If I survive the next two weeks (and survive them well), it will be nothing short of a miraculous feat.
This is the last full week of classes--why didn't someone let me know that a few weeks ago? I have about five or six novels to complete [White Noise, The Lives of Girls and Women, Housekeeping, Typical American, The Hamlet, Light in August, The Known World--ok, so it was more than I thought...] so that I can take two exams in the following week.
Right now, I'm frozen in that moment where something jumps out and not only scares but terrifies you and you haven't yet figured out it's just one of your friends. That one moment when everything is uncertain and your demise is a distinct possibility.
Regardless, that's not why I began this entry. Honestly, I should begin it by saying that blogger is a piece of shit and lost my perfected, drunken entry the other night about cute boys that can't dance. I won't do that though. I began this entry to talk about the beauty of Virginia Woolf, even though I've never finished one of her novels.
I'm sitting here reading reviews for this paper I must write tomorrow [2-3 pages--a review of reviews, worth 25% of my final grade. What. A. Load. Of. Shit.] and they're all about The Hours by Michael Cunningham. One of the reviews upset me for its blatant homophobic stupidity, while the one that I thought would do that did no such thing.
Virginia Woolf reminds me of a woman I knew named June--which wasn't her real name, but I've never put her real name in print, so why start now? I knew her when I was in high school and she used to read some of the things I wrote, which were all awful and terrible and embarrassingly emotional. I think I still have some of her poetry somewhere--it was just the way that she wrote twisted my mind in ways that could sometimes prove painful. Just the way that the poems were formatted, or what she said. Not even that, mm I'm not sure. Not what?
The ordinary put into terms that made it... you know, one of those words: fabulous, wonderful, delectable, splendid, fucking amazing. She used to speak about Virginia Woolf all the time and, six years later, now I understand why.
This is the last full week of classes--why didn't someone let me know that a few weeks ago? I have about five or six novels to complete [White Noise, The Lives of Girls and Women, Housekeeping, Typical American, The Hamlet, Light in August, The Known World--ok, so it was more than I thought...] so that I can take two exams in the following week.
Right now, I'm frozen in that moment where something jumps out and not only scares but terrifies you and you haven't yet figured out it's just one of your friends. That one moment when everything is uncertain and your demise is a distinct possibility.
Regardless, that's not why I began this entry. Honestly, I should begin it by saying that blogger is a piece of shit and lost my perfected, drunken entry the other night about cute boys that can't dance. I won't do that though. I began this entry to talk about the beauty of Virginia Woolf, even though I've never finished one of her novels.
I'm sitting here reading reviews for this paper I must write tomorrow [2-3 pages--a review of reviews, worth 25% of my final grade. What. A. Load. Of. Shit.] and they're all about The Hours by Michael Cunningham. One of the reviews upset me for its blatant homophobic stupidity, while the one that I thought would do that did no such thing.
Virginia Woolf reminds me of a woman I knew named June--which wasn't her real name, but I've never put her real name in print, so why start now? I knew her when I was in high school and she used to read some of the things I wrote, which were all awful and terrible and embarrassingly emotional. I think I still have some of her poetry somewhere--it was just the way that she wrote twisted my mind in ways that could sometimes prove painful. Just the way that the poems were formatted, or what she said. Not even that, mm I'm not sure. Not what?
The ordinary put into terms that made it... you know, one of those words: fabulous, wonderful, delectable, splendid, fucking amazing. She used to speak about Virginia Woolf all the time and, six years later, now I understand why.
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