nirinia: (Default)
However screwed up this will sound, the turns American politics - no scratch that, Bush's politics - are taking, interest me, very much. I envy the ones studying it this fall, there is so much going on! Now, having to consider whether or not the System of Checks and Balances have effect would be exceedingly simple, and the essay begging for a 6. Bush is effectively overruling one of the checks on the executive. Not only does Congress no longer enforce their right to declare war (the President simply obtains the right to use necessary force, and if he does not, he prances on to use his veto. However week his support in Congress is, two thirds are not against him.), they do nothing when Bush increases Executive power. Impeachment, someone?

And my inner lepidopterist is poking his head out, though not doing much but studying the butterflies speeding around in my stomach, at present. Knowing him, he will proceed sometime on Sunday, when I am safely in Oxford, squealing of delight in my hotel-room, to capture and name them. I shall make him dub one Vladimir, and another Oscar, if not Ernest. The rest he can do with as he pleases.

Two nights in Oxford, one in Stratford-upon-Avon, one in Bath and the final three (or however many it is, I was never any good at maths) in London. With luck, I can be found somewhere having Afternoon Tea next week, smelling of "Lolita Lempicka" and grinning foolishly.

Harry Potter ends tomorrow, it'll be fun. Or so I hope. I have to make up for leaving doggie behind in Norway. I always feel miserable when we leave him at the kennel, he looks so utterly forlorn.

I think my writing is doing a half-hearted jig beyond the grave (imagine Geoffrey Rush, if you will, in Shawn of the Dead, as a zombie-version of the Marquis, screaming "My writing lives!"), and has given me this: We burn the end of our lives. It might be "the ends", but that is, crudely, it. Any grand ideas, anyone? Other than a boring, married, couple, resigning themselves to something or other? I think they might be burning, or tearing, sheet music - some piece by a Russian, that is somehow their lives, or life.

Apropos, I've made a discovery: I think the reason I can't RP for the life of me, is that my characters are no good for continued plots or story-lines that branch in all sort of peculiar directions, they're made for scenes. They do entrances, and they do exits, but they are not there to prance around in settings they were not created for. They are awkward there, and they do not wish to fit in. They fit into their own stories, plots and exits, and they will not participate in those of others, whomever they are. (Not that they are particularly noteworthy. To have exits and prance around, they really need nothing but a name and something to do. Be that stand in the room across from someone entirely insignificant, or say something so relevant it reeks of cliché.)

Lastly, I apologize for the length and the double post.
nirinia: (Default)
However screwed up this will sound, the turns American politics - no scratch that, Bush's politics - are taking, interest me, very much. I envy the ones studying it this fall, there is so much going on! Now, having to consider whether or not the System of Checks and Balances have effect would be exceedingly simple, and the essay begging for a 6. Bush is effectively overruling one of the checks on the executive. Not only does Congress no longer enforce their right to declare war (the President simply obtains the right to use necessary force, and if he does not, he prances on to use his veto. However week his support in Congress is, two thirds are not against him.), they do nothing when Bush increases Executive power. Impeachment, someone?

And my inner lepidopterist is poking his head out, though not doing much but studying the butterflies speeding around in my stomach, at present. Knowing him, he will proceed sometime on Sunday, when I am safely in Oxford, squealing of delight in my hotel-room, to capture and name them. I shall make him dub one Vladimir, and another Oscar, if not Ernest. The rest he can do with as he pleases.

Two nights in Oxford, one in Stratford-upon-Avon, one in Bath and the final three (or however many it is, I was never any good at maths) in London. With luck, I can be found somewhere having Afternoon Tea next week, smelling of "Lolita Lempicka" and grinning foolishly.

Harry Potter ends tomorrow, it'll be fun. Or so I hope. I have to make up for leaving doggie behind in Norway. I always feel miserable when we leave him at the kennel, he looks so utterly forlorn.

I think my writing is doing a half-hearted jig beyond the grave (imagine Geoffrey Rush, if you will, in Shawn of the Dead, as a zombie-version of the Marquis, screaming "My writing lives!"), and has given me this: We burn the end of our lives. It might be "the ends", but that is, crudely, it. Any grand ideas, anyone? Other than a boring, married, couple, resigning themselves to something or other? I think they might be burning, or tearing, sheet music - some piece by a Russian, that is somehow their lives, or life.

Apropos, I've made a discovery: I think the reason I can't RP for the life of me, is that my characters are no good for continued plots or story-lines that branch in all sort of peculiar directions, they're made for scenes. They do entrances, and they do exits, but they are not there to prance around in settings they were not created for. They are awkward there, and they do not wish to fit in. They fit into their own stories, plots and exits, and they will not participate in those of others, whomever they are. (Not that they are particularly noteworthy. To have exits and prance around, they really need nothing but a name and something to do. Be that stand in the room across from someone entirely insignificant, or say something so relevant it reeks of cliché.)

Lastly, I apologize for the length and the double post.
nirinia: (Default)
Today has been quite lovely. Got ut at around 9, after approximately an hour of reading Dickens in bed - page 243, and counting. Proceeded, post-breakfast, with making notes on the American electoral system, the parties, interest organisations, Presidential elections and a few lines on checks and balances (fondly christened "checks and fucking, or bloody, balances" by yours truly). Due to previous frustrations I now feel particularly accomplished on account of my most recent feat: I understood American Presidential Elections, by reading the woebegone explanation "Tapestry" offers on the subject. Applause, darlings?

And so, feeling all intelligent and confident, I went to school to sit through psychology. Most fruitless endavour of today, seeing how my teacher complained of a terrible headache - she was quite confident she would be going blind if she had to teach us - and informed us that she simply couldn't stand us today. Spent an entire 45 minutes there, and got home after an hour and a half's worth of break from the work.
Ended up skimming through the catalyst of my current situation - the "Module 2" project, my "On Outsiders" - yesterday, and I am vehemently annoyed at school in general, and Vigdis in particular. I wrote beautifully! And now it seems I'll never write that way again. God, I miss it! I miss my creativity; I wish I had Nabokovian promise and ability. I want to write again! I want to publish something, entirely void of point, and to stir people. And I want to write an afterword so irresistibly charming in its arrogance that no one dares analyse a word. (I sound like a spoiled brat, don't I? For, however little it may seem that way, I am horrendously grateful for the opportunity the school, and particularly my teachers, are offering me; I just wish it wouldn't be at the expense of my creative abilities.) I have a few wonderful paragraphs in there, the parenthesis - almost Nabokovian -, the wonderful flow of it all. - I feel like a Romantic, writing about his affection for children's innocence and how "we murder to dissect", orbed to the present and blended with a few cups of "emo".


I think Dickens is bad for me, he makes me long to write magical fiction. He makes me dream of writing like Nabokov did; of writing a Lolita of my own. Yes, Dickens is decidedly bad for me. Nabokov is worse, but they are both so gorgeous. Dickens admittedly a little tedious, and none too great with characters in shades of grey - he prefers them black, white or dis-coloured. And now I'm getting entirely off-track, I set out to write a short post, ending with a "bottom-lined" version of American Politics behind a gracfeul cut, to keep any poor readers from a very boring death, but it didn't quite turn out that way. Now I want to go see Beauty of the Beast or some other Disney movie. Anastacia, perhaps?

My French inabilities annoy me. I need to learn French. 5 years of lessons, and I can hardly compose a text. Much less a sentence without a dictionary. Learn French, or create the theatrical RPG I've been toying with lately?

PS: I can't believe I was compared to this woman on Saturday. If that is even close to how I come off when dressed up, I'll be utterly delighted. But then again, red lips tend to do peculiar things to people.

PPS: It's adorably windy outside tonight. Wind is generally great fun if it's not winter, and I'm not freezing several semi-vital body parts off.

This post has turned ridiculously and pointlessly long. And it is high time I end it. Perhaps I might one day rival Woolf on stream-of-consciousness?
nirinia: (Default)
Today has been quite lovely. Got ut at around 9, after approximately an hour of reading Dickens in bed - page 243, and counting. Proceeded, post-breakfast, with making notes on the American electoral system, the parties, interest organisations, Presidential elections and a few lines on checks and balances (fondly christened "checks and fucking, or bloody, balances" by yours truly). Due to previous frustrations I now feel particularly accomplished on account of my most recent feat: I understood American Presidential Elections, by reading the woebegone explanation "Tapestry" offers on the subject. Applause, darlings?

And so, feeling all intelligent and confident, I went to school to sit through psychology. Most fruitless endavour of today, seeing how my teacher complained of a terrible headache - she was quite confident she would be going blind if she had to teach us - and informed us that she simply couldn't stand us today. Spent an entire 45 minutes there, and got home after an hour and a half's worth of break from the work.
Ended up skimming through the catalyst of my current situation - the "Module 2" project, my "On Outsiders" - yesterday, and I am vehemently annoyed at school in general, and Vigdis in particular. I wrote beautifully! And now it seems I'll never write that way again. God, I miss it! I miss my creativity; I wish I had Nabokovian promise and ability. I want to write again! I want to publish something, entirely void of point, and to stir people. And I want to write an afterword so irresistibly charming in its arrogance that no one dares analyse a word. (I sound like a spoiled brat, don't I? For, however little it may seem that way, I am horrendously grateful for the opportunity the school, and particularly my teachers, are offering me; I just wish it wouldn't be at the expense of my creative abilities.) I have a few wonderful paragraphs in there, the parenthesis - almost Nabokovian -, the wonderful flow of it all. - I feel like a Romantic, writing about his affection for children's innocence and how "we murder to dissect", orbed to the present and blended with a few cups of "emo".


I think Dickens is bad for me, he makes me long to write magical fiction. He makes me dream of writing like Nabokov did; of writing a Lolita of my own. Yes, Dickens is decidedly bad for me. Nabokov is worse, but they are both so gorgeous. Dickens admittedly a little tedious, and none too great with characters in shades of grey - he prefers them black, white or dis-coloured. And now I'm getting entirely off-track, I set out to write a short post, ending with a "bottom-lined" version of American Politics behind a gracfeul cut, to keep any poor readers from a very boring death, but it didn't quite turn out that way. Now I want to go see Beauty of the Beast or some other Disney movie. Anastacia, perhaps?

My French inabilities annoy me. I need to learn French. 5 years of lessons, and I can hardly compose a text. Much less a sentence without a dictionary. Learn French, or create the theatrical RPG I've been toying with lately?

PS: I can't believe I was compared to this woman on Saturday. If that is even close to how I come off when dressed up, I'll be utterly delighted. But then again, red lips tend to do peculiar things to people.

PPS: It's adorably windy outside tonight. Wind is generally great fun if it's not winter, and I'm not freezing several semi-vital body parts off.

This post has turned ridiculously and pointlessly long. And it is high time I end it. Perhaps I might one day rival Woolf on stream-of-consciousness?
nirinia: (Default)
"Tartt taps her Marlboro Gold on the ashtray. She is kind of girl-boy-woman in her lineaments, with lunar-pale skin, spooky light-green eyes, a good-size triangular nose, a high, pixieish voice. With her Norma Desmond sunglasses propped on her dark bobbed hair, her striped boy's shirt and shorts from Gap Kids (the only store whose ready-to-wear fits her), and her ever-present cigarette, she is, somehow, a character of her own fictive creation: precocious sprite from a Cunard Line cruise ship, circa 1920-something. A Wise Child out of Salinger." Stolen from this decade-old interview.

There, the cat is out of the bag, and my dream revealed. I want someone to see me like that. A character of my own fictional creation - not that I'd mind Tartt's gorgeous bob, either - and have people drool over my writing. I want a book with my name on its spine in a bookshelf. I want to be the mysterious writer of obscure prose and root of tounge-twisting sentences.

And as for "Old Maidens" and my interpretation, I'm now positive it went to hell. How are we supposed to know "dressing saints" is a Catholic tradition of some sort? I might be a genius, but I'm not that into Catholic traditions. Pfft, I say.

Talked to Vigdis again yesterday: I'm seeing three Shakespeare-centred films during Christmas, comparing them, discussing "Lord of the Flies" with her, and doing an essay on American Politics (allegedly quite a challenge) and character analysis, respectively. American Politics for dummies, anyone?
nirinia: (Default)
"Tartt taps her Marlboro Gold on the ashtray. She is kind of girl-boy-woman in her lineaments, with lunar-pale skin, spooky light-green eyes, a good-size triangular nose, a high, pixieish voice. With her Norma Desmond sunglasses propped on her dark bobbed hair, her striped boy's shirt and shorts from Gap Kids (the only store whose ready-to-wear fits her), and her ever-present cigarette, she is, somehow, a character of her own fictive creation: precocious sprite from a Cunard Line cruise ship, circa 1920-something. A Wise Child out of Salinger." Stolen from this decade-old interview.

There, the cat is out of the bag, and my dream revealed. I want someone to see me like that. A character of my own fictional creation - not that I'd mind Tartt's gorgeous bob, either - and have people drool over my writing. I want a book with my name on its spine in a bookshelf. I want to be the mysterious writer of obscure prose and root of tounge-twisting sentences.

And as for "Old Maidens" and my interpretation, I'm now positive it went to hell. How are we supposed to know "dressing saints" is a Catholic tradition of some sort? I might be a genius, but I'm not that into Catholic traditions. Pfft, I say.

Talked to Vigdis again yesterday: I'm seeing three Shakespeare-centred films during Christmas, comparing them, discussing "Lord of the Flies" with her, and doing an essay on American Politics (allegedly quite a challenge) and character analysis, respectively. American Politics for dummies, anyone?

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