i set fire to the rain

The boy has been playing that Adele song repeatedly for the last two days, and it's been such a gloomy day today with all the rain and cold hovering outside that it just seems appropriate. It's been the strangest week for me - I find myself stressed and burdened with the knowledge of problems I cannot fix.

But February is almost over. That is some solace at least. March always promises to bring good news, or at least a brighter aspect to my life in relief from the persistent sadness that pervades February's character.

I'm writing again. I've been very inconsistent the past year, and have neglected my journal and this blog - which I do often. But the fact that many of my friends have taken up their own blogs has inspired me to return here to see if I can make sense of what direction I would like to take from this point on. An old friend told me a while ago they enjoyed seeing my own writing here, which I'm still somewhat shy about because of that nagging self-consciousness that nothing I write is really worth reading. But a creative writing class I took last semester definitely helped develop my confidence, so perhaps I will post a little more often. And I would like to discuss the books I read, though not necessarily in a formalized book review sort of way. I just like good writing, and would like to share those passages I come across that I find particularly compelling.

Currently, I've been reading Margaret Atwood's Blind Assassin off and on since the new semester began. During Christmas break I was able to read a lot of books within a short period of time, but I really do like to allow myself time to digest Margaret Atwood fully, and so I find myself trying to fit in a chapter or two between the mountain of reading and work I have for school. I came across a paragraph or two that really seemed poignant to me, but I don't want to overwhelm myself in ambitiousness with this first post back and will share and discuss it in the future.

Besides reading, I'm scrambling to figure out my future. This time next year I will be a college graduate, which is both exciting and terrifying. I'm attempting to ignore that for now, though. The summer is what is proving to be an obstacle. So far, I've applied for four different internships at publishing companies in Nashville and New York, and am contemplating applying to three separate internships with PR firms in Atlanta. I haven't heard back from any of them given that it is so early in the year, but I'm still waiting in eager anticipation until the end of March. Wish me luck, amigos.

I suppose that is enough to inundate you with for the time being. Until next time (there will be a next time, promise).

beyond the daylight, who knew what it could feel like?

"What do you think of James Spader?"
"He needs to call me."

That's the best of what I've gleaned from watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer today, viewed in the midst of washing dishes and folding clothes and general room/apartment cleaning. Or, what I had originally claimed as reading and relaxing on Saturday. Either way, I found the show to be mildly amusing, but I don't think I can find myself obsessing over it as some of my friends who love it. I watched three episodes. Maybe I'll give it another try later. For now, I'll do as my mother does and watch Star Trek while I take care of the laundry. How thoroughly domestic of me.

In other news, I finished A Single Man last night. I thoroughly enjoyed it, especially Isherwood's well-crafted style. There are very few books I feel I could extract more than a few lines from, and this is an exception. I know I've subjected you already to one of my favorite passages, but please bear with me as I share another:

"And now, an hour maybe, has passed. And they are both drunk: Kenny fairly, George very. But George is drunk in a good way, and one that he seldom achieves. He tries to describe to himself what this kind of drunkenness is like. Well - to put it very crudely - it's like Plato; it's a dialogue. A dialogue between two people. Yes, but not a Platonic dialogue in the hair-splitting, word-twisting, one-up-to-me sense; not a mock-humble bitching match; not a debate on some dreary set theme. You can talk about anything and change the subject as often as you like. In fact, what really matters is not what you talk about, but the being together in this particular relationship. George can't imagine having a dialogue of this kind with a woman, because women can only talk in terms of the personal. A man of his own age would do, if there was some sort of polarity; for instance, if he was a Negro. You and your dialogue-partner have to be somehow opposites. Why? Because you have to be symbolic figures - like, in this case, Youth and Age. Why do you have to be symbolic? Because the dialogue is by its nature impersonal. It's a symbolic encounter. It doesn't involve either party personally. That's why, in a dialogue, you can say absolutely anything. Even the closest confidence the deadliest secret, comes out objectively as a mere metaphor or illustration which could never be used against you."

And now onto a third book. I have plenty to choose from, but first, I must get through two books and evaluations for work on Monday. Scratch that, three. My life these days is full of books and manuscripts. I've developed the ability to absorb 300 pages in 4 hours. Such is the projects I've been getting from work lately: not merely slush and mediocre writing taken from the mailroom, but full manuscripts given to me by the editors who act as my supervisors. It's nice, the responsibility. But it's also a lot of pressure. The good kind of pressure, not the Queen + David Bowie kind.

it's 3am, i must be lonely

"A performer at the circus has no theatre curtain to down and hide him and thus preserve the magic spell of his act unbroken. Poised high on the trapeze under the blazing arcs, he has flashed and pulsed like a star indeed. But now, grounded, unsparkling, unfollowed by spotlights, yet plainly visible to anyone who cares to look at him - they are all watching the clowns - he hurries past the tiers of seats toward the exit. Nobody applauds him any more. Very few spare him a single glance.

Together with this anonymity, George feels a fatigue come over him which is not disagreeable. The tide of his vitality is ebbing fast, and he ebbs with it, content. This is a way of resting. All of a sudden he is much, much older. On his way out of the parking lot he walks differently, with less elasticity, moving his arms and his shoulders stiffly. He slows down. Now and then his steps actually shuffle. His head is bowed. His mouth loosens and the muscles of his cheeks sag, His face takes on a dull dreamy placid look. He hums queerly to himself, with a sound like bees around a hive. From time to time, as he walks, he emits quite loud, prolonged farts."

It's been good to do some reading beyond what is required for class and work. This snippet comes from A Single Man by Christopher Isherwood. It's the second novel in my summer-long odyssey to finish the books on top of my dresser - I forget how many there are in total. I'll take a picture of it tomorrow. I find books to be so attractive; each one is unique, and when aligned together they make a very attractive picture. But back to my odyssey...I'm excited to be reading for leisure again. It's the curse of the student, reading academic literature and writing academic papers and at the end of the day too exhausted to even read another book.

Perhaps in the effort to keep myself writing I'll talk about the books I read; I think it'll be a nice direction for the blog, you think?

i’m in a lewis carroll sort of mood.

Which is a good thing, if you’re wondering. I’m not really sure how to describe it. I think it all started when I found out Chi Phi is going to have a Disney-themed party in two weeks.

My first thought was to dress up as the Dormouse from Alice in Wonderland (because when I think of Disney my mind doesn’t automatically revert to the princesses), so I did the usual Google search to find out what I would need to get to make a costume.

Instead, this is what I found:

 

 

 

and this:

which are both a far cry from what I was originally looking for:

 

I ended up deciding to be a card instead. But I have found myself a new adorable ball of fluff to squeal over, and that is always a very good thing.

But enough of my random ramblings.

I find myself at the end of a very exhausting, very enjoyable long weekend filled with friends, fraternity parties, rehearsal, a date, a Matisse exhibit, laser tag, and movie marathons. Sleep was minimal. But I don’t really mind. A 5 Day Weekend like this only occurs so often, so you have to make the most of it. And for those who would dispute it, the weekend starts on Thursday even if there is French class at 9:00 on Friday. Plus, it’s the first weekend of the new semester – what better way to celebrate it?

Time has passed so quickly. I feel like I should be in February already, things have progressed so much since I last wrote. Nothing is as I left it, I’ve learned from my month of absence. I’ve also learned that I like it. I don’t have to dwell on the questions of what could have been. I don’t have to care anymore about what did and didn’t happen last semester. There’s nothing to weigh heavy on my mind except the pressing need to read Don Quixote and Remains of the Day for class tomorrow. Carefree contentment is such a nice feeling.

Which is why I am currently sitting on Joscelyn’s bed in my favorite shirt from Will Smith’s Fresh Prince era and going through my OU Radio playlist and procrastinating until dinnertime. I personally think it’s a wonderful way to end the weekend.

merry christmas to all.

Today is Christmas.

Or technically, yesterday was. I’m starting this at sixteen minutes past midnight, all safely locked away in my mess of a bedroom while the rest of the house lies in comfortable, silent sleep. I need to be more timely in my updates.

But back to my original point. Merry Christmas to those of you that celebrate it. I had a rather enjoyable day. Started out at 8:30 with present-opening. Then my family and I made the trek down to Montgomery to celebrate with my dad’s side of the family.

What I love about my family is how huge it is. My dad is one of six kids, and so on big holidays my grandmother’s tiny little house with one bathroom is filled to capacity with lots of loud, happy, talkative relatives who always need to catch up with everyone. On Christmas it’s especially fun, because that’s when literally all 30+ of us pile into that cramped little living room with two couches to open presents and it’s just a free-for-all. My life is so structured, it’s nice to just have someone yell “1-2-3 GO” and let the room turn into a mad celebration of wrapping paper and boxes. This year we added marshmallow guns.

So I guess I need to recount what I received: an old Polaroid instant camera with film, the complete works of William Shakespeare (minus the histories, but who reads those anyway?), the complete works of F. Scott Fitzgerald, Her Fearful Symmetry by Audrey Niffenegger, The Importance of Being Earnest, and the complete three seasons of one of my all-time favorite shows Slings & Arrows. Then some sweaters. Nice sweaters, too.

Reflecting on that list I realize just how many books I now own. I should’ve noticed how large of a pile they’ve made at the foot of my bed. Very sizeable indeed. I fully plan on carting all of them back to Oglethorpe, even though I’ve run out of space on my bookshelf. Oh well.

I wish the holiday feeling would last forever. Not the holiday itself, just the feeling. Makes it easier to block out the things you dread to think about.

I’m getting into vague territory. Apologies.

I just don’t want life to be so complicated, to have my relationships shaded with grey. The world would be so much easier in black and white. But instead it’s blinding technicolor. I suppose I’ll just have to put on my big girl panties and deal with it like they say.

Them again. Why can’t they solve my problems? Because they just like to sit around and dictate to everyone else.

I hate to end on such a cynical note. My thoughts tend to be cynical and sarcastic no matter how happy I may be, and right now I would consider myself very content. I had a merry Christmas. I have lovely memories of my entire family watching me breakdance in an old lady costume on the TV. I have lovely text messages from my friends I can smile about. I have the Christmas spirit to spill over into this afternoon when I celebrate with my mom’s side of the family. Decidedly more tame, but just as fun. I love Christmas.

not a creature was stirring.

I should be asleep right now. It feels strange to be up so late on Christmas Eve. Two years ago I would have been forced into bed even if I wasn’t sleepy…now my parents have stopped the whole Santa charade and have let me be.

I blame this rush of insomnia on the cookies I baked today and the hours of Jane Austen I processed. Church at noon. Pride and Prejudice. More Pride and Prejudice. Becoming Jane. Cookie-baking. Dinner-eating. Present-wrapping. Book-reading. Book-finishing. Sitting.

I did accomplish something on my rather atypical Christmas Eve. I finished the book I started way back in September, The Year of Living Biblically. Interesting stuff, but I won’t elaborate for fear it will sound zealous or something. But worth reading even if you’re not religious at all. It took me so long to finish, but I do have an excuse – I was tackling Homer and Dickens at the same time, and essays on them take precedence over reading I actually enjoy. Not that I don’t enjoy classic literature…

So what next on my to-read agenda? I guess it will depend. I’ve got some interesting reading ahead of me in my Modern Lit class next semester. I’m anticipating Don Quixote. But beyond that, I guess it will depend on the books I receive for Christmas and how long I can stay away from the bookstore. The bookstore is such a dangerous place for me, I will just grab and buy a book I think sounds interesting even if I’m simultaneously engulfed in three other ones. That’s my bad habit.

But anyways, Merry Christmas to all of you reading this. All three of you, you silent stalkers. :P

you know, they call them killer whales.

I hate avoiding things. I’m the kind of person who likes to tackle issues head-on. Yet here I find myself running away and deflecting questions. Keeping silent. Holding it in. It feels strange. I’m not sure it’s healthy. There are only so many places I can vent my frustrations to before they all come to a head, right? And then, it’s worse. That’s what they tell you.

Oh them. Them and their wisdom. I should listen to them more often.

Don’t you just hate when the good mood is ruined? That happened tonight. Another instance of people trying to pry where they are not welcome. When will they learn that when they delve too deep it only serves to shut them out more?

Enough of that. This was not meant for rants.

It’s just…I find myself afraid to face things now where I wasn’t before. Maybe that’s because my life was never messy before. It is now. That’s a strange thing for me. I’m not sure how to deal with it.

But besides all that, my most overwhelming feeling is that of boredom. Going to college in a big city makes me realize how little there is to do back here in a modestly large one.

My mood today:

I found this today as I was just perusing the internet in my boredom. I thought it  was funny, I guess. Reminded me of my failed attempt to read Naked Lunch when I was in 10th grade, I just got really confused trying to slog through it and my English teacher saw it one day on my desk and told me I was too young to read it. She was right.

She was also most likely on drugs.

Maybe I should try again, then follow up with some more beatnik literature. You know, go through a beatnik period. I tried to organize something like that this summer as I compiled a list of books I wanted to read. There got to be so many I had to separate them into categories: Southern writers, absurdist literature, etc. It seems to make more sense, to read each category and move on to the next one. But I add books to the list faster than I can read them, so I don’t know how well that would work out.

Wait. Yes I do. Not very well at all.

But Christmas is in four days, which is something to look forward to.