Much to my dual bemusement and chagrin, we have a snow day today here in my Western Massachusetts college. I really did not think colleges had snow days, but apparently when there’s three feet of blasphemous white flakes outside and we’re anticipating a another two to three, classes are called off campus-wide.
I’m learning all these new things everyday!
This all being said, I realized I haven’t written a real blog post in quite some time, so I thought this an apt time to spill my guts to the internet….kind of. So, what exactly have I been up to lately?
COLLEGE. It’s so great. Classes have begun and I am, once again, lost in awe of how much I love where I go to school, my professors, my roommates, my friends, and how many blessings I’ve been given every single day! In a list:
$250 spent on books, everything from the Bhagavad Gita (for my nonviolence versus violence seminar) to the Astérix comic book (on Cléopâtre) to a book of collected, translated Russian poetry. Worth it.
A new pair of jeans. Exactly like my old pair, but now I own four pair of pants instead of three. EXCELLENT.
A page-long essay completed.
A room moved into and redecorated.
Lots of planning for my radio show which (fingers crossed) I’ll be able to announce more details about next week!! And the special guests I’ve been lining up!
A bag of Red Vines, gone. Two bags of Milanos, gone. Two classes of Musical Theatre Jazz taken to make up for my southern sweet tooth.
An addiction to DOCTOR WHO developped. I will soon need rehab to catch up on the rest of my life.
A monologue memorized! Mostly. For the performance of The Vagina Monologues in just over a week!
Okay, that is all for now. Maybe I’ll post pretty pictures?
You’re beautiful. What’s the best thing going on in your life right now?
Current Jam: “Burning Down the House” Talking Heads. A Dad Classic.
Best thing going on in my life right now: Being INSIDE while the snow is NOT.
While, in a turn of events, I won’t be taking English this semester I did sit in on the class today. We read this; I was moved, therefore it is here now.
Here, above, cracks in the buldings are filled with battered moonlight. The whole shadow of Man is only as big as his hat. It lies at his feet like a circle for a doll to stand on, and he makes an inverted pin, the point magnetized to the moon. He does not see the moon; he observes only her vast properties, feeling the queer light on his hands, neither warm nor cold, of a temperature impossible to records in thermometers.
But when the Man-Moth pays his rare, although occasional, visits to the surface, the moon looks rather different to him. He emerges from an opening under the edge of one of the sidewalks and nervously begins to scale the faces of the buildings. He thinks the moon is a small hole at the top of the sky, proving the sky quite useless for protection. He trembles, but must investigate as high as he can climb.
Up the façades, his shadow dragging like a photographer’s cloth behind him he climbs fearfully, thinking that this time he will manage to push his small head through that round clean opening and be forced through, as from a tube, in black scrolls on the light. (Man, standing below him, has no such illusions.) But what the Man-Moth fears most he must do, although he fails, of course, and falls back scared but quite unhurt.
Then he returns to the pale subways of cement he calls his home. He flits, he flutters, and cannot get aboard the silent trains fast enough to suit him. The doors close swiftly. The Man-Moth always seats himself facing the wrong way and the train starts at once at its full, terrible speed, without a shift in gears or a gradation of any sort. He cannot tell the rate at which he travels backwards.
Each night he must be carried through artificial tunnels and dream recurrent dreams. Just as the ties recur beneath his train, these underlie his rushing brain. He does not dare look out the window, for the third rail, the unbroken draught of poison, runs there beside him. He regards it as a disease he has inherited the susceptibility to. He has to keep his hands in his pockets, as others must wear mufflers.
If you catch him, hold up a flashlight to his eye. It’s all dark pupil, an entire night itself, whose haired horizon tightens as he stares back, and closes up the eye. Then from the lids one tear, his only possession, like the bee’s sting, slips. Slyly he palms it, and if you’re not paying attention he’ll swallow it. However, if you watch, he’ll hand it over, cool as from underground springs and pure enough to drink.
“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”—C.S. Lewis (The Four Loves)
Okay, okay, I’ll be out with it: I am wayyyy behind the trend in this obsession. But in my defense, I haven’t really had time to read anything for fun (besides the annual re-read of Harry Potter) in a very long time.
So naturally, once I worked my way through three John Green books (of which, as I mentioned in my vlog, Paper Towns was my absolute favorite), it was time for me to see what all the rage and love was about for the Hunger Games Trilogy by Suzanne Collins. Having always harbored a taste for dystopian stories (my favorite movie is V for Vendetta and my favorite TV show is Firefly) I knew I was bound to like the books with whatever they presented themselves. And all my nerdfighter friends had raved about the books, and as they were the ones who pushed me to Firefly I trusted their judgment.
But to say I enjoyed the books is a gross understatement. Not necessarily because I loved them (which I did) but because Collins story was so well crafted it was painful and torturous reading so much of the books, especially the last installment Mockingjay. All her characters were so distinctly human, flawed, and each after their own gain. This was no Harry Potter where the hero (who was a kick-ass female, FTW!) left the books untainted and without murdering a soul. It was a brutally realistic depiction of war and the sacrifices that must be made to win one. It was compelling, horrifying, beautiful, and enthralling. I literally could do nothing but read those three books these past few days.
The part I loved most about the books, though, was Katniss. Finally, a strong female lead who is realistically depicted; she’s no warrior princess, because she clearly has her weaknesses and mental lapses, yet she’s no damsel in distress either as she is the breadwinner (pun!) for Peeta and herself. I absolutely loved that. By the same degree, Peeta’s tenderness and non-controlling devotion to Katniss was convincing and also much appreciated. Any book that challenges conventional gender roles wins a gold star in my mind!
SPOILER ALERT: I was utterly convinced that Gale was going to have to kill Peeta in the end of Mockingjay. That he’d have some kind of fit where he was trying to kill Katniss and Gale would kill Peeta to save her life. So as for the ending? That was practically daisies compared to what I was afraid would occur! And I really believe it ended the only way it could- peace agreements being signed does not undo the damage of war. Only time and love can do that, and even then you never leave those you killed or saw die or knew behind you.
Current Jam: “My Baby” Ministry of Magic
Best thing in my life right now: My Gryffindor sweater and Armadillo Grill chips ‘n’ queso. (sp?)
“As we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead. We cannot turn back. There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, “When will you be satisfied?” We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police…
So by now you’ve realized I’m a fangirl hoarder. This post will give me no further credit, but you know, I’m nothing if not honest.
For the past four years I have been working my way through every Audrey Hepburn film. There are not exactly a whole lot of them (twenty films where she was a major actress/well-known, eight prior to Roman Holiday where she undertook a minor role). I couldn’t really tell you why I love her so much, but then again, she seemed to entrance the Western World for her entire life. And in her last nine years her legacy became on of a UNICEF Good Will Ambassador, casting her spell across the world. What’s not to love?
I haven’t seen all her films, but I have read three biographies, wrote one for a school project, and have amassed enough posters, calendars, post cards, and magnets to deck out an apartment (…at least). Her elegance, fashion (which is due to her personal designer Givénchy, granted), poise, but most of all her daring as a person and as actress make her such an inspiration to me. Like the woman who shared her last name but was of no blood relation, Katherine Hepburn, I think Audrey was an incredible woman of, for, and after her time.
And, because I want to and because I feel obligated, here are the films I’ve seen:
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
My Fair Lady (my favorite)
The Children’s Hour (her best acting in all the films I’ve seen)
How to Steal a Million
Two for the Road
Wait Until Dark
Current jam: Mix CD from Ian
Best thing in my life right now: I leave for school in a few days AND I just finished the Hunger Games Trilogy.