I finished off a much-needed, therapeutic, I-miss-you-so-much conversation with Kristina this evening over Skype, yawned, and noticed a text from my mother. "I'm going to cancel your phone if you do not return my calls," she said, to my shock, as she usually can't manage to send a text message on the first try without some stray foreign characters or plus signs in the place of spaces. "This is not a joke," she added, for comedic effect. I rolled my eyes, because it's my mom, and when matters "are not a joke," they tend to concern such pressing issues as my need to vacuum something. Nevertheless, I hurdled my way out of my dorm through the pitch black (Roomie has the lovely habit of turning out the lights and going to sleep at hours during which the summer sky isn't even dark) and found an uncomfortable corner of the stairwell to check in and appease my mother's ever-active nerves.
We talked for half an hour about the world's most important problems, from the death of Patrick Swayze (sad) to the scores of various football teams (who cares?) to the air-quote "friendship" that caused me pain this weekend (whatever). Despite the nature of the conversation, it's comforting to hear her voice from time to time, and to catch glimpses of my dad's lame sense of humor in the background, adding sarcastic statements like, "I'm never buying one of Kanye's albums again," when he obviously has little to no understanding of which artist Kanye West is. After a little bit of I love you too, Mom, and a dash of yes, I'll wake up early enough next week to check out one of the churches, I finally made it off of my cold, echoey stair. When I checked to see how long we'd spoken, I saw a text from my oldest sister. "Are u blogging?" it said, with a lowercase "u" like that, because she's on the oldest edge of our generation, where they think typing like that is cool. "I am waiting."
Sigh. Add to all this the two facebook notifications I just acquired from my other sister and my brother, and you've got yourself one family that's entirely too involved. (It's okay, though, because as much as I hate it, I still really love it. For example, the notification from my brother was a comment on my status about tonight's celebrity death. He says, "Nobody puts Swayze six feet under." Because he's just that funny.)
Anyway, besides all that, nothing much has been going on around these parts. Erin and I have been having a lot of dance parties around our floor, sometimes without music. Michal and I were going to hang out this afternoon, but somehow our plans kept getting waylaid, so that just never happened. Instead, I used my time wisely by downing a carton of Half-Baked ice cream, talking to Sebastian, and getting 100% on an online quiz for my Religion class with limited studying, because growing up in a church has finally paid off in a tangible way!
Speaking of classes, English continues to thrill me. Once again, this morning's two hours of studying poems caused my heart to thud outrageously, and I could practically feel the happiness pulsating in my legs. It took probably seventeen years of my life for me to develop a relationship with poetry, but all of a sudden, John Donne is one of my most important literary influences. I sink into his words like biting into a piece of warm blackberry pie, and I'm overcome with passion and the desire to speak figuratively, and to make crappy analogies like comparing reading to pie. During our short break in the middle of class, I found myself subconsciously scribbling all over my notebook. Terrible teenage rip-your-heart-out poems, lines from Donne that mean little out of context but so much inside a piece, words with which I've developed obsessions. I feel so blessed to know what I love. And, goodness, I love the English language.
I love the English language so much that, even though my Theatre professor continues to gain more of my respect as an insightful, entertaining and endearing man as the classes go on, I became a little bit defensive during his lecture today. Our textbook for Theatre-- the half-inch-thick paperback that cost about a dollar per flimsy page-- is really biased towards its subject, and nearly bashes every other artform. It talks about how film was created entirely for making money, how no movie could ever have the integrity or require the skill of a play, how no novel is capable of accomplishing the same goal as a drama. Now, I love theatre, and some of the book's points are totally valid, but nobody talks smack about novels and films without first messing with me. Perhaps I'm taking things too personally, but I don't think that textbook had any right to ask me to fork over a whole paycheck just so it could preach against my passion, especially when that passion is what's bringing in my income!
Also frustrating was, once again, my Media class. Remember last week when I told you about the professor who seemed knowledgeable and well-spoken, but whose tiny voice put me so far on edge I could barely stand to listen? Well, he attempted to redeem himself this afternoon by wrapping a microphone around his aging body, but, even though I sat in the very front row this time, his quiet voice persisted onward, and fought valiantly to stay annoying. I strained my mind to follow his two-hour lecture, bulging my eyes to will them to stay open, but it was all to little avail. I found myself furiously scribbling notes, not on the topic, but to blog about later. "He doesn't put enough air behind his words," I wrote. "The first syllable comes out in a relatively powerful burst, but then the rest simmers away somewhere in the back of his throat. His microphone does nothing but amplify the little whistles that escape every time he pronounces an S!" It didn't help the situation when he later attempted to show us a movie, but couldn't figure out which cords to plug where, and ended up instead filling the hall with a staticy white noise for the final third of the class period. The speakers' hiss served to drown out the professor's few audible words, and I found myself drifting into a sleepy state. Where there should be notes about the influence of radio on wartime suburban America, I filled columns of my notebook practicing the names of my unborn future children. At some point in my daydreaming, I convinced myself that I will have two daughters and name them Andromeda and Caesura. "LOL, that sucks," Jess said, when I told her about the destinies of her theoretical future pseudo-nieces. "What am I supposed to say? That I'm jealous of the attention your kids are going to steal from mine?" Well... maybe.
So, that was, more or less, my day. I'm on a couch in the study lounge right now, between two girls at round tables, sketching human figures from those little angular wooden models. It's pleasant in here, typing away to the combined cadence of their moving pencils and the distant voices down the hall. Somebody's flushing a toilet somewhere, and someone else is watching some sort of sporting event. As for me, though, it's definitely time to hit the sack. I hope those of you readers who are getting used to a new school year are adjusting, those whose lives are continuing normally are finding little excitements, and those of you who are my relatives are pleased that I've taken the time to update my blog.
Sexy: Modern poet Tony Hoagland. While kind of offensive and rated PG-13 or up, I really enjoy his poem called "Adam and Eve," which I discovered today.
Unsexy: Bigoted youtube commenters. I devoted a bit of time today to replying to nasty comments on old disneykid1 videos, giving some irritating people a few lessons in grammar and kindness.
Chipotle burritos this year: 29
Bagel Street visits this school year: 1 (I promise I'll get on this, Kaitlyn! Haha.)
Bye, guys! Hopfully I'll see you tomorrow. <3