. . . . . entries for 29.2.08 . . . . .
"You are the king of silence: you don't need one word to talk to me. All I know is we have sympathy. Close your eyes and lean your head on me."
Song gets stuck in my head so bad. :P
Got back from the Raconteur reading a while ago. The first part - the Raconteur part - was quite good. The Nasslit part was okay, but this Nasslit reader feels as though she should've stuck to an excerpt, because when she left the mic, over half of the audience - evidently held up and worried about the time - got up and left. Guilt. Guilt and feelings that I bored everyone to death.
. . . . . entries for 28.2.08 . . . . .
I feel like tonight is an unsettled night for a lot of people.
Paranoia, paranoia, everybody's comin' to get me.
Wow. So apparently everyone who hates Descartes would really rather not have modern technology of most varieties.
Professor Cloud converted me. Descartes is pretty cool, particularly in context of the conversation.
Way early birthday list:
-totally excessive amounts of dark chocolate and tea
-the Munchkin card game, possibly with an amusing expansion pack or two
-the Modest Mouse album We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank - "oh, it coulda been, shoulda been, worse than you would ever know" -
-and some Cake - "adjectives on the typewriter, he moves his words like a prizefighter" -
-and some Cibo Matto. "You know my love is sweet!"
Oh, my love is very sweet. :P
Did no white man ever sit in a black car when segregation was in effect? Did no conscientious person have the balls to do it?
The extent to which I am caustically critical and comatosely complacent all at once horrifies me. The Christian proverb that hits me hardest is the one involving splinters in eyeballs - I should take Josh's advice and get my vision checked out before I try to improve the sight of others.
At times I feel very wrong. And I think, regardless of my character, I would tend to feel more wrong than a lot of people. I'm a feel-wronger.
. . . . . entries for 27.2.08 . . . . .
It's so weird to think it's 2008.
Also, I'm reading Plessy v. Ferguson for my writing seminar, and I remembered two of my favorite lines of poetry:
"God gave Noah the rainbow sign: No more water. The fire next time!"
About as close to perfect cadence and word choice as I've heard. Almost alternating stresses - just damn catchy, really.
Descartes is not catchy.
Also, cephalopods.
Also, ennui/misanthropy? I dunno.
. . . . . entries for 21.2.08 . . . . .
OMG MIKAELA HOLMES!?!
. . . . . entries for 20.2.08 . . . . .
True fact: no one reads this anymore.
Also, I'm not even that tired. What the hell.
Good thing, I guess. I have a lot of writing left to go. Next time you catch me procrastinating, please hurt me. Negative feedback. Negative feedback is the way.
First paragraph of my Color draft, of which I am exceedingly proud:
"Mute, without atmosphere to carry sound, without language to carry meaning, Qfwfq calls Ayl by name. She, the “supreme peak of beauty” (53), fascinates the strange narrator of Italo Calvino’s Without Colors even as she eludes him. He loves her without understanding her. Calvino leaves the search for comprehension, a no less weighty burden than love, to his readers. Fortunately, he also leaves us hints in the smallest details: Light by which to illuminate her character. We may, if conscience allows, color in Ayl for ourselves."
Love is strange, in Calvino and elsewhere. Qfwfq - yeah, that's his name, Qfwfq - loves Ayl before he even knows what she is, let alone who she is. In the story, though, the reader needs to figure Ayl out. In real life, we only have ourselves to figure out, which is sometimes a miserable business.
Color is a weird class. All my classes are weird, though. I don't do normal classes, and if I did do normal classes, I'd find them weird beyond weird.
. . . . . entries for 19.2.08 . . . . .
What a silly wreck of a girl I am.
Huh. This makes me think I should change this blog black. It's been white for a while, after all, even though this layout itself is pretty new.
Hm. . . Montaigne, on the comparison of true friendship to love of a woman, or to marriage:
"The normal capacity of women is, in fact, unequal to the demands of that communion and intercourse on which the sacred bond is fed; their souls do not seem firm enough to bear the strain of so hard and lasting a tie. And truly, if that were not so, if such a free and voluntary relationship could be established in which not only the soul had its perfect enjoyment, but the body took its share in the alliance also, and the whole man was engaged, then certainly it would be a fuller and more complete friendship. But there has never yet been an example of a woman's attaining to this, and the ancient schools are at one in their belief that it is denied to the female sex."
This is where we came from. This is Great. All this appreciation of dead white male literature truly is enough to drive one to Wollstonecraft.
Montaigne also reminds me of Hogfather, here and elsewhere: how could that which is not ever be unless we were to believe? I'm glad the acceptable social belief has changed somewhat from Michel's time, though I don't doubt that some men - maybe some women - would still agree with him.
. . . . . entries for 17.2.08 . . . . .
I miss degaussing computers.
. . . . . entries for 16.2.08 . . . . .
Also: I do NOT have leukemia, and apparently my pseudo-hemophilia comes and goes.
Also also: I have three rather major things due Wednesday, which I have been almost entirely neglecting in favor of planning out goings-on for this evening. But between dinner and the goings-on, I think I may well accomplish things.
Princeton: where the gay, excitable, athletic English professor/Rockefeller college master/facebook blogger writes publicly that he had the following conversation with the frizzy-haired head of creative and performing arts/translation professor/Pulitzer Prize winner:
former: "I mean, Paul for [redacted]'s sake! I'm sixty years old!"
latter: (stage direction: quizzical, totally straight) "Are you really sixty?"
former: "Don't be ridiculous, you dick!"
. . . . . entries for 13.2.08 . . . . .
I went to a dinner meeting about the teacher certification program here earlier, and came away thinking it would be a cool thing to do, particularly if I wanted to appear legitimate in political circles talking about education regardless of whether or not I'd ever want to teach. I then got to thinking about how all the requirements would fit into PSY/ENV/CWR, as I have planned, and I realized that, if I wanted to be certified as a high school English teacher - the certification I might actually use and enjoy - it would be next to impossible with that course of study.
So I wrote this to the head of Teacher Prep here:
"I attended the meeting at Rocky this evening, and I've been thinking about Teacher Prep in context of other programs I'm thinking of going into at Princeton. It looks as though my other academic ambitions practically eclipse the possibility of this program, but I'm still very interested, so I thought I would ask you about my options.
So here is my situation: I may be unusual in that I knew which certificates I wanted long before arrival on campus - creative writing and environmental studies - but I've been indecisive with regard to my major. Lately, I've developed the notion that I'll major in psychology, since I'm genuinely interested in it, and since it's the basis of a profession in which I could see myself working. I've also considered applying to major in the Woodrow Wilson School, sociology, and English at various times. I'm still thinking about going for a certificate in the Woodrow Wilson School, although I'm no longer extremely interested in the major. Career-wise, I'm very interested in public sector and nonprofit work, fiction and creative nonfiction writing, and, in general, Doing Good. The issues about which I'm most concerned are the environment, mental health, and - wouldn't you know it - education.
If I were to apply to the Teacher Prep program, I would want to be certified as a high school teacher in English, social studies, and/or psychology. My favorite option would definitely be English, because I love to read and analyze literature, and to help others understand the layers of meaning in cultural materials. That being said, I'm very worried about my ability to complete all the requirements of state certification and Princeton's program, given all my other objectives: psych is a 11-course major, ENV a 5-course certificate, and CWR a 4-course certificate. This year, I have completed or am enrolled in three classes that would count towards those requirements. The freshman sequence in the humanities, HUM 216-219, has occupied four more slots in my schedule, my (so far extraordinarily interesting) writing seminar taking up the final place.
My primary question regards "
But I never wrote what my primary question regards, because I realized my email just seemed profoundly absurd. If I love English so much, why am I creating this problem for myself by majoring in psychology?
So I looked at the English major in the undergraduate announcement. Yes, I could major in English, in the creative track, and write a creative thesis in lieu of an analytical one, and quite probably count my ENV writing class towards my major as well; I could, in so doing, kill a small flock of birds with one stone. But I'm attached to the idea of majoring in psych, in having that social science knowledge base, that more legitimate-seeming grounding; and aside from that, I'm genuinely interested in psych just as much as I genuinely love to read good books. And how much do I really want this teaching certification? Yeah, it'd add legitimacy to any future I have in educational policy, but do I actually want to teach? Maybe - but I'm more interested in something nonprofit or public, something to do Good, but then, isn't teaching a kind of do-Gooding?
The best pseudo-conclusion I could come to is this: first semester next year, I will take prerequisite courses for psychology and English, and see how I feel about them, and make my call then. For now, my brain hurts, and I should be reading. Arg.
Sleepy, cold, busy, behind. Arg.
. . . . . entries for 12.2.08 . . . . .
| You are a Lavender Rose |
 You represent love at first sight and enchantment. Your vibe: intense and intriguing Falling in love with you is: deep and meaningful |
I lost myself on a cool, damp night
I gave myself in that misty light
Hypnotized by a strange delight
Under a lilac tree
I made wine from the lilac tree
Put my heart in its recipe
Makes me see what I want to see
And be who I want to be
When I think much more than I wanna think
I do things I never should do
I drink much more than I oughta drink
Because it brings me back you
Lilac wine
Is sweet
And heady
Like my love
. . . . . entries for 11.2.08 . . . . .
I just keep coming back to that damn Emerson quote. Alas, this vast ebb of a vast flow.
Too much is important. I want to care about just one thing, to focus everything there. I don't want to compromise, or to coerce anyone into compromising with me, or with themselves.
But to think of what could be makes me want it. And I don't think I can have both this amazing reality and that beautiful potential - not in fairness, not in justice.
So I am made more aware of what I value: I am made aware of what must be my own ambition, to need the this more than the that. I am made aware that when I write about what should be, about what I believe, about how I want to spend my years at Princeton and on Earth, I'm not just making things up, concealing the fact that my hope lies elsewhere.
Although part of it does, and, I imagine, will continue to lie there, far away, for a terribly long time.
. . . . . entries for 10.2.08 . . . . .
I was looking at facebook pictures just now, contemplating senior year, particularly its tail end. To some extent, I miss the summery weather, but mostly I miss the feeling of good all around me, and of potential waiting in the wings. Here I am immersed in potential, with the good waiting in the wings, and it is February.
There have been good times. These times are not bad times, but they are different from the good times.
Someday I'll actually read The Old Man and the Sea.
I thought about adding, to the list of differences which make me nostalgic, the fact that I feel myself so unspecial here; but really, in my writing and freshman seminars especially, I feel like I do have some outstanding quality which makes me worthy. I am here because I want to gather knowledge and skill to myself and make good use of it. I am here because I have a working head on my shoulders. For all the toolish future investment bankers, for all the reclusive, frightened math majors, for all the pretentious, self-absorbed art history students, there is an Erin, who, in my own clearly biased estimation, is here for at least one or two of the right reasons.
Very well, very well - pictures.
. . . . . entries for 9.2.08 . . . . .
I went to the mall today, and I got:
a teal/cream/brown plaid corset,
a cream-colored cardigan,
a red sustainable WWF t-shirt,
and a pair of blue faux-suede heels.
The damn corset. It looks good on me, but I need an excuse to wear it *without* the cardigan over it sometime. Hrm.
So much reading to do. So much. So much.
. . . . . entries for 8.2.08 . . . . .
RAGE AGAINST THE MEDICAL BILL!
. . . . . entries for 5.2.08 . . . . .
The post below can be found in a slightly more polished incarnation on enviroblog.
"Memories falling like falling rain, falling rain"
is the line that came to mind walking back from HUM today. There are still tiny little leaves on some of the trees, and they were falling as the wind hit them, weighed down with the recent rain. It's very warm and muddy, almost like spring - quite like spring - and it makes me wish I were at home, tromping in my rubber boots through the mud by the Mohawk, perhaps in good company, perhaps just in my own, but *there.* I love the smell of the thaw.
We talked about Marco Polo and Mandeville, but not Petrarch. We may never talk about Petrarch.
Petrarch's Secretum consists largely of Augustine chastising Petrarch for his sins. It feels like he's chastising me, I suppose because Petrarch sinned much in the way I do. :P All writers are proud, and most have plenty of other vices as well.
But I am not Petrarch. When the old writers talk of glory, I know what they mean, and I suppose I want it for some of the same reasons: securing my own immortality, bolstering my own pride. The way I look at it, though, I want to be influential chiefly to help other people, in a very basic way. Cassie is right: I'm a good little secular humanist, at least in the way I conduct myself, and I basically like human beings. I think they're basically miracles of God which, yes, contradicts the "secular" bit. The thing about humanity is that it has a lifespan, the entire race and planet have life spans, and they are transient, but they are still part of creation, this great, marvelous, truly unknown thing that I stand in awe of all my life. I can't help but think this creation is divine for its beauty and complexity. The odds are so slim that it happened by chance that God seems like a more sensible answer.
So Mankind is part of this world, which I love, and Mankind itself is capable of good things. My tack on helping out is not complicated: stretch the moment of Man's greatness, even as it flickers, and no matter how loudly the eternal footman is laughing. There is something beautiful here. There is something worth sheltering as long as possible, even if it must burn out someday. When God gave Man mastery of the Earth, He also gave him a will to act outside of His order, and we are so far outside right now. So far that we're destroying our brilliant little jewel of creation, our warm corner of the universe, our insane improbability or gracious gift of God.
I want to tell people to reign it in, because I love them, because I love Earth. I feel like it's hard to be purely egotistical as one of six billion plus. "Now that the living outnumber the dead, I am one of many.
"Speak my language."
. . . . . entries for 4.2.08 . . . . .
Second semester has officially commenced. I woke up at 9:20 (after setting my alarm for 9) to do laundry, make phone calls, and read. One phone call and Laundry Part 1 have been taken care of. Apparently I do not have a phantom dermatology appointment, although I need to call and make one for sometime this coming semester. I also need to make a dental appointment. Such appointments, such appointments.
But at least I don't have class, or indeed much of anything, until tomorrow. :P
. . . . . entries for 1.2.08 . . . . .
Well. I made it out of my first semester at Princeton with a 3.2 GPA, after my ludicrous 4.37 weighted GPA coming out of Niskayuna.
And I am relieving my parents of their chocolate-eating duty.
Woooo!
come home?
.:people:.
{ting}
she looks like the real thing
{mari}
out and about
[kelsey]
THIS IS AMERICA
{yianni}
stop being depressed
{alisa}
other
[shannon]
close and far
{frank}
islands where no islands should go
[cassie]
eating knowledge
{colin}
my dm
[emily]
shoulder to the wheel
[brian]
nostalgic for fantasy
[nicole]
industry insider
{elle}
angry enviro
[matt]
never heard of miyazaki
[pirate dan]
are you reading this?
[olga]
distracted
[messiah dan]
messiah/believer
{max}
approach focus
[natalie]
wait a minute
[susan]
solitude
{greg}
manbeargreg
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.:skin:.
turtles! turtles! by araglas
(heavily modified by yours truly)