martes, junio 27, 2006
For Er and Fer and True Love
from The Princess Bride by W. Goldman
The year that Buttercup was born, the most beautiful woman in the world was a French scullery maid named Annette. Annette worked in Paris for the Duke and Duchess de Guiche, and it did not escape the Duke's notice that someone extraordinary was polishing the pewter. The Duke's notice did not escape the notice of the Duchess either, who was not very beautiful and not very rich, but plenty smart. The Duchess set about studying Annette and shortly found her adversary's tragic flaw.
Chocolate.
Armed now, the Duchess set to work. The Palace de Guiche turned into a candy castle. Everywhere you looked, bonbons. There were piles of chocolate-covered mints in the drawing rooms, baskets of chocolate-covered nougats in the parlors.
Annette never had a chance. Inside a season, she went from delicate to whopping, and the Duke never glanced in her direction without sad bewilderment clouding his eyes. (Annette, it might be noted, seemed only cheerier throughout her enlargement. She eventually married the pastry chef and they both ate a lot until old age claimed them. Things, it might also be noted, did not fare so cheerily for the Duchess. The Duke, for reasons passing understanding, next became smitten with his very own mother-in-law, which caused the Duchess ulcers, only they didn't have ulcers yet. More precisely, ulcers existed, people had them, but they weren't called "ulcers." The medical profession at the time called them "stomach pains" and felt the best cure was coffee dolloped with brandy twice a day until the pains subsided. The Duchess took her mixture faithfully, watching through the years as her husband and her mother blew kisses at each other from behind her back. Not surprisingly, the Duchess's grumpiness became legendary, as Voltaire has so ably chronicled. Except thi was before Voltaire.)
The year Buttercup turned ten, the most beautiful woman lived in Bengal, the daughter of a successful tea merchant. This girl's name was Aluthra, and her skin was of a dusky perfection unseen in India for eighty years. (There have only been eleven perfect complexions in India since accurate accounting began.) Aluthra was nineteen the year the pox plague hit Bengal. The girl survived, even if her skin did not.
When Buttercup was fifteen, Adela Terrell, of Sussex on the Thames, was easily the most beautiful creature. Adela was twenty, and so far did she outdistance the world that it seemed certain she would be the most beautiful for many, many years. But then one day, one of her suitors (she had 104 of them) exclaimed that without question Adela must be the most ideal item yet spawned. Adela, flattered, began to ponder on the truth of the statement. That night, alone in her room, she examined herself pore by pore in her mirror (this was after mirrors.) It took her until close to dawn to finish her inspection, but by that time it was clear to her that the young man had been quite correct in his assessment: she was, through no real faults of her own, perfect.
As she strolled throught the family rose gardens watching the sun rise, she felt happier than she had ever been. "Not only am I perfect," she said to herself, "I am probably the first perfect person in the whole long history of the universe. Not a part of me could stand improving, how lucky I am to be perfect and rich and sought after and sensitive and young and..."
Young?
The mist was rising around her as Adela began to think. Well of course I'll always be sensitive, she thought, and I'll always be rich, but I don't quite see how I'm going to manage to always be young. And when I'm not young, how am I going to stay perfect? And if I'm not perfect, well, what else is there? What indeed? Adela furrowed her brow in desperate thought. It was the first time in her life her brow had ever had to furrow, and Adela gasped when she realized what she had done, horrified that she had somehow damaged it, perhaps permanently. She rushed back to her mirror and spent the morning, and although she managed to convinced herself that she was still quite as perfect as ever, there was no question that she was not quite as happy as she had been.
She had begun to fret.
The first worry lines appeared within a fortnight; the first wrinkles within a month, and before the year was out, creases abounded. She married soon thereafter, the self-same man who accused her of sublimity, and gave him merry hell for many years.
Buttercup, of course, at fifteen, knew none of this. And if she had, would have found it totally unfathomable. How could someone care if she were the most beautiful woman in the world or not. What difference could it have made if you were only the third most beautiful. Or the sixth. (Buttercup at this time was nowhere near that high, being barely in the top twenty, and that primarily on potential, certainly not on any particular care she took of herself. She hated to wash her face, she loathed the area behind her ears, she was sick of combing her hair and did so as little as possible.) What she liked to do, preferred above all else really, was to ride her horse and taunt the farm boy.
from The Princess Bride by W. Goldman
The year that Buttercup was born, the most beautiful woman in the world was a French scullery maid named Annette. Annette worked in Paris for the Duke and Duchess de Guiche, and it did not escape the Duke's notice that someone extraordinary was polishing the pewter. The Duke's notice did not escape the notice of the Duchess either, who was not very beautiful and not very rich, but plenty smart. The Duchess set about studying Annette and shortly found her adversary's tragic flaw.
Chocolate.
Armed now, the Duchess set to work. The Palace de Guiche turned into a candy castle. Everywhere you looked, bonbons. There were piles of chocolate-covered mints in the drawing rooms, baskets of chocolate-covered nougats in the parlors.
Annette never had a chance. Inside a season, she went from delicate to whopping, and the Duke never glanced in her direction without sad bewilderment clouding his eyes. (Annette, it might be noted, seemed only cheerier throughout her enlargement. She eventually married the pastry chef and they both ate a lot until old age claimed them. Things, it might also be noted, did not fare so cheerily for the Duchess. The Duke, for reasons passing understanding, next became smitten with his very own mother-in-law, which caused the Duchess ulcers, only they didn't have ulcers yet. More precisely, ulcers existed, people had them, but they weren't called "ulcers." The medical profession at the time called them "stomach pains" and felt the best cure was coffee dolloped with brandy twice a day until the pains subsided. The Duchess took her mixture faithfully, watching through the years as her husband and her mother blew kisses at each other from behind her back. Not surprisingly, the Duchess's grumpiness became legendary, as Voltaire has so ably chronicled. Except thi was before Voltaire.)
The year Buttercup turned ten, the most beautiful woman lived in Bengal, the daughter of a successful tea merchant. This girl's name was Aluthra, and her skin was of a dusky perfection unseen in India for eighty years. (There have only been eleven perfect complexions in India since accurate accounting began.) Aluthra was nineteen the year the pox plague hit Bengal. The girl survived, even if her skin did not.
When Buttercup was fifteen, Adela Terrell, of Sussex on the Thames, was easily the most beautiful creature. Adela was twenty, and so far did she outdistance the world that it seemed certain she would be the most beautiful for many, many years. But then one day, one of her suitors (she had 104 of them) exclaimed that without question Adela must be the most ideal item yet spawned. Adela, flattered, began to ponder on the truth of the statement. That night, alone in her room, she examined herself pore by pore in her mirror (this was after mirrors.) It took her until close to dawn to finish her inspection, but by that time it was clear to her that the young man had been quite correct in his assessment: she was, through no real faults of her own, perfect.
As she strolled throught the family rose gardens watching the sun rise, she felt happier than she had ever been. "Not only am I perfect," she said to herself, "I am probably the first perfect person in the whole long history of the universe. Not a part of me could stand improving, how lucky I am to be perfect and rich and sought after and sensitive and young and..."
Young?
The mist was rising around her as Adela began to think. Well of course I'll always be sensitive, she thought, and I'll always be rich, but I don't quite see how I'm going to manage to always be young. And when I'm not young, how am I going to stay perfect? And if I'm not perfect, well, what else is there? What indeed? Adela furrowed her brow in desperate thought. It was the first time in her life her brow had ever had to furrow, and Adela gasped when she realized what she had done, horrified that she had somehow damaged it, perhaps permanently. She rushed back to her mirror and spent the morning, and although she managed to convinced herself that she was still quite as perfect as ever, there was no question that she was not quite as happy as she had been.
She had begun to fret.
The first worry lines appeared within a fortnight; the first wrinkles within a month, and before the year was out, creases abounded. She married soon thereafter, the self-same man who accused her of sublimity, and gave him merry hell for many years.
Buttercup, of course, at fifteen, knew none of this. And if she had, would have found it totally unfathomable. How could someone care if she were the most beautiful woman in the world or not. What difference could it have made if you were only the third most beautiful. Or the sixth. (Buttercup at this time was nowhere near that high, being barely in the top twenty, and that primarily on potential, certainly not on any particular care she took of herself. She hated to wash her face, she loathed the area behind her ears, she was sick of combing her hair and did so as little as possible.) What she liked to do, preferred above all else really, was to ride her horse and taunt the farm boy.
miércoles, junio 21, 2006
Cheering up
Us 'happy few' who are fortunately somewhat more educated than the rest are also, as we all know, more susceptible to terrible disappointment. No wonder the figure of Melancholy is a scholar. As you can see, I have currently been riding the waves of sombre depression and despair over the state of the country. I am not really, as you know, of the Melancholic disposition in general but sometimes one can't help noticing that 'something is rotten in the state of Mexico' (and the world in general, perhaps). But gloom and despair have been slowly dispelled by a conjunction of many things, one of which is the book I am currently reading, which is giving me hours of enjoyment.
Here is a very short extract which got a laugh out of me:
It was not only the Admiralty -- the War Office and all the other departments of Government had reason to rejoice at the advent of Jonathan Strange. Suddenly a good many things which had been difficult before were made easy. The King's Ministers had long treasured a plan to send the enemies of Britain bad dreams. The Foreign Secreatry had first proposed it in January 1808 and for over a year Mr Norrell had industriously sent the Emperor Napoleon Buonaparte a bad dream each night, as a result of which nothing had happened. Bounaparte's empire had not foundered and Buonaparte himself had ridden into battle as coolly as ever. And so eventually Mr Norrell was instructed to leave off. Privately Sir Walter and Mr Canning thought that the plan had failed because Mr Norrell had no talent for creating horrors. Mr Canning complained that the nightmares Mr Norrell had sent the Emperor (which chiefly concerned a captain of Dragoons hiding in Buonaparte's wardrobe) would scarecly frighten his children's governess let alone the conqueror of half of Europe. For a while he had tried to persuade the other Ministers that they should commision Mr Beckford, Mr Lewis and Mrs Radcliffe to create dreams of vivid horor that Mr Norrell could then pop into Buonaparte's head. But the other Ministers considered that to employ a magician was one thing, novelists were quite another and they would not stoop to it.
Us 'happy few' who are fortunately somewhat more educated than the rest are also, as we all know, more susceptible to terrible disappointment. No wonder the figure of Melancholy is a scholar. As you can see, I have currently been riding the waves of sombre depression and despair over the state of the country. I am not really, as you know, of the Melancholic disposition in general but sometimes one can't help noticing that 'something is rotten in the state of Mexico' (and the world in general, perhaps). But gloom and despair have been slowly dispelled by a conjunction of many things, one of which is the book I am currently reading, which is giving me hours of enjoyment.
Here is a very short extract which got a laugh out of me:
It was not only the Admiralty -- the War Office and all the other departments of Government had reason to rejoice at the advent of Jonathan Strange. Suddenly a good many things which had been difficult before were made easy. The King's Ministers had long treasured a plan to send the enemies of Britain bad dreams. The Foreign Secreatry had first proposed it in January 1808 and for over a year Mr Norrell had industriously sent the Emperor Napoleon Buonaparte a bad dream each night, as a result of which nothing had happened. Bounaparte's empire had not foundered and Buonaparte himself had ridden into battle as coolly as ever. And so eventually Mr Norrell was instructed to leave off. Privately Sir Walter and Mr Canning thought that the plan had failed because Mr Norrell had no talent for creating horrors. Mr Canning complained that the nightmares Mr Norrell had sent the Emperor (which chiefly concerned a captain of Dragoons hiding in Buonaparte's wardrobe) would scarecly frighten his children's governess let alone the conqueror of half of Europe. For a while he had tried to persuade the other Ministers that they should commision Mr Beckford, Mr Lewis and Mrs Radcliffe to create dreams of vivid horor that Mr Norrell could then pop into Buonaparte's head. But the other Ministers considered that to employ a magician was one thing, novelists were quite another and they would not stoop to it.
domingo, junio 18, 2006
Cranky
Yes, it's complaining time! Once again!!
(If you saw me this weekend and already heard about it, feel free to skip this)
I am mad at my shampoo. Or, rather, I am mad at the LABEL of my shampoo. I quote:
"INNOVACIÓN: LA PROTEÍNA DE PERLA
Activo que contribuye al brillo y a la resistencia de las perlas, la PROTEINA DE PERLA está concentrada de aminoácidos - elementos nutritivos. ELVIVE NUTRI-GLOSS, penetra en la cabellera para... blablabla"
Here's the problem (apart from the fact that whoever wrote it doesn't know where to put the commas, which is bad enough): I am TOTALLY insulted by it. Why? Because proteins are MADE of aminoacids. So "pearl protein", "concentrada de aminoácidos", would be no different from, I don't know, 'slug' protein or any other protein. I am not trying to be smart in public by saying this; I am deeply, deeply disturbed by it. Who writes this? It is, very clearly, an attempt to be smart and pseudo scientific and to make women buy this because the word 'aminoacids', the publicist or label writer assumes, would make them associate the shampoo with people in labcoats working their asses off doing research to make their hair beautiful. Fine. A marketing strategy. The world for sale. BUT, this is not people calling plastic a 'polymer'. This is the equivalent to selling water as a 'compound of hydrogen and oxygen', except everybody knows this about water. Well, the aminoacids thing is not that complicated either. Actually, I assume that anyone older than 12 was taught this at some point in secondary school. What the label is assuming, though, is that anyone who buys this shampoo will not know that and will be impressed (or maybe, that they will not read it). This is not a label for poor people; it's L'Oreal, whose slogan is "I'm worth it" (translation: I am able and willing to spend more on my appearance). That is, its target is supposedly a population with more money and, it would follow in theory, more education; women who are more likely to know about aminoacids. What this says to me is any or all of the following:
1. You are stupid and you do not read.
2. You care more about your hair than your brain.
3. We hire stupid people to write out our labels--we do not respect you enough to do a good job on them.
4. We will patronize you, and explain what aminoacids are: "elementos nutritivos". Gee, thanks.
I don't know if the original label in French or perhaps English says the same thing. (The website, for France, Mexico and the UK, does not.) And it would be no big deal if this was just about a shampoo label; however, it just reminds me of the state of my country, which I find more disturbing and depressing, where people in power are willing to do anything to make a profit while the ignorant masses do not demand respect from them and accept anything they are given--bad tv, kindergarten-level debates, etc. See Er's comment on what to me is the same topic.
I am NOT overreacting, am I?
Yes, it's complaining time! Once again!!
(If you saw me this weekend and already heard about it, feel free to skip this)
I am mad at my shampoo. Or, rather, I am mad at the LABEL of my shampoo. I quote:
"INNOVACIÓN: LA PROTEÍNA DE PERLA
Activo que contribuye al brillo y a la resistencia de las perlas, la PROTEINA DE PERLA está concentrada de aminoácidos - elementos nutritivos. ELVIVE NUTRI-GLOSS, penetra en la cabellera para... blablabla"
Here's the problem (apart from the fact that whoever wrote it doesn't know where to put the commas, which is bad enough): I am TOTALLY insulted by it. Why? Because proteins are MADE of aminoacids. So "pearl protein", "concentrada de aminoácidos", would be no different from, I don't know, 'slug' protein or any other protein. I am not trying to be smart in public by saying this; I am deeply, deeply disturbed by it. Who writes this? It is, very clearly, an attempt to be smart and pseudo scientific and to make women buy this because the word 'aminoacids', the publicist or label writer assumes, would make them associate the shampoo with people in labcoats working their asses off doing research to make their hair beautiful. Fine. A marketing strategy. The world for sale. BUT, this is not people calling plastic a 'polymer'. This is the equivalent to selling water as a 'compound of hydrogen and oxygen', except everybody knows this about water. Well, the aminoacids thing is not that complicated either. Actually, I assume that anyone older than 12 was taught this at some point in secondary school. What the label is assuming, though, is that anyone who buys this shampoo will not know that and will be impressed (or maybe, that they will not read it). This is not a label for poor people; it's L'Oreal, whose slogan is "I'm worth it" (translation: I am able and willing to spend more on my appearance). That is, its target is supposedly a population with more money and, it would follow in theory, more education; women who are more likely to know about aminoacids. What this says to me is any or all of the following:
1. You are stupid and you do not read.
2. You care more about your hair than your brain.
3. We hire stupid people to write out our labels--we do not respect you enough to do a good job on them.
4. We will patronize you, and explain what aminoacids are: "elementos nutritivos". Gee, thanks.
I don't know if the original label in French or perhaps English says the same thing. (The website, for France, Mexico and the UK, does not.) And it would be no big deal if this was just about a shampoo label; however, it just reminds me of the state of my country, which I find more disturbing and depressing, where people in power are willing to do anything to make a profit while the ignorant masses do not demand respect from them and accept anything they are given--bad tv, kindergarten-level debates, etc. See Er's comment on what to me is the same topic.
I am NOT overreacting, am I?
miércoles, junio 14, 2006
Alas! I feel that I owe all of you an explanation of all the groaning, sighing, rolling eyes, and grumpy or indifferent replies whenever the World Cup is mentioned. So here, for your reading pleasure, are my own personal
Reasons why I don't like or follow soccer, ESPECIALLY during World Cups (in no particular order):
1. I am an underdog-supporter. Whenever I see a game, I always imagine the feelings of the losing team (disappointment, sadness, etc.). Call it an overexpression of the sympathy gene, or perhaps the result of reading too many Peanuts strips. The Charlie-Brown depression of the losing team never fails to overtake me. And in soccer, nothing is more definite and harsh than the line between winners and losers.
2. In contradiction to the previous point, I have absolutely no interest (or faith) in rooting for "our team" (an underdog if there ever was one). From what I have seen of Mexican soccer, they rely on pure luck and some last-minute effort. I also strongly suspect that this has to do with the next point.
3. I am more contrary than Mary Mary. Perhaps in a misplaced effort to be "different", I am strongly opposed to doing whatever "the masses" are doing (of course, this is not an iron-clad rule, and probably only comes out in extreme situations)--and so, I deeply resent being told that: a) I should be excited about the World Cup and b) that I should "dream that Mexico wins", "support the team" or some such nonsense. I am not a soccer patriot. As a citizen of the world, all teams are mine and thus I favor none. Except the losers. If they win, they lose my support.
4. I hate that 95% of the population are paying attention to this at the same time (and forgetting about little ole me, the undisputed center of the universe). Everyone is "living the passion". I have tried to "live the passion". I have no "passion". Maybe I should drink more Coke, or more Pepsi.
5. Some women watch this to enjoy looking at handsome men. As far as I can see, soccer players are either crying like babies when they are knocked down or jumping up and down like monkeys when they score a goal. *Not attractive.* Although, all in all, I prefer the jumpers to the howlers.
6. I always start worrying about "irrelevant" stuff such as: how do they get the grass to order itself in stripes of different shades of green? I am also annoyed by the sport narrators and their style. Yuk!!! This makes me a terrible soccer-watcher, since I always break the concentration that is required to send energy-waves so that a team will win.
7. I get no joy from goals. Nothing. Maybe because I don't care who wins.
8. E-mails with "instructions for females" during World Cups.
9. There is very little scope for imagination in soccer, at least for me. It is a collective activity where a crowd of thousands yells at the same time. Crowds of thousands yelling are scary (Hitler-nightmare scenario).
10. I do admit, though, that I have enjoyed playing soccer with my friends occasionally. Playing is never the same as watching.
11. All in all, I think this is all about the feeling of missing out on something. I have tried, but I just don't get it. Everyone else gets it, and I feel completely left out.
12. Now that I'm on it, I might as well state my position on politics, which is similar, except worse. I am a political nihilist. I believe that for a candidate to become one, they have automatically left behind all their morals and common sense, as well as "Humor, Imagination, Eroticism, Spirituality, Rebelliousness, and Aesthetics". So I support no one (not even the losers). I could elaborate but I would bore myself --and you-- to death. I find talking about politics too much is in bad taste.
After this little exorcism, I hope I will be able to deal with soccer conversations with a better disposition. (No such luck for politics, I'm afraid)
Reasons why I don't like or follow soccer, ESPECIALLY during World Cups (in no particular order):
1. I am an underdog-supporter. Whenever I see a game, I always imagine the feelings of the losing team (disappointment, sadness, etc.). Call it an overexpression of the sympathy gene, or perhaps the result of reading too many Peanuts strips. The Charlie-Brown depression of the losing team never fails to overtake me. And in soccer, nothing is more definite and harsh than the line between winners and losers.
2. In contradiction to the previous point, I have absolutely no interest (or faith) in rooting for "our team" (an underdog if there ever was one). From what I have seen of Mexican soccer, they rely on pure luck and some last-minute effort. I also strongly suspect that this has to do with the next point.
3. I am more contrary than Mary Mary. Perhaps in a misplaced effort to be "different", I am strongly opposed to doing whatever "the masses" are doing (of course, this is not an iron-clad rule, and probably only comes out in extreme situations)--and so, I deeply resent being told that: a) I should be excited about the World Cup and b) that I should "dream that Mexico wins", "support the team" or some such nonsense. I am not a soccer patriot. As a citizen of the world, all teams are mine and thus I favor none. Except the losers. If they win, they lose my support.
4. I hate that 95% of the population are paying attention to this at the same time (and forgetting about little ole me, the undisputed center of the universe). Everyone is "living the passion". I have tried to "live the passion". I have no "passion". Maybe I should drink more Coke, or more Pepsi.
5. Some women watch this to enjoy looking at handsome men. As far as I can see, soccer players are either crying like babies when they are knocked down or jumping up and down like monkeys when they score a goal. *Not attractive.* Although, all in all, I prefer the jumpers to the howlers.
6. I always start worrying about "irrelevant" stuff such as: how do they get the grass to order itself in stripes of different shades of green? I am also annoyed by the sport narrators and their style. Yuk!!! This makes me a terrible soccer-watcher, since I always break the concentration that is required to send energy-waves so that a team will win.
7. I get no joy from goals. Nothing. Maybe because I don't care who wins.
8. E-mails with "instructions for females" during World Cups.
9. There is very little scope for imagination in soccer, at least for me. It is a collective activity where a crowd of thousands yells at the same time. Crowds of thousands yelling are scary (Hitler-nightmare scenario).
10. I do admit, though, that I have enjoyed playing soccer with my friends occasionally. Playing is never the same as watching.
11. All in all, I think this is all about the feeling of missing out on something. I have tried, but I just don't get it. Everyone else gets it, and I feel completely left out.
12. Now that I'm on it, I might as well state my position on politics, which is similar, except worse. I am a political nihilist. I believe that for a candidate to become one, they have automatically left behind all their morals and common sense, as well as "Humor, Imagination, Eroticism, Spirituality, Rebelliousness, and Aesthetics". So I support no one (not even the losers). I could elaborate but I would bore myself --and you-- to death. I find talking about politics too much is in bad taste.
After this little exorcism, I hope I will be able to deal with soccer conversations with a better disposition. (No such luck for politics, I'm afraid)
miércoles, junio 07, 2006
Huh
Well, it looks like I spoke a bit too soon. It seems that the storm that generates lightning will have to wait a while. Such is the weather and such is inspiration. I am suffering from a severe lack of the latter at the moment, which means both the conclusions and I will benefit from a little rest. The rest of the body, however, is to be delivered tomorrow in electronic form to The Doctor, who will inspect my creation and help with whatever needs tweaking before I can bask in the glory of being called 'Master'.
Which means, I thought for a moment, I'm on holiday!!! No more responsibility!! No more schedules.... then reality set in. My thesis was not under a fixed schedule, and all scheduled activities will continue as planned until July, when I fly off to visit foreign lands (yay!). I still have to get up early in the mornings, go to class, and be mentally active. BUT! It makes a difference to know that I have practically finished such a big, two-year project. It leaves me time to actually READ, oh joy! (Not that I didn't read before, but now I can feel free to begin huge, never-before-read novels, whereas up to now I had been mostly rereading in an effort to make it easier to put the book down and get to work.) (Note to self: my super strategy didn't work, admit it. It takes a stronger mind than mine to put books down.)
Other monsters lurk in the shadows, though: WHAT WILL I DO NEXT? New projects await. Oh, to be a blessed creature, those who are satisfied easily, and who are without ambition... The mere thought of going through another final, oral exam to earn my degree makes me wish I got married as soon as I finished high school to become a housewife, or pursued a career in pottery or garbage disposal... (yeah right).
P.S. This is my 100th post!! Happy centennial!
Well, it looks like I spoke a bit too soon. It seems that the storm that generates lightning will have to wait a while. Such is the weather and such is inspiration. I am suffering from a severe lack of the latter at the moment, which means both the conclusions and I will benefit from a little rest. The rest of the body, however, is to be delivered tomorrow in electronic form to The Doctor, who will inspect my creation and help with whatever needs tweaking before I can bask in the glory of being called 'Master'.
Which means, I thought for a moment, I'm on holiday!!! No more responsibility!! No more schedules.... then reality set in. My thesis was not under a fixed schedule, and all scheduled activities will continue as planned until July, when I fly off to visit foreign lands (yay!). I still have to get up early in the mornings, go to class, and be mentally active. BUT! It makes a difference to know that I have practically finished such a big, two-year project. It leaves me time to actually READ, oh joy! (Not that I didn't read before, but now I can feel free to begin huge, never-before-read novels, whereas up to now I had been mostly rereading in an effort to make it easier to put the book down and get to work.) (Note to self: my super strategy didn't work, admit it. It takes a stronger mind than mine to put books down.)
Other monsters lurk in the shadows, though: WHAT WILL I DO NEXT? New projects await. Oh, to be a blessed creature, those who are satisfied easily, and who are without ambition... The mere thought of going through another final, oral exam to earn my degree makes me wish I got married as soon as I finished high school to become a housewife, or pursued a career in pottery or garbage disposal... (yeah right).
P.S. This is my 100th post!! Happy centennial!
martes, junio 06, 2006
It's aliiiiiiiiive!!!
*Phew*. After a lot of hard work, I can finally say that my Frankenstein (also known as the Dreaded, Scary, Thesis Monster) is on the slab. Everything is ready, at least to the point where I feel that I'm home free. Only a bolt of lightning to bring it to life is needed (also known as the Conclusions, the final, short, sweet chapter). And, one very important thing: I must give it a name!!! What will it be?
Tomorrow may be the day!
P.S. Seeing as today is publicized as day 06.06.06 (the day of the Beast, as the publicity for the new Omen movie reminds us), I suppose it's a good thing I didn't finish today. However monstrous, I wouldn't want my thesis to be The Antichrist now would I? (yes, I mean this as a joke)
*Phew*. After a lot of hard work, I can finally say that my Frankenstein (also known as the Dreaded, Scary, Thesis Monster) is on the slab. Everything is ready, at least to the point where I feel that I'm home free. Only a bolt of lightning to bring it to life is needed (also known as the Conclusions, the final, short, sweet chapter). And, one very important thing: I must give it a name!!! What will it be?
Tomorrow may be the day!
P.S. Seeing as today is publicized as day 06.06.06 (the day of the Beast, as the publicity for the new Omen movie reminds us), I suppose it's a good thing I didn't finish today. However monstrous, I wouldn't want my thesis to be The Antichrist now would I? (yes, I mean this as a joke)
