A Sonnet I've Written for Class

Not Really as Such

I’ve painted my fingernails multiple hues
With polka dots, triangles, squiggles and squares
In purples and pinks and in crystalline blues
It earned me some notice; it earned me some stares
And compliments came from the art-inclined kind
When I copied some painter with painstaking care
With miniscule pen and with pigment so fine
You could see every strand of the mother’s brown hair
As she carefully washed all the dirt off the feet
Of the child she held, so rotund and so pink
I also did still-life, a bowl filled with beets
Or a basket of raspberries washed in the sink
Though none of it mattered, not really as such,
‘Cause he didn’t act like he noticed them much

My Apologies for the Delay

Life, such as it is, has completely taken over.

The final semester is, to put it simply, BUSY. I am trying to pass all of my classes, as you saw in the previous post, with a goal of nothing less than two B's and my sights set on Summa. I also have applied for Grad school, am trying to get into the Alpha Chi group, and also trying to keep my job at the library while realizing that I may not make it through the summer unless I find another job as well, as I believe I will be earning only $70 per week... I am, in the words of Prince Humperdinck, swamped.

I must recognize, however, that I have been doing quite a few recreational activities lately. This last weekend, for example, I watched movies at my friend's new boyfriend's house on Friday, saw the Shriner Circus on Saturday, and went to Norman to the Medieval Fair yesterday. Today, also, I have agreed to meet up with another of my friends, whose wedding is a mere nineteen days away, to help her prepare bouquets of some sort. Then, of course, my school week begins, during which I must read a few hundred pages of accumulated prose and write a rhymed sonnet. I find that if I think about these things, I panic just a wee bit.

So... I will think only of what needs to be done today, and definitely take it easy with the hanging out with friends.

Beside Myself with Excitement

I have told everyone I know. I have posted it on Facebook. I have written many e-mails. And finally, here, the final and irrefutable culmination of my awesomeness. Drumroll, bitte!

I shall most likely graduate with a 3.95 GPA.

Summa. Highest honors.

Breathe, Jeanette, breathe.

Now, this is, of course, not set in stone as of yet. I have these last four classes to complete. As it stands right now, I have a 3.95 even. If I make four A's, which I think I might just be able to do, I shall have a 3.954545... or something like that. I forget the exact number that the online GPA calculator gave me.

This brings me to a discussion of my hatred of math. I found the formula for calculating your GPA. You add up two totals: the total credit hours and the number of points you received for each class. A three hour class gives a total of 12 points if you get an A. With a B you get 9. I'm not sure what you get with a C (I have never gotten a C) but following this same pattern I would assume you would get 6 points and with a D you would earn 3.

The final step is to divide your total points by the total hours.

Now, I did this with pen and paper. Somewhere a number was off, because I did not get the optimistic 3.95 that the computer tells me. I came up with 3.86 (which is not Summa, but Magna: still an awesome feat but clearly it's just not the same). I hate math because you make a tiny mistake in an early part of the equation and the entire thing becomes skewed.

It reminds me of an old "Bloom County" strip. The smart kid, I believe his name is Oliver Wendell, figures out mathematically just how everything in the universe could exist. But in reading over his numbers, he notices that it explains everything except the existence of penguins. At this point, Opus the penguin begins to disappear. Oliver, oblivious, looks over his math as Opus loses first his feet, then his midsection, until the only thing left is one hand holding his ice cream cone. Then, suddenly, Oliver says, "Oh wait. Forgot to carry the two." He scribbles and fixes his math, and a frazzled, bedraggled Opus reappears, his ice cream cone atop his legendary nose, as he says "You stop that!"

My heartfelt thanks to Berke Breathed for wonderfully illustrating my point.

Math, ill-calculated in the wrong hands, can be a dangerous thing.

"Death at a Funeral" Remade...

Like Eddie Izzard said... any British film that meets with any kind of success in America will soon be remade by Hollywood. "Room With a View and a Staircase and a Pond" will be amped up into "Room With a View of Hell... Staircase of Satan... Pond of Death..."

I quote Eddie because, firstly, the man is outright hilarious. Second, he's absolutely correct.

Take, for example, a movie trailer I saw last night while waiting for "The Book of Eli" to start (which was not half bad, but I was disappointed by the ending. He should have exchanged the pages. It doesn't really make sense the way it is. Can you tell I'm really not trying to give away the ending here?).

Chris Rock stands at a coffin. He looks down sadly. Then he reacts. "Who is this man? This man is not my father." Immediately bells are going off in my head. This seems awfully familiar. While I'm still thinking about this, we meet Martin Lawrence, who plays Chris Rock's brother, a man who is more about money and girls than he is about responsibility. Again, entering an uneasy realm of recognition. Soon any doubts I may have had about "have I really seen this before" were completely erased. We see James Marsden take a pill he believes to be valium and start to trip out, we meet Danny Glover (Uncle Alfie, the mean old man with the cane and the bad bowels), and finally... Peter freaking Dinklage is standing by the coffin.

Peter... Freaking... Dinklage.

Officially, this is no longer a question of have I seen this before. This is a question of why the hell is Hollywood remaking "Death at a Funeral"?

The original, a very funny little black comedy, is undoubtedly going to be better. As much as I like Martin Lawrence (he's just a likeable guy), there is no way he is going to play the brother as well as Rupert Graves. He was just perfect as a slightly sleazy novelist. And let's not forget the absolutely marvelous Alan Tudyk. I adore Alan Tudyk. His high Simon was an absolute laugh riot, and there is no way on God's green earth that James Marsden will be able to compete with that.

The recurrence of Peter Dinklage amuses me. He's playing the same character both times, that of the deceased father's, ahem... well, to use the little I remember of Yiddish, he's his "don't ask." He really is a good looking guy, and not a bad actor either. He's younger and less scruffy in the British version (it was made in 2007).

I will most definitely skip this remake.

Onward!

I've decided to continue with the blogging thing, despite the lack of need. Perhaps in one of my insane rambles, I will strike upon the idea which becomes the novel which makes me famous.


Today's insane ramble will be a most depressing poem. It will be depressing because I have to be "serious" and "relevant." I use this medium because otherwise I know I'll never start writing the thing. I'm intimidated by intensity.


But the main object of this assignment is to create a poem with the flow of regular speech, but with precision in word choices. For example, a poem we read in class used the phrase "Halloween orange." Not just regular orange, not even pumpkin orange, but Halloween orange. This invokes monsters, fright, and general horribleness mixed with an almost ghoulish glee because Halloween is a fun time (candy, costumes, we enjoy it) - which worked perfectly because the man was ghoulishly gleeful as he watched his house burn.

Let's just try this thing and see how it goes.


(Just so y'all know... This is not working... I'm staring at the blinking cursor and thinking to myself, what am I going to do? And I hate this chair. It's distractingly uncomfortable.)


Turning Off the Tap

Water leeches to my skin
As it floods in sudsy waves around my feet,
Ignoring the drain's inconsistent pull.
For Proust it was his "petites madeleines."
For me, it's this watery ankle-deep hell.
My eyes close and I remember
A childhood memory I tried to forget.
Grandmother's wrinkled hands clutching the faucet,
Turning off the tap,
Leaving barely an inch of tepid water
Skimming the base of the bathtub.
Any more and I might splash the floor:
A reprimand balanced on her tongue waiting for a reason,
Guilty before given the chance to be innocent.
But that's not quite right,
The immediate guilt
Glowering like a vulture on the showerhead,
Salivating in anticipation and leaving me
Drowned in a half inch of water.

(Done! And it only took me a week to write...)

AAAAAAAnd..... 20!

I have met a certain goal and I'm all the better for it.

Despite having no time over the last month because of constant rehearsals for 3 Sisters until each rehearsal was a cup of my blood drained... Oh lord... Would you look at that. I've quoted the play (sort of. More of a reference, really). Quite unintentionally, I promise, but that gives me something to actually type, other than "Hallelujah! Freedom! Freeeedoooooom!"

The unintentional quoting is one of the major downsides to working on a play. Even though I wasn't actually IN the play, and I didn't HAVE to learn lines... I did learn those lines. It's funny the way time does pass. Here we are. One year later. And the anniversaries. Irina's birthday and the day of father's death. Which now will always be linked.

See? I could keep going. Ooooooh yes. I could keep going.

God, I'm going to miss the theater. This was my last theater class. I'm done with my minor. And it saddens me. Very much so. At least I will have the memories... and this photograph.

See Chris Domanski's set design? The man's a genius, and every play I've been to see where he did the set design has been visually astounding. Too bad you couldn't see all the neat lighting effects, because Angela's a genius too. And another genius, Kate, she did the costuming.

These wonderful, artistic people... God, I'm going to miss these wonderful, artistic people.

But! C'est la vie!

Ich habe rasende Kopfschmerzen!

Honestly. I do indeed have a splitting headache. I think I should go home and go to bed.

But first I shall discuss the Kaleidoscope dancers.

My God, I envy the talent of those dancers. How they can all move in the exact same moment, perfectly in sync with the choreography. I did feel rather disappointed that no one decided to do "Thriller" but I understand that they have to make up their own dances - which I don't understand.

"Thriller" made sense, oddly enough. Come on. Zombie monster things. What's not to get? The meaning is entirely obvious. A dance to "Dead and Gone," however... I turn my head to the west! I turn my head to the east! (This is a good point to say that I also envy the talent of the stage manager. His call sheet was quite clever and efficient. I think I shall do the exact same format, if I ever have to call a dance show.) No, the tune is catchy and the rhythms of the dancers are fun, but the meaning? What on earth. They're each wearing white hoodies underneath black jackets, and they're dancing their hearts out. Then, one by one, they stop dancing and walk forward to the edge of the stage. They kneel at a row of little lamps, they pick one up, and they turn it off as they flip up the hood of their hoodie and turn away from the audience. Then they end up standing silent and immobile upstage, behind the other dancers, who are still grooving away. Apparently, according to the choreographer, they begin at a funeral, and they die off one by one. (Of natural causes, sadly. No zombies here.)

At least for that one I was able to overhear the meaning. During all the other dances, although I enjoyed the actual dancing, thinking about what it might mean, I just sat there going, "Whaaaaa?"

I take that back. One song I understood, because they acted out a little story to the music. It was adorable. A little redneck, in all honesty, but adorable. A girl is dancing on stage alone, reading a book. Then two of her friends (or sisters, I'm not sure) come onstage and they dance with her. Then she picks up a suitcase and leaves. It isn't sad, though, because then she meets a guy during a really cute country tune. They get themselves hitched, all right, an' have them some young'ns. Beg pardon, no offense. You'd understand had you heard the music. So twangy and fun. And the choreography was very well done. At one point the girl had to shake her finger, quickly, in an instant, you hardly notice it. Yet she shook it exactly the same way all three times they ran through it.

Very talented, these people. The envy is palpable.