Neglect

I've neglected this blog shamefully for the past month. Admittedly, I have had a great deal of work to be done. And I've missed writing, even if the immortal echo of the pagan gods' words has been difficult to hear of late.

Christmanukkawanza is approaching - the stores blossom with red, green, gold, black, blue and silver. I dream old dreams, the memories of snow and sleighbells, and the sweet taste of freshly-roasted chestnuts on a chilly winter's evening. I enjoy this season, especially giving gifts to my friends. I must go out and buy candies to put in gold-starred bags tied up with blue ribbon to give to all my friends. I have special presents for two. I need a special present for one more...and then presents for the rest of my family. 'Tis an expensive season, as well as a jolly one.

Don't expect to hear from me til my exams are over. Viel erfolg to all other students enduring finals!

She lurks in the wings...

Glamour - her dark hair curling onto milk-white shoulders, the ruby gloss of her lips visible even in the backstage shadows. Her profile, as she glances at you, is so beautifully formed that Guinevere herself might hide her own in awe. And as she awaits her entrance, her timing as exquisite as ever, you can sense the impatience in her silhouetted figure, well-manicured hands idly gripping the velvet curtain.

And I dream of her, standing on the stage, finally exulting in her appearance, a single white hot spotlight illuminating every enviable feature. And Jealousy whispers in my ear and I wake, the bedclothes torn in my frenzied hands and tears of frustration on my face.

For I dream of another and he answers my call idly, distracted, and leaves to amuse himself by his lonesome - or with his ensemble - at his lightest whim. And Jealousy murmurs that the daughter of Glamour could have him on his knees worshiping her and I throw my glass at the wall just to hear it smash.

I retreat into my spiritual dive, but the dirty walls and cracked floor serve only to frustrate me as Glamour sits on a teakwood throne enveloped in silken glories and eating caviar from platinum teaspoons.

And the world calls me from my private lair and I retreat, lest it find a way to sneak in and spy upon my secret fancies and jealously-hidden fears.

Der Zauber bevorsteht - und sie ist meine Liebe.

One-liners and whiskey bottles

There is a dive, nestled in the back streets of St. Paul that my best friend frequents: he has described it to me so that I can see the faded brick and smell the rich tobacco mixing with the stale odor of lives that have passed by. I can see the seats, with tears intimately known to all who frequent it, and I can see the low stage with its hot spotlights that has held everything from the worst of the Seattle scum to the surprisingly good jam bands that seem to appear every now and again.

I've been to plenty of dive bars in my day - from out of the way ones like Hangar 7 in Lake City, to Backstage Lounge and 1982 in Gainesville to this little one in downtown Orlando whose name perpetually escapes me. But there's a flavor about them that is different with each ones: Hangar 7 is the last gasping breath of inspiration for a dying town of backwoods hell, the rundown reminder of the mobsters who used to celebrate in the unpoliced roads and halls. Backstage Lounge is full of the pure musicians who don't mind out of the way bars full of rednecks and hooters' wings, not to mention the savory hicks who shoot pool and compete at the dartboards. 1982 is less dive and more dirt, and has the slickly raised eyebrows of any hardassed boozer exercising his right to drink his sorrows away, and maybe even pick up a pretty girl who wandered in off the street. I have fonder memories of the strange one in Orlando, mostly because I met a lover there for the first time, and when I think of it I smell his cologne and taste his lips while smooth jazz worthy of Armstrong plays in my ears.

And now, I sit here at my desk, lit by a single lamp as hot jazz is burning up my speakers, thinking of the dives that inspire me. For writing has grown difficult with the past months - brokenheartedness that left me uninspired and flagging at the dawn of each day. The only time when words even flicked near my fingers were late nights when the gin was cold and the rum warm, with the summer breeze flicking outside my walls and clouds scudding across the sky.
Now autumn has brought her gracious beauty to the land and soon winter shall follow, and in the death of the year I find new life in my writing, my dreams, and my heart. I love summer the most, but this past summer tried my love of life extremely, and only now does autumn's chill breath begin to revive me.

My life is not yet smooth: there are mortifications that stick in my throat and make the days hard to swallow, and I can only thank good fortune that there is some honey in each day to make the bitterness less objectionable. The ills are even worse for the fact it is my own weakness that wreaked them upon my life, but I shall continue to hope that I grow stronger from each healed wound, and that Fate shall not punish me for weakness in the face of beautifully cut lips, softly sworn lies and blue-gray eyes so full of deceit they should be put out and cast into the ocean for Poseidon alone to destroy.

So I return to my spiritual dive, and it is cluttered with gin and beer, the odd fragments of jaeger and vodka scattered on counters and other available surfaces. The chairs are all brown leather, the floor scraped with the passing of many stools and feet, the walls stained with sin and the remnants of wrathful folly. The band is playing away, reminding me of better days and so poignantly chording with my life I feel like Rick in Casablanca, wishing my forsaken love well away from my bloody joint.

But the day has grown old and though the night is young, the morrow is already fully appointed and I must consider the health of my body as well as of my mind. So I cast aside my crumpled papers filled with single lines and crossing-outs and I drain my last glass and ready myself for the shadowy land of nightmares with brief respite in solemn dreams.

Gute Nacht, meinen Freunden.

Burying the Hatchet?

Far from it; we resurrected our friendship, and I find it glorious that he is my Hatchet and we buried the old disagreement and rekindled the friendship we thought lost.

Dare I dream this is an omen of the next bend in the road?

Turlington notes part deux

So my studying skills aren't quite as strong as they ought be. I brought my calculus book along with me today and I managed to concentrate for a few minutes, but the lure of dreams proved too strong, and I put down my studying to take up my pen.

Although, last night I was, as Heyer might say, "exceeding virtuous" as I went grocery shopping as soon as I dropped off my books at the dorm. I came back, cooked, ate, and immediately began to work. At 11:40 pm I put my books away, leaving only some medieval poetry and archaeological texts unread, and my calculus practice problems undone. I will do all of that tonight for tomorrow I have only the archaeology volunteering and one lecture to prepare for.

My course load is heavy, but only calculus seems burdensome - and I am particularly frustrated that tutoring is now on Sundays, which frankly does me no good at all. I need to email my tutor about some missed notes. I'll complain about the time then.

We got back our tests in MEM3300 today - I received a 102 out of 100. Technically, I got a 97 but we all got a 5 point "bonus".
And, I got a 92 in my first archaeology exam, and a 94 on forensic anthropology. If only I understood calculus the same way.

The day is gray and windy, and I like it so. The underlying restlessness suits me well, and it also fits the character of autumn - change.
And I have but to speak of that devil and the bell rings the half hour and I must go - farewell.

wrote on paper, transferred to teh netz

As I sit here in the polygon by Turlington, the sun keeps on dancing in and out of the clouds, his light growing bright and dim by turns. The wind is brisk, and though the walls shelter me, tree branches wave above me and I see the clouds racing each other across the sky.

For awhile I closed my eyes and pretended I was back in London - sitting against the pedestal of the Trafalgar Lions, the National Portrait Gallery to my right and the embassy behind me. Buses continually drive past, adding to the illusion, and skateboards over brick sound like British cars on the cobbles.
The chatter is plentiful and gay, and indistinct enough so that accents are irrelevant. Two smokers sit nearby, and the warm smell of tobacco mingles with petrol fumes in a truly English manner.

But it is merely an illusion, and when I open my eyes, I am still in America. I could easily be in worse places, but the paper folded at my side screams of bankrupt corporations, lying presidential candidates and murder.
I hear rumors and whispers as I walk, and I mark them down to investigate later.
Is Thabo Mbeki stepping down? I hope so, as long as the successor is not his own handpicked deputy degenerate.

The bell tolls the half, and I must go.
Until we meet again...

shaky foundations indeed

My head is spinning and I know by morning it will ache. My roommates have called a roommate meeting for 8pm tomorrow to sign the roommate contract, and I dread having the thermostat permanently stuck at 70. If it is, however, I have my parents' permission to search for new housing, because living sick is extremely detrimental to both my grades and my sanity.

I dread confrontation.

I haven't painted in days, nor sketched, nor written. A test looms on the morrow, and another the day after, and a quiz the day after that. On the horizon a blissful Saturday of football beckons, but the treacherous stretch I must endure on the way precludes me from anticipating it more than in a snatched moment of prayer.

My throat is already tightening. I should've brought sweats from home this weekend.

There are far too many St. Benedicts. There are far too many saints, and not enough time to study them all. So Benedict of Aniane was a favorite of the Carolingian and a key man in the sweeping Benedictine Reform of Charlemagne...and St. Benedict, the obscure Italian abbott wrote his Benedictine Rule based off of the Rule of the anonymous Master...but what did Benedictine Biscop do? I can't remember. Who was the great man of Jarrow? Wileth? I can't remember either.

I dread tomorrow.

There is still a horrid mark on the back of my leg from wearing my knee brace two weekends ago. I say that you grow used to pain, but when it shifts constantly, it becomes more difficult to ignore.

Bedtime - they say there is no rest for the weary, but if I can't sleep within the hour I'll resort to my trusty friend Tylenol PM to rest myself somewhat adequately.
Adieu...