(no subject)
Hello everyone!
It feels like forever since I've even logged into LJ, but I have been lost to the busy, if not wonderful, world of academia. A strange mixture of eighteenth-century fiction and Catullus has been occupying me, and will soon be occupying me again… though admittedly the quarter is almost over now, and I have a break for Thanksgiving. In any case, it's my last year at SCU, and the first quarter of it seems to have already zipped by without me noticing it. It's making me a little nostalgic for freshman year, but only a little, and in a way that I'm not sure I care to describe just yet.
I'm not even sure what to write right now, I feel like I'm narrating a bizarre novel (for which I blame Fielding) or like I'm writing a bizarre letter (which I can also blame him for, if I want to). I seem to have neglected to report another one of my bizarre dreams that I think I will go on and share, though in a shortened version (have no fear?). In the dream there was a man stuck on a flying bus that was trying to dock at the flying bus station, but the flying bus was going to crash. So, the man attempted to parachute off the bus. However, his parachute got caught on the side of the building and a firefighter had to rescue him. The firefighter grabbed the man and climbed down a ladder with him... but then I realized that the man was far too small to be a man--he was in fact... a potato. And apparently, he was a potato that quite a few people wanted dead. So, in the end, someone attacked him with an odd old-fashioned drill and made mashed potatoes out of him. Poor potato.
I suppose I also feel like reporting (since it’s on my mind and for no other reason than that) that I have officially changed my favourite passage in Tolkien to this: "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" (933).
Beautiful. That is what poetry ought to do, I think, or any truly great literature. Hmm.
Well, as I am completely random now I feel another change of topic coming… I have been quite diligent, unusually so, with regard to my schoolwork. I’m usually insanely lazy and will procrastinate at any given chance… but now I am actually (sometimes) ahead in my schoolwork. Bizarre. I sometimes worry that this is making me turn into some sort of mindless worker-drone, but then again I have been writing a lot on my own time about whatever… Though my muse that was already “slender” in the Horatian sense seems to have gone on a diet. That is, I have not been writing terribly much that is longer than three or four lines.
Next random topic, I guess my cousin might be coming out from Ohio to visit us in December. The last time she was here was when I was graduating from high school, and she then became one of the only infp’s that I am acquainted with… at least offline (and of course not counting myself). I kept in touch with her for a while via e-mail, but that sort of fell away especially as, I think, she was going through some hard times… So I wonder what it will be like having her around again. I look forward to it, certainly.
I don’t know if I should bother to make this entry any longer, but there is a lot I could say since it has been a while since I said anything at all. I wonder if it is harder to write when you have too much to say, or too little? Well, maybe I’ll try again later when I feel more organized… but then again, perhaps not, or it simply depends on what the word “later” means. In any case, I’ll conclude this here and wish you all… happy… um… existing. Sure.
Well, maybe I will conclude with a word from “Uncle Walt” instead:
"That you are here-that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse."
It feels like forever since I've even logged into LJ, but I have been lost to the busy, if not wonderful, world of academia. A strange mixture of eighteenth-century fiction and Catullus has been occupying me, and will soon be occupying me again… though admittedly the quarter is almost over now, and I have a break for Thanksgiving. In any case, it's my last year at SCU, and the first quarter of it seems to have already zipped by without me noticing it. It's making me a little nostalgic for freshman year, but only a little, and in a way that I'm not sure I care to describe just yet.
I'm not even sure what to write right now, I feel like I'm narrating a bizarre novel (for which I blame Fielding) or like I'm writing a bizarre letter (which I can also blame him for, if I want to). I seem to have neglected to report another one of my bizarre dreams that I think I will go on and share, though in a shortened version (have no fear?). In the dream there was a man stuck on a flying bus that was trying to dock at the flying bus station, but the flying bus was going to crash. So, the man attempted to parachute off the bus. However, his parachute got caught on the side of the building and a firefighter had to rescue him. The firefighter grabbed the man and climbed down a ladder with him... but then I realized that the man was far too small to be a man--he was in fact... a potato. And apparently, he was a potato that quite a few people wanted dead. So, in the end, someone attacked him with an odd old-fashioned drill and made mashed potatoes out of him. Poor potato.
I suppose I also feel like reporting (since it’s on my mind and for no other reason than that) that I have officially changed my favourite passage in Tolkien to this: "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" (933).
Beautiful. That is what poetry ought to do, I think, or any truly great literature. Hmm.
Well, as I am completely random now I feel another change of topic coming… I have been quite diligent, unusually so, with regard to my schoolwork. I’m usually insanely lazy and will procrastinate at any given chance… but now I am actually (sometimes) ahead in my schoolwork. Bizarre. I sometimes worry that this is making me turn into some sort of mindless worker-drone, but then again I have been writing a lot on my own time about whatever… Though my muse that was already “slender” in the Horatian sense seems to have gone on a diet. That is, I have not been writing terribly much that is longer than three or four lines.
Next random topic, I guess my cousin might be coming out from Ohio to visit us in December. The last time she was here was when I was graduating from high school, and she then became one of the only infp’s that I am acquainted with… at least offline (and of course not counting myself). I kept in touch with her for a while via e-mail, but that sort of fell away especially as, I think, she was going through some hard times… So I wonder what it will be like having her around again. I look forward to it, certainly.
I don’t know if I should bother to make this entry any longer, but there is a lot I could say since it has been a while since I said anything at all. I wonder if it is harder to write when you have too much to say, or too little? Well, maybe I’ll try again later when I feel more organized… but then again, perhaps not, or it simply depends on what the word “later” means. In any case, I’ll conclude this here and wish you all… happy… um… existing. Sure.
Well, maybe I will conclude with a word from “Uncle Walt” instead:
"That you are here-that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse."