Pop culture, popping a vein or two

I don't often quote pop culture. But it's not a rule or anything, so...
      Pardon me while I burst into flame.
      An apt description from our friends at Incubus.
      And, Trigun.
      Death and poverty like me so much that they brought friends!
I suppose the last one is a bit strong. After all, there is no death at the moment, and poverty is being staved off by "stipends." For the moment.

      I suppose I'm just freaking out.
      Child to main character, Vash: It's too late for us to go back now. And you're too damn clean!
Vash the Stampede's Response: The ticket to the future is always open.
My roommate told me to do yoga. Instead, I ate som HagenDaas. Rocky Road, a metaphorical ice cream.
Dead Metaphor, that is. "Life is a journey" is so romantic.
And although romanticism (note my lack of capitalization) is making a comeback (*pffttt noise goes here*) in composition--damn those expressivists who ruined my composing process and made me confess!--I am not yet ready for that sort of thing. I'd rather not make that kind of move again.
I'd rather move to a new place, and actually bond with people this time.
Anna came and hugged us yesterday, making me wonder if she was nuts. I wondered if I was nuts. We all decided there is "no love" in the English department. Wherever I go next, I will make there be love.
Let there be light, where word and thought are one. Where the author has only illucutionary language. Let there be sleep. Let there be peace.

Night Owl Falls Prey to Harry Dreams

      The Night Owl Bus Service in Boston is being shut down. This doesn't really affect me, except in dreams.

      I dreamed about owls and Harry Potter and being Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I was running toward a bus that wouldn't let me on, and everyone had Book 6 of J.K. Rowling's hit series except for me.

      So I woke up and watched the X files, last episode, and thought about Sci Fi Night in the Ropp Pitt. Damn, I miss those days. Bill and Todd, Taco Bell and Shameless Flirting. Now I'm worried about the history of rhetoric (rhetoric is history).

      They won't let me come in

      Waiting just might kill me. Emma's going home for a week, to celebrate Easter in Sweden, which is apparently better than Easter in Boston. I forgot that there was Easter. I keep forgetting to be worried. I keep worrying about forgetting. And all sorts of inversions like that that like to be inverted.

      I can smell the coffee on my skin

Rejection: An ode

Do not mourn the fall of daylight

It could be clearer to me, why I bother caring that Iowa and Minnesota don't want me. I could do some analysis of the market for students, something about alienation of labor, intellectual pursuits as labor...but I'm not going to. Instead, I'm going to eat a lot of Moose Tracks (R).

Before, her scent had been faint but vivid, showing she had not much physical strength, but did not lack in more magical powers. Now her scent was strong, sweet, vivid and long lasting, even though that sounded like a Winterfresh commercial.

When I read fan fiction, I become startlingly aware of the gap between normal people and me. And still I am not wanted. Or rather, there are certain restrictions to the desire. Must I seduce the school, or should they seduce me?

Wordsworth, that Romantic bastard, knew that ideas come from individual minds, which then put those ideas and emotions (mainly emotions, the overflow of emotions) into language, as though language were Tupperware (R), the transparent kind. I know that my ideas and language are constructed by the web of social powers. And I want out of the web before the spider eats me.

The spider scar on her naked back means she is not yet free

Lots of white space. The white space, says Bartholomae, is where readers can insert themselves, have a dialogue, be dialectic. Mom said today that I am eclectic, which is not quite right. Nor am I eccentric, or any of those other ec- or -ectic words. To do so returns us to the Romantic paradigm, where we are all responsible for our own fates.

And I don't want to be responsible anymore, because it is not up to me anymore, but up to the flow and ebb of anxieties and force. I am Jack's inflamed sense of rejection.

I am Amy's shoulder's tensed in expectation.

Post Break Post

      Oh, geez. It's over?
      How can it be over?
     Apparently I am done relaxing until April 20th or so. Oh well. It was nice while it lasted, this limbo.

      "I just thought you'd be fuller, and more metal."
      I got the first rejection letter on Monday, from Minnesota.
      "We don't know if that means he's dead, or just naked."
      That feels familiar.
Lion's head knocker
pages through
magic in the kitchen
from the agency of letters

      The pile of books keeps getting bigger, not smaller. I wonder what to do about that. "Treading water" would be an appropriate cliche for the moment. I suppose I will start with grading the stack of students (represented by their papers) that sits on the ottoman.

      Last night Sharon asked me "When was the last time you really liked a guy?" And I giggled and said, "Senior year."
      I hadn't realized how long ago that was. Must be all the words on all the pages in all the books, making the time fade strangely into other presences. We don't measure time in coffee spoons; we measure in responses to others' words.