Sleep Deprivation and It's Effect Upon My Anatomy Grade

Well, I could be watching all of the inaugural pomp and what not right now, but I got bored. Ha ha. Instead I've been writing a story (a good one, I hope--at least my protagonist goes insane!), drinking buckets of green tea and playing black-belt sudoku. Om nom nom. You know, I think I'm treating this blog as a diary. Ah well, no one has to read it. Oh, and a made cookies.

I haven't known what to do with myself recently. I've been so restless; I need a challenge, a distraction, an adventure, anything. But...maybe I'm too young. That's how it seems, at any rate. My adventures consist of going insane in my room and running out into the cold at night, just out of sheer boredom. Bluuuh. And I haven't been sleeping. Today I took some pretty hilarious notes in my anatomy class due to falling asleep a couple of times. I'll put them on here (why not?).

tired tired tired tired tired
tired tired tired tired tired tired
tired tired tired tired tired tired
tired tired confused tired tired
blah tired tired tired tired tired
tired tired tired tired eyes tired
tired tired tired tired tired tired
tired tired Kafka tired tired tired
tired eyes tired tired sleep tired
tired tired tired tired tired tired
tired tired tired Anatomy tired ew
tired increase tired tired drift sleep
almost tired tired tired tired ugh tired
wake up tired engh tired eyes listen
no tired do it tired clavicle ow!

UP.



Yeah, my friend pinched me. Grr. It's not my fault I can't sleep until I get to the classroom that makes everybidy high! So...yeah. Hahaha, I can't write anything noteworthy today.

A Letter to the Victor

What are you? From where do your lustrous colors come? From what celestial source does you light glisten? From which sea do you sail, with satin petals on your skin and soft ivy in your velveteen hair? Did you know?
When you arose fron silver ashes, draped in the golden splendour of ancient Egyptian Pharohs, Greek Gods and Amazonian Queens, did you know? When you soared with vocative passion into a world of glacial blue oceans from your purple spiced veils and crimson beaded lamps? When you flew from the whiskered smoke of yesterland and took your place with silver poakock feathers and violet diamond eyes? When you escaped the muted gray dawn to emerge with crushed pearls on your skin and forget-me-nots in your glorious hair? Did you know?
Why? Why did you leave your solacing world of entrancing mist and delicate fireflies, to enter a world of quiet nights and bitter cold? To find him? Did you know? You, with your tender lips of myrtle, your eastern breeze which neither settles nor follows? When you took him to dance, in and out of sweet spider webs and rippling brooks, through forests of lilacs and lavender and opulent skies, across plateaus of burgundy wine, over towers of spindly rose thorns; when you led him, cloaked in exquisite Samurai robes, with music on your skin and starlight in your scented hair...did you know?
Don't play the fool. Did you know that I was waiting, with simple laughter on my skin and autumn leaves in my hair? Did you know you were better? Did you know you would win?
Congratulations.

Lydia and Isaac's song?

This is for lovely Lydia: Thirteen by Ben Kweller

We've been in the rain
We've been on the mountain
We've been round the fire

In fancy hotels
Drank water from farm wells
We sang with the choir

I kissed your dry lips
We jumped off the high cliffs
And splashed down below

Skin to skin
In the salty river
Made love in the shadow
Woooah ooh

Read books to each other
Read the mind of the other
Flew one thousand jets

We laughed and we cried
At movies and real life
In our ridiculous beds

We danced in the moonlight at midnight
We pressed against back doors and wooden floors
And you never faked it

And frequently
We ignored our love
But we could never mistake it
Oooh ooh

We met on the front porch
Fell in love on the phone
Without the physical wreck

You gave me the necklace
That used to hang
Around your mothers neck

We questioned religions
Fed bread to the pigeons
We learned how to pray

We stood by the ocean
Turned our hearts in to one
We laid in bed all day
Heeey

We skipped on the sidewalk
Skipped stones on the water
We skipped town

We've seen the sunrise with new eyes
We've seen the damage of gossip and true lies
We've seen the sun go down

Had passionate makeouts
And passionate freakouts
We built this world of our own

It was in the back of a taxi
When you told me you loved me
And that I wasnt alone



And here's the link to youtube:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E-gZ9s8CjIg

Yeah. This song always makes me think of her and her relationship. So here it is, Lydia. I think you'll like it.

Shirley Keeldar Finding the Words For Me

I've been poking the idea of love for...ever, and without much, if any, success. Love sounds like it sucks. I've seen people torn up, given up, even thrown up for the sake of love. Igh.

So I thought I shouldn't and couldn't have it. It would be horrible, I would be wretched, and it would end badly. Why would I want that? Aren't I rational enough to avoid it at all costs? Well, I do; except within my thoughts, the most important place of all. Greeeaaat.

The following excerpt is a conversation between Shirley Keeldar and her uncle, who wants her to reconsider marrying the already rejected Sir Philip Nunnely. I've found something of a solution, and much reassurance, in her words.

"...what are your intentions, Miss Keeldar?"
"In what respect?"
"In respect of matrimony."
"To be quiet--and to do just as I please."
"Just as you please! The words are to the last degree indecorous."
"Mr. Sympson, I advise you not to become insulting: you know I will not bear that."
"You read French. Your mind is is poisoned with French novels. You have imbibed French principles."
"The ground you are treading now returns a mighty hollow sound under your feet. Beware!"
"It will end in infamy, sooner or later. I have forseen it all along."
"Do you assert, sir, that something in which I am concerned will end in infamy?"
"That it will--that it will. You said just now you would act as you please. You acknowledge no rules--no limitations."
"Silly stuff! and vulgar as silly!"
"Regardless of decorum, you are prepared to fly in the face of propriety."
"You tire me, uncle."
"What, madam--what could be your reasons for refusing Sir Philip?"
"At last, there is another sensible question: I shall be glad to reply to it. Sir Philip is too young for me: I regard him as a boy: all his relations--his mother especially--would be annoyed if he married me: such a step would embroil him with them: I am not his equal in the world's estimation."
"Is that all?"
"Our dispositions are not compatible."
"Why, a more amiable gentleman never breathed."
"He is very amiable--very excellent--truly estimable, but not my master: not in one point. I could not trust myself with his happiness: I would not undertake the keeping of it for thousands: I will accept no hand which cannot hold me in check."
"I thought you liked to do as you please: you are vastly inconsistent."
"When I promise to obey, it will be under the conviction that I can keep that promise: I could not obey a youth like Sir Philip. Besides. he would never command me: he would expect me always to rule--to guide, and I have no taste whatever for that office."
"You have no taste for swaggering, and subduing, and ruling?"
"Not my husband: only my uncle."
"What is the difference?"
"There is a slight difference: that is certain. And I know full well, any man who wishes to live in decent comfort with me as a husband must be able to control me."
"I wish you had a real tyrant."
"A tyrant would not hold me for a day--not for an hour. I would rebel--break from him--defy him."
"Are you not enough to bewilder one's brain with your self-contradiction?"
"It is evident I belwilder your brain."
"You talk of Sir Philip being young: he is two and twenty."
"My husband must be thirty, with a sense of forty."
"You had better pick out some old man--some white-headed or bald-headed swain."
"No, thank you."
"You could lead some doting fool: you might pin him to your apron."
"I might do that with a boy: but it is not my vocation. Did I not say I prefer a master? One in whose presence I shall feel obligated and disposed to be good. One whose control my impatient temper must acknowledge. A man whose approbation can reward--whose displeasure punish me. A man I shall feel it impossible not to love, and very possible to fear."
"What is there to hinder you from doing al this with Sir Philip? He is a baronet a man of rank, property, connexions, far above yours. If you talk of intellect, he is a poet: he writes verses: which you, I take it, cannot do, with all your cleverness."
"Neither his title, wealth, pedigree, nor poetry, avail to invest him with the power I describe. These are feather-weights: they want ballast: a measure of sound, solid practical sense would have stood him in better stand with me."
"You an Henry rave about poetry: you used to catch fire like tinder on the subject when you were a girl."
"Oh! uncle, there is nothing really valuable in this world, there is nothing glorious in this world to come, that is not poetry!"
"Marry a poet, then, in God's name!"
"Show him me, and I will."
"Sir Philip."
"Not at all. You are almost as good a poet as he."

These are the only circumstances under which I will consider love or matrimony.

It's rather eye-openning: Shirley's sentiments concerning love are the basis of my own, and I feal beneath her levity the soul of the women I very may well become, should I live so long. Oh, Caroline Helstone shares my frame of mind, to be sure, as well as the determined and pointed actions felt towards those we hold close and those we dislike; however, my innermost workings, those impulsive and irrepressible emotions which truly define a person, as well as the unshakable ideals which were self-engraved from the beginning of our existence--those I share with Shirley.

I feel I have most in common with these two characters out of all the Bronte heroines, which is revealing of my character, since Shirley is concideed Charlotte Bronte's worst and most disgracefully boring novels (perhaps rivaled by The Professor, but no matter). Still, I am attached tremendously to these two young women, and I feel I would jump at the chance to befriend either.

Now let me be clear, Jane Eyre is still my favorite novel and character of Charlotte's, but she is not nearly as similar to me. Oh, we have some things in common, and she is most endearing, but I'd be more envious of her incredible nature, and be better to admire her strength of character and faerieness from some sort of distance--to acquaint myself with some natural reserve. Jane reminds me of a truly remarkable person I've known for a couple years now, and I do feel a sort of tenderness towards her, as well as a conscious pull away from her, for I am not the sort who befriends quickly or outwardly admires naturally: but I am working on it, and we shall see how I progress.

Awesome Stuff by Jorge Luis Borges

A QUIEN ESTÁ LEYÉNDOME
Eres invulnerable. ¿No te han dado
los números que rigen tu destino
certidumbre de polvo? ¿No es acaso
tu irreversible tiempo el de aquel río

en cuyo espejo Heráclito vio el símbolo
de su fugacidad? Te espera el mármol
que no leerás. En él ya están escritos
la fecha, la ciudad y el epitafio.

Sueños del tiempo son también los otros,
no firme bronce ni acendrado oro;
el universo es, como tú, Proteo.

Sombra, irás a la sombra que te aguarda
fatal en el confín de tu jornada;
piensa que de algún modo ya estás muerto.

Jorge Luis Borges

(translation)

You are invulnerable. Do you not have
the numbers that govern your destiny
certainty of dust? Is it not
your irreversible time that the river

Heraclitus mirror in which was the symbol
of their transience? We expect the marble
unread. It is already written
the date, the city and the epitaph.

Dreams of time are also other,
No firm or Superb golden bronze;
the universe is, as you Proteo.

Shadow, you'll go to the shadow that awaits your
fate within the end of your day;
think that somehow you're dead.

Reflections of a Sick Girl in Bed at Midnight

When I could barely see her,
The moon was my friend;
My companion
Who let my sickness seep from my fingertips
As I sat alone in bed
Listening to her quiet refrain.

But the light went on
And my friend
Wes enveloped in a strange sort of darkness
And formidable distance.
The Cold gripped my lungs
And I lurched,
Hoping to see her;
Glimpse her charm.
But the softness was gone.

And yet even now
I see her honeyed rays across a frozen tundra;
With that vastness of space
Which seperates our kind,
How do these gleams settle across my lap
Like a long forgotten doll
Taken from a silver-lined chest?
I reach to caress her,
Comfort her sweet sobbing,
But with a wisp of soft wind
She vanished,
Fearful,
From my lap,
And sunk into the depths of midnight
Without even saying goodbye.

I turn out the light,
Still hoping to bring her back.

The Perceptions of a Snowflake as it Falls to Earth

I felt strange in my murky confines , aware of a difference between myself and the rippling confines around me. A loosening, and a soft release--what is happening? I panic, aware of my descent, but uncomprehending of my surroundings. My mind spun as I twirled and swirled with a dizzying unaccoustomness. I discerned, vaguely (for I was still vastly out of control), a multitude of delicate, clear chrystal droplets which spun in equal disarray and confusion. My mind closed in on these sparkling beauties, rendered speechless and stunned; what were they? Absolute perfection? Never had I encountered such singular bellezza, such delicate splendour amidst timid opulence. How was this natural fragility obtained? I envied it beyond my mind's comprehension. Why was this spectacle available to those joyous flakes of divine purity, and not to myself? From where did such wonder birth? My spinning slowed and I watched my drifting companions with unmasked jealousy. It wasn't fair; it would never be fair. I felt a renewed gust of western wind and with it dismay at the new frenzied tumult as my very limbs quivered at teh accute harassment of my very fibers. Apparently I had landed, and in a thick blanket of celestial shimmer, the frightening movement had ceased. Then it hit me--I was one of them. I belonged. This was impromptu upon reading a letter my friend wrote, in which she posed and answered her own prompt. This is my answer.