Hi. Happy New Years. Now, curl up with yourself and watch The Twilight Zone Marathon on the SciFi channel. Later, party @ RingaRingaRinga's and Jessses. Earlier, getting acquainted with my new iPod, which is the coolest piece of technology I will abandon an old fashioned record player for. (And I know that the record player will haunt me still!...) Anything the size of a deck of cards that can play music, with decent sound, consecutively and without repeat for 2 and a half weeks is pretty cool. Though, with its spacey metallic mirror back and steril white theme, I find it not as lively, as "personifiable" as the Haunted Record Player.
...
I did my hair with my new curling iron. It looks RAD! It's all funky and cool and yeah.
...
I was listening to Stories From the City, Stories from the Sea by PJ Harvey (on my cd player, mind you, I was doodling my hair, and the cd player may soon be coughing restless spirits) and I realized the album's theme of time and place. The whole thing is about falling in love (Oh, such an original idea) and then out. Still, it's my favorite PJ Harvey album. The songs that are the most "lovey dovey" are in past tense and set in the city, like "You Said Something" and "Good Fortune." Then, the sad ones are in present tense and are more psychological, take place in the mind. "We Float," you can say, is sort of predicts the future and is more bittersweet so to say. So, a combination of the past and present is the future? Hrm... Anyway, I thought that was good what she did, though, it seems kind of obvious to me now, but still, it could be subtle. And maybe Pajamas Harvey didn't mean anything like this at all and I am just weird. Though, I will keep it in mind~
...
Happy Birthday!
Friday, December 31, 2004
Monday, December 27, 2004
Where have you gone Clinton administration--
"They can't see us, we can't see them, we're all alone in this little shack," he said, as her bare feet shivered on the tangled vollyball net.
And then, she beat him, and the rest of them, off with her coral flipflop, sprinkled in Southern California sand.
***
Ms. P's glasses clung on the cliff of her bony nose as stow-away granuels of Southern California sand festered in the princess's penny-loafers, reminding her of the cause of the photos of a supposed party girl in nothing but a green skirt obsessing in rotten shacks...
I'm watching "The Princess Diaries"
______________________________________________________
Everyone see this movie
And then, she beat him, and the rest of them, off with her coral flipflop, sprinkled in Southern California sand.
***
Ms. P's glasses clung on the cliff of her bony nose as stow-away granuels of Southern California sand festered in the princess's penny-loafers, reminding her of the cause of the photos of a supposed party girl in nothing but a green skirt obsessing in rotten shacks...
I'm watching "The Princess Diaries"
______________________________________________________
Everyone see this movie
Sunday, December 26, 2004
Hello, Angela.
This is M31, better known as the Andromeda Galaxy, saying hello hello to you. I hope that you are looking forward to exploring the cosmos with me. Soon, we will be taking a mission to the center of your galaxy, the Milky Way, and visiting its BLACK HOLE. It shall be a long trip many lightyears long, so don't forget to bring extra underwear...
A bientot,
M31.
Our Spacey Adventures
A bientot,
M31.
Our Spacey Adventures
Thursday, December 23, 2004
Andrew was on his deathbed...
According to my mom, two weeks ago, Andrew, my pet betta fish, was close to death. I was at school still while my fish were already at home. My parents were left to feed them. I said to the parents weary of changing water and cleaning tanks, "All you have to do is feed them!" My mom insisted on using tweezers to drop in the amount of blood worms for the fishies. She said, "UGH, eww, I'm not touching those, it's gross!"
So, I was on the phone with my mom two weeks ago while I was at school, and she said that Andrew didn't look so good. She said he won't eat, but spit out his food. She said he had no color to him and that he would just lie on his tummy on the gravel all day. His fins were clamped tight to him, she said he looked like a little spear, an oil slicked little "shoootthh" and made a motion with her fingers like a swift pinching motion. She said, "I don't know Ange, I don't know if he'll make it." She also said that she tried talking to him. I laughed, because I can't imagine what my mom would say to a fish. She always talks about how she can't imagine having fish for pets, since she had always fished for lunch and dinner with her brothers and sister when she was little. So, my mom was at home, talking to a half dead fish.
When I came home finally, last Friday afternoon, Andrew did look pretty blassblass and pastey. But then, a miracle happened [A Christmas Miiiiiirical!]. I put my finger up to the glass and, as usual, Andrew swam up to it and kissed my finger with this little fishy mouth and flared at me with his fishy gills. There, all his fins fanned out and he swam circles all around the tank. My mom said, "Oh my goodness!!!" She insisted that he was seriously about to *cough* *cough* and X X. But, no, he was quite alive, and at the sight of my fingertip, he rejoyced and yay! living again!
I tell this because non-stop since last Friday when Andrew started tap dancing off his deathbed, my mom has talked about Andrew coming back to life. At least twice or thrice a day does she bring it up. I admited today that it is a little funny, that a fish seemed to recognize its owner so much as to stop pouting suddenly. Dogs and cats, and I bet even birds do that, but I would never imagine fish. So, here's to my mom, for feeding Andrew and talking to him (which she still does now, she yells "Hi Andrew!" while crouching down at his tank.)
And yes, fish do have feelings! He missed me, and I have to say, I missed him too during that week I was at school without him. Now, here we all are, to celebrate Xmas together, me, the fam, the dogs and cat, and the fish...
So, I was on the phone with my mom two weeks ago while I was at school, and she said that Andrew didn't look so good. She said he won't eat, but spit out his food. She said he had no color to him and that he would just lie on his tummy on the gravel all day. His fins were clamped tight to him, she said he looked like a little spear, an oil slicked little "shoootthh" and made a motion with her fingers like a swift pinching motion. She said, "I don't know Ange, I don't know if he'll make it." She also said that she tried talking to him. I laughed, because I can't imagine what my mom would say to a fish. She always talks about how she can't imagine having fish for pets, since she had always fished for lunch and dinner with her brothers and sister when she was little. So, my mom was at home, talking to a half dead fish.
When I came home finally, last Friday afternoon, Andrew did look pretty blassblass and pastey. But then, a miracle happened [A Christmas Miiiiiirical!]. I put my finger up to the glass and, as usual, Andrew swam up to it and kissed my finger with this little fishy mouth and flared at me with his fishy gills. There, all his fins fanned out and he swam circles all around the tank. My mom said, "Oh my goodness!!!" She insisted that he was seriously about to *cough* *cough* and X X. But, no, he was quite alive, and at the sight of my fingertip, he rejoyced and yay! living again!
I tell this because non-stop since last Friday when Andrew started tap dancing off his deathbed, my mom has talked about Andrew coming back to life. At least twice or thrice a day does she bring it up. I admited today that it is a little funny, that a fish seemed to recognize its owner so much as to stop pouting suddenly. Dogs and cats, and I bet even birds do that, but I would never imagine fish. So, here's to my mom, for feeding Andrew and talking to him (which she still does now, she yells "Hi Andrew!" while crouching down at his tank.)
And yes, fish do have feelings! He missed me, and I have to say, I missed him too during that week I was at school without him. Now, here we all are, to celebrate Xmas together, me, the fam, the dogs and cat, and the fish...
Monday, December 20, 2004
MC Hawking
MC Hawking made an album. He made 3 of them. Now you can buy the "Hawkman's" Greatest Hits on amazon.com, here.
I am very excited about this. This is the stupidest thing I have come across in a long time.
Meanwhile, you can email the real "Hawkman," Stephen Hawking that is, at
S.W.Hawking@damtp.cam.ac.uk
I don't know what anyone would say, since his official website gives explicit intructions on what not to email the man. Anyway, it may be fun. He just might email you back!
...
I am very excited about this. This is the stupidest thing I have come across in a long time.
Meanwhile, you can email the real "Hawkman," Stephen Hawking that is, at
S.W.Hawking@damtp.cam.ac.uk
I don't know what anyone would say, since his official website gives explicit intructions on what not to email the man. Anyway, it may be fun. He just might email you back!
...
Saturday, December 18, 2004
Stephan Hawking...
In this passed Sunday's New York Times Magazine, Stephen Hawking was briefly interviewed. Here are some of the things I thought were intereting:
NYT: What's your I.Q?
HAWKING: I have no idea. People who boast about their I.Q. are losers.
...
NYT: Are you always this cheerful?
H: Life would be tragic if it weren't funny.
NYT: Seriously, how do you keep your spirits up?
H: My expectations were reduced to zero when I was 21. Everything since then has been a bonus.
...
NYT: Do you believe in God?
H: I don't believe in a personal God.
NYT: What do you think of President Bush's plan to get to Mars in 10 years?
H: Stupid. Robots would do a better job and be much cheaper because you don't have to bring them back.
NYT: Do you think people will ever line on a planet besides Earth?
H: Yes, if we don't self-destruct first.
~
I like him. I would love to have lunch with him because I bet chatting with Stephan Hawking would be a lot of fun and interesting. I like his mixture of cynicism, honesty, and optimism. I shall invite him over for cards along with Einstein, Newton, and Data from Star Trek...
NYT: What's your I.Q?
HAWKING: I have no idea. People who boast about their I.Q. are losers.
...
NYT: Are you always this cheerful?
H: Life would be tragic if it weren't funny.
NYT: Seriously, how do you keep your spirits up?
H: My expectations were reduced to zero when I was 21. Everything since then has been a bonus.
...
NYT: Do you believe in God?
H: I don't believe in a personal God.
NYT: What do you think of President Bush's plan to get to Mars in 10 years?
H: Stupid. Robots would do a better job and be much cheaper because you don't have to bring them back.
NYT: Do you think people will ever line on a planet besides Earth?
H: Yes, if we don't self-destruct first.
~
I like him. I would love to have lunch with him because I bet chatting with Stephan Hawking would be a lot of fun and interesting. I like his mixture of cynicism, honesty, and optimism. I shall invite him over for cards along with Einstein, Newton, and Data from Star Trek...
Thursday, December 16, 2004
The Best of Shontae and Angela
So, since I am murdering Shontae next Tuesday...Oh wait, nevermind.
Actually, I'm never going to see her again because she is going to marry a kilt wearing bastard in Scotland and give him blow jobs every afternoon under his skirt...Oh wait, nevermind.
Shontae, like I said, I'll miss you. We had some damn good times together since freshman year, and I will have to put them on hold for a while, unless I dream about you. I'll dream about a Candy Colored Clown they call the Sandman, that tiptoes through my window every night, just to sprinkle stardust, and whisper, go to sleep, everything is all right. I close my eyes, and I drift away, uhh, I can't remember the rest. Watchting Blue Velvet with you is always a good time.
Riding the bus together is always fun, since you like to fall on people on the bus. Not only that, we seem to attract a lot of weird people, like Dan, who never woke up, and that lady who was asleep next to you, drooling all over the place. And that one guy who was eating his face. Geez, I'm never riding the bus with you again. -Oh, but I want to...
Target trips with Shontae...--Crispin Glover. The all nighter I pussied out on because I was tired and fell asleep, and woke up and the school had blown up and opened to a vast unknown land of red soil and giant cockateels, and you weren't there...because you went to Scott-Land.
Gyroscope Man.
...Well Shontae Blevins (HA!) I will see you soon! Send me a postcard. *smile and wave goodbye, maybe even a wink if you are lucky*
Actually, I'm never going to see her again because she is going to marry a kilt wearing bastard in Scotland and give him blow jobs every afternoon under his skirt...Oh wait, nevermind.
Shontae, like I said, I'll miss you. We had some damn good times together since freshman year, and I will have to put them on hold for a while, unless I dream about you. I'll dream about a Candy Colored Clown they call the Sandman, that tiptoes through my window every night, just to sprinkle stardust, and whisper, go to sleep, everything is all right. I close my eyes, and I drift away, uhh, I can't remember the rest. Watchting Blue Velvet with you is always a good time.
Riding the bus together is always fun, since you like to fall on people on the bus. Not only that, we seem to attract a lot of weird people, like Dan, who never woke up, and that lady who was asleep next to you, drooling all over the place. And that one guy who was eating his face. Geez, I'm never riding the bus with you again. -Oh, but I want to...
Target trips with Shontae...--Crispin Glover. The all nighter I pussied out on because I was tired and fell asleep, and woke up and the school had blown up and opened to a vast unknown land of red soil and giant cockateels, and you weren't there...because you went to Scott-Land.
Gyroscope Man.
...Well Shontae Blevins (HA!) I will see you soon! Send me a postcard. *smile and wave goodbye, maybe even a wink if you are lucky*
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
Monday, December 13, 2004
The Center of the Milkyway is Somewhere in Ohio--
Four times in the last 3 years I have traveled the Ohio roads, around and in Cleveland, and 4 times I have witnessed the great unknown that seethes in the air that skims the asphalt...
Oh, haha it's funny at the time, my mom and I laughing at our action movie maneuver-quickly crossing 3 lanes of parkway traffic to meet a backwards exit, but we could have fucking died. Worst, we could have gotten sucked into a parallel universe, never to return to the unpaved and pot-holy holy holy roads of PA...
We could have gotten sucked into a parallel universe where there is sense in the road signs in Ohio, where Interstates don't appear and disappear without reason, and the Turnpike isn't an elusive road HOME. (A parallel universe where the interstates in PA aren't like booby traps and dead bridges over ravines.)
Ohio wanted us to stay, it kept swinging its arms around us, kindly, yet with all evil and loathsome intent. But, fortunatly, we made it out...alive even. And here I am to tell the story...
Oh, haha it's funny at the time, my mom and I laughing at our action movie maneuver-quickly crossing 3 lanes of parkway traffic to meet a backwards exit, but we could have fucking died. Worst, we could have gotten sucked into a parallel universe, never to return to the unpaved and pot-holy holy holy roads of PA...
We could have gotten sucked into a parallel universe where there is sense in the road signs in Ohio, where Interstates don't appear and disappear without reason, and the Turnpike isn't an elusive road HOME. (A parallel universe where the interstates in PA aren't like booby traps and dead bridges over ravines.)
Ohio wanted us to stay, it kept swinging its arms around us, kindly, yet with all evil and loathsome intent. But, fortunatly, we made it out...alive even. And here I am to tell the story...
Friday, December 10, 2004
Yippee! Presents...
I just got done wrapping presents and putting them under the tree. Yippee. I had on Morrison Hotel, and since my door was open, Dana across the hall listened in too. While she tolerates the Manzarek organs on most songs, I hate it. I always say that it could be replaced by a really good guitar solo. But, on "Blue Sunday" and "Indian Summer" we both agree that those songs would be ruined by the stupid organ. Speaking of which, I remember one of the first times Natalie and I hung out, we had a discussion about The Doors and I talked about the very subject of the organ and how it sucks. We joked that Manzarek could only play that one intstrament and he really, really, really wanted to be cool. So, he begged Jim to let him in the band. Only, Jim was reluctant because Ray is a loser with his one instrament and would scare off all the girls...BUT, we all know that's not true.
Anyway, presents, Christmas, tree, under it. I wrapped everyone's presents. Well, not quite everyone's yet, Nat and I have yet to go to Target on Monday. But, so far I have wrapped the Milano Cookies and Beef Jerky for Stacy. I wrapped the giant Hershey Kiss for Megan, and I wrapped the homemade picture frame and boxers for Natalie. It was exciting to put the wrapped presents under the tree, even though our tree is 2 feet tall and on top of the microwave. It's nice though. We have homemade ornaments decorating it. There's the ones I made over the years: the paper crane one, the Heineken lable one, the glittering snowflake. There's the Cartman one Heather made, a snowman that Kathryn made...I can't think of what else. Then, there are the ones Nat made for us this year, a picture of a big, burly pirate looking guy for Stacy and a hot picture of the lovely Karen O for me. We have a lovely tree.
So, later today my friends and I in the dorms are going to have a little party and exchange presents. It shall be good times, good times.
My last day of classes for the semester was today too. Noon, I was done. Phew, this semester sucked. I did well, but it was tough. I don't know why exactly. I'm just glad it is over. That does mean only 3 more semesters of my college life left. It's going fast. Before I know it, I will be 88 years old wearing broaches on my cardigans. I bet I will still have brown hair though. Which reminds me, I was going to dye my hair before I leave for home next week. If I do it here, I don't have to worry about my mom blassblassing about hair dye in the sink in the shower in the hair...I don't know if I want to go with the dark auburn I've been using or a dark brown, like dark chocolate. Dark chocolate sounds tastier. Yum, hairdye.
So, today was a good day. Tell me about yours...
Anyway, presents, Christmas, tree, under it. I wrapped everyone's presents. Well, not quite everyone's yet, Nat and I have yet to go to Target on Monday. But, so far I have wrapped the Milano Cookies and Beef Jerky for Stacy. I wrapped the giant Hershey Kiss for Megan, and I wrapped the homemade picture frame and boxers for Natalie. It was exciting to put the wrapped presents under the tree, even though our tree is 2 feet tall and on top of the microwave. It's nice though. We have homemade ornaments decorating it. There's the ones I made over the years: the paper crane one, the Heineken lable one, the glittering snowflake. There's the Cartman one Heather made, a snowman that Kathryn made...I can't think of what else. Then, there are the ones Nat made for us this year, a picture of a big, burly pirate looking guy for Stacy and a hot picture of the lovely Karen O for me. We have a lovely tree.
So, later today my friends and I in the dorms are going to have a little party and exchange presents. It shall be good times, good times.
My last day of classes for the semester was today too. Noon, I was done. Phew, this semester sucked. I did well, but it was tough. I don't know why exactly. I'm just glad it is over. That does mean only 3 more semesters of my college life left. It's going fast. Before I know it, I will be 88 years old wearing broaches on my cardigans. I bet I will still have brown hair though. Which reminds me, I was going to dye my hair before I leave for home next week. If I do it here, I don't have to worry about my mom blassblassing about hair dye in the sink in the shower in the hair...I don't know if I want to go with the dark auburn I've been using or a dark brown, like dark chocolate. Dark chocolate sounds tastier. Yum, hairdye.
So, today was a good day. Tell me about yours...
Wednesday, December 08, 2004
RIP Pookie
I found this written in the back one of my notebooks today,
"Time pulls us toward death and while changing us so, time -- this controlling force, takes us toward death -- an inevitable disordering, disesembling force time makes up and lets us go and we are off and fall and takes death takes us apart No point in controlling time."
I copy that exactly. Though it may seem incoherent, it's kind of neat. I was having a mini epiphany while writing my term paper on Gothic elements in Wuthering Heights...
And so, Pookie. I came back from my first class this morning to feed my fish, and there was Pookie one of my painted tetras with its nose stuck to the filter siphon. Pookie was long passed by that time, poor kid. I don't know what happened. I haven't been incredibly attentive to them lately, I must have missed something. The other 3 look fine though. Hrm, I don't know. Anyway, I was sad for my fish. I told Pookie I was sorry I didn't pay enough attention lately. Pookie was actually my favorite out of the tetras, with the crooked eyes. It was the rejet fish no one wanted, but I took it in...and killed it. Usually that doesn't happen, honest, I take care of my pets. I really think it was the story I revised the night before. I re-wrote a story that featured my fish with all their agressiveness and cannibalism, connecting it to the relationship between the two characters. It was a funny story. But, the CURSE isn't funny. The last time I wrote the story, fish died too. Something
fishy
is going on.
So, as I was saying, Pookie, time grew him for a while, guided his little fins, and then let go and there death in the filter took him. Pookie is now part of something bigger than a 10 gal tank, bigger than the Carlow septic tank...
POOKIE
"Time pulls us toward death and while changing us so, time -- this controlling force, takes us toward death -- an inevitable disordering, disesembling force time makes up and lets us go and we are off and fall and takes death takes us apart No point in controlling time."
I copy that exactly. Though it may seem incoherent, it's kind of neat. I was having a mini epiphany while writing my term paper on Gothic elements in Wuthering Heights...
And so, Pookie. I came back from my first class this morning to feed my fish, and there was Pookie one of my painted tetras with its nose stuck to the filter siphon. Pookie was long passed by that time, poor kid. I don't know what happened. I haven't been incredibly attentive to them lately, I must have missed something. The other 3 look fine though. Hrm, I don't know. Anyway, I was sad for my fish. I told Pookie I was sorry I didn't pay enough attention lately. Pookie was actually my favorite out of the tetras, with the crooked eyes. It was the rejet fish no one wanted, but I took it in...and killed it. Usually that doesn't happen, honest, I take care of my pets. I really think it was the story I revised the night before. I re-wrote a story that featured my fish with all their agressiveness and cannibalism, connecting it to the relationship between the two characters. It was a funny story. But, the CURSE isn't funny. The last time I wrote the story, fish died too. Something
fishy
is going on.
So, as I was saying, Pookie, time grew him for a while, guided his little fins, and then let go and there death in the filter took him. Pookie is now part of something bigger than a 10 gal tank, bigger than the Carlow septic tank...
POOKIE
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
I know who?
Someone posted a comment today HERE. Thanks for your input. Only, I don't know who "you know who" is. That's fine if you wish to remain anonymous, but if you're one of my friends and you think I know who you are, I don't. Actually, I think it's Shontae, but I don't know. Someone posted a while ago HERE and this may be the same YOU KNOW WHO character, I don't know. But, honestly, I want to know who YOU are.
YEAH, YOU!
Come forth with your sins, man. (or woman...)
YEAH, YOU!
Come forth with your sins, man. (or woman...)
Monday, December 06, 2004
Today I learned...
about the Mandala. It is an artform of self-expression in Buddhism.
Really, that's all I learned about it. Someone mentioned it in their poem today, actually, it was Mary who mentioned it in a poem. If anyone else knows anything about it, speak up, and we will learn together. Learning is fun!
Really, that's all I learned about it. Someone mentioned it in their poem today, actually, it was Mary who mentioned it in a poem. If anyone else knows anything about it, speak up, and we will learn together. Learning is fun!
Sunday, December 05, 2004
One last romp out with Shontae, and new friends...
Looking through my old posts, I realize I haven't typed a real good Journal entry in a long time. I mean a real good one. One where I'm not being terrible reflective and smart, where I just talk about what I did that day or the day before. So, here is what I did yesterday,
Shontae and I went to this girl Molly's house for a poetry reading. Molly is some Carlow employee, our age, who is a writer as well. She has a neo-beat style, and I kind of like her work. Crystal talked me into coming, and I'm glad she did. Molly had some of her Chatham MFA friends over too. So, there was Crystal and I (Shontae just along for the ride-the Psychology major!) and Molly with our styles of writing, and there were the Chatham girls with theirs. Though, they each were very interesting-especially the one girl, I think her name was Adrianne or Andrea, who is doing her senior manuscript on reinterpretations of women in the Old Testament, through poetry. I was impressed by her. She seems like one of those real serious type of writers, the ones who know of all the current writers, all the Pulitzer Prize, all those little awards and who won them. I don't think I understand the value of knowing all of that stuff, but good for her I suppose. It doesn't matter to me if a particular writer won a particular award, they could still be shit to me. And, I didn't like the way that Adrianne (?) read her poems. She did the thing where she accents the last word in each thought with an upraised inflection, does that make sence? I can hear it in my head, I don't like that. Erin Emily Engle in my Surrealism class does that too. It seems almost pretentious to me. I wonder what I sound like when I read. I would think I sound conversational, natural, maybe storyteller-like, depending on the subject matter.
Speaking of subject matter, that was the major difference bet-no, not so much subject matter but style, usage maybe, I don't know how to describe it. Perhaps the difference is in the things that we would use to make comparisons, or even mention at all. Using the "Colorado River swimming through the Grand Canyon" as a metaphor for a girl's fluids running between her is not something I think that the Chatham girls would think of to use in their poems. They were much tamer and, I don't know, not as lustful I think. They used a lot of imagery but it was literal imagery. One of the girls was talking about how a poem she wrote made her mom cry, while Carlow a girl writes poems based on her experiences as a waitress in a stripclub. See what I mean?
Still, it would be good to keep in touch with Molly and workshop with these girls, since for a while it would give each of us an objective veiw on each other's writing. It's good when you learn someone's style, but after a while, it's like reading your own work and you don't catch things that others would who've never read you before.
After the Chatham girls left, Crystal, Shontae, Molly and I hung around and drank (more) wine. I got to know Molly, her story and such. Very interesting. It was nice to hang out with newer people and fit it well. I usually need a lot of time to warm up to people, but it was cool with Molly. Crystal too, though I knew her a little from before. Perhaps it's because we're all writers, poet people at that. We're all quirky and accepting and interesting. Plus, never before did I actually know people who were willing to listen to or to read each other's work, other than in school. This is what we all should be doing. I always read about groups of writers and how they would sit around and smoke and drink and talk about writing and talk about the world. I always thought that sounded pretentious, but still it seemed like a lot more than what I've been doing. So, that's what we did last night. I feel that it was a good experience, and I will be seeing them again.
Then, the second phase of the night began. Shontae came with me to Molly's because afterwards we planned to go to a party that was near Molly's house. Crystal walked us there, and wanted to use the bathroom, but after that she was set on going home. Though, she ended up running into a guy she knew from high school and ended up staying with us the rest of the night. In fact, the night ended at Crystal's place at around 4:30 am as we watched the A and E Biography on Fidel Castro...
Crystal is a lot of fun at parties, as in, she is not shy and she will take care of the attention. Maybe it is just that she wants attention, though she's not annoying or rude in any way to me. She knows when to stop. I like her a lot. She also likes to spout off theories about cheese and Reganomics and such, cows, landowners, definitions of self...it was wacky.
I talked to this guy who I knew a long time ago, the one that would come into the Diner all the time when I worked there, the one I doted over like a 1965 Beatles fan at the Ed Sullivan Show. He was looking like he felt out of place, walking around inside with his wool coat on, and he refused to talk to anyone, but sign. I thought it was kind of funny, but sad too, because he looked like he felt he wasn't pulling it off and he felt dumb himself. Eventually, he went to stand on the back porch, with some other guy, this loud annoying drunk guy, so I went to say hello and talk to him. See, I haven't probably talked to him since maybe I was 16, 17 or so, and even then I didn't talk to him much. The extent of our talking was me saying hello or "do you want more coffee" (but in my head it was really "dear god, I want to lick you") and then the time when I went to Borders, where he worked, and we talked about poetry for a little bit, and I gave him a poem that I wrote about birds. A few days later he came to the diner and he wrote me a note on a placemat about what he thought about my poem. Of course I still have it, somewhere. After that, I don't remember. I've seen him around town for years, but I never talked to him. I don't know why. I guess I just didn't care anymore, I mean, I had a 15 year old girl crush on him.
Still, I think it's rude for people not to at least say hello to people they know, so I approached him. I got him to talk, haHA! He said he remembered me. Mostly he was apologizing for the loud drunk annoying guy that kept interupting our short conversation. All I was concerned about was him looking at me the way he was, hrmmmmm, and his pretty brown eyes and his smile and his shyness, and his talking about how talking is overrated. True, I have a note from him, he must either be incredibly shy at times, or he is just fond of antique things like letters and such, which I assume is the case. Oh, and he asked me if he was mean to me, after I told him I remembered him from the diner, and I said, "No. I had the biggest crush on you." to which he replied, "humphhphh / embarassed laughing" into his coat. He was very nice, to me and to my friends. It was good to talk to him, briefly as it was. Geez, by the way, his name is Jasin. And by the way, still he is so good looking. I honestly think that he is the most good looking person I know, I think he is the most good looking person I have seen. Gosh. Heh. Really, I think that.
And so, after he left, I decided I'd let myself get drunk, and I did. I had quite a headache. Though, by the time I got home at 5 am sharp, I was absolutely fine and felt like staying up some more and doing homework or something. If only I could have fallen asleep before and not feel like I was being tumbled around in the ocean and feeling like I was going to puke. Puke Puke Puke.
But, it was a good weekend, I made better friends with Crystal and Molly, and I had a good last romp out with Shontae, who is going to Scotland next semester. Oh Shontae, what will I do without you?
...
Shontae and I went to this girl Molly's house for a poetry reading. Molly is some Carlow employee, our age, who is a writer as well. She has a neo-beat style, and I kind of like her work. Crystal talked me into coming, and I'm glad she did. Molly had some of her Chatham MFA friends over too. So, there was Crystal and I (Shontae just along for the ride-the Psychology major!) and Molly with our styles of writing, and there were the Chatham girls with theirs. Though, they each were very interesting-especially the one girl, I think her name was Adrianne or Andrea, who is doing her senior manuscript on reinterpretations of women in the Old Testament, through poetry. I was impressed by her. She seems like one of those real serious type of writers, the ones who know of all the current writers, all the Pulitzer Prize, all those little awards and who won them. I don't think I understand the value of knowing all of that stuff, but good for her I suppose. It doesn't matter to me if a particular writer won a particular award, they could still be shit to me. And, I didn't like the way that Adrianne (?) read her poems. She did the thing where she accents the last word in each thought with an upraised inflection, does that make sence? I can hear it in my head, I don't like that. Erin Emily Engle in my Surrealism class does that too. It seems almost pretentious to me. I wonder what I sound like when I read. I would think I sound conversational, natural, maybe storyteller-like, depending on the subject matter.
Speaking of subject matter, that was the major difference bet-no, not so much subject matter but style, usage maybe, I don't know how to describe it. Perhaps the difference is in the things that we would use to make comparisons, or even mention at all. Using the "Colorado River swimming through the Grand Canyon" as a metaphor for a girl's fluids running between her is not something I think that the Chatham girls would think of to use in their poems. They were much tamer and, I don't know, not as lustful I think. They used a lot of imagery but it was literal imagery. One of the girls was talking about how a poem she wrote made her mom cry, while Carlow a girl writes poems based on her experiences as a waitress in a stripclub. See what I mean?
Still, it would be good to keep in touch with Molly and workshop with these girls, since for a while it would give each of us an objective veiw on each other's writing. It's good when you learn someone's style, but after a while, it's like reading your own work and you don't catch things that others would who've never read you before.
After the Chatham girls left, Crystal, Shontae, Molly and I hung around and drank (more) wine. I got to know Molly, her story and such. Very interesting. It was nice to hang out with newer people and fit it well. I usually need a lot of time to warm up to people, but it was cool with Molly. Crystal too, though I knew her a little from before. Perhaps it's because we're all writers, poet people at that. We're all quirky and accepting and interesting. Plus, never before did I actually know people who were willing to listen to or to read each other's work, other than in school. This is what we all should be doing. I always read about groups of writers and how they would sit around and smoke and drink and talk about writing and talk about the world. I always thought that sounded pretentious, but still it seemed like a lot more than what I've been doing. So, that's what we did last night. I feel that it was a good experience, and I will be seeing them again.
Then, the second phase of the night began. Shontae came with me to Molly's because afterwards we planned to go to a party that was near Molly's house. Crystal walked us there, and wanted to use the bathroom, but after that she was set on going home. Though, she ended up running into a guy she knew from high school and ended up staying with us the rest of the night. In fact, the night ended at Crystal's place at around 4:30 am as we watched the A and E Biography on Fidel Castro...
Crystal is a lot of fun at parties, as in, she is not shy and she will take care of the attention. Maybe it is just that she wants attention, though she's not annoying or rude in any way to me. She knows when to stop. I like her a lot. She also likes to spout off theories about cheese and Reganomics and such, cows, landowners, definitions of self...it was wacky.
I talked to this guy who I knew a long time ago, the one that would come into the Diner all the time when I worked there, the one I doted over like a 1965 Beatles fan at the Ed Sullivan Show. He was looking like he felt out of place, walking around inside with his wool coat on, and he refused to talk to anyone, but sign. I thought it was kind of funny, but sad too, because he looked like he felt he wasn't pulling it off and he felt dumb himself. Eventually, he went to stand on the back porch, with some other guy, this loud annoying drunk guy, so I went to say hello and talk to him. See, I haven't probably talked to him since maybe I was 16, 17 or so, and even then I didn't talk to him much. The extent of our talking was me saying hello or "do you want more coffee" (but in my head it was really "dear god, I want to lick you") and then the time when I went to Borders, where he worked, and we talked about poetry for a little bit, and I gave him a poem that I wrote about birds. A few days later he came to the diner and he wrote me a note on a placemat about what he thought about my poem. Of course I still have it, somewhere. After that, I don't remember. I've seen him around town for years, but I never talked to him. I don't know why. I guess I just didn't care anymore, I mean, I had a 15 year old girl crush on him.
Still, I think it's rude for people not to at least say hello to people they know, so I approached him. I got him to talk, haHA! He said he remembered me. Mostly he was apologizing for the loud drunk annoying guy that kept interupting our short conversation. All I was concerned about was him looking at me the way he was, hrmmmmm, and his pretty brown eyes and his smile and his shyness, and his talking about how talking is overrated. True, I have a note from him, he must either be incredibly shy at times, or he is just fond of antique things like letters and such, which I assume is the case. Oh, and he asked me if he was mean to me, after I told him I remembered him from the diner, and I said, "No. I had the biggest crush on you." to which he replied, "humphhphh / embarassed laughing" into his coat. He was very nice, to me and to my friends. It was good to talk to him, briefly as it was. Geez, by the way, his name is Jasin. And by the way, still he is so good looking. I honestly think that he is the most good looking person I know, I think he is the most good looking person I have seen. Gosh. Heh. Really, I think that.
And so, after he left, I decided I'd let myself get drunk, and I did. I had quite a headache. Though, by the time I got home at 5 am sharp, I was absolutely fine and felt like staying up some more and doing homework or something. If only I could have fallen asleep before and not feel like I was being tumbled around in the ocean and feeling like I was going to puke. Puke Puke Puke.
But, it was a good weekend, I made better friends with Crystal and Molly, and I had a good last romp out with Shontae, who is going to Scotland next semester. Oh Shontae, what will I do without you?
...
Saturday, December 04, 2004
Two Carl Sandburg Poems
Chicago
Hog Butcher for the World,
Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler;
Stormy, husky, brawling,
City of the Big Shoulders:
They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I
have seen your painted women under the gas lamps
luring the farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it
is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to
kill again.
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the
faces of women and children I have seen the marks
of wanton hunger.
And having answered so I turn once more to those who
sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer
and say to them:
Come and show me another city with lifted head singing
so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on
job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the
little soft cities;
Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning
as a savage pitted against the wilderness,
Bareheaded,
Shoveling,
Wrecking,
Planning,
Building, breaking, rebuilding,
Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with
white teeth,Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young
man laughs,
Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has
never lost a battle,
Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse.
and under his ribs the heart of the people,
Laughing!
Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of
Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog
Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with
Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.
Fog
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
...
So, when I was in 1st grade, my teacher read us these two poems. I don't know why she would have read us this kind of poetry, if any at all. I think maybe she just liked Carl Sandburg. I remember her talking about these poems fondly. Perhaps she got tired one day of teaching us simple nouns and verbs and wanted to talk about what she wanted to talk about. So, she read us some poems. She wanted to discuss and analyze them with us, somehow. On "Chicago" I recall her emphasising the first line about the butcher and how in Chicago, around the early 20th century I suppose, the whole city would smell like fresh meat in the summer. That's pretty gross. I remember her talking about "Fog" for its metaphor between fog and a cat. I imagined this small bald headed older guy, who I thought would be Carl Sandburg, sitting on a dock in eerie mist with smokey fog creepy up on him, and he is perfectly content, possibly even oblivious.
I post these poems because I came across Chicago Poems by Carl Sandburg today at the library. I immediatly thought about what I explained above with my teacher. He was probably the first poet I ever heard of, those were most likely some of the first poems I ever heard. I 'd say a good first poet. I find it very interesting too, my whole memory of this. What an odd thing to remember from 1st grade.
Hog Butcher for the World,
Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler;
Stormy, husky, brawling,
City of the Big Shoulders:
They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I
have seen your painted women under the gas lamps
luring the farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it
is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to
kill again.
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the
faces of women and children I have seen the marks
of wanton hunger.
And having answered so I turn once more to those who
sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer
and say to them:
Come and show me another city with lifted head singing
so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on
job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the
little soft cities;
Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning
as a savage pitted against the wilderness,
Bareheaded,
Shoveling,
Wrecking,
Planning,
Building, breaking, rebuilding,
Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with
white teeth,Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young
man laughs,
Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has
never lost a battle,
Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse.
and under his ribs the heart of the people,
Laughing!
Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of
Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog
Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with
Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.
Fog
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
...
So, when I was in 1st grade, my teacher read us these two poems. I don't know why she would have read us this kind of poetry, if any at all. I think maybe she just liked Carl Sandburg. I remember her talking about these poems fondly. Perhaps she got tired one day of teaching us simple nouns and verbs and wanted to talk about what she wanted to talk about. So, she read us some poems. She wanted to discuss and analyze them with us, somehow. On "Chicago" I recall her emphasising the first line about the butcher and how in Chicago, around the early 20th century I suppose, the whole city would smell like fresh meat in the summer. That's pretty gross. I remember her talking about "Fog" for its metaphor between fog and a cat. I imagined this small bald headed older guy, who I thought would be Carl Sandburg, sitting on a dock in eerie mist with smokey fog creepy up on him, and he is perfectly content, possibly even oblivious.
I post these poems because I came across Chicago Poems by Carl Sandburg today at the library. I immediatly thought about what I explained above with my teacher. He was probably the first poet I ever heard of, those were most likely some of the first poems I ever heard. I 'd say a good first poet. I find it very interesting too, my whole memory of this. What an odd thing to remember from 1st grade.
Thursday, December 02, 2004
Etre et Avoir
Today, this woman told us that when she would eat dinner with her family as a child her dad would make she and her siblings tell everyone one that they learned that day. So, I think that's neat.
Today, I learned a little about this tiny school in this tiny town in the South of France; we're watching a documentary in my French class called Etre et Avoir. And, kids and families in the South of France are a lot like kids and families anywhere.
Everyone tell me one thing that you learned today...
Today, I learned a little about this tiny school in this tiny town in the South of France; we're watching a documentary in my French class called Etre et Avoir. And, kids and families in the South of France are a lot like kids and families anywhere.
Everyone tell me one thing that you learned today...
Wednesday, December 01, 2004
Cut and Paste the and do not waste
II.
Then I recalled
while — "sitting
at my window
today watching
the rain I felt
very happy."
— Maybe like Mary
I believe, when
she saw
something on TV
with rain...
Then I recalled
while — "sitting
at my window
today watching
the rain I felt
very happy."
— Maybe like Mary
I believe, when
she saw
something on TV
with rain...
Tuesday, November 30, 2004
It'll be awesome!
When I am old, my kids and my grandkids are going to buy me broches for Christmas and for birthdays. I'll have so many, and I'll wear one of them on my cardigan, changing it every so often. -Just like now, with all my little pins. I'll have all kinds of stupid broches-rhintones and bumble bees, gold plate seahorses, art nouveau, hearts and Easter bunnies. It'll be awesome!
...
...
Sunday, November 28, 2004
The Guy Who Runs It
So, I was going to post another part of the T.S. Eliot poem, but, funck that. The first part is the best one. I'm just sort of trying to kill time on this boring day at work. I've been reading this but, my headache is not allowing me to so much. There, I turned the lights on over the desk, there, I feel instantly better! I am healed. I wish that I could play music while I worked, you know, play music in the library. You know, the library. I could also just sit and stare blankly at something, like for instance this here newpaper bin.
Speaking of the library, does anyone else know about the TOP SECRET ROOM? You know, The Room?
I think that I was told that it's up on 8th stack. There's this room that holds all these rare and expensive books, first issues and signed copies of things like War and Peace and Lord of the Rings and such. There's old old old Bibles, there's official government documents from way back. I bet there's a signed, original copy of Mein Kampf, right next to George Washington's Bible. The room is temperture controlled to be 70 degrees all the time. And, there's only one person who works there. He has the best job in the whole world. He just sits there all day in this temperture controled room with the tablets from Mount Sinai chilling in the back. There's supposedly Persian rugs on the floor, (and a pin ball machine, a Slushie machine, and a 52 inch TV with a satillite.) No one is allowed up there, unless they are a librarian and they have a reason to go in there, but they have to know exactly what it is they want, and it has to be for something like research. You have to call at least a day ahead of time and make an appointment with the guy who runs it. You can't just show up, like, I couldn't just show up and want to look around. Plus, I bet the guy who runs it sits around in there in his undies and watches cartoons and eats Cheetos all day anyway. No one wants to see that. You have to give him time at least to put his pants.
Well, someday, when I get a degree in historical archiving book conservation whatever, I am going to get that job. That job-that job-that job...
Speaking of the library, does anyone else know about the TOP SECRET ROOM? You know, The Room?
I think that I was told that it's up on 8th stack. There's this room that holds all these rare and expensive books, first issues and signed copies of things like War and Peace and Lord of the Rings and such. There's old old old Bibles, there's official government documents from way back. I bet there's a signed, original copy of Mein Kampf, right next to George Washington's Bible. The room is temperture controlled to be 70 degrees all the time. And, there's only one person who works there. He has the best job in the whole world. He just sits there all day in this temperture controled room with the tablets from Mount Sinai chilling in the back. There's supposedly Persian rugs on the floor, (and a pin ball machine, a Slushie machine, and a 52 inch TV with a satillite.) No one is allowed up there, unless they are a librarian and they have a reason to go in there, but they have to know exactly what it is they want, and it has to be for something like research. You have to call at least a day ahead of time and make an appointment with the guy who runs it. You can't just show up, like, I couldn't just show up and want to look around. Plus, I bet the guy who runs it sits around in there in his undies and watches cartoons and eats Cheetos all day anyway. No one wants to see that. You have to give him time at least to put his pants.
Well, someday, when I get a degree in historical archiving book conservation whatever, I am going to get that job. That job-that job-that job...
Saturday, November 27, 2004
T.S. Eliot
Burnt Norton
I.
Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.
But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know. Other echoes
Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?
Quick, said the bird, find them, find them,
Round the corner. Through the first gate,
Into our first world, shall we follow
The deception of the thrush? Into our first world.
There they were, dignified, invisible,
Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves,
In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air,
And the bird called, in response to
The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery,
And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses
Had the look of flowers that are looked at.
There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.
So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern,
Along the empty alley, into the box circle,
To look down into the drained pool.
Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged,
And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight,
And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly,
The surface glittered out of heart of light,
And they were behind us, reflected in the pool.
Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty.
Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,
Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
This is only part one of this poem. The rest will be posted later, if anyone cares. It's a really good poem. And no, I didn't type this all up myself. My pet robot did. My pet robot does a lot of things.
I.
Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.
But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know. Other echoes
Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?
Quick, said the bird, find them, find them,
Round the corner. Through the first gate,
Into our first world, shall we follow
The deception of the thrush? Into our first world.
There they were, dignified, invisible,
Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves,
In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air,
And the bird called, in response to
The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery,
And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses
Had the look of flowers that are looked at.
There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.
So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern,
Along the empty alley, into the box circle,
To look down into the drained pool.
Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged,
And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight,
And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly,
The surface glittered out of heart of light,
And they were behind us, reflected in the pool.
Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty.
Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,
Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
This is only part one of this poem. The rest will be posted later, if anyone cares. It's a really good poem. And no, I didn't type this all up myself. My pet robot did. My pet robot does a lot of things.
Friday, November 26, 2004
"Do you believe in Santa Claus?"
In arms of bleeding dear, I feel warm. They're reading me stories about princesses in burgundy velvet in blackstone castles under tranlucent suns, while I concentrate on boiling ruby blankets swimming cirlces around us all--sharks see blushing clouds and their stomach growl.
Thursday, November 25, 2004
Heights having been Wuthering
"I lingered round them, under the benign sky; watched the moths fluttering among the heath. and bare-bells; listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass, and wondered how anyone could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth."
...
...
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
Lord of the Fly in the Ointment
Heathcliff indeed stands unredeemed never once swerving in his arrow straight course to perdition from the time when the little black haired swarthy thing as dark as it came from the Devil
...
Heathcliff portrays one solitary human feeling and it is NOT his love for Catherine which is a sentiment fierce and inhuman as passion such as might boil and glow in the bad essence of some evil genius a fire that might form the tormented centre the ever suffering soul of a magnate of the infernal world and by its quenchless and ceaseless ravage effect the execution of the decree which dooms him to carry Hell with him wherever he wanders.
~By Currer Bell
...
Heathcliff portrays one solitary human feeling and it is NOT his love for Catherine which is a sentiment fierce and inhuman as passion such as might boil and glow in the bad essence of some evil genius a fire that might form the tormented centre the ever suffering soul of a magnate of the infernal world and by its quenchless and ceaseless ravage effect the execution of the decree which dooms him to carry Hell with him wherever he wanders.
~By Currer Bell
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
U2- new album out today!
Grated pop spintster venting about seas haunting the plains.
"Eat what you love and lose"
What are you listening to right now? (a BBC favorite)
-the machine shutting itself OFF--
(No, none of this had anything to do with U2. No U2's were harmed in the making of this entry.)
But I will comment on the album later. Just, not now as I am about to leave work and go on home home home. I need to listen to it more closely. So far, however, it rocks. I will say that I am pleasently surprised. I was worried, slightly, that it would suck. Though, I should know better. I can trace my U2 adoration and interest as far back as the Achtung years, 2nd grade? I recall watching the "One" video, the version where Bono is smoking in a skeezy bar. That sounds rather silly, I do beleive so myself, that is, to say I was an 8 year old fan of the band. That also sounds incredibly pretentious, that way I worded the sentence. Fiddlestix! I do recall likeing the song "Desire" when I was about 12 or 13, because I remember listening to it over and over on my radio bootleg tapes, that summer before 7th grade when we moved. And then I remember 7th or 8th grade, when Pop came out, and they had that whole "Discoteque" thing. See, at the time I didn't know or understand much about homosexuality...They frightened me slightly, though, I learned, lots of things, soon enough. U2 aren't gay! Well, the real deal came about in 9th grade, when I really started listening to "Sunday Bloody Sunday." That's when their Best Of 1980-1990 came out. It was one of the first cd's I had. That was also back when I didn't know what the word "cynical" meant, and I was really into the whole political thing. Though, they were young when they wrote those songs too. Not to say that they have slipped (or risen?) to cynism. Not to say that I have completely... I slowly started compiling the collection, and so it continues onto today!
Ashley, and friend that I commented on whose blog earlier, I will have a fully detailed arguement concerning my stance on the issue of How to Disassemble and Atomic Bomb later this evening-8-10 pages, double spaced, default margins, 12 point font Times New Roman, and a Works Cited page. *heart* ANGELA
"Eat what you love and lose"
What are you listening to right now? (a BBC favorite)
-the machine shutting itself OFF--
(No, none of this had anything to do with U2. No U2's were harmed in the making of this entry.)
But I will comment on the album later. Just, not now as I am about to leave work and go on home home home. I need to listen to it more closely. So far, however, it rocks. I will say that I am pleasently surprised. I was worried, slightly, that it would suck. Though, I should know better. I can trace my U2 adoration and interest as far back as the Achtung years, 2nd grade? I recall watching the "One" video, the version where Bono is smoking in a skeezy bar. That sounds rather silly, I do beleive so myself, that is, to say I was an 8 year old fan of the band. That also sounds incredibly pretentious, that way I worded the sentence. Fiddlestix! I do recall likeing the song "Desire" when I was about 12 or 13, because I remember listening to it over and over on my radio bootleg tapes, that summer before 7th grade when we moved. And then I remember 7th or 8th grade, when Pop came out, and they had that whole "Discoteque" thing. See, at the time I didn't know or understand much about homosexuality...They frightened me slightly, though, I learned, lots of things, soon enough. U2 aren't gay! Well, the real deal came about in 9th grade, when I really started listening to "Sunday Bloody Sunday." That's when their Best Of 1980-1990 came out. It was one of the first cd's I had. That was also back when I didn't know what the word "cynical" meant, and I was really into the whole political thing. Though, they were young when they wrote those songs too. Not to say that they have slipped (or risen?) to cynism. Not to say that I have completely... I slowly started compiling the collection, and so it continues onto today!
Ashley, and friend that I commented on whose blog earlier, I will have a fully detailed arguement concerning my stance on the issue of How to Disassemble and Atomic Bomb later this evening-8-10 pages, double spaced, default margins, 12 point font Times New Roman, and a Works Cited page. *heart* ANGELA
Monday, November 22, 2004
You Know
That Fire, that was Unforgetable. The days before the fire, the days after...
You know, the Fire. The Unforgetable Fire.
You know, the Fire. The Unforgetable Fire.
Saturday, November 20, 2004
Jacket Dance!
There's a new dance in town kiddies! It's called Jacket Dance...
All you gotta do is, you get your favorite jacket, see, and you put your hands in your jacket pockets
*like so*
and you swing your swanky hips and you bounce on your boots and you cha cha cha with your hands in your jacket pockets
*like so*
and you have to have music, right, you gotta have some dancing dance dance (revolution) music, so you use your little angel voice box and your mouth and your licker and your INFLECTION and you sing all swanky such "do do do do do dodo dododododo do do dod odododododododo"
*like so*
NOW YOU TRY
yeah, okay, good, a little more swing, oh yeah sweet baby, Good Job!
You and your jacket are Salome-a-GoGo
...
Oh, another lovely time with Jacket...
All you gotta do is, you get your favorite jacket, see, and you put your hands in your jacket pockets
*like so*
and you swing your swanky hips and you bounce on your boots and you cha cha cha with your hands in your jacket pockets
*like so*
and you have to have music, right, you gotta have some dancing dance dance (revolution) music, so you use your little angel voice box and your mouth and your licker and your INFLECTION and you sing all swanky such "do do do do do dodo dododododo do do dod odododododododo"
*like so*
NOW YOU TRY
yeah, okay, good, a little more swing, oh yeah sweet baby, Good Job!
You and your jacket are Salome-a-GoGo
...
Oh, another lovely time with Jacket...
Question-
Why do people look like they are seeing a movie star / animal at the zoo?
In the meantime, it's a rather quiet day at work so far. Outside, the sun is missing and the air is cool and wet and the leaves are so beautiful. Their colors are hightened by the heavy dew, though I guess it wouldn't really be called dew, since it's all from the rain yesterday. Whatever, it's pretty. What a minute, the sun isn't missing. I apologize, that sounded totally lame. It's there, just covered up by the clouds. It's like me in my bed this morning, only I eventually got up. I should have just stayed. But, I got up, for work, oh shit, and no one go the newspapers, and I can't because I am the only one at the desk. I will just have to wait to do anything about it until somebody asks me where the Saturday papers are, and I say, the delivery man is in the trunk of my car. And they say, "Angela, you don't have a car." Right, right, I say, I mean he's in the trunk of his car, which I will be drving home from work this evening.
I have "Your Blue Room" stuck in my head. It makes me feel a little creepy.
In the meantime, it's a rather quiet day at work so far. Outside, the sun is missing and the air is cool and wet and the leaves are so beautiful. Their colors are hightened by the heavy dew, though I guess it wouldn't really be called dew, since it's all from the rain yesterday. Whatever, it's pretty. What a minute, the sun isn't missing. I apologize, that sounded totally lame. It's there, just covered up by the clouds. It's like me in my bed this morning, only I eventually got up. I should have just stayed. But, I got up, for work, oh shit, and no one go the newspapers, and I can't because I am the only one at the desk. I will just have to wait to do anything about it until somebody asks me where the Saturday papers are, and I say, the delivery man is in the trunk of my car. And they say, "Angela, you don't have a car." Right, right, I say, I mean he's in the trunk of his car, which I will be drving home from work this evening.
I have "Your Blue Room" stuck in my head. It makes me feel a little creepy.
Thursday, November 18, 2004
Last minute
Skull face face down on blue stones water beating waking up with dried blood on hands while sirens mononote costa-gutteral banschee mock pinch wind.
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
Holy Crap
Not to brag or anything, but I am a little freeeeking out today. Here forth is a list, for my own mental un-entanglement.
-----------------------------I got a fucking C+ on this paper I did.
-----------------------------which then lead me to believe I may lose one of my scholarships on account of my poor grade.
-----------------------------which I may just be overreacting abote, aboat, about.
--------------------------- fuck this French test, madamoiselle
--------------------------and I got a new boss at work, and though he seems like a bit of a push over, it's only a matter of time until he "meets with each of us" and flares those fanged teeth and flares those orange eyes he had. yeesh. I'm always so paranoid about bosses that I dont know.
+++++++++++++but then again, I think that I am uber paranoid about a lot of things. I think I really am, guys, oh no, I think I am, holy crap...............................
Hey! No one needs more than one set of elipses...One set is three periods...
[...]
-----------------------------I got a fucking C+ on this paper I did.
-----------------------------which then lead me to believe I may lose one of my scholarships on account of my poor grade.
-----------------------------which I may just be overreacting abote, aboat, about.
--------------------------- fuck this French test, madamoiselle
--------------------------and I got a new boss at work, and though he seems like a bit of a push over, it's only a matter of time until he "meets with each of us" and flares those fanged teeth and flares those orange eyes he had. yeesh. I'm always so paranoid about bosses that I dont know.
+++++++++++++but then again, I think that I am uber paranoid about a lot of things. I think I really am, guys, oh no, I think I am, holy crap...............................
Hey! No one needs more than one set of elipses...One set is three periods...
[...]
Monday, November 15, 2004
Best of Summer continues...
I used this lotion today that I haven't used in a while, this one kind that I used all summer, and all this summer I lived in the apartment on Atwood. Now, I miss it. I didn't really miss it before. It's the soft, clean smell of the lotion. I feel like I should be in that bedroom with the big window sill that I can sit on, and have records playing and the loud drunken assholes and the Cathedral lit up. I will most likely never be back in there again, and that makes me a little sad.
Sunday, November 14, 2004
Holmeswork
I.
The possiblity of black holes was between
simply flirting and mundane fucking.
Today:
everything is just
Blaaaaaaaaaaaaa
no flirting no fucking. On
July 22
Globes of Boston
QTD--
"I am sorry to disapoint
science fiction fans, but if
you jump into a black
hole, your mass energy will
be returned to our universe,
but in mangled form. There
is no baby universe branching
off, as I once thought" (Hawking 40).
Nutshells cracked and powdered
on the floor like spilled milk.
II.
Then
I recalled
while -- "sitting
at my window
today
watching
the rain I felt
very happy." --
Maybe like Mary
had, I believe, when
she saw
something on TV
with rain...
III.
And on March 1--
there was a girl somewhere in the World -such an odd word- somewhere in time who was quite alone in her head and nothing to no one, lost a baby, not by accident, she takes care of a man who has no identity, the World dropped him- Uninmaginable in tangible being, but somehow I found it fathomable on an Ohio Turnpike, West, skypinkpurple, while something like shoegaze the kids call it played in the tight car, And As Far As I Thought, I felt safe. I put a handmade bookmark on page 76 and traced playing constellation[s]. --I only know one.
The possiblity of black holes was between
simply flirting and mundane fucking.
Today:
everything is just
Blaaaaaaaaaaaaa
no flirting no fucking. On
July 22
Globes of Boston
QTD--
"I am sorry to disapoint
science fiction fans, but if
you jump into a black
hole, your mass energy will
be returned to our universe,
but in mangled form. There
is no baby universe branching
off, as I once thought" (Hawking 40).
Nutshells cracked and powdered
on the floor like spilled milk.
II.
Then
I recalled
while -- "sitting
at my window
today
watching
the rain I felt
very happy." --
Maybe like Mary
had, I believe, when
she saw
something on TV
with rain...
III.
And on March 1--
there was a girl somewhere in the World -such an odd word- somewhere in time who was quite alone in her head and nothing to no one, lost a baby, not by accident, she takes care of a man who has no identity, the World dropped him- Uninmaginable in tangible being, but somehow I found it fathomable on an Ohio Turnpike, West, skypinkpurple, while something like shoegaze the kids call it played in the tight car, And As Far As I Thought, I felt safe. I put a handmade bookmark on page 76 and traced playing constellation[s]. --I only know one.
Jus' Excavatin'
I was sitting at my window today watching the rain and I felt very happy
That's from the July 26 2004 entry I have come across. That's nice.
That's from the July 26 2004 entry I have come across. That's nice.
Saturday, November 13, 2004
Saturday morning at work...
That older man comes strutting in as usual, he says, "Oh no Angie, I don't have any goodies for you today." I say, "Ah, that's okay," and I try to remember his name. My co-worker comes in, "Just you and me today," he says, "Just you and me and Shakespeare." Then, he goes to get the newspapers.
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
Homework again...Angela goes Tropico
This is a poem I have done for my class, and I just really like it, so I am sharing it with the world. It's in the style of the Tropico, which is a form consisting of 22 lines, that is, 11 unrhyming couplets, no puncuation but a period at the end of the last line. I figured I would try one, and this one is about Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights, which today is my favorite book.
The Last Hours on the Moor
Sparks burning bloody rope are stories that start at the end
the gentleman tenant “watched the moths fluttering around the heath”
cold watered-down anemic fields cracked by a reported goblin
a ghoul a vampire a Melmoth sort of waste of existence
and an existential fairy tale about the selfish and sadomasochist
nature of that gypsy having vengeful mono-vision
and glaring at Catherine in mirrors but only mortally desiring
the feel of a corset’s whalebone waist under his own hands
Lovecraft wrote in 1945 a description on the event
of the gnashing gray pus sloshing living corpse
sleeping in the juicy graves of dead girlfriends and wailing
melting plate glass to chunky molasses
that is the Brood was pealing himself open on vast choking grass
and rolling like black Jell-O in a Moor winter
somewhere circling 1801 on loose soil under spastic kinetic
eyelids and presenting something more vicious and visceral
than my 2004 when I found the event slightly dry and just on the
edge of the cliff of horror’s orgasm with its mere knocking on casket doors
is just a small thrush of disappointment but just the same a suggestion
to what really happened in the scandalous last hours on the Moor
when he chewed off pieces of himself only to return in a few days
grinning as stiff as the isolation hill he made his and her bed.
The Last Hours on the Moor
Sparks burning bloody rope are stories that start at the end
the gentleman tenant “watched the moths fluttering around the heath”
cold watered-down anemic fields cracked by a reported goblin
a ghoul a vampire a Melmoth sort of waste of existence
and an existential fairy tale about the selfish and sadomasochist
nature of that gypsy having vengeful mono-vision
and glaring at Catherine in mirrors but only mortally desiring
the feel of a corset’s whalebone waist under his own hands
Lovecraft wrote in 1945 a description on the event
of the gnashing gray pus sloshing living corpse
sleeping in the juicy graves of dead girlfriends and wailing
melting plate glass to chunky molasses
that is the Brood was pealing himself open on vast choking grass
and rolling like black Jell-O in a Moor winter
somewhere circling 1801 on loose soil under spastic kinetic
eyelids and presenting something more vicious and visceral
than my 2004 when I found the event slightly dry and just on the
edge of the cliff of horror’s orgasm with its mere knocking on casket doors
is just a small thrush of disappointment but just the same a suggestion
to what really happened in the scandalous last hours on the Moor
when he chewed off pieces of himself only to return in a few days
grinning as stiff as the isolation hill he made his and her bed.
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
Angela doing her homework at work--
Let's see,
Quand les tigres parlent dans les robes bleues, they are desperate and humid. That Cat is a fish and its home is being de-fuminized with anti-kindness and other human natures. A netted black veil gives up as Cat spectates its own funeral. Lead puddle bear-clawing its translucent fence. Blaming opaque Tigers who wear rosy oblivious masks for the sorry conviction of uneasy fish.
And,
Ou je vais?
(Elysium)
Between yellow lines,
bells cheat
by tapping on asphalt.
Looking on white
space is lying about
leaving dead notes.
The workings of bells
are late, coldness chimes
rivers, trees feel sympathy.
Workings in charm
are a given in red
shoes, naivity.
The late Elysium
times my ride and
cheats me icely.
Quand les tigres parlent dans les robes bleues, they are desperate and humid. That Cat is a fish and its home is being de-fuminized with anti-kindness and other human natures. A netted black veil gives up as Cat spectates its own funeral. Lead puddle bear-clawing its translucent fence. Blaming opaque Tigers who wear rosy oblivious masks for the sorry conviction of uneasy fish.
And,
Ou je vais?
(Elysium)
Between yellow lines,
bells cheat
by tapping on asphalt.
Looking on white
space is lying about
leaving dead notes.
The workings of bells
are late, coldness chimes
rivers, trees feel sympathy.
Workings in charm
are a given in red
shoes, naivity.
The late Elysium
times my ride and
cheats me icely.
Monday, November 08, 2004
ANGELA: Mistress of the Crocodiles
I am going to have this big, burgundy velvet throne, circled by a muddy mote filled with crocodiles. It will be brimming so full of crocodiles, they will be flapping and gnarling all over each other. GRRRowling and snarling, snappy snap snapping their bleeding jaws. Steve Irwin will come to the Lair believing that he will rassle the crocodiles and overtrhow ANGELA: Mistress of the Crocodiles, steal my crown, and red velvet gown, and reign Anti-Narnia for all time. But, Steve Irwin sucks, and I will order my reptilian minions to devour him before the eyes of children. (Ha Ha Ha Ha) Once the carnage has ended for the time being, my most dear crocodile, Gromit, swings up to my throne and nuzzles his blood caked nose onto my lap, where I will pet and stroke his head until he falls asleep, snoring softly like the children that witnessed the bloodbath...the mud tainted scarlet...
Sunday, November 07, 2004
Grandma Death wrote a book
So, Holmes, says Natalie,
I read that Clockwork
is painfull. It's also harmful to rodents on Cartesian balconies.
***
Also, I read that...
"It's 10 o'clock at night--do you know where your clitoris is?"
It's actually 4:37 in the PM I am in the new computer chair at work, waiting for 5 o'clock I am wearing a new skirt I bought for $12.99 at Target God Bless the Little Children and Target Happy Birthday Megan I always fantasized about smart skirts that Andy calls stylish clothing stylishly dressed young women and I imagined their dangley earrings smiling and drinking red wine even if I'm not crazy about red wine just red shoes I like the pink wines but I like the pink shoes too only red is more my color as far as the shoes go. That is, as far as the shoes walk.
Tuesday the Lady Pilots stomp walking in the sky blue airplanes paint chipping synonomous carjack while singing courtesans to sleep on bleak dairy farms in 1805 winters with maids immune to blotchy red smotches and probably hickies, though I would contest that.
--Well, that killed some time!
I read that Clockwork
is painfull. It's also harmful to rodents on Cartesian balconies.
***
Also, I read that...
"It's 10 o'clock at night--do you know where your clitoris is?"
It's actually 4:37 in the PM I am in the new computer chair at work, waiting for 5 o'clock I am wearing a new skirt I bought for $12.99 at Target God Bless the Little Children and Target Happy Birthday Megan I always fantasized about smart skirts that Andy calls stylish clothing stylishly dressed young women and I imagined their dangley earrings smiling and drinking red wine even if I'm not crazy about red wine just red shoes I like the pink wines but I like the pink shoes too only red is more my color as far as the shoes go. That is, as far as the shoes walk.
Tuesday the Lady Pilots stomp walking in the sky blue airplanes paint chipping synonomous carjack while singing courtesans to sleep on bleak dairy farms in 1805 winters with maids immune to blotchy red smotches and probably hickies, though I would contest that.
--Well, that killed some time!
Friday, November 05, 2004
It's 3:14 in the AM...
Stacy, it's The AM,
do you know where your children are?
Are they wandering around Kennywood with crayons in their overpriced Tommy Hilfiger purse?
I'm chatting with Ashley, who is probably more awake than I am. I'm actually feeling a little dizzy, but somehow I don't want to go to bed yet. Ashley is far away in Nebraska until Xmas, and she's lonely. She says she's surrounded by right wing Christians. Ashley is a nice girl, but she's not unreasonably PC. She's frustrated by the lack of spirituality among the religous there.
It seems to me anymore that being PC gets out of hand and when I read things like "the world has not reached equality among men and women" I get annoyed by the whole thing. That's a broad statement, too broad for real consideration. Stone me if you want, but even really, really, desiring "equality" seems pointless in itself. It seems to dismiss individuality. But, I may be looking at this in the wrong way. I have to keep in mind politics.
And, stone me here too if you please, but I don't think it's possible to really extinguish such things as rape. If it is an act of violence, and violence is part of the irrationality human nature, then though it's irrational and people should be rational, it's still a part of human nature. It would be unnatural then, for there to be a race of humans who -absolutly no person, no human being anywhere to committ rape. You can't stop the act, but you can change the law's punishment. So, again, let's stay with politics.
Well, on that note, I am going to sing a happy song, and go to bed, maybe after reading some of Wuthering Heights. And then take a nap, with my teddy bear. Get up, maybe see some peaches in the sky, and have some cereal, shower dress water plants. ...
Stacy, it's The AM,
do you know where your children are?
Are they wandering around Kennywood with crayons in their overpriced Tommy Hilfiger purse?
I'm chatting with Ashley, who is probably more awake than I am. I'm actually feeling a little dizzy, but somehow I don't want to go to bed yet. Ashley is far away in Nebraska until Xmas, and she's lonely. She says she's surrounded by right wing Christians. Ashley is a nice girl, but she's not unreasonably PC. She's frustrated by the lack of spirituality among the religous there.
It seems to me anymore that being PC gets out of hand and when I read things like "the world has not reached equality among men and women" I get annoyed by the whole thing. That's a broad statement, too broad for real consideration. Stone me if you want, but even really, really, desiring "equality" seems pointless in itself. It seems to dismiss individuality. But, I may be looking at this in the wrong way. I have to keep in mind politics.
And, stone me here too if you please, but I don't think it's possible to really extinguish such things as rape. If it is an act of violence, and violence is part of the irrationality human nature, then though it's irrational and people should be rational, it's still a part of human nature. It would be unnatural then, for there to be a race of humans who -absolutly no person, no human being anywhere to committ rape. You can't stop the act, but you can change the law's punishment. So, again, let's stay with politics.
Well, on that note, I am going to sing a happy song, and go to bed, maybe after reading some of Wuthering Heights. And then take a nap, with my teddy bear. Get up, maybe see some peaches in the sky, and have some cereal, shower dress water plants. ...
Sunday, October 31, 2004
Wuthering Heights
So, I'm reading Wuthering Heights for my Victorian Lit class, and I'm at work, all alone. I have no class notebook with me, so I will "jot" down my thoughts here, so as to make sense of it. I think that this semester, my brain is refusing to fully work, or it's just not as enthused as it was before, because I read this book, and almost everything else I am assigned to read, and I feel so indifferent about it. Perhaps too much relativism? God damn Post-Modernism. God damn it. I think I just need to have some more free time.
Wuthering Heights. As of chapter 12, Catherine and Heathcliff love each other, even though Heathcliff is a mean, horrible person. Catherine married Edgar, though, since her brother Earnshaw would never have accepted her marrying Heathcliff and most likely would have killed him. Earnshaw actually almost killed his own son. So, years later after Earnshaw banished Heathcliff from the house, Heathcliff comes back, brooding as ever, yet he and Catherine are delighted to see each other. Meanwhile, Isabella, Edgar's sister is infatuated with Heathcliff who is probably taking advantage of her. Even though Heathcliff is an unsavory character, Edgar would allow Isabella to marry Heathcliff just to get him away from Catherine. This, I think, is a selfish move. So, right now, everyone seems to hate each other, and it's always cold and dark. Drama, drama, and drama, pronounced short "a."
It seems hopeless! *Throws hand to forehead and wilts* I imagine Heathcliff puts on this hard ass, dark front as a defense of his character and social status, while all he wishes is to be with Catherine unconsequentially. All because of a good dead that the late Mr. Earnshaw (Catherine and Earnshaw's father) did, Heathcliff is stuck in this circle of people and memories, and love for Catherine, and there's not much else that he has any connection with, while Catherine and even Edgar have an embeded roots and rich families. As upper class Victorians, they're expected to have stabilty and order, while Heathcliff being of the lower class would be expected to foil that. However, we see that the Earnshaws don't have that, though it could be because of Heathcliff's presence too. Did Mr. Earnshaw make a wrong move by bringing Heathcliff-disorder-into this ordered system? I think I have a term paper topic! Elements of order and disorder in Wuthering Heights.
Wuthering Heights. As of chapter 12, Catherine and Heathcliff love each other, even though Heathcliff is a mean, horrible person. Catherine married Edgar, though, since her brother Earnshaw would never have accepted her marrying Heathcliff and most likely would have killed him. Earnshaw actually almost killed his own son. So, years later after Earnshaw banished Heathcliff from the house, Heathcliff comes back, brooding as ever, yet he and Catherine are delighted to see each other. Meanwhile, Isabella, Edgar's sister is infatuated with Heathcliff who is probably taking advantage of her. Even though Heathcliff is an unsavory character, Edgar would allow Isabella to marry Heathcliff just to get him away from Catherine. This, I think, is a selfish move. So, right now, everyone seems to hate each other, and it's always cold and dark. Drama, drama, and drama, pronounced short "a."
It seems hopeless! *Throws hand to forehead and wilts* I imagine Heathcliff puts on this hard ass, dark front as a defense of his character and social status, while all he wishes is to be with Catherine unconsequentially. All because of a good dead that the late Mr. Earnshaw (Catherine and Earnshaw's father) did, Heathcliff is stuck in this circle of people and memories, and love for Catherine, and there's not much else that he has any connection with, while Catherine and even Edgar have an embeded roots and rich families. As upper class Victorians, they're expected to have stabilty and order, while Heathcliff being of the lower class would be expected to foil that. However, we see that the Earnshaws don't have that, though it could be because of Heathcliff's presence too. Did Mr. Earnshaw make a wrong move by bringing Heathcliff-disorder-into this ordered system? I think I have a term paper topic! Elements of order and disorder in Wuthering Heights.
Saturday, October 30, 2004
Rough Draft
Last Night with Salome and Lorelei
My mama said I can have anything I want.
My girl Lorelei and I go out to the club
looking for tastey minds.
We're hungry zombie's laughing
at Snow White through the mirror.
In taxed whore joints I win the $200
cash prize every time.
Lorelei holds 'em with her hexing
freezing wolf-en visages
into drowling portraits.
This Sabbath, we went to Pussyfooter's.
Pennsylvania sacriliged its state rule
as I cried on my bruised knees, so
I could dance this night like I'd die Monday.
I had a funny feeling deep in my feet,
for shadows never lie.
(One last go before I go.)
Perhaps it was the cliche full moon
and my full moon and its odor, which
is like the odor of bleeding necks.
I dismissed Marion the trapeze angel
foretelling her broken neck last
full moon of her high swinging
in favor of the smelling salts of decapitation.
I smashed their last bottle of Hemingway's cognac
over my bare feet.
Erect metal, malleable snake.
The grand plan commenced--
Lorelei spied meeklings until
their heads exploded against walls,
smiling. Shards of brains twinkling like stars.
All I wanted, now, were the stars
in my pockets to put in jars labeled
My Power of Mankind
and line them on shelves
next to sorry deer heads on plaques
and between gun racks and swords.
Herein, Herod took my Lorelei
by the neck, she peeped a screech
in my direction,
a flash of Judith Slaying Holofernes
cut through my mind.
My dress fell from gold to blue
to gold to nude, the viral
spectators were bulging and as I drew
my hands for slaying, disguised to the beat
of music. Visions of lost brains danced
in my head.
John the Baptist as the Headless Horseman
mocked my new dance move. Herod
cheered "Voila" to the heavens, exposing
purple bruises on Lorelei's neck, which
hurt less than her scream c/o dead German
sailors of accumulated centuries,
--as John the Baptist ran off with my head.
My mama said I can have anything I want.
My girl Lorelei and I go out to the club
looking for tastey minds.
We're hungry zombie's laughing
at Snow White through the mirror.
In taxed whore joints I win the $200
cash prize every time.
Lorelei holds 'em with her hexing
freezing wolf-en visages
into drowling portraits.
This Sabbath, we went to Pussyfooter's.
Pennsylvania sacriliged its state rule
as I cried on my bruised knees, so
I could dance this night like I'd die Monday.
I had a funny feeling deep in my feet,
for shadows never lie.
(One last go before I go.)
Perhaps it was the cliche full moon
and my full moon and its odor, which
is like the odor of bleeding necks.
I dismissed Marion the trapeze angel
foretelling her broken neck last
full moon of her high swinging
in favor of the smelling salts of decapitation.
I smashed their last bottle of Hemingway's cognac
over my bare feet.
Erect metal, malleable snake.
The grand plan commenced--
Lorelei spied meeklings until
their heads exploded against walls,
smiling. Shards of brains twinkling like stars.
All I wanted, now, were the stars
in my pockets to put in jars labeled
My Power of Mankind
and line them on shelves
next to sorry deer heads on plaques
and between gun racks and swords.
Herein, Herod took my Lorelei
by the neck, she peeped a screech
in my direction,
a flash of Judith Slaying Holofernes
cut through my mind.
My dress fell from gold to blue
to gold to nude, the viral
spectators were bulging and as I drew
my hands for slaying, disguised to the beat
of music. Visions of lost brains danced
in my head.
John the Baptist as the Headless Horseman
mocked my new dance move. Herod
cheered "Voila" to the heavens, exposing
purple bruises on Lorelei's neck, which
hurt less than her scream c/o dead German
sailors of accumulated centuries,
--as John the Baptist ran off with my head.
Friday, October 29, 2004
Dear Jacket, again--
Hi. You will be under the control of my daughter, Shontae, this evening. Don't worry, I trust Shontae for the most part. It's only for an evening. You see, this is very special because if any kind of clothing should be passed down from me to my daughter, it is you Jacket. But, like I said, only for this evening. You will be back on my arms again...
Love,
Angela
Love,
Angela
Thursday, October 28, 2004
Love Letter...
When I came back from class today, I found a letter under my door on Carlow stationary that said,
“TO: Resident Students
FROM: Mary Beth Halferty (and signed)
Residence Life Office
DATE: October 28, 2004
RE: Ghost in Dormitory"
Apparently, there were girls running around, freaking out on the 6th floor last night about ghosts being about the floor. There were girls who refused to go into the bathroom alone. (If the girls like to watch each other pee, among other kinky bathroom acts, they shouldn’t try and cover it up with a ghost story.) Mary Beth wanted to clear up the rumors about a ghost of a Sister of Mercy who committed suicide “years ago.” Sounds like a spooky tale to me! The story is supposedly false. However,
“The crosses above the doors on the 6th floor were put there by the director of the residence halls in the early 1990’s. She put them there to stop the very same rumors that we have now.”
So, she put crosses up to prove the rumors about ghosts were not true. Yeah, okay. If they weren’t true, there’d be no need for crosses. Actually, no there was no ghost when she put the crosses up. Later, that former residence hall director hanged herself in the 6th floor bathroom, where the freshmen girls watch each other pee.
Also, if there are any concerns, Sister Maureen Crossen will be in the lobby of FWH November 3rd, 7 pm for exorcism requests. I don’t think that a Sister is qualified to do this, but she’s all we’ve got in this time of need. If anyone is learned in exorcism, help a Sister out.
By clicking on the title, you will find a link that takes you to a list of haunted places in Pittsburgh. Carlow is on there, but it’s room 947 that is specifically listed.
But, I know for a fact that room 942 is haunted in the dorms…
“TO: Resident Students
FROM: Mary Beth Halferty (and signed)
Residence Life Office
DATE: October 28, 2004
RE: Ghost in Dormitory"
Apparently, there were girls running around, freaking out on the 6th floor last night about ghosts being about the floor. There were girls who refused to go into the bathroom alone. (If the girls like to watch each other pee, among other kinky bathroom acts, they shouldn’t try and cover it up with a ghost story.) Mary Beth wanted to clear up the rumors about a ghost of a Sister of Mercy who committed suicide “years ago.” Sounds like a spooky tale to me! The story is supposedly false. However,
“The crosses above the doors on the 6th floor were put there by the director of the residence halls in the early 1990’s. She put them there to stop the very same rumors that we have now.”
So, she put crosses up to prove the rumors about ghosts were not true. Yeah, okay. If they weren’t true, there’d be no need for crosses. Actually, no there was no ghost when she put the crosses up. Later, that former residence hall director hanged herself in the 6th floor bathroom, where the freshmen girls watch each other pee.
Also, if there are any concerns, Sister Maureen Crossen will be in the lobby of FWH November 3rd, 7 pm for exorcism requests. I don’t think that a Sister is qualified to do this, but she’s all we’ve got in this time of need. If anyone is learned in exorcism, help a Sister out.
By clicking on the title, you will find a link that takes you to a list of haunted places in Pittsburgh. Carlow is on there, but it’s room 947 that is specifically listed.
But, I know for a fact that room 942 is haunted in the dorms…
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
These titles usually don't have much to do with the entry itself.
There is a box of fake flowers, a flower box of plastic purple flowers on the top of a cubical next door in the IT department. That makes me happy because putting fake flowers in front of a window is a mockery of real flowers. It takes up space where real flowers should be. I always prefered real Anything over fake Anything, so maybe I'm just biased. So, the fact that those fake flowers were placed in no line of sunlight and in no convienient way of watering -not like they would need it- makes me feel better about fake flowers in general. Someone realized where the flowers' place is, and didn't attempt to simulated beauty on their window sill. Still, the flowers can't help that they're plastic, so it wouldn't be fair to banish them all together. Therefore, in the most unlikely place for a real flower box to go. Now, as for plastic surgery--
Monday, October 25, 2004
Yellow Violet
Ashley was talking about me! She said,
"yea... there is just a general memory of sitting around laughing... which i think is great... i'm reminded of a time when angela said that she judges a friendship a lot on whether you can just sit around and laugh and that when that happened, she knew it was good... i think she was right on the money."
And then I said,
lasanges: aww
lasanges: thanks for that
And then she said,
Ashpearson: no, thank you
It's true, it's true. I believe I may have said that this summer when Ashley visited me at my apartment, but it may have been long before that. It most likely was when we were sitting around laughing, or maybe we were standing around crying hysterically. With Ashley, most likely the former. I might have said it one of the insane mornings we had been awake for more than 24 hours, and we agreed that the sun rise looked like peaches. Maybe we talked about our plans for the land canoe that day. Sitting around sounds lathargic, and I think that maybe out of some sort of ennui, friends end up doing something like sitting around and laughing, so that's when they may not feel so empty. Hmm, that's what friends are for!
"yea... there is just a general memory of sitting around laughing... which i think is great... i'm reminded of a time when angela said that she judges a friendship a lot on whether you can just sit around and laugh and that when that happened, she knew it was good... i think she was right on the money."
And then I said,
lasanges: aww
lasanges: thanks for that
And then she said,
Ashpearson: no, thank you
It's true, it's true. I believe I may have said that this summer when Ashley visited me at my apartment, but it may have been long before that. It most likely was when we were sitting around laughing, or maybe we were standing around crying hysterically. With Ashley, most likely the former. I might have said it one of the insane mornings we had been awake for more than 24 hours, and we agreed that the sun rise looked like peaches. Maybe we talked about our plans for the land canoe that day. Sitting around sounds lathargic, and I think that maybe out of some sort of ennui, friends end up doing something like sitting around and laughing, so that's when they may not feel so empty. Hmm, that's what friends are for!
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
The Continuing Story of Hugo Ball and others...
"There was nothing particularly original in this notion of an exhausted and perscriptive language."
So, next time, Angela, continue your assigments with this notion. Use the handout. You know, the handout.
So, next time, Angela, continue your assigments with this notion. Use the handout. You know, the handout.
TO A SKYLARK--
No one here but the "German guy" and his magnifying glass...
We cannot wait to mandate the candidate. --Kate.
We cannot wait to mandate the candidate. --Kate.
Thursday, October 07, 2004
Mary Bellows met Richard Slay
"Oh, Mary thought that she might die,
when she saw the ocean for the first time."
"Slay tipped his hat
and winked his eye
and turned away without goodbye."
'"...with the sea breeze whistling all alone..."
when she saw the ocean for the first time."
"Slay tipped his hat
and winked his eye
and turned away without goodbye."
'"...with the sea breeze whistling all alone..."
Sunday, October 03, 2004
Dear Jacket,
Hello. It's been a while. I missed you more than I realized. I suppose I've been neglecting you, why with Blazer and all. Blazer is new, that's all, and stylish, and cute. Target rocks as far as Blazers go. However, don't forget, Jacket, you're still my number one. Blazer doesn't have a zipper that goes all the way up. Blazer doesn't have homemade pockets to keep my hands warm and occupied. Blazer doesn't have cool patches and pins from all over the world. Blazer doesn't have nearly 8 years of history with me. I remember when I got you, that one Christmas, 7th grade. Oh, it's been a long time, Jacket. Though, you're clearly not for winter, I wear you anyway. I layer, and you oblige. My scarfs all look so good on you. My found pennies fit so well in your little arbitrary pockets, homemade, thank you. I remember when I cut my hair to above my shoulders senior year, and then I could decorate the back of you, Jacket. Remember when I got really overly creative and sewed Barbie dresses on you? Everyone has their bad fashion phase. When I went to the Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame a few years ago, and walked through the display of rock stars' clothes. I imagined you there, Jacket. Hey, maybe we'll even make it to the Smithsonian someday, next to Mr. Rodger's cardigan. Everywhere we go, people turn their heads to see this lovely jacket wearing me.
I just want to thank you for keeping me warm this morning, our first morning in a while, and first for many to come. You're like the arms of a sweetheart, though, so much more cordoroy-y.
I thank you, Jacket. Even though you're stuck in the employee closet right now, I'm thinking of you. See you outside after work!
Love,
Angela
I just want to thank you for keeping me warm this morning, our first morning in a while, and first for many to come. You're like the arms of a sweetheart, though, so much more cordoroy-y.
I thank you, Jacket. Even though you're stuck in the employee closet right now, I'm thinking of you. See you outside after work!
Love,
Angela
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
Homework
Tell me about your day
I pinched myself today--that old trick. Then, I thought, it only works because of the acute surge of nervous orgasm for one second. In that second, my brain twitters out of my nose and onto the student desk or the dashboard or the cutting board and does this song and dance: "It's purely psychological! Yeah Yeah Yeah!" while kicking up its gray legs and swashing its gloved hands in a jazzy form. My brain knows forms, but not ideas.
So, after that second was over, I felt the lack of lucid feeling I've been feeling for a while, Doctor, er, I mean, (fellow pedestrian stream-lining Forbes Avenue at 8:10 pm trying to walk home from work before the beggers come out.)
Auras are high, but gray tinted and illuminated with moldy fuzz. It could be as delightful as a Civil War sweetheart photograph on bended metal in the back pocket of a dead drafted kid, doesn't matter if he's blue or gray, because, at this point, all is an isolated gray from bleeding and blending, there is no North and South. They can't be auras...
Time is in a bad dream. When I sleep, I'm always late for job interviews, beginnings of semesters, and birthday parties. Time is a banshee laughing five times faster than a New York business person can drink coffee. I never win in my dreams: man's sadist struggle against nature--
Time.
In so called waking life I have similar experiences with time, but time also simultaneously moves like molassus in January. "Molassus in January" is something Ashley said once, oh, I don't know when. I say then, when I meet this paradox at the vicious lines out West, that time can't really exist then. If I wear a watch and eat grilled cheese at 12:15, the world is a watch. But, I was at The Point, I saw and didn't see, and so on. So, I can't live in a watch if time doesn't exist, because I didn't eat at 12:15 when the watch clicked, because the watch never clicked...
I spent sixteen oh four today. I came home and opened the jeweled case and realized I never saw a price tag and didn't recall putting three ninety six in one of my pockets. We opened them like packages of sweaters on our 23rd Xmas morning. I am undecidedly back $16.04.
I pinched myself today--that old trick. Then, I thought, it only works because of the acute surge of nervous orgasm for one second. In that second, my brain twitters out of my nose and onto the student desk or the dashboard or the cutting board and does this song and dance: "It's purely psychological! Yeah Yeah Yeah!" while kicking up its gray legs and swashing its gloved hands in a jazzy form. My brain knows forms, but not ideas.
So, after that second was over, I felt the lack of lucid feeling I've been feeling for a while, Doctor, er, I mean, (fellow pedestrian stream-lining Forbes Avenue at 8:10 pm trying to walk home from work before the beggers come out.)
Auras are high, but gray tinted and illuminated with moldy fuzz. It could be as delightful as a Civil War sweetheart photograph on bended metal in the back pocket of a dead drafted kid, doesn't matter if he's blue or gray, because, at this point, all is an isolated gray from bleeding and blending, there is no North and South. They can't be auras...
Time is in a bad dream. When I sleep, I'm always late for job interviews, beginnings of semesters, and birthday parties. Time is a banshee laughing five times faster than a New York business person can drink coffee. I never win in my dreams: man's sadist struggle against nature--
Time.
In so called waking life I have similar experiences with time, but time also simultaneously moves like molassus in January. "Molassus in January" is something Ashley said once, oh, I don't know when. I say then, when I meet this paradox at the vicious lines out West, that time can't really exist then. If I wear a watch and eat grilled cheese at 12:15, the world is a watch. But, I was at The Point, I saw and didn't see, and so on. So, I can't live in a watch if time doesn't exist, because I didn't eat at 12:15 when the watch clicked, because the watch never clicked...
I spent sixteen oh four today. I came home and opened the jeweled case and realized I never saw a price tag and didn't recall putting three ninety six in one of my pockets. We opened them like packages of sweaters on our 23rd Xmas morning. I am undecidedly back $16.04.
Sunday, September 19, 2004
October!
It has been brought to my attention, recently, by myself, and slightly others, but mostly myself, being that I am usually sickly self aware, that I have been pacing and fleeting about back and forth everywhere like a crazy girl. Note the record number of commas in the last sentence.
Well, It's almost October, and (which I can't help but say "and the leaves are stripped bare of all they wear, what do I care...") and October is the best month of the whole entire Roman calender 12 month year. Perhaps in some other universe where lunar calanders rule, October is not the best month, but for purposes now, it is, oh how solarly it is.
Yesterday had the first taste of autumn weather in the air, and it made me quite excited. Soon there will be red, orange, yellow, brown leaves, 21st Birthday and birthday in general!, blue lemonade skies (like NOW), smell of jack-o-lanturns that includes all of Halloween, and even Donnie Darko Days.
So, I promise, Angela, to buck up, clean my contacts a little better. Which reminds me, I ought to go to the eye doctor. My contacts always seem to dry and cloudy lately, and all I see is slightly blurier images of what I would normally see, with white auras. Perhaps there is too much computer staring-at, which does give me a headache. Sleep is fine and good, perhaps it's just the change in weather making my eyes all wacky like.
Whether I can see or not, I have a list of Things To Do. Mentally at least. I should mark everything down on a Post-It and stick it on my aquarium, while I watch the pinkyorange fish with their big black bug eyes blub blub with nothing else to do. I always thought animals did nothing but think enourmously deeply about things us people think about to an extent, that animals just understand a little further than we can. But, now I can only limit that to at least cats and dogs, or my cat and dogs I know for sure. Fish, I think they just bleet bleet their thin fins and wait for food to trickle down. I would like to be a cat, but not a fish.
I would like to be the little girl I observed while I was on my break a little while ago. This girl, may have been about 12, skipped on into the library to return something, her long wavy dark blond hair bouncing around, completely oblivious to -just stuff, I assume. She wore a light blue turtle neck and jeans and saddle shoes. I wish I were her, in that very second hopping up the steps to the library. But, I suppose that could be not much different than floating around waiting for freeze-dried worms to trickle down into my fishy mouth.
Well, It's almost October, and (which I can't help but say "and the leaves are stripped bare of all they wear, what do I care...") and October is the best month of the whole entire Roman calender 12 month year. Perhaps in some other universe where lunar calanders rule, October is not the best month, but for purposes now, it is, oh how solarly it is.
Yesterday had the first taste of autumn weather in the air, and it made me quite excited. Soon there will be red, orange, yellow, brown leaves, 21st Birthday and birthday in general!, blue lemonade skies (like NOW), smell of jack-o-lanturns that includes all of Halloween, and even Donnie Darko Days.
So, I promise, Angela, to buck up, clean my contacts a little better. Which reminds me, I ought to go to the eye doctor. My contacts always seem to dry and cloudy lately, and all I see is slightly blurier images of what I would normally see, with white auras. Perhaps there is too much computer staring-at, which does give me a headache. Sleep is fine and good, perhaps it's just the change in weather making my eyes all wacky like.
Whether I can see or not, I have a list of Things To Do. Mentally at least. I should mark everything down on a Post-It and stick it on my aquarium, while I watch the pinkyorange fish with their big black bug eyes blub blub with nothing else to do. I always thought animals did nothing but think enourmously deeply about things us people think about to an extent, that animals just understand a little further than we can. But, now I can only limit that to at least cats and dogs, or my cat and dogs I know for sure. Fish, I think they just bleet bleet their thin fins and wait for food to trickle down. I would like to be a cat, but not a fish.
I would like to be the little girl I observed while I was on my break a little while ago. This girl, may have been about 12, skipped on into the library to return something, her long wavy dark blond hair bouncing around, completely oblivious to -just stuff, I assume. She wore a light blue turtle neck and jeans and saddle shoes. I wish I were her, in that very second hopping up the steps to the library. But, I suppose that could be not much different than floating around waiting for freeze-dried worms to trickle down into my fishy mouth.
Tuesday, August 31, 2004
In context...
Though, in context this phrase is meant to mean something else, I thought it was nice on its own,
"To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love..."
It's from Pride and Prejudice.
"To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love..."
It's from Pride and Prejudice.
Friday, August 27, 2004
Back in the Saddle Again!
Boy, am I bored.
School starts on Monday!
But, for now, it's back to back episodes of Rosanne on WPN.
Hmm, what should I wear for the first day of school? In elementary school I used to pick out what I was going to wear and have it all sitting out ready for the next day. It usually was a dress my mom splurged on. Like, the one with the pink skirt and the bubble design on the bodice. Bodice? I suppose that's the right word. It seems a little too racey of a word for a elementary school dress. Anyhow,
school starts on Monday and I am excited to have something to do instead of watching sindicated sitcoms on cable TV.
Cut a rug--
School starts on Monday!
But, for now, it's back to back episodes of Rosanne on WPN.
Hmm, what should I wear for the first day of school? In elementary school I used to pick out what I was going to wear and have it all sitting out ready for the next day. It usually was a dress my mom splurged on. Like, the one with the pink skirt and the bubble design on the bodice. Bodice? I suppose that's the right word. It seems a little too racey of a word for a elementary school dress. Anyhow,
school starts on Monday and I am excited to have something to do instead of watching sindicated sitcoms on cable TV.
Cut a rug--
Thursday, August 26, 2004
Yep
Take the quiz: "Which'>http://www.zenhex.com/quiz.php?id=2424">"Which Pop Princess are you?"
Cristina
CHRISTINA!You are dirrrty! You have one power-house of a voice, but are often questioned about how far you take you sexuality.
Cristina
CHRISTINA!You are dirrrty! You have one power-house of a voice, but are often questioned about how far you take you sexuality.
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