Title
Although both E. M. Forster's "The Machine Stops" and Neal Stephenson's The Diamond Age present technologically-infused dystopian societies, Stephenson's work presents a more sophisicated worldview influenced by current trends in technology as illustrated via the treatment of each main character's book. An examination of the physical traits, the reasonings behind the creation, and the characters' emotional reactions to and treatments of each book reveals a more fluid and flexible concept of technology presented in The Diamond Age, one that takes into account human fallibility, religious impulses, and subversive instincts.
Conclusion
As illustrated throughout this paper via discussion of both the Young Lady's Illustrated Primer and the Book of the Machine, one can see how Neal Stephenson's The Diamond Age illustrates the possibility of redemption. Nell's Primer presents a flexible and fluid method of applying technology to daily life that far exceeds the necessarily limited scope of Foster's "The Machine Stops." While both societies were essentially demolished by the end of the book, the end of The Diamond Age suggests potential rebirth.
Primary Source Quotation
Although this book does not provide Vashti with any clues to the truth of her existence (though it may have, had she chosen to so examine its contents), the Book is revered: "Sitting up in the bed, she took it reverently in her hands. She galnces round the glowing room as if some one might be watching her. Then, half-ashamed, half joyful, she murmured, 'O Machine!' and raised the volume to her lips (Forster).
Secondary Source Quotation
No longer would the great god come down from the sky to destroy humanity -- instead technology would prove to be our downfall. Human beings have always demonstrated an "unquenchable ... need for ethical values" (Caporaletti 406), and in the beginning of the 20th century, as a "general ethical bewilderment" pervaded humanity's sense as a result of the "disappearance of divine authority" and the scientific predictions of "ultimate universal annihilation" (Caporaletti 406), never before had humanity been so desperate for an answer to the all-consuming question "What is the meaning of life?", the answer to which would surely "redeem human existence" (Caporletti 407). Never, that is, until now.
Opposing Argument
Although some critics might argue that Nell's Primer has in fact replaced her religious impulse and caused her to serve merely as the peon of an higher power's desires for mankind as Hayles implies when she says, "It remains a mystery why Nell's Primer would educate her to be a self-reliant individual, whereas the Chinese girls are indoctrinated to from the massive Mouse Army..." (137), the truth is that the Primer has served as an enabling device in her life, allowing her to become and create herself. When the program is changed in order to educate the Chinese youth, the enabling effect is gone.
(edited 4/29 @ 10:39 a.m.)
Do you remember that old school game called Oregon Trail?
Try taking a journey by covered wagon across 2000 miles of plains, rivers, and mountains. Try! On the plains, will you slosh your oxen through mud and water-filled ruts or will you plod through dust six inches deep?How will you cross the rivers? If you have money, you might take a ferry (if there is a ferry). Or, you can ford the river and hope you and your wagon aren't swallowed alive!
What about supplies? Well, if you're low on food you can hunt. You might get a buffalo... you might. And there are bear in the mountains.
At the Dalles, you can try navigating the Columbia River, but if running the rapids with a makeshift raft makes you queasy, better take the Barlow Road.
If for some reason you don't survive -- your wagon burns, or thieves steal your oxen, or you run out of provisions, or you die of cholera -- don't give up! Try again... and again... until your name is up with the others on The Oregon Trail Top Ten.
I was thinking about it this weekend - I was in fifth grade with the most evil teacher ever. All we ever did was play the Oregon Trail. All the time... and you always died:
Oregon Trail is definitely a cultural icon for people my age. Did you younger folks ever play it?
If not... here's your chance!!!
PLAY the coolest game ever. (If you are 12.) It's not exactly the same as the old school version but... you get the gist.
Today I was without internet for two hours, and, oh man, I was freaking out! I mean, what the heck was I supposed to do sitting at a computer that wouldn't let me check my email or check the weather forecast or check the SHU blogs or check my email again or anything? Work? Pssshay!!!
I needed to find out the address for a college, but could I do it? No! I had to stand up, walk to the filing cabinet, open the filing cabinet drawer, find the book, flip to the Pennsylvania section, find the town name, and then find the college. Holy crap did that take a long time! I coulda had that address in about two seconds if the stinkin' internet had been working!
It's crazy though because it made me think about how dependent we are on the internet these days! Encyclopedias? Dictionaries? Thesauri? Who needs 'em?!? I mean, why flip through a book when the internet is right there at my fingertips? I mean, if dumbinternetfalsifiedinformationsite.com says that it's true, it must be true, huh? Geez...
I can find out practically anything I need to know online: how to say "I am not afraid" in German (that's "Ich Habe Keine Angst"), how to bake a Black Forest cake, the middle name of the fifth prime minster of the United Kingdom (that's a test - can you do it?), my bank account balance, what to pack for a trip to Europe... everything!
So what would I do without the internet??? Shudder to think!
What's the craziest thing you've done online?? Share! Share!
Hey! Today I found out that I am an Administrative Professional! Sweet! And here I thought I was just a glorified secretary! Whew... that's a load off...
"What is the meaning of the observances of National Secretary's Day? Is it a conspiracy dreamt up by the real illuminati: the florist (FTD, to be precise), restaurant (perhaps the National Restaurant Association is the real NRA), candy, and the "surprise" (e.g., the singing moose, magical clown, stripper) service industries? Or is the ritual honestly meant to acknowledge the worthiness and appreciation of the person occupying the role, especially as it is often this person who really keeps the wheels of corporate America turning?"
(Note to self: Review this link - A Sociological Tour Through Cyberspace)
Secretary's Day, now Administrative Professionals for the P.C. minded, was started in 1952 as a way to encourage young women to become secretaries. Today, the day is marked by such exciting fare as pizza and doughnuts (well, at my job anyway) or flowers given to the G.S. of your choice. If you want more information, you could visit Annie's Secretary Day Page which provides historical information, biblical quotes about secretaries (kinda), and, most irritatingly, information on making a good cup of coffee. You might as well skip it, however, and visit this page instead: You Want What? When? which reveals the truth behind Glorified Secretaries (and Waitresses! don't even get me started on that one...)
Hmm.... This article amuses me as much as it bothers me...
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AMSTERDAM—American students traveling abroad confirm the findings of a study indicating that Washington's unilateral approach to foreign policy has seriously undermined Americans' chances of getting laid.
...
"First, pretend you're Canadian whenever you can," Hapbrook said. "But make sure you're not around actual Canadians, because they'll know you're lying and cock-block you. Second, if there are any anti-American protests going on, take care to avoid women carrying signs. Third, focus your itinerary on countries like Ireland and Japan that are still relatively friendly to Americans."
...
REPORT: U.S. Foreign Policy Hurting American Students' Chances of Getting Laid Abroad
When Foster writes, "Is that a symbol? Sure it is." I had to laugh - symbolism has always been a tricky bugger to me.
See, I figured I could say something symbolized whatever the heck I wanted it to symbolize whether it be French cheese makers (that was Dr. J's example) or man's intense hatred for soggy swimgear or the unlimited possibility of shower scum.
The trick, I guess, is to use the text to support your claims - which is exactly what our literature classes have been teaching us to do all along. And being able to back up your statements has real life applications as well - you don't wanna go around spouting random epithets without being able to prove your statements when you're cornered, do ya? I didn't think so.
Also, Forster (who seems to say a lot of stuff I've been thinking) says that a symbol doesn't have just one clear and pat meaning - meaning that I -can- attempt to prove that suchandsuch symbols thisandthat - because unless I kidnap the author and bring him or her to class with me that day (which would be SO funny!), no one can really prove me *wrong* (just suggest that I have a strong or not strong argument).
Sweet! I knew I was an English major for a good reason...
I remember hearing about Lady Chatterley's Lover back in the day - I had heard about how sexual and raunchy it was, even that it was banned in a few places, etc. etc. So, as a randy youth myself, I decided to embark on a quest to find a copy.
Sure, I could have run to the local bookstore and slapped some money on the counter for a full-priced edition, but I'm not that kind of girl. Instead, I started scouring the local thrift stores bookshelves. I found my first copy of the book for 75 cents, a copy that promptly fell apart the first time I tried to read it, thus rendering it unreadable. So I looked again - this time find a hardback copy for the same price.
And I read it.
And I thought, "So freakin' what?"
I mean, yeah, it's risque how the Lady C starts having an affair with Mellors since her husband is, um, incapicated... but it didn't shock or astonish me. Which, really, if you think about it, is kinda sad. We are so incredibly desensitized to everything these days. I mean, it's cool that censorship isn't as harsh as it was back in the day... but do we really want seven year olds dressing like hookers and watching sex on t.v.?
I guess the question is: Where do we draw the line? Who is responsible for ensuring that that line isn't crossed?
What I didn't know about Lady Chatterley's Lover is this:
"Constance Chatterley and her lover, Mellors, really broke ground in plainly shown and plainspoken sex, although the novel's obscenity trial, effecitvely ending censorship in the United States, did not take place until 1959."
Also, I liked Foster's comments about sex being impossible to write about because of those darn Victorians: "The era was unsurpassed in its production of pornography. Maybe it was that mountain of dirty writing that used up all the possibilities of writing about sex." Verrry interesting!
The first thing I noticed in Elizabeth Bishop's The Farmer's Children were the names of the farmer's two sons from his prvious marriage. I'm already familiar with Emerson, but I didn't know Cato. Here's what I found:
"Marcus Porcius Cato was a Roman statesman, orator, writer, and defender of conservative Roman Republican ideas who lived between 234 and 149 BC. He was born into a wealthy family of Roman landholders during the early Republican period on a farm in the city of Tusculum, southeast of present–day Rome. His early farm upbringing resulted in a lifelong interest in agriculture and the writing of his De Agri Cultura in 160 BC which is the oldest Latin literary encyclopedia in existence today."
Oh, hey! This is interesting:
"Cato served as a quaestor under Scipio Africanus in 204 BC."
A quaestor is "any of various public officials in ancient Rome responsible for finance and administration in various areas of government and the military." But that's not the interesting part: We read The Parliment of Fowles & The Nun's Priest's Tale in Chaucer this semester, both of which mention Scipio Africanus.
"Cato lived modestly on a simple farm, ate with his servants, acted moderately and did not believe in overworking his slaves, though they were sold when they became old or ill and were no longer wanted."
Turns out the name Cato is pretty appropriate for a farmer's son, eh? Neat.
| Your Inner European is Dutch! |
You're up for just about anything. |
Did you guys see this?
"Morgan Spurlock, award-winning writer, director and producer will speak Thursday, October 6, 2005 at 7:30 p.m. at Seton Hill University. Mr. Spurlock received the Best Director award in Documentary Competition at the 2004 Sundance Film Festival for his film, Super Size Me, an exploration of the obesity epidemic that plagues America today. Mr. Spurlock received an Academy Award nomination for his film."
I'm excited! Tickets go on sale August 1st for $10 each. Woohoo! Morgan Spurlock is my hero! How awesome the changes that one person can make - I think Mr. Spurlock can definitely sure as an inspiration for anyone who wants to change the world. ;c)
Today, in celebration of the fact that in 27 days I will be in London, England trying desperately to figure out how the hell to get to Cambridge in order to meet my dad's half of the family and the fact that according to my most recent calculations that I will not be able to relax until approximately May 25th (two days into my trip, and only if the reservations for Paris have gone through by then -and- I haven't lost any luggage in transit), today I will spend my day reading old Dave Barry columns. Sweet.
Yes, I've basically figured out that I won't have a chance to stop going crazy between now and May 25th (according to the terms listed above). Sometime this week, in between working two jobs and going to classes, I need to do the following tasks:
Kind words of comfort, anyone???
* I decided that bedbugs just ain't my thang.
Hey! I'm kinda proud of myself this week. Not only did I not vomit during last night's poetry slam, I actually found myself enjoying the show! Now... if only I could convince my Spanish teacher to do the same thing... ;c)
Also, I'm signed up for not one, but TWO, co-curricular activities this week! This is a first for me because I find that most of the stuff either conflicts with my job or my (quote, unquote) real life. This time, however, I can swing both.
The first is Sunday night Full Moon Meditation in the Admin courtyard from 8:30 - 10:00 p.m. It's being run by someone named Jenn and so far there are only two people signed up! (me and Mike) So you should go! Yeah!
Also, on Monday is the Commuter Connection Lunch which I am going to because I like free lunch and, what the heck, maybe I'll meet someone cool. I saw that Vanessa is going to be there so I already know at least one cool peep will be in the area. Sweet!
Man, in other news, I'm staring out the window in Spanish class as I type this and it looks like it's going to rain. This makes me way sad since I have a roadtrip to the great Mt. Davis planned this afternoon! (I don't know if it's really great, but I'll let you know after this afternoon.) I need a back-up plan.. quick! Help???
“Did you know:
Marilyn Monroe wore a SIZE 12.
If Barbie were a real woman, she'd have to walk on all fours due to her proportions.
The average American woman weighs 144 lbs. and wears between a size 12 and 14.
One out of every 4 college aged women has an eating disorder.
The models in the magazines are airbrushed - THEY'RE NOT PERFECT!!
A psychological study in 1995 found that 3 minutes spent looking at models in a fashion magazine caused 70% of women to feel depressed, guilty and shameful.
Models who twenty years ago weighed 8% less than the average woman, today weigh 23% less.”
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In American Lit tonight, I will be reading the following poems:
"Where are all the ladies?" by Dara Lewis
"Ode to My Hips" by Leslea Newman
"Homage to My Hips" by Lucille Clifton
"Phenomenal Woman" by Maya Angelou
and trying not to vomit as I do so.
I hate getting up in front of a class to speak. I always feel all stuttery and nervous and insecure. Usually, I can fake it pretty well and stumble through it, breathing a deep sigh of release when it's time for me to reclaim my anonymity again.. whew!
Don't expect any theatrics, though. Although my friends and I were joking about the possibility of me doing interpretative dance or possibly facing the chalkboard and wiggling my ass as I read my poems, the truth is more likely going to be that I get up there and nervously recite the poems.
I have to say, however, that I hope the class enjoys the poems I've choosen. I wanted female empowerment, body acceptance, and unity. The poems are all written by minority women - strong powerful and fearless minority women. I admire all of these women for putting their words out there -- boldly and brazenly.
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Some related links:
Ode to my hips
Leslea Newman's biography
Fat Chance: A Book About Body Acceptance for Kids
Phenomenal Woman
Maya Angelou's Personal Site
Maya Angelou's Biography
Homage to My Hips
Lucille Clifton's Biography
More about Ms. Clifton
Random Interesting Stuff
I feel morbid today.
I started thinking about it last night: My friend and I were listening to Jim Croce, and she mentioned that he died in a plane crash. She must have seen the look of disdain on my face because then she quickly apologized for the statement. See, people have been mentioning plane crashes around me a lot lately. And it's wiggin' me out since, um, I will be on a plane zooming across the Atlantic Ocean in a little over a month (holy crap!). Needless to say, it's a touchy subject.
I started thinking about though and I wondered, really, what are my odds of dying in a plane crash? Is the fact people keep mentioning plane crashes when I talk about my trip a "sign" that I'm going to explode into oblivion via air craft or is it more likely a sign of the anxiety that has pervaded our culture ever since 9/11? I decided that it's more likely the latter.
According to the National Safety Council, a person's odds of dying in a plane crash in his/her lifetime is 1 in 5,704. That ain't bad, really. The odds of dying by an accidental drowning are 1 in 1,081, the odds of dying from a drug overdose is 1 in 452, and the odds of dying by "intentional self-harm" is 1 in 118. So, really, what's a little plane crash?
Today at work I decided to get a conversation going by asking my coworkers if they had a favorite poem (by an American poet, written after 1915, of course) that I could present for class on Thursday night. It was a moot point since I already have an idea of which poems I'll be reading, but I figured I'd ask anyway to see if anything interesting came up.
The woman next to me said that she had always liked the poem that went "Under the spreading chestnut tree" so I googled it to see what I found and this is what I found:
Under the spreading chestnut tree
The village smith he sat,
Amusing himself
By abusing himself
And catching the load in his hat.
After I found the poem, I read it and looked at her out of the corner of my eye. What kind of school did she attend, I wondered, re-reading to poem to make sure that it wasn't just a trickery of my dirty mind leading me to think holy crap this is not a poem I want to read for class. Finally I couldn't take it. Was this a sick joke played by an older woman on an unsuspecting younger one? Was I just a porndog? What was going on?
"Hey, J, is this the poem? Erm... it's pretty short and... uh, weird?"
She leans over and reads my computer screen and starts laughing "...abuses himself? hahaha"
I blush for being dumb.
Finally, everything gets straightened out and I realize that the poem is this one:
The Village Blacksmith
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (who, btw, does not work for American Lit)
which starts off the same but isn't nearly as... friendly.. as the other one. Whew!
Recently, I read a play called "Pick Up Ax" by Anthony Clarvoe. The play told the story of three men: Keith, the stereotypical computer nerd with a dark secret (kinda), Brian, the stressed out bad businessman, and Mitch, the devil (dum dum duh!) in disguise. What caught my attention about this play (and take this as you may) were all of the cultural references.
First of all, the general class reaction to the play made me feel really old: a lot of the people in my class didn't seem to get most of the dated references and weren't familiar with a lot of the songs mentioned in the piece. I didn't know all of the songs or references either but I did know most of 'em and, holy crap, I've got a good, what, 7 - 9 years on most of my classmates. You have kids reading this in another couple of years and they won't get any of the references at all.
As Dr. J pointed out in class, a writer has to be cautious about overdoing the cultural references for this very reason: by refering to current events, especially ones related to the entertainment industry (i.e. tv shows, popular songs) automatically dates your writing. If you use *good* references this isn't such a big deal but if you're referencing a one-hit wonder, you might be in trouble.
Secondly, I enjoyed the imagery of Keith and Brian as ex-hippie stoner dudes. Early in the play, Keith says to Brian, "You want to go out tonight? We could get stoned and play miniature golf?" Later, when Brian is having trouble with the board of directors, he describes his situation by saying, "I'm down to stems and seeds." This is a definitive reference to marijuana - and if you've ever, er, researched the topic, you'd know that being down to stems and seeds means that you are s.o.l.
Also, Keith uses his know-how to create a mood-room, a play off the concept of Mood Rings, way big in the 70's. The songs mentioned are big hippy songs: Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, The Grateful Dead, etc. Oh yeah. Rock on.
Public Announcement: If your name is Troy and you hang out on Harrison Avenue, the police may be looking for you.
Yeah. It was SO awesome! There I was, tossing and turning in bed and thinking about how much I didn't want to get out of bed, and there's a knock on the door. BOOM BOOM BOOM. So I said, and not even remotely nicely mind you, "Who is it?" in a tone of voice that, I hoped, would cause my evil early morning visitor to disintegrate into dust so I could go back to sleep.
The man behind the door said "Sheriff!" in an equally not-nice tone of voice.
"What?" I said in a most sarcastic tone, thinking that one of my goofy friends was playing a trick on me (it happens, usually not at 8:30 but still... I was half-asleep, a'ight?)
So I stumble outta bed, get dressed, and pull out the door preparing to make a mean face at whoever was standing there so that he knew I was Not. Amused.
Nope. It was a real-live sheriff type person.
"Are you Moira?"
My instinct was to think "Oh, crap! What have I done that I don't know about?"
Instead, dude starts asking me if I'm home alone, if Troy is here, do I know Troy, etc. giving me the "Stare Straight Into Your Soul" look just to make sure I'm not lying or whatever. Finally, I just stepped back and swept out my arm - telling him that he could look around if he wanted, figuring the faster he left, the faster I could crawl back into bed (HAHA! Yeah right!)
So he comes in with his happy little flashlight, actually looks under my bed (HAHA like a grown man could fit under there!), wanders through the house, distressing my cats and leaving me wondering if I had left anything illegal lying around (you know, liked banned books and shit?) and hoping that some dude named Troy hadn't miraculously appeared in my kitchen whilst I was sleeping.
When I told my co-worker about it, she said "Did you ask for I.D.? Did you just let two guys into your house?"
And, um, yeah, I did. I mean, we're *supposed* to be able to trust the police, right? Dudes have guns anyhow - it's 8:30 a.m., I'm already cranky, antagonizing a dude with a gun is probably not the best way to continue my morning but then I started thinking about it:
Why do we implicitly trust (or dis-trust, dependin' on what you're doing at the time) police officers? I mean, cops are people, too, right? I really should have at least asked to see a badge, maybe even called 911 like my coworker suggested I do. I mean, what if these dudes had just beat up a couple of real cops, stolen their gear, and decided, for some godawful reason, to come pounding on my door at eight freakin' thirty?
My thought process was basically: "I'm not doing anything illegal today. I'm not Troy. Troy isn't here. If I let this guy look for Troy, I am being a cooperative good citizen type person, right?" But what if??? I am, afterall, a young woman living alone. My cats aren't going to offer much help if there ever were a problem. I guess it's a darn scary world out there and maybe I don't have the right mindset.
I dunno. What do you guys think?
Cool - there's a new pope:
Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger of Germany has chosen the name Pope Benedict XVI.
You know what's weird?
The most famous and best known prophecies about the popes are those attributed to St. Malachy. In 1139 he went to Rome to give an account of the affairs of his diocese to the pope, Innocent II, who promised him two palliums for the metropolitan Sees of Armagh and Cashel. While at Rome, he received (according to the Abbé Cucherat) the strange vision of the future wherein was unfolded before his mind the long list of illustrious pontiffs who were to rule the Church until the end of time.
St. Malachy's predictions are generally considered an elaborate hoax; however, as time goes on and his prophecies ring true, people have been rethinking about his ideas - Pope Benedict XVI is supposed to be the second to last pope.
The prediction about the current pope is:
"Gloria olivæ
The Benedictine order traditionally said this Pope would come from their order."
hmm.. Benedictine... Benedict? Freaky!
During my most recent controlled near-death experience, I got to interview William Shakespeare. We did not hit it off. He said the dialect I spoke was the ugliest English he had ever heard, "fit to split the ears of groundlings." He asked if it had a name, and I said, "Indianapolis."
The above quote is from a fabulous little book called "God Bless You, Dr. Kevorkian" by none other than Kurt Vonnegut, the sole reason that I applied to Harvard back in the day. (Yes, I really applied to Harvard and, no, I did not get in.)
See, what I really wanted was a little piece of paper proving that I could have gone to Harvard... ah well... the fancies of youth! I remember my interview for Harvard with a local alum - I was nervous as hell and unaccustomed to interacting with human beings so I stared off into the corner of the room (ah, that corner, I remember it well) and stuttered when Dr. Whateverhisnamewas asked me questions about my Future Plans, as if I had any freaking idea when I was 18 years old.
Harvard was the only college where I didn't get in - among the fine locations that did accept me were the University of Pittsburgh, Douglas College in.. New Jersey? Washington and Jefferson in some place I don't remember, a couple other colleges that I can't for the life of me remember (I graduated in '97, guys, I'm an old freakin' lady. The alzheimer's is starting to set in <-- see? I can't even remember how to spell!).
The fine institution where I started my college career was Youngstown State University, home of the... penquin? Penquins? In Ohio? Who the hell came up with that one? Yes. See, it wasn't like I had this deep-seated need to commune with penquins in Ohio - I didn't even know Ohio -had- penquins - and it certainly wasn't that I had heard anything good about YSU... or anything at all for that matter. The truth was that YSU was where the money was, and therefore, so was I.
I don't want to say anything bad about YSU but... it sucked. I just wasn't ready for college, you know? I was ready to party hard and break free of all the barriers that had held me back in high school. I was ready to expand my mind, to tune in and tune out, to get crazy and, finally, to drop out of college. Awesome.
I was a member of the University Scholars - YSU paid for my school, my room and board, and even my books for my first year of college. I'm pretty darn sure that the Scholars Program, a newbie at the time I went there, has been a roaring failure. I know of four people from my class of, what, 25? 50? scholars who have since dropped out. (Note to self: Research this!!!)
Anyway, musing on my past failures, er, experiences was not my intention with this post. Instead, I wanted to recommend a kickass book to y'all:
Kurt Vonnegut's "God Bless You, Dr. Kevorkian"
Check it. (And, if you wanna borrow it, let me know.)
N. Katherine Hayles article, "Is Utopia Obsolete?" got me thinking: Hayles says that, "nano-technology provides material abundance virtually without cost" and I started thinking about how just about any school kid these days knows that nothing is ever really free...
click on a link for free smut pics and you've gotta give a credit card number, order a free cd from a marketing company and you gotta pay $5 for shipping, sign up for a free $50 restaurant gift card and your email inbox will be stuffed with junk emails for the rest of your life...
so I'm wondering, "How are the people in Neal Stephenson's 'Diamond Age' paying for their stuff?"
It seems to me that these people are paying for the convenience of their society with their souls, the very essence of their humanity, and their freedoms. Is it worth it? I doubt it.
Eventually, the body totally loses its value. Hayles writes, "... human skin no longer defines an autonomous individual with the right to self-identity and self-possession." Nell, who through her use of the primer has become an autonomous individual capable of free-thinking, is regarded by the adults in her society as a threat to their very way of life.
Nell has everything she could ever need, materially-speaking, but she is severely lacking in human characteristics: where is the love? she leaves the house of her mother with nary a second glance. she visits Harvey almost as an afterthought and though it touches her, it touches her mostly because she realizes Harvey's life could have very well been her own.
Through the primer, Nell has sacrificed all that which makes her human and become someone else's tool leading an army of "Chinese girls .. indoctrinated to form the massive Mouse Army whose main purpose in life is to rescue Nell." What life lies in wait for our hero? Will she ever been fulfilled as a person? One shudders to think about what happens next in this story. Certainly not a utopian society...
(Woah, baby! Everything looks all crazy on my screen today with this new MT update. Yowzaa!)
Anyway... I've been looking into grad school - I figure I've been in school my whole freakin' life, why stop now? Why, I might as well go on to get my master's degree then my doctorate then... I don't know what! The mind boggles at the thought!
So... has anyone heard anything about Emerson College in Boston?
I'm interested in learning more about the college from the perspective of someone who's been there as opposed to the glossy stuff they sent me in the mail. So far, the programs look good - it's a toss up at this point between doing the Media Arts program with a focus on New Media or doing the Creative Writing program and trying to sweet talk my way into talking Media Arts course as well.
Can you design your own major in grad school? I dunno...
So... anyone have any tips for me about applying to grad school?
I am 100% totally in support of gay rights. You can argue with me about it until you are blue in the face, but I can tell you right now that you aren't going to change my mind on this issue. I've written about this issue before, but I've never been particularly vocal about my beliefs because, um, this is a Catholic university and most of my views just don't mesh.
Today is the Day of Silence, a day of, um, silence supported by the GSLEN, a national organization that supports the rights of all people, gay, straight or bi. Although I am totally supportive of the idea, I am not participating today. This is because I didn't find out about it until today and also because I don't know that staying silent is ever going to accomplish anything.
I think it's way awesome that this day is taking place because I am certain that even a few people here and there (such as Lou) who refuse to speak today will draw attention to a cause that needs our attention. That's great.
I, however, am a bit of a talker. So instead of being silent about gay rights - I'm going to talk about it. (not that I don't talk about it anyway.)
Here's what I figure - I can bang whomever I want. The government has no right to state any sort of opinion about who I can or cannot have sex with - and that's what it all boils down to, isn't it? It isn't about "the sanctity of marriage" or anything like that - it's just that some people are uncomfortable thinking about what other people do in the sack.
Well, I say, Keep your dirty minds to yourself, Buckstar! It's none of your damn business. I stay out of your (boring) bedroom; You stay out of mine. Thanks.
That's right. So...
Day of Silence
"The Day of Silence, a project of the Gay, Lesbian and Straight Education Network (GLSEN) in collaboration with the United States Student Association (USSA), is a student-led day of action where those who support making anti-LGBT bias unacceptable in schools take a day-long vow of silence to recognize and protest the discrimination and harassment -- in effect, the silencing -- experienced by LGBT students and their allies."
Thank, Lou, for both showing me this site and taking a vow of a silence. Go you!
Interested in learning more about being active for gay rights? The local chapter of GLSEN (Gay, Lesbian, Straight Education Network) is in Pittsburgh.
We just watched the most depressing movie ever in Spanish class today - El Norte. It was about these kids Rosa and Enrique, a brother and sister from somewhere south of Mexico whose family just got killed by a bunch of soldiers and had to flee their home town. Their options were San Pedro, which wasn't much of an option since everyone there was living in poverty and dangerous circumstances, or they could flee to that most magical of lands: El Norte aka the United States.
They got this dude Ramon, a "coyote", to help them cross the border illegally, crawling through miles of shit tunnel complete with rats galore in order to end up in the U.S. Once they get here, dude takes 'em to this other dude in LA who helps them gets jobs. Within a week of being there, Rosa loses her job when the immigration police raid the sweatshop where she's been ironing clothes, Enrique loses his job when some dude calls the immigration police on him, and in general, everything sucks.
Rosa gets a job cleaning houses with Nacha, where she is unable to figure out how to use the washing machine so does 'em the old-fashioned way, thus getting in trouble for her extra work. Then Enrique gets offered a job as a foreman in a factory in Chicago but there's a catch - No family allowed. So Enrique says no, Rosa vacuums instead of doing laundry.
Just when you think things might start to not suck for our fair heroes, Rosa gets some weird rat-disease just as Enrique decides that moving to Chicago without Rosa is the way to go. Enrique's about to sell out his sister for a green card when Nacha tracks him down and tells him that Rosa's in the hospital and might die. Enrique says "Look, biznitch, I gotta take this job." Alls well that ends well - only not so in this case cuz Rosa dies of the rat-disease and Enrique doesn't take the Chicago job and ends up begging for a crappy awful job. Great.
This movie was so freakin' depressing because it illustrates something I've been thinking about a lot lately - in America, we have EVERYTHING. We want for nothing (except, maybe, a little health insurance so that a trip to the dentist doesn't mean skipping the rent payments for two months or so). We live in clean (mostly) houses with an ample (too ample) supply of food. Everything we could ever need is right at our fingertips.
We don't have to worry about soldiers kicking in our doors while we are sleeping at night, killing our families, raping our sisters, kidnapping our younger brothers. We don't have to work like slaves for pennies a day (we might slave but we're getting more money than lots of people around the world - and our idea of slavery, me with my office job, is a lot different than toiling under the hot sun, sweat pouring down our faces, hoping that we'll still have a job tomorrow.) What did we do to deserve such niceties?
This troubles me a lot - why am I so damn lucky??? For example, I have a laptop computer. For what I spent on that computer (which, I'll be honest, I rarely use since I have a desktop computer as well as access to fine technology both at school and work), a third world country family could live for a week? two weeks? a month? three months? What gives me the right to be so lucky?
Go ahead, try to answer that question. I dare ya.
I'm sitting at work, bored silly and thinking about how much I hate flourescent lights. For weeks, one of the lights overhead has been blinking off and on so much so that I feel like I'm at a really sucky disco and about to have an epiletic seizure. Luckily, today one of the great maintenence gods deemed fit to change the darn bulbs, dropping a box of wire-end things showering all over me like manna from heaven, or something. It was awesome, let me tell you.
I was researching for my upcoming trip, trying to figure out what I wanted to see in Paris and how to get a delicious and cheap meal in the city when I discovered a horror upon horrors that caused me to not wanna research anymore (today, not ever):
BED BUGS!
Gag! Apparently, these little vermin are a big problem at the Friends Hostel in Paris. Which wouldn't be such a big deal considering that I'm here in Greensburg and the Friends Hostel is far, far away in a magical land called France. Only I just made freakin' reservations for a week at the second cheapest hostel in France a'la Friends. Crap.
So I figured, the best bet is to be prepared. So, carefully culled from my googling today, here is my list of how to deal with bed bugs:
1) Do NOT sleep naked in hostel beds. (This should be obvious but I'm just sayin')
2) Bring LYSOL (I couldn't find the word for Lysol in French.. can anyone help me out?)
3) Tea Tree Oil is effective for treating bed bug bites.
4) Some site about volunteering in Calcutta recommended getting plastic bedcovers and pillow cases to prevent bug bites.
5) If your stuff gets infested, toss everything in a dryer on high heat for an hour to kill the buggers.
Ugh. Bed bugs??? *shivers*
Remember that old phrase "Don't Judge A Book By Its Cover" ? Yeah, well I violated that this week. I looked at the cover of James McBride's "Miracle at St. Anna" and thought, "Man, I don't wanna read that!" I was feeling frustrated anyway at some confusion in class - why couldn't I have realized I had to read this book two weeks ago over Easter break? Sha! Yeah, and here's me thinking I was actually ahead with my reading.. dang.
Anyway, after much misgivings and private grumbling, I figured I better pick up the darn book and start reading. So I read... and I read... and I read... and finally my eyes were so tired that I had to go to sleep so I grudgingly put the book down again. Even now, I'm sitting here "writing" about the book thinking about how I'd rather just be "reading" it.
See, I thought the book was going to be one of those "war" books - you know the kind - dull as dishwater, brimming with unnecessary violence, boring as sin. I thought I would have to force myself to get through it, maybe even skip class just so I didn't have to talk about the stupid thing... but no! I love it! Who knew?
It's a book about a war, yes, but it's .... real. These guys aren't heroes, not by U.S. Army standards anyway, but they are good people. Yes, there's violence - Huggs (I think) getting his face blown off in front of Sam Train is a good example, but it's not gratuitous or unnecessary - it's real. One of the images that stands out to me most is the soliders with their backs to the fences feeding the starving Italians that they have been forbidden to feed.
Anyway, I'd write more about it... but I wanna read it. Until I'm finished...
Hey! I meant to blog about this earlier: On Friday, I had my very first experience with eating in the dining hall here on campus! Sweet!
As I was standing in line with my giant tray waiting for some random meat shoved in a pita, I realized that I hadn't eaten cafeteria food since (dum dum duh!) the 90's! Crazy!
I will tell you, however, that cafeteria food has not changed much since those yonder years at Youngstown state when Christman was -the- place to be if you were hungry and fearless. Two, three, meals a day were at Christman - usually a "salad" which really meant "cheese, sunflower seeds, tomatos, and a splash of lettuce" or some french fries - then there's always the standing there in the middle of the dining room searching desperately for a friendly face... too much like high school... gag! I haven't been missing much...
Really though, I like the round tables. Much better than your typical long tables with built in round stool type seats. And the food wasn't as horrible as everyone had warned me it would be. When I told Evan, in a sickenly excited way, that it would be my first dining hall experience, he said, and I quote, "well it may be your last."
I did realize, however, that by not *dining* on campus, I am missing a LOT of social interactivity. Maybe next year I'll get a meal plan... Ah, yes, cafeteria food is the shit... or perhaps I meant to phrase that differently... hmm.
Neal Stephenson's "The Diamond Age: Or, A Young Lady's Illustrated Primer" is a pretty crazy book. The opening passage of Bud with his skull gun was a pretty darn interesting way to start a book subtitled "A Young Lady's Illustrated Primer." It wasn't until pretty far into the book that the reason for the title became clear.
This sentence stood out to me:
"Bud's relationship with the female sex was governed by a gallimaufry of primal impulses, dim suppositions, deranged theories, overheard scraps of conversation, half-remembered pieces of bad advice, and fragments of no-doubt exaggerated anecodtes that amounted to rank superstition." (p.6)
Gallimaufry is a new one for me, and I noticed it used twice thus far in the novel.
Reading through the blogs makes me realize that not a lot of people like this novel so far. I won't say that it's the best novel I've ever read or anything but it's not that bad... It took me about 50 pages to actually understand the storyline and I'm kinda into it now. (Though I have to say that the novel we're reading for American Lit this week is much better! "Miracle at St. Anna" by James McBride. Watch for more about it here.)
I think the biggest problem with reading science fiction for a literature class is that I'm so busy trying to read the story in order to figure out what the heck is going on that I don't have a chance to "stop and smell the roses" as it were and really get anything out of it. (Not so for Chris who knows what's goin' on, yowza!) If it were a shorter piece, I could probably go back and re-read more of it, but a novel just doesn't offer that opportunity.
Oh, and I just -have- to point out this sentence: On page 74, starting with the words "Therapies administered..." and ending 13 lines later with the word "software." Holy crap, that's a long sentence! (It's a good sentence, don't get me wrong, just crammed full!)
As you read this story, I'm sure that you noticed how disjointed the story seemed to be as it leaped from one scene to another. A summary on enotes states, "Houston employs an episodic structure, incorporating flashbacks into her description of a day Lucy spends with a friend, Leo. Only six of the fourteen sections are in the present tense." (This site also mentions that some of the characters in this story appear in other works by Pam Houston.)
In an interview on powells.com, Pam Houston says, "The very word outline sends chills up my spine. If there's one thing I'm adamant about, it's that I don't know where I'm going. If I think even for a second I might know, I do everything I can to confuse myself so I won't know anymore." As Ms. Houston keeps herself guessing, she keeps the readers guessing as well. Since readers today have generally short attention spans, keeping us guessing is a good thing.
Another interview with Ms. Houston says, "Pam Houston doesn't believe there's much difference between fiction and non-fiction. .... "Everything I write is 82 percent true," she said."
Today, Pam Hoston is a Director of Creative Writing at UC Davis in California. She lives part of the year in Colorado (hence the references to both California and Colorado in this story.) She has her own website which includes excerpts from some of her other writing (including this story which is included as an excerpt from her short story collection Waltzing the Cat.) She is a graduate of Denison University in Granville, Ohio.
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Palace of the Fine Arts, San Franscico, California
1915 Panama Pacific Exhibition
The Best Life You Never Had
It's easy to look back over your life and see the choices you coulda/shoulda/woulda made if you had known where you would end up, isn't it? What's the saying... Hindsight is 20/20? As a photographer, Lucy is concerned with vision, not just with appearances as she would like them to be, but as they actually are. For instance, Lucy comments on how she takes the best pictures when no one is paying her to take them - she gives the example of the Asian bride dancing with the chef behind the hedges as her favorite shot.
Why did Lucy move to the city?
After a near-death experience in the Colorado River and being sandwiched between two bad relationship experiences, one with a man and one with a woman, Lucy decides to pick up and move to the city, leaving her old life behind her, hoping that the "straight lines, shiny surfaces, and right angles" of the city would somehow help her find herself. She drives down highway 50 until she reaches San Franscisco:
When she arrives, she takes in the new sights of the city:
The new vegetation -
&
Eucalyptus
The Golden Gate Bridge -
(The same bridge that Leo almost leaps off before realizing his "number" would be the meaningless 251.)
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Lucy is able to live in her idealistic reveries of the city until the day she was "annointed with the nectar of the city gods." Right after we learn about this incident, we learn about Gordon, her abusive stalkerish ex-boyfriend. On the night that Lucy meets Gordon he tells her, "... I am nothing but weak and worthless. So I take the people close to me and try to break them, so they become as week and worthless as me." (p. 772)
Why do you think that Lucy heard these words but didn't think the same would happen to her? Why do people looking for love kid themselves so much? Who hasn't done that?
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Which character in the story has the most realistic expectations of love???
Which character has the best grip on love?
Who is the most unrealistic?
Lucy
Leo
Guinevere
Gordon
Raphael
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What do you think of Guinevere? When she says "You only get a few chances to feel you life all the way through. Before -- you know -- you become unwilling." Do you agree or disagree with that statement? Also, what do you think of the scene with the angel cards when Guinevere says: "I hate that. Last week I had to throw away submit." (p.776)
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Why does Leo say, "Aren't I the best girlfriend you never had?" (p. 773)
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How do you interpret the line: "I love you," Leo says, and takes both my hands in his. "I mean, in the good way." ? (p. 778)
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Why do you think of the incident in the pathfinder when Gordon only brings one pack for the hiking adventure? Do you understand Lucy when she says, "I could tell you the lie I told myself with Gordon. That anybody is better than nobody. And you will know exactly why I stayed in the back of that Pathfinder, unless you are lucky, and then you will not." ? (p. 780)
"You might forget, for example, that you live in a city where people have so many choices they throw words away, or so few they will bleed in your car for a hundred dollars. You might forget eleven or maybe twelve of the sixteen-in-a-row totaled cars. You might forget that you never expected to be alone at thirty-two or that a crazy man might be wiating for you with a gun when you get home tonight or that all the people you know - without exception - have their hearts wrapped around someone who won't ever love them back."
This passage from Pam Houston's "The Best Girlfriend You Never Had" effectively sums up the whole point of the story, perhaps even, if you are feeling generous, the (dum dum dum) Meaning Of Life. I guess the best that you can ever hope for is to get so absorbed in actually living your life that you manage to push all the crappy stuff about life to the wayside. When my best friend and I were talking about life the other day, I said to her that I felt the only way that life becomes bearable is if you realize that you will never understand anything and that everything always changes. If you can deal with those two things, you can deal with the rest of your life.
Is Lucy so different from the rest of us?
Sure, she has a pretty wild family background, with her alcoholic parents and the "sixteen-in-a-row" car accidents caused by her father's driving while drunk and she's constantly tormented by her family's inability to talk about their problems. Lucy says she and Leo have a similiar background that includes "talking about anything on earth except what was wrong." On the New Year's she spends with her family her father says, "We just don't get love right, this family, but..." and Lucy tries for years to make up a suitable ending for that interrupted sentence but never succeeds.
But doesn't everyone have that one moment in time that you wish you could relive? Perhaps it's a moment you regret or a moment you loved or even a moment in life like Lucy's that left you with more questions than answers. That moment might stand bright in your mind as a great "If Only..." moment but as Lucy's story illustrates, you can't relive the past... but the past can keep on coming back to haunt you over and over again.
Do you think if Lucy's family -had- been able to "love right" that she would be in a loving "regular" relationship now? What if Lucy's father -had- liked Jeffrey, the stuffed shirt boyfriend? Would that have magically fixed everything in Lucy's life?
It was interesting to read about the evolution of technology as it relates to Arthur Miller's play "Death of a Salesman." This week for Intro to Lit we read an excerpt from Dr. Jerz's book "Technology in American Drama, 1920-1950."
I didn't know what the word "Ibsenian" referred to but I googled it: Henrik Ibsen was a Norwegian playwright in the 1800s who wrote about crisis in the middle class. A couple sites compared his plays to those of Shakespeare's due to the long-standing relevance of his works. Cool.
It was also cool to see where today's consumer-driven culture got it's started. Before the late 20's, consumer items were pushed based on a functional, utilitarian approach. After the cherry red Chevy's and pretty fountain pens started flooded the market, thereby creating "the American preference for useful art" as well as even dictating consumer tastes. Dr. Jerz writes, "That the public would select a particular consumer item because it was more visually appealing than another presupposes the notion that mechanical goods could be aesthetic as well as utilitarian objects."
Another passage caught my attention:
"Even if the [Parker fountain] pens were sold at a relatively low profit rate, they created a constant need for a supply of ink."
You know what this made me think of? Ink-jet printers! Those suckers make me mad! You shop around, find a deal on a printer for somewhere from $50-80 bucks which usually comes with a starter supply of ink. And you think "Sweet deal!" Then, my friends, you run out of a ink.
And your steal of a printer turns into not such a hot deal afterall when you realize that your standard black ink is going to set you back a good $30 and the color ink is going to cost you more than that.
It has almost gotten to the point that it's more economically sound to wait for a sale on a whole new printer than it is to buy a new ink cartridge. I went through three ink jet printers a few years back until I finally realized that the expensive ink was the whole point of cheap printers and scrimped and saved until I could afford a laser printer.
That was, what, two years ago now? I've bought toner for the thing one time at $70 and, believe me, I print pages and pages of stuff... I bet that $200 investment has paid for itself twice over.
"Pressured by the need to find a large consumer market (made up of regular, repeat customers), manufacturers gradually trained the public to accept the modern consumer lifestyle that informs Death of a Saleman."
And here we are.
Great.
I'm probably about half-way through reading Annie Proulx's "The Half-Skinned Steer" for American Lit this week, and for some reason, the passage about Mero's dream caught my attention. Since I haven't finished the story yet, I thought it might be interesting to interpret the dream to see if it ties in with the ultimate ending of the story. This may be an exercise in futility or it could be neat-o. Take it as you will...
In either case:
In the dream, Mero was in the ranch home he remembers from his childhood:
"A dream of a house may be about a particular place we know or have lived in or may be a fantasized unreal place that we might never have imagined in waking life. The meaning of a house often suggests either the psychological or physical place that we inhabit. The house and what is going on in it may suggest something of what is occurring in our body or our mind during our waking life.
In the story, Mero is returning to a place he once knew to attend the funeral of his brother. So this makes sense.
"The house may remind us of our childhood home with its attendant feelings of belonging and alienation, security and insecurity, conflict and harmony. The house is a psychological extension of our identity and physical being in the world. The different areas of the house may represent different areas of our inner psyche.
Sometimes the house or some of its rooms may be unfamiliar representing unexplored areas of potential within the personality. Exploring an unfamiliar house may represent a new journey of exploration into our own personalities or to work out some psychological problem that resides within our emotional living space. It is fairly common to dream of returning to a house that you knew in childhood. It may represent a return to a familiar situation but with new possibilities."
In the dream, the house is different - the furniture has been removed from the rooms and an army is fighting in the front yard. The house is practically falling apart under the force of the gunshots.
"The feelings and reaction to the house and its inhabitants or contents is crucial to understanding the significance of the house in the dream. It may represent a wish to return to a time of childhood innocence or of a need to move on and leave home by getting on with some unfinished part of one's life."
This dream definitely seems to represent some unfinished part of Mero's life that is very quickly coming to a head. As he was walking through the disintegrating house, he saw buckets of a "dark, coagulated fluid" which probably represents blood.
Two more images stand out:
The Army fighting in the front yard
This seems to represent the conflicts going on in Mero's mind at this point in the story - he is torn by the image of who he wanted to be and the man he has become.
Swoon's dream dictionary writes of army dreams, saying, "This kind of dream indicates obstacles to be overcome; if the army was marching, you will have to travel to achieve your goal. "
Since Mero's on a roadtrip to his childhood haunt, this makes sense.
Finally, we have the image of blood:
Obvious meanings of blood in a dream: Represents the life force, being in a bucket means it ain't in Susy-Q anymore, if you know what I'm saying, so most literally represents the end of a life (makes sense since Brother boy just kicked it). Also, can represent emotional upheavel. One site suggests that dreaming of blood means an end of an emotionally draining time in one's life.
So... what does this mean for our friend Mero?
Well, since short stories are, uh, short, there is no room for extraneous details. So by including this dream sequence, I think that Ms. Proulx is telling us something about Mero. Since he is on his way to his brother's funeral and having weird dreams, I imagine that Mero is about to have a face-to-face confrontation with his past, one that will alter his future. Guess I'll have to keep reading to see...
But a question: What do you think of the use of dream imagery in dreams? Have you ever noted it in other stories and do you think the dream itself ties in with the rest of the piece? Why might Annie Proulx have included this scene in this story?
(Dream Sources - House interpretation, Swoon, Dream Dictionary)
Shizzam! This, my friends, is entry #201! Hard to believe that only 8 months ago, I wrote my very first entry here on the Seton Hill University blog system. I don't think I could say enough positive things about blogging:
1) I get to be part of a large r community of like-minded individuals - we are all here to learn, to get a decent education complete with a college degree that (we hope) will lead us on to bigger and brighter things.
2) My writing has noticeably improved over the last eight months - I've been forced to tailor what I say to suit my audience (less swearing for instance) and to transform "forced blogging" assignments into something that I hope is interesting for other people to read. This is an essential skill for a person who's hoping to make a career of words.
3) I have a ready made audience at my fingertips. This is a great thing.
4) Blogging got me a job! (at the Writing Center with a whole other community of great people! sweet!)
Okay. enough. We now return to our regular programming.
Need cheap airfare within Europe? Try Ryanair! Holy cow, they aren't paying me or nothin' but damn! My "traveling partner" and I got a one-way flight from London to Barcelona, a round-trip flight from Barcelona to Paris, a one-way flight from Barcelona to Frankfurt, and a one-way flight from Frankfurt to London all for the insanely cheap sum of $165 each. That's not $165 for each flight as my dad thought when I told him about it - it's $165 TOTAL for me and $165 total for Rick for all five flights, including taxes and miscellaneous jerkface fees, at an average cost of $33 a flight. Crazy.
Now. If I die in a fiery airplane accident, all positive statements about Ryanair are hereby revoked. Otherwise, Ryanair rocks my world. Sure, the way that Ryanair makes its money is by advertising flights for 99 pence then slapping on a 15 pound taxes / surcharges fee (not to mention the fee for overweight checked luggage but I'm not checking anything), but hey, it's all listed right there, no surprises as yet, and that's a still craaazzzy cheap flight. So, check it.
Oh, yeah: the legal disclaimer -
moira is just a person. a weird one that that. moira is not an expert of anything except perhaps being goofy. if anything moira says is stupid or wrong or both, moira refuses to be held accountable for loss of limbs or respect that result. thank you.
Ryanair has a whole crapload of customer service complaints online - from the food to the baggage handling to the lack of friendliness from the staff - to the extent that I'm basically expecting somebody to dropkick me onto the airplane, tell me to shut up and hold on, then a few minutes/hours later, tell me to "get out."
However, when I read Ryanair's response to all the flack, I though "eh. i can appreciate their philosophy." And when I met a real-life human person who had actually flown Ryanair and SURVIVED... well, I booked the tickets the next day. For $163, I'll take my chances. (Again, if I die 10,000 feet above the ground, all kind and respectful marks are hereby null and void...) Yeah.
Man, Maura Hall is awfully quiet in the mornings. See, for some bizarre reason, I am WAY early for Spanish class today. How the heck did this happen?
I set my alarm for 7:45. I got up, puttered around the house for a while, and at 8:15 Moira Standard Time I left to make the trek up the hill. I've been sitting in the empty classroom for a while, long enough for me to start to wonder if I was in a time warp or class had been magically cancelled or something, long enough for me to get the Spanish homework I didn't do last night done.
Finally, I heard some guy whistling in the hallways and knew that the world wasn't suddenly annihilated by a nuclear blast while I was sleeping last night (It's too darn pretty outside anyway... though I wonder, what does the morning after look like?).
So I slide to the desk next to mine that has a computer that works instead of one that just stares at me sullenly unwilling to obey my commands (this is a good thing or I'd never pay attention in la clase) and, lo and behold and all that jazz, it's only 8:15.
What happened to my time???
Perhaps, and this is possible and it's happened to me before, I really was in a time warp this morning! Perhaps, on the half mile or so (2422 steps according to my pedometer) up the hill, I stepped through a magickal bubble of time that transported me back in time about, oh, 15-20 minutes?
This would be quite an unusual event because I've found that generally time warps have me "late" rather than "early" for an event - why, one time, my best friend (amiga mejor, if you will) and I left a location at the EXACT SAME TIME as the rest of our friends, only to arrive one hour later than the rest. What happened? It remains a mystery to this day!
Speaking of mysteries, have you guys seen the GRIP (Ghost Researchers In Pennsylvania) flyer plastered around campus this week? There's supposed to be a ghost hunt / story time in 5th floor Maura / the cemetary Saturday night at 7 p.m. Anyone know anything about this? Is anyone going?? I'm all about it.
I've been trying to do a ghost hunt for a while... I keep suggesting it to my friends but they generally just give me blank looks and carry on with whatever it was they were doing before I started babbling... Anyway, I'm shooting on being there (5th floor Maura lounge - wherever that is - at 7 p.m.) Perhaps I will see you and some ghostlies folks there. Sweet!
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moon phases |
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