jookitcz: (Default)
I'm reading The Lies of Locke Lamora.  Scott Lynch writes dialogue exactly the same as I would write it, which I find highly irritating and distracting.  It could be better.
jookitcz: (sexy hat)
Oh!  Also, I am tentatively considering changing my LiveJournal name (and AIM name, and deviantArt name, and... who knows what else I've polluted in my internet exploration).  Because, honestly, fairiebutterfly is kind of embarrassing.  It was seventh grade, people!  And I was not entirely imaginative, or rather, I was imaginative in entirely the wrong, cliched direction. 

The idea of moving from this address is frightening.  What if this, my documentation of the last four or five years, is darkened by non-use, and then lost forever?  Would it mean abandoning my heritage?

On the other hand, the potential title "econ-anomaly," while possibly not too aesthetic to look at and dangerously devoid of significance (more so than fairiebutterfly? really?)  is awfully fun to say in my head.  And out loud.  Not that I speak out loud when I'm sitting all by myself.

And then when a twist of fate causes me to change my major course of study at an unexpected last minute, I will look very silly.  And if I change it, I don't know how the irony fairy will be able to resist just that tempation.
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Caffeine is a fantastically poisonous chemical.  My barriers are all down--I drink maybe two cups of coffee every week.

My eyes can't remember how to blink.  My hands are shaking enough to make typing slightly difficult.  My handwriting is significantly more illegible than usual, but I could keep up with the Macro lecture, which is all I ask.  Last night, I was up until three in the morning--working, writing essays for scholarships, entering slim-chance sweepstakes that require you to click through a dozen pages of advertisements in order to fund their prizes (which, through my pain, I have to admit is an admirably sleek system), and finishing Thud.  Terry Pratchett gets better and better, even as he gets more serious.  I enjoyed the Middle-Discworld books, but after too many the jokes lose their entertainment value, and you start to feel like you're slugging through the cleverly beside-the-point footnotes to get through the swamp of Plot.  The latest ones are still funny, but it's less a jokey, satire-snippet funny, and more of a human-foible funny.  If there is satire, it is so deeply embedded in the characters and plot that you don't think, "Ah, he's referring to such-and-such a conflict, very cute," but instead you think, "Oh.  This isn't mockery.  This is human nature."

That's better.

I need something to eat.

Also to read for religion.

Also to write a reflection paper.

Two reflection papers.

Well, two plus eight for GEP, which escaped my reflection paper radar while I was preoccupied.

And I need to get in touch with Banker's Life and Casualty, for that interview.  And apply for more jobs, more internships, more scholarships.  And find money.  And find an advisor, officially change my majors, see if I can squeeze in more classes, and basically wither from too much in my head.
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I miss childhood, when the number of books I checked out from the library was limited by what I had not read, and not how many my spindly arms would hold.  My sturdy young limbs could overflow with children's paperbacks without giving me pause.  Not that I was every sturdy, but that just makes it more of a point.  What with my penchant for shiny hardcovers, I've found that my limit for checking out books has stopped at nine.  And nine is where my arms very much hurt.

I might be able to squeeze in a tenth.  Eight would definitely be more comfortable.  But nine is what I allowed myself today.  And they are:

Iron Council, China Mieville
Charnel Prince, J. Gregory Keyes
Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens
Parable of the Talents, Octavia Butler
Fiction Dictionary, Laurie Henry
Outwitting Writer's Block, Jenna Glatzer
Enchantment, Orson Scott Card
The Eyre Affair, Jasper Fforde
Shadow & Claw, Gene Wolfe

And now, I have words to wrangle.
jookitcz: (Default)
Three entries a day is too many.  I know this.  I wish I hadn't wasted my second one blubbering about trees--I could have written that any time.  Eeesh.  What with all these irresistable urges to write, I might need to stop narrating inside my head and on eljay, and actually start plotting.  Or making characters, or something.  Mm.  I want to make characters.  Maybe I will make a character every day that I am at home, and keep them on a shelf.  They can keep me company when I'm lonely.  I've noticed that my older characters are falling out of touch with me.  It's my fault.  I don't make enough effort to maintain relationships with them.  I tried telling Chris about Connie on Friday morning, and could hardly remember what it was that made him so much fun. 

Of course, it was three in the morning when I tried to do it.  There may be no point at all in getting maudlin about it.
jookitcz: (Default)
[setting: we are milling about before class. Patrick is expounding on some cookies that his grandma makes]

Patrick: Oh, yeah, they're knot cookies, and they're really good...
Jessie: [a pause. because no one is listening to Patrick] So--are they cookies, or not?

[Laughter! Yay, Jessie told a funny joke. Patrick looks irritated and not-highly amused]

Patrick: Oh, Jessie. My little paranomasiac.

And because paranomasia is a term we learned in Rhetoric, I was highly entertained. I am a paranomasiac, and this makes me happy.
jookitcz: (Default)
Accounting tests kill the soul. I spent the day forcing people in my imagination to criticize me, and then shouting back at them. All in my head. It's passively satisfying, but the eventual result is that I get snippy and annoyed without ever talking to a soul.

Anna and I got a free chicken sandwich at lunch, five minutes before Rhetoric. We ate it in a relay as we ran to get our books and stuff, taking turns holding the thing and taking big bites. It was gone before class started. It was awesome.

I drew a picture of Harry Potter during Stats.

I wrote a poem for Priest Lake last night.

everyone loves amateur free verse! )



Blah.
jookitcz: (Default)
All sorts of goodies today, which you won't mind, since I haven't made a substantial post for a while.  But I ran across this gem whilst perusing the Campus Security Spotlight procrastinatorially.  Under recent incidents:

Fire alarm:  9/25 at 9:33 am, Chardin, unk. cause of activation; 9/25 at 4:20 pm, COG, unk. cause of activation; 9/27 at 10:25 am, Corkery, maintenance work in the area activated alarm; 9/28 at 6:46 pm, Marian, burnt chicken befouled the smoke detector.  The alarm activated automatically – no one had to pullet.
It is extra awesome because
a. Marian is my residence hall and
b. everything else in the write ups has a very dry, perfunctory, abbreviated tone.

OMGPUNS.
jookitcz: (Default)
It is the kind of weather to make you feel guilt for having to breathe, the air is so heavy. Every breath is extra-aware that there is a breath less oxygen left for everyone else.  And I swear when I stepped from the sidewalk to the grass, I could feel the heat seeping up through my sandals, as if it were a swamp and warming the air through gradual decomposition.  Or it could have just been a haze of heavy warm air swirling around my ankles, maybe trapped there by the blades of grass.  Or it is possibly only an effect of clutching heavy books extra tight, and resigning blood to reside too long in my legs.  I've been narrating in my head all day, which is its own sort of relief: I was beginning to fear that I had stopped thinking altogether.  Granted, my thoughts are fairly low-grade indulgences on the scale of thought ratings, but I imagine that their presence is healthy all the same.  Like... fiber for your brain.  It's too warm to wear t-shirts.  My shoulders were suffocating.

Humanity stopped evolving when it discovered love.  It has to be declining now, or else subtly reaching some sublime point.  Have you ever see salmon spawning?  It's not an event to chat through, not really a hang-out spot or, "Hey, neat."  The salmon turn red with hormones and blood when they turn upstream, and they are suspended against the current like--like currants, says inner rhymester, but no--like nothing, really.  What else ever fights against the flow like that?  Not that it looks like a fight at all, from the air-breathing perspective.  They seem almost leisurely about it, save for the frenetic beating of their tails, because it's so quiet.  Every now and then, there is a splash because one has broken free of the water in an attempt to gain a few feet, but besides that, there is only the sound of the river.

And every time they tire, every time they give in to a desire for rest, reprieve, the stream pulls them backwards.  Granted, I was watching at the end of their journey, almost at the spawning sites, but still--an hour's worth of hard earned inches is washed away in a second.  And there are dead salmon along the banks, and my mom (with no particular pretention to be profound) laments the loss of what is twenty dollars a pound in the grocery store, and the dead are dead in a very ultimate way.

If you can't make it upstream, you don't reproduce.  That's all.

Human logic makes the first exceptions to a beautifully elegant rule.  What if an excellent genetic structure is lost because of some chance injury that inhibits performance?  And then it's stretched--well, what is excellence? and--does not everyone have something worthwhile inside?  Compassion leaks into the last bit, sympathy and 'it could be me.'  The definition of chance injury is stretched as well--God's will might be invoked, and then Darwin has no hope at all.  Humans need to love.  It's a genetic flaw.  People will do ridiculous things for love, self-damaging things, things contrary to good species-profligation principles--monogamy, for example.  Haha.  Er.  On the bright side, the capacity for love is not genetic, not a dominant trait.  On the other side, it does not need to be.  It spawns.

The media does what it can to restore biological order.  We can't blame it.  Beautiful people fall in love with other beautiful people all over the place.  Talent takes center stage.  Protagonists find love because of the beautiful "positive" traits that are intended to make them endearing to the audience.  People with flaws, severe flaws, human flaws, are almost always depicted as in the grips of a turbulent, unideal love-life.  I assume that there is a coalition of scientists behind the curtain, encouraging their audiences to seek out perfect mates in the (equally promoted) pursuit of happiness.  Congratulations, media.  We applaud your attempts to skew society's conception of love for the good of the species.

It's worth noting that I include novels as media.  They are as guilty as anyone of airbrushing reality for artistic symmetry.  They approach reality more closely than either television or movies, but their heroes and heroines are loved for only the most romanticizable of flaws.  Pride, inapproachability, stubborness, over-garroulousness--anything that could be cute, understandable, or turned to a higher purpose.

I don't think I've ever seen affection work like that.  Reality's version of love loves imperfections with perfections as if traits cannot actually be classified as good or bad.  They just are.  La coeur a ses raisons--I've never been able to reasonably justify any of my affections.  People love because they are expected to love, sometimes, but that also ignores any evaluation of the object's worth.  Love has effectively stagnated the biological evolution of humanity, because it can no longer discern with proper objectivity which traits would best to be promoted through future generations.

In this, it is possible that humanity is evolving in another way.  At some point, love might become so blind as to skip our current short-sightedness completely.  We might become capable of loving everything, and through that love, embracing the proper stewardship of everything as well.  It is possible that the current state of the world is just an awkward phase in which we don't know how to let go of our burdens to better let other loved ones thrive, can no longer kill each other with such widespread brutality as to reduce stress on the world's resources, and do not love widely enough to make responsible decisions.  But we do love.  And love tends to beget love.  So there may yet be hope for a utopian world, though it may be a long time in evolving.

And I've used to word 'love' so much in the last paragraph that I do feel a little ill with myself.  I obviously have my own evolving to do.

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July 2010

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