Thursday, April 28, 2005
Monday, April 25, 2005
Chilling with the ghosts
I was just looking through old posts, and two things kept reacurring. Andrew and Joe. The former has since deceased. I talked about my fish a lot, but he was my friend. I am becoming further aquainted with my goldfish, Gobi. Sometimes he nips my finger when I feed him, but only when others aren't watching. He gets nervous. I was considering getting another betta, Son of Andrew, but we shall see. I don't know if I want to establish yet another fish tank. Knowing myself well, however, chances are I will go to the fish store one evening and come home with $50 worth fish stuff, including a new betta. Since I have buried Andrew, I feel that he is finally gone. Poor kid, I'm still sorry...
And then there is Joe, who read my blog regularly and left nice comments every now and then. He's in jail for a while. For a little bit, that boy had me smitten and very optimistic. Now I am back to normal, clear headed even. I'm still disapointed. I really trusted him with my feelings, and blaa blaa blaa. I won't put down the boy where he can't defend himself. Just going through old posts and seeing his comments like they are live made me a little sad for ten minutes, maybe even twenty-five.
Reminicing is good every once and a while. When things seem foriegn it affirms growth. I like plants, they grow, and so do I, therefore I must like me, too. If I just keep that in mind, I can bloom flowers!
-What shall I name my next betta? I was thinking of Pin.B Fuelman.
And then there is Joe, who read my blog regularly and left nice comments every now and then. He's in jail for a while. For a little bit, that boy had me smitten and very optimistic. Now I am back to normal, clear headed even. I'm still disapointed. I really trusted him with my feelings, and blaa blaa blaa. I won't put down the boy where he can't defend himself. Just going through old posts and seeing his comments like they are live made me a little sad for ten minutes, maybe even twenty-five.
Reminicing is good every once and a while. When things seem foriegn it affirms growth. I like plants, they grow, and so do I, therefore I must like me, too. If I just keep that in mind, I can bloom flowers!
-What shall I name my next betta? I was thinking of Pin.B Fuelman.
Saturday, April 23, 2005
Woman Breastfeeds Tiger Cubs
Apr 22, 9:05 AM (ET)
YANGON (Reuters) - Hla Htay has three hungry infants to feed these days -- a seven-month old baby boy and two Bengal tiger cubs.
Three times a day, the Myanmar housewife goes to the Yangon Zoo where she breastfeeds the hungry black-striped, orange-brown cubs rejected by their natural mother.
"The cubs are just like my babies," Hla Htay told Fuji TV as one of the baby big cats suckled her breast.
"It's not scary at all," she said of the 45-minute feeds. "I needed to do something for the cubs because I felt really sorry for them."
Three cubs were born at the zoo in mid-March, but their mother killed one and refused to nurse the others. Veterinarians rescued the other two but had little success bottle feeding them.
"They had some difficulties sucking the nipple on the bottle. When we tried to get the cubs to suck a lady's breast, it was alright," said a veterinarian.
The zoo says the breastfeeding will stop by the end of April or when the cubs start teething -- whichever comes first.
YANGON (Reuters) - Hla Htay has three hungry infants to feed these days -- a seven-month old baby boy and two Bengal tiger cubs.
Three times a day, the Myanmar housewife goes to the Yangon Zoo where she breastfeeds the hungry black-striped, orange-brown cubs rejected by their natural mother.
"The cubs are just like my babies," Hla Htay told Fuji TV as one of the baby big cats suckled her breast.
"It's not scary at all," she said of the 45-minute feeds. "I needed to do something for the cubs because I felt really sorry for them."
Three cubs were born at the zoo in mid-March, but their mother killed one and refused to nurse the others. Veterinarians rescued the other two but had little success bottle feeding them.
"They had some difficulties sucking the nipple on the bottle. When we tried to get the cubs to suck a lady's breast, it was alright," said a veterinarian.
The zoo says the breastfeeding will stop by the end of April or when the cubs start teething -- whichever comes first.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
The Haunted Halls of Aquinas
Below are some pictures I took last week of Aquinas Hall, the small, red brick building I have had 90% of my classes in throughout college. For my Creative Non-Fiction class, I wrote a piece on it. Once it is revised and final, it will go in the Carlow Archives, and maybe posted here if I feel ambitious. The essay ended up taking on a cynical and ominous tone toward Aquinas, with Almighty God, Nietzsche, and spiders and cochroaches battling it out in the dungeon. I'm pretty proud of it, it turned out better than I thought. Maybe, though, that's just because I finished it about an hour ago, 1:30 AM, and I still have not gone the hell to sleep yet...Enjoy the sunsets on the Grotto and the detestable, green slime.
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Catholic Essence
These stain glass windows are in almost every door in the building. I think they're pretty. The colors are like Easter eggs. They really add to the "Catholic-ness" of Carlow. Other buildings for the college students are newer and don't have the slightly neo-gothic look to them. These windows are one of the many things that give Aquinas the sort of character it has.
Spying on the Grotto
Next to the building is this lovely grotto. The scene in which Mary appears before St. Bernadette is replicated here, among plastic flowers, a cheap cherub lawn ornament, and cement benches that were once run over by a pick-up truck. This picture did not come out well, but I still like the way Mary and Bernatdette are sort of illuminated in their shadow.
Hey, where do those stairs go? They go up.
These are stairs leading into the newly remodeled basement of Aquinas, where the new MFA program is held. Respected writers come here every so often, former Poet Laureate Louise Gluck for example. Little did she know, but on the other side of the industrial door was a cavern, or "dungeon," with leaky walls as gateways for cockroaches. Sometimes it smells like a terribly neglected, decaying, wet, moldy basement of death just outside the door of Aquinas. This is why.
Monday, April 11, 2005
Summertime on the Veranda
“I have to get some lye,” Port said, adjusting his brown fedora.
“Yes,” Magnolia replied, “and get the lavender scented lye soap. I like the way I smell after I bathe with the lavender lye soap.”
Port leaned up against the white railing of the veranda, watching the small breeze toy with the loose wisps of Magnolia’s dirty blonde hair. “In these kind of July afternoons, honey, I would grow lavender just for you.”
Magnolia winked Port’s way, baring her ivory teeth in a sly grin. With a snap of her creamy wrist, her lacquered fan opened exposing a Japanese print of a brown hummingbird spearing a cherry blossom.
“It’s a funny thing,” she began to say, “it can be as hot as a barbeque in Hell, but I will feel just as fine bathing in a tub of steaming water. Then, I sit out on the veranda.”
Port wanted her to continue. With his hands in the pockets of his buttermilk pants, he swung his glistening face toward Magnolia’s with an inquisitive smile.
She tilted her head and smiled again, away from him. A translucent rose had began to bleed under the thin skin of her cheeks. “Around five o’clock in the evening, after I get out of the steaming bath, I sit on the veranda. I feel like my skin is on fire. My fingers feel like cold milk but my arm is like hot chocolate.”
Port took his hat with his hand and wiped his forehead. “Like the boiling water we dunk the chickens in,” he said.
Magnolia was unsure how to retort while the blood drained from her cheeks. “Yes, yes I do believe.”
There was a hush over the veranda.
“Isn’t it time for the frogs to come out croaking?” she asked no one in particular.
“Magnolia, Magnolia,” Port chuckled, “It’s only 4:30 in the afternoon. And, I believe that I can say afternoon because, honey, it won’t get dark until late, late 9 o’clock. It will get pitch dark then. Damn dark.”
“Then, Port, you have a half an hour to find me lavender scented lye soap,” said Magnolia, clapping her lacquered fan closed.
Port tipped his hat and a pearl of sweat shimmied passed his lip.
“Okay then, bye bye now.” Magnolia backed toward the porch door waving her white gloved hand. “I have to get the water hot.”
Magnolia disappeared into the house, but before Port could leap off the last step of the porch she came back.
“Port, wait.” She held out her fist, stretching her arm as far as it went in front of Port.
“What’s this here?” he asked, his hands in his pockets and edging his sticky face toward Magnolia more and more.
She shook her fist without say a word, only smiling stiffly. Port did not comply.
“Here, here,” she insisted. Finally, he held out his palm. “These are dried lavender petals from Mama’s arrangement.”
In Port’s palm were about ten or twelve lavender petals, dried and with the texture of seeds. Their pallid violet-gray was admirable.
Port did not say another word as he concealed his hand with the lavender back into his pocket.
Tipping his head, there was a short shadow flashing over his brow from his brown fedora. Striding onto the path away from the house, Port periodically looked back at Magnolia as she backed into the house and heard the door lock behind her.
“Yes,” Magnolia replied, “and get the lavender scented lye soap. I like the way I smell after I bathe with the lavender lye soap.”
Port leaned up against the white railing of the veranda, watching the small breeze toy with the loose wisps of Magnolia’s dirty blonde hair. “In these kind of July afternoons, honey, I would grow lavender just for you.”
Magnolia winked Port’s way, baring her ivory teeth in a sly grin. With a snap of her creamy wrist, her lacquered fan opened exposing a Japanese print of a brown hummingbird spearing a cherry blossom.
“It’s a funny thing,” she began to say, “it can be as hot as a barbeque in Hell, but I will feel just as fine bathing in a tub of steaming water. Then, I sit out on the veranda.”
Port wanted her to continue. With his hands in the pockets of his buttermilk pants, he swung his glistening face toward Magnolia’s with an inquisitive smile.
She tilted her head and smiled again, away from him. A translucent rose had began to bleed under the thin skin of her cheeks. “Around five o’clock in the evening, after I get out of the steaming bath, I sit on the veranda. I feel like my skin is on fire. My fingers feel like cold milk but my arm is like hot chocolate.”
Port took his hat with his hand and wiped his forehead. “Like the boiling water we dunk the chickens in,” he said.
Magnolia was unsure how to retort while the blood drained from her cheeks. “Yes, yes I do believe.”
There was a hush over the veranda.
“Isn’t it time for the frogs to come out croaking?” she asked no one in particular.
“Magnolia, Magnolia,” Port chuckled, “It’s only 4:30 in the afternoon. And, I believe that I can say afternoon because, honey, it won’t get dark until late, late 9 o’clock. It will get pitch dark then. Damn dark.”
“Then, Port, you have a half an hour to find me lavender scented lye soap,” said Magnolia, clapping her lacquered fan closed.
Port tipped his hat and a pearl of sweat shimmied passed his lip.
“Okay then, bye bye now.” Magnolia backed toward the porch door waving her white gloved hand. “I have to get the water hot.”
Magnolia disappeared into the house, but before Port could leap off the last step of the porch she came back.
“Port, wait.” She held out her fist, stretching her arm as far as it went in front of Port.
“What’s this here?” he asked, his hands in his pockets and edging his sticky face toward Magnolia more and more.
She shook her fist without say a word, only smiling stiffly. Port did not comply.
“Here, here,” she insisted. Finally, he held out his palm. “These are dried lavender petals from Mama’s arrangement.”
In Port’s palm were about ten or twelve lavender petals, dried and with the texture of seeds. Their pallid violet-gray was admirable.
Port did not say another word as he concealed his hand with the lavender back into his pocket.
Tipping his head, there was a short shadow flashing over his brow from his brown fedora. Striding onto the path away from the house, Port periodically looked back at Magnolia as she backed into the house and heard the door lock behind her.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
PLATO'S CAVE
What I did in Ethics Thursday
I have never taken a Philosophy class at Carlow where I was not lectured on Plato's Cave. Existentialism, Logic, Aesthetics, Ethics, all these touched either briefly or in depth on the prisoner, the shadows, the sensible, and the intelligible. Dr. Stewart Loves Plato's Cave, hearts it with an arrow. He seems to love it so much, some of us Humanities majors call his office (which he shares with Carmine) "Plato's Cave." The three stick figures in the corner of my illustration above are the slightly phallic stick figures (copies, if you will, of the ultimate form) that Stewart draws when illustrating the Cave himself.
I did not feel I needed to take yet more notes on the subject, so I doodled the above. Will we ever escape?
Below is a drawing of the Cave I did for a grade in my freshman year Existentialism class. Note the extravagant colors. I took time on this sucker and I got an A+ on it. I will always remember to look for the intelligible world through Plato's Cave.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Taking a picture, taking a soul
On the front page of the New York Times yesterday, there was a picture of the Pope being carried through a crowd of people taking pictures of his dead body with digital cameras and picture phones. Girls were propped up on shoulders snapping shots at the dead Pope. His face looked painted but sunken in, and his mouth looked like it was sneering. It was an odd picture. A picture of people taking pictures of a dead Pope.
There is some culture, an Asian culture I think, that in their traditional beliefs say that mirrors steal a person's soul. I may be confusing that with something I thought I heard about cameras taking people's souls. But, apparently the Pope's soul was already gone, so maybe he doesn't have to worry. Whoever took the picture for the newspaper is responsible for the souls of all those people attempting to steal the soul of the Pope, though.
There was a herse in front of the convent yesterday. Dana told me a crazy story about a nun who was obsessed, Obe-sessed, with the Pope and did herself in when he died so they could be together in Heaven.
There is some culture, an Asian culture I think, that in their traditional beliefs say that mirrors steal a person's soul. I may be confusing that with something I thought I heard about cameras taking people's souls. But, apparently the Pope's soul was already gone, so maybe he doesn't have to worry. Whoever took the picture for the newspaper is responsible for the souls of all those people attempting to steal the soul of the Pope, though.
There was a herse in front of the convent yesterday. Dana told me a crazy story about a nun who was obsessed, Obe-sessed, with the Pope and did herself in when he died so they could be together in Heaven.
Monday, April 04, 2005
SMELL and the soaps
The Buffy the Backside Slayer soap smells like something I can't put my lye-ing finger on. Like olive oil, oatmeal, rice, almost mint oil smell.
The Rock Star soap smells like candy and Lip Smackers Passion Fruit and leaves pink trails on the tub.
The Karma soap smells like hippie. Patcouly and oranges.
The Farmer's Farmacy smells like lavender and chamomile tea.
And I still have the Dove "unscented" soap that smells like soft and water. And the Caress "berry" soap that smells like cherry and grape Kool-Aid mix. And, the Neutragena soap that looks like maple syrup and smells like mild man cologne.
My hands smell like the Buffy soap and beef jerky.
The Rock Star soap smells like candy and Lip Smackers Passion Fruit and leaves pink trails on the tub.
The Karma soap smells like hippie. Patcouly and oranges.
The Farmer's Farmacy smells like lavender and chamomile tea.
And I still have the Dove "unscented" soap that smells like soft and water. And the Caress "berry" soap that smells like cherry and grape Kool-Aid mix. And, the Neutragena soap that looks like maple syrup and smells like mild man cologne.
My hands smell like the Buffy soap and beef jerky.
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