(I've encountered a blogging dilemma: I have three things to write about, but there's not much of a connection between them. Actually. There's a connection between two of them. But not the third. I've decided to solve this dilemma very simply -- with the elegant use of parentheses. Now. Stop. Don't judge what you can't understand.)
(So the other night, I was making something to eat in the kitchen when I heard, from the street below outside my seventh story window, I heard a noise. A noise that could only be described as a scuffle. A bit of shrieking. A yelp or two. I hear my roommate get up from the couch and walk to the window. "Oh my god," she exclaims, "you've got to come over here. There's girls fighting in the street down there." Not uninterested, but not that interested, I finish what I'm doing and then casually approach the viewing post. The scene: directly below our balcony, but across the street, there are two groups of girls moving in packs eastward down Division. They are yelling at each other, things I can imagine quite clearly, but couldn't actually hear. They are each individually gesticulating quite wildly. But the strangest thing, from my god's-eye vantage point, was the seemingly choreographed staging. The girls periodically lunged at one another -- but not each on their own terms. The groups appeared to lunge, each girl a mere limb of a larger menace. On occasion this ballet would break down and a fist (or an open hand, or a two-handed shove) would breach the approximately two-foot gap regularly separating the groups. This went on for what was probably only about 25 seconds or so. At which point, my roommate (not me, I was watching the show, and waiting for them to break into song) thought aloud, "Maybe we should call the police?" And just then, Officer Krupke showed up and arrested one of the girls, which effectively shut up the rest of them. The show over, I went back to my food. Nothing like dinner theater. A true experience in this cosmopolitan city.)
I'm having this dilemma. I've always had a healthy disdain for Oprah's Book Club -- a disdain nurtured through the early years of contemporary novels-turned-bestsellers, and cultivated into a disgust with the Club's more recent reincarnation as a pusher of classics onto the unsuspecting hordes. In its original form, the Book Club annoyed me because She always seemed to point her all-powerful Midas finger at what appeared (judging by their covers, at least) to be romantic novels focused on strong central heroines -- books that would encourage battered (or bored) wives to leave their husbands and "find themselves." Silliness. And now, my disgust stems from the fact that all these wonderful classics of literature can no longer be found without an obnoxious "Oprah's Book Club" seal on it -- as though the author has posthumously won a Fulitzer Prize (yeah, the F is on purpose...think about it...little more...ok...good...now you get it).
So, most recently, She assigned the world "summer reading" -- three Faulkner novels (which come in a repulsively convenient OBC set now): As I Lay Dying, The Sound and the Fury, and Light In August. Now. Setting aside the fact that these happen to be some of my all-time favorite novels, including at least one top-fiver, that She has branded as the Israel of the summer of 2005 (chosen people and all...get it?). Setting that aside. She has also created a rather disturbing dilemma for me.
To guide the masses through Faulkner's masterful tangles of language, She has set up a website (or, more accurately, her people called some people who did lunch with other people, who paid some other people to set it up). Included on this website are several quite helpful and interesting items. Including: video lectures for each novel from various distinguished professors from various prestigious universities, interactive questions and answers with said professors (and not just short replies, but quite thoughtful responses), character descriptions, glossaries, biographical information on Faulkner...and the list goes on. There is, quite honestly, a wealth of information.
And. To further compound my dilemma. One of the professors featured (for Light in August) is one of my favorite professors from Brown, Professor Arnold Weinstein. This is awesome for two reasons: (1) he's wildly amazing, and I relish the opportunity to read more of his thoughts on literature; and (2) I took his class on Faulkner at Brown--the first time he ever taught it--and we read Light In August, and it's very cool to see lectures on the web that pretty clearly grew out of lectures I experienced in person (you know, cool in the "I knew him way back when..." kind of way).
Finally. Necessary background information. Last spring I taught As I Lay Dying to my junior English class. And this coming spring I will teach it again.
So now you understand my dilemma. You don't? Well, you should, but I'll spell it out. I really really want to use some of the resources on this website for my class. But it's Oprah's! Can I? Do I dare? Am I selling out? (A question that implies its own answer, and my already-made decision on the dilemma at hand.)
A good friend, when I accepted my current job over a year ago, suggested that I was selling out. My thoughts on religion. To Judaism. For money. I agreed.
So. If Adonai, for cash. Why not Oprah, for the education of my students. Seems fair.
(As my "life in the big city" bookend, I wanted to mention the following. Today, on a relatively innocuous trip to Osco for Polysporin and de-wrinkle laundry spray, I passed an equally innocuous Dunkin' Donuts. I paused for a red light outside said Dunkin' Donuts, and during this respite from walking I was approached by a shuffling man in a White Sox hat. He hadn't been speaking to anyone else, and after he said his bit to me, he went back to the wall of the Dunkin' Donuts, still without talking to anyone else. Meanwhile, there were plenty of people walking by, and plenty of people waiting with me for the light to change. Plenty of people, I should add, who were much the same age as me and with much the same look as I offer to the world. This is what he said to me, and only to me: "Hey man...want some weed? I got some good weed." To which I replied: "No thanks."
Now. I've been told by several people that there is nothing about me that proclaims: HE SMOKES WEED. And I've believed them -- not without a little sadness, I'll be honest, as I harbor a certain romanticism in my heart for hippies. So I ask you. All of you. And please comment. Was this just a random occurrence? Or is there something about me after all -- something that whispers some coded language leftover from the 1960s and adapted to this new millenium? I ask you.)
Saturday, August 27, 2005
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Update: Perhaps this is the year.
Going to that party with the colleagues after all.
But I'm bringing a book, god dammit.
But I'm bringing a book, god dammit.
Inside a dog, it's too dark to read.
First of all, a special prize to anyone who knows the first line that completes the quotation I've used for my witty quip of a post title. And an extra special something to anyone who knows where I first came across this lovely little witticism.
Now then. This post should be read in conjunction with the previous post about Tivo. (Actually, you really should be reading all of them in order. I know it's a complicated scroll-bar process, but it's worth it. Trust me.) Because I ended that post saying that while I should have been reading, I was clearly going to watch the Gilmore Girls. (By the way -- interestingly, to me at least, the aspect of this blog that has gotten the most attention has by far been the references to the Gilmore Girls.) That statement, though true, was -- unbeknownst to you all, which isn't your fault, but mine -- slightly ironic. Because over the last few weeks I have gradually rediscovered my love for reading. I have been able, on several occasions during these weeks, to sit down and read for several hours at a time -- something my relatively-addled mind has prohibited for quite some time. And all without the added comfort of Adderall! (Disclaimer: I've never actually used Adderall or other such drugs, though I have considered it, and at times it has been suggested -- not by anyone with letters after their name though.)
I've rediscovered the worlds you can enter through the pages of a book! I've even found myself thinking, while watching -- on separate occasions -- tv and a movie (in a theater, no less!), and I quote, "Books are so much better than this." Books! Better than movies! Just imagine. If you can. All the people. Living for today! Now. You may say I'm a dreamer. But I'm not the only one! People are still reading! (Mostly self-help books, books for Dummies and Idiots, and the latest installment of "when will the little wizard get body hair in new places?" -- but still!) And I have re-entered this brotherhood of man. And I hope someday you'll join us.
Now. While this may not seem earth-shattering to you -- the huddled masses avoiding the storms of your lives beneath the rain-soaked pages of my humble blog -- there's another layer of this onion yet to be peeled away. The reading I have been so diligently set upon completing has been (drumroll?)...for work! Now then. Talk about earth-shattering! This revelation may mark a new epoch of light in an otherwise procrastination-darkened worldview. Perhaps this will be the year that I don't fall behind in my work. (Or at least not more than most people.) Perhaps this will be the year that work comes first. (Or at least close to the top of the list.) Perhaps this is the year.
I gotta say. It would be most excellent timing. What with work. And applying to school. And then school. And such.
Perhaps this is the year.
And with that, I'm going to go read. To avoid going to a school year kickoff party with colleagues that I really don't feel like attending. It doesn't start till Tuesday. You can't cheat and start it on Sunday just because it's a party. That's not fair. Give me a break. I've got reading to do.
Now then. This post should be read in conjunction with the previous post about Tivo. (Actually, you really should be reading all of them in order. I know it's a complicated scroll-bar process, but it's worth it. Trust me.) Because I ended that post saying that while I should have been reading, I was clearly going to watch the Gilmore Girls. (By the way -- interestingly, to me at least, the aspect of this blog that has gotten the most attention has by far been the references to the Gilmore Girls.) That statement, though true, was -- unbeknownst to you all, which isn't your fault, but mine -- slightly ironic. Because over the last few weeks I have gradually rediscovered my love for reading. I have been able, on several occasions during these weeks, to sit down and read for several hours at a time -- something my relatively-addled mind has prohibited for quite some time. And all without the added comfort of Adderall! (Disclaimer: I've never actually used Adderall or other such drugs, though I have considered it, and at times it has been suggested -- not by anyone with letters after their name though.)
I've rediscovered the worlds you can enter through the pages of a book! I've even found myself thinking, while watching -- on separate occasions -- tv and a movie (in a theater, no less!), and I quote, "Books are so much better than this." Books! Better than movies! Just imagine. If you can. All the people. Living for today! Now. You may say I'm a dreamer. But I'm not the only one! People are still reading! (Mostly self-help books, books for Dummies and Idiots, and the latest installment of "when will the little wizard get body hair in new places?" -- but still!) And I have re-entered this brotherhood of man. And I hope someday you'll join us.
Now. While this may not seem earth-shattering to you -- the huddled masses avoiding the storms of your lives beneath the rain-soaked pages of my humble blog -- there's another layer of this onion yet to be peeled away. The reading I have been so diligently set upon completing has been (drumroll?)...for work! Now then. Talk about earth-shattering! This revelation may mark a new epoch of light in an otherwise procrastination-darkened worldview. Perhaps this will be the year that I don't fall behind in my work. (Or at least not more than most people.) Perhaps this will be the year that work comes first. (Or at least close to the top of the list.) Perhaps this is the year.
I gotta say. It would be most excellent timing. What with work. And applying to school. And then school. And such.
Perhaps this is the year.
And with that, I'm going to go read. To avoid going to a school year kickoff party with colleagues that I really don't feel like attending. It doesn't start till Tuesday. You can't cheat and start it on Sunday just because it's a party. That's not fair. Give me a break. I've got reading to do.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Too weak for Tivo.
Tivo should be a life-altering acquisition (ok, so I don't have Tivo...I have a DVR from Comcast...but DVR is an awful all-purpose word, whereas Tivo makes a wonderful noun and verb). Anyway. Life-altering, Tivo should be. Because it should free us from the schedules set up for us by corporate executives at the "Big 4" networks (FOX gets included now, right? I think so...though I'm not positive it gets caps-locked -- another good verb). Because now we can watch whatever we want whenever we want with just a few simple clicks on a remote control. And yes, all you naysayers out there will say, "But you could always do that. Ever heard of a VCR? Welcome to...whenever the hell VCRs came out."
Ok. First of all. VCR -- much like DVR -- makes an awful verb. Should have seen the demise of that machine from the beginning. Interesting sidenote: Beta -- much like Tivo -- would have made a much better all-purpose word. So perhaps Tivo will indeed, as the pundits and such have been saying for a year or two now, go the way of the dodo bird. If so, I only hope the name for the ill-fated machine remains in the common lexicon this time. Anyway.
Second. None of you people ever actually regularly recorded a tv show using a VCR. The only person I've ever known to do this consistently is my sister, who has stacks of video tapes somewhere that house a decade's worth of General Hospital. (Sorry if this outs you to anyone, sis.) Each morning before school she diligently made sure the tape was cued to the proper place and the program timer was set (two minutes before the scheduled start and two minutes after, to account for any errors in the tv's internal clock, and SLP mode, to allow for the least tape-consuming and shittiest recording possible -- fitting, actually, for this particular program).
Anyway. None of you ever did that. Only her. And even if you did, you know what a huge hassle it was. Tivo frees you from all that, sis. And to the rest of you, you can now avoid both the corporate programmers' schedules and the pain of forgetting to record the final episode of Friends where everyone realizes that Joey cannot possibly have actually gotten stupider over the course of ten years and they all sit down and cry because their crappy primetime paycheck has come to an overdue end. Who would want to miss that? Now you don't have to! Tivo to the rescue! With its wildly amazing "create a series recording" feature.
That, and the ability to pause and rewind and rewatch Janet Jackson's star-gilded right breast as many times as your nasty little heart desires.
It should be life-altering. In a good way. Freedom. Self-programming. What you want when you want it.
But in my experience, it's been more like: more than I've ever wanted, all the time. No. Wait. That still sounds good. Try again: a repulsive amount of crappy tv that I've never before felt compelled to watch and now can't seem to stop watching...like heroin after you've decided you want to quit, but can't quite bring yourself to get off the couch, undo that dirty yellow hose (why are these things always that dirty yellow color?) from your bicep, and walk down to the local methodone clinic. Yeah. That's more like it. They've made it too easy. I'm weak. My will to work cannot sustain itself in the face of this monster.
I should go read. But the Gilmore Girls are calling to me from 4pm yesterday. I could watch them whenever I want. But I will watch them now. As it records today's episode. So I don't fall behind.
Ok. First of all. VCR -- much like DVR -- makes an awful verb. Should have seen the demise of that machine from the beginning. Interesting sidenote: Beta -- much like Tivo -- would have made a much better all-purpose word. So perhaps Tivo will indeed, as the pundits and such have been saying for a year or two now, go the way of the dodo bird. If so, I only hope the name for the ill-fated machine remains in the common lexicon this time. Anyway.
Second. None of you people ever actually regularly recorded a tv show using a VCR. The only person I've ever known to do this consistently is my sister, who has stacks of video tapes somewhere that house a decade's worth of General Hospital. (Sorry if this outs you to anyone, sis.) Each morning before school she diligently made sure the tape was cued to the proper place and the program timer was set (two minutes before the scheduled start and two minutes after, to account for any errors in the tv's internal clock, and SLP mode, to allow for the least tape-consuming and shittiest recording possible -- fitting, actually, for this particular program).
Anyway. None of you ever did that. Only her. And even if you did, you know what a huge hassle it was. Tivo frees you from all that, sis. And to the rest of you, you can now avoid both the corporate programmers' schedules and the pain of forgetting to record the final episode of Friends where everyone realizes that Joey cannot possibly have actually gotten stupider over the course of ten years and they all sit down and cry because their crappy primetime paycheck has come to an overdue end. Who would want to miss that? Now you don't have to! Tivo to the rescue! With its wildly amazing "create a series recording" feature.
That, and the ability to pause and rewind and rewatch Janet Jackson's star-gilded right breast as many times as your nasty little heart desires.
It should be life-altering. In a good way. Freedom. Self-programming. What you want when you want it.
But in my experience, it's been more like: more than I've ever wanted, all the time. No. Wait. That still sounds good. Try again: a repulsive amount of crappy tv that I've never before felt compelled to watch and now can't seem to stop watching...like heroin after you've decided you want to quit, but can't quite bring yourself to get off the couch, undo that dirty yellow hose (why are these things always that dirty yellow color?) from your bicep, and walk down to the local methodone clinic. Yeah. That's more like it. They've made it too easy. I'm weak. My will to work cannot sustain itself in the face of this monster.
I should go read. But the Gilmore Girls are calling to me from 4pm yesterday. I could watch them whenever I want. But I will watch them now. As it records today's episode. So I don't fall behind.
Monday, August 15, 2005
New Study: Being poor sucks.
So I know I posted during the wee hours of this morning. But. I saw this and it sort of fit sort of a little sort of with the wee-hours post. So. An addendum. Here goes.
A study out of Pennsylvania State University (a study that spanned three decades and 20,000 people) has "discovered" that wealth does in fact make people happy. But not just wealth. Amassing more of it than your friends. That's apparently the key.
First of all. Duh. We should fund a study to "discover" whether pot-smokers giggle more often than sober people.
Secondly. Professor Glenn Firebaugh (sociologist at Penn State) and Laura Tach (graduate student at Harvard) also suggest that one strategy for attaining greater happiness -- rather than continually increasing your income -- would be to "hang out" with poor people. Yes. That's right. No. I'm not kidding. Poorer friends. That's what they suggest.
Apparently it's not so much about keeping up with the Joneses. It's about finding less well-off Joneses to begin with.
Maybe this whole "war on poverty" thing is misguided. What we should really have is a buddy program. Instead of "big brothers" we could have "rich brothers." At least half of us would be happy. We've made the rich richer for 6 years. Now let's introduce them to the poor people and make them happier too.
Again. All I'm saying is. There's toads invading Montana, guys. And storms move across this country from West to East.
A study out of Pennsylvania State University (a study that spanned three decades and 20,000 people) has "discovered" that wealth does in fact make people happy. But not just wealth. Amassing more of it than your friends. That's apparently the key.
First of all. Duh. We should fund a study to "discover" whether pot-smokers giggle more often than sober people.
Secondly. Professor Glenn Firebaugh (sociologist at Penn State) and Laura Tach (graduate student at Harvard) also suggest that one strategy for attaining greater happiness -- rather than continually increasing your income -- would be to "hang out" with poor people. Yes. That's right. No. I'm not kidding. Poorer friends. That's what they suggest.
Apparently it's not so much about keeping up with the Joneses. It's about finding less well-off Joneses to begin with.
Maybe this whole "war on poverty" thing is misguided. What we should really have is a buddy program. Instead of "big brothers" we could have "rich brothers." At least half of us would be happy. We've made the rich richer for 6 years. Now let's introduce them to the poor people and make them happier too.
Again. All I'm saying is. There's toads invading Montana, guys. And storms move across this country from West to East.
Apocalypse this.
For the last year and a half or so, every couple of months I suddenly remember that CNN.com has an Odd News section. It's great. I recommend checking it out. But anyway. I've actually developed a fun little self-contained two or three day lesson (for a high school English class...the older the better) out of this news section and a book by Thomas Bernhard called The Voice Imitator. It's a creative writing lesson, writing short shorts -- helps kids discover rhetorical devices via imitation of Bernhard's style.
Anyway.
All that is to say: these are some news stories I've come across recently that are disturbing for various reasons.
Bill Capell (52 years old) is a retired grocery store clerk from California. He gets a call early one morning. The voice on the other end (a strange phrase that doesn't really make much sense when you think about it, unless we're talking about those things no one ever really used as a kid with the two cans connected by a long piece of string, but still a phrase I think in common usage) identifies itself as that of a British reporter. This reporter's voice informs Bill Capell that one of his cousins has passed away. Bill goes back to sleep. But should Bill get a similar phone call sometime in the near future (god forbid, if you believe in that sort of thing, Bill), Bill will suddenly be the Right Honorable Lord William Capell, the 12th Earl of Essex. Now that's no duke-dom or marquess-ship, but it's nothing to shake a stick at either, you might say (if, you know, the younguns refer to you as Gramps). Two catches (three if you count the fact that yet another cousin -- the newly-named 11th Essexian Earl -- would have to die for this to occur): (1) there's no money or estate involved, just the title and some symbolic honors; and (2) in order to become Lord William, Bill would have to give up his American citizenship (a powerful testament to the power of words, I should think). Which, of course, immediately brings to mind the following question: where does a grocery store clerk get off retiring at 52? That must be one hell of a retirement plan, Mr. Earl-in-Waiting.
.....
The Harry Potter series of books is apparently quite popular among the 510 prisoners (apologies: detainees) being held by the U.S. at Guantanamo Bay. Several of the detainees (in searching through my mind for an alternate term, I came up with "roommate," which made me think a Real World Gitmo can't be far off) have read the series, and at least one has requested the movies. The 1200-volume Gitmo library, however, does not have the fifth or sixth book in the series (two additions that would no doubt help pass the time three years after having been picked to live in a cellblock, and have their mouths taped). Now, if you;ve been in a bookstore at any point during the last few years, you probably know how I feel about the world-sweeping Harry Potter craze. So it won't surprise some of you that I consider housing these piggy-bank destroying tomes in the prison library an offense that should be on a watch-list somewhere as a form of torture. But. With a less rabble-rousing sentiment, I wonder whether one might be able to garner heretofore withheld information from said Potter-addicts by dangling the Half-Blood Prince in front of them. I also wonder which would have outraged the American public more: (1) a new revelation about unspeakably un-American torture occurring in an U.S. internment camp; or (2) news that Book 6 had been offered to Gitmo detainees prior to the midnight release date last month.
.....
Not that this necessarily follows from either or both of the previous posts (post hoc ergo propter hoc, it's hardly ever true...my fellow West Wing'ers know what I'm sayin). But hardly ever ain't never, you know what I'm sayin? So here it is. Judge for yourselves. Thousands of tiny toads have invaded a small farming community in north-central Montana. There are so many of the toads on the ground that it is difficult at times to walk without stepping on them. So many that some lawns look as though the grass is moving and pulsating. So many that one resident offered the colorful comment that driving is a bit tough because the roads are slick and sticky -- because of what must be thousands of tiny smashed toad bodies that people have been unable to avoid running over with their SUVs. Now. I'm not saying that life is imitating art here (specifically, Magnolia). And I'm not saying that the (or any) apocalypse is coming.
I'm just saying a retired grocery store clerk might soon be in the line of succession for the British throne.
And so-called terror detainees can't wait to find out how Dumbledore dies.
Anyway.
All that is to say: these are some news stories I've come across recently that are disturbing for various reasons.
Bill Capell (52 years old) is a retired grocery store clerk from California. He gets a call early one morning. The voice on the other end (a strange phrase that doesn't really make much sense when you think about it, unless we're talking about those things no one ever really used as a kid with the two cans connected by a long piece of string, but still a phrase I think in common usage) identifies itself as that of a British reporter. This reporter's voice informs Bill Capell that one of his cousins has passed away. Bill goes back to sleep. But should Bill get a similar phone call sometime in the near future (god forbid, if you believe in that sort of thing, Bill), Bill will suddenly be the Right Honorable Lord William Capell, the 12th Earl of Essex. Now that's no duke-dom or marquess-ship, but it's nothing to shake a stick at either, you might say (if, you know, the younguns refer to you as Gramps). Two catches (three if you count the fact that yet another cousin -- the newly-named 11th Essexian Earl -- would have to die for this to occur): (1) there's no money or estate involved, just the title and some symbolic honors; and (2) in order to become Lord William, Bill would have to give up his American citizenship (a powerful testament to the power of words, I should think). Which, of course, immediately brings to mind the following question: where does a grocery store clerk get off retiring at 52? That must be one hell of a retirement plan, Mr. Earl-in-Waiting.
.....
The Harry Potter series of books is apparently quite popular among the 510 prisoners (apologies: detainees) being held by the U.S. at Guantanamo Bay. Several of the detainees (in searching through my mind for an alternate term, I came up with "roommate," which made me think a Real World Gitmo can't be far off) have read the series, and at least one has requested the movies. The 1200-volume Gitmo library, however, does not have the fifth or sixth book in the series (two additions that would no doubt help pass the time three years after having been picked to live in a cellblock, and have their mouths taped). Now, if you;ve been in a bookstore at any point during the last few years, you probably know how I feel about the world-sweeping Harry Potter craze. So it won't surprise some of you that I consider housing these piggy-bank destroying tomes in the prison library an offense that should be on a watch-list somewhere as a form of torture. But. With a less rabble-rousing sentiment, I wonder whether one might be able to garner heretofore withheld information from said Potter-addicts by dangling the Half-Blood Prince in front of them. I also wonder which would have outraged the American public more: (1) a new revelation about unspeakably un-American torture occurring in an U.S. internment camp; or (2) news that Book 6 had been offered to Gitmo detainees prior to the midnight release date last month.
.....
Not that this necessarily follows from either or both of the previous posts (post hoc ergo propter hoc, it's hardly ever true...my fellow West Wing'ers know what I'm sayin). But hardly ever ain't never, you know what I'm sayin? So here it is. Judge for yourselves. Thousands of tiny toads have invaded a small farming community in north-central Montana. There are so many of the toads on the ground that it is difficult at times to walk without stepping on them. So many that some lawns look as though the grass is moving and pulsating. So many that one resident offered the colorful comment that driving is a bit tough because the roads are slick and sticky -- because of what must be thousands of tiny smashed toad bodies that people have been unable to avoid running over with their SUVs. Now. I'm not saying that life is imitating art here (specifically, Magnolia). And I'm not saying that the (or any) apocalypse is coming.
I'm just saying a retired grocery store clerk might soon be in the line of succession for the British throne.
And so-called terror detainees can't wait to find out how Dumbledore dies.
Sunday, August 14, 2005
A shaky beginning.
So my initial post (from several months ago), which was essentially a list of paradoxes, now becomes something less (one thing less, actually). No longer will the first post be the last. A shame, that is. Such a pleasant biblical phrase I, in turn, stole from Dylan.
So.
The sun is streaming through the big picture windows in my living room right now. The soft light turning the eggshell-white walls golden makes me feel as though this moment has been designated as a new beginning. It's also reminding me of the $230 energy bill my roommate opened this morning. It's also apparently freaking out the spider that's been dangling from a thread (literally...how weird) outside the window for about 4 days now. I would knock it down to its seven story plunge of a death (I have no moral compunctions about killing spiders, sorry folks), but I can't reach it from the terrace. And I've sort of become a bit attached to it. Now that the sunlight is freaking it out it has begun to shake back and forth and creep along the glass at a rather incredible speed. I've just now decided to name it Shakes -- like the guy in that movie Sleepers...love that movie. But don't get me wrong, I'd still kill Shakes if I could -- my hypocrisy only goes so far.
Anyway.
I was saying. A new beginning. I think this might be one. I hope so. I need one. Start afresh (I never know if that's a word or not, but I like it). Need to figure out where my life is heading. What my future will look like. More on that later. For now, I think I'll read a book. A literal beginning. If not new, as NBC (I think) used to point out in the summer, at least new to me. And that will have to be enough for now.
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift.
-Bob Dylan
So.
The sun is streaming through the big picture windows in my living room right now. The soft light turning the eggshell-white walls golden makes me feel as though this moment has been designated as a new beginning. It's also reminding me of the $230 energy bill my roommate opened this morning. It's also apparently freaking out the spider that's been dangling from a thread (literally...how weird) outside the window for about 4 days now. I would knock it down to its seven story plunge of a death (I have no moral compunctions about killing spiders, sorry folks), but I can't reach it from the terrace. And I've sort of become a bit attached to it. Now that the sunlight is freaking it out it has begun to shake back and forth and creep along the glass at a rather incredible speed. I've just now decided to name it Shakes -- like the guy in that movie Sleepers...love that movie. But don't get me wrong, I'd still kill Shakes if I could -- my hypocrisy only goes so far.
Anyway.
I was saying. A new beginning. I think this might be one. I hope so. I need one. Start afresh (I never know if that's a word or not, but I like it). Need to figure out where my life is heading. What my future will look like. More on that later. For now, I think I'll read a book. A literal beginning. If not new, as NBC (I think) used to point out in the summer, at least new to me. And that will have to be enough for now.
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift.
-Bob Dylan
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)