Alright guys here- I think the easiest way not to get mixed up until Bridget and I figure out how to work the google doc is just to post what we have so far here. And Anna hasn't seen this yet...

The Story…

Characters: Brynja Hawkins, Gaia Amelia, Grace White, Bridget Belove, Ashley Curt, Anna Delia, Ryan Shawn, Lorentz TBD, Hugo Roth.

Setting: A house on stilts by the Sea, right on the beach, with slightly peeling paint. It has a bottle garden, where we keep bottles of people’s souls. And every surface is covered in books.

Tendencies:

General: Wear adorable clothes all the time, have a puppy (Winston?)
Specific:
-Gaia likes Italian men ((Ryan? Wot?)) “Who I meet in Starbucks all the time to have philosophical arguments and he has no idea and it's very tragic and so on and so forth.
But I pretend I'm meeting some mysterious Italian” Gaia lived in Holland, boarding in an eccentric house with a man who spent all his time building airplanes, met Grace in Holland and they ran away to the Carolinas by hot air balloon over the Atlantic Ocean.
-Grace likes the Brits and “I have a mysterious dark contact in the back alleys that I meet with at suspicious hours of the night to rendezvous with my mysterious and jaded past!” ((Rufus? Rusty? Rrrrrrr…)) Moral? Yet, jealous and wrathful. Grace likes to call Gaia “Gaia Mia” -My Gaia ((Italian)). Gaia likes to smack her with whatever is near at the time. She hit Grace with a teapot once. In an adorable way. Grace retaliates and whacks Gaia over the head with Dickens, and then she stole it from her and read aloud until Grace calmed down. Grace enjoys gardening, and keeps small, flowering cacti, beach flowers, and takes care of the few orange and peach trees.
-Brynja likes little Asians, and has a nose for wonderful poetry. She has an affair((?)) with a younger Asian man, and has a mysterious young daughter that she names December Violet. Her daughter is a girl with an Asian face, blonde hair, a crackling wit and a shy persona. In the story she is between 4-7. We’ll see… Brynja’s past is very secret, and aside form her daughter we don’t know much. She met Ashley in a post office while mailing a package to her then deceased grandmother in Tripoli, where we believe she grew up. She and Ashley dated for a few years before they moved in with Brynja’s mysterious half-Asian daughter.
-Ashley
-Bridget
-Anna
-Ryan meets Gaia at a coffee shop everyday for philosophical arguments, has an affair with Grace, then “hates” her; but is passionately in love with the male barista, Lorentz. Out of the girls, he likes Bridget best, who he tends to shy away from more. He lives somewhere mysterious…
-Professor Roth lives hear us, in a small house down the beach. “Rothykins” He is very well liked, a cigarette and pipe smoker, and a closet pervert. He lives in an old, old home down the beach and behind the street. He often sits in the streetlights, his cigarette smoke floating up towards the stars and bathed in gold from the bulb, writing in his notebook. No one knows what, and no one knows why. The girls are happy not to.

Occupations:
Bridget: Published Author… bi
Grace: Published Author… bi
((Neither wildly successful, a few low New York Times Bestseller slots between the two, nothing chart topping.))
Gaia: Violinist in a famous string Quartet… bi
((Widely praised and highly successful… elusive as Johnny Depp))
Brynja: TBD ((Mother?))…bi
Ryan: Fencer… bi
((On off season he spars with his friend, a soldier, and hangs out at the coffee shop. On season, he is nowhere to be found, traveling the world.))
Lorentz: Barista… straight
Ashley Curt: TBD …lesbian
Anna: A tarot card reader … bi.
Hugo: College Professor… straight.

In the End/Misc:
Grace and Gaia grow old together
“The Girls” – Ashley, Brynja, Gaia, Grace, Bridget, December and Anna.

Brynja's description of herself/ December Violet

You’ll usually find Brynja out and about between the hours of four thirty and six forty five, where she is searching for people to buy her food. Otherwise, she’ll be lounging about the house, sipping on soul bottles and sleeping.

Brynja loves telling stories. No, she isn’t an author, she unlearned how to write a long time ago, finding it a waste of her time. If you want to hear her stories, it must come from her, the only thing she’s interested in is mouth to ear communication. The only people she’ll tell stories to for free are the girls she lives with, others must be buy them from her for a price. The current going rate for a short story is a medium white chocolate mocha from Lorentz, or anything equivalent, such as a bowl of cherries or turkey sandwich. Brynja gets clothes from her rhyming stories, usually off the back of the person at the spot. (“A poem story? Well, that t-shirt looks cute.”) But when offered tiny trinkets and curios, Brynja will have a hay-day. She has a vice for shiny objects, and could talk at a person for days in reward for relinquishing a polished plumbob, or deconstructed watch to her. Brynja never asks for work, and is usually only ‘hired’ out of curiosity, boredom, or desire for an alternate reality in which to distract oneself. This said, Brynja often goes for weeks without a job (How she manages to keep herself fed is still a mystery), and other times, finds herself with a surplus of possessions (which she has a bad habit of giving away without fully comprehending her own needs). If her life was any other way, she would not have been content with herself. The one exception to this lifestyle is whenever her daughter is concerned, December’s Violet. The little seven year old is much more mature than her mother, and understands that this hobo way of life is not a healthy one. While her mother sleeps through the day, Devi would walk along the shore and listen. The girl hardly ever speaks, and when confronted in conversation, will normally only answer one syllable, followed either by ‘Mom’ or ‘dad’ (“Devi! How are you today?” Asks Gaia “Good, mom.” Says December’s Violet. “Do you want a cookie, Devi?” Asks Ryan “Yes, dad” says December’s Violet.) Eye contact is not in her vocabulary, believing firmly that should she remove her eyes from the floor, she would trip. She is the only reason Brynja will occasionally go out of her way to tell stories, to feed and clothe her daughter, and give her things a daughter might want, but such gifts usually fall short of what the girl truly needs, which she has yet to reveal to the public.


Random Dialogue- how this Brynja character speaks


“Ashley, Brynja, Gaia, Grace, Bridget, and Anna. Why do all our names begin with either an A, a B, or a G? Someone needs to change their’s to L’Mureal this instant.” Says Brynja.

“You could always change your name.” Says Bridget.

“No I couldn’t.” Brynja responds, and that was the end of that.




OK and I think our first line should be: “Calling all darlings and poppets! Up, up up! Oh come on you usesless set of miscreants I said UP!” I haven't any idea who it is. It could be any one of us. I like the format: Begin with a line of dialogue, introduce setting ( for example "It was a sunny day in Minneapolis...") provide description of place, people, then go to a morning at the lighthouse/dialogue. And I agree we should be writing this as a google document because that makes it a lot easier, no? Also, just to be clear, it's in NC right? Can it be near Elizabeth City? I've never been there but I heart the name and it's on the ocean... (But not in Elizabeth City- if it's in a light house it's rural, no?)

And then today we decided we are going to have Mr. Moos be a character (Grace he's this awesome AP lit teacher who is just... inCREDible. More on that later.) One night there's a terrible storm and everyone freaks out although we pretend we don't- we pretend it's Devi who's freaked out and she finds us very tedious. There's a knock at the door, we all freak out, the door opens and there's a figure *gasp* in the doorway outlined by the lightning flashes... and he says something lovely and Moos-like. He's been sailing on the high seas by himself writing poetry but his boat crashed in the storm so he stays with us for awhile (Yay!) teaching us about poetry and sailing. And Anna has this bizarre religion which she made up which she tries to get everyone else to join (although really she doesn't believe it herself, she's just trying to exploit people) and te only one who actually believes it is Devi. And Anna "believes" Mr Moos is the messiah!

Ohhh it sounds so lovely!

This is from about a month ago but I find it so lovely :) I’ve edited it a little bit… A name for consideration and all the parts where my computer went crazy (i.e. “date rape drugs” :)

Gaia: oh, btw... I know it's rather, ah, sudden... but i've grown to love you as even more than a friend ;);) will you marry me beloved?

Mango: OF COURSE!

Gaia: yes! yay!

Grace: Are we running away to Holland together, or are you afraid of commitment? Can I have an overbearing mother and an absentee father? Can we live in California?

Gaia: yes yes yes! muah! anything you want my little pineapple!

Grace: SSWWWWWEEEEEET BEANS. Okay, here's the story.
We met at a boarding school in France, fell in love despite the wishes of our rich parents, ran away, got caught by Swedish police
Haha, I love story writing so damn bad

Gaia: yes! can we have a pet girraffe?

Grace: And a batmobile.

Gaia: yes!

Grace: Do we live in a modern or classic house?

Gaia: um... I was thinking castle... but maybe that can be our old professor friend we see a lot. we can live in either a country cottage or an apartment in the city?

Grace: A loft with big windows and nice floors?

Or like... contemporary penthouse?

Gaia: loft!

Grace: Haha good choice

And every surface is covered in books, and we wear adorable clothes all the time

Gaia: yes!

and we have a puppy.

Grace: Named... something witty

Gaia: winston perhaps? : ) and you're a famous writer and I'm a... a violinist in a famous string quartet.

Grace: Can we be bi? I wanna have a potential love interest!

Gaia: ok good! I like italian men.

Grace: Mine's british, but I have a mysterious dark contact in the back alleys that I meet with at suspicious hours of the night to rendevous with my mysterious and jaded past!

Gaia: and his name is RUFUS! and mine is really Ryan who I meet in starbucks all the time to have philosophical arguments and he has no idea and it's very tragic and so on and so forth.
but I pretend i'm meeting some mysterious italian

Grace: To decieve me because you fear my jealous wrath?
(I can be rash at times)

Gaia: and bridget and anna and brynja and danny and a bunch of your friends... all go to some university college near by.
indeed.

Grace: Quite.
This is fun

Gaia: you and your MORALS.

Grace: But I thought I was jealous and rash?!

Gaia: you are! but secretly you like ryan too. but HE like the starbucks (male) bartender.
or barista actually

Grace: WHOA.
What a twist

Gaia: : )

Grace: So... who does Ryan like, between the two of us? I'm not having a love affair with him under your and the barista's noses right?

Gaia: no... he likes you better. but he's insanely in love with the male barista. and he pretends he hates you and you pretend you hate him, and naive me keeps trying to make you two friends.

Grace: Ooooh. We should write a story.
Seriously

Gaia: And in the end when we're all old and wrinkly our own true love holds true... or something. yes we should!

Grace: Because we realize that all we've ever had is eachother and then at the end of the day we're a united force!!!!

Gaia: yes!

Grace: I like us a lot!

Gaia: hmmm. what's the name of our old professor friend who lives in the castle? we like him very much.

Grace: Doctor Roth
We call him Rothykins when we're trying to annoy him

Gaia: yes! and his first name is... something old and sexy. hmmm.

Grace: Like.... Hugo.
Or something.
Is Rothykins a closet perv?

Gaia: yes!

Grace: Hugo Roth... me likes
It's like Charlie's angles only.... with lesbians

Gaia: well sort of but he's adorable about it. when he gets that twinkle in his eye... we smack him.
hee hee. gotta love you grace.

Grace: Of course! We are in an open relationship, afterall
Oh, btws, my name in the story is either Juliet or Dinah

Gaia: ok! and mine is either augusta-maud, or ginko rose

Grace: Maude is a good one....
You could be an Amelia. But if I called you Mia, you'd whack me over the head with whatever was near you. Bar nothing.

Gaia: yes! and once I hit you on the head with a tea pot! but NOT like sweeney todd. In an adorable way.

Grace: And then I whacked you over the head with Dickens, and then you stole it from me and read aloud until I calmed down

My "Oscars" Rambling...

Well I s'pose this is rather after the fact but I simply cannot go on any longer without distributing at least some commentary of the Academy Awards. It's funny- before Interlochen the Oscars were nothing near a "big deal" to me- but after living in close quarters with passionate theater majors for a year they are my whole world for the week surrounding the event. Although I happen to think that this year was not exactly the most spectacular for movies- Dark Knight owes about eighty percent of its magnificence to Ledger's outstanding performance, Slumdog wasn't bad- and yes, absolutely brilliant for the circumstances- but the "hardcore fairytale" concept just struck a not so pleased chord with me, and both The Reader and Revolutionary Road were both masterful films of the finest quality but emotionally exhausting and heart-wrenching throughout. Of the films I truly loved this year only two were recognized- and just barely: Vicki Christina Barcelona and Milk- well alright Wall-E was simply fab too, I admit. (I am astounded that Australia, Let the Right One In, Son of Rambow, and The Secret Life of Bees were nominated for almost nothing. Well- not so much The Secret Life of Bees- it was your typical family film, but the cinematography and editing, not to mention performances in that film were just lovely.) And I cannot believe that MILK ONLY WON TWO OSCARS! It's an outrage- that film was one of the best I have ever seen- and Slumdog for score?! Yes the film was good but both Milk's and Wall-E's scores were ethereal compared to Slumdog's. And editing?! My only solid criticism in Slumdog was how badly cut up it was- and how bizarre the transitions were. *shakes head in disgust* As for Benjamin Button and Doubt- I havn't seen either (yet)- but I'm positive Doubt will join the ranks of the masterful bleak along with Revolutionary Road and the Reader.
Now on to the good part- OMG! THOSE DRESSES! Although really- what was with all the white and black? And Sophia Loren and... that one award-giver-woman for supporting actress... wearing that looowwww dress that was in such terrible taste... you'd think people who can afford Dior would at least try. As for my favorites- Penelope Cruz and Frieda Pinto. Gorgeous. :) Btw was there something wrong with Jennifer Aniston's face, just wondering? She did not crack a smile once nd her face looked... frozen. I was thinking perhaps fresh from a little plastic here and there? In any case it was rather odd. And omg! Cuteness! Alright- even though I didn't like his music Slumdog's composer AR Rahman was SO ADORABLE! As was the Japanese man... I was crooning. (Sankou... my family, Sankou.. academy... etc etc) And the skit with Portman from overbearded man? SO NOT FUNNY! Cinematography is a huge thing, I can't believe the Academy would want to detract from it with such dull humor. And Jackman was beautiful, of course, but I personally didn't find his parody/skit/musical thing in the beginning all that hilarious. (Although whoah! Anne Hathaway has a VOICE!)
Lastly- I am completely overjoyed with all the actors/actresses. When Sean Penn won I screamed. And Winslet's speech was lovely :)
Anyway- I ought to be off now but I'll leave pics of my favorite dresses. And oh! The Bollywood thing with the songs? Awesome :).

Buahaha. So I'm at school and I was listening to Switchfoot and this kid comes up to me and he's like "Is that Switchfoot?" And I'm all like "Yeah." And he's all like "I thought you were Jewish." (like I'm betraying my religion by listening to a Christian rock band. Sheesh.) And I'm like "Yeah, I think their modulations are so totally hardcore." And he's just like: "Oh."


...Maybe you had to be there...

Uh-oh

What I have to do this weekend:

-2 6-page (each) journals, due... about a month ago
-1 history composition, due... about a month ago
-our last 6 Physics assignments which I never handed in, plus the one due Tuesday
-three math assignments from last week...
-study for a ginormous history test
-make a rough-draft of the English paper due Tuesday
-clean my room
-practice for my lesson in... 2 hours

What I'm doing right now:

-surfing the internet

...Oh Goddamnit...

This just in:

GUYS!!! OMG OMG OMG!!!!!!!!!!!
Guess what? Emily Dickinson, Edgar Allen Poe, Robert Frost, AND Hemingway WERE ALL AMERICAN!
...I just found this out...

Forgotten

Dusty room

remembering its prime

When the phonograph

Sang Piaf

And the couple was young

Now

The little cat is dead

The old man no longer remembers and

the old woman only remembers

The room,

a lonely dusty parlor

Longs for the lost conversations

With the laughing lamps

Then lit with bright suns

That now hold-

Only empty moons



INPUT MUCH DESIRED!!!

Gah! You know what I realised the other day? MORALS ARE RELATIVE. I don't like that... It sounds too cynical, you know? BUT IT'S SO TRUE. HMPH. Well actually I only just realised it about an hour ago- finishing my history essay. The one that was due... a month ago? *sigh* And speaking of which- I'm really quite upset- Mr. Bell has decided he couldn't possibly allow me to take AP Euro next year, on the basis that I never turn in my homework. GRRRRRR!!! I could cry. not that I'm not to blame... but European history is, like, my LIFE! And he told me MONTHS ago he wanted me to take the course because I'm brilliant or something.

MRRRJSd,hdgs.d!!!!!!!!!

Well- I have a plan. I'm going to take Modern World next year, get 100s on everything and then take both AP US and AP Euro my junior year. Should be fun...

Sigh. Anyway, I have a complaint to make- NO ONE WRITES ON THEIR BLOGS ANYMORE! What is up with you guys? Excepting Anna of course.

Well off I go to fume some more. Sorry to post such utterly uneloquent BS...

I apologise for the, ah, technical difficulties...

सोऊ उम्... आईटी सीम्स माय कंप्यूटर हस देसिदेद तो बायकाट इंग्लिश? और सोमेथिंग? आईटी'स दोंग थिस रेअल्ली वेइर्द कोन्वेर्तिंग थिंग्स तो हिन्दी एवेरी टाइम इ फिनिश अ वर्ड। अस इ कैन'टी स्पेअक हिन्दी थिस इस गेत्तिंग रेअल्ली अन्नोयिंग... थिस इस... वो। इ ऍम ओफ्फिसिअल्ली फ्रेअकेद आउट? अ लील बीत। मेब्बे। ग्र्र्र्र्र्र्र्र!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

वेल ह्म्फ। ओह माय गोद!!!!!!! हिन्दी?! व्त्फ़! व्त्फ़! थिस इस अवेसोमे। आईटी'स कोन्वेर्तिंग एवेर्य्थिंग इ से इन्तो अनोठेर लैंगुएज। माय कंप्यूटर इस सो इंसाने। ओह!!!! थिस इस सो कूल!!! झेफ्ल्स ल्ज्श्द्फ्ब्ल आक्द्फ्ज्कल्द्फ़ स्द्द्ज्फ्ज्ग्स्द्ल्वयूह्र हे हे हे हे हीईईई

"Cats
Cats symbolize instinct and the female side of the self. If you see a cat in your dreams it might be a sign of developing your intuitive powers. However, if you are being attacked by a cat, beware of fake friends. If there’s a cat screeching in your dream, beware of gossip. A purring cat promises happiness."

-http://www.personalityquiz.net/profiles/dreams.htm

Hahahahaha... I am having WAY too much fun...

TEEE HEE HEEE!!!! This is hilarious!!! GO TO IT NOW! heee heeeee....

http://www.personalityquiz.net/profiles/refrigerator.htm

Anna's personality test thing...

gah! personality test was RIGHT for once? huh. i am suspicious!

messy, tough, disorganized, fearless, not rule conscious, likes the unknown, rarely worries, rash, attracted to the counter culture, rarely irritated, positive, resilient, abstract, not a perfectionist, risk taker, strange, weird, self reliant, leisurely, dangerous, anti-authority, trusting, optimistic, positive, thrill seeker, likes bizarre things, sarcastic

...whoah. except I definitely AM a perfectionist.

http://similarminds.com/global5.html

Mothy

She trails untucked
Curls- twirling ballerinas
Leap, and leap again
They might- But hair
Holds fast to head.

Surrounding her this aura
Of chattering disarray
From greybrown hedge untrimmed
Springs pandemonium,
Chaotic mass of restless stars.

That sizzling halo-
Crackling wit, fiery temper-
Lights bright torches
In darkbrown eyes
O flashing-eyed Athena!

Scent of rosemary, clamorous
Song and spices of the kitchen
Her lair, her reign a cheerful
Hubbub crashing banging potsandpans
Warm heart and hearth

Screeching, calling, singing,
Sighing wild woman

oh whom i love

And cling to like

A feather to its nest
-Dear Mothy


__________
Yeee :) it's 1.07- AM. I've been editing this since 9.00 but I'm not sure about it. Bridget, Anna- did you like it better before? Sorry for being such a pill about this one poem :) and Mango- this is the one I was telling you about! But I'm not sure...

Lionizing- By Poe

This is so amazing. It just rocks my world. Yes it's long but... Come ON! It's POE!

I AM - that is to say I was - a great man; but I am neither the
author of Junius nor the man in the mask; for my name, I believe, is
Robert Jones, and I was born somewhere in the city of Fum-Fudge.

The first action of my life was the taking hold of my nose with
both hands. My mother saw this and called me a genius: my father wept
for joy and presented me with a treatise on Nosology. This I mastered
before I was breeched.

I now began to feel my way in the science, and soon came to
understand that, provided a man had a nose sufficiently conspicuous
he might, by merely following it, arrive at a Lionship. But my
attention was not confined to theories alone. Every morning I gave my
proboscis a couple of pulls and swallowed a half dozen of drams.

When I came of age my father asked me, one day, If I would step
with him into his study.

"My son," said he, when we were seated, "what is the chief end of
your existence?"

"My father," I answered, "it is the study of Nosology."

"And what, Robert," he inquired, "is Nosology?"

"Sir," I said, "it is the Science of Noses."

"And can you tell me," he demanded, "what is the meaning of a
nose?"

"A nose, my father;" I replied, greatly softened, "has been
variously defined by about a thousand different authors." [Here I
pulled out my watch.] "It is now noon or thereabouts - we shall have
time enough to get through with them all before midnight. To commence
then: - The nose, according to Bartholinus, is that protuberance --
that bump - that excrescence - that - "

"Will do, Robert," interrupted the good old gentleman. "I am
thunderstruck at the extent of your information - I am positively --
upon my soul." [Here he closed his eyes and placed his hand upon his
heart.] "Come here!" [Here he took me by the arm.] "Your education
may now be considered as finished - it is high time you should
scuffle for yourself - and you cannot do a better thing than merely
follow your nose -- so - so - so - " [Here he kicked me down stairs
and out of the door] - "so get out of my house, and God bless you!"

As I felt within me the divine afflatus, I considered this
accident rather fortunate than otherwise. I resolved to be guided by
the paternal advice. I determined to follow my nose. I gave it a pull
or two upon the spot, and wrote a pamphlet on Nosology forthwith.

All Fum-Fudge was in an uproar.

"Wonderful genius!" said the Quarterly.

"Superb physiologist!" said the Westminster.

"Clever fellow!" said the Foreign.

"Fine writer!" said the Edinburgh.

"Profound thinker!" said the Dublin.

"Great man!" said Bentley.

"Divine soul!" said Fraser.

"One of us!" said Blackwood.

"Who can he be?" said Mrs. Bas-Bleu.

"What can he be?" said big Miss Bas-Bleu.

"Where can he be?" said little Miss Bas-Bleu. - But I paid these
people no attention whatever - I just stepped into the shop of an
artist.

The Duchess of Bless-my-Soul was sitting for her portrait; the
Marquis of So-and-So was holding the Duchess' poodle; the Earl of
This-and-That was flirting with her salts; and his Royal Highness of
Touch-me-Not was leaning upon the back of her chair.

I approached the artist and turned up my nose.

"Oh, beautiful!" sighed her Grace.

"Oh my!" lisped the Marquis.

"Oh, shocking!" groaned the Earl.

"Oh, abominable!" growled his Royal Highness.

"What will you take for it?" asked the artist.

"For his nose!" shouted her Grace.

"A thousand pounds," said I, sitting down.

"A thousand pounds?" inquired the artist, musingly.

"A thousand pounds," said I.

"Beautiful!" said he, entranced.

"A thousand pounds," said I.

"Do you warrant it?" he asked, turning the nose to the light.

"I do," said I, blowing it well.

"Is it quite original?" he inquired; touching it with reverence.

"Humph!" said I, twisting it to one side.

"Has no copy been taken?" he demanded, surveying it through a
microscope.

"None," said I, turning it up.

"Admirable!" he ejaculated, thrown quite off his guard by the beauty
of the manoeuvre.

"A thousand pounds," said I.

"A thousand pounds?" said he.

"Precisely," said I.

"A thousand pounds?" said he.

"Just so," said I.

"You shall have them," said he. "What a piece of virtu!" So he drew
me a check upon the spot, and took a sketch of my nose. I engaged
rooms in Jermyn street, and sent her Majesty the ninety-ninth edition
of the "Nosology," with a portrait of the proboscis. - That sad
little rake, the Prince of Wales, invited me to dinner.

We were all lions and recherchés.

There was a modern Platonist. He quoted Porphyry, Iamblicus,
Plotinus, Proclus, Hierocles, Maximus Tyrius, and Syrianus.

There was a human-perfectibility man. He quoted Turgot, Price,
Priestly, Condorcet, De Stael, and the "Ambitious Student in Ill
Health."

There was Sir Positive Paradox. He observed that all fools were
philosophers, and that all philosophers were fools.

There was Æstheticus Ethix. He spoke of fire, unity, and atoms;
bi-part and pre-existent soul; affinity and discord; primitive
intelligence and homöomeria.

There was Theologos Theology. He talked of Eusebius and Arianus;
heresy and the Council of Nice; Puseyism and consubstantialism;
Homousios and Homouioisios.

There was Fricassée from the Rocher de Cancale. He mentioned Muriton
of red tongue; cauliflowers with velouté sauce; veal à la St.
Menehoult; marinade à la St. Florentin; and orange jellies en
mosäiques.

There was Bibulus O'Bumper. He touched upon Latour and Markbrünnen;
upon Mousseux and Chambertin; upon Richbourg and St. George; upon
Haubrion, Leonville, and Medoc; upon Barac and Preignac; upon Grâve,
upon Sauterne, upon Lafitte, and upon St. Peray. He shook his head at
Clos de Vougeot, and told, with his eyes shut, the difference between
Sherry and Amontillado.

There was Signor Tintontintino from Florence. He discoursed of
Cimabué, Arpino, Carpaccio, and Argostino - of the gloom of
Caravaggio, of the amenity of Albano, of the colors of Titian, of the
frows of Rubens, and of the waggeries of Jan Steen.

There was the President of the Fum-Fudge University. He was of
opinion that the moon was called Bendis in Thrace, Bubastis in Egypt,
Dian in Rome, and Artemis in Greece. There was a Grand Turk from
Stamboul. He could not help thinking that the angels were horses,
cocks, and bulls; that somebody in the sixth heaven had seventy
thousand heads; and that the earth was supported by a sky-blue cow
with an incalculable number of green horns.

There was Delphinus Polyglott. He told us what had become of the
eighty-three lost tragedies of Æschylus; of the fifty-four orations
of Isæus; of the three hundred and ninety-one speeches of Lysias; of
the hundred and eighty treatises of Theophrastus; of the eighth book
of the conic sections of Apollonius; of Pindar's hymns and
dithyrambics; and of the five and forty tragedies of Homer Junior.

There was Ferdinand Fitz-Fossillus Feltspar. He informed us all about
internal fires and tertiary formations; about äeriforms, fluidiforms,
and solidiforms; about quartz and marl; about schist and schorl;
about gypsum and trap; about talc and calc; about blende and
horn-blende; about mica-slate and pudding-stone; about cyanite and
lepidolite; about hematite and tremolite; about antimony and
calcedony; about manganese and whatever you please.

There was myself. I spoke of myself; - of myself, of myself, of
myself; - of Nosology, of my pamphlet, and of myself. I turned up my
nose, and I spoke of myself.

"Marvellous clever man!" said the Prince.

"Superb!" said his guests: - and next morning her Grace of
Bless-my-Soul paid me a visit.

"Will you go to Almack's, pretty creature?" she said, tapping me
under the chin.

"Upon honor," said I.

"Nose and all?" she asked.

"As I live," I replied.

"Here then is a card, my life. Shall I say you will be there?"

"Dear Duchess, with all my heart."

"Pshaw, no! - but with all your nose?"

"Every bit of it, my love," said I: so I gave it a twist or two, and
found myself at Almack's. The rooms were crowded to suffocation.

"He is coming!" said somebody on the staircase.

"He is coming!" said somebody farther up.

"He is coming!" said somebody farther still.

"He is come!" exclaimed the Duchess. "He is come, the little love!" -
and, seizing me firmly by both hands, she kissed me thrice upon the
nose. A marked sensation immediately ensued.

"Diavolo!" cried Count Capricornutti.

"Dios guarda!" muttered Don Stiletto.

"Mille tonnerres!" ejaculated the Prince de Grenouille.

"Tousand teufel!" growled the Elector of Bluddennuff.

It was not to be borne. I grew angry. I turned short upon
Bluddennuff.

"Sir!" said I to him, "you are a baboon."

"Sir," he replied, after a pause, "Donner und Blitzen!"

This was all that could be desired. We exchanged cards. At
Chalk-Farm, the next morning, I shot off his nose - and then called
upon my friends.

"Bête!" said the first.

"Fool!" said the second.

"Dolt!" said the third.

"Ass!" said the fourth.

"Ninny!" said the fifth.

"Noodle!" said the sixth.

"Be off!" said the seventh.

At all this I felt mortified, and so called upon my father.

"Father," I asked, "what is the chief end of my existence?"

"My son," he replied, "it is still the study of Nosology; but in
hitting the Elector upon the nose you have overshot your mark. You
have a fine nose, it is true; but then Bluddennuff has none. You are
damned, and he has become the hero of the day. I grant you that in
Fum-Fudge the greatness of a lion is in proportion to the size of his
proboscis - but, good heavens! there is no competing with a lion who
has no proboscis at all."

Mango's epic google game

Gaia needs more anti-semites.
Gaia looks like typos.
Gaia says some alarming things.
Gaia wants you to eat your s’mores cold.
Gaia does not want to solely appeal to any.
Gaia hates morons.
“Can you shows us the way” Gaia asks grasping on to Fanatic’s hand.
Gaia likes little boys.
Gaia eats semicolons and no one seems to notice.
Gaia wears a red shirt with white puffy circle shelves.
Gaia was arrested for things she posted on a website about UFOs.
Gaia loves you just as much as us.


http://welcometoupsidetown.blogspot.com/2009/01/how-to-play-google-your-name-and-verb.html

Ew. it's a Monday. 'Nuff said.

wtf?

DuDe! like dUdE!!! blogger time is WRONG man. it is 1.06 in the morning! yeaaaahhh! woot woot nd toot toot and trains and cars and little red convertibles, man!!! i'm pulling an all-nighter to write my history essay. and my "journal." damn you, schmultz. corrupting innocent freshmen with insomnia... shame, shame. then again... i pulled my first allnigter in sixth grade. we were supposed to write, like, this myth story thing for english... (which back then was english/history, oh those golden days...) and i, as usual, procrastinated 'till the night before it was due, stayed up the entire night, finished with 10 pages of some very eloquent sixth-grade bullshit (i think mine was about like, three princesses and a magical violin.. yeah, sounds lame but it was actually pretty sweet,) and totally BLEW MY TEACHERS MIND!!!! ...with my pretentious awesomeness. woot woot. how totally gauche- i'm BRAGGING. haha. gauche sounds like it means something chic but it DOESN'T. haha- FOOLED YOU, eh?
anyway... back to those assignments i, ah, still haven't started. (you know what makes me happy? italics. they're so cool.) I have to write two journal entries on two different poems- each a frickin page long... something else that's like an essay that should be a page and a half long, and something responding to something somedody said. that's supposed to be a page long. SOMEBODY SAY SOMETHING QUICK!!! hahaha... dude. i feel happy, man. like i think i'm gonna go to engrish.com and laugh till i pass out happy. and i also have to write this history essay about I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK IT SHOULD BE ABOUT! socrates and plato. no seriously- that's all he told us. i hate open-minded teachers. well, no, actually i don't... but i HAVE NO IDEA WHAT TO WRITE ABOUT! gahhhHHH!!! and this essay was due last tuesday, nd the journal was due last wednesday. haha. not really. i'm not actually laughing. in fact... i look quite somber. i could be writing an effin WILL man.
dude. you know what just occurred to me? i don't know why i'm writing on my blog. like- this is a block of total idiocy. haha. cool, man. i'm freshman. freshmen are supposed to be idiots... by like definition. woot. woot.

Snort. Moody much?

I am in despair. Nail-biting, hair wrenching, tantrum-throwing despair.
I suppose I've finally accepted that I can't write. Truly. And if I wasn't so goddamn PRETENTIOUS I could simply get on with my life. But I can't. It goes against my nature. My so-called intellectual nature. Pretentious indeed.
Let me explain: I am a mockingbird. Which is to say that I can mimic- oh yes, I'm incredibly skilled at that- but I have not a drop of creativity in my body. I have the desire, heavens yes, but to be completely honest- I am a thief. I write what I read. Which is why I can sometimes be mistaken for a writer- in that I grasp syntax, and the whole art of stringing words together- but words essentially hate me. This is why it takes me six hours to write a 1-page paper. Every time I sit down to write, a horrifically bloody battle between me and my vocabulary takes place. Words just... don't like me. If only the feeling was mutual. And this, as I've finally figured out, is why poetry just refuses to be my friend.
Hmph.
(*cough cough * EMO *cough cough*)

Viva Che!

Last night mom and I saw "Che" at the Uptown. It was- 4 and a half hours of epic amazingness. Go see it. Now.

Hormones Can Go Rot In HELL

Damnit. I HATE boys. I hate them I hate them I hate them!!!! WAHHHHH!!!!
So... I like a boy. A new one. A senior- surprise, surprise. I like, like, three guys right now... all of them seniors. All of them... completely and utterly hopeless. And all of them perfect specimens of "cute boy nerd". I HATE BOYS!!!!!!!!
Damnit. I feel so pathetic. Complaining about my insignificant cliche crushes to the wide world of blogging. And the internet. Hmmm. You know I think I'm going to make the viewing of this blog a tidbit more private...

Why yes Gaia IS in essense a coffee bean...

Yeeeee!!! I... love my life I love my life I love my life I love my life I love my life!! ...Well, er, school that is. My home life is rather less than, ah, desirable. But I spend 7 AM to 6 PM at Breck/on route to school so I s'pose that doesn't matter much.
GAH! You know what occurred to me the other day or so? WHAT IF THERE WERE NO NEW PEOPLE THIS YEAR?! I mean, mon dieu, I would... I would probably have killed myself by now! Haha. That sounds rather funny in retrospect. No, I don't have some bizarre fetish for novelty or anything, it just so happens that all my very good friends are new this year... excepting Georgia. I mean it's actually a little startling... Anna, Bridget, Taylor, Yvonne.... Grascious. I mean yes, I'm still besties with the old gang more or less, but the people who make my life HAPPYYYY!!! are, well, mostly new. Sigh. I am overwhelmed with fondness for those dears. Tear, tear.
Anyway... in other news, I simply must share a little tidbit- I actually managed to finish the entire stack of Ars Nova poetry last night!!! Gasp!!! An accomplishment indeed, I assure you. If you happen to be unfamiliar with the dark endless abyss of misery that is the Ars Nova file box, let me tell you- it is HELL. Right now we have about three hundred poems that are so horrendous they should never have seen the light of day... but we're not allowed to throw them away until the majority of the club reads them and adds their much-valued "no". So- I took it upon myself wednesday last that I would finish the god-be-damned stack whatever the cost. And... I did!!!It took about six hours. And... I didn't get any of my homework done! But that is such a small cost I'm willing to bear it.
And... I'm still in love with a tall blue-eyed young man. Who thinks my name is Jan. Well he doesn't actually but he might as well... Sigh. Oh senior boys. They exist only to torture freshman girls, eh?
Well, off I go. I think I'll skip to lunch. I really am ecstatically happy. Grilled Cheese!!!

Ohhh dear... Why Gaia should stay away from poetry...

-Walking down Appleblossom Street singing about goblins with a pointy object in my hand

There’s a girl with a red umbrella
Walking down the street
Her heart has gone for a ‘fella
She dreams of when they’ll next meet

She’s decided she’s in love
With a tall blueeyed young man
But he doesn’t know her from a dove
And her name he thinks is Jan

The girl with the red umbrella
Is a sorry case indeed
Fed up with this world of bellas
She decided to go her own way
Drinking heartless poisons
To wash down the moldy cheese
And her umbrella isn’t really red
It’s black
Daddy will never know
Who took his blueberry bagel




Dinosaur!

Jingle Bells Jingle Bells
Don’t eat yellow snow
Because I will eat your impressionist hogwash

Which is why the girl was eaten. DUH. That wasn't no ordinary blueberry bagle...



-76741

Fresh snowfall

Hmph.

Eek! Boys! I hate boys. I mean, they're nice to look at... but GOD! They're so... STUPID! and... arrogant! grr...

PROFANITY PROFANITY PROFANITY HEY DIDDLE DIDDLE DO

GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!! FUCK YOU WORLD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!



..Sorry bout that. I just had to, ah, spout that out. Although truthfully I'm actually, erm, not really in a torrid rage or anything. I'm just... really bored. And my mind is playing tricks on me. It's trying to make me think I'm sad/angry/ecstatic/worried/jealous.... but in retrospect I'm just bored. Has that ever happened to you before? It seems to happen to me a lot...
Then again I might actually be all those things. I'm sad because I wish I was happy, I'm angry because I haven't been able to write for three weeks, I'm ecstatic because I'm young and invincible, I'm worried because it's 9. 30 and I haven't done any of my homework yet, and I'm jealous because all my friends can write poetry and I can't.... Insert half-hearted Grr. Or maybe I'm really... just bored. Maybe I'm, like, Benjamin Button and I'm having my mid-life crisis when I'm 15. Except that statement doesn't really make any sense.
I just realized today that my own perception of myself and everyone else's perception of me are total opposites and I'm not really sure how to feel about that. Grr. Maybe I'm actually insane. Or maybe I'm the only sane one and everyone else is insane. But that sounds a trifle arrogant. I wish I was an astronaut...

Soliloquy of the Solipsist

Gaia is omg moment! omg! omg! omg! sylvia plath! you make me so happy. i am so happy! happy happy happy!( now if only french didn't suck me into an empty bleak abyss of hell at the end of every school day...)
so today during english we just went to the library and read poetry. like, the whole period. i love my life. I love poetry. I've always loved poetry. Ok- not exactly true I used to think it was self-involved and scoffed at it in all my sixth grade wisdom, but the point is that for the last few years I've really liked it, enjoyed it, and thought it was beautiful even if i never understood wat the poet was getting at. I enjoy reading Emily Dickinson because she never makes sense her words are just beauty in themselves, and the same with all the other poets i've ever read. But Sylvia Plath- she, like, speaks to me, man. Like I could just read her forever on. Her voice sounds like a friend. And I don't mean that in the cheesy way, sorry. I mean I know her. Or at least I feel like I do.

This poem makes my life.

Soliloquy of the Solipsist

I?
I walk alone;
The midnight street
Spins itself from under my feet;
When my eyes shut
These dreaming houses all snuff out;
Through a whim of mine
Over gables the moon's celestial onion
Hangs high.

I
Make houses shrink
And trees diminish
By going far; my look's leash
Dangles the puppet-people
Who, unaware how they dwindle,
Laugh, kiss, get drunk,
Nor guess that if I choose to blink
They die.

I
When in good humor,
Give grass its green
Blazon sky blue, and endow the sun
With gold;
Yet, in my wintriest moods, I hold
Absolute power
To boycott any color and forbid any flower
To be.

I
Know you appear
Vivid at my side,
Denying you sprang out of my head,
Claiming you feel
Love fiery enough to prove flesh real,
Though it's quite clear
All you beauty, all your wit, is a gift, my dear,
From me.

sigh.

omg! modulations make me cry. to build a home is the only song whose WHOLE SONG is just as cool as the beginning, know what i mean? and does anyone else think viva la vida should just go fall out of a tree and DIE?

Lalala

Tee hee! i love my music! i LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE it!!! Mwah! Grace Kelly, The Emo Song, Milkshake, Bruises, Bleed like Me... omg! i'm in LOVE! with The Current. What would we Do without our indie-music radio station? happiness! why don't we have music playing ALL the time?! What is WRONG with people?! It should, like, be a LAW! There has to be music playing all the time in every single building. And noone would allowed to play a song twice in a YEAR AND A HALF. Yeee! I LOVE MUSIC!!!
ok so Today was like good then bad then good then bad then worse then AMAZING. I hate my french teacher! oh my god! she has such an EGO! she's like the antiteacher! gah! so one of the questions on our homework was "what's smaller than a mile" and i put "centimeter" and she comes over and starts yelling "no! it's a kilometer!" and then puts a big red zero on my paper. wtf? i mean ok so i knew what they meant... but it's the QUESTION'S fault! not mine! and my french teacher is still a total bitch. no really. (oooh! profanity! how badass is that?! damn straight i AM just soaking in my badassness)
lalala i feel high. my writing's all... not eloquent-ish!!! dododo that's okay. i think i'm gonna go twirl in circles in the freshman hallway. woot. awmg! music! i love you!

Jasper is purring very very loudly in my ear. Stop it. Gosh. You're so annoying. Now he's licking my neck. gah! you creeper!

Yeee! New blog! So... I caved. To put it briefly-ish... I deleted my blog, gmail, and facebook about a month ago because I am of the opinion that technology will be our eventual destruction/enemy of the arts etc. etc. No, I haven't changed my mind- I'm just, ah, throwing up my hands becasue I like my friends too much. Sigh. The things I do for you guys... Anyway, yeah, new blog, new gmail... I suppose it's rather appropriate for the new year. ...Ha. Ha.

In recent news... I made my first youtube video! It's, like, a rite of passage! (Eat It didn't count, as Collin technically "made it" in the first place.)
I found new music and makes me so happy! Hip hip for indie bands!
New semester and I've turned in all my homework on time so far. Yay me. I predict this will last, um, till the end of the week...

Well off I go. Jasper's nibbling my hand and staring at me imploringly. I have a feeling he's trying to tell me something...

Tuesday, December 9, 2008- Clockwork

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
It never stops.
Boring into my brain as if it were being amplified across an empty stadium, it is proving decidedly impossible to ignore.
Cold, hard, shiny, and decidedly unsympathetic, the clock surveys its victim atop a tall, formidable-looking bookcase, whose shelves contain fat computer manuals and musty dictionaries. With its painfully bright lamp and menacing stacks of papers, my mother’s study is not the coziest of chambers.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Like the sound of a cracking whip.
Nervously, I steal a glance at my surveyor. He stares back- unblinking and unmerciful. Round and round they go, clock’s hands. I grow worried. Dead metal- I am enslaved to a mechanical dictator. Eyes down, I busy myself with my work.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
I am momentarily struck with the humor- I am terrified of an inanimate object the size of my fist- and then with yet another glance up and a sharp pang as I read the clock’s malicious expression, the smile is instantly wiped off my face. My heart rate increases slightly. The clock appears smug, evil. The menacing lamp and my unfeeling dictator seem to be in league- his cool polished surface draws the light and thus my attention. Even the numbers appear hostile- a bold unforgiving black. The tension builds. Unable to calm myself, I frantically calculate the amount of time it will take for me to finish.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Now it is a vicious laugh. Mocking.
With that I snap. Snarling, momentarily insane, I hurl the clock out of the room and experience a slight disappointment when I don’t hear the resounding crash. I square my shoulders, a smug expression on my face. Collected, I breathe a sigh of relief- that almost immediately turns into a snort of annoyance. Although the dictator has been temporarily overthrown, I am still enslaved to the piles of homework that surround me. Defeated, I resign myself to my fate.
Gasp.
A faint, distant, but alarmingly present noise can be heard.
Tick . Tock. Tick. Tock.

Monday, December 8, 2008- Fucking Amazing quote. Damn Straight. (ooh! Profanity! how exciting!)

"I love to see a young girl go out and grab the world by the lapels. Life's a bitch. You've got to go out and kick ass."
-Maya Angelou

Saturday, December 6, 2008- Loves

Ahhh. You know those perfect shining moments in which you suddenly realize how unbelievably gorgeous the world is and how wonderful life is etc. etc. and you just feel so... happy? Yes, well, quite suddenly, and rather randomly, I seem to have been gifted with one of those moments. And I feel... like saying thank you. A heads up- I'm afraid I'm in a state of euphoria right now that an uncreative mind might compare to a drug-high. As in, be forewarned, my writing might sound a little bizzarre right now...

Asnyway, as I was saying, I feel... like saying thank you. A thank you to all those beautiful people who make life worth living. And although Thanksgiving was weeks ago, since when do I ever turn my work in on time?
Mothy. Thank you for all you've done for me- no one in their right mind would have chosen my violin over one's house, nor would they have done any number of those innumerable and inhuman things you've done and sacrificed for me. Thank you for my absolutely bizarre sense of humor, love of heated and entirely pointless arguments, and thirst for knowledge- all inherited from you, Mothy dearest. Thanks for the laughs, the fights, the hugs, the kisses, the music, the books, the neverending conversation and the neverending love. Thank you, Mum. I love you, funny little woman.

Ah, Bridget. My newest friend, and, if not the closest to my shy heart, very close indeed. I am in awe of your awesomeness. I think I'll never find you boring because you have never failed to surprise me. You are unbelievably brilliant, and, although you seem to vaguely acknowledge this, you have a total lack of ego. You are among the few truly honest people I am graced with knowing, (all of whom I can count on one hand.) Genuine and real and so... human. You have a delightful and surprising sense of humor that is infectious to anyone within a 3 yard radius. You're a shining light, Bridge, you go your own way, and you're a fearless stubborn warrior against the blind ranks of blonde conformity. You are by far one of my favorite writers, your poems are just like you. I must admit I'm mystified, how did white suburbia manage to birth someone so unlike anyone I've ever met? You're my Stargirl, Bridget. Thank you for bearing with the mood swings and the general insanity. Thank you for the passionate intellectual conversations, and for indulging me in my love for playful arguments. I love you dear. Diamond.

Grace! You! Prescious thing! I haven't any idea how to begin, you're just that... encroyable! I miss you so much it hurts. The halls of Breck still feel empty without your giggles and motherly lectures. Watching your vlogs and reading your blogs are by far and always my favorite part of the day. Even from the opposite end of the country you have never failed to make me smile. Speaking of shining light... :) it's quite ironic you don't believe in angels you know... I don't know how to tell you how entirely grateful I am that we're still friends. I never ever want that to change. From what I read and see you are blooming. Mango, darling girl, you are so heart-warmingly kind. Like old-fashioned beautiful Little Women kind. It's almost a lost thing in this cold new world. You have a gift for comedy and you are unquestionably the funniest person I know. Your writing... makes me cry. The prose is so beautiful, so honest. Your stories are riveting. Your unquenchable vivacity and love of life I am in awe of. Whatever you end up being, you are destined to astonish the world, I know. I don't know if you remeber this, but I recently found the poem I wrote for you on a whim in 7th grade. I thought you might enjoy reading it again. Forgive the, er, badness of it. I've never been much of a poet and leafing through thses other pages I seem to have been going through a particularly terrible prose-phase in those days but no matter...
Grace
When you think of her
She's always smiling
And you're always smiling
That's her essense
a smile
With a conscience
And an "ability"
To Become annoyed
If laughter took the form of a person
It would be her
She has what they call
"A heart of gold"
Except that gold is cold and hard and heavy
No, our Grace has
A heart of brownies
And a smile the very sun would envy
A sunny chesire cat
But not simply good and kind is Grace
But quick to temper too
A fire
Warm, yet
Carrying the potential of a sting
Fascinating and crackling
With happy laughter
Fire, yes
And a smile too
But most of all
She's a friend
Our Grace

Maia. You. My bestie for almost a decade, can you believe it?! Thank you for the giggles, the many sleepovers, the arguments that start in the most random places for the most random reasons, the shared craze for movies. The hour-long phone conversations and countless emails. The fashion shows, the grotesque makeovers I subjected you to. The passionate agreements, the adventures, the games. Thank you for putting up with me all thses years. I'll love you forever and by God I'll know you forever and always.

Lily, you are beautiful, hilarious, and incredibly understanding- the big sister I always wanted. Danny, I miss you entirely too much, sunshine, I'm thinking of you always. Eileen, you're right up with Dickinson and Austen on my shelf. Keep being amazing, sweetie, I love you. Hattie, babe, life aint the same without you a door away. I miss you all so much.

Sigh. I feel blessed.
'Nighty-Night my good people.

Friday, December 5, 2008- Of Mice and Men (...Not Really)

Gracious how appallingly abominable! I do believe I am rather, ah, "stressed out" as they seem to say.( 'Course I never understood the necessity of the "out" there. One is simply "stressed", no? But I digress...)

FINALS. Ick shmick. How crude. Yes, indeed, I think finals are crude. For those mysterious and normally quite likable teachers to require us to take things as awfully exhausting, terribly nerve-wracking, and, to top it all off- completely and utterly monotonous as finals, mon dieu!!! And then to expect us to sleep and eat and all those other... things no one cares about in the face of a threat to one's grade! Healthy?! Of course we're not going to be healthy!!! Are they absolutely insane?! TWENTY PERCENT of our final grade! TWENTY PERCENT!!! Well, I suppose I ought not to blame those lovable intellectual-type beings, as it is more than likely "The Authorities" I should really be cursing. Fuck the system!!! (You know I never understood what was wrong with being an anarchist...)

Anyway, besides the approaching finals, *shudder*, nothing much going in this corner of the world. Bridge and I like the same guy (curse you, dear) which is rather boring and cliche and UTTERLY IRRATATING!!! ...grrr...
Besides that, one of my other friends is still, ah, making out (among other things...) with too many guys- 'nuff said; my History teacher is "dissapointed in me" (which makes me quite sad because he's the coolest thing since that Winston chap); I kind of haven't done my homework in any of my classes for the last two weeks... er CRAP...; and I don't remember if I'm allowed to put an "and" after a semi-colon. Hm. Right, well, to top it all off, (and I don't fucking care if that's redundant!) the snow is here. I hate Minnesota snow. We don't get our disney winter wonderland 'till, like, halfway through January. Right now it's Grey with a capital G, and a weak excuse for snow scattered here and there. Hmph. Bah! Humbug.
Well, actually, to be completely honest I'm not really that grumpy today... In fact I'm quite normal. Normal as in bored, but with way too much stuff to do. You know the feeling.
Right. Well, I'll leave off now I suppose. I ought to go and practice that... noisy thing...

Wednesday, November 19, 2008- To Be Finished By... Christmas! (yeah right...)

Reading List-

Poets:
__Robert Frost
Arthur Rimbaud
Emily Dickinson
__T.S. Eliot
__Tennyson
__e. e. cummings
__Oscar Wilde
__William Blake
__John Keats
__Eaves of Grass- Walt Whitman
__Byron
__Allen Ginsburg
Sylvia Plath
__Shelley
__John Milton
__Alexander Pope


Books:

Inferno (Dante)
__Ivanhoe
__Animal Farm (Orwell)
__Emma
__Jane Eyre (Bronte)
__Great Expectations (Dickens)
__Sophie’s World
__The Grapes of Wrath (Steinbeck)
__The Catcher in the Rye (J.D. Salinger)
__Hamlet
__Gulliver’s Travels (Swift)
__1984 (Orwell)
__Robinson Crusoe (Defoe)
__Villette
__ Lolita (Nabokov)
__Sense and Sensibility
__The Iliad (Homer)
__The Odyssey
__ Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire (Gibbon)
__The Aeneid (Virgil)
__A Tale of Two Cities
__Les Miserables
__Macbeth
__Tess of the d’Ubervilles (Hardy)
__War and Peace
__Uncle Tom’s Cabin (Stowe)
__Oliver Twist
__War of the Worlds
__The Mill on the Floss
__Hard Times (Dickens)
__Vanity Fair (Thackeray)
__Le Morte D’Arthur
__Dracula (Stoker)
__Utopia (More)
__The Rights of Man (Paine)
__The Scarlet Letter (Hawthorne)
__ Divine Comedy (Dante)
__To the Lighthouse (Woolf)
__Catch-22 (Heller)
__Plato’s Republic
__The Awakening (Chopin)
__Things Fall Apart (Achebe)
__Canterbury Tales (Chaucer)
__Anna Karenina (Tolstoy)
Beowulf
__Frankenstein (Mary Shelley)
__Madame Bovary (Flaubert)
__The Picture of Dorian Grey (Wilde)
__A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (Joyce)
__Tao Te Ching (Lao Tzu)
__The Temple of the Golden Pavilion (Mishima)
__Crime and Punishment (Dostoevsky)
__Arabian Nights
__Edgar Allen Poe
__The Audacity of Hope
__Invisible Man (Wells)
__The Old Man and the Sea (Hemmingway)
__Great Expectations (Dickens)
__20,000 Leagues Under the Sea (Verne)
__Middlemarch (Elliot)
__Treasure Island (Stevenson)
__A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court (Clemens)
__The Red Badge of Courage (Crane)
__David Copperfield
__Glass Menagerie

Thursday, November 13, 2008- Shhhhhhh!

I always yell at my cats in a British accent. This is not purposeful.

I hate Casablanca, Nickelback, and Coldplay. (But shhh- let’s keep that between us, eh chaps? :)

Christmas is my favorite holiday. I am Jewish.

I haven’t the slightest idea where Paraguay is. In fact I didn’t even know it was a country until a few days ago. And while we’re on the subject… I frequently make the mistake of thinking Portugal is in South America, I though Iceland was part of Russia (don’t ask) and when asking my mother where Nicaragua was and receiving “Central America” for an answer, I stared, dumbfounded, at her and said: "wait… so, like near… Waaaait… NICARAGUA IS NEXT TO KANSAS???” ...no joke…

I miss our middle school uniforms.

I spend a great fraction of my days making faces in front of the mirror. And carrying on imaginary conversations... in front of the mirror.

I talk to myself. All the time. In a British accent.

Whenever I’m by myself and I see a tasty looking flower (such as a pansy)…I eat it.

I adore Kate Brian’s chick lit Private novels. Addicted much? Indeed. I positively devour them. (However, I must say in my defense that I really can’t stand most chick lit- unless it’s British of course.)

I have never once in my entire life liked a guy who was legit “hot”. I do not like hot guys. I am very suspicious and mistrustful of them. Unless they’re foreign, of course. (I’m not entirely immune.)

If I’m acting cold and aloof and using long words and sounding vaguely intellectual then I haven’t the slightest idea what I’m talking about.

I am Team Jacob. (Oh dear. I’m going to regret this…)

I have a crush on Helena Bonham Carter.

I don’t know what caviar is.

Perhaps my darkest yet: I have recently been diagnosed with ODD. Life goes on. One must accept these things.

And finally: Yes... I still play with my barbies!

Friday, November 7, 2008- But today she flies at dawn...

Snow? Snow! Oh precious fairy dust, falling from the heavens! How angels, our patrons of innocence, must blow you down! -Tiny fluttering children, messengers of a seasonal thrill- Christmas! Christmas! Oh yes I'm Jewish, but not immune, you see. Ach! But you'll fade and melt and turn the world to gloom tomorrow. For nothing born of early November ever lasts a day...

Yesterday I spent the entire day (!) in Barnes and Noble. Does this excite your fancy, dear friends? Oh yes- that lust for literature, I know it well. But I assure you- after the eighth hour in that intellectual haven passed me by... well, I'm afraid even Barnes and Noble can lose its luster. Ten hours in total! No I'm not exaggerating- as I've always thought it gauche to do so- I am in earnest! Well, anyway, while Mother was doing God knows what, (probably reading something, how unoriginal,) I managed to get quite a lot of, er, reading done meself. Two chick lit books that aren't really worth mentioning, a bit of Oscar Wilde (the Ballad of Reading Gaol to be precise,) some Emily Dickinson, a little Sylvia Plat, a pinch of Allen Ginsburg, and I positively devoured Rimbaud. What else? Oh goodness of course! Well I also read Candide- twice- and I reccomend it heartily! Oh satire... Voltaire tells the most desolate of stories in a manner that had me in peals of laughter every other line. Oh Voltaire... Well I must note, as my reading list sounds rather too impressive, that it was not, though I may be tempted to pretend otherwise, my own intellectual curiosity that lead me to peruse the poetry. It was Bridget, oh Bridget! you darling girl! who inspired me so throughly. Ah! Poetry! Well, though I'd've liked to cart off the entire stack, it was only Rimbaud I brought home to revel in. Rimbaud... oh Rimbaud. How perfect you are for the dissatisfaction of adolescence! Oh Rimbaud...

Well, this four day weekend promices to be a bore. I was to hang out with Kiko today (yes, I'm still grounded, oh joy, but Mother found her chains were rusting) but I somehow think that might not happen. Tomorrow night I go see Collin, dear boy, in Pirates of Penzance. Collin? Acting? I must admit I'm mystified. But I suppose its only natural, having exhausted both ballet and choir. An interesting boy, that Collin. And homework- oh happiness deliver me! I have rather a lot of that disagreeable stuff. Hmph.

Anyway... I suppose I ought to leave off writing for now. That child of Satan sounds like he's gotten into the cheese. (Oh curse you, devilish kitten!)
Ta ta.

Wednesday, November 5, 2008- Billy Collins just says it all

Billy Collins
Sigh.

"I have a little poem which is titled "Oh My God," which is an expression that you hear rather frequently these days. There's "Oh, My God," and then there's another expression, "I was like 'Oh, My God,' which doesn't make much sense to me. "Say, what were you like as a child?" "I was like, Oh...my God." I don't know what that means. But here it is; it's short form.

Oh, My God.

Not only in church
and nightly by their bedsides
do young girls pray these days.

Wherever they go,
prayer is woven into their talk
like a bright thread of awe.

Even in the pedestrian mall
outbursts of praise spring unbidden
from their glossy lips."

Wednesday, November 5, 2008- Well I guess I'm just quoterific today...

A pessimist sees the difficulty in every opportunity; an optimist sees the opportunity in every difficulty.

Although prepared for martyrdom, I prefer that it be postponed.

Continuous effort - not strength or intelligence - is the key to unlocking our potential.

Ending a sentence with a preposition is something up with which I will not put.

History will be kind to me for I intend to write it.

I am fond of pigs. Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. Pigs treat us as equals.

If you are going through hell, keep going.
- ALL Winston Churchill (my- sniff, sniff- hero!)

Charm is the quality in others that makes us more satisfied with ourselves.
- Henri-Frédéric Amiel

The place where optimism most flourishes is the lunatic asylum.
- Havelock Ellis

Humor can be dissected as a frog can, but the thing dies in the process and the innards are discouraging to any but the pure scientific mind.
- E. B. White

Tuesday, November 4, 2008- Weekend...

Hmmm... Well I was just up to no good the other night (in other words "thinkin' all deep 'n philosophical like") and I realized how totally bizarre our Halloween traditions are. I mean think about it- almost all the kids in the country ages 3-17 dress up and knock on stranger's doors demanding candy. Is that not the weirdest? I don't know- maybe it's just me. But what's weirder is that these lovely strangers are expected to go along with this and hand out candy to these strange weird-lookin' kids they've never seen before. Mind, I love Halloween, it is by far my favorite holiday, but you can't deny we have some pretty frickin' weird, uh, traditions.

Anywayses... in other news, I had such an AWESOME orchestra retreat this weekend. Sigh. I'm the only freshman and there are six seniors, four juniors, and two sophomores (but everyone refers to them as "the freshmen" due to their, ah, ...freshmanishness) and I keep having waves of love for them all. No really. Ava, Elori, Rachel, Jessica, Irene, Blandine... Grrr. Oh why oh why dear God am I a FRESHMAN? AGAIN? Are you really that deprived for humour? Curse you. Curse you curse you curse you...

Grrr.



I also must note how *cough cough* oddly similar the movie "Interview With The Vampire" (Kirsten Dunst-as, like, a baby, Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise etc etc) is to the Twilight series. Stephanie Meyer I am dissapointed in you! But I still like your books. Damnit.

Anyway... Unfortunately I'm afraid I must give in to the sickiness once more. Ick. Migraines, sniffles and tummy aches, oh my! Ick, ick ick...

Friday, October 31, 2008 Bored... In math class

Meep. Peep. Leep. Deep. Keep. Beep. Neep. Zeep...

Friday, October 31, 2008 Because I have the nightmare before christmas "Halloween halloween" song stuck in my head again...

I pause.
Perched, expectant, upon the worn wooden table, she is cheekily nonchalant, unaware of her looming fate. I take my cruel pleasure in this, this innocent insolence soon to be butchered. A slow smile creeps to my face.
Reaching, lazily, for the glinting knife to my left, I admire this victim of mine.
She is in her vibrant youth, ripe for the devouring, a blushing beauty. Beguiling, her luscious plump figure taunts me with desire. Her color is an untainted red, a dark alluring crimson. Her curves are voluptuous, her skin a silken sheen. I close in on my prey, raising the knife, eyes glittering with lust. She is a goddess but for mortality.
The sharp blade cuts through the skin with little resistance, a delicious sharp snap of agony as she gives in, blood bubbling up from the wound. The juice is white and clear, pure as spring dew. Drooling in anticipation, I breathe deep this piercing aroma, fresh and sweet. Lifting the sliced fruit to my lips, I tenderly run my tongue over the white flesh, subtly tasting the fresh heavy drops of nectar.
And then- I sink my teeth into the meat. With each snapping bite the juice gushes into my mouth, runs over my lips, drips down my chin. My victim is devoured slowly at first, savoring each drop, and then eagerly, the monstrous craving for her sweet flesh overtakes me. Hungrily I wolf down this sustenance, taste buds crooning their pleasure. She is not like the others, for she has not a drop of bitterness, pure and sweet to the end. It does not take long, the merciless act of consumption. Finished, satisfied, I once more run my tongue over my lips, savoring subtle remnants. My work executed, I turn to leave the kitchen, but halt as my eyes alight once more upon the basket of apples on the counter. I consider, a cynical smile toying about my lips. Shall I? Ah, no. I shan’t. Later, perhaps. For now I am satisfied.

First Blog Entry. Whoahhhh...

Posted by owlofminerva at 3:26 PM 3 comments
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
And... it's dusk, whatever that means..
Whoah. Dude. There’s definitely something to be said for your first blog high. I get a lot of highs, (none of them consisting of, like, actual drugs, mind,) but this is… a first. I mean, hell, you’ve got your “first lip-gloss squirt” high (shut up, no I did NOT make that up) which is all, like, girly excitement and stuff, and then you’ve got your everyday highs… like when you run around stomping bananas and apples and oranges during tutorial... and then start maniacally sniffing said stamped fruit... and then stringing garlands of ginko leaves on trees... while eating pansies… (Ohhhh. That’s just me? Nevermind then.) …Right, anyway, my point is- this “first blog” high thing is more like a sense of awe. Like duuude. I’m writing a BLOG. That's so... cool.

Anyway, coincidentally Bridge convinced me I should start writing my own blog at just the right time in my life . For a few months I've been idly planning to start a journal (...yeah... ANOTHER one...) but never really got around to it. (I mean what's the point? I'd just lose it...) But a blog is like... cool. Not that I actually expect someone to read it, although it's totally awesome, not to mention flattering if someone does, but it's just a cool way to organize my thoughts and like, my own self-concept of who I am. Hmmm. I think the last part of that sentence was redundant. Oh whatever.

Anyway... for starters... I like... Gossip Girl. Yes. No, I'm totally serious. And I don't mean I like Gossip Girl as in "I like making fun of Gossip Girl". I mean I like Gossip Girl as in "omg she did NOT just do that". As in I'm seriously into it. Trust me- I find this just as mystifying as you do...

I also like... cracking my back. And I secretly like it when people make faces like they're grossed out even though I smile sheepishly and say sorry. Muah ha ha...

I... don't like my face. I know, right? Who does? But no... I have icky crooked teeth, look like I haven't slept in months, and have shaggy hair that is either badly in need of a haircut or needs to grow out. And FAST. (Yes please dear God.) and I'm awkward tall. There's pretty model graceful tall... and then there's awkward tall. I am the latter. And I have a really short torso. Which annoys me. Long legs to counter it, which I could use to my advantage... if I wasn't too lazy... but still. Hmph. And now I'm rolling my eyes at all this self bashing so I guess I ought to put the good stuff in too? I have chubby cheeks which can look adorable, although they kind of annoy me too, and really dark brown eyes. Which I like. But did I mention the HUGE forehead? Lol. I know I sound kind of emo and whatevs... but I'm really not. I'm actually a very happy person who doesn't look like a model (and vaguely wishes she did) but again: whatev. Who does anyway?

I have two cats: Jasper and Simon, and they are complete and utter opposites. Jasper is tiny- a long haired abysinian with many different colors of brown fur. He is adorable and has a HUGE bushy tail. AND HE LOOKS EXACTLY LIKE A FOX. No seriously when one of my friends met him she was just like "whoah. are you allowed to have a fox for a pet in MN?" then again she's not the brightest bulb... jk jk:) He's also THE most annoying creature on earth. Oh no. Do not even TRY to argue. So I walk through the front door right? Lugging my backpack after an exhausting day wanting nothing more than to drop immeadietly into my bed with a good book and some ice cream, and this furry thing comes hudling at my face (which, btw, absolutely terrifies me. I'm the girl who releases that bloodcurdling shriek when one of my friends pretends to hit me in the face. Slowly. After they TELL me they're going to try to make me scream,) and then he wraps his little arms around me. (no- not PAWS. I swear to God they're arms. He is a monkey in a catsuit. Or foxsuit. Whatever.) AND THEN HE STARTS LICKING MY NECK. no. it is not cute. it is painful. Did you know wild tigers lick their prey to death? As in THEY LICK THEY'RE SKIN OFF. Jasper's toungue is rougher than sand paper. It is sooo painful you have no idea. Anyway, he is also insanely talkative. Like he runs around the house muttering things in his high monkey voice. no I'm serious. (What kind of cat says "oo oo ah ah"? um... mine?) And he's totally an arrogant prick. Like if my mom picks him up and starts petting him he'll start preening in her arms and toss me glances that so clearly say: "oh yes aren't you jealous?" No this is not just me. He does the same thing to my mom. But I love the little bugger annoying as he is. Even though I wake up multiple times during the night because he's curled around my head with his tail in my nose purring as loud as a tank. Not that tanks purr. Or maybe they do. I wouldn't know...

Simon, on the other hand, is shy. Shy and beautiful and graceful. He's a golden short haired abysinian and looks like one of those Egyptian statues. He has a beautiful voice and sounds like a boy soprano. You know that beautiful pure voice that's perfect for christmas carols... He is totally alpha male and a british lord. Did I mention he's also Mr. Darcy reincarnated? He... is. Truly. And he's very divine.

Anyway... yawn. I'm tired. Might write more tomorrow. I heart this blog thing. Mmmm.
'Night, world.