I'm not a pretty girl. That's not what I do.
indefinitely. My priorities at the moment are working on my senior thesis and finding a job in Chicago (cross your fingers). Don't know when/if I'll be back, but I'll let you know.
J. reads my blog, and now I'm trying to think up something interesting to say. Now personally, I think blathering on about books and my personal idiosyncracies is way more interesting than learning the ins and outs of some stranger's personal life, but that may be because I have no personal life to speak of myself.
My roomie C and I were watching Pride and Prejudice this weekend (my super duper Special Edition DVDs), snarking on the Bingley sisters and commenting how their lovable brother was exactly like an adorable puppy dog. Every time I see Mr. Bingley I just want to pat him on the head and say "Good boy!"
Walked into the library and saw it on the shelf of New Books, and I knew I didn't stand a chance.
'In our time the destiny of man presents its meanings in political terms.' -Thomas Mann
How can I, that girl standing there,
My attention fix
On Roman or on Russian
Or on Spanish politics?
Yet here's a travelled man that knows
What he talks about,
And there's a politician
That has both read and thought,
And maybe what they say is true
Of war and war's alarms,
But O that I were young again
And held her in my arms.
William Butler Yeats
Well. I started out knitting a hat, and I kinda wound up with a really big, stretchy yarmulke.
It came! It came today!!
gacked from Negative Capability (who officially has the coolest blog name ever):
In case you hadn't noticed,
it has somehow become uncool
to sound like you know what you're talking about?
Or believe strongly in what you're saying?
Invisible question marks and parenthetical (you know?)'s
have been attaching themselves to the ends of our sentences?
Even when those sentences aren't, like, questions? You know?
Declarative sentences - so-called
because they used to, like, DECLARE things to be true
as opposed to other things which were, like, not-
have been infected by a totally hip
and tragically cool interrogative tone? You know?
Like, don't think I'm uncool just because I've noticed this;
this is just like the word on the street, you know?
It's like what I've heard?
I have nothing personally invested in my own opinions, okay?
I'm just inviting you to join me in my uncertainty?
What has happened to our conviction?
Where are the limbs out on which we once walked?
Have they been, like, chopped down
with the rest of the rain forest?
Or do we have, like, nothing to say?
Has society become so, like, totally . . .
I mean absolutely . . . You know?
That we've just gotten to the point where it's just, like . . .
whatever!
And so actually our disarticulation . . . ness
is just a clever sort of . . . thing
to disguise the fact that we've become
the most aggressively inarticulate generation
to come along since . . .
you know, a long, long time ago!
I entreat you, I implore you, I exhort you,
I challenge you: To speak with conviction.
To say what you believe in a manner that bespeaks
the determination with which you believe it.
Because contrary to the wisdom of the bumper sticker,
it is not enough these days to simply QUESTION AUTHORITY.
You have to speak with it, too.
I'm in a silly mood.
O proud left foot, that ventures quick within
Then soon upon a backward journey lithe.
Anon, once more the gesture, then begin:
Command sinistral pedestal to writhe.
Commence thou then the fervid Hokey-Poke,
A mad gyration, hips in wanton swirl.
To spin! A wilde release from Heavens yoke.
Blessed dervish! Surely canst go, girl.
The Hoke, the poke -- banish now thy doubt
Verily, I say, 'tis what it's all about.
Mr. Toad from Wind in the Willows:
In our way, Johnson strongly expressed his love of driving fast in a post-chaise. 'If (said he,) I had no duties, and no reference to futurity, I would spend my life in driving briskly in a post-chaise with a pretty woman; but she should be one who could understand me, and would add something to the conversation.' Friday, September 19, 1777. The Life of Samuel Johnson, James Boswell.I've pretty much spent the whole day making fun of the good doctor, without neglecting his dear friend Mr. Boswell either. I can't resist taking the pompous blowhard down a peg or two after wading through his whole life (okay, so we read the abridged Penguin edition, but still. It's nothing but Johnson going "Well, Sir, blah de blah blah", and Boswell alternating between being a sycophant and creepily passive-aggressive). So imagine my delight at this bit of juicy literary gossip:
The friendship between [Johnson] and Mrs. Thrale developed, indeed, into an intimacy whose mysterious depths are hinted at in an extraordinary correspondence of 1773 in which padlocks, fetters and rods are mentioned, in which Mrs Thrale refers to herself as his governess and Johnson calls himself her slave...For years...no one had known Johnson so well as she had done in sickness and in health, in high spirits and in those moods when, beset by 'sinful and corrupt imaginations', by 'inordinate desires' and 'wicked thoughts', he feared he was going mad. Pg. 20-21, Intro to the Penguin edition.Hm. Mr. Boswell forgot to mention that naughty Sam enjoyed being discplined upon occasion. As did Rousseau, for that matter, though if Johnson knew he shared the same tastes as a damn'd French philosophe he'd probably keel over from apoplexy. ::exits stage left, laughing uproariously::
"I love Walt Whitman. He’s the best bearded gay man ever!" –Professor B.
just your average neighborhood peripatetic pagan dyke bodyworker. Reads too many books, has enlightening spiritual experiences while rocking out to techno and punk. Drop her a line at queendahud@yahoo.com
