I have been working on a post, but I tend to write in an incredibly time consuming way. Many of my posts, I believe, will come in the form of badly written essays. I'll chat here for a moment though.
My profile picture is bugging me now. Usually my not-four-year-old smile annoys me, so I was surprised when this one didn't. But now it does. I'll work on that.
Otto (my cat, who is so adorably little that I'm tempted to call him 'my kitten') seems to love me in spite of himself. Emphasis on HIMself. The lady I took HIM from said he was a boy. HIS name is Otto, not Otta. Just wanted to clarify that. Anyway, he refuses any form of cuddling during the hours we are up. But nearly every night he sleeps curled up atop me, and every morning he makes his little half-mewing half-purring sounds and relishes petting. If I don't pet, he paws my face. At the moment he is napping on my backpack. Two days ago I hurriedly cast my coat on our bench, and within minutes he occupied it. Any article of mine he fashions into a bed; my personal favorite is when he winds into a tiny enough ball to fit on my beret. Please do not share this post with him, as he seems rather shy about his affection and may respond by climbing up to Matty's bunk to sleep.
I just ordered a cherry red trench coat with birthday money from my Uncle Jeff and Aunt Jenny. For Christmas I received a pair of ankle-high cherry red rain boots, which I wore all Christmas day despite the fact that it was a definite California Christmas. I am working on my second red mitten. Matty gave me a red beret for Valentine's day. At Target a few days ago he, Nana, and my mother insisted on buying me a red umbrella with a wooden crook handle. Am I not the most spoilt person on the planet? Matty wants me to own red tights, but I fear an entirely red outfit will cause me to look like an anime character. If, after Tuesday, you see a figure whom you find difficult to discern from a giant and mobile cherry, it's me!
('If you wake up and find a white cat, it's me!' -Jiji, Kiki's Delivery Service)
I've been trying to work on my children's fiction and it isn't working. I spent a few hours on a small portion, thinking it was good while I wrote it, only to discover afterwards its immense want. This happens constantly (in fact I don't believe it has ever not happened) with my long fiction, but the two children's stories I've completed have simply formed themselves almost exactly as I want them. Traveler's Joy, Mena, and my children's chapter novel which has no name as of yet are all conspiring against me. Blech. As an aside, if anyone would like to read either Danger Davie and his Halloween Skipper or Daniel's Scarf of Royal Red Wool and give me feedback, I would be much obliged. Maybe my new titles are too short? Or the absence of a holiday theme is throwing me off?
I had my first psychology class yesterday. Actually, I guess it was two days ago now. My professor, Colin Barncastle, looks about ten. ('It's mad. I think he might be mad. He was certainly arrogant and really quite rude and he looks about 12 and he's clearly a bit public school and, yes, I definitely think he might be mad but he was also strangely likeable. He was charming. It really was all just a bit strange.' -http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/29january. By the way, I'd like to point out that Sherlock and John met on my birthday. That has to mean something.) He also acts like he's ten. He insists that we call him Colin, and he reiterated multiple times that he is a "really cool guy" and that he is not at all "mean." I got a piece of candy for answering a question, which I later traded for a small phial of a friend's DNA. Colin, at least so far, comes across as extremely postmodern, as is expected among professors of most sciences. I thoroughly enjoyed the contrast between his highly rational lecture and the far more human lecture of my history professor/friend Mr. Jonathan Wilson. Mr. Wilson even happened to cover the Romantic movement during that particular class. I went from hearing about humanity as nothing more than animals with enhanced mental capabilities to hearing a recitation of a stanza of Rime of the Ancient Mariner. "Water, water everywhere, and all the boards do shrink. Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink." Please excuse my misquoting; Curdie is asleep on my lap and I'm feeling too lazy to rifle my bookshelf. It is probably a very good thing that I plan to major in literature as well as psychology; I don't know how much artistic deprivation I could handle!
I introduced Mr. Wilson to Sherlock, and he seemed to like him. (Here is the scene I used: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=im4TYITM0VE. It is one of my favorites!) I am not yet sold on Jeremy Brett (Mr. Wilson's pick); he doesn't communicate the intensity I think the character demands. Of course, I happen to come from a family of extraordinarily intense individuals (Ever read Jane Eyre? My dad is Edward Rochester, and my mom is Jane. Oh, you thought my dad was laid back? You thought my mom was mousy? Aha! How wrong!), and, therefore, I fall at the feet of extraordinarily intense individuals. Yes, heartbreak looms in the future, I'm sure. Just for the record, I'm ridiculously in love with Sherlock Holmes, not Benedict Cumberbatch. He absolutely captures Sherlock's intensity, thus my fervor regarding his Sherlock. I rarely attach to actors. Don't mistake me, because Cumberbatch is way attractive, but if I fell in love with every attractive guy I would be on level with Violet Bick. I should probably swing back on topic now to avoid making a further idiot out of myself (resisting...Sherlock...quote...did it!). I am also not sure about David Burke's Watson, but I really cannot like one member of a Holmes/Watson pairing and dislike the other. Perhaps some people can, but the chemistry (Don't even think about going there; I'm working on what I hope will be a scathing essay on that obnoxious perception) between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson is what gives life to the stories. It makes them human as well as rational. Look! This is all tying together like a thing planned! Not sure I'll be able to work the rain boots back in, sadly. Now that I have trailed off to who-knows-where, let me conclude with the fact that I only watched one episode of the Brett/Burke Sherlock Holmes ("The Priory School"), and have since read that they improve with familiarity.
It's amazing how much I can say, isn't it? What's really funny is that I can talk just as much as I can write most always, but as my turn approached in my psychology class to introduce myself my heart was pounding! Must have been the lecture hall. Well, considering that it is one thirty in the morning I should probably finish up. I still have an angry essay to write, a shower to take (and that is certainly not a short affair), and I may even try to squeeze "The Missing Three-Quarter" in there...
My profile picture is bugging me now. Usually my not-four-year-old smile annoys me, so I was surprised when this one didn't. But now it does. I'll work on that.
Otto (my cat, who is so adorably little that I'm tempted to call him 'my kitten') seems to love me in spite of himself. Emphasis on HIMself. The lady I took HIM from said he was a boy. HIS name is Otto, not Otta. Just wanted to clarify that. Anyway, he refuses any form of cuddling during the hours we are up. But nearly every night he sleeps curled up atop me, and every morning he makes his little half-mewing half-purring sounds and relishes petting. If I don't pet, he paws my face. At the moment he is napping on my backpack. Two days ago I hurriedly cast my coat on our bench, and within minutes he occupied it. Any article of mine he fashions into a bed; my personal favorite is when he winds into a tiny enough ball to fit on my beret. Please do not share this post with him, as he seems rather shy about his affection and may respond by climbing up to Matty's bunk to sleep.
I just ordered a cherry red trench coat with birthday money from my Uncle Jeff and Aunt Jenny. For Christmas I received a pair of ankle-high cherry red rain boots, which I wore all Christmas day despite the fact that it was a definite California Christmas. I am working on my second red mitten. Matty gave me a red beret for Valentine's day. At Target a few days ago he, Nana, and my mother insisted on buying me a red umbrella with a wooden crook handle. Am I not the most spoilt person on the planet? Matty wants me to own red tights, but I fear an entirely red outfit will cause me to look like an anime character. If, after Tuesday, you see a figure whom you find difficult to discern from a giant and mobile cherry, it's me!
('If you wake up and find a white cat, it's me!' -Jiji, Kiki's Delivery Service)
I've been trying to work on my children's fiction and it isn't working. I spent a few hours on a small portion, thinking it was good while I wrote it, only to discover afterwards its immense want. This happens constantly (in fact I don't believe it has ever not happened) with my long fiction, but the two children's stories I've completed have simply formed themselves almost exactly as I want them. Traveler's Joy, Mena, and my children's chapter novel which has no name as of yet are all conspiring against me. Blech. As an aside, if anyone would like to read either Danger Davie and his Halloween Skipper or Daniel's Scarf of Royal Red Wool and give me feedback, I would be much obliged. Maybe my new titles are too short? Or the absence of a holiday theme is throwing me off?
I had my first psychology class yesterday. Actually, I guess it was two days ago now. My professor, Colin Barncastle, looks about ten. ('It's mad. I think he might be mad. He was certainly arrogant and really quite rude and he looks about 12 and he's clearly a bit public school and, yes, I definitely think he might be mad but he was also strangely likeable. He was charming. It really was all just a bit strange.' -http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/29january. By the way, I'd like to point out that Sherlock and John met on my birthday. That has to mean something.) He also acts like he's ten. He insists that we call him Colin, and he reiterated multiple times that he is a "really cool guy" and that he is not at all "mean." I got a piece of candy for answering a question, which I later traded for a small phial of a friend's DNA. Colin, at least so far, comes across as extremely postmodern, as is expected among professors of most sciences. I thoroughly enjoyed the contrast between his highly rational lecture and the far more human lecture of my history professor/friend Mr. Jonathan Wilson. Mr. Wilson even happened to cover the Romantic movement during that particular class. I went from hearing about humanity as nothing more than animals with enhanced mental capabilities to hearing a recitation of a stanza of Rime of the Ancient Mariner. "Water, water everywhere, and all the boards do shrink. Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink." Please excuse my misquoting; Curdie is asleep on my lap and I'm feeling too lazy to rifle my bookshelf. It is probably a very good thing that I plan to major in literature as well as psychology; I don't know how much artistic deprivation I could handle!
I introduced Mr. Wilson to Sherlock, and he seemed to like him. (Here is the scene I used: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=im4TYITM0VE. It is one of my favorites!) I am not yet sold on Jeremy Brett (Mr. Wilson's pick); he doesn't communicate the intensity I think the character demands. Of course, I happen to come from a family of extraordinarily intense individuals (Ever read Jane Eyre? My dad is Edward Rochester, and my mom is Jane. Oh, you thought my dad was laid back? You thought my mom was mousy? Aha! How wrong!), and, therefore, I fall at the feet of extraordinarily intense individuals. Yes, heartbreak looms in the future, I'm sure. Just for the record, I'm ridiculously in love with Sherlock Holmes, not Benedict Cumberbatch. He absolutely captures Sherlock's intensity, thus my fervor regarding his Sherlock. I rarely attach to actors. Don't mistake me, because Cumberbatch is way attractive, but if I fell in love with every attractive guy I would be on level with Violet Bick. I should probably swing back on topic now to avoid making a further idiot out of myself (resisting...Sherlock...quote...did it!). I am also not sure about David Burke's Watson, but I really cannot like one member of a Holmes/Watson pairing and dislike the other. Perhaps some people can, but the chemistry (Don't even think about going there; I'm working on what I hope will be a scathing essay on that obnoxious perception) between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson is what gives life to the stories. It makes them human as well as rational. Look! This is all tying together like a thing planned! Not sure I'll be able to work the rain boots back in, sadly. Now that I have trailed off to who-knows-where, let me conclude with the fact that I only watched one episode of the Brett/Burke Sherlock Holmes ("The Priory School"), and have since read that they improve with familiarity.
It's amazing how much I can say, isn't it? What's really funny is that I can talk just as much as I can write most always, but as my turn approached in my psychology class to introduce myself my heart was pounding! Must have been the lecture hall. Well, considering that it is one thirty in the morning I should probably finish up. I still have an angry essay to write, a shower to take (and that is certainly not a short affair), and I may even try to squeeze "The Missing Three-Quarter" in there...
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