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.

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.

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 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…

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--

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!

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.

TO A SKYLARK--

No one here but the "German guy" and his magnifying glass...


We cannot wait to mandate the candidate. --Kate.

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..."

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

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.

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.

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.

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--

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.

Corey Feldman

I had a dream last night where my brother and I were in the car with my mom, and it was raining outside. (Meanwhile, it later switched to us driving through what seemed to be a wormhole, but I think that's because I read and watch too much about time travel and other nerdy things...)

So, we were in the car and we were talking about fate. Allan was describing a situation with a friend of his where the friend had got in a car accident and immediatly called his girlfriend, and he hadn't called his girlfriend to tell her how much he cared about her if he hadn't been in that car accident. That's what Allan said. Then I said, It's fate. Allan disagreed, he kept insisting it wasn't fate, didn't give any other suggestion or explanation, just that it wasn't fate. I thought, in the dream, that it was because he didn't know what "fate" meant.

Then, I sat back in the car, watching the gray rain (and the blue speeding light inside the wormhole!) and thought to myself, "I believe in fate."

So, I suppose I do believe in fate. Things are supposed to happen, at least, that's a nice thought.

It's a Mystery

Stacy and I are watching this movie called "Mystery Alaska," and it's in this small town called, Mystery, Alaska - go figure. Almost all the women in it wear very little makeup and dress in conservative sweaters and pants. They're very plain, still pretty, but plain. I wondered to myself then if one of the women got herself made up, wore a sexy dress, sultry makeup, stilletos, etc, would it make a big stir in the town? The characters are initially very simple and classic, teenagers in love, children look up to their fathers. They are all so simple, like Crayola's box of 8. I put on makeup and sort of dress up everyday, and things are not simple, there are layers and layers of translucent and opaque layers. Complicated! And I think about what a little makeup would do for a woman who would most likely care less about Cover Girl. There's me walking down the street with my clothes and my makeup and my sexual politics among other pretentions, how fucking jaded I am! I am part of this jaded and apathetic land of 18-25 year olds. I looked out the window, since it was in my view, it was all dark, which made me very depressed to be stuck, or feel stuck in such a pathetic niche, if it can be called a niche. I don't feel like talking about this anymore. I'm feeling better. There are things to live for, that old saying, cliches, things to live for like love. I do believe that only from experience. Skeptical, add that to jaded and apathetic. No, skeptical is good. Skeptical cannot be apathetic. But skeptical could be just cynical. Ah, shit.
There is a good line from the movie:
"What the fuck ass fuck of a bum fuck shithole town..."

Black Holes Spin!

Squirrel Montoya

"How can I be bored?" I thought.
So, here I am, back in the saddle again, doing what I did best in the "saddle," so to speak.
I am staring at things while sitting at the desk, and listening to music.

"...an email to..."

"...It always seems Carmine makes such a scene, even when he's not there, physically. I can argue that he was there in spirit, but he would shoot me down. He's doing it right now, he's shooting my theory down about him having a soul- in spirit."

-Angela, in an email to Stacy, August 18th, 2004.