60B & It'll All Work Out

All scholarly work should be done with a pot of tea at your right and Paul McCartney playing in your ears for at least part of the time. I am also enjoying having Buster at my feet, meandering around and hoping for scraps. Buster highlights the critical difference between Mr. Smith and me: a love of noise. I only function with music in the background and another body moving, occupied in a separate world linked by us inhabitting the same physical sphere (in this case, the doggy v. human world). Meanwhile, Mr. Smith abhors outside "interuptions" for good reason, they truly do throw off his work process. I have realized, though, by subconsciously bowing to this for too long, that I cannot function without interuptions. Interuptions are my bread and butter, they are the obsticles my mind grows stagnant without. Multiple demands on my faculties are the reason my faculties stay awake. "My mind rebels at stagnation"- Holmes.

I know it is the weather, but I am simply hopeful today. I have a mild case of Seasonal Affective Disorder, or perhaps more accurately, my brother and mother have severe cases of SAD (best acronym ever) and I have learned the behavior (somewhat like my manic tendencies). Whatever the diagnoses, having actually slept my full and having fallen asleep in my favorite way (reading a book with a dog curled next to me) I woke up with the sun shining on my face (I moved my bed to face the window in a very dramatic room rearrangement) and was able to immediately work on my thesis, walk the dog, eat breakfast, and begin the day with no regret. Sure, the work load is practically insurmountable and I have to drive back to DE today for a dentist appointment in the morning, then drive immediately back to DC to meet with Mandy about my thesis ("behind" does not even begin to describe my current status as a thesis student), but warm sun was on my face for a bit and now I have tea and am actually finding helpful articles on JSTOR (a damn near miracle) and Tom Petty is currently singing to me (Paul just finished, I like them to take turns, Elton is next).

In other notes, I have decided I need to meet James Franco. I'd like to shake hands with someone else who works more than me. Perhaps that's why I like Professor's: however overworked I am, they're in even deeper. Except for those few who aren't, and I hate them. Self satisfied pricks.
Also, DPF and I saw Comedy of Errors on Friday and I laughed my arse off. Except for an awkward, entirely unnecessary introduction, the play was a smash. Particularly the female actors working with a script weak on substance for their characters. The Folger produced yet another exceptional production and I just have to work with them some day. I'd love to volunteer there this summer at least. Great work on no budget appeals to me. That's the manic.

"When she needed me, I wasn't around. That's the way it goes, it'll all work out."
I'll just keep driving 'till I hit 60B...

"Big Love" [Live]

Conan O'Brian has a line up of commericals that advertise his show and American Express... and I love them. Not only is the Irish twig being as ridiculous as possible, he is doing it by being overly invested in the simplist aspects of his craft. I know that the commericals are in fact mocking those who are obsessed with their work, but they're also displaying something that is so, so rarely scene right now: passion.

I had a wonderful, giggle filled Christmas as per usual, but it was filled with little passion. It came in bursts, waves when I was able to be myself amidst the dulldrums of Delaware. I am passionate about so much, and I realize that relaxing is a valuable art and worth my attention. Thanks so Mr. Smith I've been relaxing a lot more lately, but not always in ways that make me feel relaxed in the long run. This break has started a reinvestment in walks and yoga, as well as taking time to zone out and give my brain a break. I think both are necessary! But neither diminishes my passion. Leaving DE is like waking up from a coma a bit, or when that first burst of caffeine hits your brain after a very long day: I come alive just a bit more. It isn't that DE kills my passion, but that my passion and DE are not good bedfellows. DC doesn't actually encourage my passion inherently, but it is not so out of place here. Obviously the people I grew up with are passionate, they helped me to find mine. But with increasing certainty I have realized they just don't care as much anymore and I find myself giving constant disclaimers or caveats to simple statements. I used to be one voice in a choir, now everything I say takes the form of a dramatic solo and we are all uncomfortable with it. The hectic, bright exchange of ideas is gone. We used to bump against one another in our hurry to share our thoughts and stories, now everyone is so careful it actually hurts more; everyone is so soft and yet impenetrable.

Not that we used to agree, far from it. I have always been the more radical, worldly one of my friends and we have often found each other's statements uncomfortable, or even at times unbelievable! But now opposition seems so harsh to them; every different way or option a threat. I don't exactly understand how it got this way, but my love of learning has led to increased curiosity, a desire to discuss and examine everything, to question my assumptions. Perhaps when I am away things do function like they used to; it seems more likely that I and my other 3 friends who have also moved away and come back are the problem than that everyone we know has simultaniously become so complacent. But enthusiasm now seems to be a sin! Passion for what I do is looked on as an illness I'm too lazy to cure. My openness has been treated like an act of war on the very people I fought to return to!

Which brings us back to Conan. Everyone else in the scene acts worried when he strokes his curtain (the Freudian implications will have to stand) or weeps at his applause sign, but I want to cheer right along with him. Why does it matter that Eustace rhymes with Useless, but isn't the same word? Because the beauty of the language game is manifested in that simple limerick! I know that to most people it is odd to be more moved my a sentence in Ulysses than by a baby, but I also think it is really odd to be moved by a baby. They can't talk. And they always are covered in goo. But hey, Ulyesses is my baby: it is absolutely covered in poop typos and the goop of authorial indescetions , and I just wanna hold it anyway. I guess I think that laughing too loudly at a funny line or having my breath taken away by the perfect word could be considered an act of violence against the dull, but the dull most certainly attacked first and has yet to let up.

My highlight of the weekend was a mile-ish walk through the snow at midnight to Wawa, in order to have coffee and force ourselves to wake up to the world around us. Dark contrast, blinding lights and billowing dark, familar roads covered in a brand new outfit of snow... the conversation with some of my favorite people varied from our memories to our dreams, our contrasting oppinions, and our oh so hopeful plans that we know are likely to fall short. We built castles out of snow in the sky, got some coffee, and did it again. On the way their we actually frollicked through the snow, dancing in a Narnian like celebrating of being halfway out of the dark of winter. And then on our return trip the walk blurred by as our conversation intensified to push our feet forward until all-to-soon we were home. But that was an hour or so. And though I would have loved to stay "in that house on the hill/ looking out for love/ big big love" it seems that such big love can only appear in bursts anymore. Unless you're ready for a trip to Elizabethtown... which I totally am...

Autumn & Winter Mixes; 2010

Winter Recall, Volume 2

Winter Recall, Volume 1

Too Cool For School Hipster Mix

Fall 10, Volume 2

Fall 10, Volume 1

Christmas Extravaganza!

"Words" and "Passing By"

Just in case you were curious, the second volume of the Elizabethtown soundtrack may be mixed CD perfection... It is without a doubt the sound of fall. My next few posts will take the title(s) of a song from this album, as starting points. On a side, possibly more important note, I like playing my music rather loudly late in the evening in the apartment when Mr. Smith is out and then cutting it off at exactly 11 PM when the sound ordinance falls on our neighborhood. Take that Old Lady who yells if you talk outside the front door after 5 PM.

If you take an exam that is supposed to test your mental, emotional, and creative capacities and pass, does that mean you've learned something or that you are capable of learning something?

After five weeks of studying, somewhat to the detriment of my otherwork and certainly to the detriment of my thesis, I have passed my comprehensive exam by writing about Oscar Wilde, Much Ado About Nothing, The Dick Van Dyke Show, Dorothy Parker, Virginia Woolf, the Holocaust, Lacan, detective fiction and Post Traumatic Stress, the cyclical nature of death, and the word shit within a seven hour period. I think this only proves that I can never leave academia, but I have little to offer it.

Florenzia mentioned her blog to me last night. I had forgotten what a release it is to ramble on a screen for a bit. The instant gratification of thought to cyberprint. So I will try again, in an attempt to unblock the mental pipe that has been filled with random comps shit and cannot seem to originate much worth contributing to the field of memory, queer theory, or modernism.

So the next few blog posts are dedicted to you, my dear. May we either write ourselves out of our own corners, or into oblivion. Both deserve our full attention.

I would also like to note that I have this umbrella:

and am by the laws of inference am therefore as swell as Claire in E-Town. But more on that next time.

Suzette out.

Miss Janelle Monae

OH, MAKER

I hear the drizzle of the rain

It's falling from my window

And in the corners of my mind
I hope that I'll get to see you again
La da die da die da die da die my friend

I heard the colors in the flowers
Just like the candle snugged at dawn
You're here, you're near, you're there and then you're gone
La da die da die da die da die

Suffering in sinking sand
All the hurt
See I'm really lost baby
We suffered a rare, rare blue
So much hurt
On this earth
But you loved me
And I really dared to love you too
Perhaps what I mean to say is
Is that it's amazing that your love was mine

Oh, Maker tell me did you know
This love would burn so yellow
Becoming orange and in its time
Explode from grey to black then bloody wine
La da die da die da die da die

Oh, Maker have you ever loved?
Or known just what it was?
I can't imagine the bitter end
Of all the beauty that we're living in?

Suffering in sinking sand
All the hurt
See I'm really lost baby
We suffered a rare, rare blue
So much hurt
On this earth
But you loved me
And I really dared to love you too
Perhaps what I mean to say is
Is that it's amazing that your love was mine

COLD WAR

So you think I'm alone?
But being alone's the only way to be
When you step outside
You spend life fighting for your sanity

This is a cold war
You better know what you're fighting for
This is a cold war
Do you know what you're fighting for?

If you wanna be free?
Below the ground's the only place to be
Cause in this life
You spend time running from depravity

This is a cold war
Do you know what you're fighting for?
This is a cold war
You better know what you're fighting for
This is a cold war
You better know what you're fighting for
This is a cold war

Do you know what you're fighting for?

Bring wings to the weak and bring grace to the strong
May all evil stumble as it flies in the world
All the tribes comes and the mighty will crumble
We must brave this night and have faith in love

I'm trying to find my peace
I was made to believe there's something wrong with me
And it hurts my heart
Lord have mercy, ain't it plain to see?

This is a cold war
You better know what you're fighting for
This is a cold war
Do you know what you're fighting for?

KELLINDOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Do you know it's a cold, cold war?
Do you, do you, do you?

Bye, bye, bye, bye
Don't you cry when I say goodbye

Saw this lady in concert last night. Saw people dancing despite themselves. Saw DC come alive. Saw performance had purpose.

Enacted hope!

Of tightropes, blockage, and the satisfaction I alone seem to find in the grey area.

Write anything, write something, just write.

Anne Lamott has explained many things to me in my life. She has also comforted me when K-fcked radio is blasting at full volume. She has also been on team "Grey Area" when I decide that it's okay that life doesn't always make sense and perhaps that it why life is worth living. But right now, struggling to make what I understand about "The Remains of the Day" (an utterly breathtaking novel) come out clearly in a 15 page paper which has only my infantile understanding of the 20th century's hilarious, oddly accurate Lacan's psychoanalysis as it's weapon... well, "Things fall apart" is just the beginning...

I understand the concept of writers block... it is not an outside force, it is an internal one. The pieces are all there, I am quite capable, and I have the time... but something is stopping me. And that something is me! Perhaps that is why Lamott says just write, piece by piece (bird by bird) and you will chip away at the barrier, the great wall, until you find yourself on the other side. Usually, this works for me. The other side of the wall rarely holds what I thought it would, but I can usually be proud of what I find there. Right now, I feel like everything I do is actually creating another layer of bricks on the wall rather than chipping away at it...

Things are not happy- I feel a lot of anger and frustration toward me from many people in my life and indeed from me to me... but that's not actually abnormal. Usually, if things are going well in college then my home life hates me, and visa versa. It is a tightrope act I've been walking since I was sixteen. But for some reason now I don't feel like walking. I feel like swinging from my knees and telling both ends to cut themselves loose. Expectations cutting me loose may lead to my death, but at least I could go down laughing, upside down and alone instead of rightside up and crowded.

Yes, the wall is still there but there's not just one wall. Writers block has now been built into a house!

Write, just write. Lacan and I have a date with Kazuo Ishiguro. I'm going down swinging.

Katie is coming to AU!!!!

I taste a liquor never brewed, From tankards scooped in pearl; Not all the vats upon the Rhine Yield such an alcohol! Inebriate of air am I, And debauchee of dew, Reeling, through endless summer days, From inns of molten blue. When landlords turn the drunken bee Out of the foxglove's door, When butterflies renounce their drams, I shall but drink the more! Till seraphs swing their snowy hats, And saints to windows run, To see the little tippler Leaning against the sun! -Emily Dickinson