Scene: Outside the Latin classroom, 2:20 pm, after class. Both characters carrying books. John is a 72-year old man with white hair and a red jacket, who generally has a cynical but happy twinkle in his eyes. He speaks with a British accent. He moves slowly, but fast for his age. Leah is a 20-year-old woman, a coat over one arm, slightly dirty hair and quirky glasses, a bright pink shirt layered over a purple one. She is friendly, demonstrating her friendship with John.
Leah: Well, John, how's life treating you?
John [with bemused chuckle]: Not often enough!
Ed. note: John has returned to formal education after a life-long career spanning turns as a hospital administrator, bus driver, and devoted husband, father and grandfather. After beating cancer, he decided what he wanted to do was return to school and study philosophy, Latin and history. He takes razzing from us younger "Latinites" whenever the word "senex" comes up in a translation, but he usually beats us all in both wit and wisdom.
Monday, February 28, 2005
Saturday, February 26, 2005
rouge d'hiver vs. butterhead
Today I was a volunteer Silent Auction coordinator for the Acorn conference, Acorn being the Atlantic Canadian Organic Regional Network. It was being held up at the Fredericton Inn, a throwback to the 70's, situated between the Regent Street mall (busy on a Saturday, the parking lot full of the beetle-backs of cars in the sun) and the highway (salt-stained and windy in the winter). I was there for 8 hours, from 9 until 5, a full workday.
In the conference room, and with the help of a few other people, I arranged items, filled out forms, set up the silent auction, oversaw people writing bids, announced the winners, and collected money. I also sat in on seminars, the best being "Organic Greens and Salad Mix Production" with David Greenberg, a Jewish man in a light green button-up shirt who spoke passionately about the merits of rouge d'hiver ("the best tasting lettuce I know of!") and butterhead lettuce ("not lofty but a good taste"). Arugula is a "mortgage lifter", apparently, with junkies showing up at his farm for their salad green fixes.
There was a trade show, and organic beer being served, with organic chips and salsa. Short, accented men with long grey beards and interesting fashion choices milled about, along with young men and women holding hands or babies, and "regular" looking middle-aged people. There was one woman looking glamorous and out of place in a luxurious fur coat. Most everyone smiled and talked, made connections and told stories. After I was done, I collected the three African Violets I'd bought and caught a cab home. The cab driver was a stock car racer who used to sell shrubs at a local nursury. As the local country station twanged quietly, he told me, "Did you know that the dwarf burning bush is the only shrub with square twigs?"
No, I did not. You learn something new every day. He also told me that driving stock cars is his habit, not smoke or drink, and that everyone needs a habit to take the edge of. "Mine's Vogue magazine," I said. "Exactly," he said.
Now I'm home, enjoying Saturday evening, planning to study, listening to Leonard Cohen's Ten New Songs on a relatively loud volume. You have to, to get the full effect of his voice: like aural velvet scraped over gravel. I'll leave you with some lyrics. Oh, Leonard. No wonder you got all the ladies!
In the conference room, and with the help of a few other people, I arranged items, filled out forms, set up the silent auction, oversaw people writing bids, announced the winners, and collected money. I also sat in on seminars, the best being "Organic Greens and Salad Mix Production" with David Greenberg, a Jewish man in a light green button-up shirt who spoke passionately about the merits of rouge d'hiver ("the best tasting lettuce I know of!") and butterhead lettuce ("not lofty but a good taste"). Arugula is a "mortgage lifter", apparently, with junkies showing up at his farm for their salad green fixes.
There was a trade show, and organic beer being served, with organic chips and salsa. Short, accented men with long grey beards and interesting fashion choices milled about, along with young men and women holding hands or babies, and "regular" looking middle-aged people. There was one woman looking glamorous and out of place in a luxurious fur coat. Most everyone smiled and talked, made connections and told stories. After I was done, I collected the three African Violets I'd bought and caught a cab home. The cab driver was a stock car racer who used to sell shrubs at a local nursury. As the local country station twanged quietly, he told me, "Did you know that the dwarf burning bush is the only shrub with square twigs?"
No, I did not. You learn something new every day. He also told me that driving stock cars is his habit, not smoke or drink, and that everyone needs a habit to take the edge of. "Mine's Vogue magazine," I said. "Exactly," he said.
Now I'm home, enjoying Saturday evening, planning to study, listening to Leonard Cohen's Ten New Songs on a relatively loud volume. You have to, to get the full effect of his voice: like aural velvet scraped over gravel. I'll leave you with some lyrics. Oh, Leonard. No wonder you got all the ladies!
May everyone live,
and may everyone die.
Hello, my love,
and my love, Goodbye.
--From "Here it is", on Ten New Songs, 2001, L. Cohen.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
on the art of passing the time
I forgot to mention this in December, when the real anniversary was, but huminbean is now officially two years old! Actually, it’s more like 2 years and 2 months now, but the fact remains: I’ve been at this for two years, this tapping out of ideas and ramblings, and posting them on the web for all to see. (All being those who I invite or all who stumble across it.) Two years! It seems like a snap of the fingers. It began as most blogs do, just another place to express myself and to also be watched and read by others, a sort of exhibitionist diary. It also doubled as an easy way to stay in touch with those at home, as I was out in BC doing the whole ‘ski bum’ thing, only without the skis.
This function grew to be more integral when I left BC to travel home, making email a bit harder. I went through San Francisco and then back to the East Coast, making stops in Montreal, the Laurentians, New York City, and New Hampshire before returning back to ol’ Cape Breton for a summer. Then, from the ‘ghetto shack’, I issued stories of the little green isle in the summertime, stopping to wipe the potter’s clay off my fingers before approaching the keyboard. Most of the time.
Then little bean went off to Australia! Jacky Mills accompanied me, and that’s when the blog was really useful, as a way to convery information to people at home and others I’d met along the way. Then another summer spent as the pottery doyenne, and now here I am, a university student.
The point of all this is that I was thinking this morning about New Zealand, and how far away being there seems, and this afternoon I was singing a Bonnie Raitt song to myself as I walked home. The lyrics to the song go:
The thing about time is, the cliches are all true. It really waits for no man, and it flies. Where we are right now (doing a quick survey, I see that it is 4:23, I’ve just eaten a tuna sandwich, it is sunny outside, and I’m in Fredericton, which is under a layer of snow and cold air) quickly turns into the past—but how? What subtle mechanism is turning, what quiet cogs are making it all happen? Most of the time you don’t notice it, and take it as a given. Sometimes it’s happening too slow, or too fast. (Think of vacations, or waiting for 5’o’clock to leave work.) But to place a limit on it like that, deciding that it isn’t the right speed, that it is displeasing somehow, instead of noticing it taking its own time, is to limit ourselves in how we think of the moment.
After spending a lot of my life puzzling over the ‘quiet cogs’, I’ve decided that I think time passing and moments gliding into one another is to human beings what a dripping faucet is to a cat. It’s one of those things that we will forever watch, scrutinize, as if by watching so closely we could discern what makes it work, or even get ahead of it somehow. But each new drop puzzles us just as much as the last. This is why I think developing the art of watching time and using time is important: since we can’t do anything about the passing of it (save for a few physicists who might someday see the ‘man behind the curtain’, or better yet, develop a time machine, though I’m not holding my breath) we might as well use it to our advantage.
I’m not saying all the philosophical discussions are without worth, and I’m not saying it’s fruitless to try and bend your mind around time—watch the faucet, as it were. On the contrary—mind bending is as necessary as yoga or fresh air. What I’m saying is that it is worth just as much to be able to notice the smallest increment of time that you can, to still your mind’s turning and look around as though this moment is a tableau—what is here? what is happening? what are the colors, the smells, the motivations behind everyone in the room? who knows? The point is that this is where you are, and soon it will be gone.
The other delightful thing that is true about this moment, not to get all Jon Kabat-Zinn on you folks, is that it’s when the action happens. It’s when you have the ability to walk up to the cute stranger, or to write the paper you’ve been mulling over, or to cook that stew, or to walk in the park… if I were to list all the possibilities of right now, I’d be sitting here for another two years, and then some. The point is, is that right now is when it all happens. Therefore, we have nothing to lose by treating each moment like a ripe fruit, a gift, a lesson. And yes, I know Pema Chödrön’s voice is all over these words, but it’s up to us to determine what the moment is teaching.
So, yes...how I’ve been spending my days of late: on schoolwork (delightful and challenging, boring and beautiful, all at once), at parties (there was one on the weekend where we all wore blank tee shirts and wrote on one another with Sharpies—grand fun!), getting enough sleep (I tell you, nothing feels more like splurging than getting an extra hour, mm hmm!) and watching Fredericton in February. The little kids love Odell Park this time of year, with all its icy slopes, and you have to dodge them on Krazy Karpets, careening down, in order to walk safely there. The days are getting longer, which is wonderful for early morning classes, and for the afternoons. Soon it will be spring! The desire I feel for this new season is primal.
There is also the tentative news that I will be back for the 5th season of pottery-shop-manager-cum-apprentice. Look for a smudged and messy-haired girl on the Cabot Trail! For now, though, Latin homework calls. Tempus fugit!
And so, valete.
This function grew to be more integral when I left BC to travel home, making email a bit harder. I went through San Francisco and then back to the East Coast, making stops in Montreal, the Laurentians, New York City, and New Hampshire before returning back to ol’ Cape Breton for a summer. Then, from the ‘ghetto shack’, I issued stories of the little green isle in the summertime, stopping to wipe the potter’s clay off my fingers before approaching the keyboard. Most of the time.
Then little bean went off to Australia! Jacky Mills accompanied me, and that’s when the blog was really useful, as a way to convery information to people at home and others I’d met along the way. Then another summer spent as the pottery doyenne, and now here I am, a university student.
The point of all this is that I was thinking this morning about New Zealand, and how far away being there seems, and this afternoon I was singing a Bonnie Raitt song to myself as I walked home. The lyrics to the song go:
And I thought, you know, years really do that, don’t they? I’m only 20 yet, and it seems like a broken down dam…yeesh! And I haven’t even ‘had me’ a cowboy yet…“When I was a young girl/I had me a cowboy/he wasn’t much to look at/but he was a free-ramblin’ man/But that was a long time [ago]/and now matter how I try/the years are just rollin’ by/ like a broken down dam.”
(lyrics, John Prine.)
The thing about time is, the cliches are all true. It really waits for no man, and it flies. Where we are right now (doing a quick survey, I see that it is 4:23, I’ve just eaten a tuna sandwich, it is sunny outside, and I’m in Fredericton, which is under a layer of snow and cold air) quickly turns into the past—but how? What subtle mechanism is turning, what quiet cogs are making it all happen? Most of the time you don’t notice it, and take it as a given. Sometimes it’s happening too slow, or too fast. (Think of vacations, or waiting for 5’o’clock to leave work.) But to place a limit on it like that, deciding that it isn’t the right speed, that it is displeasing somehow, instead of noticing it taking its own time, is to limit ourselves in how we think of the moment.
After spending a lot of my life puzzling over the ‘quiet cogs’, I’ve decided that I think time passing and moments gliding into one another is to human beings what a dripping faucet is to a cat. It’s one of those things that we will forever watch, scrutinize, as if by watching so closely we could discern what makes it work, or even get ahead of it somehow. But each new drop puzzles us just as much as the last. This is why I think developing the art of watching time and using time is important: since we can’t do anything about the passing of it (save for a few physicists who might someday see the ‘man behind the curtain’, or better yet, develop a time machine, though I’m not holding my breath) we might as well use it to our advantage.
I’m not saying all the philosophical discussions are without worth, and I’m not saying it’s fruitless to try and bend your mind around time—watch the faucet, as it were. On the contrary—mind bending is as necessary as yoga or fresh air. What I’m saying is that it is worth just as much to be able to notice the smallest increment of time that you can, to still your mind’s turning and look around as though this moment is a tableau—what is here? what is happening? what are the colors, the smells, the motivations behind everyone in the room? who knows? The point is that this is where you are, and soon it will be gone.
The other delightful thing that is true about this moment, not to get all Jon Kabat-Zinn on you folks, is that it’s when the action happens. It’s when you have the ability to walk up to the cute stranger, or to write the paper you’ve been mulling over, or to cook that stew, or to walk in the park… if I were to list all the possibilities of right now, I’d be sitting here for another two years, and then some. The point is, is that right now is when it all happens. Therefore, we have nothing to lose by treating each moment like a ripe fruit, a gift, a lesson. And yes, I know Pema Chödrön’s voice is all over these words, but it’s up to us to determine what the moment is teaching.
So, yes...how I’ve been spending my days of late: on schoolwork (delightful and challenging, boring and beautiful, all at once), at parties (there was one on the weekend where we all wore blank tee shirts and wrote on one another with Sharpies—grand fun!), getting enough sleep (I tell you, nothing feels more like splurging than getting an extra hour, mm hmm!) and watching Fredericton in February. The little kids love Odell Park this time of year, with all its icy slopes, and you have to dodge them on Krazy Karpets, careening down, in order to walk safely there. The days are getting longer, which is wonderful for early morning classes, and for the afternoons. Soon it will be spring! The desire I feel for this new season is primal.
There is also the tentative news that I will be back for the 5th season of pottery-shop-manager-cum-apprentice. Look for a smudged and messy-haired girl on the Cabot Trail! For now, though, Latin homework calls. Tempus fugit!
And so, valete.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
what lions? i didn't see any lions
Sun's up, uh huh, looks okay
The world survives into another day
And I'm thinking about eternity
Some kind of ecstasy got a hold on me
I had another dream about lions at the door
They weren't half as frightening as they were before
But I'm thinking about eternity
Some kind of ecstasy got a hold on me...
Seriously, that song takes me back to about... six years old, Mat and I making mud pies on a warm June afternoon, when there are still pockets of cool snow under shady spruces. We're of course in our bare feet (how else can you experience the joy of being alive?) and dipping toes in the icy creek every now and then. When we go in for lunch the house is too dark at first to see anything, because our little eyes are accustomed to the brightness of the sun. Bruce Cockburn is a Canadian genius, I don't care what anybody says.
"Walls windows trees, waves coming through/You be in me and I'll be in you/Together in eternity/Some kind of ecstasy got a hold on me..."
Today the roads were slick with a 2 mm-thin layer of black ice. Walking to school was thus treacherous, with high winds to boot. By the time I got to Valleyview, within sight of the steeple of George Martin Hall, I was sliding sideways. You'd be surprised how my big, bad SUV boots don't have grip on ice! So I retreated to the less-iced sidewalks, where I met a similarly-rerouted young Indian man named "Jai", who told me about India and his previous life in Newfoundland, while we walked the length of the block. Then we parted ways, he down to UNB and me up to STU, where I was exactly on time for English class at 8:30.
"Up among the firs where it smells so sweet/Or down in the valley where the river used to be/I got my mind on eternity/Some kind of ecstasy got a hold on me..."
After English I yawned in the cafeteria a bit while my friend Craig told me he'd had a dream recently where he roared like a tiger at someone. "Yes," I said, between yawns and sips from my Nalgene bottle, "Your face is kind of catlike." "Well, I've been called worse," he said. "I've got to go to class," I said, and then did.
"And I'm wondering where the lions are...I'm wondering where the lions are...
Huge orange flying boat rises off a lake/Thousand-year-old petroglyphs doing a double take/Pointing a finger at eternity/I'm sitting in the middle of this ecstasy..."
In Economics, Professor Secord split us up into groups to discuss models of consumer choice. "The reason we are doing this," he said, making scribbles with his ink marker on the whiteboard, "is to.. discuss the idea, and also.. to meet interesting people, find out how .. other people's minds work. Because, you know, we all go around terribly insecure, and.. sometimes you have to find out how beautiful life is." I was the 'animator' of my group, so in between sips from my Nalgene I facilitated discussion. We were all tired but rose to the challenge, talking marginal utility and consumer culture, debt and anxiety, and irrational choices.
"Young men marching, helmets shining in the sun/Polished as precise like the brain behind the gun/(Should be!) they got me thinking about eternity/Some kind of ecstasy got a hold on me..."
In the library, I wrote down a quote by a poet named Pierre Albert-something, and then lost it without doing anything. I searched the immeadiate space for a good 5 minutes, totally confused, then when I found it, instead of taking it home as I'd planned, tucked it in between two books for someone else to find. It was: "The poets X Y and Z/and the Profond Auj'ourdhui".
"Freighters on the nod on the surface of the bay/One of these days we're going to sail away,going to sail into eternity/some kind of ecstasy got a hold on me..."
Last weekend was an absolute ball, by the way. I forgot to tell all of you (that obscure group, my 'readers'--or perhaps I'm only imagining them) that three great friends from the Cape came to visit, and we Freddy girls showed them a good time. I'm actually still recovering, since this week required of me a midterm and a few assignments, and lots of Latin homework (as always)... so the bean (that's me) is actually about to go have a nap. But yes. The point is that the weather was gorgeous, the parties were smashing (and crashed, at one point), and the old trout lives on, in a wood-panelled pub downtown.
Have an ecstatic day, will ya?
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
"the nest where i was hatched"
These sketches and pictures make me want to fly to New York just so I can walk through Central Park for a whole day. My own camera's bust at the moment, and I haven't sketched in a while, so I don't think I would try and record the gates in any visual way. I would walk and walk and be creative in a way that doesn't seem creative to many people: I would talk.
I would talk to other people walking, I would talk to vendors and workmen and the security guards placed there to keep the gates from vandals at night. Whatever words came into my head as I was walking, I'd write on a napkin I would have in my pocket, and later I would cut the napkin up with orange scissors and rearrange them. This I would do on the bar of a pub that I would find by accompanying an interesting new person to have a drink, and when I was done with the letters I would leave them on the bar, half-damp with beer and bartop moisture, to be found or misconstrued by whoever found them next.
Also, I wonder, does Andy Goldsworthy know about these? I wonder what he's thinking about them.
I hope this isn't considered stealing, but I quite loved what Rabi had to say, so, from the wockerjabby herself:
I would talk to other people walking, I would talk to vendors and workmen and the security guards placed there to keep the gates from vandals at night. Whatever words came into my head as I was walking, I'd write on a napkin I would have in my pocket, and later I would cut the napkin up with orange scissors and rearrange them. This I would do on the bar of a pub that I would find by accompanying an interesting new person to have a drink, and when I was done with the letters I would leave them on the bar, half-damp with beer and bartop moisture, to be found or misconstrued by whoever found them next.
Also, I wonder, does Andy Goldsworthy know about these? I wonder what he's thinking about them.
I hope this isn't considered stealing, but I quite loved what Rabi had to say, so, from the wockerjabby herself:
I'm not sure you can understand the transformative power of the gates if you aren't a new yorker, or if you haven't at least spent a lot of time in central park. for me it was like returning to the nest where I was hatched and finding all the twigs had turned into gold.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
bean's photographic memory and the valentine's day box
As a result of the re-arrangement of my bedroom, and the movement of old posters, the white wall behind the computer was revealed. Because of the new conglomeration of white computer and white shelving, not to mention white blinds, the wall was, as they might say in the design world, "the focus of the schema". However, this made the computer corner look dull and bland, which is not what you want for an area in which you must do work, and therefore must entice yourself to enter. So, I took out all my photos from the past year, and some scotch tape, and after picking out the ones I like best, stuck them up in a random arrangement. Now all around me are colorful reminders of who I am, who I love, and the places I've been. It adds some color to the corner, as well, and really ties together the whole room.
There is Claire, of course, dear crazy Crimp on her bicycle about to head off to Quebec, looking smug with her helmet on, smug in the sun. There are photos of my roommates, Patti and Michelle, the one where they're tucked around my door with Claire's head on the bottom, looking like three little imps about to spring on me. There's one of Dad with Mat and I, taken by Ginger at the skating rink in Ohio, just a month ago. (How time flies!) There is one of my mother, my aunt, my grand-maman, and I, at Grandmaman's house this past Christmas. There are my sweet little Remillard cousins, and my uni friends eating whipped cream from a can and dressing up like Russians... Janice? tee hee...and then to balance out the hodde-podge of faces and actions, there are photos of landscapes--Newfoundland last summer, the St. Thomas campus, Cape Breton, Fredericton's Odell Park. Not only was it a cheap design idea, but now I get to smile every time I sit down to write a paper or an email. Wonderful!
Also, today after I got back from my early morning class (where I handed in the paper on "Comparing Prince Henry with Falstaff in Henry IV, Part One", much-toiled-over and happily relinquished) and was preparing to go back to bed for a revitalizing nap, a package arrived. Neil brought it down from upstairs; it was heavy, and from my mother. After last night's talk with 132 Long Hill Road (i.e. Mum and Mat), where they told me that Mum had made hand-made heart-shaped chocolates for her 'two favorite men', i.e. Mat and Monty, I had a good guess what was in it. Patti helped me to open it; it felt as much for her and Michelle as for me. We pulled out lovely cosmetics by Kiss My Face and Burt's Bees, a jar of Nutella, and then the red, heart-shaped tin of exquisite Botticelli chocolates. Mm! Mum's card was a gorgeous Georgia O'Keefe reprint, Red Cannas 1927, and read "Know that you are loved."
So, all around me I have evidence of the lovely people in my life. And it isn't even Valentine's Day yet! In the spirit of the coming V-Day, what has been your best Valentine's Day present? Fill the comments box! I want to hear about hearts, flowers, ridiculous and delightful displays of affection, the most surprised or overjoyed you've been, or gifts you've given yourself. I know Valentine's Day isn't a true holiday, that the word on the street is that it was invented by a greeting card company, but heck--who cares? Any day where we get to celebrate hugs and kisses is alright by me.
There is Claire, of course, dear crazy Crimp on her bicycle about to head off to Quebec, looking smug with her helmet on, smug in the sun. There are photos of my roommates, Patti and Michelle, the one where they're tucked around my door with Claire's head on the bottom, looking like three little imps about to spring on me. There's one of Dad with Mat and I, taken by Ginger at the skating rink in Ohio, just a month ago. (How time flies!) There is one of my mother, my aunt, my grand-maman, and I, at Grandmaman's house this past Christmas. There are my sweet little Remillard cousins, and my uni friends eating whipped cream from a can and dressing up like Russians... Janice? tee hee...and then to balance out the hodde-podge of faces and actions, there are photos of landscapes--Newfoundland last summer, the St. Thomas campus, Cape Breton, Fredericton's Odell Park. Not only was it a cheap design idea, but now I get to smile every time I sit down to write a paper or an email. Wonderful!
Also, today after I got back from my early morning class (where I handed in the paper on "Comparing Prince Henry with Falstaff in Henry IV, Part One", much-toiled-over and happily relinquished) and was preparing to go back to bed for a revitalizing nap, a package arrived. Neil brought it down from upstairs; it was heavy, and from my mother. After last night's talk with 132 Long Hill Road (i.e. Mum and Mat), where they told me that Mum had made hand-made heart-shaped chocolates for her 'two favorite men', i.e. Mat and Monty, I had a good guess what was in it. Patti helped me to open it; it felt as much for her and Michelle as for me. We pulled out lovely cosmetics by Kiss My Face and Burt's Bees, a jar of Nutella, and then the red, heart-shaped tin of exquisite Botticelli chocolates. Mm! Mum's card was a gorgeous Georgia O'Keefe reprint, Red Cannas 1927, and read "Know that you are loved."
So, all around me I have evidence of the lovely people in my life. And it isn't even Valentine's Day yet! In the spirit of the coming V-Day, what has been your best Valentine's Day present? Fill the comments box! I want to hear about hearts, flowers, ridiculous and delightful displays of affection, the most surprised or overjoyed you've been, or gifts you've given yourself. I know Valentine's Day isn't a true holiday, that the word on the street is that it was invented by a greeting card company, but heck--who cares? Any day where we get to celebrate hugs and kisses is alright by me.
Monday, February 7, 2005
at loose ends
We're having a warm spell, which means it feels like Spring out there, the sun shining down and the snow melting. It's really nice, though it feels out of place--I mean, it's February! But they say it will snow/rain further in the week. We'll see.
Lots of work to do this week, that seems to be the refrain for everyone I talk to. I rearranged my bedroom in lieu of doing work for 4 hours on Sunday, and like it a lot the way it is now. I went to a show on Saturday night, and wore my new black leather boots and a skirt and felt dressed-up. I've been cooking some delicious, healthy meals (like tonight, mashed potatoes and steamed kale with olive oil/balsamic vinaigrette on top, and diced tofu cubes on top of the kale, with feta on the side) and enjoying them thoroughly. I've got some papers and 2 midterms and a haircut coming up. And that's about as creative as I feel for now, so I'm not going to tie those events together with an interesting story or a moral of any kind. I watch the Gilmore Girls too much for my own good and I'm behind on my snail mail correspondence. And now, I have to write a paper on Willy Shakes!
Lots of work to do this week, that seems to be the refrain for everyone I talk to. I rearranged my bedroom in lieu of doing work for 4 hours on Sunday, and like it a lot the way it is now. I went to a show on Saturday night, and wore my new black leather boots and a skirt and felt dressed-up. I've been cooking some delicious, healthy meals (like tonight, mashed potatoes and steamed kale with olive oil/balsamic vinaigrette on top, and diced tofu cubes on top of the kale, with feta on the side) and enjoying them thoroughly. I've got some papers and 2 midterms and a haircut coming up. And that's about as creative as I feel for now, so I'm not going to tie those events together with an interesting story or a moral of any kind. I watch the Gilmore Girls too much for my own good and I'm behind on my snail mail correspondence. And now, I have to write a paper on Willy Shakes!
Tuesday, February 1, 2005
correspondence
Dear Leah,
It's been ages since I've seen you! How are you, my dear, and when are you returning to me? I know school is keeping you very busy, what with five full-time busy classes filling your little brain with all kinds of information, and your social life (happily) allowing you to strike a balance between alone time, school time and time with friends. But you really must know that while your blog readership is small, they are dear and they like to read your sometimes amusing, sometimes cynical, always bean-y musings. I entreat you to treat me like your journal, fill me with your view of life and thoughts and observations. You won't be sorry!
Love, Blog
Dear Blog,
Yes, it has been ages since we've spoken, or at least it feels that way with all that's been going on: studying for tests, preparing for midterms which are just around the corner, the choir that's just started back up, spending quality time with room-mates and friends, getting outside when there's a break in the cold weather, in order to breathe the air and feel the sunshine on the back on my neck. You needn't worry about me, blog, though I ignore you now, I do still care about you and the readership. I suppose part of me doesn't want to ramble on about random things, for fear that I'll bore people with the mundane details of things. I always want to put a nice twist on things, so I wait until inspiration strikes. Then again, there's no time like the present to just start writing. Like the saying goes, "To begin, begin." So, dear blog, I promise to try and write more. In the meantime, be well, take care of your loved ones, and let me know how you are, in the comments box.
Love, Leah
It's been ages since I've seen you! How are you, my dear, and when are you returning to me? I know school is keeping you very busy, what with five full-time busy classes filling your little brain with all kinds of information, and your social life (happily) allowing you to strike a balance between alone time, school time and time with friends. But you really must know that while your blog readership is small, they are dear and they like to read your sometimes amusing, sometimes cynical, always bean-y musings. I entreat you to treat me like your journal, fill me with your view of life and thoughts and observations. You won't be sorry!
Love, Blog
Dear Blog,
Yes, it has been ages since we've spoken, or at least it feels that way with all that's been going on: studying for tests, preparing for midterms which are just around the corner, the choir that's just started back up, spending quality time with room-mates and friends, getting outside when there's a break in the cold weather, in order to breathe the air and feel the sunshine on the back on my neck. You needn't worry about me, blog, though I ignore you now, I do still care about you and the readership. I suppose part of me doesn't want to ramble on about random things, for fear that I'll bore people with the mundane details of things. I always want to put a nice twist on things, so I wait until inspiration strikes. Then again, there's no time like the present to just start writing. Like the saying goes, "To begin, begin." So, dear blog, I promise to try and write more. In the meantime, be well, take care of your loved ones, and let me know how you are, in the comments box.
Love, Leah
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