Today was one of those days where I really wish that I could stop by the liquor store on the way home from work and buy some malt beverages and sit on the couch for a three or four, doing nothing but reading and thinking. Stupid imaginary rules. I'm responsible, I'm mature (as subjective as those things may be). Why can't I buy booze? I'm not
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The arbitrary designation of holidays, I think, springs from a need for community and communion with our culture and with each other. Christmas isn't special because I choose that date to celebrate the birth of Christ and reflect on peace and love and goodwill toward men; it is special because everyone in my culture does the same, on the same day, and it is as much compulsion as choice, a compulsion that draws us together or (as the case may be and unfortunately often is) alienates us.
On another note, I know it's your calendar's fault and don't blame you, but after finding the elusive concept a catalyst for the development of my capstone poem last spring, I can say with some authority that that's a very underwhelming definition of the terrifically difficult-to-translate "duende." If you're interested, here is one translation -- I can't find the one I first read -- of the lecture wherein Lorca tried to approach a definition.
I'll stop being a poetry snob now and let you do your dishes. :)
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I was reading about about Margaret Fuller and it made me want to have my own Conversations for Women group that meets once a week to discuss erudite topics. Talking to you reminded me of it.
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