Tuesdays are forever

I got one of my religion papers back today. I've written five so far. They are about movies and church services. None of them had any comments on them except this last one, which he apparently liked and found very interesting. Unfortunately, it was the only one I pulled almost entirely out of my ass. I'm glad he liked it. I suppose my fictional account of a visit to a religious ceremony was just more interesting than any factual experiences I was bound to have going to a church. Granted, I have tons of amusing church stories from growing up as a pastor's daughter, but those don't lend themselves well to this assignment. So I just made up stuff. It's not lying, but rather, giving them what they want...an interesting story that could happen, but most certainly didn't.

My English midterm I did well on, too, which is strange. I thought it was boring, trite, and half-assed. But apparently it's original, complex, and interesting. School really does throw me off... I've absolutely no idea what's good or bad. I write things I think are awful (and probably are) and then they're just fine. I'm ever so confused, having no guages of just how dreadful or good any of it really is. Why did I pick such a subjective marjor?* Because it's all I know how to do...

The usb cable cord thingy I had here is not the right size. The one I bought at school wasn't either. That's okay though. I'll find one that fits my precious camera eventually. I'll probably name it, too. Inanimate objects are better with names, especially when they perform specific useful and fun functions. It's like naming a pipe or a vibrator or your computer.

Today in Russian, I learned how to say something is no good... as in... "this store doesn't have shit" or "that's fucking useless," except to convey this lack or disparity one uses the Russian word for the male sexual organ. I find this amusing. Also the word for a blank or a bullet that fails to fire is the same as the word for bachelor. It is, of course, no coincidence.

I've been an abysmal person as of late. I feel horribly dull and am sadder than Pete Rose in his prison without bars. I don't feel as though I belong anywhere. It's very silly, I'm sure. And melodramatic. But one should not be uncomfortable in one's own life. Blah.

I enjoyed a very good movie last night, L'Avventura. I suggest it to whoever likes movies, but not someone looking to be entertained for two hours. It probably doesn't work that way for most people. But it really is beautiful and very much worth seeing. I am sure I shall watch it again sometime. One of those films that kinda floors you. So much dead time. So different. Eye candy galore. Not just scenery either-- Monica Vitti is super hot! Maybe I just identify too much with the unexplainable nature of events and individual actions. I also like breaking things down into their little constituent elements, and here's one whole film that does just that. A bit hard to describe really... I have heard it described as being as boring as watching paint dry, but I don't think that's very fair. Not at all.

*See that's funny cause I'm Marjie.

Teeth in the necks of everyone you know

I've been having dreams about:

non-verbal communication
loneliness
the library
an italian restaurant
politics (congress, specifically)

dreams soundtrack:

breathe- seven channels
let go- frou frou
no you don't - nine inch nails
cooling - tori amos

I do not like this. In fact, I find it disturbing. Especially when I wake up and go back to sleep and begin right where I left off. My subsconcious and subtlety hate eachother, I think.

I want so much to believe

Celebrated Stever's birthday.
Did lots of laundry.
Reformatted.
Watched Little Buddha. Keanu was dreadful.
In the middle of Touch of Evil
I love Orson Welles. Unicron! Harry Lime! Quinlin!
Strange and sad.

Life is short. Life is shit. And soon it will be over.

Happy Birthday to Stever!

<3 <3 <3

Wrecked solitary here

The first thing I did upon moving into this house was remove the stuffed pheasant I think it was, from the wooden shelf by the upper windows. Not a big fan of taxidermy. I hated the stuffed bear in the big glass case in high school. So very unnecessary. Rawr. I say this all because I was thinking about Norman Bates's house. It would be a neat house to live in, provided there was no dead mother in the basement.

It's probably a good thing I have no children. I would tell them things like, "Whenever you cry, god takes each tear and puts it into a giant pool where he drowns kittens and puppies and fwuffy widdle bunny wabbits."

I'm wearing a black shirt under a dark blue ATHF shirt. I feel like a giant bruise.

Time to stop reading about Calvinism and go to Russian class. Le sigh.

From the house down the road-- from Real Love

The CD-R stack gets lower and lower (I just finished Pet Shop Boys - Primus, so I am getting farther). I bought another spindle this afternoon when out buying The American by the illustrious Henry James. I also bought Y: The Last Man Vol. 2, but unfortunately, that sort of thing takes a good deal less time to read than regular books. I like the artwork, but I'm far more likely to return to look at it after reading the whole story than to stop and prolong the suspense to evaluate the illustrations. Maybe I don't trust my eyes. I need the words.

Finished Prince - Psychedelic Furs. Moving on to Quasi - Rage Against the Machine. Music will be finished tomorrow. Then I can make up a paper for religion class. I didn't go to a service, so I'll have to fabricate one, but I'm sure it'll all be well. I've been to more services than you can shake a stick at. For reals, yo. Also: proficiency with Power Point and transparencies. Heh. Ergh.

I've met millionaires, but not billionaires. Basketball reminded me of this. It's hardly a deficiency though. Just a random fact.

Rainer Maria - Rasputina takes up an entire CD. Lots of Rainer Maria, I guess. It certainly isn't the Rammstein. Now I'm on Rathergood - REM.

I fear ideas matter more to me than specifics. Maybe they don't. But I'm not sure. Perhaps I was meant to be an editor. Oh god!

Next tattoo: a quote from Milton. ETA: Whenever my tax returns are processed.

I hear him in my head. Not Milton. I never hear him, despite Paradise this and that...
No, I hear him. "Very good, Grasshopper," and, "How'd you get so funny, Miss Porridge," when I would suggest he go turn in beer bottles and buy into a stud game. God, I'm an asshole. I know how sparks and fuel and rods work. I could recognize Caughlin's white Pinto in my sleep. I used to do a good impression of him. I used to have a plaque. First in import races. Eli, eli, lama sabacthani?

"Tiny as an atom
gigantic as a star
I have put you in perspective
for the perfect that you are
In the center,
You are in the center of the universe.
Don't let's ruin a good thing
The ache will ease the ache...." -The Endless

I asked Neil what his fondest wish was. He said, "To stay healthy, get married, grow old, and enjoy the ride." I said those were good aspirations. And they are. More than enough, I think.

I didn't say all the things that I wanted to say

"Yes, it's hard to write, but it's harder not to." - Carl Van Doren

There's a reason for that

Finished Persepolis a few days ago and Sexy Chix yesterday. Last night I read Alice's Adventures in Wonderland while backing up my music. All evening spent on this music business, and I still am only to the E's. I have a good deal of music, and I also have the slowest cd burner in the world. No, that's no hyperbole, comrades. It's ancient. I'll run out of cds soon. Sometimes it fucks up and doesn't even burn them right. Blah. It must be done though. I want to get rid of everything. An entirely clean slate, not just the C drive. Reformat. Return to the vast intraweb and my lame writings with renewed fervor. Hah. Ahem.

I feel only half ready for my Russian midterm on Monday and even less ready for the ENG208 one on Tuesday. And about equal for the ENG254 one. I picked up scholarship applications, but unfortunately I need reccommendations, so I'll have to ask people who barely know me from Adam to do it. I haven't been in school long enough to really know many professors. And even if I had, I haven't the slightest idea what they would think of me.

I watched Wonder Boys last night to cheer me.

Traxler: Say, Professor Tripp, is all that stuff true about Errol Flynn? How he used to put paprika... on his dick... to make it, you know, like... more stimulating... for the chick?
Grady Tripp: Christ, Traxler, how the hell should *I* know?
Traxler: [gesturing to James Leer's rucksack that Tripp is holding] You're reading his biography, aren't you?
Grady Tripp: Oh. No, it's true. He used to rub all sorts of things on it. Salad dressing... ground lamb...
Traxler: Sick!

Planet Earth is blue and there's nothing I can do

Finished The Portrait of a Lady yesterday. Damn good book.
Books are so versatile. I enjoyed this one for entirely different reasons than I enjoyed say, Dracula or In Cold Blood. Books delight me.
Started Persepolis today. Also, Sexy Chix came in the mail. It's next.
No contacts. I am on my last pair.
Watched High Noon and The Searchers this evening.
Mailed my taxes this afternoon. Did my renewal FAFSA.
I feel a slight tinge of sadness when I mark the 0 in the "Total Net Worth" box. I want to be worth something!
I am "independent" it says. I'm your lover. I'm your zero. I'm the face in your dreams of glass.

Nothing

Black sweater. Dry hands. A flurry of worries. The cold of memory. I leave it to you. You leave it to god. God leaves us to ourselves, attention diverted to kill a woman who wanted but a single glance. You sit and tell stories. I wait for you to say something real. Melatonin. Conflagration. You're making love to your drum machine. 9 colon 15. Tunguska swept people off their feet. June. Siberia. Two months later, Churchill is a druid. You call it providential. I call it random. Coffee pot. Wounded hunters. I'm game, if you are. No lamps. No golden doors. The desert. Olan. The way things ought to be. The way things are. The trench you've dug in between. It's not the Germans you're fighting. Parados and parapet. Minotaur and minuet. Legal rights. Mortal debts. The first. The last. The worst. The best.

Indeed

Miss Marjie -- [noun]: A human transformer (Robot in disguise) 'How will you be defined in the dictionary?' at QuizGalaxy.com

Potato flake ocean

Last night we watched Bubble (new Soderbergh), The Player (old Altman), and Ong-Bak: The Thai Warrior. We went to three different places before we finally found Bubble at the fourth, and last, stop (which should have been our first). I think some rental places aren't down with the simultaneous theater/dvd release thing. Mark Cuban is though! I love movies. They are time well spent on my part. I've also been watching parts of zee Olympics. It's a very visual weekend.

Like everyone else online, I find it very amusing that the vice president shot a man. Hunting? Right now? You would think he would have better things to do.

Kak koshmar!

I fucked up my religion midterm. It was quite a bit more comprehensive and random than I expected. I mixed up Otto and Kant and Whitehead, but that's easy to do when you didn't learn anything about them in class, but rather, just had a list of 20 quotes which you read once four weeks ago. Ah fuck. I dunno. Blah. I feel rather out of it in regards to school this term. Not really connected. It's not that I don't care, I just feel like a flatline in regards to everything. Slightly wavering from time to time, but overall, no real feeling. Numb. "She thinks she has no soul, no interior life, but the truth is that she has no access to it." Thank you, Mr. David Denby. Poke me with a pin, my dears. Let's see if I bleed antifreeze.

Finished Kellan's book last night. I'm duly impressed, considering just how hard it is to write that much. I am thinking many things in regards to it, but this isn't the forum for that kind of rambling. I'll probably churn out a giant email later. If there's one thing I'm useful for, it's giant emails, combatting the belief that email is for short, succinct snippets of information. To me, those only convey a need for more discussion. Not everything can be crammed into two sentences and some initials thrown at the bottom.

I would have finished it earlier this week, but I was busy with midterms and falling head over heels in love with Henry James. I have a fondness for writing which brings to life interiority so well. I know many people find Henry James to be dull and perhaps a bit prone to prolixity, but I find it all very charming. Quotable and comforting.

Stever's birthday is the 25th. I have bought one of his gifts and sent away for a few others. Thirty Helens agree, good girlfriends get things down in advance! I have no car, so I had to walk a ways yesterday, but it turned out quite well, and exercise is something one should not shy away from. Of course, I almost always do, but I know I shouldn't. If I were healthier, perhaps I would not be the size of a small elephant. Mmm. Then again, maybe not. It's been quite sunny the last few days, so walking is more pleasant than in the not-quite-bitter cold. I find it a bit amusing to watch the news and see the blizzards developing over in the East.

Scarah is moving to NYC on the 19th apparently. There seem to be so few places in the world where she actually enjoys being; I suppose it's best if she goes somewhere she likes. She is not overly fond of Oregon. Or even remotely fond... I admit, I don't see the fun in NY, but many do. Let's hope she doesn't turn into one of those rude NY people who are scornful towards the rest of the world. ;) Way out there beyond this hick town, Barnaby... There's a slick town, Barnaby!

This weekend, I need to watch and then write a paper about The Exorcist for religion class. I need to watch The Searchers and High Noon for film class. I also need to do my taxes, listen to some Russian Razgavori, and write a lil bit for English.

I am disappointed to find that my contacts did not come in the mail. Nor did my Sexy Chix book. Patience.

They look like white elephants

One of the great injustices of life: Nobody ever wants to play Scattergories with me.
I want to play Scattergories with Dorothy Parker.
Earlier today I watched The Bicycle Thief. It was even sadder than Open City. And in that one a pregnant woman gets shot! So you can imagine... This one was wrought with strife! Bicycle thievery! Shame! Fucking heart wrenching.
If Gerald ever visits we are going to crucify him. It's the least we can do. My name is synonymous with hospitality.
Are escalators second nature to you? They're not to me. Nor to Eugene Tooms.
Click. "Romance Blooms between indoor and outdoor garden gnomes."
I have a midterm tomorrow. Oh, today I guess. In 12 hours and 3 minutes. Well, less than that now. But that is how time works...

And he can see no reasons cause there are no reasons

So yeah. I didn't realize Kiera Knightly was Sabé, the queen's decoy. Now Star Wars seems even more foreign to me. You can sleep easy at night, knowing that if ever anyone asks you that oh-so-likely-to-be-asked question, "What do Bend It Like Beckham and The Phantom Menace have in common," you'll be prepared to answer forthwith.

These are just splendid. Take a look.

I am going to bed early tonight. Long day. English classes are so boring. Today in Russian I learned how to say Tetris addict and how to apologize. Also from this past week, "to fail" and "No, I'm not getting married." We learn the most useful things. We learned differen't places one could be pained the other day and "I am going to barf." I am sure all of these things will come in handy if ever I go to Russia. I would like to. It seems the thing to do.

The entry of useless information

School school school. I'm cooking green bean casserole. I just watched Open City. It's Italian Neo-Realism week. Next up: The Bicycle Thief. Went to Matt's Cavalcade of Comics today looking for Evas. Action figures and graphic novels cheers one up sometimes. I read a good story today. "Miss Grief" by Constance Fenimore Woolson. Doesn't her name sound so decorous? I like it a great deal. I never got to The Bicycle Thief. Instead, I watched An Evening with Matthew McConaughey (also called Amistad). Finished reading The Divine Comedy. My hair is very fraggly after being pinned down all day. In the next two weeks, I have four midterms. Hopefully I can feign intelligence as well as I feign ignorance. I am very glad the Steelers won the Super Bowl. I've gotten used to waking up and lifting my head to see cardboard standup Data in the hallway near the door. I would be more surprised now if there were not a pale face in my line of sight upon waking. I would like to go to the Monastery of Snagov Church near Bucharest.

Nothing of consequence

I love when Ad-Aware is scanning my computer and it says wonderful things like, "Scanning for possible hijack attempts" and "Deep scanning files on C." It's like being in a high-tech submarine. I can almost hear Sean Connery's beguiling Scottish brogue, "A great day, comrades, we sail into history!" I suppose it is an historical day in the NFL. The sixth seed is in the Super Bowl. I spent a good deal of the day not doing much of anything. Oh, I thought a great deal about sincere imitations and parodies, all to no avail. I read about 40 pages of The Portrait of a Lady, hoping to find some inspiration, and although it was frightfully interesting, as usual, it was also lacking, or I was lacking. I couldn't really say which. The fact is, I am uncertain. I am part of the problem, not the solution. God's in his heaven, all's right with the world.

From real love

It's three in the morning. We watched The Aristocrats after having spent the evening out drinking. I rarely go to bars, but I made an exception so as to see zee ol' Bukowski fan. Now I'm having Soup At Hand. I miss their pizza flavor. I'm having tomato. And a bottle of water. Quite often interaction with friends involves drinking. Water is a must.

A guy at the bar tried to give me weed as I was walking inside. It was odd. I'm used to people trying to talk to me, but more often than not, they're not interested in giving me tiny bits of drugs. Just strange. Funky Oregon. ;) Maybe I look like someone who smokes.

"What?
Cause I been in the lab
with a pen and a pad
trying to get this damn label off?"

demagogue42: dancing dead girl is hot
gerundy: oh you betcha.

Gerald. He is probably my best internet friend. Although I've met him in real life a time or two, our communication is primarily over the internet, and he is full of useful advice and of humorous affect. I'm indebted to him. He's a prophet. :) We share music. Because we are cool. Cooler than god on a fig leaf. And how cool is that? Pretty fucking cool.

My hands are very dry. I feel like a dinosaur.

I've dated the Stever for 2 and a half years. Yes, that's a record for me. Not that it's hard to do. Just surprising anyone puts up with me for so long. Especially considering he's been living with me since we started dating, and in rather close quarters.

Vote or die!

Walt Whitman
"Walt Whitman died a lonely man in Walt Disney Land. He was on the gondola ride, and he fell out because he wasn't fastened properly to the restraint. Thanks to his dumb ass, now none of us can ride it anymore. Thanks a lot Walt Whitman."

When I read books, I often think of what the authors looked like writing them. Nowadays people sit at computers. But back in the day, that's not how it went. No sirree, no crummy Macs or dude, you're getting a Dells! No, there were typewriters, and before that, hands. So I think of Emily Dickinson (the big blue ox) sitting in some dark room in Amhurst, depressed as all hell, in her drab recluse wardrobe, pen in hand, unknowingly putting together her posthumous fame, ink curling the enges of the pages and staining her miserable fingers. I have quite a good imagination for this sort of thing. I'm fairly useless in many respects, but at least I can entertain myself. I don't often feel like thinking about what Walt Whitman would have looked like or been doing while writing. Dangerous territory there! Incidentally, on Emily Dickinson's gravestone, instead of saying when she was born and died, it says when she was born and when she was "called back." Thanks, findagrave.com! Stephen King is probably the easiest to imagine writing. The King of pop fiction. But good. Fancy the two of those together! I suppose it's easier to imagine someone who managed to define an entire genre. Like Zane Grey or, on the annoying side, Jack Canfield or Sylvia Brown. Perhaps they cackle in delight when they write. Nah, Jack Canfield probably cries at just how many precious stories he's received. And oh look, this one from 9 year old Tommy in Florida is tear stained and has a picture of a happy moose! Maybe they eat blueberry muffins. Fuel for the creative process. We may never know.

Alejate, no puedo más

I read about 30 pages of Kellan's book tonight. I am a horrible person. I should have read it long ago. But at least I'm doing it now. I'll finish it by Monday. Redemption! I am also drinking a beer before bedtime (maybe it's all that drinking and smoking in the story... influencing my oh-so-impressionable mind. hehe). Actually, I am hoping not to wake up all night long. A penchant for unrealistic goals. Mmm. Tomorrow is Friday. And the Super Bowl is on Sunday. By Monday, I need to write a parody or serious imitation of either Twain, Whitman, or James. I feel somewhat inadequate to the task. Like putting on giant clown shoes while wearing normal clothing... or (if I'm stuck on clowns here) face painting with no hands, but rather, a hook. Certainly, it sounds like a god awful lot of fun to have a bright shiny new hook, but practically speaking, it's not the best. Off I go... tilting at windmills.