(no subject)
It's the second week of school and I've pretty much settled in with my three house-mates. We're kind of like the Golden Girls except not old. And we live in small-town Ohio instead of Miami. And I will never be as cool as Bea Arthur.
The guy who lived in my room before me was apparently some kind of psycho. I met him a couple of times and he seemed nice enough, but Lindsay suspects that he has a pretty serious drug problem. Considering the condition his bathroom was in when he moved out, I'm inclined to agree. The lid on the toilet tank is cracked open and there's a large yellow stain on the linoleum in front of the toilet. I've managed the cover most of it up with a bath rug. He also wrote a death list on the wall in permanent marker. The names are too smeared to read, but it's freaky. I'm gonna put a picture up over it. Oh, and the shower curtain rod collapsed on me when I was hanging the curtain up, so I think the bathroom is possessed now.
My History of WWI class continues to be interesting, if really depressing. Like, after I read Countdown last week, I was upset about what happened to Piper and Trickster and I decided to go start my homework to get my mind off of it. My homework was reading a book about the Battle of Verdun. That really didn't help with the whole being upset thing.
My professor for the course is entertaining. He breaks in to a faux-German Dr. Strangelove-like accent when explaining things like sunderweg, that is, the concept of a unique German modernity. Or, as my professor put it: "After a country starts two world wars and perfects systematic genocide, you have to ask yourself 'Why is this child not learning?'"
At least it's better than being yelled at in German, the way Nazi Prof from OU-C did that one time. He wanted us to have that authentic Third Reich experience, I guess.
American literature, at least the very early stuff, has never been my favorite, but my current course is okay. We were talking about John Winthrop and William Bradford, neither one of whom I find exactly scintillating.
There was an interesting moment, though, when my professor noticed that there was a spider crawling on her. One of her TAs had noticed it, but didn't want to interrupt the lecture to say anything. The professor started talking about how fear of spiders comes from a hatred of weaving and creating and therefore a hatred of women. "We need to take spiders back!" she concluded. Personally, I believe that fear of spiders stems from hatred of creepy crawling things, but the spiders = women idea would put a whole new spin on reading Tolkien...
I'm feeling somewhat out of touch with the fandom and my LJ friends right now because I've been so busy. However, I'm going to be editing Monitor Duty for the first time on Sunday and I really hope to start writing again soon. On that note, I'll leave you with a poem by Anne Bradstreet, one of the early American authors I do like:
The Author to Her Book
Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth didst by my side remain,
Till snatched from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad, exposed to public view,
Made thee in rags, halting to th' press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call,
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
Thy visage was so irksome to my sight;
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could:
I washed thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot still made a flaw.
I stretched thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou runs't more hobbling than is meet;
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save homespun cloth i' th' house I find.
In this array 'mongst vulgars mays't thou roam.
In critic's hands beware thou dost not come,
And take thy way where yet thou art not known;
If for thy father thou asked, say thou had none;
And for thy mother, she alas is poor,
Which caused her thus to send thee out of door.
The guy who lived in my room before me was apparently some kind of psycho. I met him a couple of times and he seemed nice enough, but Lindsay suspects that he has a pretty serious drug problem. Considering the condition his bathroom was in when he moved out, I'm inclined to agree. The lid on the toilet tank is cracked open and there's a large yellow stain on the linoleum in front of the toilet. I've managed the cover most of it up with a bath rug. He also wrote a death list on the wall in permanent marker. The names are too smeared to read, but it's freaky. I'm gonna put a picture up over it. Oh, and the shower curtain rod collapsed on me when I was hanging the curtain up, so I think the bathroom is possessed now.
My History of WWI class continues to be interesting, if really depressing. Like, after I read Countdown last week, I was upset about what happened to Piper and Trickster and I decided to go start my homework to get my mind off of it. My homework was reading a book about the Battle of Verdun. That really didn't help with the whole being upset thing.
My professor for the course is entertaining. He breaks in to a faux-German Dr. Strangelove-like accent when explaining things like sunderweg, that is, the concept of a unique German modernity. Or, as my professor put it: "After a country starts two world wars and perfects systematic genocide, you have to ask yourself 'Why is this child not learning?'"
At least it's better than being yelled at in German, the way Nazi Prof from OU-C did that one time. He wanted us to have that authentic Third Reich experience, I guess.
American literature, at least the very early stuff, has never been my favorite, but my current course is okay. We were talking about John Winthrop and William Bradford, neither one of whom I find exactly scintillating.
There was an interesting moment, though, when my professor noticed that there was a spider crawling on her. One of her TAs had noticed it, but didn't want to interrupt the lecture to say anything. The professor started talking about how fear of spiders comes from a hatred of weaving and creating and therefore a hatred of women. "We need to take spiders back!" she concluded. Personally, I believe that fear of spiders stems from hatred of creepy crawling things, but the spiders = women idea would put a whole new spin on reading Tolkien...
I'm feeling somewhat out of touch with the fandom and my LJ friends right now because I've been so busy. However, I'm going to be editing Monitor Duty for the first time on Sunday and I really hope to start writing again soon. On that note, I'll leave you with a poem by Anne Bradstreet, one of the early American authors I do like:
The Author to Her Book
Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth didst by my side remain,
Till snatched from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad, exposed to public view,
Made thee in rags, halting to th' press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call,
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
Thy visage was so irksome to my sight;
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could:
I washed thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot still made a flaw.
I stretched thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou runs't more hobbling than is meet;
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save homespun cloth i' th' house I find.
In this array 'mongst vulgars mays't thou roam.
In critic's hands beware thou dost not come,
And take thy way where yet thou art not known;
If for thy father thou asked, say thou had none;
And for thy mother, she alas is poor,
Which caused her thus to send thee out of door.