polish everything except for the moon
Guess I kind of fell off the face of the earth for the last few days. Life will do that to you. Anyway, just thought I'd check in to let you know that everything is fine. Classes and gaming and the radio show and writing and life in general proceed as always. Got an A- on my most recent German test, though the professor wants me to change my handwriting for reasons that remain unclear to me. I guess he has problems with the fact that it's primarily capitals, even though I try to differentiate the size of them. Oh well.
I keep trying to register for the GRE but I can't get through to anyone. The Woodbury people returned my call and said they only schedule two weeks in advance, though, so I think I'm in the clear. I'll try again next week. You'd think that for a standardized test that needs to be taken by virtually everyone who wants to go to graduate school, there would be a better system in place to schedule it, but apparently not. Sigh.
I've decided to go for distinction in the Spanish department, which means writing a voluntary 10-15 page paper on a topic of my choice (in Spanish of course) and doing an oral defense of it later on, in addition to all sorts of other crap. I think I'm going to revise and expand my old Spanish 252 paper on La Malinche, and focus on the figure of La Malinche in Chicana feminist literature. It'll look awesome on my resume when I pull it off, plus it'll be good thesis/dissertation practice. And since I'm interested in the topic it should be almost fun to write. My only regret is that I don't know Arabic yet so I can't get a head start on the Arabic roots of Spanish/modern-day influence of Arabic immigrant speech on the Castilian vernacular project. Oh well, next year is another chance.
I owe you a Vampire plot summary. After tomorrow, I'll owe you another. I also owe Gamegrene an article, and my UA players and my old Hunter group a website apiece. I'll get to it all eventually. First, I think I'll put my gaming energy toward anticipating the wonder that will be UA on Friday night. Ah, the wonderful mess that Noel has made of things means the game just got REALLY interesting. *rubs hands together evilly*
Anyway, in lieu of actual content, here's the latest revision of the poem I posted a week or so ago. I think this is a vast improvement; the rest of you can call it like you see it.
Relearning these, the words abandoned
by my family, lost in transit from some
hidden Saxon shore, I stumble upon a crumpled
treasure map that hid itself from youth.
Its sounds were locked away by our arrival, consigned
to corners of attics and cobwebbed memories,
surviving only in the insults of ancient uncles
and aunts who told me only where I darfst not go.
But still, my impetuous tongue trips and tumbles
over each rasped "h," each choked-off "g," clumsy
as my mind around the image of my grandmother
as a sleek and languid sophisticate,
sipping her gin and tonic as my grandfather's drums
crash and pound another shout chorus to its end;
the thought of unknown cousins, creeping door to door in suits
with glossy Watchtowers in their hands, awkward pauses
in their mouths before dinnertime prayers.
This blood in me, I find, reaches deep
as childhood lakes and streams, its mystery
the mystery of men who sit in silence over football:
they say nothing for years but still call each other brother.
And though I stammer through the simplest
of sentences, this winter I will stand
before my ancestors again, and we will tell
our tales through words that we have borrowed. Yet
my lungs will be full of secrets that I darfst not speak,
my lips dry with the dust I taste as I track
this X that marks the spot. This tongue will not be still
until I find that buried hoard, unearth that history,
throw back the heavy lid, and peer, at last, within.
I keep trying to register for the GRE but I can't get through to anyone. The Woodbury people returned my call and said they only schedule two weeks in advance, though, so I think I'm in the clear. I'll try again next week. You'd think that for a standardized test that needs to be taken by virtually everyone who wants to go to graduate school, there would be a better system in place to schedule it, but apparently not. Sigh.
I've decided to go for distinction in the Spanish department, which means writing a voluntary 10-15 page paper on a topic of my choice (in Spanish of course) and doing an oral defense of it later on, in addition to all sorts of other crap. I think I'm going to revise and expand my old Spanish 252 paper on La Malinche, and focus on the figure of La Malinche in Chicana feminist literature. It'll look awesome on my resume when I pull it off, plus it'll be good thesis/dissertation practice. And since I'm interested in the topic it should be almost fun to write. My only regret is that I don't know Arabic yet so I can't get a head start on the Arabic roots of Spanish/modern-day influence of Arabic immigrant speech on the Castilian vernacular project. Oh well, next year is another chance.
I owe you a Vampire plot summary. After tomorrow, I'll owe you another. I also owe Gamegrene an article, and my UA players and my old Hunter group a website apiece. I'll get to it all eventually. First, I think I'll put my gaming energy toward anticipating the wonder that will be UA on Friday night. Ah, the wonderful mess that Noel has made of things means the game just got REALLY interesting. *rubs hands together evilly*
Anyway, in lieu of actual content, here's the latest revision of the poem I posted a week or so ago. I think this is a vast improvement; the rest of you can call it like you see it.
Relearning these, the words abandoned
by my family, lost in transit from some
hidden Saxon shore, I stumble upon a crumpled
treasure map that hid itself from youth.
Its sounds were locked away by our arrival, consigned
to corners of attics and cobwebbed memories,
surviving only in the insults of ancient uncles
and aunts who told me only where I darfst not go.
But still, my impetuous tongue trips and tumbles
over each rasped "h," each choked-off "g," clumsy
as my mind around the image of my grandmother
as a sleek and languid sophisticate,
sipping her gin and tonic as my grandfather's drums
crash and pound another shout chorus to its end;
the thought of unknown cousins, creeping door to door in suits
with glossy Watchtowers in their hands, awkward pauses
in their mouths before dinnertime prayers.
This blood in me, I find, reaches deep
as childhood lakes and streams, its mystery
the mystery of men who sit in silence over football:
they say nothing for years but still call each other brother.
And though I stammer through the simplest
of sentences, this winter I will stand
before my ancestors again, and we will tell
our tales through words that we have borrowed. Yet
my lungs will be full of secrets that I darfst not speak,
my lips dry with the dust I taste as I track
this X that marks the spot. This tongue will not be still
until I find that buried hoard, unearth that history,
throw back the heavy lid, and peer, at last, within.