Aimless update
That I am composing an entry at 1:30 in the morning while my roommate tries to sleep (all the while knowing that I still have Robert Frost to wade through--though, thank God, he's an easier stream to cross (yes, sticking with bad metaphor) than Pound or Eliot, and a quicker one) is the epitome of rude. That I have nothing concrete or brilliant to say makes me an abhorrent creature. Someday I'll beg her forgiveness.
Weekday services are my thing now. (We all need things, right? For some it's toenail biting or lewd joke-telling or Starbucks-chugging or staring--at least I'm not one of THOSE guys.) Yesterday I stayed after for the rosary--which I don't yet have down--and mussed it up by omitting the "Our Father" when it came my turn to announce a luminous mystery. I'm sure I probably miscounted "Hail Mary"s too. It's the speaking--I hate being heard in serious context. (Divinity degree perhaps a silly pursuit thereby?) Nonetheless, I enjoyed it. Today I missed confession but hit mass and reveled in how absolutely fabulous mass feels. I was so brimming with transcendent joy that I volunteered afterward at the kiddie carnival, even though cute kiddies make me want kiddies, which admittedly is not an impulse I need to massage, particularly since I'm so standoffish with the boys.
Kelly nixed Cuban dancing and I'll be sure to convey my resentment in any arguments that might crop up between us for weeks. We all should learn to Cuban dance; it's our cultural duty as wannabe-diverse Americans. To be fair, we also missed her concert--but didn't miss Alex's odd conversation and Pita Pit. It was an odd and unexpected night, and I absolutely enjoyed myself. Thanks, you guys!
I hear the Sox won. I don't know what they won; I know nothing about baseball. Truth be told, baseball bores my socks off. (Pun unintended, but just noticed...and I bemoan my old lady antics, purposeful or no.) It's not as bad as NASCAR, but it definitely has nothing on GA football.
As it turns out, the music I listen to is rife with confessional lyricism, which is perfect for my project in confessional literature. Yey for gorgeous, honest, mellow music!
Weekday services are my thing now. (We all need things, right? For some it's toenail biting or lewd joke-telling or Starbucks-chugging or staring--at least I'm not one of THOSE guys.) Yesterday I stayed after for the rosary--which I don't yet have down--and mussed it up by omitting the "Our Father" when it came my turn to announce a luminous mystery. I'm sure I probably miscounted "Hail Mary"s too. It's the speaking--I hate being heard in serious context. (Divinity degree perhaps a silly pursuit thereby?) Nonetheless, I enjoyed it. Today I missed confession but hit mass and reveled in how absolutely fabulous mass feels. I was so brimming with transcendent joy that I volunteered afterward at the kiddie carnival, even though cute kiddies make me want kiddies, which admittedly is not an impulse I need to massage, particularly since I'm so standoffish with the boys.
Kelly nixed Cuban dancing and I'll be sure to convey my resentment in any arguments that might crop up between us for weeks. We all should learn to Cuban dance; it's our cultural duty as wannabe-diverse Americans. To be fair, we also missed her concert--but didn't miss Alex's odd conversation and Pita Pit. It was an odd and unexpected night, and I absolutely enjoyed myself. Thanks, you guys!
I hear the Sox won. I don't know what they won; I know nothing about baseball. Truth be told, baseball bores my socks off. (Pun unintended, but just noticed...and I bemoan my old lady antics, purposeful or no.) It's not as bad as NASCAR, but it definitely has nothing on GA football.
As it turns out, the music I listen to is rife with confessional lyricism, which is perfect for my project in confessional literature. Yey for gorgeous, honest, mellow music!