An update, per Matt's request.
Musings.
I read today in EW that Ralph Fiennes had sex with a flight attendant. So, apparently, Lord Voldemort (oh, that's right, I said it) has joined the Mile High Club before me. How comforting.
I usually intend to update, but as soon as I sit down all my words escape me and I'm left with a depleted lexicon and a handful of less than eloquent turns of phrase. At this point I am splendidly disheartened and I move on to homework or naptime. But I'll muddle through because I've finished my homework (astounding, I know) and I shouldn't nap until my laundry is finished.
Why is snow only romantic through a window?
I miss her. I've done some awful things lately - not consulting her in various decisions, putting my happiness before hers - and I am sorry. I'm a cad, you see. A complete cad. But I'm selfish and young and allowed. Or maybe I'm not allowed. I am selfish and young.
I love her. I hardly deserve her and I don't treat her nearly as well as she deserves, but I do love her.
Tomorrow I declare my theatre major. I've come full circle with this nonsense, but here it is: theatre makes me happy. And yes, perhaps someday I will find myself living in a box, but this is what I want. I've always been a firm believer in happiness.
I've finished a second play. By that I mean I've finished a second draft of a second play. This one goes up in April. Its reception has been lukewarm and I'm waiting for the criticisms of two members of the theatre faculty whom I hold in very high esteem. My next play is begging to be a romantic comedy. Begging. We'll see how long I can resist.
I'd like to write a perfect antihero. Someone wonderfully simple to sympathise with, who happens to hold incredibly bizarre views and possess no morals. I have an array of ideas, but nothing close to concrete.
What else?
Classes are going well. I wrote a paper on Woodrow Wilson which gleaned a highly satisfactory mark. That wasn't quite fair, since it wasn't a good paper. I've come to terms with Lit Analysis, but now I find myself writing things I would have never thought possible. I don't pretend my writing has improved, but evolved certainly. Changed. In a recent analysis of a poetry reading I wrote:
He highlights ‘contemptible,’ enunciating each frustrated syllable. Later he describes making love to a woman after his divorce, in a frenzy nearly as desperate as the act itself. “When we made love,” he breathes, “and made love in desperate kissings, wells of laughter, a monkish apartment on a wooden floor,” I could understand his desperation and feel the same need for human contact Hass was finally abating.
...I know. It doesn't even sound like me.
I've come to realise that genius is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent bullshit.
Oh indeed. I need to switch my laundry.
Until next time, whenever that may be. [Requests are my fiber; they keep my updates regular]
Yes. I just used that metaphor. Re: my view on genius.
Ta,
Jess
I read today in EW that Ralph Fiennes had sex with a flight attendant. So, apparently, Lord Voldemort (oh, that's right, I said it) has joined the Mile High Club before me. How comforting.
I usually intend to update, but as soon as I sit down all my words escape me and I'm left with a depleted lexicon and a handful of less than eloquent turns of phrase. At this point I am splendidly disheartened and I move on to homework or naptime. But I'll muddle through because I've finished my homework (astounding, I know) and I shouldn't nap until my laundry is finished.
Why is snow only romantic through a window?
I miss her. I've done some awful things lately - not consulting her in various decisions, putting my happiness before hers - and I am sorry. I'm a cad, you see. A complete cad. But I'm selfish and young and allowed. Or maybe I'm not allowed. I am selfish and young.
I love her. I hardly deserve her and I don't treat her nearly as well as she deserves, but I do love her.
Tomorrow I declare my theatre major. I've come full circle with this nonsense, but here it is: theatre makes me happy. And yes, perhaps someday I will find myself living in a box, but this is what I want. I've always been a firm believer in happiness.
I've finished a second play. By that I mean I've finished a second draft of a second play. This one goes up in April. Its reception has been lukewarm and I'm waiting for the criticisms of two members of the theatre faculty whom I hold in very high esteem. My next play is begging to be a romantic comedy. Begging. We'll see how long I can resist.
I'd like to write a perfect antihero. Someone wonderfully simple to sympathise with, who happens to hold incredibly bizarre views and possess no morals. I have an array of ideas, but nothing close to concrete.
What else?
Classes are going well. I wrote a paper on Woodrow Wilson which gleaned a highly satisfactory mark. That wasn't quite fair, since it wasn't a good paper. I've come to terms with Lit Analysis, but now I find myself writing things I would have never thought possible. I don't pretend my writing has improved, but evolved certainly. Changed. In a recent analysis of a poetry reading I wrote:
He highlights ‘contemptible,’ enunciating each frustrated syllable. Later he describes making love to a woman after his divorce, in a frenzy nearly as desperate as the act itself. “When we made love,” he breathes, “and made love in desperate kissings, wells of laughter, a monkish apartment on a wooden floor,” I could understand his desperation and feel the same need for human contact Hass was finally abating.
...I know. It doesn't even sound like me.
I've come to realise that genius is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent bullshit.
Oh indeed. I need to switch my laundry.
Until next time, whenever that may be. [Requests are my fiber; they keep my updates regular]
Yes. I just used that metaphor. Re: my view on genius.
Ta,
Jess