laene_lif: (House headache)
Tonight was my last all-nighter as an undergrad. ...Woo!
laene_lif: (Default)
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Anyway. To do:

-Kripke paper
-five reflections on Education
-"chapter" on Education
-review of "Culture, Language and Literacy"
-King Lear paper
-submissions to philosophy club journal
-several more pages of my robot story
-philosophy final exam

It's gonna be time to start living in the library soon, seeing as I still don't have a working computer of my own.
laene_lif: (facepalm House)
It is so fucking cold in my apartment.

And I've been up all night because I am SO INEFFICIENT.

I'm writing about cyborgs and posthumanism and feminism, of course. And tentacle sex. THIS IS ACADEMIC STUFF, MAN.

I have to give a brief presentation on it in, ooh two hours and 45 minutes. It's just a ten minute reading on a panel -- not a big deal. My problem is cutting this stuff down. (And putting it into sentences and paragraphs that flow together and form a cohesive, coherent whole... But that's how it always goes when you start things 12 hours before they're due.)

Why am I on LJ???
laene_lif: (Guildenstern such is life shrug smile)
I'm doing Vagina Monologues at my school this year. Never have before, though a few of my friends have, and they're all doing it this year too, so it will be fun. And I got a pretty big part, which is neat. It's been so long since I've done any kind of acting. The piece I'm doing is called "Crooked Braid." It's pretty intense. Sad. I like it a lot. It's based on interviews by Eve Ensler with women from the Oglala Lakota Nation on the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota. Here, have a look:

crooked braid )

I hope I do it justice.

I've also decided to write my english capstone on Octavia Butler's "Xenogenesis" trilogy, "No Woman Born" by C.L. Moore, Judith Butler's feminist/gender theory stuff ("Gender Trouble") and Donna Haraway's "Cyborg Manifesto." Yeah. I'm pretty excited for it.
laene_lif: (Guildenstern such is life shrug smile)
Cold (especially my ankles), drinking weak coffee and writing about how the problems of radical skepticism are insoluble because they are fictitious. Says A.J. Ayer.

Also, gotta pee.

What to focus on: induction, other minds, memory, or senses/physical objects?

And (more importantly), what to write my English capstone paper on? The Absurd in... something? In Science Fiction? The sublime and the grotesque? The implications about human capacity for knowledge and certainty; about empathy; about... gender, and anti-essentialism? These things don't seem to mesh. But I feel like it could maybe work. Something about androids. I could write it all on "Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?" or maybe combine that with some stuff by Stanislaw Lem like "Solaris" and "The Mask". And maybe... C.L. Moore's "No Woman Born." I don't know. If anybody has any ideas about anything remotely related to any of that, I'd be very interested to hear it (and grateful).

(Maybe one of these days I'll write more of an actual entry. I have this notion in my head that when I write less, I'm living more. I'm not sure that's at all true, but it's there.)

Update: Ugh. I'm getting annoyed at this paper. The Ayer one. Trying to be clever about this shit just makes me talk in circles.
laene_lif: (Default)
Let the rain kiss you
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops
Let the rain sing you a lullaby
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk
The rain makes running pools in the gutter
The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night
And I love the rain.

-- Langston Hughes, "April Rain Song"

It's raining right now, and it's cold -- makes me feel like camping. Camping in a tent that won't flood. With blankets on the floor like seeping bags, doing homework with Brian.

Well, he's doing homework -- I'm more just musing. Reading some old things I wrote and trying to write poetry. I should just start reading Moby Dick or Plato's Theatetus and figure out poetry later.

In going through old entries, I came across a collection of quotes that resonated with me in high school. I thought I'd paste them here. words )
laene_lif: (Default)
Taking a creative poetry class. Egh. I do not have a beautiful poem of mine for tomorrow.

But we are also supposed to bring in beautiful poems from poets. So I am compiling a list to choose from. I'll continue adding to it over time. But for a start...

"The Love Song of Alfred J. Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot
"The Hollow Men" by T.S. Eliot
"The Wasteland" by T.S. Eliot
"Howl" by Alan Ginsberg
"Ode to a Nightingale" by Keats
"Fern Hill" by Dylan Thomas
"Sunday Morning" by Wallace Stevens
"Night Letter to the Reader by Billy Collins
"here's to opening and upward" by ee cummings
"In a middle of a room" by ee cummings
"Nothing Gold Can Stay" by Robert Frost
"Celestial Music" by Louise Gluck
"First Memory" by Louise Gluck
laene_lif: (House headache)

Proposal for 19C Research Essay: this weekend
Troilus and Criseyde trans: this weekend (Monday)
PhiloMind response paper: Thursday
George Eliot Analysis Essay: Thursday
George Eliot Short Response Paper: Thursday
Husserl Essay: Friday
History of Eng. Lang. Proposal & Abstract: Friday

HOTEL Presentation: Wed April 22
19C Research Essay Presentation: Thursday April 23
19C Research Essay Abstract & Bibl: Thursday April 23

HOTEL project/essay: Thursday April 30
PhiloMind Essay: Friday April 31
19C Research Essay: Monday May 4
PhiloMind Final Take Home Exam: Monday May 4
Gadamer Essay: Wednesday May 6
laene_lif: (Default)
Time for catching up on reading. This summer, so far, I've finished Siddhartha by Herman Hesse (and recommend it), As You Like It by Shakespeare (duh), and am just a tiny chapter away from finishing The Master and Margarita by Bulgakov. It's a very weird, very cool book.

But, right, so, much of my f-list has been posting this Great Books list, so I thought I'd join in and take note of what I should look at next.

1) Look at the list and bold those you have read.
2) Italicize those you intend to read.
3) Underline the books you LOVE.
4) Reprint this list in your own LJ if you so desire.

here they are )
laene_lif: (Luke and Leia)
She's growing on me. I like poetry better when I understand what it's saying. After reading about the themes of rebirth and transcendence, and true-self and false-self, in Plath's poetry, I'm liking it more.

The Arrival of the Bee Box
(by Sylvia Plath)

I ordered this, clean wood box
Square as a chair and almost too heavy to lift.
I would say it was the coffin of a midget
Or a square baby
Were there not such a din in it.

The box is locked, it is dangerous.
I have to live with it overnight
And I can't keep away from it.
There are no windows, so I can't see what is in there.
There is only a little grid, no exit.

I put my eye to the grid.
It is dark, dark,
With the swarmy feeling of African hands
Minute and shrunk for export,
Black on black, angrily clambering.

How can I let them out?
It is the noise that appalls me most of all,
The unintelligible syllables.
It is like a Roman mob,
Small, taken one by one, but my god, together!

I lay my ear to furious Latin.
I am not a Caesar.
I have simply ordered a box of maniacs.
They can be sent back.
They can die, I need feed them nothing, I am the owner.

I wonder how hungry they are.
I wonder if they would forget me
If I just undid the locks and stood back and turned into a tree.
There is the laburnum, its blond colonnades,
And the petticoats of the cherry.

They might ignore me immediately
In my moon suit and funeral veil.
I am no source of honey
So why should they turn on me?
Tomorrow I will be sweet God, I will set them free.

The box is only temporary.
laene_lif: (Default)
I have to give a 15 minute oral report on Sylvia Plath and the ordering of Ariel this Tuesday. I do not feel very confident about it. I'm also not entirely sure how I feel about her work -- I like it and can appreciate it, but it's probably not going to become a favorite of mine. However, here is a piece toward the end of that collection (Ariel) that I like a lot.

The Moon and the Yew Tree

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God,
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility.
Fumey, spiritous mists inhabit this place
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky--
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection.
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

The yew tree points up. It has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness--
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of stars.
Inside the church, the saints will be all blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness -- blackness and silence.
laene_lif: (Luke and Leia)
A number of people on my friends-list have been posting poems. I thought I'd join in. A Wallace Stevens poem for you all. It's long but it's perfect -- here's to living and dreams of now, not never.

Sunday Morning )


Oct. 16th, 2007 07:06 pm
laene_lif: (Aslan is dead)
From [ profile] elynittria and [ profile] secondsilk:

Three Books meme )
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