both up late last night and I'm sure he or she (or it?) deserves the caffeine much more than I do. Am feeling torn about what I wrote in my other blog last night; I don't like semi-formal parties or uncomfortable shoes and writing about that sort of thing late into a Sunday night has definitely affected my Monday morning. How could I be so foolish? These characters owe it to me to set their next conversation in a library or a forest or someplace on a rainy day. Heh. All this scribbling which I feel I am subjected to by these silly characters in my head is reminding me of something I read a long time ago for a class. Instead of subjecting the power of my brain to the a particular effort of my soul (are these things from my soul?) I am merely subjecting my linguistic ability to thoughts that people the world of my imagination. Sounds poetic, sort of.

Our Hero wrestles with her imagination.

antipodes — 2005-04-26T06:04:11-05:00

The paper that has been giving me so much grief (actually it is the professor's requirements; she and I think so very differently) is becoming easier now that I've switched the topic to something of Eliot's: The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. And no, I have no clue how to pronounce "Prufrock". I just happen to nearly always see patterns that aren't there and Eliot is so cryptic that my imagined patterns and allusions just might be realistic! The only phrase that draws a complete blank for me is "In the room where women come and go / Talking of Michelangelo." Due to the progress with the paper, I felt perfectly justified in taking the evening and blowing it all on a ridiculously long follow-up to what happened after the dance. I'm particularly satisfied because I can hardly ever get things to flow in any sort of chronological order. Oh, yes, I am feeling smug. And sleepy.

Our Hero makes lots of delicious lists.

antipodes — 2005-04-28T05:04:29-05:00

I will readily admit with relish that I am the sort of person to make a terrible number of lists for a single activity. I love making lists. Next month's single activity is a week and a half-long trip, and you can just imagine all of those delightful lists of phone numbers, addresses, things to pack, and places to go that are being added to one of my favourite notebooks (the one with the plastic cover). Making all these lists isn't an activity that gives me specific pleasure--most of it is planning things, dreaming possibilities and planning for them (I probably won't need lembas this time, but you never know). And these classes are almost over. Almost over. But while I'm on the subject of things planned, I didn't plan this thankfully short bit of scribbling, which happens to be situated chronologically after the last piece I wrote. Curious. I'm not liking this, though; it describes very little but merely relates actions. Ugh. I do believe that reading 'night, Mother is going to cure me from making so many lists, though--that play is truly depressing. I suppose most modernist stuff is.

Our Hero counts the days, measuring them out in shovels.

antipodes — 2005-04-30T07:04:57-05:00

I have gathered my books and papers, my pens and mugs, and moved down to the basement to study and write one of the last papers of the term. There is a window that lets in the daylight (the sky is blue) and also a television. Not to leave either of them to waste, I have put on the extended version dvd of Return of the King, with the cast commentary on, and am also tip-typetting away and getting ready to read Conrad's Heart of Darkness. I can't wait to be traveling and listening to the unabridged Lord of the Rings on airplanes and in train stations and on buses. Very unwisely, I was up until 4 a.m. this morning scribbling a scribble, which is actually related to a clip I wrote before; as a continuation of it. I actually meant to write what happens afterwards, but people kept coming in and interrupting me (people in the story, not in the room I was writing in). Ah, well. I regret the length and that I didn't write dialogue to go into it, but I do like it better than the more recent ones, even though I don't have much of a plot. Bah. On to perusing and scribbling about Conrad, and more of those dratted modernists.

Our Hero responds to comments from her other blog.

antipodes — 2005-05-01T12:05:41-05:00

My other blog, which I usually post compulsive doodles in, is on a heathen server of the Blogger persuasion. I began it as a last resort when Mindsay switched to v3.0 and was incompatible with my browser. Adam and Brian (bless them) have fixed the bug and I returned with glorious fanfares.
Blogger is by no means community-oriented--not like Mindsay--and you have to modify your blog if you want to be able to even reply to anybody's comments. Quite appalling. So I'm replying to some comments made by Mindsayers who have read and kindly commented on some of my scribbles over the past week or so.

An Anonymous Reader, Jamie, and Jewel were all very encouraging in their responses, and I want to thank them. Umm: thank you! It is good to know you like what I scribble! I have a lovely time writing them, but sometimes I can't tell easily what I think of the result because I'm still caught up in the process of writing.

I can only guess this comment to be from Sandyquill, because she is one of the very few who calls me "ma'am" (which makes me smile)--and because she has a knack for talking about writing--and because she is unfailingly graceful (If Sandy denies this, then at least half of Mindsay will stand up in protest, and the majority will rule; so there!). She pointed out that I used an unfortunate pluralization which might have result in a major lawsuit, at least in that culture . . . but I didn't specify (and I meant to) that she has sisters, and so it didn't apply merely to her. Maybe I will rewrite the scene with a sister in it. I think they might like some company, actually. Heehee.

Compliments on the dialogue are also gratefully snaffled! Dialogue is, at present, the easiest thing to write, and I like to plan conversations in my head anyhow. YAY! You cannot see my dancing around the room, but have faith: I have danced.

Some other things that have been said to me about the scribbles are (1) that there is no plot and (2) that the characters seem to have a rather idealistic relationship, and (3) that Fiona is rather ambiguous.

I am working on a plot, though it is all very shady right now. I know there will be a war, and I know there are two main characters, and I know that it is set in some kind of romanticized Medieval era, but that is all I have to go on. I am also content to write their platonic friendship out; it is refreshing to write people who aren't scandalously evil or much too human:) Fiona is the lady-in-waiting to the girl/woman who is one of the main characters; she's a bit manipulative and childish sometimes, but she is an excellent caretaker and a very practical help.

So far, the organisation of the pieces isn't chronological, but I'm going to sum up what I've got so I have a record.

This conversation happened fairly early in their relationship; I'm guessing they met a week or so ago and have been spending time together due to their common ages and duties at court.

This bit of thinking is apparently after they've known each other for about a year or so; the world is still at peace.

A bit of description for the young man, whose silence unsettles people. Storyteller proposed a rather astute explanation for this that I think may be quite true.

Here is one short piece that I think might come before a bit of conversation. They seem to be on friendly terms but not really friends yet. I think.

Something about the princess that is a bit descriptive of her personality and her relationships with some of her servants/subjects.

More focused on the King than themselves, they talk about why she reads books that hold information she'll not be able to use practically.

Here are two pieces about a day when the princess was sick; one about the sick room itself, and another about a day she was ill and put in that room. I suspect Fiona wanted to give her normal apartment a good scrub and welcomed the excuse to shoo her out.

I am particularly surprised to find that I've written three pieces in chronological order! WOW. They are about the aftermath of a party where they were somehow coerced into dancing, and about the ride back home to the lodge/summer palace, and then a short piece about what she did when she returned.

Long post:) I didn't realise I'd written so much. Thanks to people who've commented and I do appreciate your feedback on the scribbles! If there's any aspect you'd like to hear more of, I can try to write by request, too; I think that would be interesting, though I've no shortage of bits and pieces to pontificate on (mwahahaha).

Back tomorrow with a shorter entry:D

Our Hero wilts and loses confidence.

antipodes — 2005-05-03T09:05:03-05:00

First of all, thanks to the people that nominated my monster post below; it was number five on the Top Blogs page, which is cool:) I thought I might get lynched for writing so much, actually, so that was a pleasant surprise.

There has been another scribble sighting, and this one is bigger than all the rest. I wrote it yesterday; it was originally titled "The Face of Victorian Imperialism as Portrayed by Kipling and Conrad" and it was going to be about Heart of Darkness and The Man Who Would Be King.

Literary conventions always get in the way, and I didn't double space at first (and I only had one cup of coffee, which can't be healthy for me), so I got 1000 words of scribbling that I did not even mean to provoke. This one is a bit buggy, though, because the phrases they use, simple as they are and clear, are familiar ones--not to say this is autobiographical (because it can't be)--but . . . well, I don't know.

So my paper isn't done, and it is now late. Hopspittle visit is tomorrow, so maybe I can find out if I've got a sinus infection or whether my nose is slowly bloating to the size of the Goodyear blimp merely as a spontaneous effort to break from postmodernist societal conventions.

There is something very comforting about knowing that two weeks from now I will be finishing up correspondences left long unanswered and rushing about trying to get a last load of laundry done so that I can pack everything in my small suitcase (max. limit 33 lbs.) and rucksack. By that time I will have replied to everybody who commented here, too . . .

Round 25514943863: Endymion vs. Academia.

antipodes — 2005-05-05T04:05:20-05:00

~~One five page research-related paper on narrative techniques to present the theme of Kipling and Conrad's short fiction regarding Victorian Imperialism.~~

One ten page paper (no outside research) on the metaphor and allusions in T.S. Eliot's Prufrock in relation to how they reflect the main theme of the poem and actually decide what the theme is, regardless of rhyme and meter.

~~One essay (2 pages) on Modernist writers in general.~~

One essay (2 pages) on Victorian Poets; choice of Tennyson or Browning.

One essay (2 pages) on Housman, Hardy, or Hopkins.

~~One essay (2 pages) on poets during WWI.~~

~~One response to an article regarding 'night Mother in relation to the Demeter myth.~~

~~One close analysis of a short scene in the aforementioned play.~~

One pill for allergies.

One antibioticky pill.

Two puffs of inhaler every six hours.

One week and three days.

Several enormous doses of caffeine.

Our Hero refuses to relinquish the fight for her nose.

antipodes — 2005-05-06T06:05:10-05:00

I have gone to the hopspittle, and the sepulchral Prophet of the Stethoscope has diagnosed me with polysyllabic hymns to Saints Allergica and Bronchitis. With relics of rattling bottles of small shiny objects I have returned to home and hearth and final exams. On a lighter note, and a cooler one, I got a very encouraging letter from the director of the MPhil program I want to enter next year, and hopefully I shall be able to meet him. All this hard work of exams for classes I dislike will be worth it as a means to an end--that end being the postgraduate degree(s). Maybe a Ph.D, too, if I can manage to be a good enough student for them. New scribble, this time still in the sick room, but sometime in the evening. Her father the King has come to see her; less dialogue (drat) but I did squeeze a Tolkien reference in there. The reference then turned into a rant (illogical, frustrated, and silly), but I have italicised the rant to spare your minds the pain of a tortured reader's soul. Also, I have a button for this blog, and you are all welcome to use the button without putting it on your own server. Link away. Meanwhile, I will begin on Modern Drama and end this evening with some short fiction and two puffs of my inhaler.

On a WWI Poet: for Ms. Sandyquill and Ms. ScaryFairy

antipodes — 2005-05-06T06:05:26-05:00

It turns out that the paper on WWI poets is actually one that we each chose a poem out of to scan and discuss. This class is more centered around metrics and scansion, so it may not be what you're used to--and it isn't my favourite type of creative writing, nor is it a formal paper--it is an online class post, rather like a short essay. And this one was rushed. But anyway, I have posted it, if you would like to take a peek at it.

GAH! Why do these things pop up when I haven't time for them!?

antipodes — 2005-05-08T09:05:50-05:00

My imagination has pop-up windows, and there is no blocker for them--not even sleep. I have the outline for the first and most important essay out of four written for a final exam and up pops 250 words of goofiness about a rose gardener! Gah! These essays won't finish themselves!

Our Hero had the weirdest dream last night.

antipodes — 2005-05-09T08:05:11-05:00

I had the weirdest dream last night! Oddly enough, when I woke up, the first thing I wanted to do was write it out. So I did. It isn't quite as I remember it, because adding all the details would make it tedious, but I've written it out as far as that will go at 1500 words. It isn't a nightmare for me, but it was for the girl I was living through at the moment. This is very odd--I keep having a great variety of dreams at night and remembering half of them . . . this one has been the most interesting yet, though. Consider it an experimental short story, if you will. Anyway, tomorrow: back to exams and weekly readings and assignments. The last week, thank heavens!

Our Hero dredges up old stories.

antipodes — 2005-05-10T05:05:54-05:00

Here's something else, this time something I wrote a few years ago. Or was it one year ago? I don't remember. Anyway, I was looking through some old files on a break from studying and found this; don't worry, it's half as long as the last thing I posted!

Ok, tomorrow is It! My modern drama exam will be finished, or I will deny myself bagels for the entire day.

You know you guys can comment on my other blog, right? just click the "comments" link, then click "reply", then click "other" and when you click that, some options will appear; a "name" box and a "website" box.

Type in your name/username and in the website box, put your Mindsay address! You don't have to have an account to post, there. The only problem is that I can't reply directly. I will gather up the comments and reply to them on the weekends, though. Not that you have to comment, but several people have mentioned this in previous posts . . .

Right. Heh. Time for me to head off and take my allergy pills, or something.

Our Hero conducts lone broadway sing-along.

antipodes — 2005-05-12T05:05:41-05:00

The last four days of my final exams have come to a deadly stillness, a threatening calm, which induces me to take out all my anger singing loudly to silly songs and yelling at my cell phone because I keep forgetting how to write text messages.
The remainder of my energy is spent writing essays that involve a word count of 250-400 words, 2100 words, and no more than 750 words, as well as one with no guidance whatsoever. I can't believe they're giving us word counts. Freaks, all of them. I keep running over and having to delete all the most interesting bits. They've brought it on themselves to make me tedious! They really have!
I am a little tired of reading my own stories. I think it is time I started doing more practical things, like laundry and dishes, and getting ready for my Trip. Now, if I could kindly take leave from these insistent creatures and focus on things further from my own nose, like the hole in my sock or the fact that I'm wearing a jacket inside the house because I'm too lazy to go upstairs for my TCD hooded sweatshirt.

Our Hero loses her wits completely.

antipodes — 2005-05-14T05:05:35-05:00

At this point in the semester, Our Hero has chosen a time to step aside and let a great literary mind step up to the podium to express with remarkable acuity the feelings which are trapped, among other things, in the respiratory passages most susceptible to allergic reactions. He felt like a man who, chasing rainbows, has had one of them suddenly turn and bite him in the leg. Thank you, P.G. Wodehouse.

For old times' sake . . .

antipodes — 2005-05-16T04:05:27-05:00

I don't know whether any but a very few remember The Old Days, when I sat in a computer lab (this is before my darling iBook G4 12", Trimey) back to back with the Great Vespa, our Blessed Lab Technician (BLT) as I struggled with sniffly nose and half-fingered gloves through the freezing, stale-ammonia-scented semesters. That was back when I wrote about riding on buses and what it was like to get home late at night.

Within that very lab, a hothouse for small pieces of shredded paper and dull headaches, I sit. Right this very minute. No, I'm not kidding you. I would begin to get nostalgic, but I've too much enmity against exams to be entirely sympathetic to a pitiful and frightening past.

Speaking of, exams are now over. Exams. Final exams for the term. They are over and done with. I wash my keyboard of them (with iKlear). Anybody and everybody who prayed and grinned and said "good luck" to me, consider yourself thanked and I am grateful. I've gotten one exam grade back, the one I was sure of getting a C on because of the finicky, word-counting instructor, and I barely scraped an A. So, I am hopeful.

Now, to travel plans, and then! To books. Business as usual.

Our Hero fidgets and stammers.

antipodes — 2005-05-18T04:05:20-05:00

Am very nervous. Tomorrow is the day I begin my travels and the day I meet with the assistant director of the graduate program I hope to join next year. I shall alternately stride with confident step and skulk along the corridors to his office, hoping against hope that I don't get lost, and meet this man who may or may not have a mesmerizing Irish or Scottish or British accent that will put my paltry American (and presently influenz-ed, so probably not nasal) accent to shame. Then we will trip down the four or five flights of stairs out to a cool and cloudy evening and down the street to a coffee shop I think I have been in before. I will ask about what I can do to prepare for the classes and what his opinions are about C.S. Lewis and Dorothy Sayers' works on medieval thought, philosophy and the conventions of courtly love, and Dante; respectively, of course. He will ask me why in the world I am so set on joining his obscure but respected program ("feared" is probably nearer the mark) and will ask me several polite questions about the weather in my part of the world. Within an hour or so he will hopefully remember that he has a wife or a blender at home that needs his attention and will bid me farewell, put on his hat if he has one, and leave the coffee shop with the impression that he has just spoken to a hard-working, thoughtful student who is crazy enough to make it in the program. Also, that her ipod is very cool. Anyhow, the next time I blog I'll be on a different continent, probably right after the incident so recently described:)

preview of my trip

antipodes — 2005-05-30T02:05:06-05:00

I'm not sure Edinburgh even knows it is a city. New York knows it is a city, so does Hong Kong--even Dublin is aware that more than a war zone, it is a place of trade and leisure and all the mundane activities that indicate the inexplicable routines of human life. Edinburgh seems to be a stone shell of architecture set carelessly on top of a forest so that bits of nettle and tree stick out at odd angles. This city of all those that I've been to seems to have achieved the balance between the dignified city and the meandering, slightly reckless forest.

There is so much to write about, and I've just gotten home. Can't wait to catch up on stuff:) I actually only wrote one thing for anstruther while I was gone, but you can go read it now I've posted.

Once upon a time, in a moleskine notebook, there lived some Notes.

antipodes — 2005-06-01T05:06:43-05:00

After munching on a clandestine bagel in the wee sma's at the kitchen table, Our Hero drew forth from her rucksack a Moleskine notebook. The cover was plain, and slightly battered. It looked as if it had been on four aeroplane flights, two train rides, and innumerable bus rides, on multifarious and irreverent cafe tables and even one or two bar counters--definitely propped on the writer's knees at several points in time. There is only one type of mark in the book--pencil. Mechanical pencil, .5 mm, with one of those tiny erasers that you hate to buy replacements for. The lead has been replaced . . . twice. And so the book is open upon the table. The information is quite congruous with organisation in a chronological sense, but then, so is James Joyce's Ulysses. So the scribbler paused, palm over page, and caught her breath. How should I blog this? she wondered, at the same time thinking of her bed upstairs and the dog next door and how the two presented antithetical arguments to the matter of sleep. So many things to discuss! Maybe a table of contents or a list of ideas would help, she thought, clicking on a small icon that consequently bounced cheerfully in the dock for a second or two before the application opened.

the meeting about my postgrad studies (tags: "irish accents" "tolkien" "medieval studies" "TCD" "yay")

a thief I met in edinburgh, in the rain at a street crossing, and what he stole (tags: "star trek" "umbrellas")

rugby players (tags: "oh dear" "duels" "kilts" "possibly cannibalistic")

Edinburgh Castle (tags: "Harry Potter" "castles" "guards" "windowseats" "military" "downtown" "war memorial" "oldest building in scotland" "scottish crown jewels" "blindness")

Dunfermline and St. Margaret's Chapel (tags: "rainy day" "robert the bruce" "embroidery" "scottish bus driver" "botanical gardens" "inexplicable peacocks")

Lochleven Castle (tags: "Mary Queen of Scots" "escape" "tower" "ferry" "no coffee")

Stirling Castle (tags: "tapestry weaving" "whiskey" "authentic reproductions")

Linlithgow Palace (tags: "fairytale palace" "windows" "lost" "rainy" "unicorns" "drowning knights")

Edinburgh Writers Museum (tags: "r.l. stevenson" "book of original nonsense" "ill health")

The Elephant House, a cafe (tags: "J.K. Rowling" "coffee napkins" "latte" "sticky toffee pudding" "yum" "late for class")

awareness of the supernatural in Scotland, generally speaking

Abbotsford, home of Sir Walter Scott (tags: "library" "drool" "a hedgehog" "rainy again")

Melrose Abbey (tags: "climbing towers" "slippery stairs" "all by myself" "late for class again")

National Gallery of Art (tags: "mispronunciations" "raeburn" "green carpets")

The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie (tags: "novel" "innocence" "girls' school" "funny excerpt")

last day in Edinburgh (tags: "shortcuts" "bookstores" "drool" "LOTR" "not-so-good-areas-of-town" "eek")

uses of my towel during the trip

St. Andrews (tags: "golf" "seaside" "taxi driver" "more golf" "climbing another tower")

the trip home (tags: "airport all-nighter" "coffee smuggling") So there's a lot of things to talk about. She closes the mild-mannered notebook and snaps the elastic band over the cover. She yawns and listens. The dog next door, so adamant that she should refrain from sleep, has now succumbed to the temptation himself. So, any requests? Or should I start from the middle and work my way outwards? I'm sure there is more I could write about once I get started, so this is merely tentative.

Our Hero observes views of the supernatural in Scotland.

antipodes — 2005-06-01T07:06:44-05:00

Seems like a lot of the world is bent on not believing in the supernatural. Sure, they believe in the "spiritual" but that is just a higher level of humanity and an awareness of a collective Good Force, or some great benign teddy bear that watches over us with a kindly button eye as we hold our idols and sleep tight. But witches, wizards, demons, sprites, ghosts, leprechauns, warlocks, angels, etc.? Not very common to find a real solid belief in any of them; not that they are all warranted, but there is some grain of truth down there, and it isn't all in whiskey:)

The way that I saw the matter treated in Scottish literature holds me fascinated, because it really does seem as if they accept the existence of the supernatural.

In Robert Louis Stevenson's famous book, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, it is Jekyll's studies that delved into the human consciousness via the "wholly mystical and transcendental" which allowed him to discover Hyde. The entire basis for the story is on the fact that Jekyll can divide his nature into more than one part by altering the state of his soul with drugs.

In Scott's The Two Drovers, Robin Oig is not embarrassed by his aunt's act of walking the deasil around him but only on her insistence on speaking loudly in front of his friends (childishly; "You can go, now, Mom!!"). What the aunt says is taken for granted as true.

George MacDonald writes about the "inner vision of the Highlanders, commonly called 'the second sight'" in The Portent (as well as other stories) which doesn't only profess the existence of it, but the commonly acknowledged existence of some type of supernatural ability.

And those are all Scottish writers . . .

Even with those, though, it is easy to ignore the references as literary devices to develop plot lines and spin fairytales. "Lazy writers!" it might be said, "Can't even think up their own stories!"

Sometimes in books, things seem on a different plane of reality with a distance and a nearness that is hard to measure by anything but the blunt pain of the blow that strikes one on the head--or, heaven forbid, the funny bone!--when a concept swerves into your waking life and rudely neglects to use its turn signals.

I can't find this anywhere in the 15 or 20 minutes I spent Googling and begging things of Jeeves, but I saw with my own two eyes (though now I must grin because I might be discriminatory in not saying "three") in front of Edinburgh Castle, on the Esplanade leading down to the bagpipe-infested Royal Mile, a place where witches were burned. There is a plaque commemorating their deaths, which deplores the needless deaths of those who used their "exceptional powers" for the good of mankind, and deplores the existence of the evil witches that were burned.

WHAT?! What's the -- Where's the -- Is there a date on the plaque? Yeah, it's around the '70's. Yes, 1970's.

Must be a misprint or something . . . but no, even the concepts on the sculpture below it agree--there are two women, one hag-like and the other maidenly, with a sprig of belladonna growing between them. For those who don't know, belladonna is very useful as a heart medicine as well as a poison.

Curiouser and curiouser! So I snapped pictures and ran to catch up to the class, which was already halfway up the Esplanade to the castle gates. The picture of the plaque itself did not turn out well, but the sculpture below it didn't turn out so badly:)

In other news, there are approx. 900 words on anstruther about roast chicken and Carmina Burana.

cup of tea and the air of the evening

antipodes — 2005-06-02T06:06:50-05:00

Well, I'm back. A lot of changes have come about in the last two weeks alone--I've gone away, I've come back, I've gotten some major encouragement for my postgrad. program, I've finished a term of work, I've started a holiday of epic proportions (a whole summer!), and I've bought a piece of jewelry for myself. The last event rarely happens at all as I like the jewelry I have and rarely wear any of it anyway, but the ring I bought is a replica of an artifact found near the ruins of an old Welsh village, and in a fair medieval script the words "love is beautiful" are inscribed on the outside in some ancient form of Welsh . . . Unintelligibility doesn't always make my list of top ten attractive attributes of jewelry, but obscurity does, for some odd reason. Besides, I think my last item of jewelry was bought last summer, a pair of five dollar earrings because I lost one of the ones I was wearing and didn't want the piercings to close up over the end of my trip as I'd only brought one pair of earrings with me. I didn't mean this entry to be an essay on the frequency of my acquisition of shiny objects. I meant it to be about coming home. I've finally got my cup of tea (Sweet Almond, if you must know; loose leaf--two small teaspoons of sugar and not too strong) and my iPod is charging for tomorrow, and the jojoba oil is being given its ten minutes to soak into my hair before I braid it for the night. I even wrote 100 words for anstruther about the princess as a child, which was relaxing even though it opened up a lot of other things I wanted to write about her. Suddenly a conversation I once had with somebody on a train is brought back me and his point quite supported: bagpipes are proof that music is not universal.

On rugby.

antipodes — 2005-06-03T05:06:10-05:00

And then there was the day that the Big Rugby Game was played. I think it was two French teams that played; Toulouse and Paris, maybe? As I unobtrusively passed the line of trolley carts and luggage carriers to the Airlink bus which would take me to the city centre and my hotel (from which, unencumbered by luggage, I would flit to the nearest coffeeshop, a Starbucks, and meet a thief in the rain), it became clear that there were some voices behind me of a particularly French sound. But they were far behind me yet.

It was as I settled into my seat on the bus that they approached en force, embracing loudly a sign that stood by the bus stop; "Edimburgo!" it said. The bus driver and I shook our heads and laughed. i missed my bus stop half because I couldn't understand what the driver was saying over the noise of their conversation, which was apparently very funny.

But that was not the end of the affair, as I approached a bus stop with our class the next morning--several people in fake kilts, carrying flags and large signs, were waiting with us. One of them had a red-haired wig on with a tartan cap. People filed past in twos and fives, walking towards the Murrayfield Rugby Stadium to get ahead of the crowd. The game started at 3 p.m., but rugby fans were out long before . . . the oddest sight was a bunch of them in red and blue, flags and kilts and caps, filing into a pub that had just opened.

At another bus stop, a red and black group passed a red and blue group. Both hissed wildly and grinned just as enthusiastically. Several of them dueled with their respective flags, all rolled up but really too flimsy to withstand much parrying or thrusting.

Several people had capes made of towels or giant tartan flags--it reminded one of a certain scene in the fourth Harry Potter book, at the Quidditch World Cup (yes, my spell-checker is catching the word "quidditch"), and then in the first Harry Potter book about The Boy Who Lived. I thought how ironic it was until I realised that J.K. Rowling herself might have been about the very same city, grinning at the fans as she took Mackenzie for a walk! Mental note to keep eyes and ears out for familiar voice and smile.

One of my classmates mumbled something about the savagery of football fans, and how rugby fans were no better, and how we shouldn't get too close to them as they might be cannibalistic. Though I wouldn't quite go that far, it was certain that during the evening, in which it was promised that every pub would be full, their enthusiasm might get a little, shall we say, "off kilter" . . .

My anstruther blog comments and scribble updates.

antipodes — 2005-06-05T03:06:44-05:00

This entry is somewhat like another post I wrote last month, and refers to my other blog. For anybody who doesn't read the other one and hasn't read the aforementioned post, I write fiction in my other blog. Mostly light stuff about friends and books, nothing to be worried about, but incredibly wordy:)

I don't know anybody who has actually kept up with the blog having come to it from the so-called "Blogger community" but several kind Mindsayers have commented and helped me out a bit. I love the feedback, so thanks to everybody who reads and responds--really!

Here is basically what I've written over the past month--much less than last time because of my travels and exams:

Another bit about the sick room, when her father, the King, comes to visit her. This is after the other two clips (1, 2) and I'm still amazed that there's any recognizable chronology in this.

Here is another conversation between the princess and the quiet prince/lord, and I'm frankly surprised that he told her he had been crying. It was very frustrating and she was rather uncomfortable, which I don't like. But I do feel sorry for the poor guy, whatever had him crying in the first place. And I rather like the way this goes, as some of it is familiar to any set of friends.

This is when they're walking out of a building together, filing out with the rest of the nobles after a Sunday service where both of them were dozing. Set in a place rather like Stirling Castle's chapel (in Scotland). He is cranky.

I really like the rose gardener, who appeared one day over my morning cup of tea, proclaiming he was a gypsy prince. Don't ask me. It was plain black tea. Not my fault.

Jennifer posted a grinning comment about the last couple of lines about the page boy:) I must admit I wanted to write that in. I hope both of them come into the story later! They are delightful. Thank you! Much appreciated:)

Monica also posted with a grin 'cause I called the rose gardener a "pop-up ad" because he came up so suddenly and told me to pay attention when I really had other things to do at the moment. Thanks! They are pleasant things to come upon in daydreams; I wish I could coax them out purposefully . . .

And a little bit about the princess as a girl, getting ready for bed. Very short, but there were too many options for continuation and I was tired.

A story in itself, about the same sort of universe as the rest but this in a tiny village and with different characters. I like this one, I do. I got a complain with this, though, from my mother--she says I need to wrap up the loose end of What Happens to Carrie. But she wasn't really important to the story, so I wasn't sure what to do with her. I don't think she marries Tom, which is what I suspect would be the traditional role for her.

TaintedMemory kindly posted to this about the aspect of gossip in the story, which does appear quite muchly because things can be seen so many different ways . . . I'm very glad you liked it:) I don't know how to finish it, though--I really don't want Carrie to marry Tom, and that seems the way things are headed. I don't like formulas. Maybe I should try writing it out that way and then try writing it out some other ways. We'll see what pops up in my head . . . thanks for commenting!

This last bit is not related to any of the above and is set in modern times, about expatriate students, the importance of peanut butter, and the oddities that other people study, as well as the bare-bones recipe for cooking bits of roast chicken. I actually named my characters this time, though, which is quite a step.

So that is a bit of stuff to read, if anybody is curious. There are a few other compulsive doodles on the blog, including a long one about a dream I had, but I don't really think it's worth putting up as a story "of my own". Muchly many things are running about in the carnival of my mind that will eventually make their way out. Sorry about the length of the post:)

Special thanks to the commenters and posters on that blog--I so appreciate your feedback! You guys rock.

Tomorrow will post requested pic of ring, but while this was on my head I figured I ought to organise it all.

Our Hero of the Perpetual Sniffle

antipodes — 2005-06-13T11:06:34-05:00

Am back from Venice. Good grief, the places I go, the things I see, the sinus infections I get . . . I rode first class on a Eurostar for a long time, and had an even more amusing time mistaking other train tickets on the way. For some reason when I'm traveling with others I always lose my ability to think clearly. I don't know why that is, except that I am generally a flusterable person. That, in itself, is frustrating beyond belief. At least now I have 24/7 access to caffeine and junk food. Man, I was beginning to worry there for a bit. Everybody wish my mum a happy birthday. She is the awesomest, ever.

Odd things happen in the summer.

antipodes — 2005-06-16T05:06:15-05:00

I don't have anything odd to report, though, unless you count a lack of events as odd. I've been thinking, lately, and I've got one more paper to write before the end of all things academic for the summer at least. I do have a few things planned.

I need to start tutoring myself in Latin, for one. I have a Classical Latin textbook and shall at least begin with it; from then I can go to deciphering my book of Medieval Latin Lyrics which will prove more of a challenge because they are in Medieval Latin rather than Classical Latin--and the dictionary I have is all Classical Latin. There, I think the internet will help me.

Then, I need to read all the Medieval Lit. I can get my hands on. That won't be hard, as I've got a lot of books I can work from so far as well as some excellent websites.

Studying the Bible has been a priority for a while, and I read it regularly, but this time around I need to look at it from an academic standpoint because much, if not all (literacy was brought to England etc. by Christians--books were mostly the Bible or religious works), of Medieval Lit. was influenced by biblical symbolism, stories, etc. so I should keep my eyes open.

Somewhat more on a frivolous note, I'd like to finish a bit of my embroidery project--an hour a day might get me some progress if I can find a couple good audiobooks to listen to while I sew.

Oh, and I have a list of books . . .

Our Hero attempts to dissuade herself from perpetual studying.

antipodes — 2005-06-19T08:06:16-05:00

There must be something wrong with it, I know, but it is just so tasty to study things! Well, it is time for me to prepare for a new bout of stuff, and it shall be fun because I shan't have to stick to it, and may travel a little. Of course, I am ill and fuzzy and sleep a lot, so my traveling may be limited to my yard, but that needn't limit my imagination any. I've been plenty of interesting places lately. So tired. I keep sleeping a lot:) And not really knowing what I'm saying. That means I should go to sleep now, huh?

Our Hero needs some athelas.

antipodes — 2005-06-23T06:06:20-05:00

The beginning of summer in Italy is difficult to pinpoint on the calendar, but once it begins there is no going back--no wavering in and out of rainy days and cloudy weekends. Well, I wish it was like that, anyway. I'm still on medication for ear infections (both ears) and am still nauseated this time with nothing related to Faulkner or Woolf, not to mention nursing a stomachache due to an unwise method of taking my medicine before breakfast and not after it. "Oh, but you've never reacted well to amoxicillin," said my mother, when I told her about it; "It used to make you horribly sick as a child." I should love to quote something to her about parents not exasperating their children, but I may as well put myself in the stocks for not remembering. I've gotten very little reading done, but have been listening to The Fellowship of the Ring as I lay in bed, waking up now and then to hear bits and pieces I half imagine and am half reminded of. I tend to listen to chapter ten a lot; it is the introduction to Strider, and his marvelous sense of humor, as well as a large section on the development of the personalities of the hobbits and a bit of exposition on Gandalf. That may sound technical, but I can't think of another way to say it. Many things are brewing about in my mind, especially in regard to my little vinaigrettes (errrr--vignettes), but I haven't had the stamina to sit with my mind mulling about things with a pencil in my hand or the keyboard under my fingers--I've also got a guest here who likes company, and it is hard to dislike her company enough to take myself off to scribble, especially as I've been ill for so long. Thanks to everybody who's sent me get-wells:) I thank you.

Our Hero's antics of business continue.

antipodes — 2005-06-25T07:06:17-05:00

Am still remarkably busy, but have moved forward and shaken my foundations a little in regards to philosophy and theology. Foundations have become more firmly settled, as expected, and a little boogie never hurt anything but my dignity. It does mean that I'll be getting less sleep for the next week or so, though. I am one of those people whose circadian rhythm is much influenced by thoughts and dreams (day dreams and night-thoughts, usually; occasionally to my chagrin). Meanwhile, my daily dusty treks continue, and my reading list grows ever longer.

Our Hero's attempt to think kindly on summer.

antipodes — 2005-06-29T06:06:18-05:00

I went a-walking yesterday, on an Italian hill. It was covered in blooms and flowers all in the shape of swimsuit cover-ups and magazines and slightly overripe plums. The plains and coastline below were dignified in their metropolitan crop of unpruned and untrimmed architecture.

The metaphor following ought to change senses from sight to smell, to move on to how sweet smelled the peaches and oranges and what an adventurous salt-spray came from the sea, but I'm sad to say that Napoli is full of smog and exhaust and has too many untidy pet-owners that override the smells of fruit and sea.

Still, from a parapet at Castel Sant'Elmo it is really hard to ignore a touristic and ridiculously romantic sense of the poetic that tends to run away with one's imagination.

Our Hero is the first to admit something.

antipodes — 2005-07-02T06:07:47-05:00

I will be the first to admit that when I am exhausted and snivelly, a spoonful of whisky (or even better, whisky cream) does as good or better than sugar in my nightly cup of tea. Having recently been in Scotland, the only country I've ever been to that has a chain of whisky stores, I have my favourite whisky cream, Columba Cream, at hand, and it is capering about merrily in my cup of Typhoo tea.

Our Hero tries to make pumpkin pasties.

antipodes — 2005-07-06T09:07:48-05:00

"EWWWW!" That is what some of you will say at first.

"Ooooh, she is having a Harry Potter party!" say others among you. I am having a HP "party"; right now there are only four attending including the hosts and we are going to do wild things like watch movies and play HP trivia and read aloud favorite bits from the books. Very wild.

"Party girl!" say one or two of you affectionately, knowing that I like to be by myself. Yes.

Well, this time I shall be host and still we will have a nice partyish sort of feel, even though most of the time we will be watching movies--on the 16th we shall make a trip to the bookstore to get our books (opens at an excruciating 10 a.m.) and then go back home to our prepared reading room, and retire in silence with our long-anticipated volumes of crunchy storylines.

Nine days and some odd hours left! Woot!

Summertime somnolence and windows facing westwards.

antipodes — 2005-07-09T05:07:44-05:00

My room has a large window facing west, which makes the whole thing fairly warm in the afternoon and on into the night. In the early morning it is a little cooler, but I tend to sleep in late during the summer.

Lately, the nights have been cool enough that I actually keep my window open to the wind (though I leave the shutters closed and can see orange street lights blinking through as I drift away) and make sure to cover myself with the sheet (still too hot for a blanket) before breathing a decidedly nocturnal sigh.

Sometimes, especially in the last few nights, there will be a breeze or two that prelude the night at about 11 p.m., and cue the idea behind one of Beethoven's less-excitable concertos to start playing in my head.

Yep, I do keep track of some of Beethoven. Not a whole lot, but sometimes it makes me sound intelligent, and that throws people off; some of them would never know that I am afraid to drive manual gear shift or that I stumble in one-inch heels--so long as I know what a Beethoven concerto sounds like:)

But I digress, and miss air conditioning.

Our Hero and her present seasonal literary addictions.

antipodes — 2005-07-14T05:07:29-05:00

Contrary to popular opinion, I am not above the addiction common to readers of picking up innumerable and somewhat questionable novels during the summertime. I do not mean to say I read romance novels or popular crime novels--I have a less common strain of the disease: that of reading young adult novels. I have just finished An Earthly Knight by Janet McNaughton and eagerly await the arrival of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince by the revered and notorious, dear J.K. Rowling. I've also been seriously considering a rereading of Frances Mary Hendry's Quest for a Maid or Madeleine L'Engle's Meet the Austins.

However, when I do get the free time to be reading, somehow there are always reruns and rereads because scenes from those books continue to influence my daily activities and most of the other things that I study--for the last several years this list has included J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings (most recently the last book) and Gaudy Night by Dorothy Sayers. Charles Williams' Descent Into Hell has always haunted my daydreams even if I can't bring myself to take in the rich imagery and language when my mind is a-weary, a-weary.

And, predictably, none of these books were originally on my written-up "summer reading list". Isn't that always the way it goes? Back to Northanger Abbey, by none other than our own esteemed Jane Austen.

P.S. Thanks to all those who sent me birthday wishes:) I am now old as the hills.

Of the cleaning of many rooms there is no end.

antipodes — 2005-07-18T06:07:26-05:00

My summer so far has been spent being sick with multifarious respiratory problems, traveling on trains, traipsing about cities looking for cats with interesting faces, trying to convince my orthodontist to remove unwelcome and unwieldy borg-like appendages, tangoing with mops and brooms and disinfectant, and reading the exquisite new Harry Potter book. I like it that J.K. Rowling plans her books out so nicely. I wish I could come up with a story, for the sheer pleasure of writing it; I don't think there is a better way to spend one's time, except reading. So I read. Northanger Abbey is still boring as all get out. I have a great many things to read, I assure you, and I even had a grand list, but it is all to ruin now. Why is it I always seem to find trouble doing what I love, resting when I need it? Don't answer; I know why. So I shake my head sadly.

Our Hero is a bit shaken up.

antipodes — 2005-07-21T10:07:50-05:00

In the past 24 hours I have made several extraordinary discoveries and done several interesting things. For example, I forgot to wash my gym clothes for a day and was consequently wearing a gas mask to do the laundry. Another example: I found a surprisingly pink, lacy, padded bra on our laundry line (we have guests this week, can you tell?) for God and everybody to see. One last example! I bought flowers for an anniversary that both members of the couple neglected to remember until the afternoon of. Ok, ok, one more, since you insist; I am having cookies for lunch. Chocolate chip with walnuts.

Our Hero has 6 min. on her compy battery and 2 hours until her laundry is done.

antipodes — 2005-07-24T06:07:57-05:00

It is a dangerous thing to poke a drunk person in the eye, or refuse to shake hands with a Texan, or promise a six-year-old that they will like the swimming pool you are taking them to. Just thought I'd let you know. I lead an interesting life--an absurd series of events in which not everything is in my ken and/or control.

I have learned that the summer months are a good time to exercise my powers of memory and imagination as I recall the beautiful feelings of autumn wind and winter sunlight while attending to cafes, bookstores, and other old haunts I used to hum about in various places about the globe. They are all seemingly antipodal to me now, in time and space, but William Wordsworth and Emily Bronte had the right thing going when they attached imagination to rest and recuperation.

Why do I still feel as if summer is always a trial? I've started listening to metal and have gotten all moody all of a sudden. I never thought clearly anyway, but it is getting worse now. I am sure there is a purpose to summer. However, it and I have never really been pals. I am ready for autumn . . . now.

One pint of Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey ice cream. Yes, a whole pint! PLEASE!

antipodes — 2005-07-29T06:07:18-05:00

Well, the summer is finally serving some sort of purpose; after watching movies and folding laundry for half the hot and sweaty day, I gleaned a few concepts from somewhere in the back of a dusty corner of the sky and found a story in my notebook. I like finding stories in my notebook. I also like having a best friend who reads and understands things well; my cats are just not sympathetic. I love having memories and an imagination, especially in the summer. The whole place gives time to daydream and space to think while the sun beats down. I arm myself with ice cube trays and portable fans and my notebooks and novels. Anthologies, collected works, three volume novels, and plainly covered books, battered and tattered copies of obscure origins; books books books and I surround myself with the thought of them. That must at least justify some part of summer. There, now I have been optimistic.

Our Hero is allergic to sunlight.

antipodes — 2005-08-01T11:08:07-05:00

Our Hero returns with several pretty stories running about in her head and many letters to write which she hasn't completed or sent. She has just swept the floors--the latter a futile effort as they never stay clean for five minutes in the summer anyway; the only optimistic thing here is that we won't have to pull weeds in the morning, or fight a thicket of briers to get to the coffee machine. She has also battled with pieces of raw chicken and bits of plants and powders to marinate something for dinner tonight (she will not be the one playing with the grill as fire and her get along smokingly). Our Hero thinks for a moment that the whole effort must be worth something, and then pours fresh-made iced tea (laced with a taste of peach schnapps) into a plastic cup. The Heroic One is melting in the heat of the sun, and thinks jealously of the cold weather the UK and Russia will be having right now. She feels like reading a novel, but the most appealing one she has is set in Egypt. Woe is she!

Our Hero observes group dynamics over the weekend.

antipodes — 2005-08-07T04:08:28-05:00

Now, I don't know about the rest of you, but I like to watch people. Why? The same reason I catch you doing it (and blogging about it; don't give me that--you know you do); to see how they tick and thence to see how I tock: to explain to myself and improve the inner workings of my emotional cogs and mental wheels (and spiritual motor, if you want to continue the metaphor).

By my title, you know I spent the weekend watching people--probably a specific group over the aforementioned amount of time. It is all really quite elementary, Watson. (I get to be Holmes.) All I got for my pains was a sinking, gut feeling that I couldn't do enough and a pain behind my eyes that might be a sinus headache or just sheer frustration at human communication "skills"--including my own.

The sinking, gut feeling probably has to do with the fact that, as several of my friends and family have told me, I "care too much". I don't know what to do about that. What am I supposed to do, stop caring?! They say "no" awkwardly, then change the subject--they don't know either. So, the easiest thing to do, avoiding the "problem", is to find stress relief techniques. Check that off, would you, Watson? I pray and meditate, I exercise at the gym, I journal, I clean my house, and I organize things--and I eat chocolate-covered espresso beans from a fancy shop in Pordenone (Northern Italy).

So, that is a quandary. Anyway, if the feeling doesn't have to do with caring "too much", then it is a Herald of Impending Doom. Might be both, but I like to fancy myself optimistic. Ha ha. S'a joke, you know, funny? Ha ha?

The headache was definitely a mix of several things. One of them is that the Pollen Armada moves through the Nasal Passage to put sand in the Vestibular Mechanism, creating effects of Panic and Nausea as well as establishing a No Breathing Zone. One of the other things, as I mentioned, is sheer frustration. I should have said pointy frustration, because it really isn't sheer. I have "sheer" hose and it isn't like that at all except in its capacity to strangle the wearer (which relates to my allergies, see above).

"Frustration? Wait, can't you just tell me why you're frustrated?" said Watson, puffing a bit on his pipe and wrinkling his nose so that his moustache (Watson should have a moustache) bobbles up and down comically.

Is that what you said? I'm getting there. Frustration, I mean, because people see one way one day and another the next. I do not exempt myself from that category, either. It is such a world where men and women love one another--I mean really want the best for each other, not just feel good about each other--and we try so hard but we can never make it all work the way it should. Now I leave it to you as to why our efforts alone are worthless but quaint, and some of you will gather that the key word there is "alone". However, that is also why it hurts so much to watch people--that gut feeling isn't much help when I already know the source of our catholic dilemma.

This weekend I have learned the importance of - - - - - -.

The word in the blank is as many letters as I give you dashes, it is a noun, and I have already mentioned it in one or more ways, directly or indirectly, in this post. Winner gets a poem about them, or a picture of the bed on which I slept, which has a lime-green coverlet.

Our Hero sneezes violently.

antipodes — 2005-08-17T05:08:56-05:00

I will be off of Mindsay for a week or two due to being sick and having an inordinate amount of things to do. I can't breathe through my nose or sleep well at night, have correspondences to keep up with 3 professors who are helping me get into TCD, and at least 5 friends who have written asking if everything is okay. Also, social obligations and laundry keep me from thinking too much. And travel plans.

If anybody has the time and inclination, do send up a prayer for me. Thanks muchly:)

Our Hero returns to blog and term schedules.

antipodes — 2005-08-29T04:08:59-05:00

Everyone left me without milk or a way to get milk this morning, which is frightening, because I really need to have my morning cafe latte. Like, right now. I don't think you understand the seriousness of the situation. Think of having a cold for three months straight, and trying to concentrate on some difficult reading material. With no tea. Or coffee. Or red bull. Or whatever your addiction is.

And yes, I did start my blog entry off by complaining. I feel like my brain has been removed and replaced with those slimy leftovers that were in the refrigerator.

I have been writing a lot, though in my notebook, and these are much rougher drafts ("How can this be?" you ask, and I scoff.), so I'm not posting them. I have more conceptual things than actual bits of dialogue, but still no plot. Not a one. I voiced this once, and Keith Thompson suggested somewhat callously that I pick a formula and run with it, and very trustingly, I tried to follow his advice. But it didn't work. My story is not easy to push along; it just is. It sounds all important and stuff, but it is just my hobby. I've had many stories running along in my head since forever, this is just the present one, and I'm trying to write it this time around.

But I ramble. This is a rough welcome-back entry! *sigh* Well, I'll be back to normal in no time, I'm sure. Ha ha. As soon as autumn sets in . . .

Our Hero is breathless with delight and allergies.

antipodes — 2005-08-30T05:08:04-05:00

I want to leave this entry blank because I can't think of the right words to talk about my morning.

It is my favorite type of morning--it is raining and thundering in the hills and on my balcony, and I have a cd of Yo Yo Ma, Edgar Meyer, and Mark O'Connor playing on good speakers; I've got a good cafe latte in one of my favourite mugs; I can smell the rain and feel the cold seeping in through the doors I've left a little bit open so I could hear it.

In a few minutes, my pain killers and allergy medicine will kick in and I will go upstairs and find my favourite sweater, and then curl up on the couch ready to learn and imagine and think until the evening, when everybody comes home.

Fall is coming--make no mistake--and I wait/yearn/long/anticipate/ache for it.

Our Hero is subjected to the tortuous stench of rotting zucchini.

antipodes — 2005-08-31T04:08:18-05:00

I pray you will never have to endure this torture, for it is smelly and foul to the olfactory mechanism. Or that you will wake up to intrinsic crankiness of fellow housemates. Or that you will be subject to spontaneous sneezing when you'd really like to bury your face in the soft and furry tummy of a sleepy cat.

My reading material is interesting, this term, because I'm taking only one online class, and it is titled The Bible as Literature and we are reading out of the Old New Standard Revised Edited Annotated Oxford NEW Version (NSRV) and the King James version. The latter is a medieval text; they use words like "tarry" and "thither" and "peradventure" and use a lot of strange accent marks over the names to confuse your pronunciation of them. I read Genesis yesterday.

So I'm reading the Bible as a piece of literature (form, not content! that in itself is so hard to remember) and a bunch of medieval literature to help prepare myself for TCD and for general escapist purposes. The "tarry" and "peradventure" stuff really does put you in an altered mindset, which is delicious until you have to wake up to rotting zucchini.

At this point in the narrative of Our Hero, her suggested tags changed from "zucchini pie" to "erotic literature". Wow. I don't know how that happened, but . . . that's gross.

Our Hero goes on fiction binge today and travel binge tomorrow.

antipodes — 2005-09-01T05:09:22-05:00

I read Sunshine today. I began it in the morning and I have just now finished it--with breaks to be social and to refuel with caffeine, Bailey's Irish Cream, and other sundry food items in order to remain focused on my Book. Robin McKinley has the effect of enchantment on my imagination when I read one of her novels for the first time, no matter what kind of book it is, or who the heroine is, or what may become of her. I am stuck; I laugh and make grim faces (but not fall into fits of weeping) at her behest.

I feel like I ought to tell this Robinish McKinleyan person just what she has done; in her acceptance speech to the Mythopoeic Society's award for her, she talked about how this novel was like Charles Williams' novels . . . now that is not something that will ordinarily catch the eye of a fictioner, but it did mine, because of . . . Well, you go read Williams and tell me what I got caught on.

McKinley has seized upon the moment in Williams' writing which is like reaching out with your mind to grasp a hand held out to you from the darkness. That sounds poetic, I know, but it is hard to elicit that feeling out of a piece of literature, even a piece of literature that has other distracting virtues. You know how hard and confusing it is to be half asleep and to will yourself to do one last thing before going to sleep, something that might waken you fully to the Real World. It all happens in your mind, but you can feel your body react to your decision once it has been made . . . that is very very hard to find in any piece of writing. Williams and McKinley did it. Bradbury came close to it, Wordsworth tried and Byron failed miserably . . .

But McKinley has done it! I am surprised and pleased to have found such a book on a reading binge. I do caution you, though--she is very much more graphic in this novel than her others. In more ways than one. Heh. Gore doesn't really bother me, if it is for a worthy cause. Smelly, dead bodies don't bother me; I've read too many mystery novels and seen too many news reports.

Not that that really compares to the hand-in-the-darkness unseeing-step-of-faith thing . . .

Just don't read Part 3 in public. I blushed, and somebody came up and loudly said hallo right as I was reading the first scary sentence, and I slammed both hands down to cover the guilty pages, creating a crease in the spine. Great--on a borrowed book, too. That makes me look great . . . *sigh*

Am going to away for the weekend, not that people around here will notice; but just sose ya know . . .

Breaking news: I just squashed a bug on my computer screen. Poor dear Trimey.

Our Hero is toasted to (?) by unknown knight in stripey armor/polo shirt.

antipodes — 2005-09-05T01:09:36-05:00

I spend my vacations in the oddest places, like cafe-hopping in German airports. (I just saw a man who looks uncannily like Howard Shore.)

Something happened an hour or two or three ago, when I was sitting at another cafe (whose chairs are now turned about splay-legged on marble tables in a most indecent manner), and flights were still departing in great numbers every half hour or so. The cafe was quite full--oh, and by the by, when I say "cafe", that includes beer, wine, grappa, kaffee, coffee, caffe, and sundries--with travelers and members of the special place in purgatory for relatives and close personal friends of said travelers.

There was a chain-smoking couple on my left, and they had Australian accents. In front of me, there was an Italian couple, heavily tanned and dressed in fashionable blacks, who were conspiring over bits of paper and straws on their table on the fringe of the group. Behind me and to the left were some travelers of nondescript appearance and consequence; they were quiet and I never saw their faces. Next to them, as near as antipodal from my seat as I could make them, were a group of young men with low British and Irish accents who were all flushed from drinking not-quite-enough-to-get-drunk, and beginning to laugh in abnormally loud voices.

A flight was called for Dublin, and some of the Irish accents were raised in "HOY! THAHT'S OOS!" voices. A few of the quicker ones picked up their packs and started towards the door. They all wore polo shirts and jeans and sneakers as if it were a sort of uniform. There were several stragglers laughing and trying to drink their beer as they walked away, but there was one last one, grappling with coat and european-carryall/messenger-baggish/*coughPURSEcough*, who couldn't finish his and stopped short at the door.

He turned around and headed back towards the tables as if to put his drink down, and found a serendipitous table before him: my table. I shrunk back, preparing to be splattered with foul-smelling camel pee, only to hear a hearty and heavily-accented "Cheers, luv!", the clink of glass on marble, and the hilarious sight of a grown man running pellmell for the departures gate with his jacket on upside-down.

As soon as the doors shut behind him the chain-smoking couple choked on their cigarettes in laughter, I doubled over giggling, and the nondescript travelers tittered. The Italian couple was unruffled.

Our Hero blushes for a different reason.

antipodes — 2005-09-07T10:09:09-05:00

I just reread one of my old stories. Oh, how cute it is. I wrote it when I was fourteen years old, and it has phrases like "our fair home" and "given to merriment" in it.

The castle has a labyrinth and there's a dragon and a phoenix and pirates and three armies, and an "inevitable cluster of nobles". Also, a snowball fight and a Book and a bottle of wine.

The princess wears a cloak and eventually gets very very sick, and the prince is quietly and undeniably chivalrous, and there is a king in the story who wears his hair in plaits and "ever has a sword at his belt" and "almost danced a jig" when the dragon-situation was declared secure. And the reigning queen thinks astrology is nonsense, and upsets court magicians by insisting her children learn mathematics.

Special attention is shown to the manner of catching a "nursling phoenix" and what a dragon embryo looks like, as well as the quiet way that the prince makes his stubbly-chinned father upset--and there is a council of warriors. I believe more than one of them in known to pick his teeth (shows what church potlucks did for me, doesn't it?).

Time and direction--not to mention distance--are all very carefully plotted out. I could draw a map from this story.

Oh, this is so much fun.

DAD, YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO READ THIS ENTRY.

antipodes — 2005-09-09T10:09:47-05:00

So my Dad's birthday is coming up soon, and he is a bit of a difficult guy to buy for. I love him dearly, and have taken his eccentricity to heart, but he still stumps me for gifts. I do what I can--iron his shirts without totally frying them in starch, try to organise the recycling and garbage in a way that it won't attack him when he takes it out in the morning, keep the coffee maker presentable--but that's not birthday material. However, recently he's gotten into whisky. Before that, it was mystery novels by Lindsey Davis (very talented author and historian), and thanks to master conspirator and my own mystery fiction mentor John Mitchell, I was able to put him in contact with some signed editions (though I couldn't exactly buy them for him). That was awesome. Go to Mitchell's website and give him lots of money. HOWEVER, recently my da has gotten interested in whisky. I like whisky too, and my friends make fun of me because I will sip a small dram over the course of a post-meal evening--all I really like is the taste of it, unless it is one of those cold, rainy nights when a fire in the fireplace, a good book, and something warming is called for. (The whisky, in case you are quite daft, is what I meant by "something warming".) Scotch singe malt. Yum. My dad. Whisky. Right. Well, I drink whisky with him, and I know that we have no "proper" whisky glasses, so I was thinking maybe I could get him a whisky snifter, but I can't find any cool ones online that don't have some strange company's logo on the side! That would invariably have a terrible effect on whisky, I know, but I don't want to get him something tasteless. What if the company is . . . dumb--or something?! He drinks his whisky neat, so I would like to get him a snifter/nosing glass rather than a tumbler, but where to find a good one? Bah! Ok, last note to leave you on: I've been listening to a podcast recently called Radio Whisky and the guy who hosts it said something cool about writing and whisky. Here it is. For you. "Those of us who write for a living often share a common vice: a taste for whisky. I'm not sure why that's true. It may be that the best muse is found in the best spirits, or that the slow sipping style of enjoying a good whisky mirrors the sometimes plodding experience of writing. Most likely though, it's just that on the rare occasion when writers congregate that one generation of craftsmen share their knowledge and tools with the next." Now, this is true in my experience. My older sister and I drink whisky in our coffees together. We don't exactly write or talk about writing and that isn't exactly trans-generational, but we do both write. My dad writes crazy stuff--poetry, occasional articles for the newspaper, and is also a chronic journaler--but we don't talk about writing together too much, either. Humm. Well, I do agree with him that, in my experience and reading, writers tend to like whisky.

What I would give for a Skiving Snackbox . . .

antipodes — 2005-09-10T04:09:22-05:00

The spoons in this lunchroom are enormous, for the mouths of giants and talkative people. They are suitable, but not perfect for use in consuming my brought-from-home lunch of baked apple.

I really like my baked apples. They have walnuts and currants and raisins and cinnamon in them, and brandy. I will post a recipe for them later this fall, because they are easy to make and tasty to eat. And I think you should have some. Particularly warm and comforting in those terribly air-conditioned and stuffy offices, this dish makes your colleagues jealous of you because they are eating Subway and you are being cool. Or they might make you look dorky, when everybody else is coolly eating strange foods and many condiments with their "cool", hungover friends, and you are eating something mildly healthy and from home.

This class is a bear. I forgot my textbook and CD ROM. I missed the first fifteen minutes. I didn't get to eat breakfast. I left the house without brushing my hair (don't worry, it's brushed now). I don't know anybody in class and the person I asked to borrow textbook from was patronising, and I deserved it. My eyes itch. The material is terribly boring but needs constant attention.

However, I love my sweater, and every now and then I find a multiple choice question that makes me laugh. Like so:

"When you encounter a bad link, the best thing to do is __________."
   a. wait one minute for it to become usable
   b. try to find a link to the main page, then do a bit of detective work [my wording]
   c. contact your ISP and ask them to set the matter to rights
   d. CLOSE YOUR BROWSER AND REBOOT.

I'm sorry. It's been a long day. And now I'm going to be late getting back from lunch.

" . . . the weary weight / Of all this unintelligible world . . . "

antipodes — 2005-09-12T09:09:47-05:00

It is very strange, sometimes, when I think about resting and how I rest. Some people say that you should take a moment to settle your posture, take a few deep breaths, and imagine light flowing around you or inside you. I tried that a couple of times, but it only makes me feel cold, and like I should be eating granola bars and drinking powerade.

When I want to rest my mind, I do a sort of Wordsworthian exercise, proving that my mind is "a mansion for all lovely forms" where I will find such "healing thoughts" and "tranquil restoration" apart from "mid the din / of towns and cities". And I got most of those quotes from memory, believe it or not.

I trace the route from the bed and breakfast I stayed at in Edinburgh to my favourite cafe, to the castle, and eventually wind up looking up at the castle in the darkness. I did all that, once.

The highway in California that I used to drive down from, coming home from classes at my community college--I think of that, too, trace the details, recite the exits, remember what the ocean looked like when I could see it from the road. I used to drive it at night, so that's what I remember it as, most of the time. I always thought too much on the way home, but I loved going to class.

Also! Random streets in Dublin, Ireland.

The other places I go to aren't places you can visit, but places in my mind. The country I write about is one of them--I love their castles, especially. The summer castle reminds me a little of the Prendergasts' mansion from McKinley's "Spindle's End", but I'm afraid I shall take things from Woodwold and the Beast's castle and insert them around. That would be embarrassing.

And Middle Earth. I will admit to now being fascinated with Gondor. It used to be mostly the Shire and Fangorn, but now I am curious about Gondor. And Rivendell. Rivendell is a very popular place for resting, to me. Especially the Hall of Fire.

But anyway. Time to sleepy.

Our Hero is on pg. 84.

antipodes — 2005-09-15T09:09:00-05:00

"Do you suppose the word gentleman derives from a man who is gentle?"

"I do not know," the girl said, and she ran her fingers very lightly over the scarred hand. "But I love you when you are gentle."

(Across the River and Into the Trees, Ernest Hemingway)

First, what about the word "lady"? Why not "woman"? Well, probably the same reason "gentleman" is what it is--I think it probably has the same etiology of "goody" ("goodwife"); people did used to say things like "gentle lords, gentle ladies," etc. blah yadda. But I don't really know.

I do like this clip of the book, isolated from the rest of the story. Gentleness--here defined as strength under control--is admirable in anybody. Could've gone the other way around if you just switched the pronouns. The only big thing I would emphasize is that gentleness includes kindness. So, really it ought to be defined as strength under control, used lovingly. At least I think that might be it.

But yes, gentleness is admirable in anyone; not just guys, whose amount of strength (in comparison with women's) is so much greater and therefore whose gentility must take the greater effort. Strength is admirable in a woman, too, don't get me wrong, and to allow yourself to be gentle is sometimes difficult. It seems that our culture presses strength on us oftentimes more than it should, unnaturally so. Hum.

Just thoughts, I guess.

Our Hero makes meal from authentic medieval recipes.

antipodes — 2005-09-19T06:09:02-05:00

Well, I've been doing some serious thinking, lately, which has led to some serious cooking and drastic fashion decisions (the latter to be referenced at a later date).

First of all, I'm learning how to make more medieval foods. I found that the basic concepts of cooking are easy and tasty and basic to every cuisine--roasted or baked meat, boiled noodles, chicken soup, bread, vegetable soups and gratins. There weren't any tomatoes or potatoes in the UK back then, so I'm having to reduce my staples a bit, but in the end, it is pretty good. And I can make carrot soup with parsnips instead of potatoes for depth, anyway.

For my second completely medieval-inspired meal (the first was when I was a fresher in highschool for a project), I made makerouns with homemade egg noodles (Da taught me that part), stewed lombard, and chycces. That's medieval mac n' cheese, meat with wine and spices, and roasted chickpeas.

A comfortable custom I like to adopt is that of washing the hands before the meal, with scented water. So while everything else is in its last steps, I boil water, throw rosemary and sage into it, and let it cool. You wouldn't think that merely washing your hands before dinner could be so nice, but somehow rosemary and sage and hot water just feel nice. Or maybe it is that the cook finally takes a moment to wipe sticky egg-noodle residue and wine and onions and oil from her hands.

It went over surprisingly well, but there are still some improvements I'd like to make on the original recipe. Since they are only timing issues, like putting the browned almonds in at the end so that they are crunchy and toasty instead of in the beginning so they are mushy and wine-tasting, and certain amount changes in spice since the meat I was using is perfectly fresh, I don't think any period authentic cook would be upset with me. Besides, it was only ONE cookbook and there is more than one way to cook anything.

How very content I am about it:) There is a certain peace in cooking (especially when you have a lot of other things you should be doing) that ought to be coveted by more people than do.

I think carrot soup (recipe will be modified slightly) with a roast (rosemary and garlic, or plain w/ onions?) and spinach pie would be a good meal to try next . . .

Our Hero discovers that she can knit--or naalbind, at least.

antipodes — 2005-09-20T10:09:13-05:00

I have never been able to persuade two sharp and pointy objects to do my bidding. I cannot knit so save my life. I can cross-stitch to save my life, or embroider, or braid, or hem, or even weave, but please don't ask me to knit. Or crochet. Apparently crochet isn't my thing either. But I can naalbind.

Of course, nobody really knows what that means unless you're a history buff or one of those miraculously artsy craftsy people, or unless you are a medievalist with a tendency to knot things. The latter is me.

So I was wondering where I could find some type of medieval cross-stitch or embroidery pattern without taking something straight from the Bayeux tapestry. Capering about online (also for information about women's hair, but it appears the way I keep mine is fairly period anyway), I found a site that has several interesting bits and pieces, including a section on beginning naalbinding, an ancient form of single-needle knitting that was used from Egypt to Iceland.

It's really very simple; all a bunch of slip knots that you make with a needle so that you can fit tiny stitches in. Delightful. Of course, there are more complicated knots, but I've just started, so give me time.

But this is cool, very cool, and now I think I'd like to buy/make a bone needle if I can get it. Five dollars buys hours of happiness and quiet humming. Just don't start to practice on your sister's earphones.

Our Hero sneezes on a Friday.

antipodes — 2005-09-23T07:09:16-05:00

I still can't seem to stop cooking entirely; my head is full of how to modify and make different recipes even though I'm not really working on cooking things . . . really, I should write down the recipes I've already made the way I like, so I can have them later--I have a big old brown book that says "cook book" in flaking, gold block letters on the front, and I write my recipes in it.

My needlework projects haven't got much working on them right now; I've been trying to get my class work done, though I haven't been able to get much headway on them--visitors, spontaneous volunteer activities, and seemingly spontaneous sneezing fits seem to conspire against me.

The weekend class I was going to take has been cancelled, thank heavens, so I'm free to do laundry and clean my room and continue to thread my loom, which has currently got a lot of silk twiney-sort of thread on it.

When I'm done, I'll take the loom waste and naalbind it into something cool. I'm starting to like the idea of a hanging purse rather than armpit bags, mini-backpacks, and traditional saddlebag-looking things . . . an old-fashioned belt bag might do the trick.

Our Hero hears prophecies and sews tunics.

antipodes — 2005-09-27T06:09:22-05:00

I talked to my university-employed sorcerer (otherwise known as an academic advisor) and he thinks it very feasible that I graduate next spring. Their crystal ball (a.k.a. tentative annual schedule of classes) says that I may even get some marvelous classes that will help me do better in my postgraduate degree and get a head start on some things that I might not otherwise be able to do.

Also, in a desperate quest for a book on etiquette (don't ask) I also found my Latin workbook, which will help immensely in my study of the language, which has been nearly abandoned on account of an inability to grade my work.

My tunic, based on a fairly easy pattern, is also coming along nicely. Seams to sew, but mostly easy ones. I wish I'd been able to make a full under-dress, but I didn't have enough linen. Ah well. Nobody will see it anyway, if I can make an overdress.

A double-wrapped belt and a purse is my next project. I have velvet and brocade for the belt, thanks to a delightful grab bag at a thrift store, and will only have to decide on tassels or buckles and which kinds. The purse will be a no-brainer, but I've yet to find a really cool fabric that won't clash with the rest of it. The belt will go with jeans, but I wonder whether I should just naalbind a wool pouch . . .

I love planning projects. And I'm going to play house again soon and try some new-olde recipes. First things first: can I make a single recipe that can be duplicated with an illegal hotplate in a dorm room?

Our Hero grins inordinately and gestures wildly at her calendar.

antipodes — 2005-10-01T02:10:07-05:00

My mind has retreated to a place where there is no panicked race to gethtingsdone or strive to be calm (which hardly ever works because it is a state of being, not an action, and "racing" and "striving" aren't verbs that describe calmness).

No, but in the line at the store this morning, I caught a whiff of perfume, and it took me to an autumn away north and several years ago, when I took the train to Florence and walked the streets quite anonymously (I like to be anonymous, I do; it is delightful) eating hot chestnuts and stopping in cafes to write. Bejewelled shops and varied scarves, perfume, and woodsmoke . . .

It is finally autumn.

Our Hero hums about memories and meal plans.

antipodes — 2005-10-02T04:10:38-05:00

Plans for tasty fall meal:
   •   carrot soup
   •   roasted chicken & cranberry relish sandwiches (use brown bread)
   •   half of baked apple (stuffed with raisins, currants, and brandy)
   •   cup of light afternoon tea

There, that sounds like a treat to me.

Perhaps by the time I can make a lunch like that it will have time to read a novel while I rest. Of course, I'll probably be reading out of the NAEL, but there you have it:) Maybe I'll have something worthy to write by then.

I've got a comfortable weight of hair settled above my neck, doubled socks, and one of my favourite shirts on. Also, am wearing a long skirt--not my favorite, because it has a slit in the back of it and I like my skirts either long or pants, but not pretending to be long.

Sudden flash-back! I was in St. Andrews, in Scotland--you know, where they have all those famous golf greens and tournaments?--and at the end of the street, there was a restaurant, up the staircase and doubling back upon itself, not wanting to be found. But I found it, and I ate there. I ate carrot cake there, and had a cappuccino, and watched the wind and the sky and a family at the next table over. The toddler wanted by carrot cake, and I wanted the boy's accent. Said toddler's mum wouldn't let me give him carrot cake "for his tea" or him give me his accent for the evening, even.

I discovered the joys of a bar, that evening--smelly and noisy and dumb. Perhaps it is better if you get drunk, but I am not for getting drunk. Ugh, bad memories. I'd much rather stick to the boy who wanted my carrot cake.

Our Hero wears knitted hat while studying.

antipodes — 2005-10-04T11:10:16-05:00

Neither red nor brown were ever my favourite color of M&M, but now I do not mind them so much. I eat them first.

My hands smell like the onions I cut up the night before, and my feet are cold when not snuggly padding about in slippers or doubled-up socks. My messy room is beginning to seem stuffy--time for a fall cleaning, and for my carpet to be put down, and maybe even my curtains to be put up again. Fall, fall, fall.

Travel plans are set for exotic destinations, thick and dusty books are opened and hunched over till the wee hours of the morning, and hot tea is downed by the pot.

I've also been trying to shop, and can't find any undershirts to match the type of sweaters I like to wear. I think I'll try to make my own, if this tunicky thing works out. I've almost got the gussets for the sleeves all worked in. Next, the gores, then the hems.

But first I must pick out the blue M&Ms. I eat them last, with the green ones.

Our Hero plans to go to Venice.

antipodes — 2005-10-06T08:10:05-05:00

How am I supposed to write about Venice? I'm doomed. Everyone has written about Venice and I'm going there to see what it feels like to be silent and amazed, the antithesis of the modern tourist. I have been to Venice twice, already, and I'm a little nervous about being there alone even for the few hours before I meet my companions.

"Nervous?" you ask, then nod knowingly. "Well, of course I would be nervous in that cartographical Hades . . . "

Is that what you mean? I make a face, indicating that what you're saying doesn't really reflect what I'm trying to express. This comes across as squirming uncomfortably in my seat while you suppose that my discomfort may stem from a more conventional, less literary (and hence extremely tedious) source.

"Being in a city alone, even if you're familiar with the place, is not usually as entertaining or informative as when you're with a group." You concede this, but some of you harbor joyfully rebellious thoughts of a happy, anonymous solitude.

Well, no. It's just that Venice is . . . well, creepy. (Even that sounds anticlimactic! Bah!) I try to explain.

All the literature about Venice is uncanny, unnerving, abnormal. Nothing is euphemistic or generously described as "mysterious"; the gory details of fact and conjecture are laid bare with a sense of morbid fascination. These things seem almost forced from the writers' pen, and thinking ourselves cultured and curious we turn back pages of disgusting but horribly enchanting stories.

"But having been there, surely, the enchantment of literature loses some of its sheen." Even though you are an imaginative person yourself, you are yet unwilling to accept my agitation as having a rational cause.

No, I've been there in winter and in summer. It feels as if, living there, I would be so mired in that air that I should feel as if it were normal, that the rest of the world were turned upside down and Venice a haven of color. Perhaps it is only in visiting the place that one sees it for what it truly is. I don't know.

In any case, I'm nervous. Excited, yes, but nervous, too.

Our Hero graciously imparts wisdom to the masses.

antipodes — 2005-10-08T06:10:36-05:00

I would like to take this opportunity to let you all know how much I like corduroy, knitted sweaters, argyle socks, and caffe' with Bailey's. (Not necessarily all in the same place--I do not feast upon textiles or purposely wear delectables.) Behold! For I bring you good recipes with great coffee! Blessed are you among internet surfers, for you shall inherit a very valuable recipe.

Make some espresso.

Oh, go on and make some; the internet will be here when you get back, I promise.

While you're at it, put some milk on to heat up. IF YOU BOIL THE MILK YOUR COMPUTER WILL GET A VIRUS. If you have a steamer, steam the milk. (Extra credit: If you are sadly unequipped but determinedly creative, heat up the milk and then whisk it FAST until there's foam on top.) And keep your cup and saucer warm. Or cup. Or mug. Whatever it is you are using.

All ready? Downed a shot or two? Don't add sugar this time, though; I know that here at least the custom is to sugar the espresso before it leaves the pot. That changes the flavor delightfully than if you had added the sugar in your individual cups. But this time you must halt and desist. Have some self control. Really, now, that's quite enough. You'll spoil the taste entirely! Give me the pot. There.

Put a shot of espresso, or two, into the cup/mug/whathaveyou. and then carey verfully add the same amount of milk. That's enough. Now add the same amount, or a drop less, of Bailey's Irish cream. or Cask & Cream. Something close to that, anyway. Put that in, now.

Ah-ah-ah! Wait!

Put a dollop of cream on top. Big dollop. More than that. Okay, hold off.

What you have before you, dear fellow, is a caffe' macchiato with Bailey's. On cold nights after late meetings on the walk home or back to your dorm room or up the cold stairs of the youth hostel at which you are currently staying under an assumed or Swedish name, this is the drink that will comfort your damp toes and sniffly nose, your frizzy hair and aching back.

No problem:)

Our Hero frightens herself (metaphorically speaking).

antipodes — 2005-10-12T04:10:56-05:00

I know I have a tendency to glorify the mundane. Romanticists should sing loudly the praises of my soliloquizing the virtues of espresso, or the more rare experience of actually finishing household chores. This may seem weird to some of you, but do realise that it makes my life entertaining because I can blow it out of proportion that way. When the dust of renaissance sculptures was still making people sneeze, this would have been called a MUSE!

There I go again, though--I've got a muse, now, instead of a bad habit.

I say all this to explain why I compared my efforts to study while sneezing to a game of Russian roulette.

Oh, laugh, why don't you. Get it over with.

What? Why is it dangerous? Well, I was talking about specifics. Do you know how to actually play Russian roulette . . . ? (I've surreptitiously given you a link so that you can nod knowledgeably and I can pretend to assume it was my mistake in reading your expression.)

I mean, I wouldn't suggest it as a rule, but you must admit it is a little like trying to study while having a bout of sneezing. Will you ruin your work? When will that fuzzy feeling actually manifest itself into a malicious, mucilaginous set of gale-force winds, set out to destroy the work of hours?!

Yeah, well, if you haven't experienced it . . . will you stop giving me that look!? Good grief! It was funny! Only not, 'cause I have a lot of work to do. I'm not going to spend my time letting you give me funny looks when I have work to do.

Oh, man, I think I have to sneeze again . . .

P.S. Thanks to everybody who nominated my last entry:) It was very kind of you, and nice to be on top blogs.

Our Hero reports from Venice.

antipodes — 2005-10-19T02:10:51-05:00

I'm finally sitting down to describe my experience and I have not clue as to how I'm going to do it other than by listing facts. You must forgive me, but this IS dazing . . .

This blog is written in Venice. I'm going to try and log onto the internet at St. Mark's. I've written postcards, too, but I've stopped at three tabacchi (did I spell that right?) shops and nobody has stamps. I'll keep looking, I suppose, but I thoroughly intend to be on the net today. Get my email, and all that--to pay at a sit-down place is 3 euro for 15 minutes . . . bah.

I'm staying in a Venetian palazzo at the end of an alleyway several buildings deep. Ours was built in the 16th century and is being renovated, presently, though we have the use of a kitchen (have already cooked two nights, had other classmates over) and a beautiful drawing room. Everything is furnished with antiques, except the kitchen, which has modern facilities and marble countertops. There are four of us staying in this small place--four women to one bathroom might seem a stretch, but we handle it well:D

We even have a small garden--do understand that a garden in Venice is a distinct rarity--and a wellhead. There are turret-y bits on the outer wall, statues, and mosaics all crammed into a tiny courtyard. A door in the wall leads to the world outside. The windows, looking up from the courtyard below, are of Byzantine design--that means they have those globular pinnacles (look like whipped cream and the Taj Mahal)--but the design of the house is basically medieval.

It is exciting, for me, to stay in a medieval palace and study all these things, to see a world so set in medieval ways--Venice is a marvel.

My roommate and I participated in the international sport of chasing pigeons in St. Mark's square, and then went to Cafe Florian and had ourselves each a cafe' latte while the band played and the clouds drifted disinterestedly over the bell towers, chimneys, flagpoles, and grand domes of St. Mark's church in Venice.

I have learned one thing, though--pigeons rule Venice. They sit atop every statue and on the highest point of the ornamental weathervanes--they make no differentiation between the buildings of grocer or doge (don't try to pronounce it, you'll only get confused--it's Venetian for "duke").

I saw a canal being cleaned--grey slime being shoveled by patient workmen while tourists and ghosts moved around them on makeshift wooden bridges and platforms along the canal.

Mary, from Titian's "Presentation of the Virgin" in 1520-something, looks exactly like my little cousin, who was so recently diverted by dividing leaves in piles of those that talk and those that are silent . . . Titian has dressed her up and set her on the steps of a temple that never existed in Venetian history.

Venice is also a city of small dogs . . . I can't even count how many tiny canines I've seen capering about and ducking under the feet of pedestrians. Some on leashes and obviously of a ridiculously lofty pedigree, and others quite the mutts that consider themselves gypsies.

More later, I think--I'm having a marvelous time:) This is crazy. I'm having the trip that everybody wants to have in Venice but rarely ever gets to . . . it's unbelievable, really.

Our Hero returns victorious.

antipodes — 2005-10-24T07:10:31-05:00

Am back from Venice--I really did mean to blog more, but I was distracted by my classmates' quests for experience in the aesthetic vs. moral concepts we were covering in relation to the city itself . . . this meant that a lot of them consistently spent their evenings trying to get drunk, and the others had more interesting or more boring things to attend to.

Having a seriosly awesome roommate (just don't find them like this any more), I spent my evenings well; walking through Venice and having the occasional Guinness (from the first Irish pub in Venice) or latte macchiatto, or cooking at our little palazzo, or just staying at home studying. One night I felt ill, so I stayed at the palazzo and studied and watched a DVD on my compy, and one night I found free internet and a couple of Mac users (an accordionist and a violinist from the Quadri), not to mention the breathtaking sight of St. Mark's Piazza by streetlamp. When I got back, the others who shared my hotel said they'd been a bit worried about me "out there on [my] own," which was funny but not unexpected.

Sitting at home listening to back issues of the tartan podcast, uploading pics to flickr, and delighted with the knowledge that as soon as I finish my spressomilk (from a new mug from TCD, bless my sister and good Italian caffe), there is an innocent smoothie waiting for me (bless aforementioned sister again!), I feel a little bit more like I'm finally home. Elanor the Dragon-Kitty is very happy I'm home, also.

Oh, there are a lot of things I need to blog from this trip. It was crazy:) I had the trip that everybody wants to Venice. Hotel was great, class was interesting, roommate awesome, and I even bought a few things . . .

Our Hero experiences effects of withdrawal from Venice.

antipodes — 2005-10-28T01:10:49-05:00

On a completely different note, I seem to be in the mood for sad songs and those movies that very very few people ever watch for amusement; the films that depress you but make you feel like you've seen another side of yourself that could erupt ATANYMOMENT!

Yes, the party seems to be over--the crisis seems to have worn itself out--and I'm ready to enjoy the same things I did when I didn't mind being where or who I was . . . that sounds strange, but it's just another way of saying that I used to like solely uplifting movies because I only wanted entertainment to escape from the depressing perspective I wore during the daylight hours.

So I'm beginning to pick out those movies labeled "drama" and "thriller" (which really don't fit either) and revel in them. Morosely. Happily. Can anybody say "morbid"? Does this mean I'm a hopeless romantic or a cheesy goth-wannabe? (Is there any difference?) Or maybe I'm just moody.

Movies to watch in aforementioned mood:
• Onegin with Ralph Fiennes (wow) and Liv Tyler (I don't like her acting, generally speaking, but I don't think anyone could have played Tatyana better than Liv.). Must get this novel--why haven't I read it? I love Pushkin.
• that one I saw in art class that was all in French about some opera singers at the turn of the century.
• Hamlet. Sorry. I like Hamlet's monologues. Sue me.
• Les Miserables. The one with Liam Neeson in it; he plays Valjean exquisitely (I say not having read the book, unfortunately).

Have just realised that all of the above movies include:
• all played by actors and actresses from the UK (yes, even the one all in French)
• hero never gets the girl
• all involve hero being lonely, introspective guy who breaks his own heart one way or another, and is possibly mad.
• all involve shame, guilt, and honor as main concepts

Ugh. So what does that say about me?
• Actors/actresses from the UK tend to act in movies that I like OR I like UK actors/actresses.
• Am sick of hero always getting girl OR am sick of stupid girls.
• I am emo OR I am not emo but in a completely new and psychologically damaging sense.
• I have my own honor/guilt/shame issues OR I am old-fashioned.

I think Fiennes would make a fantastic Lord Peter Wimsey; he's got the whole insightful-and-ineffably-British thing going on as well as the ability to pull off carrying a cane and wear a monocle.

Am going to heat up caramel for caramel apples.

OH.

No wonder I'm feeling morose. It's autumn. Heh.

:)

Our Hero ambles towards the finish line.

antipodes — 2005-11-09T09:11:42-05:00

Apologies to those of you who watch this blog--this is my penultimate term with the university I'm currently attending and I'm ridiculously excited about postgraduate studies to the point where I've been planning and scheming more than blogging. I've also had my internet cut down three days a week because of my silly math class--that cuts down the blogging a bit. I spent half of my last math class (we were doing a review before he called the class roster--stuck) writing about Dublin in the margins of my notebook. rain cobblestones the liffey guinness TCD lamb stew the sea book of kells fields of green the SCA group medieval studies postgrad reading room books writers museum abbey theatre art gallery trees massive amounts of people who appreciate tea irish whisky fog Stuff like that. Anyway, you can see I've been smashingly busy filling out applications and picking papers to send to my profs. I have several papers that are candidates for being sent . . . anybody want to help me choose? :D

Our Hero blogs a traditional entry and wishes herself a happy blogaversary.

antipodes — 2005-11-14T09:11:02-05:00

Traditional?! But this is such a grass-roots community that "traditional" might mean badly captioned photos of my eye, or a blank verse soliloquy about wHy i Am A cUTteR, or even a political rant worthy of a major newspaper . . . but I prefer to stick to the tradition of collegiate addicts.

(No, not blogging under the influence . . .)

So I am procrastinating spectacularly, while being plagued with a cold and attended by an enormous cup of tea.

I'm two days late for my second anniversary of blogging with Mindsay, but I'm going to say it anyway. Here is my first entry. I've celebrated by posting an even more vague picture of me as my icon.

Right, well, I'm awfully busy procrastinating, so if you'll excuse me . . .

Our Hero stumbles into the internet.

antipodes — 2005-11-28T07:11:42-05:00

I really have been stuffed with things to do for ages, now, and I am sorry for not replying to comments. I will try to get to them when I may . . . I'm sick again, and busy as all get out.

However, sneaking off to Mindsay even before I've taken my morning meds feels like stealing a cookie, and I could do with the feeling of having been sneaky. Most of my common sense has left me in the last few weeks and it feels like I've been on spotlight every time I'm in public; certainly not a sneaky or clever way to go about to and fro upon the world. (Just to clarify, I know this isn't technically true, but it's a dashed uncomfortable feeling nathless.)

I'm getting out my Christmas music, humming medieval carols, poised ready and waiting for the first of December, who has rested his hoary arms on the hills above my house, fingertips brushing my door but softly--there was snow on my balcony a few days back.

The rest of winter hasn't come to call, yet--I've got a different feeling for it, this year, because of the things I've been reading and listening to. My stock-in-trade literature is also waiting for me.

Oh me, I have so much to do. Doctor's appointments, research to organise, forms to send away, house to clean . . . looks like I'm already starting the good life. Ha ha. Never mind that, though--Christmas will be here soon.

L33t c00k1ng: h0w 2 m4r1n8 a ch1Kn.

antipodes — 2005-11-28T11:11:43-05:00

Ptu 4 ch1k3N br345tz n 1 0vN-pr00f d15h & co4t tehm w/ 4b0ut 2 pNch3z fo s4lt & d0ubL th4t 4m0unt of p3pppR (l0tz p3pppppper m4kZ teh d15h sp1c13r & g1vZ 1t a b3ttttr t4st3 w/ teh s4uc3 lol !!!). Tehn co4t it w/ teh hun3y. P0r a b0ttl3 fo t3r1y4k1 s4uc3 0vr it--teh ch1k3N 5h0uld b liek C0V3R3D!!!!1!!1!!!

W4rm up teh 0v3n 2 4b0ut 275 F. W1l3 teh 0vN w4rmz up, teh ch1k3Ns h4ve a m1n 2 m4r1n8 (u cul0d l3t teh ch1k3N m4r1n8 l0ngr, but th1s is mNt 5 be a sw33t, t2-ch4pt3r rec13p). tehn put teh ch1k3N in teh 0v3n 4 10 min. Turn up teh h34t 2 350 F, l3t it c00k 4 15 minutz c0v3rD, & tehn 10 minutz uNc0v3r3d.

5liec up in peicz & srv on t0p fo 5t1ck33 r1c3 (j45m1n3 r1c3 = teh c00l). Us3 teh 54u55 form teh p4n 2 duhr1zzl3 0v3r teh r1c3 & ch1k3N piecz !!!1!1!1!1!

Dshz 4LL g0 in teh dshw4ssshR: it 0nl33 takz 1 0v3n d1sh w/ a c0v3R, a kn13f 4 teh ch1k3N, & teh n0rm4l 4kz an stuf!!!11!!!!!!1!!1!1!!! w00t.

& there you haev: t3r1y4k1 ch1k3N bowlzz in teh 5w33tn355 fo yor LAN. Nwo = teh t1m3 2 k1kc yr f33t up & w4ch +1 3p1s0d3 fo "L05t".

N0M1N8 RRRRRrrrr D13!1!!!!!11!!1!!11!!!!!!!!1

Our Hero waits for her hair to dry. Very exciting.

antipodes — 2005-12-01T10:12:06-05:00

Somehow I feel I've attained a somewhat reckless freedom, now that I've finished my lengthy fortnight hiatus from blogging with a glorious comeback entirely in pidgin l337. (Only those of you with an appetite for prose will have finished that sentence, I think.)

So I've been writing a lot of poetry, lately. Sonnets, mostly. I almost can't stand blank verse--it reminds me of amateur modernists. Of course, a sonnet is easily laughed at because there are rules to sonnet-mongering. Blank verse must be taken seriously at all costs, and I abhor a consistent state of somber meditation.

Don't misunderstand me--I relish my moods of silence and sorrow when they come around--but one can't always live that way, despite that emo kid in the corner who is now taking this post as a personal affront. (Good job. You can sit down now.)

I'm not entirely sure why I've been writing poetry or having the urge to read it, but I have gone through some Pushkin, Gawain, Shakespeare, Psalms, and the ineffable Dorothy Parker in the last two weeks. That's no small sample of poets, right there, either . . . what IS it with me and poetry at this time of year?

Time to go eat more gingerbread. I'm saving my normal Christmas literature for the weekends 'cause I have a bunch of Hemingway to read before Paris in January.

Our Hero finds bobby pins, all over the house.

antipodes — 2005-12-03T09:12:19-05:00

I watched a bit of A&E's "Pride & Prejudice" today. I just couldn't stand it any more. Putting it into the DVD player was a wrench, it really was--this had to be the fifth time this year I've watched it. I will watch nearly everything twice, but only if I hate it will I be tempted a third--only a fourth if it bores me--only a fifth if I love it. The more unscrupulous of my cronies will proclaim me desperate to catch a glimpse of D'Arcy (not Colin Firth!) in a wet and inordinately ruffly shirt, which must be denied, since it isn't at all canon.

Speaking of "not at all canon", has anybody seen the new version out yet, abridged entirely to contain the scene in Rosings Park at the piano with blasphemously modern tones!? It hasn't gotten here yet; I'm not sure if it's out in the States now or not, but really! They have no compassion on my nerves, or Jane Austen's meticulous wit.

I've just read an article about how the image of D'Arcy has changed over time, in especial how MacFayden is going to have to be spectacular to better Firth at it, but really I see the former has too much feeling and the latter all the wrong profile . . . yet somehow I'm sure they are each, in their own way, very fine.

Our Hero's sermon on form and content in popular literature.

antipodes — 2005-12-07T07:12:49-05:00

Why is it that the sonnet's "out of style"?
Should form, no less than content, not stand trial?
I've heard it's music that we now enjoy;
I say there's much less good music now.

Not to say there weren't bad poets. I know
that so far I will not presume to go.
But here's my point: would you rather Byron take
or his modern equal, Timberlake?

I insist on waiting till the end
of writing this, condolences to send;
a sonnet, of all things, I should post here--
sore, perhaps, to the skeptic reader's ear.

It's an attempt--do count me as contrite--
to prove the one of us a troglodyte.

I've been reading old entries.

antipodes — 2005-12-09T01:12:04-05:00

I'm sitting almost alone, accompanied only by my trademark latte, notebook, and mechanical pencil. There are other things on the table, but only these things have stayed with me throughout this crazy couple of years of blogging on Mindsay. I realised that I've let a lot of myself show, here--you have my frustrations, fears, hopes, and . . . what I thought about the MATRIX movies, for crying out loud.

In two years I have changed a bit, and I can see it. And now I know why my writing has changed on this blog, from my literary mumblings to a less obvious but more detailed and deliberate style. It all goes back to my first entry, I think.

But I've missed things here; things I should have posted, like the strange feeling of sitting in front of Basilica San Marco in Venice, at night, when the music from the cafe orchestras makes the world seem like a play-theatre--where the best words of Shakespeare spring to your lips unasked for and the lights off of the water dapple the buildings with unearthly light. I didn't post how much I miss the English language naturally surrounding me in dialects and accents from all over the globe, how beautiful it was to hear somebody casually let forth a verse of poetry one day as I was walking--how if I didn't know any better I'd say I fell in love with the man who whispered them. I didn't post about how I could feel Scotland moving under my feet with age and strength, how in the hills the stones can talk.

Those are the sorts of things I really want to remember. I must remember to post these things. I'm letting my writing really get away from me.

Or is it manifesting itself in my fiction? There's a bunch of things bubbling around that sometimes get out in sentences on my other blog, but I never know till later what they are all about (some of them I'm still not sure of).

I have a final exam chewing its way through my sanity, and tomorrow I'm to teach my first class. Not sit in on or study with or enter or take, but teach . . . of all the rites of passage a girl could imagine, mine would be the academic role switch . . .

Plotlines and necklines and worrylines.

antipodes — 2005-12-12T05:12:30-05:00

I have 22 minutes on my compy battery during which I will attempt to complete a thought. This means I'm going to ramble and not edit--despite evidence to the contrary, I do edit my blog entries. Sometimes.

There are several models of plot lines that work out to fit an outline, and I'm going to use them to write a story. They help me understand other stories, but that's really no guarantee that mine will turn out alright because I write it in conjunction with them. I'm excited because it means I can think creatively and fit several other conventions into the storyline that I might not otherwise have been able to do, but it also means that it won't feel so original--that I might not be able to make it sound real. What if it sounds scripted? I'm worried for that, anyway.

So now I have 16 minutes and I actually did complete a thought. Good for me.

Also, for those who have been wondering, I did complete my tunic/underdress that I wanted to, bar hemming the very end. It is a linen muslin and I haven't quite gotten the sleeves where I want them, yet, and I accidentally cut the neckline too big. So thank goodness it is an underdress and not a full dress. I ended up finishing most of it with a sewing machine and will probably complete the last hem that way too.

I've decided to find a different pattern for dresses, anyhow; this one flounces too much. Maybe I should omit one of the gores, or even two of the gores. Make it straighter. I'm going to end up buying my first dress, probably, and then taking the pattern from it to make more.

Probably the biggest thing is that I really want to learn how to make my own clothes. I should probably start with the dress and move on to shirt and skirt. Pants aren't really something I'm keen to try until I've got a bunch of experience chalked up.

Meanwhi--

I am now running on reserve battery power. Ten more minutes.

--le I will make fun double-wrapped belts and pouches and useless bits of trim. Also, embroidery. How I love embroidery! I am ridiculously old-fashioned. Did you know I once wanted to play the lute?

Weather is beautiful, wish I was there.

antipodes — 2005-12-14T05:12:42-05:00

It is the writer's privilege to live life in pursuit of God through creative influence, and creative influence often manifests itself via complex and dangerous activities; in this case it was sitting on the edge of a pigeon-infested Venetian square, sipping a caffe venexiana from a very delicate glass while holding my pencil with the same hand. My quest was already half completed, having skillfully procured a non-wobbly table and chair out of the way of the marauding fowl.

The best--that is, my favorite--seats at Florian's are those chairs under the arches, with the black leather cushions on antique chairs and the shabby marble-topped hardwood tables. No mass-produced arrangements these: the whole city of Venice has the air of habitual luxury in worn velvet and spotty mirrors, but Florian's seems to be the city in quintessence, or in portraiture, and perfect.

The bill always seems murder until I break it down. I would pay two euro to sit down for three hours in a comfortable place, two for the gorgeous view of Basilica San Marco (pigeons, tourists, and all) the whole time, two euro for the drink, and a euro to ensure an interesting afternoon. The other fifty centesimi I would have given to a street musician but I threw it away on the chance that I might be able to hear the orchestra play if I sat there long enough.

Don't get me wrong, though, I love the pigeons.

A man, a woman; a woman, a man: / Tristan, Isolde; Isolde, Tristan.

antipodes — 2005-12-16T08:12:21-05:00

Due to my argument with myself and another conversation, I decided to give Gottfried von Strassburg another chance. I read and studied his book two or three terms ago and really found myself hating the characters for the choices they made, but back in May, some of you will remember that I went to Ireland to visit the course coordinator for the postgrad program I'll hopefully be joining, and his specialty area is the Tristan story.

Don't mistake me! I'm not trying to sweeten my learning to meet his pleasure, but when he mentioned it and I said I'd read it, he looked so positively flattered that I couldn't but think that (a) something must be quite wrong with him and (b) what book was I reading, again? So since he seemed so excited about it, I must read it again, just to check.

Was this wise? I hated the story, I hated von Strassburg's narration when he did show his face . . . I don't really know even now, but I do think Ralph Fiennes would make an excellent Rivalin (kind of an Onegin mixed with hints of Hamlet and a delightful and ridiculous sense of honor that was English even then--Rivalin was Tristan's father).

I do not look forward to Tristan and Isolde (specially not Isolde and her yippy and many-hued dog) but I'm sure I'll glean something from it, and maybe discover why it is that my professor's face lights up when he so much as finds a fellow Reader.

You had better read it, too, because there is a movie coming out about them.

The Christmas tree is evil.

antipodes — 2005-12-18T05:12:06-05:00

The whole ornery bit of horticulture we call our Christmas tree keeps trying to commit suicide on the carpet, and failing to do that thanks to the valiant efforts of several of my family members, we've insisted it cope at least until New Year's. The vengeful nature of our tree has made it small and possessive of a trait least attractive of pine: it does not smell like a pine tree. I'm ashamed, and I'm thinking about taking it to therapy. This tree has issues, man.

I have inordinately itchy feet. (1 of 3)

antipodes — 2005-12-20T06:12:37-05:00

I've got a bunch of entries I've written about traveling or while I was traveling; the internet is my main source of communication with family and friends, and plus I feel that I owe it to my friends on Mindsay to amuse when I have so much to see and do over here. I've grouped these by individual trip, though I've revisited several places since, and this is part one of three because I didn't realise how much I've written on my travels.

My family went north, to Venice, Pisa, Florence, and up to Germany over the holidays one year; we had an interesting tour in Venice especially (1, 2) and a lot of fun in other places that I didn't blog about (we didn't always have the internet), but I did post an entry about feeling solitary throughout the trip even though I was with a group I love dearly (3), and what it was like to come home (4).

I've been to Florence several times to visit some dear friends (whom I call the Gardiners, after their counterparts in Austen) and also to enjoy the anonymity that Florence affords. Generally what I do is to walk from caffe to museum to caffe to galleria to bridge to caffe and write in my journal. I shop a little for my family, watch people, eat pappa al pomodoro (a tomato and bread soup that sounds weird but is actually very tasty), and pray in the churches. Sometimes it is nice to be alone, with no name.

But I digress--I wrote about the odd feeling one gets before one sets out (5) and what my room was like when I arrived, recapping on what happened on the train trip (6). The last entry I wrote on this particular trip was after a spectacular surprise of a monument not meeting my expectations at all . . . I stopped in an internet cafe to get over the shock of it all (7).

Then there was the time we went back to the States for a visit. Now that was strange. Of course, one of the reasons I wanted to go--aside from visiting people and eating at Coldstone Creamery--was to buy English books, which are in short supply here (8). Between connections at the airport, there are always interesting things to do and see (9). I think I bought a copy of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire with some Bertie Bott's Everyflavor Beans to frighten my cousins with. Finally, I got to my mother's parents' house and found it significantly different from home (10), and inspirational as to what I was going to do with my guest room when I had one.

Most of the rest of the entries for that trip were about my class on Arthurian Legend that I was taking at the time--it was a summer class, online. Very fun. So there wasn't much more about traveling.

More to come! Dublin is visited twice, Scotland twice, and a different side of Venice as well. Not to mentions a couple side trips . . . Hope you enjoyed it:) One day I'll organise it all better, figure out more of what I want to write about. This blog is a personal journal, more than an organisation of thoughts, you know.

Current events update from the antipodes.

antipodes — 2005-12-21T11:12:20-05:00

I love wielding my fountain pen against hordes of printed words. Somehow it seems to be poetic justice that I splatter and scribble in fluid ink over the bleached and dyed paper-cut dangers that have been stamped with thoughtless clishmaclaver. All that to say, I've finished grading most of the papers for the first class I taught. Ever.

It's exciting, too, because I got good reviews: they want me to teach a couple more. You know what this means, right? Right? It means I'm going to Venice with some money to spare and more to put in the bank for rainy days in Ireland (think that one through, why don't you).

Also, it means that my conscience will settle down a bit after having sat on that knowledge for a while. It's hard to feel like I've been worth the money and the time if I don't use the stuff I've learned, but it surely will be for my folks, too.

In other news, I've officially joined the Society for Creative Anachronism. (Feels like I'm announcing a surprise engagement.) Anyway, it will be fun, and I think I'll fit in. I am a nerd, a dweeb, a geek, and, euphemistically, "a medieval enthusiast".

I have inordinately itchy feet. (2 of 3)

antipodes — 2005-12-23T09:12:39-05:00

Then there was the time I took a literary class in Dublin, Ireland. That was exciting. The first time I blogged, I stopped in a cafe Insomnia at the edge of a park. Then I found wireless in the common room of my hotel, which was awesome. We went to see some interesting plays while I was there, too, in famous theatres. On the way home, I got stuck in London for the night, and got to stay in a ridiculously luxurious hotel right outside the airport. Even had internet in there, which was awesome, since I could blog. I even blogged on the plane from London to Rome:) Talk about an addiction.

The next spring I took the same sort of class to Scotland, which was Quite Fun. I actually have more entries than the ones I posted, but you'll live with just these few, I hope! Edinburgh is a really different sort of city than you see normally. It was a little awkward writing about it all because I didn't have internet half the time I was there, but when I got back I made a list of things I wanted to write about. I never got around to it, you know, but I still might, one of these days. One thing that really struck me about Scotland was that the idea of the supernatural world overlapping easily with our own is quite taken for granted. When I came back, I couldn't help playing with my memories, and really a lot of things did happen on that trip, so it was good to remember. One of them was about rugby, since we were in Scotland at the time of the World Cup, or whatever it was.

And that's it for this bit; there's one more with a collection of miscellaneous posts, mostly singles from different trips I've taken, or writing about memories--except for the Venice trip, from which I have three posts! Yes, three. Because I like Venice.

The idea of starting over again every year.

antipodes — 2005-12-26T06:12:24-05:00

In glimpses of silence and a few precious moments of sanity during these commercial winter holidays (it isn't only Christmas that's a victim) I often feel--and this is utterly unrelated to the commercial holiday or its edibles--sick to my stomach. It sounds cliched to say that I feel a sense of impending doom, but that is the nearest and most familiar way to say it.

I love the new year. I've always been one to place significance on symbols and motifs that others might not notice (this often gets labeled as hypersensitivity or eccentricity, sometimes even mysticism and superstition), so the new year means a lot to me. As a Christian, the idea of beginning anew is something I cherish very close to my heart. Having a specific moment on which to place all my hopes and fears for the coming jaunt around the sun is something that feels natural to me.

But new things, unknown things thrill and frighten me.

I hate the new year. It always begins in the wake of festivities that have never been what we hoped them to be, even when I have dropped the idea that they ought to be full of harmony, and usually ended in more than one person's feelings getting hurt in the most ridiculous fashion. The new year seems to mock any real attempt to "start over". The resolutions are the worst, because everyone is so careful about them. Seems like it should be such a special moment, when the hands on the clock reach high to midnight.

I'm always so afraid. I'm always dragged to new beginnings. I can barely force myself to let God forgive me and not insist on my own self-forgiveness. I break my heart every year trying to set things right behind the scenes, trying to think about what is going to happen and to just believe in something--anything.

One of my final exam essays from this term was about how the class had changed my perspective on myself and the world around me, and the subject in question. I quote, and repeat:

"Try and understand where [I] stand now"? Broken--again. Certainly not standing.

Our Hero visits Cambridge, in England.

antipodes — 2005-12-30T06:12:09-05:00

Cambridge is a beautiful town. Or city. I'm not sure which one it is really, but the cold and the darkness make it seem like a town or a village, so small and orderly and old.

I stood on the top of Greater St. Mary's church--known as the University Church--while the twelve bells rang a Bristol and the tower shook with the sound. From there, Cambridge looks like something out of a Dickens novel; specifically the one which is on everybody's mind right now anyway. You can see the smoke rising from Victorian chimneys, the winding streets and a small marketplace of awnings and vendors in mufflers and half-gloves selling sausages and chestnuts and the odd kitchen appliance.

I turned around to see the University buildings (I'd just come out of the Cambridge University Press Bookshop, where my indulgent father bought me a book on Reading Medieval Latin) and got a different impression entirely. From that side one could see the gothic air of Cambridge. I don't mean the stereotypical gothic style--the real one was just extremes of both kinds, not only the extreme of darkness--but the historical one. There are arched windows of rose-colored stone that frame a golden light, a peaceful dark-bright square of green grass with a white basin in the centre. Somehow I got the feeling that were I to enter into one of those buildings, the most tasteful of the Vatican's star-studded ceilings might support the soaring ceilings of those hallowed halls. Tasteful gold, not like the Vatican, might edge portraits or statues elegantly . . . but I didn't go inside.

So, it was bryll-y-ant.

antipodes — 2006-01-03T07:01:33-05:00

Richie and Lou are the awesomest. Tea, tea, everywhere tea and crumpets and nice people walking about castles on sandy cliffs by the sea, the sea, the sea, and rainy streets full of red and grey and blue buildings with villagey signs on them. Also, a sleepy rabbit named Snowy. And before that, some Indian food in a church.

The bryll-y-ant Richie and luvly Lou are awesome; shoving out roommates and filling rooms with sleeping bags and making copious amounts of tea, as well as speaking in delightfully Welsh accents the whole entire time.

AND WELSH CAKES. Oh, the welsh cakes were tasty. I hope I'm saying that right, the accents are all rather distracting.

Not to mention the plan to kidnap Richie's mam (not entirely separate from the memory of welsh cakes).

Meeting people off of the internet has always weirded out my parents, even though once they meet my friends (so cool I can't keep them all to myself and usually end up dragging bunches of people with me) even my Mum gets along well with them most of the time, or at least finds them to be awesomely cool. Finding mutual friends between my sisters and me is odd enough, so I knew this trip was going to be interesting:) All that to say, hanging out with Richie and Lou was one of the highlights of the entire trip up here.

I was hoping to get all this entry spotted with pictures but I will have to add some later; got some great ones by Castell Pennard. Did you know Richie can see the sea from his kitchen window?

Afraid I have been a terrible pig as have scarfed many crumpets (some a la Richie, with raspberry jelly and nutella on them) and welsh cakes and soups in Wales. Never ever let it be said that the Welsh are bad cooks, no matter what is published about the English. Am going to gain fifty bazillion pounds and have to be rolled into the cargo area of the plane to get home.

I should be reading Paris, France by Gertrude Stein for my Paris class in a week (funny and cool; I may like to write a book like it one day if I ever get around to it) but I had to blog while I could, in this tiny room . . . got plenty of stuff to scribble about, though:)

I am going to Paris and I cannot speak French.

antipodes — 2006-01-07T08:01:03-05:00

By the time most of you read this, I will be in Paris; or maybe in an airplane across the countryside finishing the last few chapters of A Moveable Feast, or on the bus past the Eiffel Tower trying to sort out directions to my hotel, or even holding onto a rail in a train and whirring underground past advertisements and tile floors while clutching my suitcase and loudly regretting how heavily packed my rucksack is. In any case, I am going to Paris tomorrow. I may even lose my luggage.

This is the first time in forever that I shall be traveling with friends and not relatives and not alone, so I am looking forward to laughing and losing documents and buying each other our first tastes of a French cafe au lait--and let us not forget the crepes that we will partake of with the utmost reverence.

Now, before I realise how cheap it is to travel in Europe, I am going to try not to think about my plans to visit Germany, Venice (hardly Italian in and of itself), the United States, Texas (in the U.S., or Mars?), and France within the space of about four months after having been to Wales and England over the holidays. That's about a billion countries right there in half a year. Who gets to do stuff like that, anyway?

Movie stars?

Band members?

Spies?

Fugitives?

Sure, but . . . university students?

Yeah, I don't understand it either, but I will post pics and blog while I'm there. Anybody have a question about Paris? I'm not going to see the Moulin Rouge, so don't even ask, but I am going to see Eiffel, Wilde's grave, the Louvre, Sacre Couer (sp?), Shakespeare & Co. bookstore, and Notre Dame at LEAST, not to mention numerous cafes.

I wonder if there will be pigeons in Paris like there are in Venice, or if there will be pigeons in Paris like there are in New York and London and Edinburgh and Seattle? Because the pigeons in Venice are like no other, but I have heard that Paris is a match for Venice is many ways . . . and we shall see.

A passionately french thing.

antipodes — 2006-01-16T09:01:22-05:00

I like all sorts of chocolates from all over the world but many of them are not passionate and only one of them is so decidedly french as dark chocolate; by "dark chocolate" I mean over 60% cocoa. Most of the dark chocolate we are fed in America is about 50% and still so over-sweet as to discourage us from eating it (which is, of course, the object) and one must haunt specialty shops to find the good stuff, but within the boundaries of France they give it away smugly and generously, all nestled next to a cafe creme on peaceful porcelain saucers; this is exciting.

Coming to Paris, I expected to find remarkably fancy chocolate shops everywhere and though I did see some while perusing the hardback version their number was not so great as previously supposed. Muffling my disappointment by ordering hot chocolate in a cafe, I was delighted by the presence of a small wrapped chocolate when the drink arrived. Being curious and still a bit miffed at my failed detective work, I looked at the label: it was at least 60%. I tried my trick again at another cafe but with a coffee drink instead of the hot chocolate, and voila! Closerie des Lilas, Le Select, La Coupole, the Lotus Cafe, the little cafe on the corner whose name has been cruelly forgotten--all of those places present such fine and secret delicacies that will always remind me of Paris, France.

kent triplebobmajor bristol ninetailors crashaTHRUM

antipodes — 2006-01-17T07:01:16-05:00

It was August last year that I lay on my bed with the shutters closed but the glass part of the window open; it was too hot to do anything and I did not even want to go out for a cup of gelato. The lights were off in my room, and my music had just finished playing itself to the end of an album. I checked the level of my water bottle, and everything but the air-conditioned supermercati smelled dusty and old.

One morning in September I woke up to a sparsely decorated room in an Italian monastery--all white-washed walls and rough blankets and cheap plywood furniture--and I remembered the festival the night before, in the village nearby, all for the harvest. I had ice cream even though it was already cold, and I wore my jean jacket that is too big for me.

In December I stood in a street Dickens would have felt at home in, smelling hot chestnuts--such a peculiarly European smell--and looking at lighted windows of shops and homes and college buildings in Cambridge. I'd just bought a book on how to read Medieval Latin, and I was waiting to meet up with my family. We were on Christmas vacation.

And in January, in Paris, I leaned out of my hotel window in the afternoon and watched the surreptitious pigeons ease their way into the sun (the windows faced westwards) with ruffling feathers and stereotypically disgruntled French expressions. The air was cold and clear and I could taste my apple chapstick. In a few minutes I'd go down to the cafe to get a hot chocolate with my friends.

Bells, bells, bells . . . the real memories of those moments lie in the crashing, grinding, all-encompassing power of the sound of ringing bells. I'm not sure if my delight in the ringing of bells is merely for the novelty of them or whether I really truly love them like they ought to be loved.

"Progress: a novel but impractical concept." or "What I have been reading."

antipodes — 2006-01-21T08:01:54-05:00

Am so frustrated with university right now; just want to graduate and leave. Then I can go to my serene and bookish paradise, full of libraries and conspiratorial mugs of tea. Now that I've gotten that out, I will update you on my reading list. I'm sure you're all dying to know, anyway:)

I've just finished Medieval Writers and Their Work: Middle English Literature and its Background 110-1500 by J.A. Burrow, which was a quick paperback introduction to medieval literature--if anybody is merely curious about medieval writing and doesn't really care to go through an in-depth study, I would totally recommend this book.

Am beginning S.O. Andrew's translation of Sir Gawain & the Green Knight as well, which is pretty cool. I've read Brian Stone's edition of it, too, but this one I got in Oxford and I'm a bit attached to it. Explains the metre better. I wrote fan fic for this poem!

Next on the list is Tolkien and the Great War: The Threshold of Middle-Earth by John Garth; got an advance reading copy in Paris at a used bookstore during a class on WWI and as Tollers is one of my favorite writers, I thought it appropriate. I've been noticing a lot of war-related stuff in Lord of the Rings anyway, apart from the actual subject of the book--that is, Tolkien really did know what he was talking about. Had a mind for the strategy.

Anecdote: Lots of people in the bookstore (fairly sure it was the Abbey bookshop) were from my class, and bought books because they were an investment, and I bought mine because I wanted to read it. Got props from the bookseller, even if he didn't give me a discount. Very interesting.

"If you join at eleven o'clock a conversation which began at eight you will often not see the real bearing of what is said. Remarks which seem to you very ordinary will produce laughter or irritation and you will not see why—the reason, of course, being that the earlier stages of the conversation have given them a special point. In the same way sentences in a modern book which look quite ordinary may be directed at some other book; in this way you may be led to accept what you would have indignantly rejected if you knew its real significance."

--C.S. Lewis, On the Value of Reading Old Books

Preparing a sweet potato dish, in alliterative verse.

antipodes — 2006-01-24T02:01:45-05:00

The first and foremost day of classes finished,
a roaring fire and roasted meat await before my rest.
The meat, a dish of my own efforts to make,
will take a while to cook; since I've filled to the white brim
the ceramic container of vegetables, the extra I cooked apart.
The leftovers, sweet potatoes, were left peeled and so I let lay
then in a pan with two or three pats of butter, putting
the burner on barely an inch of blue
hoping that the heat would slowly harry them
to caramelization, currying a sweet scent
and better yet, a brown sugar taste to blend
nicely with the nip of sugar that, applied near the end
of the cooking process produces a sweet and healthy potato dish
   that provides another vegetable--
   and very few people do like them--
   but this shall grace your table,
   for a albeit a very short time.

"Raindrops keep fallin' on my head!" or "I'm so happy I can't stop crying."

antipodes — 2006-01-29T05:01:23-05:00

I'm even wearing dangly earrings, a grey shirt, and stripey socks, and I still can't shake the sense of impending homework. (I'm also wearing a skirt, but its style wasn't really relevant to my morale. It's presence, however . . . but never mind. I digress.) I even started a blog on Xanga so that I could keep up with an old friend and read two chapters of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince like there was no tomorrow.

Little girl, you say sympathetically, starting more and more blogs won't make you happier. Stick with the one you've got, and work out your problems with it. You'll be better for it in the end, and you won't even have to go through the whole divorce--I MEAN DELETING--process afterwards.

Spring always makes me grumpy; it's awfully stifling. And by "stifling" I mean I have monstrous allergies that quite literally make every effort to quit my breathing. Hooked up to an inhaler and a bunch of train tickets out of Italy, I shut my eyes and muddle through behind a stack of novels and textbooks.

Summer looks better--then I shall see friends and have fun and drink iced coffee in a dim, afternoon bar in downtown Naples after visiting the cool interior of the National Archaeological Museum, walking down hot streets to see the buildings red and yellow and white in the sun, and the ocean so blue and thick and slow.

Orthodontists and cornish hens in butter. No--wait . . .

antipodes — 2006-02-01T04:02:17-05:00

Having been defeated by an orthodontist, a sinus headache, and a job-related phone call, I ate my dinner of leftovers and tried to cheer myself up with a little netsurfing. This is fairly normal for me but after having been to both Paris and Venice in such a short amount of time, my life. seems. so. bourgeois.

Not to say I'm discontented--I could never live in either of those cities and actually feel at home--but it is such an odd feeling to be back to normal. The word "normal" being used very loosely, of course.

(Must confess something. The leftovers were cornish hens in lemon butter and sage with roasted carrots and a bulb of fennel as well as sweet butternut squash baked in brown sugar and butter. I do like to cook, and the cornish hens were gifts:)

But I digress.

I'm tired and discouraged and I start a semi-new, mindless job tomorrow . . . not to mention the other job interview and the three assignments due by Friday that I haven't. yet. done.

Am half-way through Tolkien and the Great War. So far Tolkien and his three closest friends are on the way to the Battle of the Somme.

Disastrous.

Saturday's child works hard for his or her corporation.

antipodes — 2006-02-04T08:02:10-05:00

The business world has little "inspirational" quotes they put on posters, in their shiny leather organizers, and probably tattooed in strange places on the hardcore ballpoint users. They tell you to have patience, to rise to challenges, to have an ambiguously defined "integrity", to not be afraid of a vague abstraction called "change", and to enjoy the small things in life (SUVs, plush carpets, and garden hoses; also bridge games).

Not only discouraging the last vestiges of humor in the workplace, these supposedly inspirational mottoes only remind people that they cannot escape plywood desks, the smell of the xerox machine, and styrofoam coffee cups in plastic wrapping.

At home with supremely clogged faculties of the sinus division, I am glad that my grandmother liked making quilts with all of their infuriatingly perfect french knots, that my cat likes to bathe in the sunshine on a carpet in the living room, and that the Saturday morning family uniform is flannel pj bottoms with hoodies and slippers, all in various states of gloriously comfortable disrepair.

Thermoses hung up by the sink, we sleep in till noon and drink espresso in heavy handled mugs, reading novels and playing with computer programs (we are made up of gamers, website cobblers, and bloggers).

We are hatching a plot.

Antipodal yet congruent ideas and concepts.

antipodes — 2006-02-07T05:02:34-05:00

A lot of snow has been coming down for the past two days, a windblown snow in the sunburnt air between the shadowed buildings of my town (it seems almost Mexican). None of the snow stays, of course, and it makes the house very cold, but one day I will look back on it fondly and probably write about it.

It's been Gerard Manley Hopkins and buttered toast all week so far--I've pretty much finished up the assignments on Dickinson for this class. Hopkins and I tend to agree that life can be an utter spiritual anguish and that in the big picture of things, we would rather be gone; but I've lived too much already to know that death is all there is to life. I collect sugar packets, eat nutella, and watch LOST on my laptop. I HAVE A MYSPACE, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD.

So at about a half-hour before noon, I'm sitting at the kitchen table at my house in southern Italy, dreaming of Dublin in the afternoon and the way the light dims and fades from downtown buildings of bronze, grey, blue, and the white ones with smudges around the edges. I've always loved the old Ireland I've read about in stories, the landscape and history, but I know the modern one and love it, too.

Bestowing all my tediousness on thee.

antipodes — 2006-02-08T06:02:19-05:00

I've just spent an hour looking over some scribbles and have come to the first stage of drafting. I feel distant enough from some of it to look at it in a critical light; now it is time to go over it all a bit and see the connections, because I know something is brewing there. Every now and then I can tell when I've had a paradigm shift or a new tool brought in, and then I need to reevaluate what I've done in light of this new thing . . . arrange things in a different order, play around with words and concepts, and add transitions that may or may not be ultimately relevant.

Do realize that this is only a child playing, though, not a professional writer; I find the process fun to follow but I haven't got any deliberate purpose in mind. Sometimes I wonder if what I do is what other writers do, but I've spent a lot of time researching the writing processes of others writers and I realize there are specific differences. I have no end in mind, I have no plot, no real story, no outline, no framework.

It's a comfortable world, my scribbling. Rather allows me to take my home with me and add to it from all the places I've been. An imagined and creative anachronism of my life, so to speak.

Journaleying foer so long.

antipodes — 2006-02-10T07:02:01-05:00

And so I have written something, a long something, and now I feel better. I've not been well--I am hardly ever well these days--but for some reason this scrawling, scribbling vigil has relaxed my mind a little.

I have journaleyed so long that perhaps it is a mental reflex to believe that since I have written about something, I have been there and those things on the page have happened to me. I know a little bit of it must be that I do take things from my own experience as everybody and especially every writer does, but obviously that is not all there is to it. I have never felt so comfortable as I am in a book, whether writing or reading it.

Speaking of books and comfort, I suggest nobody read all of Everything is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer, because there is too much graphic, pointless sex in it. I propose that you read only as much of it as you must to get the author's style and purpose, and then read all Sasha's letters and stories. His is the real story, after all, and much better.

It all reads rather like a Calvino novel (even the first few gratuitous sex scenes that I put myself through, thinking they were the only ones) which has its good and bad points. The connections between ideas of living, dying, heroics, and what it means to be alone--all these are interesting, especially the last two. I will be thinking about these pieces for a while, I know.

It is also a good thing that I know the author's middle name, because that makes it a lot easier to shout

JONATHAN SAFRAN FOER! YOU MADE ME CRY, YOU EVIL MAN!

which he did. It was a sad book.

Love is like breathing . . . in fact, it IS breathing . . .

antipodes — 2006-02-14T08:02:02-05:00

Ever since I read Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Valentine's Day dawns giggling and trying to make silly poetry out of unconventional phrases that ride the merry-go-round that is my brain. His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad . . .

I usually try to take meaning to my holidays (however commercial they've become to others) by researching their history and gathering my own meaningful associations to them. I like finding symbolism in things and so holidays are bonus days, but unfortunately it gets a bit hairy sometimes.

I am a Christian and find the summer and winter solstices especially awesome and personally meaningful, yet they seem to have been culturally associated with pagan and neopagan religion. All Hallow's Eve has become a celebration of rebirth and remembrance rather than a morbid celebration of death. Easter is now more of a celebration of promise and healing rather than birth and grace. Not to say that death is not joyful in its context or that birth and grace are not important--who could defend that?--but you do understand me, I hope. I must have my reasons.

Back to Valentine's Day, though: I can't seem to make a whole lot of meaning out of it. I've been given valentines and given them, eaten tons of chocolate and lollipops, researched past associations, and read about others' meaning for the holiday . . . but seriously, all I can come up with is laughs and an excuse to eat chocolate.

Doesn't bother me any the way it is, but oughtn't it to be something more than that? Am I missing something? I don't have a boyfriend--does that have something to do with it? (Because I don't want one, nor do I have the time or energy to feed and water one.) How strange! Must go take more meds, then eat more chocolate.

Come to think of it, my doctor ought to be my valentine; I slept all through last night and am now, for the first time in literally months, breathing through my nose . . . Happy Valentine's Day!

Warming up leftovers on Valentine's Day.

antipodes — 2006-02-15T08:02:15-05:00

I love filks, they totally crack me up . . . I'm listening to Pottercast's Valentine's Day FilkCast and though I'm not finished with all of them, my favorite is definitely decided; a song someone claiming to be Gilderoy Lockhart, "It Had To Be Me", is the best. Of course, hearing Sue and John sing the Weasley's "When I'm 64" was hilarious, too. Lockhart, however, is a particular favorite.

Completely funny is that most of these people are also about my age and don't mind singing to their computers and sending it out to 50,000 listeners. Yes, 50,000, and that is a realistic number of downloads.

Does this make me a complete and utter nerd, or just a dork? Where does one draw the line, anyway?

You are Rob Gordon. (From "High Fidelity")

antipodes — 2006-02-15T01:02:36-05:00

Alright, staying home alone all day is not something I should do often as it is making me familiar with a lot of television and visual media folks that I really have no business being interested in. I've begun to make a study of people and their behaviors (yes, I can spell it the American way) and really the way I try to watch movies on several different levels is annoying. me. greatly. Like--I can't even hate the characters any more, I justify their actions to myself within a sphere of moral relativism that makes it all too easy for some people to [insert quite literal, PG13 verb here] themselves.

Why is this spending time at home thing all bad? No--it isn't all bad--but I'm done resting, I am restless, I am ready to go, I want something different.

I finally feel good enough to do something; this whole I'm-allergic-to-the-world thing had to stop sometime and now maybe it has. Maybe I'll go do something, like something not watching "High Fidelity" or "Benny & Joon" all by myself, in the basement, alone, at home, with a lot of other stuff to do and laundry in the dryer waiting, just waiting for me to fold it.

Bweh. I've got to DO something! Too much Nick Hornby, Helen Fielding, and definitely too much Whitman. I need a real story, I need a real goal. Gotta get out of this stupid mental rut of exhaustion (isn't as if I like being sick all the time) and finally have some energy . . .

It's probably the "finally having energy" thing that is bringing all of this up right now and scaring some of the people who normally read my blog, making you desperate to comment "it will all be ok, you will calm down soon" only saying it so very euphemistically.

Because tomorrow I will just be exhausted again.

Recap of the day & a rant.

antipodes — 2006-02-16T05:02:17-05:00

I have accomplished roughly nothing of what I wanted to get done today, but I did bring three loaves of pumpkin & cranberry bread into existence and help put together a dinner of roast beef with potatoes and mushrooms.

The fire is popping loudly, and I don't know why--Mum says it has something to do with the kind of wood, but I still can't figure out what that would make it explode the way it does. Not cracklypops, but BUNfss.

Oh! And not to forget, I did write something for my anstruther blog. I like Julian and Emeric but fortunately or unfortunately I do not know much about motherhood, much less single mothers and their children.

I was an odd child, too, so writing children means writing something like me and that comes out oddly because not a whole lot of people think I'm easy to understand. In fact, I've lately got a whole bunch of people telling me I can't communicate well. Which is not all that great.

"He thinks you're one of the most enigmatic people . . . you come across awfully mysterious sometimes." This from someone I asked to explain why one person seemed to think I am inordinately weird.

"I never know what you mean!" This from some one who doesn't get my sense of humor.

"You can't explain yourself worth a @#%^, that's why . . . " This from some one I happened to be discussing religion with.

"Are you okay?" This from an altogether guilty passerby.

And I forget who said (or maybe everyone said): "Well, you don't talk very much, it's true."

As if talking more would help people understand me. Words, wrods, wodrs, wdros, wrdos, words. It might let them think they understand me more, but words . . .

You will likely think, and perhaps respond, "Silly girl, words are at least some communication with you, and generally the way people communicate is primarily through spoken language. Not everyone reads your blog." All of that, of course, I am not aware of--don't make me explain here how you were also the ones who told me I ought to think before I speak as well as how I ought to not be so slow in responding.

Oh heavens, I don't mean to accuse you or anybody; I'm just not like you, and it's time we all accepted the fact.

Yay! No more rants on my blog! Down, down, down they go off the page!

antipodes — 2006-02-18T08:02:05-05:00

All I have to show for my day's work is a period-authentic design for composting toilets in a medieval castle, a kitchen counter I can see for lack of dirty dishes, and a group summary whose references utterly blaspheme the Modern Language Association. Now what that says about me, I don't know, and probably don't need to know.

I have to get up in approximately five hours to sniffle and snurfle my way through a morning of peering through puffy eyes at other members of the church congregation while my meds kick in, trying not to laugh about what my friends were saying on instant messenger last night. Tonight. Whatever.

Hopefully afterwards I will be able to finally finish Tolkien and the Great War, which has been an excellent book. One chapter and a tidbit left, and then on to an older book . . . and by that time maybe I'll feel good enough to go to the gym without collapsing:)

In other news, I found one of my favorite books from when I was rather much younger than I am now; it is a history book in the guise of a time-travel guide. My sister made me a beautiful and delicate clay time-machine that, fueled by my imagination in company with a lot of refrigerator boxes and "spare" sheets tacked to odd places in the house, really worked.

Just got back from two days in Dublin, where the libraries make me cry.

antipodes — 2006-02-23T07:02:32-05:00

What is awesome about Dublin is the Chester Beatty Library, where they keep some of the oldest copies of the New Testament in the world.

(They never tell you in school that the texts of Shakespeare you read from are all bootleg copies of his scripts--they are! Look it up or trust me, the scripts we have of Shakespeare are bootlegged by the audience or theatre-folk and published; a conglomeration of which combined with a bit of fancy guesswork is your textbook.)

The copies of the Bible at Chester Beatty Library are textually closer than Shakespearean manuscripts--these were copied from the originals written in letters or recited by those who memorized them from the words of Christ and his disciples.

And you don't have to pay a cent to see them.

Then there are the books, the real codices--it is literally breathtaking to anybody who has a scrap of attention for history or are merely interested in bookish things, much less if you are a Christian to whom this sort of thing has personal meaning. I happen to be all three; and no, this doesn't have anything to do with the fact that I'm asthmatic . . .

We (Da, my two lovely friends, and myself) also went to the Guinness factory and the Jameson still, Butler's chocolate Cafe, and the Book of Kells, among other things . . . but really, I am enchanted by books.

Enraptured, ensorcelled, captured, riveted, transfixed, enthralled, caught spellbound by books.

Prisoner #463

antipodes — 2006-02-25T09:02:14-05:00

Today, my life is like walking through a forest after the first spring rains, sailing a small craft in waters pending a storm, and trying to live in peace time. I'm slip-sliding around in thick mud, not dressed for the journey, without a cause I can see but to love and, if I have the time, to be loved.

I can't seem to write anything worth reading, but am only coming up with ideas with which to prop up my airy castles--which I really do mean to make smell like horses and hay and wet stone and wood smoke, when I have the time.

My to-do list includes several literary essays, a few loaves of rhubarb bread (yes, I shall inflict rhubarb on some visitors), and a bit of hostessing (involves dressing myself in something other than sweatshirt-and-jeans ensemble that has become my home front uniform). I hate performing to an audience of very close friends and practical strangers as I must shoot completely wide of the marks I'd normally aim for in order to please some of the people some of the time.

For now I must content myself with stepping, crawling, walking through knee-deep icy water. Impossible to swim or run, my only option is to continue on with this method that barely pulls me forward, numb.

In apology.

antipodes — 2006-02-25T12:02:28-05:00

There once was a man with a penchant
To say with intelligence trenchant
That a heart brightly lit
Would save souls from the pit
But could reach no one remotely sentient.

Folks in the doldrums are swell!
(Correction: "depressed") Truth to tell,
To become inmates keen
They remove heart and spleen
So they'll thrive in their self-fashioned hell.

There are Christians who never have fun
Because Christ suffered (e'en though he won)
They still die his death
Every step, every breath,
And limericks are quite a transgression.

I'm bled of the doctrinaire life
That consists solely of solemn strife;
I think I'll take poesie,
Make my laugh noisy--
Practice less on the drum or the fife . . .

She speaks poniards, and every word stabs!

antipodes — 2006-02-27T10:02:28-05:00

I very unwisely took a break from constant study tonight and read my favorite bits of Gaudy Night from midnight till 3 a.m. and do you know why it is unwise? It's because the conversation is so witty . . . indeed, almost Shakespearean! Elizabethan, anyway.

And besides, Harriet and Peter are very observant of people. It's a remarkable trait in a hero that I wish I could develop, but sometimes it's hard to believe anything good could come out of Nazareth. I don't suppose it helps that Harriet had about five or ten years on me and Peter twenty five--not to mention the classical education! I am remedying both, though; slowly but surely.

Not to utterly drive you all away, but I have a piece of poetry from the book Wimsey was reading at the time he took over the case and I think it might be as relevant for him as it quite is for me now, though in radically different ways. I really mean to go to sleep after this, honest.

The night is come, like to the day;
Depart not thou, great God, away.
Let not my sins, black as the night,
Eclipse the lustre of thy light.
Keep still in my horizon; for to me
The sun makes not the day, but thee.
Thou whose nature cannot sleep,
On my temples sentry keep;
Guard me 'gainst those watchful foes,
Whose eyes are open while mine close.
Let no dreams my head infest,
But such as Jacob's temples blest.
While I do rest, my soul advance:
Make my sleep a holy trance:
That I may, my rest being wrought,
Awake into some holy thought,
And with as active vigour run
My course as doth the nimble sun.
Sleep is a death;--Oh make me try,
By sleeping, what it is to die!
And as gently lay my head
On my grave, as now my bed.
Howe'er I rest, great God, let me
Awake again at last with thee.
And thus assured, behold I lie
Securely, or to wake or die.
These are my drowsy days; in vain
I do now wake to sleep again:
Oh come that hour, when I shall never
Sleep again, but wake for ever!

--Sir Thomas Browne, Religio Medici

Frosch weht der Wind / Der Heimat zu / Mein Irisch Kind, / Wo weilest du?

antipodes — 2006-03-02T05:03:55-05:00

Alright, so I like irony. It has been a long day, a long week, a long year, for heaven's sake don't ask me any more questions.

Yes, well.

My last classes for my undergraduate degree deal with different types of writing. Modern poetry, and research writing. The research writing deals mostly with figuring out where writers' logic goes askew and how to write better than they did. The modern poetry class deals with modernist poetry (wonder of wonders) and is messing with my mind to a remarkable degree.

I do believe I might agree with some of these modernists if it hadn't been for the squishy grey material renting out my skull. As it is, my tenants do not allow me to agree that humans should return to their own vomit. Much less do they agree that vague and sporadic use of any metrical form and images used solely to create a chaotic hysteria ought to be a favored study.

This means that I am going to take my iPod with me wherever I go, tomorrow; and that I don't know how people can study modern poetry and remain calm.

My first semester in graduate classes includes a language, a class on literary paleontology, and a class on philosophy of medieval thought. Keep on chuggin' . . .

Our Hero is a convalescent, only not.

antipodes — 2006-03-06T05:03:40-05:00

I used to enjoy convalescing. It was a chance to read, to rest, to relax, and to take long baths.

[Most of you don't know me face to face, but it might do to tell everybody that I have a chronic illness--one of those things to do with your sinuses where you have a continual infection. At least that's what my doctor has told me he thinks it is since I end up talking to him every month now for the last five or six and my symptoms have been going on for almost three years now (possibly before, but I don't tend to pay too much attention to my health until it reaches an extreme of some sort).]

Now I don't, though. The whole dry-toast-and-tea thing is actually appealing when you're sick, and cold oranges will always remind me of being too exhausted to hold my head up. Blankets and pillows, turning and moving so that you aren't sore--the concept of walking up a flight of stairs as exhausting work--these are things you learn, convalescing. That, and when taking a shower seems like a lot of work and you have to rest afterwards.

It sounds silly and weak, and you have some of you seen me walk around and go traveling and clean house for a day . . . I do have good days and bad days. Some days I stay in bed, some days I take day-trips (though none of those will be strenuous). Sitting in a car is always a time to rest.

It is most frustrating to be ill when people try to care by pitying you verbally. I don't know what they mean by it.

However, I do know that this is happening for a purpose. It is teaching me patience and undoing my illusion of self-sufficiency. It is teaching me to take care of myself slowly. Must learn my limits.

A very awkward sonnet in plain words.

antipodes — 2006-03-08T06:03:32-05:00

"Too long a sacrifice makes stone of the heart",
Or something, anyway it was Yeats but then he
Had to realize his own devious masks--I know I tend to be
Ruthless and judgmental about writers but part
Of that is because I want to be one; this sinewy art
Seems to take everything it can from me
And give me back a page or two, but barely
Enough to sustain me. How could I start
To lay down boundaries, to try and dominate
This raging appetite that gives not, leaves not
A breath for me to match its seven league gait?!
I wonder if I've been fed my birthright from a pot
Of lentils, sometimes. What is it that creates
Such demons in me? Here's no true-love knot.

Our Hero gets tagged.

antipodes — 2006-03-11T08:03:47-05:00

Awkwardly enough do I switch from sonneteering to writing a poptart post. Alright, six random things about me:

1. I am not partial to eggs benedict.
2. My iPod's name is Harriet.
3. I am learning how to put my hair in a four-stranded plait.
4. Once, I was in the audience of a one man play of Henry V, and he knelt at my arm when he said the St. Crispin's Day speech.
5. If I'm at home, my morning coffee drink is always cold, no matter what the temperature is outside.
6. I didn't go to high school.

I got tagged by acronymsical , and the rules of the game appear to be something like me passing on the quest to post six random things about yourself and then tag six others. No tagbacks allowed!

THEREFORE I TAG: drunknphilosphr , sandyquill , bmrichie , theracket , 14daysaway , and dismh8 !

I was on the train today, and I think some one thought I was beautiful.

antipodes — 2006-03-14T02:03:56-05:00

So I've been wanting to write things for a while, now--stuff of fiction, stuff of literature, stuff worth taking the time to read even if you don't like reading.

Not that I ever will write something so strange; I will probably be one of those writers like Gerard Manley Hopkins or J.R.R. Tolkien who have a distinct purpose, a trenchant voice, and come across as too hook-nosed and square-jawed for a general audience.

(Have I ever told you I have an aquiline nose? It is very useful in being uncommon. I consider my nose a nonconformist.)

Anyway, I'm beginning to find that I have agreed all along with some of these my modernists, that speech in fiction should reflect the speech of the people. I console myself that not only did the modernists have this in mind but so also did Shakespeare and Dante, the latter of whose statue I saluted earlier this afternoon on the way to Oscar Wilde's and my favorite cafe in Naples.

My philosophy of life is turning circles on itself (or maybe just chasing its tail--or its tale?) and I am trying in vain to bring a few ideas to a manageable state. Is it worthwhile to question myself as much as I do? I don't know; I am constantly seeing more things wrong with myself that I don't seem to be able to control easily no matter how much cognitive behavioural therapy (otherwise known as rethinking) I put myself through.

So my writing, my writing is being quieted down, and I know now that some things I experience merely so that I might write about them.

Meanwhile, I've had a lovely day, and I'm going to have a Harry Potter marathon tomorrow with all four movies, a batch of pumpkin pasties and cauldron cakes, and three good friends. Not to mention my new profession of dorkdom, a MuggleCast t-shirt . . .

Meliora speramus; shall we? Why do we scan the horizon?

antipodes — 2006-03-17T08:03:36-05:00

It's almost 3 a.m. on a now Saturday morning, and I'm at a loss for anything to write about (or at least at a loss for any motivation to write about) all these my modernists. Perhaps it is just that the bunch of them that I am rifling through now are all homosexual and writing love poems.

I understand attraction, I understand affection, and I understand longing; though these are facets of love, they don't add up to it. I imagine it is a little like trying to add up angles to make a diamond. The whole square-is-a-rectangle but rectangle-is-not-a-square thing.

Do I know anything about it, though?

I certainly don't know about same-sex relationships any more than my conservatively syllogistic imagination takes me. Sure, like most Mindsayers writing about the issue, I have blue, pink, purple, and rainbow-flaunting friends and acquaintances. But this does not make it any easier to understand them.

My life seems like something utterly oulipo, gordian and complicated. I watch well-acted movies again and again and my life I am only allowed to really view once: my memory, I have learned, cannot be trusted.

Anyway, it's keeping me up at night, giving me weird dreams when I sleep, and threatening to take away what little peace I am going to have next week--my spring break. So I scribble drafts of things that were inevitably better left beneath my breastbone, and watch the end of Onegin again (beginning at the part where he opens the doors in the palace).

Not as rehearsed, not as organized, but just as caffeinated.

antipodes — 2006-03-20T07:03:26-05:00

I have two journals, an old favorite novel The Great and Terrible Quest, a stack of papers to grade, and an inbox of emails to answer. Also a bunch of news podcasts to finish up because I haven't kept up with current politicky things in a few weeks. Ever noticed how these things pile up? ESPECIALLY DURING SPRING BREAK?!

The kitchen table is full of burgeoning and breakfasting republicans this morning, and I'm finding it all a delightful change from the normal silence, Celtic music revival, and incessant humming which I never seem to be able to stop entirely.

A green mist is hovering among the hazelnut trees in the orchard outside the window and there's a cold diamond glittery sheen on the pavement and the fingers of the trees. If I were a poet, I'd want to show you a picture of courtly Elves in green and silver, walking in the smoke and fog, all a-wandering westward. But I'm not a poet, so I talk about hazelnut trees.

The divine love of irony via symposiums & spicy pork.

antipodes — 2006-03-23T05:03:37-05:00

You know all those classes on modernism that I've held in confusion and disgust for so long? Well, I just may have found their justification and God in his infinite sense of humor is laughing so hard at me I'm surprised Vesuvius hasn't collapsed in a fit of hiccuping chuckles.

The honor of a professor's esteem has just been given me; he suggests I start presenting at conferences and has given me an opportunity to do so at an international symposium at which he will be presenting a paper. Suddenly my academic career is open and concrete, realistic and full of tickets, suitcases, libraries, and the familiar unfamiliarity of foreign soil.

I could be going to northern France next spring and my reason for travel would be blissful pleasure, but I would tell them at customs that it is business. (What if they don't ask!? I'd have to tell some innocent on the bus because I wouldn't be able to keep it to myself.)

There are two months until the deadline to send in a proposition for the paper. I want to write for it! As soon as I get my head back on straight, anyway; I'm all a-flutter:)

postscriptum
My doom is upon me. I just realized that my friends and I made spicy pork last night for dinner--our medieval dinner.

Our Hero says a few things that are discouraging (and probably untrue).

antipodes — 2006-04-10T04:04:12-05:00

I spent last night throwing up in the bathroom because I am nervous and out of sorts. If emotional conflict were electricity, my life would be blazoned with shafts of lightning and many of my friends would be blind as the most proverbial of bats. This is not to say anything bad about my friends or that I am growing steadily and more steadily sick; it just means that I am hypersensitive and, in the words of most of my associates, "let things get to me".

For some reason my head is full of a very interesting story that hasn't got the time to be written and is rather an intimate one--fiction, of course, but I know these characters of old and I love them very much; they are dear to me. I shall probably write them most awfully and consider them my infantile Titians. (I have a strange view of almost any type of love; I do, and most of the time it is painful.)

Last time I went through a blank spot like this I started some rather destructive behaviors that turned out to be very impractical, but now I am older I wonder how I'll deal with it. Like then, I have no idea where to go with these feelings. Unlike then, I know one thing to avoid. Helpful, I know. I shall pray, and people shall pray for me, and I will still feel like there is a roaring wind inside my chest.

I've spent time "improving" myself over the last three years, at least in the way that I look. I can wear contacts, high heeled shoes, fitting clothes, make-up, my hair down . . . but mama mia if I don't just want to die doing it. It is supposed to look professional and elegant, but I don't feel like being either of those things by artificial means. Where is the sweatshirt and the pair of baggy jeans? Where are the socks that were hole-y? They have passed like puke down the drain, like a face on the subway. Oh, I love Old English literary forms: they make me laugh.

I am just in a terrible way at this very moment in time. It won't last, don't worry. Next week this time I will be less of a Gorgon, I promise. In fact, I blame it all on Modern poetry.

Sandyquill, a woman most full of lovingkindness, asked how I was and gave me a cup of tea. A toast to her, please, with organic earl grey, and everyone say amen:)

Our Hero drags her feet with staggering aplomb.

antipodes — 2006-04-21T08:04:44-05:00

I hardly know what to write, my head is so full of things I ought to be doing or ought to have done . . . but then, as I say that, of course I know that writing has always settled me. That's why I have quite literally dozens of handwritten journals as well as my blogs.

You may think of me, at present, with a progressive rock concept album of the Book of Kells on my stereo. I'm wearing my medieval dress and am typing away on my iMac. I spent the last few days as a secretary in a college office, viciously xeroxing and collating workbooks and training booklets while explaining to my coworkers why comic books and graphic novels are comparable to poetry as it was thought of a hundred years ago. The dork factor seems to be unusually high right now.

Three more weeks of classes, then it's finished. My application to TCD is in the post. I just heard thunder in the distance, which means my day is about to get a lot better.

A timeless town, this. Placeless, too, but for the pasta:)

antipodes — 2006-04-24T03:04:41-05:00

Like most of the women in my neighborhood, I am making pasta for lunch today. By Italian standards, I am surely a very bad cook--I put a dab of vegemite in my tomato sauce and do not skimp with the basil, not to mention that I use leftover bits of pasta from larger bags my family uses and I care not which sauce goes with which shape.

Inevitably I will be half-in and half-out-of my pajamas at about this time of the morning, have been on my online classes and checked that the world was running as I expected. The sun will be coming in the living room windows and the kitchen (where I typically work) will be a little cold. Later in the afternoon, the kitchen will warm up a bit because the windows face westwards; four o'clock is when the room is filled with a thick yellow glow that makes the herbs on the balcony smell hot and rich and old.

I can hear women shouting at each other and their children over layers and levels of balconies, filled with laundry and plastic lawn chairs and the clean smell of rooms half-way through the day. (My house won't get cleaned today; I've got a paper due.)

After my lunch is over, dishes put away, I will have a coffee and try to make myself look a bit more civilized before everyone gets home and finds me gnawing my keyboard in frustration.

Requiescat in pace.

antipodes — 2006-05-01T04:05:53-05:00

So, a neighbor died this past weekend, a girl I know (knew?) and who's (who'd?) been in classes with me. She was a Christian, so I'm not worried for her--I'm worried for her family . . . I'm worried for her little brother and her mother and her father and her friends, all of her friends, and the people who knew her. For myself, I'm calm until I see other people grieving, but that's just me; I'm heartless.

The concrete pieces of my life she is absent from are surprisingly many. I spelled her name correctly on the graduation program this year (her mom will walk for her diploma), I don't see the now-mangled car in the driveway which I usually feel guilty about since my cat leaves paw-prints all over it, and people I don't know talk to me about her because somehow they know she was my neighbor (is my neighbor?) and think we must have been close. I won't see her in the food court laughing with her friends or taking a smoke break outside, and wave.

Last time I saw her, we had a short conversation because she'd just gotten off work and we were both off to meet friends for rides home. Things were going okay, she said, and smiled her broad smile and said she'd see me later (the latter part remains true), and then I watched her curls bounce around her face as she laughed and turned away out the door. She had the curliest hair.

We weren't close; we got on each others' nerves terribly and yet still we managed to sit happily across from each other at a cafe table, in a group of friends, late into a January night in the lobby of our hotel in Paris. I got mad at her because we'd want to go out to eat as a group, and she'd want to get drunk and go dancing. It isn't like I'm being insensitive, is it--to tell the truth? Maybe it's wrong to not feel guilty for having been mad at her.

Is it wrong to not feel guilty for surviving? One of my friends called me "insensitive" last night, because I have so conditioned myself to pull away emotionally from people whose lifestyles are so explicitly dangerous by choice. I do think she had her heart in the right place; she was loving and caring to an uncommon extent. No one could ever say she did not try to do the right thing to other people, everyone could even see it.

There's a memorial service being held for her tomorrow. Her dad is going to wear the shirt she hated most as his undershirt (she wouldn't speak to him when he was wearing it) and her mother is going to wear comfortable shoes instead of the strappy black ones that would have gone with her outfit (her daughter ragged about her wearing shoes that hurt her feet).

Pray for her family. Pray for her friends. She'd hate going to her own funeral; she never talked about dying and she hated being sad.

And the house still smells of lilies.

antipodes — 2006-05-05T05:05:14-05:00

There's no way to say that her death doesn't affect me any more--I scanned in a death certificate two nights ago and it sat oddly in the printer for an hour or two, and there were so many funeral flowers that the family couldn't take them all in the house and asked us to take some (we have two vases of lilies; one in the kitchen and one on the mantelpiece in the living room).

That, and her ashes sat on our kitchen table last night while we had coffee around her pretty lacquered wooden case (with inlaid wood, the kind you get in Sorrento) and talked about jet lag and mushroom soup and how much we missed things like Taco Bell.

I am so used to feeling vicariously involved in the natural turning of this weird world that situations in my life seem lonely and massive; hilariously solemn monuments to ant hills. Perspective! Perspective! Another cup of tea, another mug of coffee, another glass of wine, and we all seem to carry on well enough (or is it only that we must?).

How does one make the transition between writing about something so devastating as a grieving family and going back to the semi-normal lifestyle studying for exams and trying not to burn dinner?

Now, how to end the entry . . . I feel differently, having written this, but I'm not sure exactly what it is I am feeling now. Time to have breakfast, do last night's dishes, and work on my last weeks of modern poetry.

Today, the world; tomorrow, the COLLEGE ADMINISTRATION OFFICES!

antipodes — 2006-05-08T06:05:18-05:00

Today, I am one of those people who rush about clutching a stack of loose-leaf papers, spectacles a-flying, voice squeaking "I have a deadline!" every few minutes when the tension is too great for silence.

Delivering message
Sending data (70% done)

I get a lot of sympathy for this job; you wouldn't believe the halo polish I get from these offices. It's great. And, I'm graduating. I'm GrAdUaTiNg. Grad-u-a-ting. Gr4Du81nG.

Oh, right. "This job?" You have given me the scrunch-nosed question-y look. Why, yes, "this job". I am putting together our Graduation Programme 2006 (only it isn't spelled with the extra '-me' because that would be European and we are but tedious Americans).

Whee! This is my last week of B.A. classes. I had a strange vision of finally being in graduate-level classes and only being able to sit and weep into my textbook with the supreme happiness of being intellectually stimulated.

Now, if I can only get back to the paper on Literacy and Identity: King Alfred and the Anglecynn that is due Friday, perhaps I will be able to graduate this year.

I spoke metaphorically. My metaphor was drawn from . . . bees.

antipodes — 2006-05-13T11:05:57-05:00

If I were to say "a large Wagnerian mother", what would you immediately think to say?

I know a few of you would think to say "what?!" immediately, one or two might giggle, and a few, precious few of you will cry in chorus: "with a voice that shatters glass!" in a spoken decrescendo that belongs entirely to Rex Harrison.

Some random surfer will tangent to Oscar Wilde and say something about doorbells.

While you are all thinking about that I'm going to finish up my last assignment (and I mean last until graduate school). Must remember to go grocery shopping yesterday. I mean tomorrow.

Summer is here; a fact causally related to the fact that I am slowly melting.

antipodes — 2006-05-23T07:05:09-05:00

Went shopping downtown yesterday, and by downtown I do not mean in a mall or on a single or double row of impressive glass and cement buildings with shiny glass windows full of black, white, and ivory fabrics. No, I mean in downtown Naples. Naples, Italy. To wit: Napoli. And boy, am I not kidding.

The cobblestones are hot and dusty--they reminded me that my house would slowly become filled with the same slimy dust that I will unfortunately have to deal with this summer (since the lady that has kindly come regularly to clean the bits of our house we don't get to often is going to Russia to visit family; what an awkward parenthetical remark). Anyway, it was dusty.

There are churches and old buildings everywhere, on which most of the facades are crumbling away; a good deal of them show the smog pretty badly, all shadowed in the wrong places by black smudges and drips; perhaps as if the rain that falls on them is always black.

Can I even describe the carved doors, the amazing bright fabrics and beaded miscellany that even I, as a woman who quite enjoys being a woman, did not recognize? No; no, I cannot. Because I'm at work today. But not right now; right now I'm on break.

I did discover that I have a taste for Fortuny silks and velvet jackets, though, and that is very expensive and delightfully Olde Worlde in the best sense. More on that later, though.

Summertime, and the livin' is [qu]easy.

antipodes — 2006-06-05T05:06:17-05:00

I've graduated magna cum laude with a B.A. in English. Rebelliously, I added "Literature" to the programme and my pronunciation card, but it says just the one word on official documents. The ceremonies are over, my application is running about Ireland smiling happily at admissions offices, and I am now out of my allergy medication.

So I'm back at home, sick and tired and checking off major life events from my to-do list.

Today is a keeping-up day; I have things to check up on and other things to almost complete, and some things to discourage completely--like the dishes. I think the dishes ought to learn to control themselves.

Despite the moving progress of this week and the boxes on my Life Events checklist that I can now check off, I do have important things to do. I am planning on getting a pedicure, a manicure, and a new bottle of lotion by the end of the week. I'm flying to an island to teach a class this weekend, and then I am flying to the U.S.A. the day after I get back. How weird is that?

I've been forced to go shopping, been forced to think about sandals and capped-sleeve t-shirts and when I can pull cash from the bank for my sister's wedding present. All this through a haze of cappuccini and tissues.

Yes, I do have stories, like I promised, but I'm so tired that I'm sure you will forgive me a lapse.

Earthy Things

antipodes — 2006-06-06T06:06:44-05:00

Today reminded me of when I used to work at a little boutique shop in California--it was full of iron and wood that had been painted white and distressed to a state of comfortable shabbiness, also things one might see in a woman's bedroom, or an open library, or an indoor garden.

I liked almost everything from there, except for the Christmas ornaments. The music was nearly always Enya (not bad store music), and I got to read when nobody else was in the shop; the summer days I sat by a window with my book in that shop were quite something delightful. The postman said he knew when he'd woken me from a book, after the third time I'd started at the sound of his knock on the back door. I subsisted almost entirely on strawberry-honey lemonade from a lunchy place up the street.

Women in linen shirts and wrinkle-free trousers would come in and spend $300 at the drop of a hat, or by the casual recommendation of a friend. Others would come in every few days to look at a single item, smell all the tinned candles, and hum to half a song before smiling quietly and sidling out the door to come in the forty-fifth time and buy something entirely new. A few hard-nosed men came in and claimed to have ordered something, and some newly married men would come in and look approvingly at the dark wood bookshelves I had arranged picture frames and baubles on.

Not sure exactly why I was reminded of that, today--I think it was because it rained? But it rains often, couldn't have been the rain. Maybe it was that I saw our roses all tumbled about by the rain? And I wore a shirt like I used to wear then--haven't been much into chic summer stuff since, have I?

Dear Ms [Antipodes],

antipodes — 2006-06-07T07:06:57-05:00

I am very pleased to be able to report that at today's meeting of the course committee we agreed to offer you a place on the M. Phil. course in Medieval, Language, Literature and Culture, starting in October 2006.

I should say that this is an informal notification; you will receive formal notice of your acceptance from the Graduate Studies Office in due course and it will include the proviso that the offer is conditional on your successfully completing your degree. [They'll get my letter of completion any day now.]

I hope very much that we will see you in the autumn.

With best wishes,
[the guy at the college I've been in touch with, who specializes in Gottfried von Strassburg's "Tristan"]

[AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!! OH YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! YESSSSSSSSSSSSS! and w00t.]

To the U.S.A. for the first time in two years.

antipodes — 2006-06-13T03:06:34-05:00

I know I've been traveling way too far, way too much: packing for a journey of two weeks is something I'm not afraid to attempt in the space of four hours. Did I mention that my brain shorted out several months ago? No brains left. Not a one. Not a sliver, not a petri-dish of grey matter bubbling about under my frizzy head.

And I have a new favorite song; Antony & The Johnsons' "Bird Gerhl". I love all the songs on the V for Vendetta soundtrack, but this is the best (right now, anyway). So sad. Unfortunately, I'm at one of those times in my life when it seems natural to be over-emotional, so I'm applying just about everything to me, personally. Not that this song fits logically in my life, but I'm writing a story, and I feel that my main characters need this song.

Rather, I'm very attached to this characters and . . . well, I'm attached to them.

This story is occupying a lot of my thoughts, between teaching and taking classes, between awkward conversations and boring speeches (both given and slept through), on bus rides and walks up the stairs late at night, sitting in ceremonies and those pauses in the dinner conversation when you know that everyone is just trying to keep up a pretense of coping.

It's a tired story, and I don't want to write it because I'm going to break myself on it and tell it very badly and probably cry when I write it. (So emotional.)

I'm going to the U.S. tomorrow, for my sister's wedding. I'll be there for a few weeks. If anybody wants to meet me, I can be found hopping from coffeeshop to coffeeshop, trying out the armchairs and chapters of books I may or may not have brought with me.

It's summer in midwestern America.

antipodes — 2006-06-16T07:06:34-05:00

I can hear the windchimes on the porch, the wind in hot green trees, and the my grandmother, my mother, my aunt, and my cousins all singing in the kitchen--old hymns so written on my heart and new songs we are sharing . . .

We're having dinner--a broccoli and cauliflower salad (with sunflower seeds and bacon bits), a fruit salad with dates and honey (Grandma said she learned how to make it that way because they had to ration things in the second World War), and pork on the grill ("I'll go help your dad," said my uncle, escaping with a beer and a sunglasses to the porch where my father was flipping some meat on the grill, obviously needing a lot of help.) . . . I'm sure there will also green beans. There are always green beans.

The smells of water from a garden hose, hot sun on green grass, and the kind of hand soap that never gets my 9-year-old cousin's hands clean . . . these smells are all outside, and the sweet smells of salads and iced tea are all inside the kitchen. Everyone but the men are in the kitchen, and we outnumber them, anyway.

In a few minutes we'll all gather round and join hands, say a prayer, and eat.

Yar!

antipodes — 2006-06-21T05:06:07-05:00

Don't tell me I don't need coffee; I'm a bridesmaid! I need coffee!

Watery hotel orange juice and free wireless; America the beautiful.

antipodes — 2006-06-23T09:06:41-05:00

Texas is one big hub of air-conditioned units in the middle of some live oak and manicured lawns. That's what it seems like. Oh, and strip malls full of conspiratorial communities that find their homes in coffee houses, knitting shops, and nail salons--how are they so closed and tiny, I wonder? I do understand, though; the world is so big! It is easier if we keep ourselves blockaded.

Interesting, though; bridesmaids' duties are less and more than you might think--I've had to do very little crafty work (in comparison to what I've done for other weddings) and a lot of socializing that I feel I'm almost used to now. It is pleasant to be the extended sibling, though; I am not really expected to know people's names yet, and yet I'm still expected to be young and easy under the apple boughs (and/or Starbucks awnings).

So far, I've gotten through a basket of Jordan almonds, three baskets of silverware, a yarn shop, a rehearsal, a rehearsal dinner, and 2/3 of The Travels of Marco Polo (by the man himself). And a Walmart, an HEB, and several harrowing hotel breakfasts. Oh, gross.

Nobody will let me help cook (even if I offer to chop onions), although I am allowed to wash dishes and drink Italian espresso, which our Neapolitan preacher makes on a clandestine stovetop burner for a select few (since the coffee maker is so darn small).

I think my reputation has been established as an eccentric, and a bunch of people seem to be in awe of me for reasons I can't make out. Still, this means I surprise everyone with everything I do, and I'm able to get away with a bunch of stuff I wouldn't be able to otherwise.

Back to the world of white, cream, pins and pokey shoes; and American coffee shops where my new brother-in-law gets me free coffee. Gotta love that Jake. He's marrying my sister, you know. In about . . . ten hours.

To everyone who has written me: I miss you and I'll write you back as soon as I have time to think. No, blogs don't take time to think.

Our Hero takes this opportunity to frighten innocent tourists.

antipodes — 2006-06-30T06:06:54-05:00

I've discovered by terrible default that my memory is slipping. Short term memory, mostly (I think?), and I think it is probably because of stress--one of the short term effects of stress, maybe. It is frightening to be left helpless by my mental faculties, but I think it is a clever way of telling me not to overload with so much information. It hurts when I don't remember what I've said or what I have done, though. Just find myself sitting someplace wishing the world would stop turning for a few minutes so I could get my balance and bearing.

Much has happened since I last wrote (that phrase would enter into this blog even if it had only been an hour later than my last entry).

I'm not sure I could tackle describing the wedding, but let it be said that my sister and her new husband have a personality all their own; the bride entered to the sound of Sigur Ros, the groom wore Chuck Taylors with my dad's old tux from high school . . . satin lapels complete. I kid you not. I had a crazily wonderful time laughing at myself and everyone (though mostly the former), but I must admit my home is in humming and cleaning up after the revelers.

The wedding was otherwise eventful and interesting, but I won't go into it. Too much there I don't feel like rehashing on a blog; it would make this blog like many other blogs: full of drama and emotional [insert appropriate derogatory noun here]. I shall let rest with the catchy phrase "all's well that ends well".

Been into a chain of mood swings, lately, and have decided that moving to a place where the weather is full of rain would do me a world (and I do mean "a world") of good. It will be nice for a change. I think. Maybe. Except I will miss my cat.

I'm in an airport, writing this, and people keep looking over my shoulder asking whether there is wifi around. Do I look like I want to share with these freaks that I miss my cat? Do I? No, I don't think I do. I think I smell like sweat and my feet are swollen and I want a good Italian caffe at Gambrinus chased by a cool and unsmelly train ride home to a cat and a clean house. So STOP LOOKING OVER MY SHOULDER, YOU FLIGHT ATTENDANT WITH THE BLACK HAIR! That's right. I mean you.

Also got some recordings of my mother's family singing old favorite gospel songs, which I need to edit and put on cd for everyone. And photos. And finish up some work that I'll have to sign off on in order for people to get their grades. And finish a bad article in my anthology. (You wouldn't think psychoanalysis mixes well with Old English literature, would you? Yes, of course you are right; it doesn't.)

On reading: I've finished "The Travels of Marco Polo" and am now on Tolkien's translation of "Sir Gawain and the Green Knight", as well as my anthology of articles on Old English literature.

p.s. will respond to comments when jet lag takes off.

Our Hero pads about the house on tile floors with a large mug of espresso & milk.

antipodes — 2006-07-02T05:07:39-05:00

Coming back to Italy is such a relief.

People don't get road rage here. Even if there is traffic, it is considered an existential phenomenon and accepted with humor. Yeah, people get frustrated, but how mad can you get when traffic control is a community effort? It's funny.

Vegetables are fresh. I couldn't eat the salad tomatoes in the States; they were hard and powdery and dyed and dry. I'm not afraid to order a salad here, either; I can identify everything in it from the artichoke hearts to the french fries (yes, I said french fries). I didn't even feel good, eating in the States. Italy feels better on my stomach, and it isn't just the coffee!

Don't make me get started on the coffee. Because I will. Oh, I will.

The other thing is that we have tile floors in my house. I can sweep, mop, and move things without fear of large and dusty rhinocerae that attack from under linen cupboards or chests of drawers. The tiles feel cool on my feet in the morning when I wake up and the air is thick and hot with dust and sunlight. At night, when I wash up and pad about the house doing the last lock-ups and emails in the cooler-but-still-too-warm air (smells like detergent and herb gardens), the tile is cool and restful.

Going to bed at night, I can hear the church bells from our little church down the hill at the oldest part of the town. Granted, they do compare to the sweet hot smell of fresh mown grass and the sound of trains going through the American midwest, but there's no adventurous sound to these bells; they are peaceful and staid and preside benevolently over our quaint piazzas and worn stone buildings, our chipping plaster and clean windows and our quiet cobblestones and asphalt.

This is not to mention the dim afternoon cafes, where it is alright to walk slowly and stare into space while you enjoy the cup of art and view of the street/bay/mansion/small town outside. I realize at Starbucks how strange it is to have to know exactly what you want, and then why you should have a book, activity, or conversational partner if you are going to take up a chair and table. You can't sit down in Italian cafes most of the time (Well, the scopa-playing old men do, but it isn't a chic thing to do to sit and rest. There are no soccer moms here.) but the coffee is good. Plus, customizing your coffee is easier and they don't have all those weird and funky, sugary add-ins.

I can't wait to go to Gambrinus and Galleria Umberto and read Dante from the hammock on my porch, where I will be accosted by a small gang of boys who have lost their ball in the orchard, the mama di Lina who will want to know how we liked the sausage she gave us, our American neighbors who always have something to share, and a host of other characters that have become so familiar in my time here.

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan his stately [graduate dorms] decree.

antipodes — 2006-07-06T06:07:48-05:00

Not exactly pleasure domes for the utterly conventional (they are all non-smoking and drunkards are not admitted within the college gates) but they have graduate dorms with . . . KITCHENETTES! That is exciting to me. Especially it will be exciting if I am able to procure one.

Jet lag has not left me, but I'm back to my normal self enough that I am making tablespoons and tons and sticky glops of lists on my computer, getting detailed paperwork out of the way for my teaching job, my secretary job, and my future career as a medievalist. This is supposed to make me feel better about myself, but really all it feels like is plunging into unpleasantly cold water. Paperwork: ugh!

The things that have kept my smile on my face are graduation presents from my whimsical friends, my omnipresent mug of cold espresso & milk, and the bag of pine nuts on the table. (Graduation presents, check; caffeine source, check; pine nuts, what in heaven's name does she mean.)

The bag of pine nuts is making me happy because they are expensive and a popular ingredient in medieval cooking and somebody left them at our house over July 4th because half of them had been used for a pasta salad. The only rival I have is my mother, who will want to use them for pesto. How will Our Hero cope with this new trial by pesto!? And how much do her medieval recipes need, anyway?

Our Hero downloads a bunch of Bobby Darin & Frank Sinatra from iTunes.

antipodes — 2006-07-10T07:07:33-05:00

I was mean to someone today. I didn't mean to be! I just forgot who he was until he went away, and he seemed very disappointed that I did not remember that I bought him coffee once. Must get better at remembering faces, but I can't really get far in that if he would insist on being one of the billion people I took coffee orders for that day.

The dishes are half done, now, and for the long time readers who remember when I didn't have a dishwasher and used to write about the odd feeling of typing with pruny fingers: my skin just dries out now, no pruniness whatsoever. I would rather the pruniness to the dryness, I think. What is happening to the world!?

I should write about the craziness in my neighborhood, after Italy won the World Cup. But I'm tired. Maybe later. It was my birthday that day, too, so many things happened.

The sustaining moment was, for me, the image of Gran Cafe Gambrinus in the sun of a summer afternoon, roses in their vases on the marble tables and my chair by a comfortably open but shaded window, the breeze meandering through and the coffee mmm so good. This is a place in which it would be nice to read.

Our Hero has used up her quota of creativity for the day.

antipodes — 2006-07-15T05:07:07-05:00

I'm surprised at how much of my mother's daughter I am becoming. We had a welcome home dinner, tonight, and I cooked. I cooked a big meal only knowing the day of! Oh yeah.

So we had bacon-wrapped seared steaks with oven-roasted rosemary potatoes and carrots glazed in brown sugar, preceded by tapenade (no I don't know how to pronounce it) of feta cheese and two kinds of olives and succeeded by toasted-pecan/banana/vanilla ice cream sundaes with butterscotch syrup. With iced tea and sodas to drink.

I'm feeling culinarily competent at the moment, not because the dishes are difficult in themselves (very simple things to make) but because I did them ALL AT ONCE AND THEY ALL TURNED OUT TO BE EDIBLE AND READY ON TIME when people got home so all they had to do was sit down.

THAT is worth a coffee or two.

And it is also about the only useful thing I've been able to accomplish while I've been back. (Not really, but it feels that way now.)

If anybody has the time, inclination, and faith, please put a prayer out for me--I'm in a bit of a muddle and could use some guidance. On a bunch of issues, actually.

Our Hero makes an uncivil artistic inquiry.

antipodes — 2006-07-20T07:07:59-05:00

Once, in Dublin, I beheld a sign painted on the closed shutters of a building marked "Civil Arts Inquiry" and this is what it said:

ART CHANGES PEOPLE
PEOPLE CHANGE THE WORLD

I agree with this. I think this is why it is important to create art. A song on a lonely road, a night at the cinema, a painting that captured the imagination; these things change people in a major way. And that changes the world: oh, how it changes us . . .

Here's the other side of the shuttered doors:

WE ARE DOING NEW WORK
AND THAT IS OUR
DOWNFALL

Now, the whole point of modernism is not really too much of anything definable excepting that it breaks from its past in a major, groundbreaking way. That's how the oddly geometrical, cubist paintings came out, how E.E. Cummings could be so hideously irreverent, and how Ezra Pound could mix a thousand myths and feel like he didn't have to explain himself. It was new and it was shocking.

Was. It was new.

Reactions to modernism can also be considered modernist even if nothing else in their philosophies agrees with another. Gerard Manley Hopkins' reaction was to retreat to an even more ancient past, to early strains of the English language. Was that modernist? There are other questions to this, too; how big of a break does it have to be? does it just have to do with style or is it thought also? a mixture of the two, perhaps?

I've always operated under the principle that there really is nothing new under the sun, and that thought colors my perspective on most subjects; these stenciled shutters make sense to me, though.

We consistently try to find truth and show it to others in a way that will reach them where they are. We try to disarm and dismay people with our swords of truth and beauty (and whatever other principles we stand for at the moment). That happens in art--from Titian to Picasso--but the newness wears off, becomes faded and shabby. Who is shocked by Andy Warhol's bright Marilyn Monroe pictures now? What is it to us to pick up a copy of Walt Whitman's writhing, hot verses?

I wonder, sometimes, whether my work is also my downfall. No, no, no; it isn't. I'm not writing new things. I'm writing for people to know the truth--I'm writing for them to want the best for other people. I'm writing to help people understand why other people do things. And humanity is humanity the world round; my writing will be culturally dated, it will be stylistically accounted for and conceptually mundane, but I will change the world in my own small-but-maybe-artistic way. I am doing real work, and that is my salvation.

Our Hero journeys in Bookham and Dublin.

antipodes — 2006-07-29T06:07:24-05:00

For my last three nights here they moved me to a tiny room on the first floor that looks out on the courtyard of the hotel, a garden spot of green saplings and ferns and paved in old red bricks. There's two floor-to-ceiling windows that take up most of one wall and they look out onto foot-wide balconies on the level of the purple-red starry leaves of Japanese maples. Yesterday the scene was beautiful in the shade of a metropolitan afternoon, but today it was a miracle to wake up to, sparkling with a mist of rain and fog.

Within the courtyard the outside noises of the city buses and street traffic are muffled, and the sounds of the seagulls crying becomes magnified and lonely. The secluded feeling doesn't last too long, though--not if you don't want it to: late in the evening, the pub around the corner has old and familiar Irish tunes music playing (I can hum to almost all of them, and I'm not even Irish), and people that laugh and talk as if they were friends. I suppose you could close your window to that, but it is too relaxing for me to deny.

The hotel rooms have good tea, here, since Bewley's has an enormous presence in the city. So many nice cafes in this city--Bewley's in the foreground of history and mahogany atmosphere, Butler's Chocolate Cafe (raspberry sorbet truffle is my favorite), Insomnia Cafe (the Irish version of Starbucks)--and there are so many more. I'm sitting at a cafe called Coffee Society (they make their iced cafe latte exactly like I do at home), though I'd rather be sitting at the Winding Stair Bookshop and Cafe (unfortunately closed for some kind of construction; very depressing).

Why am I here and not out rushing to get things done? Why am I not in queue with forty or fifty tourists outside of a national monument or multi-media display? Because, darling reader, I have been here before and I have been here for a week. I actually lied to the customs officer at the airport, telling him I came for business when really I came for pleasure . . . and I have succeeded in both. The graduate admissions offices of TCD were pleased that I asked questions and came at the right times and did what they asked, and so was my course coordinator (who, when I knocked on his office door and asked if he remembered me from our e-mails, said "A'carse Oi du!" which, in English accents, means "Of course I do.").

After that lengthy process of several days going in and out, interspersed with the purely pleasurable side of dragging a dear friend about the campus and especially the Old Library, I have muddled through several processes of the financial aid and accommodation varieties and now I find myself safe from all alarums of procrastination. The things I came to do, I have done.

Dublin has finally decided to be itself and admit to raininess and wet cobblestones all of today. That reminds me of what happened getting off the plane here: the struggle with straps, zippers, seat cushions, and water bottles was figuring itself out nicely at the airplane doors when I witnessed several young men step into the twilight and let out a string of hideous, conventional, and ungrammatical profanities. Surprised and slightly indignant as I looked around for the victimized children I had seen at the boarding gate (thankfully asleep on their parents' shoulders), one of the perpetrators shrugged himself into a track jacket and muttered in tones of Irish disbelief; "It's still sunny!"

Not technically true since it was twilight, but the ground between the blades of grass was clearly dry and the air blew by in a hypoallergenic breeze. I, too, became depressed, but today as I slip-slid around the cobblestones on O'Connell Street and the quays near the Ha'penny Bridge (now important for the sentimental reason that my sister got engaged to my brother-in-law there), my mood lifted to a contemplative contentedness that created a firm resolve in me to find a cafe and in it to scribble and write home and consider finding some dry postcards on which to boast to my friends.

I've finished my anthology on Old English literature and am now moving with infinite delight through a new favorite book: "The City of Dreaming Books" by Walter Moers. It has just recently been translated from the German, and I tell you it is a masterpiece of creative writing. It rivals Calvino's "If on a winter's night a traveler" in love of books, but it is healthy whimsical and has much more to do with cafes and antiques and dragons and much less to do with sex and intrigue and grey buildings. I strongly recommend you run out in the lightning and thunder of your day to go on an adventure and buy this book.

Meanwhile, I'm going to sit in a cafe and read it . . . don't have much internet time until Tuesday, so do excuse me if I neglect responses till then . . . humm tee dee . . .

unnatural postscriptum

antipodes — 2006-07-29T06:07:48-05:00

Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody is playing on the radio, and almost everyone in the cafe is humming or singing to it. I kid you not.

They're showing LOST reruns in Dublin on RTE-1. Without me.

antipodes — 2006-07-31T10:07:54-05:00

So THERE I WAS, on a Ryanair flight with a copy of The Vision of Piers Plowman kept open in one hand, scribbling furiously away in the margins with the other hand . . . What, this isn't exciting to you? Well, fine.

How about that fact that MY IPOD IS LOSING HER BATTERY.

Or that C.S. Lewis decided Piers Plowman was too confusing and meaningless, when the editor and translator for this version I'm reading (Everyman) says that he whole aim of the poem is to say that only through living in and showing to others the love of God can we really understand the ultimate Truth of the world--that intellectualism will take you only so far--and that Lewis actually expounds on the same subject (although much more concisely and with infinitely less footnotes) in The Four Loves!?

Still not exciting enough for you? I thought at least THAT would be exciting. Sheesh. Tough crowd.

Well how about the fact that I'M REALLY BORING. Yes, my friends, I've decided that in the late hours of the evening, my brain synapses take time off for ridiculously long midnight snacks and coffee breaks . . . some of them are probably stopping by the laundrette to check on their load of dark coloreds in the dryer . . . maybe another one is at 7-11 getting a $0.79 slurpee. I'm not sure. I don't make them give me hall-passes.

Anyway, it's one of those nights. I'm tired and I miss being home: I know I have been away too long when I miss washing dishes. Yes, I'm writing this on the plane, and people glancing in very now and then will be disappointed to see yet another blogger, humming away in a hoodie in some outlandish place.

Our Hero observes canned soups and photocopiers and people who act like them.

antipodes — 2006-08-07T10:08:38-05:00

Lunch hour at the office is never very interesting. It feels as if we've been dropped into an unnaturally grey and artificial atmosphere and are somehow helping people live their lives more easily by eking out our meagre existences in a photocopied misery, broken only by short stints of what can hardly be called "time" making our offices smell of mayonnaise and honey-ham and other prepackaged, preprocessed, prepuked foods. Needless to say, we all have coffee after "lunch".

I have been running from office thru office by offices to another office or group of offices that might be able to give me letterhead, customs forms for strange and glossy textbooks, or the right amount of photocopying materials.

Or faxes. How I hate faxes.

Tonight I shall go home, and back a few more boxes to go away to other people or to come along with me to university. It will be dusty not only from August-dust but also book-dust, and at least that will be some comfort.

Also I will have to eat a brownie (if you don't call that divine inspiration, then you are certainly an atheist) and watch a silly movie with my sister as I pretend to fold my laundry but really only try to lure the cat onto my lap.

Meanwhile, I'm on a break for a moment while my first-up boss is on the phone, now that I've finished packing up the workbooks and folders with their obsequious glossy papers and brazenly ugly photocopies. I've been listening to my concept album of the Book of Kells (progressive celtic rock, if you can stomach that idea), which reminds me of the Long Room in the Trinity College Library in Dublin, and also reminds me that I don't have any word on whether I'll be able to stay on campus or not.

Boss is off of phone. Tally-ho.

A late and bewildered epistle from Our Hero.

antipodes — 2006-08-20T07:08:52-05:00

I'm at a time in my life when expectations of myself and others--for myself and others--are at a threshold of uncertainty. I'm the first of this generation of my family to graduate from college, which is exciting, and I get a lot of respect for that. People ask me to edit their papers, sometimes. However, I'm also at the stage where my neighbors and my parents all rib me about having obsessive infatuations with random locals. Am I twelve? Did I miss something?

I find myself retreating further into daydreams. That's healthy for me--I recognize that about myself; familiar books, familiar worlds, familiar cocoons of safety I can emerge from clean and ready to survive. Surrounding oneself in books is not always a terrible thing, especially when the books are clean and sweet and work better than shopping trips, traveling, or binge drinking.

I also find myself getting increasingly unable to deal with very strong emotions. Even the idea of "happiness" is so complicated.

Tomorrow holds work for me, holds dust and paper-cuts and sweaty, nervous polyester for me. I'll be mentally restless and emotionally chafed all day, drinking cold espresso through a straw and hoping I haven't botched my make-up past human recognition.

But I have my plane tickets. I know what I'm doing, where I'm going, why I am doing this, and I believe it will turn out in some way that will be worthy in the cause of Truth.

So, right: charging my ipod for tomorrow, making sure I have comfortable shoes and a good book to read over lunch hour, turning in the paperwork for my dorm room acceptance letter.

My friends, I have a kitchenette.

Anything goes 'xcept terrible prose.

antipodes — 2006-08-29T03:08:11-05:00

This is my 500th entry on Mindsay, and I'd like to commemorate that with a toast to all Mindsayers! Congratulations! May you all write blogs worthy of nomination of top bloggery!

Meanwhile, I will thank the heavens and all the airplanes and angels therein for giving me neighbors who compulsively bake and give away chocolate chip cookies, cookie bars, brownies, and other ambrosial derivatives.

Also I will get ready for tomorrow, in which I shall not do like I did yesterday and have a cheese & pickle sandwich for lunch at the British-ish-y "pub" near my temporary workplace.

Riding to work with one of my bosses will not deter me from going to find the coffee shop the moment we open the office. I will, of course, offer her a free cappuccino in exchange for holding down the fort.

My sustaining vision is the figure of me walking into a cafe from the freezing cold and windy outside, while wearing my heavy winter jacket and my favorite velvet scarf, ordering a hot chocolate with whipped cream and sitting down at a non-wobbly table to study for an hour or two with my ipod in and my imagination off of its dusty shelf and back in its niche in the middle of my collarbone.

Our Hero, N. Cog Kneetoe.

antipodes — 2006-09-08T11:09:09-05:00

And I'm back at work, reigning with an air of xeroxial authority over the tonermongering contraptions within the scraped-up whitewalls of our college office. Brochures flutter madly in their cages when anyone moves through our dim and narrow passageways.

Our accountant (un caffe normale), a kind man who coherently speaks and understands (among other languages) Italian, English, and Japanese, hums to himself and changes his scrolling marquee of a screensaver.

One of our representatives (diet coke) has modeled for Barbie and listens to everyone's problems with a sweet and sympathetic ear--the other one (also diet coke) talks to herself and has a dry wit that offends some of the students that are more lacking in the personality department.

The local program managers are of a more eccentric type; we have a J.D. who grew up in the Bronx (latte macchiatto with insane amounts of sugar, or an orange soda) and likes to take his wife out for coffee at frequent and spontaneous intervals throughout the day, and the former supervisor of domestic violence groups in therapy (schakerato) who now works with educators of small children (she is also an amateur gourmet cook and loves Indian curry).

Also there is me (usually, a cappuccino freddo) the substitute rep. who is humming behind desks and machines, bedecked in business-casual-worthy costume, gathering funds to purchase legal addictive stimulants in foreign countries wherein I shall study dead languages and the words of corpses and the crumbling artifices and stalwart ideals of a nonexistent society.

And everyone hums when Sweet Home Alabama plays against the smell of warm plastic and the sound of a thousand computer fans.

Our Hero sneezes her way to anticipatory glee.

antipodes — 2006-09-13T01:09:23-05:00

A little over a week until I struggle and juggle my bags through security, hopping through lines trying to put my shoes back on, clutching my boarding pass as I narrowly weave through a labyrinth of precariously balanced duty-free booths, and stride to the gate, to the bus, to the plane, to my seat, to anticipate my new life.

The temperature is going to be fairly mild in the 60F/15C area, and that means hoodies from day 1. A good sign. It looks to be fairly Irish weather, too, all rainy and clouded over, which bodes well for my anti-Italia allergies. My room is ready, my books will be shipped, my mother appeased, and for the occasion I consider myself justified as the recipient of a new toothbrush (usually I have to make up holidays to buy myself new toothbrushes, so this is really rather convenient).

I'm going away to teach this weekend, again, to the same place and the same material I taught last time I went off knowledgemongering but for a new group of students. That is exciting, since I might go to the cinema on Saturday night by myself. (I like going to the movies by myself.)

I'm. Almost. There.

Our Hero takes the night train from Sicily.

antipodes — 2006-09-18T03:09:09-05:00

A night train often has fold-out beds, like bunk-beds, in individual cabins that are crammed within larger sleeping cars. (Think the Hogwarts Express with blue bunk-beds and automated window shades.) This time they did not give me slippers or a stinky moist towelette, which did not bother me in the slightest.

The train I took left from a grimy downtown area from which I could still smell the animal farms that lay just outside the city. Of course, you can probably smell the farms from anywhere in Sicily--when we left our corporate classroom on lunch break I could smell them.

But the train, the train; I was talking about the train.

Lots of people say it is dangerous to take the train. I already made sure that in ordering my ticket I had procured a bunk in one of the cabins reserved for women and that I reserved one of the top bunks. In this way, you can see that I would keep my feet towards the door so that the intrinsic safety device of feetstink would keep intruders from proceeding, and if perchance a burglar were to have already lost his sense of smell due to having been Sicilian, Neapolitan, and/or a hardened criminal, the fact that I put my suitcase and rucksack against the window would make it very difficult for them to steal my dirty laundry and stack of sign language textbooks.

Last time I traveled this way, the women who shared my cabin were on holiday and relaxing. Two of them brought enormous shopping bags. This time I traveled with three other young women, all of us sleepy and suspicious and none of us wearing even a fake wedding ring or trying to act as though we were at ease. We called our mothers (in Italian, Spanish, and English) and let them know that we were safe, that we were on time, that the train was comfortable, that we were really okay, and that they should not worry, and that yes of course we would call them when we arrived.

The train was late and it was raining steadily and indiscriminately in Napoli when I arrived at the dear and familiar central station, Piazza Garibaldi. That ought to be contradictory, though, because most people I have talked to (and most tourist propaganda) says that Napoli is far more dangerous than Sicily. However, the feeling of coming home to Napoli is one of familiarity, even of safety.

Dashing across the street in a frogger-like game of potholes and Fiats, I had my traditional capuccino while simultaneously balancing my luggage on a slippery marble floor. Out of peer pressure, I got out my cell phone and called my mother to tell her I would be late arriving on the bus.

Then I hunted down the bus and fed it my ticket, holding on for dear life as it rattled and sped through the patchy cobbled and paved streets of the rainy, cluttered city. (If you come to Napoli, the S3 bus is a wonderful winter sport that everyone should take part in.) It is a familiar ride, like a favorite roller-coaster, and one that allows me to beam affectionately at familiar dusty windows and grimy convenience stores as we hurl past them, gaining momentum, and somehow climb the cobbled hills with their winding streets and alcoved shrines.

At the top of the hills near the end of the ride, when I knew this morning that I had indeed arrived home, I could see through a curtain of rain the sleeping giant Vesuvio.

Our Hero grins idiotically at the dublicious drizzling rain.

antipodes — 2006-09-21T02:09:32-05:00

Dublin is cool and windy, today . . . and the Guinness, of course, is wonderful. For some reason Guinness doesn't taste the same anywhere else.

The dorm room I'm in right now is of cement blocks, all white paint and grey plastic furniture with card-key doors that lead to decently-sized single rooms with a right and proper amount of bookshelves. The window looks out to a red brick building that may be grimy or just faded with time.

One of my dear friends called the settlement I was given quite "palatial", and though the room itself is more like a military bunker, there entirety is definitely a palace. There are four rooms in a cul de sac of the floor with two bathrooms shared and a little kitchenette at the end. This is only temporary--I'm supposed to have a bit of a nicer room in a few days when the current occupant skips out of My Room.

And I've only got 20 minutes total online for tonight.

I'm going to toast to my friends with what's left of my half-pint of excellent Guinness, and wander back to home and bed. On the third floor.

Our Hero and her new lair of bookishness.

antipodes — 2006-09-27T07:09:12-05:00

I love this bookish and anglophonic coffee culture. Lots of sleepy-looking students reading novels and shuffling hand-written pages are gathered around tables at coffee shops where Ella sings the old familiars. This feels more like home than anything I've seen in the world yet. Of course, I'm bound to like this place the moment I get here, these Irish people with their paperbacks and their accents and and and their TEA!

In a little while it will all wear off and I will not feel so extremist. From a life of traveling I know that there will be ups and downs, but that at first it will seem like heaven, then hell, and then it will go back to being as close to earth as I have ever lived (which isn't to say I have have lived anywhere really near to earth, but the principle remains sound).

My room here at Trinity is gorgeous, painted a demure but cheerful yellow with white accents. The wood is lightly stained to golden, streaked in some places with darker colors because the finish has worn off or the wood has cracked.

The furniture consists of two chairs (one for the desk and one for watching downloaded TV shows), a long tablish desk, a bulletin board, and a large set of cupboards and my wardrobe that surround my bed. I have two reading lamps. There is a shelf that curls around a corner on the wall, and a small coffee table, and the cushions on the chairs are dark blue like the carpet.

My favorite (and therefore the best) part of the room is the window--it is a large window, almost to the ceiling, and covering it are two heavy blue curtains that run on a pulley to open and close. Outside the glass there's a city street, a fairly boring one, but above the buildings I can see the sky.

To the best of the best part: the windowseat . . . WHICH IS LINED WITH BOOKSHELVES!!! Wide enough to curl up in, long enough to not be cramped in, and enough room to be wearing slippers, a hoodie, and a haystack of blankets while covering oneself in a multitude of literature in various forms and manifestations.

Our Hero surreptitiously plans the production of banana bread.

antipodes — 2006-10-03T02:10:53-05:00

And I have pulled some strange muscle in my back. I'm not quite used to carrying shopping bags and cookie pans and rucksacks in the ways and with their contents being what they have been this past week. My back is just unhappy.

I have a class schedule that I'm wildly excited about, and only four other members in my entire program.

And I've had a very exciting day . . .

A cheese scone, some cheddar from the country, and a bowl of home-made carrot soup await me on the kitchen counter in my dormhole . . .

And also the unabridged audio of The Hobbit . . .

Also I can sleep in tomorrow and maybe go shopping for things with which to fabricate some banana bread, if it so happens that I might be able to sneak it into class on the first day that I might apologize in advance about my big mouth . . .

And I still have to do laundry tonight . . . or maybe tomorrow . . . nope, tonight . . .

Our Hero praises the delights of hoodies.

antipodes — 2006-10-05T07:10:19-05:00

I can now make espresso in my room. Don't tell housekeeping, or the kindly lady with the terrifyingly strong Irish accent will come and read me the riot act. If she ever needs to come into my room for any reason, she'll know right away, though; the smell of freshly-ground espresso beans does nothing to make itself discreet.

There is a lovely place not five minutes walk from here that sells cartridges for my fountain pen, and also other lovely writing instruments and things on which it is nice to write.

The students' union bookshop has decided to open (spontaneously, I might add; I've been told more than once that there is no bookshop on campus) and there is a new coffeespot on campus--and on the way to the laundrette, I might add--creatively called Java City. This means that Penguin Classics and badly made espresso lie also within my grasp.

Meanwhile, I have been reading The Once and Future King. It is so very amusing and very serious all at once that one hardly knows whether to laugh, cry, or remain distantly and literarily amused.

Our Hero awaits her first class on Tuesday while under water.

antipodes — 2006-10-08T09:10:11-05:00

There is a Starbucks on the way to the church that I go to, and the windows in it are so tinted that when you look out, the whole world looks like it is under water. Dublin being itself, and heartily full of drizzling rain and puddles, is a strange accomplice in the feeling of and damp and dusty, corporate isolation.

Just about the time somebody gives you your cup of warmness, the tram goes by and about a hundred people split up into little metallic tubes shuttle past at a businesslike speed, gazing out through the water to where you sit in the cheery glow of an impersonal hospitality. The children wave, and the mothers are wise enough to giggle, and then they are gone.

And then I am gone, back into my book or back through muscles to my fountain pen and back up again to my thoughts.

I love how it is cold outside but I wish I'd thought to bring my winter coat. I love being alone and I love reading, and so far I am finding a good few people to talk to about it all.

Our Hero goes a-hunting of books rare and dangerous.

antipodes — 2006-10-11T11:10:42-05:00

I have been book-hunting. It's a remarkable adventure, here in Dublin, since the culture is collegiate and commercial all at once--the city centre lies quite litera(ri±l)ly outside the front gates of Trinity College.

Along with the popular bookstores of the UK (Waterstones, Eason's, and Hogdes & Figgis--among others, I'm sure), there are many small indigenous bookstores lurking around cobblestoned corners and hiding from all but the wariest and determined reader.

Also there are bookstores that have remained respectfully discreet or resentfully political, all gathered in old buildings and the upstairs rooms of music stores, sometimes with cafes attached, and sometimes with distracting armchairs (I was corrected, today, by a bookseller--they are not "distracting" but "lulling").

The Winding Stair. Books Upstairs. (Untitled bookstore above a music shop.) The Secret Bookshop. Anthology Books. Green's Books. Connolly Books. These are not even covering the bookstores attached to museums, galleries, and specialty libraries.

Which brings to mind my first class . . . our primary instructor for palaeography uses phrases like "a safe book" and "a nifty, nifty use of Virgil" with a midwestern American accent that has been in Ireland for the past several decades.

I have a library pass until I get my student card. There is a geology student next to me, a partier next to her, and a geography student next to him (them?), and then we have a few more mouse-in-the-wainscot-type students across the hall from us on our floor.

I made banana bread with walnuts and chocolate in it for the first day of class (the grocer laughed at me when I explained that I wanted chocolate chips to put in bread) and today, all over Dublin, for some inexplicable reason all the soups-of-the-day are variations on tomato (pronounced toe-MAH-toe).

Our Hero dons a knitted hat.

antipodes — 2006-10-13T10:10:09-05:00

Feeling a bit over-read and under-thought, Our Hero goes to a cafe to settle the balance of her mind with a duel of Augustine and caffeination.

I love that you can sit down in cafes here. I love it, and I heart it. There is even one called The Reader's Cafe, which is above a bookshop and has large tables where you can spread out your things in a lovely mess of bookishness.

Which is where I am going now. Excuse me.

Our Hero plays a scholarly tarot with her Latin flash-cards.

antipodes — 2006-10-14T01:10:11-05:00

The ablative case first declension endings tell me that I will remember things forgotten (v. good; I haven't been in a Latin class since I was 11).

The second declension masculine nouns tell me that I really ought to be paying more attention to the international student pub night set up by the GSU. They are a Dionysian cult! Eat drink and be merry, for tomorrow we all have thesis deadlines.

Humm . . . I see among the cards a conjugation of the verb "to be". Does this imply some existential truth about my place in humanity or am I telling my third floor flirt's totally optimistic fortune . . . ? I must be missing something. (An accusative case neuter noun corrects me. SHE'S A LESBIAN!?)

Ah, here is a misplaced vocative second declension neuter card, which is unlabeled. Luckily I know that it was misplaced, so that barb goes without subtlety into the pile of cards I must rewrite.

One of my cards has turned into one of a plethora of buy-9-get-1-free Butler's Chocolate Cafe cards. Somehow this strikes me as realistically significant and--indeed--immediately applicable.

Oh dear, I can only find one shoe.

Our Hero raises an eyebrow at today's best conversation starters.

antipodes — 2006-10-17T02:10:22-05:00

"Are you deaf?"

Out of context, it sounds funny, but really it was just because I met two American deaf women at the coffee shop where I get my internet fix. I haven't talked to a fluent signer in a long time, but I think from their accents they were from either the north-west or the mid-west United States.

"I thought only three people shared a kitchen."

This from the flatmate I had not met yet; a fourth (out of six) year medical student who goes home Kildare on the weekends. He was eating something frozen, which he claimed was "soom chickehn crahp". That made me laugh (as I pulled out my medieval-ingrediented pasty with home-made pastry lid).

"Have you ever tried the boxing machine thingy at the gym?"

A very sweaty-looking young man from across the hall said this to me as we passed each other at the front door (I was looking to see if I got anything at the post box: I didn't.). I don't know what he meant by it; there is no way I could fit in a sports bra next to my Riverside Shakespeare. I gather that his next statement was a repetition of the same message in different words. ("It was the hardest thing I've ever tried!")

The next one will probably be someone asking me how to work the clothes dryers because they don't have them in Africa or Greece or Reykjavik, or maybe if I have any extra washing powder because they will have inevitably and fortuitously forgotten theirs. But I am not fooled. I shall take Augustine or Boethius and frighten them off with their silly Easy Sudoku! puzzle pamphlets.

The crest of Trinity College, Dublin (my university) has an open book on it.

antipodes — 2006-10-19T12:10:06-05:00

Yesterday was one of TCD's semi-annual book sales. It so happened to be immediately after one of my Old English classes, which made my attendance mandatory. Please don't pester me about logic.

Lots of dusty, musty books that smell good and are all less than €1 . . . walking around with the others from my classes (I shall have to give them names, soon) who appreciate such things . . . that feels a lot like home, especially when we all end up milling about with piles of books, grinning in a fondly sentimental way at each other's books as if they were adorable children.

Since I volunteered to help (i.e. carried one box) I got five free books. And then they made up a job for me to sit at an entrance and guard it from thieves, so I got a free pastry from one of my favourite cafes and a place to read my books without being bothered by waitress staff. LOOK WHAT THEY DO TO THEIR STUDENTS! FREE BOOKS! FREE PASTRIES! READING TIME! I AM GOING TO STAY HERE FOREVER.

Oh, all right; fine:

Emma by the loovly Miss Austen
Pride and Prejudice by the same, a slim volume in a lovely green leather binding stamped with gold
A Tale of Two Cities by the excellent Mr. Dickens; one of my favourites because of Sidney Carton's speech near the end of the novel
Bacon's Essays done up by a man whose name I cannot now recall but who admirably tried to reproduce the original typeset from way-back-when the first few editions of this book came out.

Those, and a few others which may or may not be the property of Father Christmas and therefore must remain silent for the time being.

Anyway, I've just been on a brunch & puddle-jumping adventure with my other colleagues-errant and felt a bit more like home. They are good people, and I like them. You would like them.

Our Hero visits two markets on Saturdays. The first one does not sell teapots.

antipodes — 2006-10-22T11:10:09-05:00

I'm making chicken bother. Chicken broth, I mean.

And tonight I will make chicken soup to eat tomorrow night when it is cold and I have walked back across half the campus from the laundry with warm clean laundry and a sullied goodwill towards the mental competency of collegiate students.

Three loovly yellow carnations are €2 at the market on Moore Street.

It takes a good fifteen minutes to walk the couple of blocks straight up to, over, and past the widest bridge in the city centre and past the bullet-riddled statues and buildings of the main shopping drag to a side street where there are a good many more housewives and schoolgirls than you'd think necessary for a pedestrianised area.

The department stores are there; Roches, Debenhams, Dunnes, and a shopping centre whose name I now forget. There are also smaller stores that specialise in cheap shoes, girls' hair-things, fixing zippers, cheap and dubious hair salons, and shops where the luggage is perpetually on markered neon sale.

Down a side street from there they cry flowers, cucumbers, and fish. The flowers are what you see first.

On the sides of the stalls there are buildings huddled against the street that are most of them Asian markets that remind me of my schooldays, and salons that specialise in African hairstyles. There are also two butchers there, which is where I got my chicken for the chicken soup. In the stalls there are vegetables, candied apples, fruits of dubious quality, chocolate of foreign countries, and several fly-covered fish stands next to booths mysteriously full of cell-phone covers.

The whole place smells damp, full of the smells of fish and ripe vegetables and the cool scent of flowers mixed with the rainy everyday downtown smell of the cobblestones. The whole experience needs a cup of tea to finish it off roundly.

"What is a word?" / "The herald of the soul."

antipodes — 2006-10-28T08:10:23-05:00

Tomorrow I shall translate things from Latin, make soups to freeze for use during the rest of the week, and probably fall prey to a weakness I have developed for sitting upstairs at Bewley's a watching the world go by for a half-hour I keep dusted in the corner for Saturdays.

It being Saturday will mean that by the time I head off to market I will have slept late and the sun will outshine the street lamp that besieges my ugly curtains. I have been getting up and out of the flat before it is light to go to classes, which makes them sound awfully early even though they aren't, really.

I will probably see people I know, chat sociably and shallowly, and be too nervous to pay attention to what goes on behind the words of our conversations. On the other hand, I might have a restful, quiet time with one of those pleasantly comfortable, slow-moving conversations that takes its time over carrots and turnips and apple juice and the inevitable and horribly tempting pastry stands.

Much of the day, I expect, will I spend alone.

That is rather a difficulty because although I like to spend the time solving hypothetical riddles with my imagination I do not like the way my thoughts tend toward my self. They continue to wonder whether I do things right (not whether my heart is right) and what other people think of me (not incredibly important), so much so that once I found myself staring at my reflection looking for some physical blemish I could decry and agonise over. That is never good. I made a face at my pride and went to read a book (I would have deserved something Russian but chose a textbook preface instead).

It will be cold outside, and I shall wear my winter coat. And also maybe a scarf.

SEMPER UBI SUB UBI.

antipodes — 2006-10-30T12:10:10-05:00

I am not in sixth grade any more.
I am not in sixth grade any more.
I am not in sixth grade any more.
I am not in sixth grade any more.
I am not in sixth grade any more.
I am not in sixth grade any more.
I am not in sixth grade any more.
I am not in sixth grade any more.
I am not in sixth grade any more.
I am not in sixth grade any more.

Aaaaaand I am not finding my Latin assignments as fun as they once were.

For Joe: requiescat in pace.

antipodes — 2006-11-01T12:11:28-05:00

A good friend of mine has died. The circumstances are everything any of us could wish for; he was young, it was painless, he died in his sleep. It had been a good week--he was a successful musician and had just finished a playing a concert a night or two before. It was a Sunday morning, and they went to wake him up, and he was gone.

I'm glad our last conversation was a good one. I'm glad we could laugh, and I'm glad we felt heard, and I'm glad that we talked about things worth talking about. I'm glad that was our good-bye.

In fact, we even planned your funeral.

joe: haha
me: well, best wishes to you.
joe: it sucks
me: /me makes sign of cross over her doomed friend
joe: haha
joe: I know...I'm a dead man
joe: oh well...
me: I'll squack at your funeral. I mean sing. I'll sing at your funeral.
joe: haha
joe: play me a dirge, matey
01:00
me: I need a parrot for a dirge.
joe: haha
joe: and an organ made of pirate bones
me: oh absolutely.
joe: or we could do a viking funeral
joe: and put me on a buring ship that floats out to sea
me: burn you on a pyre!
me: yessss!
joe: haha
me: I'm all for it.
joe: haha
joe: elvish songs playing, I'm down
joe: heheh
me: heh.
joe: so long as I'm actually dead
me: oh. darn.
me: so next week won't work.
joe: haha
me: now I have to reschedule everything!
joe: sorry to dissapoint ya!
joe: haha

Dude. I am going to be hard-pressed to find an organ made of pirate bones around here. I mean, the parrot I could manage, but really . . . some people are so picky.

:)

I missed you already, all the way across the ocean. I miss you now, across a sea so much wider.

Our Hero likes the radiators under the desks in the 1937 Reading Room.

antipodes — 2006-11-10T07:11:52-05:00

I really must learn to control what comes out of my mouth. It makes me laugh and is hilariously humbiliating, but really . . . I must try to keep up some kind of professional or eccentric attitude that involves people laughing with me rather than at me. Or at least me laughing with--wait. Umm.

It's been a week of proud self-martyrdom, over here, full of very Dobby-like tendencies and embarrassing moments of my own design. I'm ready for it to end and for me to keep my mouth shut and buckle down to a lovely silent study of anything that isn't me. It will be funny later.

Mediaeval Latin is a bear. I know almost all the ins and outs of the laundrette (which proclaims me pathetic and fairly antisocial). I met a poet in the laundrette the other day. I can see the Book of Kells for free by showing my little green student ID card. The rugby pitch is close enough to my room that I can hear them grunting and shouting when I walk home at night. Sometimes when I eat lunch at the college's wood-panelled dining hall, I get to make faces at a large portrait of King George III high up on the wall. I give directions to tourists. I know a few other students around the college and we nod as we pass each other.

I love palaeography and reading old books and spending hours at a time in the library, glancing up from articles and texts to find the rain darkly smoking the windows and beyond the windows, the fading trees around the quadrangles.

Being alone for some of today was nice. I didn't think I'd be comfortable with it, but maybe I am turning into my old self again. And that is all to the good.

Our Hero almost missed her 3rd anniversary.

antipodes — 2006-11-16T10:11:37-05:00

I've been up late with Latin translations and Old English readings, and nearly missed the week of my third anniversary here at Mindsay. For my anniversary I will accept large bills in euro or Butler's Chocolate Cafe gift certificates.

I suppose I should reflect on years past. How about a nice statement about how much less of a purpose I feel like I have, now that I have attained some of my goals, and also an affectionate set of compliments to my friends both here and away? I think that would do nicely.

Meanwhile I will try to figure out some way to explain that I don't like Madeira even when it is served in tiny goblet-like breakables and in crystal decanters that reside in high-ceilinged rooms with velvet chairs and by people in academic robes who aren't afraid to talk about delightfully and ridiculously academic subjects of conversation.

And also, Antonio, how well Monty Python's dead parrot sketch illustrates Aristotle's potentiality and actuality of substance whatsits . . . our first lecture on medieval philosophy has been taught by an Irishman . . .

The Irish accent wishes you "'appy t'anksgiving!".

antipodes — 2006-11-24T03:11:27-05:00

And a fambly holiday has passed without my fambly. I am already accustomed to extraordinary holidays (one must be, living in my fambly) but it is odd and itchy without waking up to a sleepy companionship of cooks downstairs in the kitchen or hearing the same type of laughter that my fambly runs into inadvertently when the things inside us overflow.

I did not spend any of the surrounding holiday time wearing a raggy t-shirt over holey jeans, and kerchief over my hair, hands full of dishtowels and paring knives and potholders, a fact that makes me existentially uneasy. Something has gone Awry.

Living away from my mother reminds me just how good of a cook she is, not that I ever doubted her. How does the rest of the world get along without my mother, I want to know!

In my solitudinous holiday mood, I can be quiet and reflective and though I am very content amongst my friends it often comes across as sullenness, or unresponsiveness. This happened a few times during the day, and awkwardly, but I can't seem to find a satisfactory response without laughing at the sincerely concerned questioner, which isn't very nice.

Next on my schedule is the activity of purloining some hot chocolate mix from two doors down while he is occupied with his apparently belligerent xbox.

And then I ate a mince pie and took the train home.

antipodes — 2006-11-26T05:11:36-05:00

Hallo, darlings.

Heh. Some of you don't like being called that, do you . . . I can almost feel the bristling auras . . .

HALLO, DARLINGS!

Gigglesnork.

Ok. Cough cough. Calm down.

I miss my sisters. I am pathetic without them. Or maybe I just don't notice how pathetic I am when I am with them. I don't follow sports, I don't have a boyfriend, I don't like to argue politics, I'm movie-illiterate for my generation and I haven't read anything by Dan Brown. No wonder my social life is a bit odd. Perhaps I should stick to talking with mothers and madmen and inanimate objects.

Also I was given many fair compliments today; two of them were that one of the older ladies at church took me aside for a chat and said "How faithful you are, to come all by yourself every week!" (at which I nearly cried, since the hole that the companionship of my family leaves in my heart is quite a large and jagged one) and another one was that the delightful woman who gave me lunch today also introduced me to her family and garden (a special privilege).

And then I ate a mince pie and took the train home.

Now that I have taken off my warpaint and girded myself about with pyjamas, I can think about the future and Beowulf. Tomorrow is full of Old English and finishing up bits of Medieval Latin and also me running to an internet cafe to upload things to my website. Also there will be tea.

miss rika's MindSay Blog

well met

smokey colors and the feel of paper

o, fallacies are not for me!

P.D.B.W.

souls

a poem

richard II, V.v.

of an afternoon

respite from research

lessee...

sleep . . .

forevergreenman

rank status

"You are in fact Human?"

a song

sacrifices

the Magic

thanksgiving day

grateful nights

an embryo earth

beastly philosophy

darkening skies

the matrix: revolting

a lean and hungry look

*draws a blank*

stalling

petulant and guilty

pity, please

*yawn*

oh my. *laughs*

home on a weekend

waiting on an angel . . .

snowsnowsnow!!

monday; almost exam times

absolute bosh

using up time

I'M GOING TO KILL HIM!!!

page 92-93

an intuitive chuckle

blue-eyed ibbles

whistling beethoven

almost there . . .

just got to see me thru another day

origami sing-along

blithely giggling

last post of the day, I promise:)

enfolding wings

je-ru-sha ab-bott!

bleary-eyed mess!

WOOT!

event update

MONSTERPOST! *cough*

intermission

winter solstice

waiting for cats, with her son Jim

merry christmas:)

farewell for the present

introverting

panama

nostalgia . . .

time at home

Our Intrepid Hero *ahemcough*

lach en annûn!!

white boards and stackable chairs

if you give an N a pencil, she'll get distracted.

overcastness

"The sun shone and the clock ticked."

Curiouser and curiouser.

bigelow tea bags

rhinocerous jackets

L., E., & F.!

sniveling:)

haiging

harbingers of the new term

fond of quiet evenings?

long hair

an oddly lovely day alone

Shoddy Lands

a tugging at my heart

draws a blank

yawn

oh my. laughs

MONSTERPOST! cough

Our Intrepid Hero ahemcough