turned left at greenland
02.24.04 @ 11:53 p.m.
I think my head aches from not having eaten in 8 hours. It could be any number of things, up to and including over use of computer. I was about to say I can't remember what I did all afternoon, but I played SimCity 2000. Blame my Economics teacher for having an icon for SimCity 3000 on his laptop's desktop. I am, for the first time ever, trying to keep a city going without any cheats whatsoever. I've never made a profitable city before, but this afternoon's fourth or fifth attempt not to fuck things up with bonds worked out quite well. It's called "Wakonda" after the town in Sometimes a Great Notion. I'll get food and then I'll get down to the business of saying all I mean to say tonight. Ostensibly, I'm listening to the CDs I made for Candace to proof them and make sure they actually play. There are apparently no horrifying fuckups, volume changes, what have you, because I forgot I was listening to music until I 'resurfaced' from where my mind was (reading Dumbrella and various dland pages) to realize I was listening to "Glittering Girl."
So. Chronologically, without so much detail as to be boring. I had vivid dreams last night, but I can't remember what of. I think that some of them were bad or at least a little disturbing, because I kept waking up well before my alarm was set to go off. In the end I overslept by at least 20 minutes (absolute latest I can sleep on a Tuesday: 8:45; waking time: 9:05), but I managed a speedy shower and concurrent dressing and blow drying.
Catullus was the focus of today's discussion in Classics. That class is super-awesome even if it doesn't really particularly fill any requirements. No, wait, I think it's general upper division credits, so, yeah, useful AND fun. I keep fixating on this short poem in Latin, claimed to be the shortest Latin poem by my teacher.
Odi et amo: quare id faciam, fortasse requirisRoughly, it means:
Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.
I hate and I love. Why do I do this, perhaps you ask."Excrucior" meaning "crucified" and crucifixion being a punishment for slaves, all suggesting that poor ol' Catullus was a slave to love.
I do not know, but I feel that it is so and I am in agony.
Time was killed, an Italian piece was rewritten.
In Italian, presentations were given by Stephanie, my sort of friend and work partner, and Giovanni, my enigma. He seems to be okay talking to many of the prettier ladies of the class, frequently looks as though he is listening to my conversations with Stephanie when not engaged in other conversation, kept sitting by me for about a week and a half last term, and has the worst vocal shakes when called on of anyone I've ever heard. I feel a bit like "Social anxiety? Me? Did you get a load of THAT guy? Talk about being nervous." Povero Giovanni. � pi� nervoso di me durante le presentazioni - mi dispiace per lui. Molto nervoso, molto stressato. Ma, perch� � nervoso, � diventato un po' adorabile.
Economist Matt shaved a few days ago and looks five million times better. His face is just a little too youthful for a goatee.
Economics, as usual, made me die the thousand deaths of boredom. I worked on restructuring my 2002 NaNovel, Riverwood and making it... well, very different. Same characters, but in different positions and following a more worn, familiar path than the ridiculous plot I came up with. My main character's Darcy-like interference with her brother's life isn't really plausible, and Beckford helping her seems... odd. What's in it for him? And why would Lavinia just start throwing herself at Beck without him looking bad in Emma's eyes? Emma's brother needs to become somewhat irrational, in different ways than in the original version, and I need to find some way of keeping Emma and Beckford from liking each other too quickly. Also, I need to stop writing "Beckwith" because that's the name of a character in Scary Go Round, not my protagonist who taught me so very much about fiction. (He, as I have told a thousand million times, incited my whole cast into going on strike until he got a scene in which to sort out his emotions.) I'm fighting guilt over working on what's now a third draft of "I Can't Reach You" which is really not worth working on for anything but my own shallow entertainment (it is what it is-very structured, plotted out fantasizing about 21-year-old Pete Townshend and dropping names by setting the first part at Monterey Pop) when I can't seem to force myself to work on the original things I've written. Traveler languishes half-written at a major turning point in the story.
Bah. I did not intend to start writing about writing. I haven't done that much today. And I need to stop before I start ruminating on a really awful little number called "Unexpected Purchase" that still intrigues me despite my being totally embarassed by it.
Ena gave me a line about wanting to talk to me because she feels like we never talk anymore, but I don't think that's my fault. She's always talking to Bonnie in Mandarin and her attempt today was interrupted by a call from her friend Austyn, never to return. I watched the first half of A Hard Day's Night instead, stopping at the press conference scene. I <3 George Harrison. And Lennon, naturally. There's a lot of excellent dialogue there.
Quick wits are always to be admired.
Tomorrow sees me at the Post Office and the local library. Government buildings call out to me, it would seem.
Previously
fuck it @ 08.01.05
fanciful imaginary sea voyages to come @ 07.20.05
*dies* @ 07.19.05
more ootp @ 07.17.05
harry potter: driving our children into devil worship @ 07.17.05
