Sunday, November 25, 2007

Why does every post need a title?

For a comprehensive and highly accurate account of what I did this weekend, I would advise you to visit, which is basically my sister blog. This really awes college kid who goes by Madeline K writes lots of shizz. She updates it, like, more times than I play with my hair, so check it regularly! It's very addictive. More....blogs....uhhh!!!! ramble blasphemously...

Anyway, so I'm at my desk, wondering why everything has grown pink spots. Then I remember...Lauren and I had a pomegranate party last week. See exhibit A.

I was regelated to using my teeth and a plastic knife, even though a hacksaw would've been a more sensible choice.

Friday, November 23, 2007

What's new?

I think it's time for a new post, don't you?

Even though this is all rather masochistic, seeing as I'm typing on my home computer, which sleeps in the coldest corner of the house. So not only am I having trouble adjusting to this keyboard, my fingers are already becoming quite numb. Let's just see what happens if I stop pressing the backspace button every time I make a mistake:

WEll., I went home on Tuesday evenign and my dad made a wrong turn. It was funny. Not rally at the time, baceous I had

Ok, this is just bad. Yeah, I actually fixed that last sentence. Originally, it read "ok, this is just pad."

I have so much to say, but this post has already taken me far too long. I'd like to de-stiff my hands, now, thank you.

Saturday, November 17, 2007

A Hymn

I don't follow a Bible, but if I did, I imagine it would be Lonely Planet's guide to every country in the world. I don't know the exact title. This is because the book and I keep a certain distance apart, so people won't ask questions. When I visit the Muhlenberg Bookstore, we (the book and I, that is) act like adulterous lovers suspended, vulnerable, trapped at a public crossroads. Can't look. Can't touch. Not when anyone's looking.

How odd. It's not like it's an embarrassing book to be caught with, indubitably verisimilitudinously. But it's almost like I don't want to violate the book. I hold it, in my mind, and I am traveling though Greenland (people do live there, you know), the Falkland Islands, Somalia, and the Federated Islands of Micronesia, my hometown. It's like a jet plane, in my hands, and I'm not sure if I'm ready for even the voyeuristic pleasure of exploration. It is my dream to visit every country in the world, but with the achievement of that dream comes, I believe, a necessary disappointment. What now? No longer will I sit, wondering idly and ignorantly about Norwegian fjords. Iceland is, at present, walking the border of my preconscious, on tip-toes. No, pointe shoes. Just as delicate as the ice that stings your fingers violet when you touch. If I hop on the next plane to Reykjavik, gone are the fragments, the mosaics, the pink silk threads of baseless imaginings and icy heat. So don't look. Don't touch.

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

More Eisenstein!!!!!!!!!!!

When I log onto blogspot, I am demanded to procure my username and password. Slumping next to 'password', shoulders hunched, rests a question mark. As in, "What's a password?"

Yeah, so this isn't really going anywhere. Blame it on the anesthesia for yet another toe surgery I was subjected to on Monday. This would be a better excuse if I wrote this on Tuesday. Here's the secret: I started writing this on Tuesday, but had to save it as a draft or risk being late to...something. I don't remember, presently. But the password question mark thingy just struck me as really funny. I guess its for people who've, like, never seen the Internet before.

Or for people who ask the kind of questions like, "Where does the Internet go when you're not using it?" doesn't go anywhere. It's not even an it. Believe it or not, someone asked me this once. There's an almost mystical wonderment at the idea that this person believed that I was the chosen one; the person who could craft a pearl of the barnacled murk that stands at the intersection of computer science, theology, esoterics, and complete bullshit to satisfactorily answer the question that is so stupid it cannot be answered. And I know lots of things can't be answered, and that doesn't mean they're stupid. But...where does it go? As David Sedaris would say, that's fucked up.

About five times this week, such events have occurred which I desired to commit to the blogosphere. Unfortunately, I have forgotten all of them because I have been too busy to weed them all out. Some of them were worthy of Bridget Jones, too.

Well, we talked about Kerenski again in film. Anyone, anyone? Kerenski? No?

The peacock's ass?

Knew you'd remember that. If you're still like, WTFFF? I'll provide a refresher.

Kerenski is the head of Russia's provisional government. It's 19somethingorother, and we're in the movie October. Yeah, you and I. Okay, I know you'd rather be stuck in a successful revolution, never mind a successful movie, but c'mon, it's Eisenstein. I'd rather be in an Eisenstein movie, even one that's kinda crappy, excessive, and overly ambiguous, than in a horror movie (note: read How to Survive a Horror Movie if you find that I've lucked out with Eisenstein and am now living comfortably on the Russian steppes and you're a log cabin in Montana). And the montage is fun to be a part of, you just have to make sure you're not on the edge of the frame or you'll get spliced. So we're in October, yes we are. Do you see that short, effeminate man climbing the stairs over and over and over and over and over? That's Kerenski. Now watch, there's a mechanical peacock. And look...he just walked into its ass. Through the suggestion of editing, of course. And it's supposed to show that he's arrogant. And Eisenstein is really proud of this montage, too, but that's not the point. Yesterday, we watched Rules of the Game in film. One of the characters, the Marquis de Chesnaye, collects mechanical music boxes. It's pretty neat...of course, it's used for different effects in Rules of the Game. Am I going to go into them? No. I'm going to finish writing so I can eat a piece of chocolate and concentrate on solving the enigma of evolution so we can all develop sticky tongues.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

Life in Greenland

During a bout of procrastination yesterday, I left the ice cave that some call my dorm room to slink, unnoticed, along the walls of those brightly lit corridors still barking with brash Halloween decorations (maybe I spelled it right this time?). While slinking, I noticed a sign that whispered (for the letters were very small, and the sign itself was hiding between two bolder ones) "Heating Instructions: Brown Hall."

Heating instructions?

Ummm...what? Like it doesn't just come on automatically?

So I turned it on, and it hissed at me like a cat and smelled funny, too, but it was heat and it was wonderful. Then I went to sleep.

Friday, November 9, 2007

Notes from the Red Door Cafe

Forgive me if there are more typos in this post than ever have dared to exist before. I am currently hunched, catlike, over a jurassic computer in the Red Door lounge at Muhlenberg. A group of my friends are playing with sticks and pretending to be all mature and sophisticated about it.

They call it pool. I call it, "oooh! shiny objects! Pretty colors!"

I've always been sort of prejudiced against pool as a form of recreation, perhaps of its unavoidable connotations with the swimming pool. I'm the type of person who could live in a swimming pool, so I don't appreciate any reference to this lovely word without the promise of a nice dip afterwords.

One thing I hate about this computer right now is the lack of a wristpad. My laptop also lacks a wristpad (oh, lackaday!) but I at least have the desk on which to rest my poor, weatherbeaten hands. When I realize it's only November, I cry.

I burned my hands a few days ago. They were not so happy about this because they were already in the red due to the grizzled weather we've been having lately. I really like that word, even though it doesn't sense make in the of much context. It makes me think of grizzly bears and sizzling grilled cheese, which, in turn, makes me think of sizzling grizzly bears. If you can picture being set upon by a pack of sizzling grizzlies, you'll be able to empathize with my plight.

So, anyway, my hands suffered some pretty spindly burns.

Don't ever use hot baked beans as a compress.

This is not exactly what I did. I was getting some beans in the Garden Room, with the object of liberally coating the lining of my taco shell, when a conglomoration of beaness propelled itself out of the shell into which it had been planted and onto the tender knuckles of my left hand. I spewed curses in return, and stood very still for several moments like a burnt ferrett.

Then I found a napkin, and my knuckles will never be the same. I'm now going to go back to my room or something and apply a cold compress of lotion.

Again, I wish I had a sticky tounge. None of this would have happened.

Wednesday, November 7, 2007

My LIFE!!! Ahhh...part 2

I'm a writer.

I hate writing.

Not all writing. Not most writing. Just essay writing. Whenever I have to write an essay, my heart rate triples (figuratively, I hope) and my stomach turns into an ice-cold slinky. The task of writing an essay is incredibly daunting for me. My thoughts, spinning round me like ill-thrown frisbees, cry "BLACK PIECE OF PAPER BLANK PIECE OF PAPER" because for the first hour or so I try to write the damn thing, that's what I'm facing. Which insinuates an even deeper state of panic. The slinky turns to rubber, and I can't swallow. After a few hours, I have an outline. Maybe. Sometimes, I get so frustrated and panicky I just start writing, but then I end up rewriting it because none of it makes sense. My biggest panic-inducer, however, is the time constraints. I can never put anything off until the last minute.

So here I am, with two reviews due on Friday (one on art, one on film), with literally hours spent on preparatory work and no evidence of any of it. And the more I have trouble writing them, the more I panic because I know, shit, I'm not going to be able to do the REST of my homework for Friday which will really, really, REALLY be bad. Because it's all for the same class (Film) and she specifically told us to have fully processed the readings.

I am now going to have a temper tantrum. Ready?

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Sunday, November 4, 2007

A champion time waster, that's me!

It is impossible to be bored to tears. Tears imply emotion, whereas boredom is more or less apathy. Then again, I suppose one could become frustrated about this state, and frustration leads to emotion, which could lead to tears. But a direct connection between boredom and crying is impossible and therefore ludicrous.

I am now bored, but that boredom is mixed up with frustration and that sense of dread that always comes my way on Sunday afternoons. Damn, I do have to go write that scene. But I don't, really! I can post on my blog instead!!!!!!!!

But I'll eventually have to write this frickin scene. And by eventually, I mean, like, before it's due at five tommorrow. And I sure as hell am not waiting until then.

Do you ever make lists? I have an affection for them. They come in many varieties and are often underused or limited to the everyday, muslin variety of to-do lists.

If you ever want to make a list, here are some ideas:

  1. List everything you despise that begins with 'a' and ends with 'a'. Like, er, agoraphobia.
  2. Order your friendships. Make a real popularity pyramid out of it. Then drop it discretely on the floor next to one of their rooms, and watch as your friends--disappear! MAGIC!
  3. List every word you know. No dictionaries, that's cheating.
  4. List all operas that require a contralto and a coluratura soprano. And please, only those written between 1834 and 1972.
  5. List the number of times you've had to clean the litterbox. Although, I guess, you could just write down one number and that would make a pretty lame list.
  6. List the locations (complete address) of every bathroom you've used since January, 1976.
  7. List, in great detail, all your dreams about Gene Wilder.
  8. Make a list of 100 reasons your list should never be published. Now, go find a publisher.
  9. 100 uses for an OATMEAL COOKIE!
  10. 100 reasons why I should be writing my scene, and not posting on my frickin blog.
  11. Oooh, ooo, one more! 100 reasons why we should develop sticky tounges. I'll give you one I thought of yesterday: one could eat Pirate's Booty and take notes at the same time without getting the paper all cheesy.

Get to it! I want these lists, all of them, by 5:00 tommorrow!

Friday, November 2, 2007

A Bricolage, or The Can of Worms

There's always that moment, right about when I log in to blogspot, when I think, "ok, Katie, what the fuck are you going to write about today? The same shit you always write?"

And the answer is always the same: "yes. Yes, yes, and yes."

Because I really love this blog. And I mean, like it's my child or something. Which it is, in a metaphorical sense.

So, as you can tell, I've once again solved the problem of what to write about! Therefore, movies are like real life.

Here's what I mean: have you ever seen a 1930s Hollywood musical? You know the kind: the biggest problem is that I say banana and you say bahnahnah, and that's why we're getting divorced, but it'll be fine because we can rollerskate and tap dance AT THE SAME TIME even though we haven't rollerskated since we were twelve! (Note: see Shall We Dance? Fred Astaire and Ginger Rodgers). Now there's an easy problem to solve. The problem with these kinds of movies, especially at the time, is that they both reinforced viewers' values AND also provided those very same values. It's all so capitalist. So you went to the movies, your stomach as empty as a broken window pane, and realized OH! The problem is that a) I don't have enough money b) I don't know how to woo women [these movies were sooo targeted at men] and c) I really need a sense of fashion [ok, this was targeted at women, as was the idea that all women should want to be objectified and admired all day long]. And the solution? Money will come! And I'll frolic and dance as gay as the sprightly sparrows. Which sounds really nice. This one guy, Richard Dyer, wrote a lot about entertainment and Utopia. Then there was this other guy, Siegfried Kracauer (he wrote From Caligari to Hitler, a real beach read, that) who thinks that showgirls in geometric patterns (ie any Dick Tracy musical) are really, really scary. True. They kinda are. But he meant it, too. These women are just cogs in a machine, not knowing what patterns they're so willingly giving their identities up to make. And what's even creepier? We, the entrapped workers (yeah, yeah, Kracauer was a Marxist) go to see these shows and only THINK we're escaping, but we're really just seeing this gruesome play-by-play of our own blind existence. And it was this fact, still eerier, that predicts and supports the rise of Hitler (yeah, yeah, Kracauer was German and wrote most of his stuff in retrospect, but he wrote this one in 1927). When people are so blind that they only pay attention to their small task, they become unaware of what they may be getting themselves into. It was easy for Hitler to take control. And I, personally, think that we should be more aware now. Not to be political or anything, but there's stuff going on right now that we're completely ignoring. Unintentionally, of course. We're too busy watching Paris Hilton's every engagement.

I'm really, really sorry if I've offended or confused any of you. I just needed to get that out there. Don't even get me started on the portrayl of women in movies. Ughhh...But anyway, my point [originally] with all this, was to draw a parallel between how easy it was for Fred and Ginger to stay married, and how easy it was for me to think of something to write about. I'm being rather self-reflexive now, referring to the writing process.

Isn't this blog indubidubly verisimilitudinous?