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How I spend my Saturdays
Here's what I find charming: entirely correct translations or attempts at writing in a second language that reveal the act of translation, the fumbling with a wriggling language. This, for example, was clearly written by someone with a slightly better grasp of French than English. It's grammar is almost perfect, it's spelling is entirely perfect ( Read more... ) -
So much has happened. Thursday endash Tuesday
I look at immature ceramic chalices of Leda and the swan by Gauguin. I listen to the saxophonist on the street, to Scott Mackenzie from the ice rink in the park, Are you going to San FRANcisco? People in motion.... I see scary French movies in vibrant monochrome all by myself, and I watch the dancers in the studios across the way practice their ( Read more... ) -
(Untitled)
This is what my family does on summer vacation without me.
Goddamn. I said, goddamn. (you know who that makes me think of? but that's another, longer ago story.)
My apartment is stone empty. Also, I am ill.
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Words rendered ineligible for use in final paper:
-travesty (why not?! so unclear)
-slackerly (Merriam-Webster said, No, bitch.)
Words used successfully in said academic treatise:
-despicable
-jack-rabbit
-sonofabitsch goddam
Still on the verge, still a friend glutton (not a friendly greedy whore; let's not get confused), still uncertain about things vaguely related to hypochondriac schizophrenia ( Read more... ) -
I should have fucking been a Fundies major.
What a legitimate pursuit that would have been (plus automatic cover letter material, obvi., a la Matt's Law letters + Cinema etc conundrum). But let's discuss: a spring quarter could be had on Shakespeare, Joyce, Virgil, Machiavelli, Wharton, Dante, Melville, or Mann. That I only discovered my predilection for lowbrow intellectual elitism (this ( Read more... ) -
Let's talk about yesterday's decadence.
Yesterday I came home around 11, looking like a tool in my snowy salty b-cas, from an interview whose tendencies toward informational or evaluative were championly unclear. To recover, I had to plan myself a lunch. Rigatoni, yes. With a fancy, fancy sauce. Whipping cream, goat cheese, pecorino-romano, garlic, butter, parsley, oregano, thyme, ( Read more... ) -
So I chose to write a paper on a poem that echoes how finals week so often makes me feel.
But it is a good poem, and it make me want to listen to Elliott Smith, and it makes me think about messy rooms and falling down and how I used to think about my funeral and like Harold and Maud and recently I was having a series of conversations about ideal methods of suicide. There is so much I like about poetry.
Aubade
by Philp Larkin
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Weather.com says that there will be fourteen hours and forty minutes of darkness tonight.
I look like a monster, but, two nights ago, I shot a man on University just to watch him die. Sometimes the swollen half of my face almost looks like Nicole Kidman, but less bony and stretched and with a far worse makeup job, and I think she might have blue ( Read more... )
