pipistrellafelix: (Default)
I spent today surrounded by file folders, notebooks, & ridiculously old papers, listening to Anansi Boys & then Oingo Boingo. It's taking a long time to go through everything, but I'm recycling more than I usually do, which is refreshing, & I'm going to make better organization in life my new habit, yes indeed! I'm SO excited to have my room clean & organized, I cannot even explain to you. I have not seen the entirety of my floor in over a YEAR. Good lord.

In other news, I hauled a fairly small bag of books with me today to sell at Half Price. Perez took over half of them off my hands before I even got there. When I did, I sold about eight of them for a total of five dollars, & then promptly used those five dollars plus four more to buy four new books. ...I just cannot win.

Clearly all this just means that I need to build a fifth bookshelf for my room. Pffft. Who needs a bed, anyway?
pipistrellafelix: (happy)
& his reactions are fantastic! Ha--what a brilliant man.

For some reason cut&paste is malfunctioning on my computer, or else you'd get all my favorite choice bits of reactions from his blog. But I think my absolute favorite is his twitter post:

"Newbery, not Newbury. Also FUCK!!!! I won the FUCKING NEWBERY MEDAL THIS IS SO FUCKING AWESOME. I thank you."

What a man!
pipistrellafelix: (happy)
I'm working on my Moby-Dick paper currently, which I'm not thrilled about, but only for reasons of being sick of schoolwork, not because I don't love the book. To that end, let me share my favorite chapter with you--yes, the whole thing; it's short. But it's beautiful. The language in this book is just ridiculously fantastic, & this is one of my favorite parts:

Chapter 23 - The Lee Shore

Some chapters back, one Bulkington was spoken of, a tall, new-landed mariner, encountered in New Bedford at the inn.

When on that shivering winter's night, the Pequod thrust her vindictive bows into the cold malicious waves, who should I see standing at her helm but Bulkington! I looked with sympathetic awe and fearfulness upon the man, who in mid-winter just landed from a four years' dangerous voyage, could so unrestingly push off again for still another tempestuous term. The land seemed scorching to his feet. Wonderfullest things are ever the unmentionable; deep memories yield no epitaphs; this six-inch chapter is the stoneless grave of Bulkington. Let me only say that it fared with him as with the storm-tossed ship, that miserably drives along the leeward land. The port would fain give succor; the port is pitiful; in the port is safety, comfort, hearthstone, supper, warm blankets, friends, all that's kind to our mortalities. But in that gale, the port, the land, is that ship's direst jeopardy; she must fly all hospitality; one touch of land, though it but graze the keel, would make her shudder through and through. With all her might she crowds all sail off shore; in so doing, fights 'gainst the very winds that fain would blow her homeward; seeks all the lashed sea's landlessness again; for refuge's sake forlornly rushing into peril; her only friend her bitterest foe!

Know ye, now, Bulkington? Glimpses do ye seem to see of that mortally intolerable truth; that all deep, earnest thinking is but the intrepid effort of the soul to keep the open independence of her sea; while the wildest winds of heaven and earth conspire to cast her on the treacherous, slavish shore?

But as in landlessness alone resides the highest truth, shoreless, indefinite as God--so, better is it to perish in that howling infinite, than be ingloriously dashed upon the lee, even if that were safety! For worm-like, then, oh! who would craven crawl to land! Terrors of the terrible! is all this agony so vain? Take heart, take heart, O Bulkington! Bear thee grimly, demigod! Up from the spray of thy ocean-perishing--straight up, leaps thy apotheosis!

(Text from here.)
pipistrellafelix: (irelandme)
So far, today, I have cut myself twice and did one thing I ought to have done sixteen weeks ago.

My first cut was on my thumb, trying to open a can of tuna fish with Sarah's camping pseudo-can-opener-ripping-instrument. That was just silly.

The second cut was a scrape on my finger while climbing Oscar Wilde's rock. That I am more proud of, and makes a better story, so I will be sticking with that one & ignoring the tuna fish can.

Also today I went, finally, to the National Library, to see the Reading Room (a small version of the glory that is the Reading Room of the British Museum, which sometimes makes me weak-kneed in memory). It was gorgeous, but I felt a little silly lurking in the doorway with no point to being there besides gawking at the architecture and books.

When I went back downstairs to pick up my bag from the cloakroom-man he started talking to me (and lord do the Irish talk), about a woman he was just helping; he told her where her house was, since he knew her family in north Mayo, like, and then he asked me whether I had Irish roots, you know (having ferreted out of me earlier that I was from Seattle, and then of course referencing Sleepless in Seattle, it's either that or Frasier), & then telling me I ought to go use the geneaology service except there was no one there. When he found out I was studying theater he said that there was loads of that in the reading room, I should get a ticket, so--he'd give me the forms and everything.

Of course the form wants a permanent Irish address. And you get a free ticket for a year. And of course I should have done this months ago, and then I could have gone to the reading room any time I wanted to read anything they have there. Well, damn.

I guess it just means I'll have to come back for a while. Thing I'll miss about Ireland today: Museums that are free.
pipistrellafelix: (find x)
So prepare yourself: the Catholic League launching an attack, or at least releasing an aggravated statement, condemmning The Golden Compass Movies.
I said something similar in [livejournal.com profile] lacylu42's journal: I can see why these books, much more than Harry Potter, can be seen to promote atheism. And I can see why the Catholic Church would get their knickers in a twist, because the books are rather attacking organized religion. But they're so much more complex than that. Have they* read the books I wonder? For me it was always an attack--if that word's even right, which I'm not sure it is--on what happens when organized religion goes bad and loses sight of the principles on which the religion was founded in the beginning. Pullman certainly condemns that. Actually, I think I've heard Pullman condemning all organized religion (I think he had bad childhood experiences...), but I've never heard him condemn religion outright. Anyway, I find the whole thing fascinating but I'd like to know I'm arguing against people who've read and understood the book.

And really, people: "The trilogy, His Dark Materials, was written to promote atheism and denigrate Christianity, especially Roman Catholicism." Are you sure? You can read implications into it all you like (& I'm not suprised they are), but no one ever said that.

"Atheism for kids. That is what Philip Pullman sells." Whoops. Guess because I bought all his books as a kid and devoured them and loved them, I am an atheist. Oh...but wait. That's not strictly true. Whoops.


[* So of course this "they" is another issue because I don't know how many people that encompasses, whether some or all have read or understood the book. I just think you ought to be on the same playing field to have an argument about something. Is that reasonable?]
pipistrellafelix: (ginny)
I just finished a book titled Master of Verona, which is written by a Shakespearian actor/director, & is a backstory of sorts to Romeo and Juliet. It's also impossible to stop reading; I had read about fifty pages before, & read the entire rest of it (a few hundred pages more) tonight. It's wonderful--all full of plots & twists, settings that were evocative and confusing at the same time, characters with Italian names that I want to say all day, just the right amount of suspense and mystery without it being frustrating. (Also, apparently, two Shakespeare-related anagrams; I haven't found them yet.)

A few weeks ago I got all my old files back from Kristen, and some days ago I spent a couple hours before bed reading through a bunch of my fiction files. I feel ridiculously disconnected from them. The hundreds of megabytes of story based on the NCPS that Allie & I created feel so entirely connected to my two years at Northwest that I don't rightly know how to keep going on them. I have what feels like millions of fits and starts--files that number between one and five pages, no more--that are none of them bad, just lonely & unfinished. I rarely hate my writing; I just never finish anything. At the moment, I'm not annoyed, I'm just thinking. But sometimes that drives me crazy. How can I ever expect to be an author proper when the only things I finish a full draft of are poems, & them only rarely? I have a story (silly, but not bad), which I began in senior year of highschool. In three weeks I will begin my senior year of college. And is it finished? Of course not.

I have always wanted to do NaNoWriMo, although November is a terrible month for me. Mostly what I want is a reason to finish a draft, however botched & ridiculous it might be. If it's full, I can shape it. I can't shape bits & pieces of millions of puzzles that aren't the same picture. They all fall apart in my hands. Someday, at some point--sooner rather than later--I just want something done. Is that possible?

I leave in twenty days. I am going toward an adventure. It's my turn. It's time. There's just plenty that I'm going to hate leaving behind.
pipistrellafelix: (ship)
Lists are one of the things that keep my life on track (that, & remembering to drink water...geez). To that end, I'm going to have to start keeping lists again, because even though it's summer I still have plenty to do.

Another list I want, though, is the perennial list that never seems to actually exist: The list of Books I Want To/Should Read. If confronted with an actual title, I'll remember that I wanted to read that one, & I'll check it out of the library; but I can never remember any titles to search for when I go. So here's my question to you:
What's some favorite/classic/necessary books that you think I really should read?
I'm fairly open on genre, really; I enjoy everything from trashy fantasy novels to historical fiction to non-fiction books on archeology or what-have-you--as well as plays you reccomend; I'd really like to get my theatrical literacy up. I just want to read something that isn't assigned. Any ideas?
pipistrellafelix: (ship)
There is something about having properly curly hair that makes me feel like I can take on the world, & bedamned anyone who wants to get in my way. Also, goddamn but Arcadia is the most amazing play & just rocks my planet. I feel like I'm falling in love with the entire world when I'm onstage--and when I'm offstage, watching other people. God, theater....

Over the course of several bus rides yesterday & today I read J.D. Salinger's Franny and Zooey...the first part, "Franny," made me terribly discontent & upset, & then the second part, "Zooey," turned it around utterly & very nearly made me cry at parts, because it sounded so true. I think that's part of Salinger...you have to read him at just the right time for that story, or it does nothing for you. I've heard lots of people say that about Catcher in the Rye; for me, I happened to read it at exactly the right time for the story to resonate with me in the way I think it was intended to. F&Z was the same way. It shook me up a little, but ultimately it sounded true. I want to write true. Even if it's not real, I want to write truth. (Sometimes, you know, fiction is far truer than what really happened.)

ARCADIA opens Friday! Come see my show. I mean it. I've never meant it so much.
pipistrellafelix: (Default)
I just finished Tam Lin this morning. When did I start it? Oh...yeah. Yesterday. Damn, I love summer.
pipistrellafelix: (university of hamleting)
Oh Arcadia! How I do love thee. Also, how I do love picky rehearsals, nagging over particular pieces and lines and moments until they're--not perfect, really, but as perfect as imperfect live theater can ever be.

And the memorial tonight was...not nearly as bizarre as I thought (read: feared) it would be. I'm not sure I needed the closure, per se (I sort of came to that on my own), but it was still good to go.

& I drove Cozy to the airport--& we said, Goodbye, see you in IRELAND!

& I have been reading Pamela Dean's Tam Lin--I spent a good chunk of the afternoon sitting in grandpa's chair in the kitchen, just reading--& I had forgotten how amazing it is to just lose myself in a story. (Not to mention a story that has nothing to do with John Donne, Margaret of Anjou, political theory, analyzing history or monarchs. Except for fairy ones, I think, but I haven't got there yet.)

My mind has been a little vague. A little wandering, going places I don't want to follow lately. It's coming back, though. For some reason, the memorial jolted me a little back into place.


pipistrellafelix: (Default)

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