Additional Randominity

And so it goes...and so it goes....

I have a newfound respect for Evelyn Waugh, due to the fact that I've torn through Brideshead Revisited and found it wonderful to delve back into classic works of fiction. The scene of Julia "weeping over the death of her God" was particularly moving - and I'm so happy for Sebastian! Nearly done with it, and am already wondering what classic I ought to delve into next. Perhaps it's time to read part two of Middlemarch (a book I had to leave off reading when I left Austria - ah, the complexities of reading schedules!).

My ankles are killing me. It's very odd. I don't think I've done anything particular that should cause this pain. My only thought is that perhaps it's early rheumatism? Or that the cold and the wearing of platform heels - no matter how sturdy - are having an effect even now? Fortunately, I've found a way of binding my feet in ace bandages that seems to support my ankles (and keep them warmer in this nasty cold!).

Which leads me to: apparently this is the coldest it's been in New England...ever...for some time? It certainly feels bitter cold.

I've been getting alternately anxious, paralyzed anxious, and head-over-heels enraptures (before returning to anxiety) over KOF. At this time, I should like to butt into my little Clerk of Nervous Ticks to remind him to check the previous ledgers and tally it up to mid-production jitters. Quite typical, quite usual. And, in the words of Geoffrey Rush in Shakespeare in Love (or at least the words written for him): "It's a mystery!" Bear that in mind. But to add in neat lines for the better calming of my inner clerk:

Musician thingy might be resolved after all. So...there.

E-mails have no intrinsic power to hurt. Duh. (Comes back to that modern communication thesis for a potential Ph.D. I have...later on that.)

Thursday's rehearsal went swimmingly and...(drumroll, maestro!)...we have a show. It was such a relief to work a scene, not merely block it with what working is possible given limitations; it was such a relief to see that the actors were willing to give it their all, even beyond expectations; it was such a relief to see the play coming to life.

And to jostle the Clerk's memory of other performances: remember Pirates? Remember how much we tried to do and it looked like it wouldn't do and then, miraculously, it did? Remember the night you were able to pronounce to yourself, "We have a show"? Yes, well...we're not quite at the "we have the [whole] show" bit yet (since we haven't blocked everything yet), but the sensation of relief, of seeing some sort of finished product or hope of such product is there. Must rewatch Pirates to jostle memory further.

Oh, it doesn't seem possible I even did that show, sometimes. All these plays seem to fade into nothing more than picturebooks and DVD's. I suppose that's why Mr. Dougherty attempted to get us into the habit of recording daily our theatrical experiences. Not so much for the relief of getting that evening's rehearsal or epiphany (loightning 'as just struck moi brain) but in order for our older selves to remember that event. Yes. Waugh said all that we possess is our past - although I suppose he wrote that in high poetry, because our past is not truly ours since it, too, is a dependent gift on God; that is, from the purely theological stance, which I'm sure he knew, sin is the only thing we can take full credit for; howsomever, in the poetical sense....

And here am I, not finishing my sentences or even letting them gestate into full-blown phrases. Fortunately, I believe such commonplaceness of our current inability to speak, to communicate, to bend words to our will, or to even know that we desire words or once we have them what to do with them - all this will work quite prettily into my Movement as Dialogue thesis which is percolating madly in my brain at the moment. (Note to self: must seek out information from those in the know as to whether going straight for Ph.D. is plausible or whether 'twould be better to simply write and publish the thing without university support?) Of course, regardless, I must define my central thesis first. My thoughts are blowing about the core - I feel as though I've got my hands on one of those balls of electricity that shoot forth sparks from the heart of it that one can play with and manipulate with no danger to the self. But I want the core, not the sparks. I need to make my way through the braided strands to the heart of the question itself.

And Waugh has left his post-modern mark upon my writing tonight. Silly, high-blown phrases, puffed-up self-importance (and the hypenated newspeak! My thesis rears its ugly head again. Poor thesis - no name, gender or identity! I shall call him Terence the Thesis. He may keep Waugh's Aloyisius company) - anywho. "Words! Why speak I still of words! I am stuffed full of them!" Or something like that from poor Liam's mouth! I meant to write more in the latest tale. I ended up doing a lot of reading and watching VeggieTales and the first few episodes of Lost and some bonus features from Sky Captain than anything particularly...I was about to say constructive, but creative might be the better word. But need I create at every moment? I hardly think so. Give yourself a Sabbath, Emily - for Heaven's sake (quite literally)! And equally for Heaven's, if not for the sake of yourself, the English language, or any poor, besotted and bedumbed (or is that benumbed) person who happens to peer through these haphazard annals - quit this silly journal for the night.

Bon soir, mes amis. (Bon soir, la lune!) Voila, le journal (pas le romain) pour mon cour publique - full of sound and fury, signifying...memory.

Mood: Pensive
Music: Flipping between Shall We Dance with a wonderful new version of "Sway with Me" (yaaaaaaaaaaaaay!) and The Village with the loverly violin solos (strange that cat gut should wring men's souls from their bodies).
Thought: Oh, Lord? What would You have me do?

I should like it to be known

That despite all odds (aka a three and a half audio tape lecture to Pete on Sayers)...drumroll, please....

I HAVE BEGUN WRITING AGAIN!

I mean, writing fictional prose, as opposed to writing musicals or other such things. Hoopla! As of this minute, I have a solid 1,718 words written (aka 6 pages) Which Is Nothing To Be Sneezed At.

(I have also found an appropriate writing CD, The Hours. Pure poison movie but good CD. Rather ironic after mentioning Virginia Woolf a bit in the Sayers lecture.)

Anyway, it is also a mark of fantabulousness that I have a) named two new lordly houses - those of the Wyvern Steep (our hero) and those of Duarchdaim (our antagonists), along with two of the earlyish scions of Brannaugh and Llewellyn and the heir of Deirdre and Reid mac Fionnabhar, Ceilyn. Hoopla! Go me making up that uber-huge geneological chart sometime last year that named a whole heck of a lot of people and so provided me with the names and exact relations of Ceilyn, Eduard and Llewellyn Ys. Nyah!

I'm of two minds, however, as to whether Ceilyn goes with Eiswyn from Duarchdaim (which would be politically savvy, but romantically frustrating), or with the romantic alternative. My guess is that Jules will push for the romantic ending rather than the saddish, pragmatic one, mostly because of the eventually upcoming novel where the Gate is broached and whoever would be Queen can hardly allow herself to even touch the hand of the invader Reyjori guy, even though they'd be perfect for each other. All so very tragic. Yes - I'm guessing that the romantic will win out.

What I have thus far I'm pleased with - although it's odd to be writing again and to get back into the mode of "This is just a rough draft! This is just a rough draft! There will be time to flesh it out later!" after the hustle-and-bustle of playwriting. There's time for a million visions and revisions.... Thank God! So, anywho, I'll go back, finish up this little section, perhaps bring my count past or at least very nearly two the 2K mark and then retire for the evening because silly me, I am up way past my bedtime.

Mood: I'd be skipping for joy if my ankles weren't wrapped.
Music: The aforementioned Glass-extravaganza, The Hours
Thought: Not too much at the present, really.

We've decided to close down the studio

to wire this place for sound.
Finally! I can start suffering and write that symphony!
Not so fast! You're the new head of music!
Finally! I can stop suffering and write that symphony!
~ Liberally paraphrased from "Singing in the Rain"

It's snowing.
Argh.
School's off.
Aaaaargh.
I slept in.
Aaaa...hwelllll....

Funny dreams from the Canadian Mole in the brainboxbooth, full of "itness" and white tails and white light and choir angels and me turning around to the Canadian Mole who runs my dreams and thinking at her, "Oh, come on!" Funny, though. Even if I subsequently couldn't remember how the ballet in KOF went and spent a good twenty minutes upon waking attempting to remember where the ballet was before realizing there was no ballet and so I don't have to remember the choreography I never did so...nyah.

Which is to say, after giving Pete the long-awaited lecture on Sayers and her chapter on the seven deadly sins in Creed or Chaos? and reading Mom's thing on Los Banos, I fully intend to sit down and write my K. with a unicorn and beating up R(aith?). and I'm not sure what all but it looks like it's going to be a good story...if I can get around ye olde merrie cliches.

More in a bit. My room is freezing and Pete's ready for the lecture.

Mood: AAAAAAAAAAAAARUGH! *huff huff*
Music: "My Karma Broke Down" by Three Weird Sisters on Hair of the Frog
Thought: My heat is ON! Why is it cold?! Why is it snowing!??!?!? Must remember to sign up to be one of Julie's oompaloompas when she takes over the universe via Disneyworld. At least it'll be warm.

Snowflakes that stay

On my nose and eyelashes
Silver white winters that
Melt into springs....

Not much to add, except that when surrupticiously asked whether I was angry at someone, I couldn't help but laugh and laugh and laugh - which wasn't really an answer, but which also was. And which makes one wonder how God would answer if I asked Him....

Mood: Sometimes it's tough chez famile
Music: Random bits from Flannel Collage flitting through my memory
Thought: Why, oh why, precious, isn't confession at St. Bernadette's at 3:00? Or, conversely, why doesn't Immaculate Conception have confessional! Ah! The vagaries of life!

I-did-not-stack-this

No. Really. I didn't.

Fa la!

You scored as Les Miserables. You've had such a hard life, and yet you still have the strength to sing all about it! Remember, we are each part of the same human family, and that whatever our outward differences may be, our longings for individual liberty and peace are the same. Les Miserables 63% Hairspray 58% Wicked 50% Avenue Q 46% Grease 38% Cats 8% What MUSICAL are you??? created with QuizFarm.com

Mood: Yummy candle smells!
Music: Surprise, surprise, I'm With You and...continuing the celestial ironies of the evening, it's on "Let's Face the Music and Dance"
Thankfulness is: Having gotten through the massive curriculum writing with only ONE free cell game!

Real Quick

Thunk redux as I perused below before turning back to work after a FANTASTIC Alias which finally felt more Alias-y (dealt with Vaughn and forgiveness - yaaay!)....

The Lover is not unmoved by the Beloved and is inextricably bound up in her biography. Why, then, are we surprised at the God become Man? The Lover become the Beloved!

Oh, sweet mystery of life
At last I found yoooooooooooooooou!

Mood: Pas mal, merci.
Music: Ironically enough, "I Believe in You" by Evanescence off of my I'm With You mix CD
Uncomfortableness is: A total cramp in my neck. Ugh!

Valkyrie in me
ARISE!

It looks like I'm a-going to the March for Life! Already, I'm getting into what I can only call "Austria Battle Mode" which is rather like land-based paratrooping in re: travel. Got the undershirt, the t-shirt, the long-shirt and the sweatshirt topped by a coat? Got the tights and the tight pants and the jeans? Got the three pairs of socks and appropriate other garments? Got the scarf and the gloves and the hat and the bag-o-stuff that one needs to rough it? Got the all eventualities covered? And the blanket of many colors? And maybe a purse? With actual money? CHECK! Just point me in the direction of the bus and the gym floor and the slushy common and the long walk up to Capitol Hill and I'm good to go! No Chinese auctioneer or five rosaries and a Divine Mercy or ankle aches and pains can sway this Waltraud from her destined path! Neither students nor lack of sleep nor harried schedule nor uncomfortableness of bus can sway this chosen Valkyrie from her battlemode! Bwahahhahahhahha! Pilgrimidge HERE I COME!!!

Been far, faaaaaaaaaaar, too long.

I'm excited. Can ya tell?

And now I must write up a revised curriclum. And then watch Lost and Alias because, inexplicably, I'm home on a school night. Tomorrow, God willing and work providing, two stolen hours to see In Good Company with Jules, who is herself very good company. And de profundis - regard her entry on a "little fall of poison." (***Note to self*** MUST write that image! Must capture that in prose!)

In other news, finished Will in the World about an hour and a half ago. Good biography, fairly drawn - but I find that my taste for Shakespeare dwindles because I feel that I know too much about him. The author kept returning to Shakespeare's "opacity" in his works - that is, the Bard's increasing unwillingness to assign explicit motives to some of his great literary creations - and perhaps it was that opacity about the man himself that I admired. To have him somewhat stripped lessens his plays in my eyes a little. I'm sure they shall regain their charmed appeal soon enough, but it's a curious reponse, I think.

Otherwise, whilst attempting to clear my brain of all its sundry and morbid [in the original sense - dare one say, Hamletesque sense?] fancies, I reread what I'd written thus far for Wallace's Will. The first ten pages or so are really quite good, but as soon as the solicitor enters the scene it all goes to pieces. I think I need to push back the solicitor, bring in Miss Irene Saveloy earlier - perhaps she is there when the solicitor enters? - and thus reaffirm Terence's duplicity and also give him a plausible fiancee - better than Miss Fanny Biggins, anyway. Although, I do so like the line, "Felton! You've boffed Fanny Biggins!" (with bon-bons of questionable recipe, no less). But then again, Terence can put off popping the question to Irene (holding out for Miss Sweetling - does she have a first name?) and nearly get mired with Fanny at which point the resourceful Felton pops up to, indeed, boff Miss Biggins. Which could happen under Evie's nose and perhaps act as the event which makes Terence start actually confiding in Evie and vice versa? Yes - that sounds plausible. Ah, me! It looks as though I might actually have to plot out the silly thing before writing it! Whodathunk? ;P Whilst reading it, though, it struck me that one thing is significantly lacking in its structure: the gratuitous asides and sorta-sililoquies (usually expositional bits the hero is forced to utter between scenes summing up everything that's just happened and is about to happen for the benefit of my Lady So-and-so who Wasn't Paying Attention). Which brings me to think that such conventions would be marvellous to pop....

Yet it's rather...frustrating? Curious? Amusing? Expected? That Wallace's Will bears so much in common with King of Fools. Both are about conceited young men who are transformed by the power of non-insta-love (dare we name it...charity?!). Both Terence and Frederick assume disguises to woo their ladies, both have rather stiff-necked not-quite-father figures guiding their careers and not-quite-mother figures doing likewise (although Mrs. Dowdle and Felton are working in terrible conjunction to encourage vice in Terence, while Brosche and Mrs. Duffy are at odds in temperament but unified in their objective to make a good man out of Frederick), and both hold romantic love at little value. I suppose I do as well. The last bit, I mean. Although there is some truth to the first one - some truth, insofaras we all adopt masks to varying degrees to get us through the daily niceties. But the last bit, the romantic love bit....

No, I'd never go so far as to say that I "don't believe in love" or even that I forswear it for some self-love - but that romantic love on its own IS shallow. I suppose I do hold it - when alone, that is key - in contempt. I certainly wasn't nice to it in Nachtsturm Castle. (See what the reading of a biography does to one? Makes one too fearfully introspective! Yes! Give me a fantasy so that I may escape myself...or rather those "morbid fascinations of the brain." Can one go mad with too much thinking? Oh, the March for Life! There is much to that!) To return: I know for a certainty that I detest "insta-love" in either my prose or my plays. (Poetry is a different matter, mostly due to its form and its expression of the "opaque" heart.) Why should I root for Romeo and Juliet? Why should I care about Cinderella who is loved only for her fleeting looks? Give me Thrushbeard where they grow to love each other within the bond of marriage! Give me Thousandfurs where the prince is ensnared by the cleverness of his bride! Give me the Snow Queen where a childhood love must be regained - where there is association before the ball, where there is deep love before the thrill of glandular passion.

And yet - and yet.... Sayers stands up to firmly rebuke me. All emotion and passion is not the mere reaction of the body. As Sh. recently put it, while reciting some of her best dialogue, a man may give his friend a thousand reasons why he loves his lady, and his friend may agree with every particular, and still not love the lady. I understand why the poets have long written of this form of love. It is something divine, something miraculous, something ephemeral, something fantastic, something strangely individual and yet so universal that it needs no apology. It is the watery image of Love Himself, potent even in its dependency, even in its most shallow form - potent.

I cannot understand it. Yet - even those who love longtemps - "this is a great mystery." A greater mystery than that which I require to shroud my literary heroes - for love, true love, looks firmly at the beloved and perceives every blemish and every fault along with every beauty and every virtue - and still loves. The beloved's biography is known, is contributed to, is shaped by the lover, and so too the lover is not unmoved but binds his self to his beloved, so that their lives converge and cannot be untwined fully from the other.

How fearsome, then, to look as one who is blemished, who is incomplete, whose only beauty is fleeting for some two seconds after confession to be lost immediately with the return of common, mean thoughts - to look at one's Lover, and tremble as the Beloved. There is no spot in Him, but there is in me. And my life and my soul and my motives which are so "opaque" to me are known perfectly by He who is Perfection. How terrible, within Love, to look within one's self and know that all Love longs to pour into the very being and only one's own infidelity hinders that sweet meeting? How terrible to know that every deception, every wrong, every indifference is, indeed, solely from me - who is yet, wonderfully and awfully, Beloved?

And now, I have thought too much. And yet been strangely comforted. As though in looking - no, not looking, glimpsing, peeking - into the edges of His Truth, I have found a marvellous mirror that shows me yes, who I am, but who I am meant to be. For this is perhaps the most curious and gracious part of love, that it may transform, that it loves the beloved because of that spark of who she may become. It is a motherly love that knows the child will form in time. And all these loves bound up in one, and all of them in gentle waiting.

Mood: Reflective
Music: I'm With You which ended just now with Into the West which seems appropriate
Goodness is: Having run all those errands today and woken up uber-early this morning. Yaaay, self! (Yaaay, Guardian Angel Time Table! Danke, Theresa!)

Despite Twilight-Zone Episodes

Right in my own backyard (as it were): this Moving Off Zero, aka my Daddy's blog, makes me happy.

Other happiness includes:

Dinner with Jills who is amazing at life and helps rewrite the bits of KOF that don't work.

Visiting other friends on Saturday.

Will in the World, the latest biography on Shakespeare, which I'm simply devouring.

NEW CLOTHES!!! (It's so curious - and more about this at another time, hopefully not a school-night, but it's taken me forever to even contemplate the "girly" side of things [for lack of a better term]. Part of that, I decided today, was that such...aherm...maintenance, simply requires too much time in idleness - waiting for masks to dry, waiting for polish to dry, waiting for wax to dry, etc. etc. - that I simply could spend better elsewhere and when. But today I took the luxury of - after doing all the work that needed immediate doing - being...well, being pink.)

While You Were Sleeping - Bill Pullman...where are you? (Or for that matter, Florence!?)

Dad making porkchops AND a spicecake...the latter in the form of Edoras. :)

Three day weekends.

Long talks with Mother. Sorting out life.

Beating the pants off Peter at Pathfinder. I am the queen of labyrinth building! Bow to me, mere mortals! Mwahahhahahahhah.

Seeing In Good Company - great movie, and just what was required after that particular carride. Go Topher Grace.

Right, so what is it that makes men simply more compelling figures in the theatre than women? Jules and I were talking about this the other day (which conjured up all sorts of tangent thoughts in my brain of Elizabethan England), but if pressed to name our favorite actor (in the non-gender specific original context of the word) we would immediately name several male actors. For myself, I'd rattle off Sam West, Ralph Fiennes, Christopher Guest, etc. But if then asked who my favorite female actors are, I'd be hard pressed. Jules came up with Catherine Zeta-Jones. I can agree with that - and add Helen Mirren. And from thence several notable actresses, particularly of the Twelve British Actors of England. But even so, they are admirable actresses, but not the titans that the male actors I admire are. Curioser and curioser. I don't think it can be merely a result of our relative complimentarian parts, or in the relative roles available to each - rather I think there must be a greater spiritual mystery, something having to do with the full embodiment of humanity within the striding male figure unabashedly part of something soulful. There is the remembance of the incarnation there.

A quick, not sadness but regret: seeing that the memory of things are rarely as great as the fact. And there is sadness to surpass the master.

I suppose that's it for now. I'm sure there's more - I know there's more - there's quite a lot that I meant to meaningfully blog about. There's quite a lot that is always meant to be done - I am percolating a story in my mind that I hope to jot down tomorrow - images from recent life, at once beautiful and unbearably sad, is the story's basis - and I've no idea where it's headed but I know how it begins. I trust I make myself obscure.

Anywho, bon nuit, Emily of an older age! This little one is to sleep. (And miles to go....)

Mood: My face has been charcoaled. Curious, that.
Music: Has been The Incredibles for the past two days. Yum!
Thought: My father: A Hardy Poet Laureate

Pensees a la Joyce via Eliot

Eyes sore
Weep washed
Oddity
The dry nothingness
Of an absent cry

Yesterday: amazing. Absolutely and utterly wonderful

Wonderland - Oz and
Yellow Brick Road,
Ruby slippered shadows
Glitter in anticipation
Of the event

Regard the perfect underpainting
Of the unbegun completion

Perfect. Au'jourd'hui (sp? - oy! It's been so long!)

Weight and
Endless
Obligation.
The slow trudge and
Weak-willed grasp
Of fading remembrance

Reality in a fishbowl
Drop the penny into
Distortion
Wonder why it never strikes
The doubleshot glass

Scattered thoughts
Streak with the electric
And eclectic colors
Of the tamed creatures of the deep
Lost with the penny
Within the open bowl

Dare to reach in the hand
Fumble for the penny
(Penny for your thoughts?)
Among the suckling fish
And cerulean stones

Churn the sluggish waters
Like a lesser god
Retrieve, restore and
Rest.

And now to midterms. And sleep. Please God. And all our yesterdays have lighted fools...? Nay - all our public faces - masks upon display! (Come and see the Masklord, faceless in the daylight.)

Scattered scattered everywhere, and not a thought to think!

Mood: The castle of blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaugh
Music: The newest by Gaelic Storm
Thought: The heat is on to 70 - how am I cold?
Thought Redux: There's a deeper meaning in that. *shiver*
Thought Explanee: No pun intended. Oy.
Thought Terminee: QED.

And on a more serious note:

Whilst perusing Jimmy Akin's blog, I came across the latest info re: Embryonic Stem Cell Research and its ethical reprocussions.

Apparently, there have been two suggested alternatives to how to go about conducting ESCR, which Jimmy has addressed here and here. It's well worth a read-through.

Of course, as he and others far wiser than I, well acknowledge, all this debate is the treatment of the syndrome and not the cause. To reason backwards in our line of inquiry, we are at the point of asking: "How can we harvest ESC's" whereas before we were asking "Should we harvest ESC's" whereas before that we were asking "How do we view the pre-born" which brings us always back to the question of "What does it mean to be human?"

I have just finished reading (mea culpe mea culpe for not doing so long beforehand!) The Abolition of Man by C. S. Lewis and was particularly struck by his explanation of our perceived "conquering of Nature." Basically, as we attempt to tame Nature, we create Nature - that is as we attempt to control, we objectify what we control. When we then attempt to control ourselves, we objectify ourselves. So in the end, we have become the very things (whats, not whos) who are controlled. But by what? Lewis very pratically says that we should be Communism-like controlled by those who first created us. This is true: those who conquered humanity left their blueprint upon us and we react accordingly. But Kierkegaard in his "Sickness Unto Death" (of which I've only read selections in the Great Books program but which I should like to read in its entirety!) points out that no matter what one does or perceives he does, he is never free from the Author of Life.

So here is the Divine Comedy if you will - the two forms of conquering of the self. For we may conquer the self in order to be reborn, or we may conquer the self and consign ourselves to living death. For we often forget that we are eternal beings, and that the veil of death is simply that: a veil. Dante is crowned king of himself at the end of the Purgatorio NOT because he has conquered himself by objectifying himself, but because he has conquered that which was NOT of the self but seems to be the whole of the self and thus joined in the salvation of the self to true life. "Die with Christ to rise with Christ." He reconciled himself to his dependency upon his Creator, and thus to himself.

Compare this with modern man who does not conquer the self, but attempts to destroy it, to objectify it, to debase it - I might prefer the word "subsume" rather than Lewis' "conquer" for the latter still has some element of nobility about it. Modern man attempts to make all those bits which are attached barnacle-like at birth to the self the whole of the self; it attempts to strip away the self and then discovers the hellish void of nothingness beneath. It - for modern man strives to be an indistinguishable it, responsible for nothing, including its very being - strives to be another god and discovers himself a number.

Compare this to the botch we've gotten ourselves into regarding embryonic stem cell research. Selfishly, we destroyed the true natural means whereby man may reproduce, and played god by creating hundreds of children. Then, still drunk on our audacity, we ignore our very creation, we objectify our infants and wonder how else we might achieve earthly immortality. (For actual immortality, dependent upon God, is unthinkable.)

How pitiable that we should attempt to hold against the pitiless march of time which acts not cruelly, but kindly, to bring us to our Master! I seem to see us clutching rocks in the stream, dying slowly of hypothermia because we will not exercise our limbs. Our standing still is killing us. There is a spring of Eternal Life, and it comes from the side of Christ - yet we still search for any other water rather than kneel before the one who came to save us. There is no need for "theraputic cloning" - we are shrivelled beings inside, not out.

Oh! I am flitting from thought to thought with nothing to the point! The cloning story is still tickling the back of my mind - the question of what it means to be human (the very fact that we question that is the answer, in part! Honestly, folk - forest for trees?). Anywho....

Right. As for me, to be myself includes, at this present moment, deciding what color dresses and tabards my characters are going to wear. Silly Emily. Silly old bear!

Mood: Many are the smells in my room. Yes, that's a mood.
Music: Three Weird Sisters - the frog album, I forget the name. Alas, I will always think of Trogdor the burninator when listening to this CD.
Thought: What? Above wasn't enough? Alright - Jules makes an AWESOME spice cake!

My hair is red

Ta ran ta ra!
And Neitzsche's dead!
Ta ran ta ra!
And the ants go marching one by one!
Ta ran ta ruh?

Anywho, doing up the costume list for King of Fools, which will lead to the other stuff on my to do list which is much shorter and more doable than I had thought before I wrote it out.

Yesterday I was in a total Poityr/Elspethian mode. But alas, events precluded me from writing in that. Le sigh. Howsomeever, some progress has been made in the understanding of Senelite history. Must seriously figure out entire history of everything but particularly the second and third Khlaov and their subsequent demises (demisi?).

Jules has been in battle baker mode these past few weeks, which means that we've been all treated to various rolls, eclaires and tonight spice cakes as Jules forges her way through thirty year old cookbooks in an attempt to nest the heck out of our corner of the world. As for me, I valiantly assist her by eating. (Well, someone's gotta clean them up, my friends. Bodies on the highway, law and order upsidedown. Someone's gotta collect them odds and ends...as a service to the town!)

I did a few haikus the other day which came out tolerably well. It's been forever since I've written poetry. Midterms not this week but next and so we all know what I'll be writing up this week. (Too bad it's not my usual curriculum - honestly, just once, I'd like to use a test I used the previous year. Is it really too much to ask? Ah ca. Keeps me on my toes.)

Otherwise, the conditioner that comes with hair dye is still hands down the best. Wonder why? Ah, sweet mystery of life, at last I found you!

Mood: Warmish - meaning, the temp's up down here
Music: The Green World by Dar Williams just ended...hmmmm, must peruse entirely too large collection (ETLC - what a bad acronym!)
Thought: I still don't quite get the Zeal of Phineas.

Oh, Thank God

Rehearsal went well. Really well.

*cue hand to head and dramatic fainting to the floor*

Mood: Not quite tired enough to go easily to sleep
Music: The very, very end of LOTR:ROTK director's commentary track. (Yes, folks, I've listened to both the directors and the cast commentary tracks for ALL FOUR HOURS TWICE. Stop shaking your head.)
Thoughts: Oooooh, I am soooooo looking forward to teaching morality next semester! Yaaay for philosophy and theology and logic! Fides et ratio forever!

Ring Out the Old

Ring in the New!

Just a few thoughts (ah, Pascal! See what thou hast wrought!) before I attack this particular corner of the room and return it to its original cleanlieriness.

Despite my protests, I was made to take communion to Patty and my mother, who were both sick. I say protests because I am not a Eucharistic minister - mostly because I've always felt that I ought not be. But, since Mom and Patty were obviously unable to go themselves, and since Dad was at work, I took the pyx, received at communion and then held out the pyx, put up two fingers, received two hosts into the pyx, and then returned to my seat. I have no idea what the protocol is with the pyx - could I have simply put Him to the side? I felt so utterly wretched (and yet, consoled), so aware that "Oh, Lord, I am not worthy" and yet equally aware that "only say the Word and I shall be healed," that in not knowing what to do, I simply held Him in the pyx for the remainder of the Mass.

What an awesome way to begin the New Year. I was so humbled to think that my hands (thankfully clean - although I did entertain thoughts of running to the sacristy and cleaning them over and over again as though that would erase any venial sins itself) became a little throne for my God. What amazement to think that I held the Christ-child so near to His birth - on the very day of His circumcision! It was such a sweet thing to be given Him without my need to consume Him - to have a little tabernacle in my lap. I was reminded of my dream-home: to have an orphanage with a chapel within it, with 24-hour adoration within my own home.

Curiously, tomorrow - Epiphany! - I shall have to do the same, because Mom and Patty are still not well (duh). I am rethinking whether I am meant to be an extraordinary minister of the Eucharist or not. I shall have to speak with Fr. Mike or Fr. Jonathan about it. But I was struck with a similar "Bellwether" moment as I drove to Patty's and I should not be surprised to find that all my protests were for naught.

Last night (long after I blogged), inbetween watching Willy Wonka and It's a Wonderful Life with the family (I skipped out on Young Frankenstein later on to finish watching the LOTR:ROTK appendices), I slipped downstairs to my bed and grabbed up the Shadow, the teddy that my Bearskin cast gave me and which has remained one of my delights. I grabbed up the Shadow and knelt beside my bed and rested my head on the Shadow and just started praying and praying. I prayed so much last night - during the movies - constantly, it felt like - for my special intentions. They kept weighing on my mind so that I felt I could not stop praying lest - I have no idea. How can the infantry know the shape of the actual battle? But I was concerned to the heart of me and so kept praying. "Lord, bless...Lord, bless...Lord, bless...." Down on my knees, gripping this silly bear. I ran out of things to say, and so I went into tongues - it sounded Portugesish - and then into singing in tongues - and at the end, I distinctly understood: "Gendarme, courage, gendarme." My heart was stilled and I was able to spend the rest of the evening only holding the prayer in my heart without the unknowing anxiety of that prayer. So, once again, Lord, bless...amen.

Had a visit with MJ today, which was very nice, and then dragged Jules out to scope out the arcade at the mall for a future thingummy and then to Best Buy to get some free advice on my lastest computer snafu (the NEW external harddrive is being an idiot - aaaaaaaaaaaaugh!), and then to Lazer Zone to look at that arcade but it's closed on Mondays so that's no good, and then back home where I took a nap and then played two games of the new LOTR:ROTK (are we sensing a pattern here, folks?) with Peter, where he won both times - but I got to play Faramir so nyah. I took out the Disney Songbook and played some silly songs from that (cathartic note: when in sadness or any form of mehness play "A Pirate's Life For Me"!), turned over the laundry, finished Creed or Chaos by Dorothy Sayers and delved back into The Abolition of Man by Lewis.

I am in such a mood for theology! Fwah! Curious thought: theological privateers - swashbuckling our way against the piratical neo-philosophers and their existential nonsense! Fwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

It seems so extraordinary to return to school on Monday. It seems so...unlikely. For some strange reason, this break has felt not like a mere two weeks but like a lifetime. Am I a teacher? Has this been my life for several years now? Is this my work? Long talks with Julie come to mind and we are slipping into that second journal once again. It'll all flow back into its rightful place come homeroom, and settle into its usual formality come first period. But oh - for a time - I believed.

Today was utterly glorious outside. I nearly believed it was Spring. (I know the seasons oughtn't be capitalized - but that's one bit of grammar that is utterly wrong. Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter - these are all proper nouns, these are great titans that deserve their proud uppercases!) Once again, I wanted to be questing. Where was my cape? My boots? My satchel and my fellowship? Of course, I know that five minutes in I'd be complaining - but the romance of a quest is still within my blood. It is Spring and there are glories to be won! Oh, I need to get myself back into a Twelve Kingdoms mode - I am not there yet. And we tangent...

...and tangent...

...and tangent.

And my corner is still undone and I shall be undone and there we are.

Mood: Unpinnable
Music: "Bring Him Home" from Les Mis...huh. But very soon it will be the cast commentary from...shall we guess which movie?...whilst I clean said corner.
Thought: Ah! For a hobbit-hole!