This is why I am the Queen of Geeks
Okay so. Today, while I was innocently digging my way through late eighteenth century philosophy and its importance for German romanticism, I came upon the kabbalistic concept of language as a creation tool, a sort of magic.
Which is not new. I mean, obviously, since, kabbalah. But new in the sense of names having power, the way you find it in Eastern and African mythology. But. The whole condensed creation language, language shaping the world, the danger of a wrong word changing the world, that whole concept is a major plot point in my favorite books and I gushed and pointed and had a moment of supreme geekdom when I realized that that stuff is actually based on the kabbalistic language concept.
Yes, pseudo-magical, obscure linguistics get my freak on. I am the geekiest person I have ever met. Ever.
Also, serial killers. I have been living, breathing and... something else-ing (gotta love the rule of three) them for the past two weeks or so. Right between the history of drama, romanticism and didactics. Don't ask. So anyway. I have this fascination with serial killers. All people really, but the disturbed most of all and what's more disturbed than people carving up other people? You might not have noticed because I hide if very well, but I'm sort of mobidly inclined.
Except that no-one understands my fascination with serial killers and my mother keeps looking at me sideways and I'm not really sure I should tell her I plan on buying a whole bunch of books on the subject. That, and those guys kind of sneak up on you. Psychologically. As in, they make you a little crazy. In a non-homicadal, sane way. Except I'm super stressed and I get a bit cranky and a bit stuck in my head space with those guys and that's probably not very healthy.
I'm still waiting for the creative explosion that usually happens at the end of phases such as this. They tend to leave me very out of breath.
And knitting. I have been knitting up a storm. Pictures after Christmas. But, truly, I wield a pretty mean set of DP needles. When I'm not mutilating myself with them, that is. Accidentally poking yourself in the hard palate with a number five knitting needle is so not smooth. And it hurts.
So all around I'm terribly productive, not online very much, not writing very much and not satisfied with my study-progress, but productive. Well, busy. That's the word. Possibly it's 'stressed the fuck out'.
I think I'll take the weekend off from life and finally try to read House of Leaves again. It might make my poor brain feel better or blow it up entirely.
Aaaaand... that's just about it for the geekiest post yet made on this journal.
Except that the cats are driving me up the wall and there was another bird-puzzle on the welcome mat tonight, which, yuck. I am not talking about the bird pieces. They never happened. Go looking for your druids elsewhere, bitch.
Geek on, my friends. I'm hitting the sack now.