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The inane babble of two languishing lassies...

Tuesday, June 14, 2005

And...scene.

Friday, June 03, 2005

A quiz 

You are a SEDL--Sober Emotional Destructive Leader. This makes you a Dictator.

You prefer to control situations, and lack of control makes you physically sick. You feel have responsibility for everyone's welfare, and that you will be blamed when things go wrong. Things do go wrong, and you take it harder than you should.

You rely on the validation and support of others, but you have a secret distrust for people and distaste for their habits and weaknesses that make you keep your distance from them. This makes you very difficult to be with romantically. Still, a level-headed peacemaker can keep you balanced.

Despite your fierce temper and general hot-bloodedness, you have a soft spot for animals and a surprising passion for the arts. Sometimes you would almost rather live by your wits in the wilderness somewhere, if you could bring your books and your sketchbook.

You also have a strange, undeniable sexiness to you. You may go insane.

Of the 127029 people who have taken this quiz since tracking began (8/17/2004), 5.5% are this type.

Take this quiz.

Thursday, May 26, 2005

Kommensie bitte herein! 

You never know what form the next blow is going to take, but you always know it's coming.

I feel so thwarted.

Wednesday, May 25, 2005

Today is the feast-day of the Venerable Bede!!! 

Wednesday, May 18, 2005

"Good God, woman! You're driving with a man in the early stages of dotage!" 

There are some things which can never be explained to most of the human race, but that nevertheless leave one feeling rather jarred, as though the universe had momentarily flashed in and out of existence.

Went dancing last night. Who dares to say that the human race is evolving? We're just the same as we ever were. Think about every civilization that ever was, and think what they did, and what they thought about, and the music they made, and the things they crafted and wrote down and destroyed and mourned for. Sometimes continuity is a comfort--sometimes it isn't.

"Plato, I think, was ill."
--Phaedo


"Forgive my grief for one removed,
Thy creature, whom I found so fair.
I trust he lives in thee, and there
I find him worthier to be loved.

Forgive these wild and wandering cries,
Confusions of a wasted youth;
Forgive them where they fail in truth,
And in thy wisdom make me wise."
--Ally

Tuesday, May 17, 2005

"I think we've had enough of that feeble joke."

Monday, May 16, 2005

Well, gentlemen. 

"Rowan" is a good word, still, after all this time.

And if I want to study ancient Greek, who's to prevent me? Stop with the naysaying-stop it, I say!

Home agin (although, when my bus turned on to Wisconsin Ave. this morning, the first thought that went through my mind was "home agin." I love my downtown.) The gramps and the gran are here for Imoth's confirmation, and today is Mr. Joseph's birthday, and life is too messy for words.

Ask for more coherence than that, and I will laugh in your face.

Tuesday, May 03, 2005

What, you egg! Young fry of treachery! 

Last night I saw an incredible group of young actors do their thing. It made me miss theatre. Afterwords, I talked to some of them and missed it less. I love them all dearly and wish them well, but if I never spoke to any of them again I would be perfectly content. I'm done with compromising the things I admire and hold dear.

The weather is unfriendly, and my roommates never leave the room, and life is beating me over the head with a baseball bat. Soon it will be summer. I'm not sure how much of an improvement that will be.

Friday, April 29, 2005

Interficior! 

Howdy, y'all.

I think when I am in Scotland, I'm going to chaw tobacco and wear a cowboy hat and speak in the most inarticulate drawl possible, just to flout my American heritage.

I have been asked by mein bruder et carrissimo amico to post this gem about one of his personal heroes:

Duncan Stroik
Prof. Stroik's teaching, research, and practice grows out of a commitment to the principles of classical architecture and urbanism. He studied architecture as an undergraduate at the University of Virginia and as a graduate at Yale University, where he focused on recapturing the principles of classical architecture. From 1987 to 1990 he served as a designer for the architect Allan Greenberg, with whom he designed a number of prestigious civic, and residential projects. In 1990 he was invited to help form and implement a new curriculum at the University of Notre Dame. Prof. Stroik developed new courses in classical architecture and urbanism based on Renaissance and Beaux Arts educational models as well as contemporary scholarship. Prof. Stroik's award-winning house, "Villa Indiana," grew out of his research into Andrea Palladio's buildings in Italy and is an example of how classical principles can be applied to an economical house in the contemporary world. Paul Goldberger, of the New York Times described it as "an exquisite small pavilion with a barrel-vaulted central room and a gentle, almost Jeffersonian air." In June 1998 Prof. Stroik and "Villa Indiana" were featured in the Arts and Entertainment Television series "In Search of Palladio" hosted by Bob Vila. Prof. Stroik's involvement in issues of sacred architecture has also led to the formation of the "Society for Catholic Liturgy" and the Sacred Architecture Journal of which he is the editor. In addition to publishing and lecturing, Prof. Stroik has also organized conferences on sacred architecture and seminars in Italy. He has built work in Ireland, Kentucky and Nebraska and at present is working on projects in California, Wisconsin, New Hampshire, Arizona, Minnesota, and Chicago.

Thank you.

Anyway, the semester is squeegying down to a close. I do not weep its passing. This summer I'll read everything ever written and ride my bike and perhaps write a cycle of sonnets (but don't hold your breath.)

Also, today (by official pronouncment) is the first day of the cloying, oversweet, soporific part of spring. Be warned.

As Marcus Aurelius says: if your cucumber is bitter, throw it away.

Wednesday, April 13, 2005





Your Inner European is Irish!









Sprited and boisterous!

You drink everyone under the table.



Who's Your Inner European?






You Are 35% Normal

(Occasionally Normal)









You sure do march to your own beat...

But you're so weird, people wonder if it's a beat at all

You think on a totally different wavelength

And it's often a chore to get people to understand you



How Normal Are You?

Wednesday, April 06, 2005

“Really, if you don’t like T.S. Eliot, she hardly considers you human,” said Joyce. She and R.T. sat on a picnic table in the quad, swathed in winter coats and scarves. R.T. also wore a candy-striped ski hat. She chewed a knuckle thoughtfully.
“You like him, though,” she replied.
“What I’ve read,” conceded Joyce. “But that’s not much. I’ve never even read The Wasteland straight through. And I like Keats better, which is probably heretical.”
A girl stalked by on high heeled boots. Her cell phone jabbered drunkenly, and she jabbered back, laughing like a sitcom. Joyce looked back at her with distaste.
“I’ll tell you what I don’t like. Cable-knit sweaters. When I take over the world, I plan to burn ‘em all. Join me?”
“Love to.”
There was a pause. Joyce looked at the sky and sniffed experimentally.
“Realistically, the sky shouldn’t be that blue. It’s deceptive. That’s the problem with February. It sleeps with you, then never calls.”
R.T. looked at the sky too, and didn’t respond.
Another short time past, then Joyce said slowly, “Frankly, I’m afraid to talk to her. I mean, after this meeting, she’ll either decide to help me get into grad schools, or squish me under her foot like a bug.”
“Oh, come on—you’ll be fine,” J.T. encouraged. “You’re great, you know what you’re doing—you’ll be fine. She’s had you in class.”
“Don’t go all parental on me. I know I’m smart, but I’m not a genius. I decided that for a fact second semester freshman year, when I read the end of the Aeneid and listened to “Abbey Road” on the same day. Really, you either got it or you don’t.”
The two pondered this observation for a moment.
“My problem is, I don’t have enough original thoughts about what I read,” Joyce continued. “That’s my problem. I swallow everything—I take from things just what I take from things—I don’t try to squeeze them for metaphor and rhetorical technique and the influence of post-modernism and Freudian complexes. I love things too much to judge them. That’s my problem.”
“Is that a problem?”
“It is in academia. It might be otherwise. Who knows how to get to the truth of something? Especially something somebody wrote. But I always think-- if someone whacks you with a baseball bat, you don’t need to know its weight and the material it’s made of and the sporting goods store where it was bought and the angle of the swing. You just need to know that it hit you.”
“So truth is like a whack from a baseball bat?”
Joyce smiled quietly.
“’’What is truth?’ said jesting Pilate, and would not stay for an answer.’”

Tuesday, April 05, 2005

A day for reading G.B. Shaw, eating brown mustard, speaking in as many bizarre dialects as possible, and thumbing my nose at the whole ruddy world.

Blogging has been non-existent from this front...trying to catch up is an exercise in futility...so here are some Scottish jokes.

What do you call five hundred Englishmen falling off a cliff?
A good start.

How do you keep an Englishman from drowning?
Take your foot off the back of his head.

How do you get an Englishman to come down from a tree?
Cut the noose.

And finally...

ENGLAND FOREVER...AND SCOTLAND JUST A WEE BIT LONGER!

Tuesday, March 15, 2005

"I have only two things to say to you, Lord Tilbury. One is that you have ruined a man's life. The other is Pip-pip."

Friday, March 11, 2005

Songs of Innocence, Introduction
You are 'regularly metric verse'. This can take
many forms, including heroic couplets, blank
verse, and other iambic pentameters, for
example. It has not been used much since the
nineteenth century; modern poets tend to prefer
rhyme without meter, or even poetry with
neither rhyme nor meter.

You appreciate the beautiful things in life--the
joy of music, the color of leaves falling, the
rhythm of a heartbeat. You see life itself as
a series of little poems. The result (or is it
the cause?) is that you are pensive and often
melancholy. You enjoy the company of other
people, but they find you unexcitable and
depressing. Your problem is that regularly
metric verse has been obsolete for a long time.


What obsolete skill are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

A fig for a kiss... 

Well, eventually PP will get around to posting. In the meanwhile, another weekend is upon us. I foresee that it will involve jamming a-plenty, thanks to Russell Craze and his group of Celtic musicians, who have suddenly crawled out of the MU woodwork. Does anyone have a name to suggest for a band with fiddle, harp, bodhran, mandolin, guitar, and bass, playing both J. Scott Skinner and "The Piano Man"?

Today PR observed enthusiastically that I had cut my hair. What can one do with such a woman?

Also, I made Dr. Bealle stay after class and scan some early Horace for me. And that is the real purpose of life.

Hawa-a-a--i-i-i...!

And with that, I leave you.

Monday, March 07, 2005

This weekend kind of defies description.

I think I'll punt to Ping Pong, who owes us all a post or two anyway.

Suffice it to say...
No, there really is not much that will suffice.


Slip slidin' away
Slip slidin' away
You know the nearer your destination
The more you're slip slidin' away...
--Paul Simon

Monday, February 28, 2005

I didn't do a mite of homework this weekend, which I am sure will come back to haunt me later. However, there are things more important. At times, for example, friends are more important than education. Similarly, sometimes doughnuts and mist-laden night air are more important than sleep.

Marquette, though at times a hell-hole, has some lovely people tucked away. Somehow I've managed to find some of them. Although I am capable of leading a fairly solitary life, and enjoying it, I really would rather not. Loneliness can eat away at anything else in life that's worthwhile. I can really only value the nights spent alone, writing, at a coffee shop, if I also have afternoons spent with creative, intelligent, interesting people, looking at famous artworks and talking about Italy and theatre and house-boats.

To reiterate, what people usually refer to as "priorities" are less important than things like birds and Jesuits and chocolate and films and Latin poetry and people on the street.

I refuse to miss any of it.

Tonight-- Shakespeare.
Tuesday-- Jack Straw and his mandolin
Wednesday-- CCSwing
Thursday-- Thistledoon
Friday-- Fugees

Good.

Thursday, February 24, 2005

Miser Catulle, desinas ineptire,
et quod uides perisse perditum ducas.

Monday, February 21, 2005

In case you're wondering what I'm thinking about 



Try not to flick me off, Ping Pong dear.

Wednesday, February 16, 2005

Sigh no more ladies, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever,
One foot in sea and one on shore,
To one thing constant never.

Then sigh not so, but let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into hey nonny, nonny, nonny.

Sing no more ditties, sing no more
Of things so dull and heavy,
The fraud of men was ever so,
Since summer first was leafy.

Then sigh not so, but let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into hey nonny, nonny, nonny.

Then sigh not so, but let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into hey nonny, nonny, nonny.

--William Shakespeare

Wednesday, February 09, 2005

A delightful Ash Wednesday to all.
The time has come to bid farewell to puddings, at least for a bit.

Advice to all: If you're feeling disheartened, talk to Jack Straw. And throw some cake, either at yourself as you write novels, or at the JB performers, who will dance and sing around it enthusiastically.

I prefer men to cabbages.
Actually, at the moment, I prefer sleep to both.


Cottleston Cottleston Cottleston Pie,
A fly can't bird, but a bird can fly.
Ask me a riddle and I reply
Cottleston Cottleston Cottleston Pie.

Cottleston Cottleston Cottleston Pie,
Why does a chicken? I don't know why.
Ask me a riddle and I reply
Cottleston Cottleston Cottleston Pie.

Cottleston Cottleston Cottleston Pie,
A fish can't whistle and neither can I.
Ask me a riddle and I reply
Cottleston Cottleston Cottleston Pie.

-- A.A. Milne

Monday, February 07, 2005

I distrust this false spring.
It's unnatural-- like a disease.
But then, February is rather unpleasant no matter how it plays itself out.
An irritating month, all in all.

The other day, I read the most heart-breaking thing ever written in English: "A Free Man's Worship" by Bertrand Russell. It seems so tragic and yet so heroic to believe that there is no God and that the universe is purposeless and hostile and ultimately transient, and yet to still believe in beauty and truth and goodness and to pursue them. I've never felt such a temptation to a world-view other than Catholicism. But don't worry...I'm hanging in there.


"The human person: with his openness to truth and beauty, his sense of moral goodness, his freedom and the voice of his conscience, with his longings for the infinite and for happiness, man questions himself about God's existence. In all this he discerns signs of his spiritual soul. The soul, the 'seed of eternity we bear in ourselves, irreducible to the merely material', can have its origin only in God."

--CCC 33

Wednesday, February 02, 2005

The Collar

I struck the board, and cry’d, No more;
I will abroad.
What? shall I ever sigh and pine?
My lines and life are free; free as the road,
Loose as the winde, as large as store.
Shall I be still in suit?
Have I no harvest but a thorn
To let me bleed, and not restore
What I have lost with cordiall fruit?
Sure there was wine,
Before my sighs did drie it: there was corn
Before my tears did drown it.
Is the yeare onely lost to me?
Have I no bayes to crown it?
No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted?
All wasted?
Not so, my heart: but there is fruit,
And thou hast hands.
Recover all thy sigh-blown age
On double pleasures: leave thy cold dispute
Of what is fit, and not. Forsake thy cage,
Thy rope of sands,
Which pettie thoughts have made, and made to thee
Good cable, to enforce and draw,
And be thy law,
While thou didst wink and wouldst not see.
Away; take heed:
I will abroad.
Call in thy deaths head there: tie up thy fears.
He that forbears
To suit and serve his need,
Deserves his load.
But as I rav’d and grew more fierce and wilde,
At every word,
Methought I heard one calling, Childe:
And I reply’d, My Lord.

--George Herbert

Tuesday, February 01, 2005

Things I'm not too fond of:
* people who interpret everything as allegory
* textbooks (some because they weigh 78 lbs, some because they're lost, some because they exist at all)
* references to Mary as a "magical female fertility goddess"
* lukewarm showers
* the latin verb "adire"
* fake plants
* the phrase "it's all good"
* data entry
* my current state of mind

Monday, January 31, 2005

#405

It might be lonelier
Without the Loneliness --
I'm so accustomed to my Fate --
Perhaps the Other -- Peace --

Would interrupt the Dark --
And crowd the little Room --
Too scant -- by Cubits -- to contain
The Sacrament -- of Him --

I am not used to Hope --
It might intrude upon --
Its sweet parade -- blaspheme the place --
Ordained to Suffering --

It might be easier
To fail -- with Land in Sight --
Than gain -- My Blue Peninsula --
To perish -- of Delight --

*Emily Dickensen

Friday, January 28, 2005

Wow, hurray for us and our regular posting.

I was correct: none of my professors are Twetten. Curses.
I am, in fact, feeling slightly despondent, a word which here means "weary of staring at a computer screen, brain-dead, and somewhat feverish." (Sorry, Imoth. i realize I am once again supporting The Evil. Mea culpa.)

However, last night Michelle came a-visiting. Which was pleasant. (Yes, James, and Imoth, and any other grammar fiends that may be listening: I have stooped to speaking in fragments. Me culpa.) Is it really the good ol' days, PP? Or is it more like some sort of waiting period? Or is it merely the beginning of a new stage, less pleasant than the last?

"I want to see mountains again, Gandalf...mountains. And then find somewhere quiet where I can finish my book..."



Friday, January 21, 2005

All right, I'm a bit dizzy, but...huzzah for colours. (By the way, is it odd that I actually do use British spellings? All the time?)

Well, yesterday was beautiful-- just a combination of little things, including several intelligent, well-spoken, and supportive English professors, a prayer by St. Ignatius, a mushroom sandwich, and lots of snow. The big news is that I've officially switched majors to English (!!!) I love academia.

I'm still figuring out what I think of my many new professors-- sometime next week I'll probably describe each of the for y'all (although most of these descriptions are likely to start "Well, he's definitely not Twetten, but...")

Otherwise...I'm excited about the semester, more than I've probably ever been.


Lord, the Roman hyacinths are blooming in bowls and
The winter sun creeps by the snow hills;
The stubborn season has made stand.
My life is light, waiting for the death wind,
Like a feather on the back of my hand.
Dust in sunlight and memory in corners
Wait for the wind that chills towards the dead land.
--T.S. Eliot

Monday, January 17, 2005

This life is a perilous road. 

Back at school.
More to come.

Monday, January 03, 2005

Many happy returns... 

of J.R.R. Tolkien's eleventy-third birthday!!!



So...I have no internet connection at home at the moment (yes, I know...did we ever, really?) Consequently, posting will continue to be all but non-existent from this quarter. As for PP...well, ask her yourself. I don't know nuthin' about nuthin'. And that's my final word.


To the Sea, to the Sea! The white gulls are crying,
The wind is blowing, and the white foam is flying.
West, west away, the round sun is falling.
Grey ship, grey ship, do you hear them calling.
The voices of my people that have gone before me?
I will leave, I will leave the woods that bore me;
For our days are ending and our years failing.
I will pass the wide waters lonely sailing.
Long are the waves on the Last Shore falling,
Sweet are the voices in the Lost Isle calling,
In Eressea, in Elvenhome that no man can discover,
Where the leaves fall not: land of my people for ever!

Tuesday, December 07, 2004

Well, a lot has gone on recently, but I haven't time to post, so you all will have to continue in blissful ignorance and/or breathless suspense-- your choice, of course.

I'm going to post two last sonnets from the Romantics to close out the semester. They're really quite wonderful, and I'm glad I took the class, despite the abysmal teaching.

So...first from Shelley (or should I say P-Dog):

Lift not the painted veil which those who live
Call Life: though unreal shapes be pictured there,
And it but mimic all we would believe
With colours idly spread,--behind, lurk Fear
And Hope, twin Destinies; who ever weave
Their shadows, o'er the chasm, sightless and drear.
I knew one who had lifted it--he sought,
For his lost heart was tender, things to love,
But found them not, alas! nor was there aught
The world contains, the which he could approve.
Through the unheeding many he did move,
A splendour among shadows, a bright blot
Upon this gloomy scene, a Spirit that strove
For truth, and like the Preacher found it not.


And then from Keats:

When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love;--then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

Wednesday, December 01, 2004

Winter... 

is more cleansing than autumn this year.
Amazing.

Yesterday I tramped all over campus in the snow.
I also talked to one of the very few people in the world to whom I can be honest, about snow.

There is a lot to think about, but I couldn't feel less inclined to do so.


Sunday, November 28, 2004

Well, I had an unusually splendid Thanksgiving week. It can be entirely summed up by the following quotes:

"I have one thing to say: I hunt and fish."
"That is sooooo ecumenical."
"Illegal do-si-do on the offense!"
"Here you see the Advent wreath with its infamous four candles."
"Night is day...day is night..."
"I don't like being covered with flies!"
"Cream 'um! Cream 'um!"

And finally...
"I'll mendicant your arse!"

Tootles.


Saturday, November 20, 2004

May I just mention, briefly, that the title of PP's last post and that rather lengthy quote are both from a medieval French fairy tale. We consider both to be side-splittingly funny. Maybe the hilarity is just within the context of the story, or within the context of the hospital waiting room where we were reading it out loud. In any case, they weren't meant to be taken seriously as some sort of overblown lament. Just so ya know.

That said...

Does anyone else ever feel a sudden, overwhelming affection towards some random person on the street? Sometimes I just appreciate someone's existence, and grin broadly inside, and wish them well. This guy named Daryl was our cashier at Culver's today. He was short, and kind of chubby, with really dark skin, and one of the nicest smiles I've ever seen. There was no fanfare about him, just this sort of calm patience and selflessness. I was kind of in awe. Anyway, I hope he has a fantastic life...that's pretty much it.

Tuesday, November 16, 2004

Ummm... can I marry John Keats? 

No?
Darn.



MY heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
’Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,-
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster’d around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover’d up in leaves;
And mid-May’s eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain -
To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toil me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam’d to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music: - Do I wake or sleep?


Wednesday, November 10, 2004

a quote for your enjoyment... 

It is never difficult to distinguish between a Scotsman with a grievance and a ray of sunshine.

--P.G. Wodhouse


Actually, I would tend to disagree.

Go here for more such gems. The man was a genius. Sometimes true wit seems all but dead.

Monday, November 08, 2004



The next planet was inhabited by a tippler. This was a very short visit, but it plunged the little prince into deep dejection.

"What are you doing there?" he said to the tippler, whom he found settled down in silence before a collection of empty bottles and also a collection of full bottles.

"I am drinking," replied the tippler, with a lugubrious air.

"Why are you drinking?" demanded the little prince.

"So that I may forget," replied the tippler.

"Forget what?" inquired the little prince, who already was sorry for him.

"Forget that I am ashamed," the tippler confessed, hanging his head.

"Ashamed of what?" insisted the little prince, who wanted to help him.

"Ashamed of drinking!" The tipler brought his speech to an end, and shut himself up in an impregnable silence.

And the little prince went away, puzzled.

"The grown-ups are certainly very, very odd," he said to himself, as he continued on his journey.

--Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Thursday, November 04, 2004

"Let us be lovers-- we'll marry our fortunes together"
"I've got some real estate here in my bag"
So we bought a pack of cigarettes and Mrs. Wagner pies
And we walked off to look for America

"Kathy," I said as we boarded a Greyhound in Pittsburgh
"Michigan seems like a dream to me now"
It took me four days to hitchhike from Saginaw
I've gone to look for America

Laughing on the bus
Playing games with the faces
She said the man in the gabardine suit was a spy
I said "Be careful his bowtie is really a camera"

"Toss me a cigarette, I think there's one in my raincoat"
"We smoked the last one an hour ago"
So I looked at the scenery, she read her magazine
And the moon rose over an open field

"Kathy, I'm lost," I said, though I knew she was sleeping
I'm empty and aching and I don't know why
Counting the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike
They've all gone to look for America
All gone to look for America
All gone to look for America

--Paul Simon

Monday, November 01, 2004

Fuge, Aenea. Troia corruit. 

At least, even when life is unpleasant, it is still interesting. This weekend was an abundance of distractions and diversions.

Friday night Ping Pong and K/K/C and I tramped all over the city trying to find a bus stop (thus somewhat missing the point of a bus.) We ended up at K/K/C's house, where I met his 5 dogs, and then at Teen Night, where we unbalanced certain people by our presence, and then at Mayfair, where we saw The Grudge. 'Twas a very good film, although I find psychological thrillers, like Silence of the Lambs, much scarier than pure horror. Afterwards Ping Pong and I stayed up until 4 am, acting like we were twelve years old.

On Saturday was the swing dance. It was fun.

On Sunday I sang at Mass, and went grocery shopping with CCSwing on the way home(why are there speakers in the parking lot at Pick n' Save that play recordings of church bells?) Then I played my fiddle, talked politics, read some Descartes, and went to bed.

And today is Monday.

It always seems like there should be some conclusion to draw from life. After all, when we study literature, we have to attempt to decipher the author's intentions in writing it. Why did this particular fate come upon this particular character? What does that say about the author's views, or about art, or about truth? What is the point of it all? I wish that I could see the point-- not of life, but of my own life.

Eh.


Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.
--Tennyson



Thursday, October 28, 2004

Last night Ping Pong, K/K/C, and I finished watching Great Expectations, the 5-hour Disney version. It was quite excellent. Anthony Hopkins played Magwitch, and John Rhys-Davies played Joe Gargery. Apparently, in some former life, he could act. The rest of the cast apparently consisted of British stage actors, which is always a plus.

Question: Why are all the best stories heart-breakingly sad?

On an entirely unrelated note, there are spelling errors and... there are spelling errors. My logic teacher informed us in a handout the other day that "The Muslims consider Jesus to be a great profit." Heaven help us.

On another unrelated note, I'm going to a swing dance on Saturday dressed as a cat.

On a somewhat more related note:
Is it even so? Then I defy you, stars!
--Romeo

I feel quite ill.

Wednesday, October 27, 2004

"It is absurd for you to be expected to make your own staples by day and crawl laps by night."
Duncan Quagmire
in The Austere Academy by Lemony Snicket

That is all.

Monday, October 25, 2004

Today I am soaking things in.

Especially the gorgeous autumn sunshine, but other things as well.


My fall break was unexpectedly lovely:

On Thursday night, I had larks with Imoth, including one of our mini-sessions and a late night walk down to the bridge. My grandparents also appeared suddenly from Minnesota, and did many grandparenty things, such as baking cookies, showing me pictures of my cousin's baby, and offering to buy me a new coat. It was all much appreciated.

On Friday I hung with my dear friend Ping Pong. We watched A Hard Day's Night. George Harrison was as hot as ever.

On Saturday I went back home for a brief stint, failed to take a nap, and ate some fantastic apple pie made by Nate. Then I drove over to the house party for the St. Anthony's choir, where the conversation was less than scintillating. Too much adult small talk makes me nauseous. I went back home fairly early and watched the end of Game One. Go Sox!

On Sunday, the choir performed at a Vespers service. The chapel where we sang was quite hideous, but the acoustics were marvelous, and I got to listen to a harpsichord and sing a high A. After that was a desert reception with cunning little chocolate things, and then most of the choir went to Emperor of China for dinner. I got to participate in conversations about very diverse topics, from the Chinese Zodiac to harems to sailboats. CCSwing and I went for a walk along Brady Street before he took me home-- the East side is pleasant at gloaming.


So now I'm back at school, and I'm less than enthused. Ping Pong is maniacally sewing fabric squares for Costume Tech class(as well as spending ample time with Kevin-I-mean-Keith-I-mean-Craaaayg), so I don't think you'll be hearing from her for a time.

For now-- adieu. Hie to high fortune.

Tuesday, October 19, 2004

I am so very excited.

Johnny Depp + Kate Winslet + one of my favourite stories = a very good movie.

The reviewers seem to think so too.

Monday, October 18, 2004

But in Man's dwellings he became a thing
Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome,
Droop'd as a wild-born falcon with clipt wing,
To whom the boundless air alone were home:
Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome,
As eagerly the barr'd-up bird will beat
His breast and beak against his wiry dome
Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat
Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat.

--Lord Byron

Friday, October 15, 2004

This morning I ate a blueberry muffin in the rain.

I also encountered two phrases that are strangely moving, in entirely different ways.

"It is dawn."

"What is an apple?"

The first phrase is poetry in the very best way. It's not flowery, it doesn't have layer upon layer of metaphor. It's just words, and they're powerful.

I have a feeling the second phrase doesn't inspire most people as it does me. Most people would say, "Who cares?" or "Will it get me a job?" or (most likely) "Seriously, are you on crack?."

But simple questions like "What is an apple?" thrill me like nothing else thrills me. I struggle and chafe under this horribly prosaic educational system, whose sole aim is to produce successful, well-adjusted consumers-- and then every once in a while there will be some professor who thumbs his nose at that system and gives me a shove down the road to the Truth.

Thanks, Dr. Twetton.
You da bomb.

Tuesday, October 12, 2004

Ping Pong and I watched "The Silence of the Lambs" last night. It is an incredible piece of art, as evidenced by the fact that I was shaking for about 15 minutes after it ended. We decided that you would have to have a lot of artistic maturity and the right kind of direction in order to play a role like Hannibal Lector without damaging yourself. Actually, I think acting can be very dangerous that way. That's just one more of the million reasons I got out of theatre-- my acting class last year was stripping me emotionally, because my teacher's philosophy of acting was total vulnerability and openness, and she forced this philosphy on us without first giving us a solid grounding in tecnique. I realized that this is a trend in the entire theatre world of late, and that I would probably spend my entire life in a raw and vulnerable emotional state unless I either became calloused or got the hell out of there. I chose the latter.

Sunday, October 10, 2004

I'm realizing more and more that it's really the very smallest, most unassuming details of life that have the profoundest affect on us.

One glance from one certain person, or a 5-minute conversation about nothing in particular, can mean everything-- if that person means everything.

Someone's absence can be as tangible as their presence.

A line from a poem, or a laugh, or a sunlit tree, or a smell on the air, or someone's arm across your shoulders, can heal you in a moment or stab continually at your heart for the rest of your life.

Usually both.


And so we laugh, and we bleed.
I guess that's what it means to be human.

Thursday, October 07, 2004

Sorry, all. I've been remiss, I know.

My life keeps plodding along...how about a poem, instead of pointless self-analysis?

NOT, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist—slack they may be—these last strands of man
In me or, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.
But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me
Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan
With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?

Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear.
Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod,
Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, cheer.
Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung me, foot trod
Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.
--Gerard Manley Hopkins


By the way: I have a hunch that PP won't be quite so depressed next time she posts.

And that's all the hint you get.

Wednesday, September 22, 2004

Good things have been happening, by some strange aberration. It won't last long, I deem, but...gather ye roses while ye may.

The Schoenstatt Mass on Saturday went swimmingly. The group was small but solid, Kyle sang lovely music, Fr. Kubicki preached with pizazz, the presentations were quite servicable, and we had an unreasonably plentiful amount of refreshments. Pleasant times had by all.

I went home with Chimelle and the Chilean girls here from Madison. They are, of course, lovely in every sense. The Fenelons were...the Fenelons, which is usually quite a comforting thing. Clare was dressed as a princess. I ate hamburgers, grilled by Nate, and cake, made by Rebecca. Chelley lent me a book of short stories by Oscar Wilde. Go figure.

After that, there was a party, in the true sense of the word. The Chileans hosted it in honour of Chilean independence day. There were Chilean flags draped everywhere, and they sang patriotic songs. We joined in heartily on "Chi-chi-chi, le-le-le, viva Chile!" Also, there was much dancing. And much manjar.

I don't have time for more. I have logic to do (curses!), and sleep to get.
Interesting that I only blog when things are on the upswing. I suppose no one really wants to hear me rant or break down in sobs or shout curses at the world.

Tomorrow I may mention nice Catholic boys. Consider an allusion made.

Thursday, September 16, 2004

Summer went out in perfect form yesterday, and this morning the smell of autumn hit me full in the face when I walked out the door. I was grinning all the way to work.

Wednesday, September 15, 2004

Lle holma ve' edan... 

Quite possibly the Coolest Site There Is.

Monday, September 13, 2004

Just another 45 minutes, and then I can go take a nap.

Well, I take that back.

First I have to go to the library and send out a mass email to my fellow Schoenstatt planners, and then I have to eat dinner before the caf closes, and then I can take a nap. Maybe.

In other news, my classes remain astronomically better than last year. Reading Plato, Wordsworth, Frankl, Shelley, and God is a rather good mix, especially when this reading is done down by the lakefront and topped off with spontaneous milkshakes. Of course,the one great exception is logic class, where I am experiencing record levels of annoyance and feelings of futility. I am also discovering my new Least Favourite Dialect of the English Language, which consists of an inarticulate midwestern drawl punctuated by those particular American glottal stops which sound like the speaker is hacking up a hairball. My teacher is a fine example of this. She also has been teaching us about "to narrow" and "to broad" definitions. Heaven help us.

Much to do, so I'll link a lovely poem and call it a day.

Ode to the West Wind, by (your friend and mine) Percy Byshssehehssehesehsshe Shelley.

Tuesday, September 07, 2004

I feel that I ought to check in, seeing that I've been at school for weeks now and have posted nothing but fragments of poetry.

I've made a valiant effort to enjoy Marquette this year, and it has worked-- sporadically. At the very least, I begin feel like a real student rather than an inmate (of either a prison, an asylum, or both). My classes have some academic weight, several of my professors are good, and Ping Pong is here to distract me. But autumn is coming, and that means chill winds and sharp smells and wanderlust and heartache.

In the meanwhile, things are oddly surreal. My sleeping schedule is so erratic that I think my body can no longer distinguish night from day. I spent the night at home Sunday, and it was relaxing, which is unusual. The noise of the Fair was soothing rather than irritating, and I listened to early Beatles and read Sherlock Holmes and slept and ate and felt like a child. Then I came back to school and organized things for our new Schoenstatt Women's University Branch, and designed a flier, and signed our contract for the Cincinatti Celtic Festival, and was up 'til 3 am talking and writing, and I felt like an adult again. Which is better? It's a question I haven't often asked myself before, because I thought I knew the answer.


ABOUT the sheltered garden ground
The trees stand strangely still.
The vale ne'er seemed so deep before,
Nor yet so high the hill.

An awful sense of quietness,
A fulness of repose,
Breathes from the dewy garden-lawns,
The silent garden rows.

As the hoof-beats of a troop of horse
Heard far across a plain,
A nearer knowledge of great thoughts
Thrills vaguely through my brain.

I lean my head upon my arm,
My heart's too full to think;
Like the roar of seas, upon my heart
Doth the morning stillness sink.
--Robert Louis Stevenson

Thursday, September 02, 2004

Many Happy Returns!!!! 

A very happy birthday to my fantabulous and deviant brother, Nate the Great.

"The world is quiet here."

Wednesday, September 01, 2004

Be mine a philosopher’s life in the quiet woodland ways,
Where if I cannot be gay let a passionless peace be my lot,
Far-off from the clamour of liars belied in the hubbub of lies;
From the long-neck’d geese of the world that are ever hissing dispraise
Because their natures are little, and, whether he heed it or not,
Where each man walks with his head in a cloud of poisonous flies.

--Tennyson

Wednesday, August 25, 2004

Which is lovelier, his picture or his poem? 



Song Written in August

Now westlin winds and slaught'ring guns
Bring Autumn's pleasant weather;
The moorcock springs on whirring wings
Amang the blooming heather:
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain,
Delights the weary farmer;
And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night,
To muse upon my charmer.

The partridge loves the fruitful fells,
The plover loves the mountains;
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells,
The soaring hern the fountains:
Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves,
The path of man to shun it;
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush,
The spreading thorn the linnet.

Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find,
The savage and the tender;
Some social join, and leagues combine,
Some solitary wander:
Avaunt, away! the cruel sway,
Tyrannic man's dominion;
The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry,
The flutt'ring, gory pinion!

But, Peggy dear, the ev'ning's clear,
Thick flies the skimming swallow,
The sky is blue, the fields in view,
All fading-green and yellow:
Come let us stray our gladsome way,
And view the charms of Nature;
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,
And ev'ry happy creature.

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk,
Till the silent moon shine clearly;
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest,
Swear how I love thee dearly:
Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs,
Not Autumn to the farmer,
So dear can be as thou to me,
My fair, my lovely charmer!
--Robert Burns

Ya gotta love Chaucer 

Five centuries old and still relevent:

For him was lever han at his beddes hed
A twenty bokes, clothed in black or red,
Of Aristotle, and his philosophie,
Than robes riche, or fidel, or sautrie.
But all be that he was a philosophre,
Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre.
--Canterbury Tales. Prologue. Line 295

Interpretation: it's time for me to head over to Sweeney's and beggar myself buying school books.

Monday, August 23, 2004

Slainte! 

Irish Fest was, as usual, amazing. We danced, and ate bridies, and fled from leprauchans, and bought kilt hose, and basked in the world's most beautiful music. We discovered two great new bands, Teada out of Donnegal (thanks, James) and Rajus from the Aran Islands. We also heard Gaelic Storm, of course (twice), and Natalie MacMaster. I won't say any more: if I do, I'll just go off on one of my fits of superlatives, or incoherent rants about American culture.

Ping Pong moved her things into The Dorm yesterday. I have no idea what kind of chance she'll have to post, since freshman orientation starts Wednesday, and she's likely running around like a chicken with her head cut off. I should probably be doing the same, since I have done basically nothing to get ready for the beginning of school. I move in next weekend, and classes begin on Monday, and all my stuff is still heaped up in various corners of the house. Yeesh.

That's it for now. Time to go back to hunching over long columns of numbers with my little green highlighter. Wow-- my job adds so much meaning to my life.

Thursday, August 19, 2004

Coimhéad fearg fhear na foighde! 

Irish Fest begins today!!!

In honour, I've revived this old quiz that I made a while ago:

What Kind Of Traditional Scottish Tune Are You?

Hey diddly dee.

Wednesday, August 11, 2004

Quote of the week 

From the Scottish play:


To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.


Hmmm.
MaybeI'd better post something more light-hearted to counterbalance. Some Hopkins, perhaps?


I WAKE and feel the fell of dark, not day.
What hours, O what black hours we have spent
This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went!
And more must, in yet longer light’s delay.
With witness I speak this. But where I said
Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament
Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent
To dearest him that lives alas! away.

I am gall, I am heartburn. God’s most deep decree
Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me;
Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse.
Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see
The lost are like this, and their scourge to be
As I am mine, their sweating selves; but worse.


Whoops. That didn't quite work.
Maybe I'll try again tomorrow. But no guarantees.
Fare well.

Wednesday, August 04, 2004

Oh, will you be a robber's wife, or will you die by my penknife? 

Wow, Ping Pong.

A few comments:
*Good poem. Wanna make a film about Tennyson?
*All the colours are a trifle disconcerting. Stop playing games with my psyche. (jo-ack!)
*ALIB, eh? Merciful heavens.
*Isn't it possible to be for the kids and for excellent theatre? *pout*
*In general: HA!

So, besides all that...
Thistledoon had a rockin' rehearsal last night. We arranged a couple of awesome sets, and felt like real musicians. Also, we got a call from a harper we met last year at the Wisconsin Highland Games, and we may have a chance to perform with him at Irish Fest!!!! So stay tuned, and then come in droves to watch us, so we get hired next year.



There's some come here tae see me hang
And some tae buy my fiddle
But afore that I dae part wi' her
I'd brak' her through the middle.

Monday, August 02, 2004

Hymn of Pan 

FROM the forests and highlands
We come, we come;
From the river-girt islands,
Where loud waves are dumb,
Listening to my sweet pipings.
The wind in the reeds and the rushes,
The bees on the bells of thyme,
The birds on the myrtle bushes,
The cicale above in the lime,
And the lizards below in the grass,
Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was,
Listening to my sweet pipings.

Liquid Peneus was flowing,
And all dark Tempe lay
In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing
The light of the dying day,
Speeded by my sweet pipings.
The Sileni and Sylvans and Fauns,
And the Nymphs of the woods and waves,
To the edge of the moist river-lawns,
And the brink of the dewy caves,
And all that did then attend and follow,
Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo,
With envy of my sweet pipings.

I sang of the dancing stars,
I sang of the daedal earth,
And of heaven, and the giant wars,
And love, and death, and birth.
And then I changed my pipings--
Singing how down the vale of Maenalus
I pursued a maiden, and clasp'd a reed:
Gods and men, we are all deluded thus!
It breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed.
All wept--as I think both ye now would,
If envy or age had not frozen your blood--
At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.

--Percy Bysshe Shelley

Saturday, July 31, 2004

Last night Dan came over and we watched "The Empire Strikes Back".

It was cheesy, overblown, and cliche, with terrible acting. Of course, it was simultaneously delightful. The perfect movie to watch with friends, so you can eat Sun Chips and make strange comments throughout without missing anything earth-shattering. And of course, plenty of fire fights and large, dangerous pieces of machinery and huge gulfs to fall into and cool British villains in Nazi-type uniforms and death-defying escapes breaking every law of physics known to man. Great fun.

I also bought a tin whistle the other day, and I've learned three tunes. It's fun to have an instrument that can be taken anywhere, because my fiddle is no such thing. Perhaps one day I'll learn to play every session instrument that exists, like Billy Jackson (all pause for a moment of silent awe.)

On Monday, Ping Pong will be back from her Canadian frivoling, and maybe...just maybe...there will be time for some real summertime larks before school begins again. Yes, all of you wishful thinkers-- I said school.

Wednesday, July 28, 2004

Hello, all.

Yes, posting has been sparse, to put the matter mildly. Perhaps I will be forgiven if I point out that I just spent a week in bed, courtesy of a lovely case of bronchitis. And yes, as Ping Pong pointed out, my home computer has Gone to Its Eternal Reward. Or perhaps it has Kicked The Bucket. Or possibly Given Up The Ghost. (Other ideas, Imoth?) So, I shall do my durndest to keep this thang updated. But no guarantees.

The show is indeed over, and I would be positively gleeful about this if I wasn't so ruddy exhausted. It was a good thing to do, but I think it may confirm my opinion that theatre, however much I may adore it, ain't for me. Also: the Ohio Scottish Arts School proved to me, once again, that happiness is possible this side of the grave. Which is a confusing thought.

On the topic of happiness: My dad and I were discussing where we would live in Middle Earth if given the choice. At times I may waver, because (in case this went over your head) Middle Earth contains quite a few lovely places. However, all I need to do is to reread the chapter called "Many Meetings" to remember that (at the risk of being somewhat cheesy) my heart is in Rivendell.

Frodo was now safe in the Last Homely House east of the Sea. That house was, as Bilbo had long ago reported, "a perfect house, whether you like food or sleep, or story-telling or singing, or just sitting and thinking best, or a pleasant mixture of them all." Merely to be there was a cure for weariness, fear and sadness.

Of course, conversely, I've been wishing that something would come to break the monotony of life-- something terrible, like a war or a disaster, something that would require all my courage and wits and strength, something to break the monotony of an American life of comfort and empty pleasure. It won't, of course. If I want to fight something visible and tangible, I'll have to go elsewhere. Not that there aren't things to fight here-- but sometimes one get tired of fighting internally and longs to feel a sword in hand.

Wow. This is all needlessly intense. Perhaps you folks don't feel the same way, in which case you are probably backing away slowly, wishing you had a good sedative on you. As a matter of fact, it is quite possible that I may end up in a locked room somewhere, shouting curses at the padded walls. Or I may end up dying of exposure on the steps of some European cathedral. Or in the mission field. Or on the battle field. But chances are I will just eventually give in, and settle down, and get a job, and live, as Thoreau says, a life of quiet desperation, until I finally die in a nursing home, entirely comfortable and entirely unfulfilled.

We shall see.


Wednesday, July 14, 2004

Well, Midsummer goes up tonight.

Hmmm.

This show has almost, but not quite, licked me. It's taken every bit of my physical stamina and emotional stability. Last night was the traditional "run from hell", where everything that could go wrong did. Actually, I was secretly relieved that it turned out that way-- my deeply ingrained theatre superstition tells me that a terrible run will get the mistakes out of the way before we perform. We had all the normal problems: missing props and costume pieces, forgotten set changes, stressed parents turning their frustration on me. One of my little actors, who is mildly autistic, had some sort of attack and had to be taken home before we began the run. Another, taking her typical lack of focus to a whole new level, missed her entrance entirely, on the one scene where she has a line. Luckily my splendid cast covered for both of them. I've said before that one of the best feelings in the world is working on a show with your best friends, people you can trust personally and artistically. Also, I was wearing my blue newsboy cap, which always makes things better.

Some other comforting things (for Those In The Know):
*Dan as Bacchus
*Cherry-nut ice cream
*Juan Pablo the Mime
*Francisco's tornado skit
*Spinning
*Como el Nino
*Audrey's Phil
*The music of grass blades
*Shoulder angels
*"I made up that phrase"
*Mr. Gustin's bedtime story
*The big green Thermos
*Lindsay's R&J
*The stuttering genie
*EWFTHSAOB
*"That is shmuh beyond ALL reasoning"
*Paul Fojut, at any time, in any capacity

Lastly--
To los Chilenos: As always, you rock da house.
To the Core: I miss you.
To the world at large: Lord, what fools these mortals be!

Monday, June 14, 2004

Spinning... 

I had my first gig as a DJ's assistant on Saturday. It was...interesting. The DJ was a large man who both talked and sweated profusely. He was nice enough, though, and was understanding of the fact that my supervisor had given me no training (though I think he was slightly taken aback by this!). I got to operate the mixer-- teehee! Unfortunately they don't use vinyl anymore, but I did feel rather special standing there in an evening dress, watching the disco ball and keeping the dance floor hopping. It seems that I'm going to do part-time work in every possible field before I'm twenty.

Wednesday, June 09, 2004

Sir Patrick Spens 

If you haven't heard Jim Malcolm's rendition of this bonnie auld ballad, you haven't lived. It's amazing to think about the fact that it has been sung for four centuries. I dearly wish I could have been there when a minstrel came to someone's door on a wintry night, begged a corner by the fire in exchange for a song, and sang this for the very first time.



THE king sits in Dunfermline town
Drinking the blude-red wine;
'O whare will I get a skeely skipper
To sail this new ship o' mine?'

O up and spak an eldern knight,
Sat at the king's right knee;
'Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That ever sail'd the sea.'

Our king has written a braid letter,
And seal'd it with his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Who was walking on the strand.

'To Noroway, to Noroway,
To Noroway o'er the faem;
The king's daughter o' Noroway,
'Tis thou must bring her hame.'

The first word that Sir Patrick read
So loud, loud laugh'd he;
The neist word that Sir Patrick read
The tear blinded his e'e.

'O wha is this has done this deed
And tauld the king o' me,
To send us out, at this time o' year,
To sail upon the sea?

'Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,
Our ship must sail the faem;
The king's daughter o' Noroway,
'Tis we must fetch her hame.'

'Mak ready, mak ready, my merry men a'!
Our gude ship sails the morn.'
'Now ever alack, my master dear,
I fear a deadly storm.

'I saw the new moon late yestreen
Wi' the auld moon in her arm;
And if we gang to sea, master,
I fear we'll come to harm.'

They hadna sail'd a league, a league,
A league but barely three,
When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,
And gurly grew the sea.

The ankers brak, and the topmast lap,
It was sic a deadly storm:
And the waves cam owre the broken ship
Till a' her sides were torn.

O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords
To wet their cork-heel'd shoon;
But lang or a' the play was play'd
They wat their hats aboon.

And mony was the feather bed
That flatter'd on the faem;
And mony was the gude lord's son
That never mair cam hame.

O lang, lang may the ladies sit,
Wi' their fans into their hand,
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailing to the strand!

Half-owre, half-owre to Aberdour,
'Tis fifty fathoms deep;
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,
Wi' the Scots lords at his feet!

Wednesday, June 02, 2004

All right, Ping Pong... 

This is getting ridiculous. Physics, my monkey's grandmother. We need some pinging and ponging on this here blog.

But, in the meantime...a little Yeats? I think yes.

The Lake Isle of Innisfree
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the mourning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
--William Butler Yeats

Friday, May 21, 2004

This song has been stuck in my head... 

Which means it's going to be a good summer.



Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
And I say it's all right

Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter
Little darling, it feels like years since it's been here
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
And I say it's all right

Little darling, the smiles returning to the faces
Little darling, it seems like years since it's been here
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
And I say it's all right

Sun, sun, sun, here it comes
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes

Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting
Little darling, it seems like years since it's been clear
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
And I say it's all right

Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
It's all right, it's all right


It's impossible to get the full effect without George Harrison and his lovely Liverpudlian vowels and his gentle, lilting guitar. What can I say-- go out and buy the album! I've often said that, although I can't call any of the songs on Abbey Road my favourite Beatles song, it's my favourite Beatles album. As a whole, it's just a masterpiece.

Speaking of masterpieces, I started watching Lawrence of Arabia last night-- fantastic(!!!) The first scene between Lawrence and Ali is one of the best I've seen on film. (Apparently this is my day for superlatives, but I'm not going to apologize. I just love good art, and when I see it, I tend to get rather excited and start jumping up and down and turning cartwheels. What's wrong with that?)

One more superlative, and then I'm signing off: could the weather be any better? Thunderstorms nearly every day, with cool winds and grey twilights in between. When I said the sun was coming, I meant that figuratively-- hopefully the real sun will stay away for a good while yet, and give us a chance to dance in the rain!

Wednesday, May 19, 2004

What, a play toward? 

Theatre, dearest friends, is an addiction. I finally make the final, indelible decision to take a year off from the crazy business, and then I turn around and let myself in for the Theatre Project to End All Theatre Projects, one that will gobble up my summer and sap all my energy and possibly drive me to insanity. (As a side note, it will also fill me with glee and allow me to make money doing what I love. Don't let me fool you, I couldn't be more excited.)

The situation is thus: I'm going to be organizing and teaching a theatre class for homeschoolers, ages 9-14. In addition, I'm going to be directing a condensed version of A Midsummer Night's Dream, by the King himself, with members of my dear old high school acting troupe in the major roles and the kids as fairies, mechanicals, and such like. Shakespeare in summer...'tis a beautiful thing.

What revels are in hand? Is there no play,
To ease the anguish of a torturing hour?
--Theseus in A Midsummer Night's Dream

Monday, May 17, 2004

Inversnaid 

This darksome burn, horseback brown,
His rollrock highroad roaring down,
In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam
Flutes and low to the lake falls home.

A windpuff-bonnet of fawn-froth
Turns and twindles over the broth
Of a pool so pitchblack, fell-frowning,
It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning.

Degged with dew, dappled with dew
Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through,
Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern,
And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn.

What would the world be, once bereft
Of wet and of wildness? Let them be left,
O let them be left, wildness and wet;
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.

--Gerard Manley Hopkins

Friday, May 14, 2004

Achilleus spoke winged words of vaunting derision over him... 

Lie there now among the fish, who will lick the away
from your wound, and care nothing for you, nor will your mother
lay you on the -bed and mourn over you, but Skamandros
will carry you spinning down the wide bend of the salt water.
And a fish will break a ripple shuddering dark on the water
as he rises to feed upon the shining fat of Lykaon.
Die on, all; till we come to the city of sacred Ilion,
you in flight and I you from behind; and there will not
be any resue for you from your silvery-whirled, strong-running
river, for all the numbers of bulls you dedicate to it and drown single-foot horses alive in its eddies. And yet
even so, die all an evil , till all of you
pay for the of Patroklos and the slaughter of the Achaians
whom you killed beside the running ships, when I was not with them.



Off to see Troy (!!!)
More later.

Wednesday, May 05, 2004

It would be nice to be a genius.

It would also be nice to find one artistic medium that I could focus on and excel in.

However, maybe those things are mutually exclusive. Most geniuses seem to be dabblers. Then again, there are a lot of dabblers who are not geniuses, and I still fall very squarely within that category.

One comfort that will always remain to me is the genius of others. I was reading Douglas Adams and marveling at his endless creativity, wit, and mastery of words. Thank God for art-- it is the solace He's given us in this "vale of tears".

For those who are wondering, I finished up my last written final exam today. It was English, so it was actually enjoyable. We studied some wonderful stuff this semester: Thoreau, Frost, and Faulkner. I've been crafting Absalom, Absalom! into a screenplay in my head-- it would make a great film. I'd like to make movies someday-- perhaps that will turn out to be the artistic medium for me. The amazing thing about film is that it is a combination of pretty much every medium: theatre, literature, music and visual art all rolled into one.

Now I just have a history take-home final, due Friday, and I've licked my first year of college. As Cronk would say, "Duh...wierd..." And with that sparkling quote, I leave you.

Tuesday, May 04, 2004

The True Myth... 

Of course I do not mean that the Gospels tell what is only a fairy story; but I do mean very strongly that they tell a fairy-story: the greatest. Man the story teller would have to be redeemed in a manner consonant with his nature: by a moving story. But since the author of it is the supreme Artist and Author of Reality, this one was also made to Be, to be true on the Primary Plane.
--J.R.R. Tolkien

Wednesday, April 28, 2004

Happy belated birthday... 




To the King!

"Do thy worst, old Time; despite thy wrong, my love shall in my verse ever live young"
Sonnet 19

Posting will be rather sparse from Fuzz this week. Finals, you know.

An even shorter one 

The world is so full of a number of things
I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings.

--Robert Louis Stevenson

Thursday, April 22, 2004

Another good poem 

A rather long one, but well worth it.

The Hound of Heaven

Monday, April 19, 2004

I have surprisingly little to say, but I thought I had better post, so I'm not assumed dead. Or perhaps the problem is that I have too much to say. Here's a bit of a poser for all of you: should art always have a message of redemption, or can it just ask questions without answering them? Some of the art which has affected me most has merely expressed some painful reality without a message of hope. I consider that to be good art, but I've talked to some people that disagree with me. Thoughts?


Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

--Robert Frost

Thursday, April 15, 2004

Even those who arrange and design shrubberies are under considerable economic stress at this period in history.  

I saw Hidalgo with the Unnamed Fragment of the Core. It was deliciously overdone. Oh, to live in a world where everything is so simple and straightforward-- challenges come along, you meet them head on, and you triumph in a blaze of glory and sappy theme music. Off to Mass-- more later.

Tuesday, April 13, 2004

Just so everyone knows... 

April is Frog Month!!!

Tuesday, April 06, 2004

I always get a bit irked when people refer to rain as "bad weather". Today I nearly got drunk on moist, rain-soaked air. The sky was a gorgeous slate blue, and everything was dim and peaceful. Best of all, there is a hole in the bottom of my shoe, so the rainwater leaked in. It was delightful.

Quick survey: Should Fuzz
a) fly off to Maine, en route to the most beautiful country on God's green earth, to pursue her art OR
b) stay in Milwaukee and rot, with nothing but regrets?

(I'm sorry, was that question somewhat skewed?)

Sunday, April 04, 2004

Time to hit the hammock, matey! 

If I were not running on two hours of sleep, I might post something witty and diverting to brighten your lives. But I am, so I shall post a pirate song and call it a night. Ah...sleeeeeeeeep...

Avast belay, yo ho, heave to,
A-pirating we go,
And if we’re parted by a shot
We’re sure to meet below!

Yo ho, yo ho, the pirate life,
The flag o’skull and bones,
A merry hour, a hempen rope,
And hey for Davy Jones!

Thursday, April 01, 2004

Random Literary Factoid of the Day 

Imoth and I were playing dictionary games (that's right, don't pretend you're not envious), and discovered that "dreary" comes from the Old English word for "gore", and that it used to mean "covered in blood".

Make sure you look properly horrified next time someone says it looks dreary outside.

Wednesday, March 31, 2004

By the way... 


My inner child is sixteen years old!


Life's not fair! It's never been fair, but while
adults might just accept that, I know
something's gotta change. And it's gonna
change, just as soon as I become an adult and
get some power of my own.


How Old is Your Inner Child?
brought to you by Quizilla

Take my quiz! 

What kind of traditional Scottish tune are you?




Grey... 

I've returned as well, from a wee hiatus.

It's a strange day. I dreamed I was the Ring-bearer, overslept my alarm, and am now trying to piece together all the elusive bits of thought that are dancing around inside my head-- Dr. Hills with his cup of tea and his dressing gown, and the 4th century coin I just handled, and Robert Frost's poetry, and the sun shining, and the Yorkshire moorlands, and responsibility, and a haunting, inarticulate longing for something I just can't put my finger on.

I would sail away
To a distant clime
But the water is grey
With filth and grime.

I would fly away
So happy and free
But the air is grey
And I cannot see.

So I walk, instead
And the crowd's so thick
That I cannot tread
The road I pick.

And I turn away
From my own heart's cry
And my mind is grey
And my tears run dry.

Tuesday, March 02, 2004

Happy 100th Birthday, Dr. Seuss!!! 



Sunday, February 29, 2004

And now... 

What you've all been waiting for...

The winners of this year's Limerick Contest!!!!
And the award goes to...


(drum roll, please...)


Timothy Gotcher!!!!


(Theme music swells. Tim, wipe that smirk off your face.)


The winning limerick is as follows:

There once was a man who was dead
Kicked the bucket and can with his head.
He was born to the life
Without this mortal strife,
Gave the ghost up, became one instead.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We have also decided to award two honourable mentions.

One goes to Marty Helgesen:

Warp Nine and be quick, Mr. Sulu.
We must get away from Cthulhu.
We've made our escape,
And now we can jape,
But first I must visit the crew loo.

The other to Rachel Wells:

Some Siamese twins of Beloit
Were cursed with a terrible plight
The two shared a nose
So when one of them blows
To whom do you say "gesundheit"?

Congratulations, winners! The rest of you, nicely done. The amount of cleverness and wit displayed on this blog over the past month has been astounding. Don't stop now-- fill the world with limericks to delight posterity for generations to come! To close, I would like to post a limerick from the greatest of all limerick writers, one Ogden Nash:

What a wonderful bird is the pelican.
His beak can hold more than his belican.
He can hold in his beak
Enough food for a week,
But I don't know how the helican.

Friday, February 27, 2004

The journey... 

Upon the hearth the fire is red,
Beneath the roof there is a bed;
But not yet weary are our feet,
Still round the corner we may meet
A sudden tree or standing stone
That none have seen but we alone.
Tree and flower, leaf and grass,
Let them pass! Let them pass!
Hill and water under sky,
Pass them by! Pass them by!

Still round the corner there may wait
A new road or a secret gate,
And though we pass them by today,
Tomorrow we may come this way
And take the hidden paths that run
Towards the Moon or to the Sun.
Apple, thorn, and nut and sloe,
Let them go! Let them go!
Sand and stone and pool and dell,
Fare you well! Fare you well!

Home is behind, the world ahead,
And there are many paths to tread
Through shadows to the edge of night,
Until the stars are all alight.
Then world behind and home ahead,
We'll wander back to home and bed.
Mist and twilight, cloud and shade,
Away shall fade! Away shall fade!
Fire and lamp and meat and bread,
And then to bed! And then to bed!

--J.R.R. Tolkien

More contest entries... 

There was once a man in confusion
Who really needed a transfusion
Of knowledge locked in a girl
Whose mind was a twirl
So finally he gave into her illusion

In Paris there lived a small man
Whose name was Sir Arthur McCann:
He dug and did delve
He placed and did shelve
And from tigers and lions he ran.

In the south part of German lave
A man who gifts constantly gave.
He gave one to James
And to some other names,
Till somebody gave him his grave.

There once was a man who was dead
Kicked the bucket and can with his head.
He was born to the life
Without this mortal strife,
Gave the ghost up, became one instead.

There is also Sir Ian McKellen,
What his middle name is I'm not tellin'.
In fact I don't know
If it's Keith or it's Joe.
He pronounces "friend" "mel-lon" not "mellon."

Sean Foot is the person who puts on
The feet of the hobbits (their foots) on
He works hard each day
With Dom M. and Sean A.
Too bad when the actors have boots on.

Mercutio-now that is a Role!
For each male this one should be a goal.
He's good a sword strokes,
Though he makes bawdy jokes
And his corpse bids farewell to his soul.

Lord Capulet-is he insane?
If he's not, he is simply profane.
He has differing moods
He's in his altitudes,
He turns out to be R&J's bane.

Wednesday, February 25, 2004

Remember that you are dust... 

Today is Ash Wednesday, which seems like a good day to smell spring for the first time. Odd, really-- I remember blogging about the first day I smelled autumn. A long time ago, it seems. That day, I was surprised that I could be so happy while actually being so miserable. Today I am surprised that I can be so miserable while actually being so happy.

I'm suspicious of spring. The air always seems too thick and pungent for any clarity of thought, and everything is muddy in more than one sense of the word.

We shall see.

Tuesday, February 24, 2004

Céad Mile Fáilte! 

This is my first real evening at home in heaven knows how long. I'd almost forgotten that it was possible to relax and study in a leisurely but productive fashion. I've also discovered an online Celtic music station, which is delightful.

Now all I need is a bonny lad and a wee dram to be perfectly content.

Happy Mardis Gras to all.

Thursday, February 19, 2004

A few thoughts from some wise men... 

That dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall ne'er prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
And let the mountain winds be free
To blow against thee...
--William Wordsworth


I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to rout out all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meaness of it, and publish its meaness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it...
--Henry David Thoreau


The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars...
--Jack Kerouac

Wednesday, February 18, 2004

Come see... 

The show that's devouring my life.

Barmy! 

I would like to compile a list of euphemisms for insanity. It seems rather applicable to my current situation.

--lost his marbles
--lost his wits
--mentally unhinged
--bats in the belfry
--psychologically disturbed
--not all there
--cracked
--batty
--mad
--loopy
--loony
--out of his mind (an interesting one-- does it mean "outside of his mind looking in?")

Any more, folks?

Well on the way, head in a cloud, the man of a thousand voices talking perfectly loud.
But nobody ever hears him, or the sound he appears to make,
And he never seems to notice--
But the fool on the hill sees the sun going down
And the eyes in his head see the world spinning round.


And with that I leave you.

Sunday, February 15, 2004

Even if it is all a sham, it's worth it, if only for the brief shining moments.

Tonight I made a cameo appearance in Memorandum, and recieved a compliment from Bobes, and was invited to a party, and sessioned with two lovely lads named Colin Gherty and Brian Moore. And I felt loved.

And none of this means that tomorrow I won't feel inclined to curl up in a dark corner and quietly die. But that's alright. Because there are these moments, and someday...these moments will become eternity.

Friday, February 13, 2004

Sea-Fever 

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a gray mist on the sea's face, and a gray dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like
a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.


--John Masefield


Thursday, February 12, 2004

A wee diversion.



Tuesday, February 10, 2004

The almost quintessential Scot... 

There once was a Scotsman named Ali,
Who lived in the Tweed River valley.
He ate haggis and tripe,
And he played the bagpipe,
But he married a Maura O'Malley.


Sunday, February 08, 2004

Tsk, tsk... 

Now, now, almost-Dr. Miller.

That was amusing enough, but didn't we specify that all limericks submitted had to be original? We expect a good many highly creative and witty entries in reparation.

Friday, February 06, 2004

An example for your enjoyment... 

There once was a man from Nantucket,
Who carried his heart in a bucket.
Then one sunny day,
He hid it away,
And couldn't recall where he'd stuck it.

And now, announcing... 

The first annual Limerick Contest, sponsored by Fuzz and Ping Pong!!!!

The contest will last throughout the month of February. Please email your original limericks-- as many as you like!-- to Fuzz or Ping Pong, or post them as comments. The winner will be selected by us on Sunday, February 29th, and displayed with much honour on our blog. The two of us will also contribute, just to give you all a little inspiration, but our entries will not be eligible to win.

So, get ready to show off your wit!

Thursday, February 05, 2004

I've spent so much time during the past few weeks thinking deep, introspective thoughts that my mind has been stripped of anything of substance. This is compounded by the fact that I spend four (count 'em, four) hours a night hunched over a script calling lines for Memorandum. Collin, study that "vicious circle" scene or feel my wrath!!!

So, I continue along my merry way, thinking little and feeling less.

You are: PEPPER! Maybe just a little eccentric,
but definitely fun.


---What fast food condiment are you?---
brought to you by Quizilla

Wednesday, February 04, 2004

Latest news on the sharks front: apparently in order to prep an aqaurium to be inhabited by sharks you have to let other fish live in it first. Something about chemicals in the water: I don't pretend to understand. So, enter Hobbes, Locke, and Rousseau, our three little shark precursors. They are a hoot.



Tuesday, February 03, 2004



You never give me your money
You only give me your funny paper
And in the middle of negotiations you break down.
I never give you my number
I only give you my situation
And in the middle of investigation I break down.

Out of college money spent
See no future, pay no rent
All the money's gone nowhere to go
Any jobber got the sack
Monday morning, turning back
Yellow lorry slow nowhere to go

But oh that magic feeling-- nowhere to go
Oh that magic feeling-- nowhere to go.
Nowhere to go.

One sweet dream
Pick up the bags and get in the limousine
Soon we'll be away from here
Step on the gas and wipe that tear away
One sweet dream came true today
came true today
came true today.

Monday, February 02, 2004

Scary indeed. I'm going to talk to you tonight if its the last thing I do.

Waffles, eh? You have lost your identity. Today we talked about Prometheus in English class and I thought fondly of you.

Also, I'm basically sure you're going to win that scholarship. If you don't, it'll be some kind of fluke, like Dame Judi Dench appearing to audition.


Here's a very good quiz. My result was not unexpected.

Elvish
Elvish


To which race of Middle Earth do you belong?
brought to you by Quizilla

And here's a link for Jonny Hardie, in case anyone's wondering.

The World's Coolest Band

And by the way, Manchester beat Southhampton. Huzzah!

No unmasking today, folks, just pleasant chatter.
Ta for now.


Friday, January 30, 2004

Ought I to rant? 

I could, you know.

Oh fool, to try to find love
Where love can't be found.
Oh fool, to try to harvest
On barren ground.

A spot of tea and perhaps a heresy or two... 

I had my first run-in with my theology professor t'other day. Its amusing to argue with a Brit. It's less amusing and more sad when you discover that he thinks a belief in the Resurrection is an "immature view". But I like having opportunities to defend the Faith and even to be subjected to ridicule about it. Especially with an ally like Stuart Thomas.

In football news (and I mean football news)... 

Tomorrow, Manchester United plays the Southhampton Saints.
Go, MU!!!! (no pun intended)

Wednesday, January 28, 2004

I truly don't know if I am on my head or on my heels. Will life ever make sense? Or is it just one big, unanswerable question?

Tomorrow I am going to call you, Ping Pong. Its been far too long.

Monday, January 26, 2004

Turnips are a work of the devil! 

That is probably the most interesting thing we learned in history class today. Alan Ball, my monkey's grandmother.

And today I drew umbrellas in communications class.

And so life goes on.

And on.

I'm sorry, Ping Pong. I love you, though I know that sure as rock doesn't help. But pray, and don't you dare resign yourself to misery. I'll pray, too. Something good will come.

And when the dawn comes,
Though it may blind me,
I will not look at it
With half-closed eyes.

Friday, January 23, 2004

'Tis true, 'tis true... 

Yesterday was a good day. I slept late, had one class (acting) at which I garnered a "good work" from Public Relations, found two fantastic monologues, listened to Old Blind Dogs, talked to Ping Pong, ate Frosted Mini Wheats, and went to bed happy. Today is not expected to be as joyous, despite the fact that it is Snowing Like There's No Tomorrow. However, I shall have to survive on the anticipation of future larks, such as dinner with Javier, Juan Pablo, and Lydia on Saturday and a Schoenstatt Shindig on Sunday.

Have fun at Teen Night, you poor, delusional fools. I shall be at rehearsal, eating sour Skittles and learning to speak Ptydepe.

Gotroch, ajoraxes!!!

Wednesday, January 14, 2004

School has begun, which means everything is mundane and prosaic again, and I am forced to think like a mature, rational young woman with clear and reasonable goals. Curses. Just once in my life, I am going to have to break out of the common mold, or die.

Monday, January 05, 2004

This blog has been sadly neglected of late, so I thought I'd post briefly.

Break is almost over(shudder). I keep trying to convince myself that my attitude can be better, that everything is for the best, and all that rot. However, the idea of going back to Marquette still fills me with dread. Javier, how dare you come and remind me once again that "the world is broad and wide", while I'm stuck in Milwaukee, pining?

On a more whimsical note...I received a gift for Christmas that will put my dorm room (already the Coolest Room On The Floor by common consensus) off the charts. It's a fish tank with (drum roll, please)...two miniature sharks!!! I've decided to name them Scipio and Hannibal. It somehow seems appropriate.

Wassail to all!

Thursday, December 18, 2003

The Return of the King... 

I saw it yesterday. There are no sufficient words to describe it, except the following:

A minstrel of Gondor stood forth, and knelt, and begged leave to sing. And behold! he said:
"Lo! lords and knights and men of valour unashamed, kings and princes, and fair people of Gondor, and Riders of Rohan, and ye sons of Elrond, and Dunedain of the North, and Elf and Dwarf, and greathearts of the Shire, and all free folk of the West, now listen to my lay. For I will sing to you of Frodo of the Nine Fingers and the Ring of Doom."

And when Sam heard that he laughed aloud for sheer delight, and he stood up and cried: "O great glory and splendour! And all my wishes have come true!" And then he wept.

And all the host laughed and wept, and in the midst of their merriment and tears the clear voice of the minstrel rose like silver and gold, and all men were hushed. And he sang to them, now in the Elven-tongue, now in the speech of the West, until their hearts, wounded with sweet words, overflowed, and their joy was like swords, and they passed in thought out to regions where pain and delight flow together and tears are the very wine of blessedness.

Sunday, December 14, 2003

The ember... 


In the year King Uzziah died, I saw the Lord seated on a high and lofty throne, with the train of his garment filling the temple. Seraphim were stationed above; each of them had six wings: with two they veiled their faces, with two they veiled their feet, and with two they hovered aloft.

"Holy, holy, holy is the LORD of hosts!" they cried one to the other. "All the earth is filled with his glory!" At the sound of that cry, the frame of the door shook and the house was filled with smoke.

Then I said, "Woe is me, I am doomed! For I am a man of unclean lips, living among a people of unclean lips; yet my eyes have seen the King, the LORD of hosts!" Then one of the seraphim flew to me, holding an ember which he had taken with tongs from the altar.

He touched my mouth with it. "See," he said, "now that this has touched your lips, your wickedness is removed, your sin purged."

Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, "Whom shall I send? Who will go for us?" "Here I am," I said; "send me!"



I'm appreciating Advent more than usual this year. People don't often think about what the Incarnation really means, but if you do, it's rather overpowering.

On a more prosaic note, I went Christmas shopping at Borders the other day. It was more fun than I've had in quite some time. Books make me so happy, especially childrens' classics like the ones I bought for my siblings. I've always wanted to buy them really good Christmas presents, which fit their personalities and don't involve any plastic or batteries or pop culture. Also, the little man who helped me reminded me of an old-fashioned craftsman, like a cobbler or a blacksmith with horny hands and a leather apron. That also made me happy. In general, I'm feeling rather...happy. And free as a bird.

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