I imagine Auntie Jane hovering over me, her grim specter smelling faintly of powders and stuffy drawing rooms. My agenda for the day was pretty simple – go to Sociology from 9:40 to 11. Then see Emcee OdaKON about next year’s classes.
And that’s it. And yet here we are at 1:30 in the morning, with another few hundreds words to be conjured, and then a further few thousand to be read in preparation for the Psych quiz tomorrow.
Which is total fuckin’ shenanigans. We’ve got 2 inches of snow on the dirt, and the fleece, stained at the sleeves with errant pizza sauce and stray Fanta, must be denied sweet retirement (and a wash) a few weeks more. Even had I the option I wouldn’t do it though, because at this point in the year I hardly have the energy to get out of bed. I’ll lay there and do slow 30 counts in my head, waiting for my initiative to percolate. It usually takes awhile.
It’s a good thing I can only grow facial hair a peach would laugh at, otherwise I might look downright disreputable. Life has been distilled into the essentials (read: basketball) – I’ve become a three point marksman, besting the former champion in three straight contests. He claims it’s all been luck, and I say that I have become as a god. So there’s that.
We’re at a dry patch in the month, with NBA playoffs ten days distant, and a gaggle of deadlines and paperwork to be vanquished in the meantime. I feel like I need some sort of stupid feat to accomplish to refill the tank in order to crawl the remaining 28 days. Maybe I’ll have a NaNoWriDay, or something.
Anyway – Fearless was raw as hell, and you can watch Jet Li punch through a dude’s chest here.
I’m dragging my way through MJH’s Light. I have no idea why I can’t stomach more than five pages of the guy’s stuff at a time – he’s a great writer, but there’s a certain weariness to the prose that makes it a small dose kind of style. It’s the reverse of those kids with extremely strong personalities that can get extremely repellent if you’re with them for more than a half hour – MJH’s prose is gray and bleak and sometimes obtuse. It lacks the freewheeling virtuosity of a Mieville or a Mossman. I’ve been wanting to read Cormac McCarthy’s The Road ever since it dominated The Morning Review’s book tournament (its author was described as “being so stern his crags have crags”, or something to that effect) and got a sweet discount thanks to Oprah. Normally I’d be leery of buying an Oprah book, but I hear a baby gets spit-roasted, so its hardness is assured.
Alright, that should tap out my reserves of colloquialisms – time to get back to discussing Austenian courtships.
