Zombie Jesus Day!

I failed to go to church, make brunch, or dye eggs this year.

Between the assumed --unless I'm told that he can make a recovery on Tuesday--death of Mortimer, college, and a rather startling arrangement of personal problems, I just couldn't find the time to get into the manic groove that all commercially-endorsed holidays bring out in me.

My housemates have been beyond beyond the past couple of days.

Sure, we're living in a rather disgusting structure, comprised of dirty dishes, newspapers, breadcrumbs, and ants, all posing as a house, but it's kind of nice.

Until the other day, I hadn't seen most of my loves in a week. Some I still haven't seen.

We gots the looooove, though.

When I came home a sleep-deprived mess (six hours' sleep, spread over four days is apparently not enough for a functioning human being), two of my housemates were sitting, watching Glee and eating homemade lemon muffins.

They listened to me rant, then we hugged, ate the deliciousness, and I finally succumbed to Glee's awesome power.

I repeat, 'awesome'.

Right now, I'm waiting for the call from home when the phone will be passed around to every available relative and we will scream love at each other.

Also contemplating whether or not it's worth it to finish an essay which I will probably be failed for anyway.

Either way, I am running off to the shop to see if there is any chocolate left for me to sneakily hide in my housemate's pillows.

Final note: I hope you're all full of love and chocolate/roast/Peeps/whatever you gave up for Lent, if you did. But mostly love. For tradition's sake, I give you

'I'm in the depths of despair.'

A little dramatic, but thank you, Anne.
Sorry that I haven't been updating or reading much lately, but essays are due on Thursday and then it's exam time.
And there's the small matter of my scientific discovery that that laptops don't very much care for carrot juice.
Mortimer the Mac has very likely gone to that IT desk in the sky.
So, I'm sort of screwed.
Fingers crossed that I get these essays done without having to sell my soul...Again.

Hope you're all keeping well!

BRB, reading Tennyson in the woods to avoid my life.

Taking things too far.

'So, you're returning The Maltese Falcon and Gentlemen Prefer Blondes so that you can read Paradise Alley.'

'Yeah.'

'I just wanted to make sure that you understand.'

Sometimes my housemates despair of me.

You may recall that I found a new favourite bad film in Sylvester Stallone's Paradise Alley. Not only do I now own it, I've inflicted it upon one of my friends. After she made it through, we scrambled to find the book that started it all. There are plenty of copies of it on Amazon, but we then remembered that our university has a copyright library.

What the hell does that mean? It means that our library has a copy of every book published in the UK for the last Godknowshowmany years. Given, I had to special-order it out of Stacks, and I could only read it in the library, but read it I did. And it was weird.

Mostly, it was awful. Stale dialogue, bland descriptions, and a formulaic plot. Each chapter is a scene from the film, so Sly probably knew he'd be throwing this baby on celluloid. It would be easy to just end it at that, but that would really not be doing justice to what is something of an experience.

One of the more striking aspects of the book is the fact that it has pictures. Not too many and no pop-ups or anything, just these ink jobs by Tom Wright. They're all dark and grainy and slightly off, so of course I loved them. Only example I could find is this.

Stallone does some interesting things with punctuation and line breaks. For the most part, the narration is basic and fairly boring, broken up by stylized dialogue whenever characters speak. Occasionally, though, something like this pops up:

Victor counted his meager salary and smiled at the foreman. But,

Victor's eyes no longer,

Smiled.

Chapter Thirty Four, page 143

It's actually like poetry. I refuse to go off on any tangents of literary criticism because I think all of that is bullshit, but the playful structuring is really fun, if nothing else.

Pictures and funny punctuation are not the only things that kept me reading, though. There is a general image of Stallone as a mumbling, muscle-bound moron, which is completely false. The man is a member of MENSA and, quite literally, a genius. Despite Paradise Alley's monotony of drab writing, there are definite moments when I sat up straight to read a sentence again, such as when Annie sees a 'building that looked like it was trying to find a quiet way to crumble' (Chapter Ten, page 64).

Perhaps you're not convinced. That's fine because I'm not trying to convince you. All I'm after is conveying what a strange ride this book is. More often than not, it reads like it's Stallone's journal when he was drafting the screenplay. With sections like,

The phony soldier was Cosmo Carboni and he was Victor's older brother, and was no masterpiece of kindness.

He had a medium skeleton.

Well, maybe not medium.

But odd.

No, odd is the wrong word.

Cosmo Carboni was an angular piece of hustling machinery bent into the form of a man...

Chapter Two, page 16

I'm not entirely convinced that it's not.

Either way, I think I really enjoyed it.

~

To make this slightly cooler, I combined my obsession with this beast and my new addiction to Polyvore. What would I wear to be an extra in this classic? Something equal parts gaudy and sentimental.

Paradise Alley by Liz OT featuring Jigsaw dresses

Items in this set:
Silk Satin Faggotting Dress, 160 GBP
ASOS Nude Back Seam Sheer Tights, $14
Suede pumps, $455
ASOS BLACK Deco Pod Across Body Bag, $37
Tasha Sinamay Flower Hair Clip, $38

Play me out, Tom.

Obligatory Valentine's Day Entry

Don't let the title fool you, ladies and gentlemen--unlike most people, I quite love Valentine's Day.

I spend most days of the year trying to convince people that they don't need to earn love or nice things, that goodness should just come to them because they are people and we are not put on this earth to suffer.

More often than not, though, my particular worldview is not shared or accepted.

Today is a genuinely consumeristblahblahblah day which nobody seems to enjoy, regardless of their relationship status.

It does, however, give me an opportunity to send that extra blast of love-spores (Sperm imagery, I know. Just bear with me.) into the world without fear of being thought a creep.

So what if I have to endure a few eye rolls and cynical sighs?

Whether they like to admit it or not, everyone likes being reminded that they are loved, and I am okay with being the one who gently tugs on their shirttails to do so.

And, now, a poetic interlude from Mr. Kenneth Rexroth with one of my favourite poems. In fact, it is the one from which this silly little blog gets it's name. Photos by lberto Polo Iañez.

~

When We with Sappho

“. . . about the cool water
the wind sounds through sprays
of apple, and from the quivering leaves
slumber pours down . . .”

We lie here in the bee filled, ruinous
Orchard of a decayed New England farm,
Summer in our hair, and the smell
Of summer in our twined bodies,
Summer in our mouths, and summer
In the luminous, fragmentary words
Of this dead Greek woman.
Stop reading. Lean back. Give me your mouth.
Your grace is as beautiful as sleep.
You move against me like a wave
That moves in sleep.
Your body spreads across my brain
Like a bird filled summer;
Not like a body, not like a separate thing,
But like a nimbus that hovers
Over every other thing in all the world.
Lean back. You are beautiful,
As beautiful as the folding
Of your hands in sleep.
We have grown old in the afternoon.
Here in our orchard we are as old
As she is now, wherever dissipate
In that distant sea her gleaming dust
Flashes in the wave crest
Or stains the murex shell.
All about us the old farm subsides
Into the honey bearing chaos of high summer.
In those far islands the temples
Have fallen away, and the marble
Is the color of wild honey.
There is nothing left of the gardens
That were once about them, of the fat
Turf marked with cloven hooves.
Only the sea grass struggles
Over the crumbled stone,
Over the splintered steps,
Only the blue and yellow
Of the sea, and the cliffs
Red in the distance across the bay.
Lean back.
Her memory has passed to our lips now.
Our kisses fall through summer’s chaos
In our own breasts and thighs.
Gold colossal domes of cumulus cloud
Lift over the undulant, sibilant forest.
The air presses against the earth.
Thunder breaks over the mountains.
Far off, over the Adirondacks,
Lightning quivers, almost invisible
In the bright sky, violet against
The grey, deep shadows of the bellied clouds.
The sweet virile hair of thunder storms
Brushes over the swelling horizon.
Take off your shoes and stockings.
I will kiss your sweet legs and feet
As they lie half buried in the tangle
Of rank scented midsummer flowers.
Take off your clothes. I will press
Your summer honeyed flesh into the hot
Soil, into the crushed, acrid herbage
Of midsummer. Let your body sink
Like honey through the hot
Granular fingers of summer.
Rest. Wait. We have enough for a while.
Kiss me with your mouth
Wet and ragged, your mouth that tastes
Of my own flesh. Read to me again
The twisting music of that language
That is of all others, itself a work of art.
Read again those isolate, poignant words
Saved by ancient grammarians
To illustrate the conjugations
And declensions of the more ancient dead.
Lean back in the curve of my body,
Press your bruised shoulders against
The damp hair of my body.
Kiss me again. Think, sweet linguist,
In this world the ablative is impossible.
No other one will help us here.
We must help ourselves to each other.
The wind walks slowly away from the storm;
Veers on the wooded crests; sounds
In the valleys. Here we are isolate,
One with the other; and beyond
This orchard lies isolation,
The isolation of all the world.
Never let anything intrude
On the isolation of this day,
These words, isolate on dead tongues,
This orchard, hidden from fact and history,
These shadows, blended in the summer light,
Together isolate beyond the world’s reciprocity.
Do not talk any more. Do not speak.
Do not break silence until
We are weary of each other.
Let our fingers run like steel
Carving the contours of our bodies’ gold.
Do not speak. My face sinks
In the clotted summer of your hair.
The sound of the bees stops.
Stillness falls like a cloud.
Be still. Let your body fall away
Into the awe filled silence
Of the fulfilled summer —
Back, back, infinitely away —
Our lips weak, faint with stillness.
See. The sun has fallen away.
Now there are amber
Long lights on the shattered
Boles of the ancient apple trees.
Our bodies move to each other
As bodies move in sleep;
At once filled and exhausted,
As the summer moves to autumn,
As we, with Sappho, move towards death.
My eyelids sink toward sleep in the hot
Autumn of your uncoiled hair.
Your body moves in my arms
On the verge of sleep;
And it is as though I held
In my arms the bird filled
Evening sky of summer.

Another long one. Less Stallone, more toy jellyfish.

I started packing to go back to college today, which seems like the act of a responsible young adult. Do not be fooled. This is as much of an exercise in procrastination as deep-conditioning my hair and helping my mom with the dishes were. Given, this comes at the end of a day I spent studying in Barnes & Noble because the library is closed on Sundays (yes, I am that sad), but that was for equal parts scholarly and creepy reasons...The Customer Service guy is cute, with his bad hair and lanyard.

Packing my bags, I got to thinking about how my choice of school has impacted my life.

I dreamed about attending my university since I was eleven because I was the dorky tween who fantasized about musty books and composition notebooks. Still am. When I received what I assumed was my 'Dear John' letter and turned out to be my place offer, I cried. My response was in the post as soon as I could stop hyperventilating long enough to find a pen and a stamp.

Of course, putting an ocean between you and everyone you love has its drawbacks, and distance isn't just a matter of space.

Last November, my aunt and uncle had their first child.

This kid.

She's adorable to the point of insanity. She's also my goddaughter.

The only problem with this is that her birth and baptism occurred while I was away at school. I didn't meet her until I went home for my Christmas break. Way to fail, Liz, way to fail.

Since I won't be around for most of her early years, I started a time-capsule of sorts. I made her a little bag and am constantly filling it with presents and letters to her so she knows that I'm always thinking of her, no matter where I am. Because I'm a mush.

The newest addition won't fit in the bag, but whatever. It's pictures of places where the other presents are from and a promise that we will go there together someday.

Doing this makes me genuinely happy.

I can't, however, do this for all of my lovelies. There are friends who, because of scheduling and life in general, I haven't seen in over a year. Even my best and closest friends, I've only seen three times during my time at home, and I have little to no idea what's happening in their lives. It sucks and I feel totally responsible for it, though I know that it's part of growing up and whatnot. I accept that, but it doesn't mean I have to like it.

All that said, I'm lucky to have so many amazing and supportive people counted among my friends and family.

In fact, I was recently reunited with an old friend.

This is Jorge.

This is Jorge with a moustache.

Jorge, being a good friend and a very studious jellyfish, helped me to study.

He even picked out his new favourite poem.

He would like to share it with you.

Sentimental Dangers

When out of work and fierce with self-pity

I'd walk until the fierceness left my feet

and I broke down. Then I'd start home,

where once I walked up to find my wife

pitching a stick across the parking lot

while an ugly dog sat and looked at her.

She'd found him near the office where she typed,

and fed him half her sandwich. He'd hung around

until she'd given in and brought him home.

But he loved me so much that when I went

to play with him, he'd roll onto his back

and piss until it splattered on his chest.

I'd sit outside all afternoon and talk

to him, to the hard knowledge in his face

that she'd leave me when I was well enough

to be left. I talked too much. She'd tell her friends,

He's out of work. He thinks he is that dog.

And she was right, I did. But we were poor,

living on frozen chicken pies and tea--

I knew I'd have to take him to the pound.

As I signed him away with my right hand

and wiped my left--which he would not stop licking--

against the unwashed leg of my blue jeans

I felt I was signing myself away.

An illusion, sure, but one that lasted months.

I thought of this today when I crossed the bridge

and the river smelled like a wet, unwanted dog.

-Andrew Hudgins

Good choice, Jorge.

Unrelated, but Flickr > Photobucket.

Why did I not know this until now?

"So young, and so untender?"

"So young, my lord, and true."

If we're being honest, Cordelia, I'm not giving you or your family the attention you deserve right now. I'm trying, but I cannot focus for the life of me. All day.

I woke up horrendously early, armed with good intentions. I made a proper breakfast (that is, not just toast), did my thang, got dressed, packed my bags, took some very intense notes on criticism of The Alchemist for about ten minutes, then went in to drop off writing samples and post a few letters.

Going to see Where the Wild Things Are with a group of friends was, perhaps, not my greatest decision of the week. Don't get me wrong--I loved every minute of it and spent the entire film trying not to openly weep. I left trapped in a glass case of emotion, but my soul was definitely better for it. Except for almost crying when I dropped the cup of tea I'd bought to keep myself going in the library. I'm a woman. I'm allowed.

Never made it to the library. Instead, went to a lovely choral concert of Christmas songs that made my heart sing. Not as well as those performing, of course, but whatever.

Friends were right in telling me to come home. I'm totally wrecked for no apparent reason. What is this nonsense? I'm reading lines from Lear and tearing up like a little bitch. I think that I just have a lot of feelings.

My soul, though a bit wobbly, is in a good place. Plus, my wonderful new scarf kept me warm and happy all day.

Since it is the holiday season, I've decided to be a selfish skank and imagine the things I would buy myself if Daddy Warbucks ever returns my calls.

I'm looking at you, bro!

My lack of funds prevented me from ordering this myself in time to get the t-shirt bundle. This is actually the first Christmas I've ever wanted to be asked by my parents what I'd like. Possibly because it's the first I've had an exact answer.

I've been dying to get this for the past couple of years, but I always put it off.

I have a lot of first seasons. It's a problem.

No more box sets now, or we'll never be done.

Cogito Ergo Sum Silhouette Ring

This illustrates exactly how lame I am.

Tentacle Ring

Creepy? Perhaps. Gorgeous? Fo' sho'.

Wine Country Dress

A custom-made dress? Yes, puhleez, Warbucks.

Silk Taffeta

Technically it's a wedding dress, but I technically don't give a fuck.

Wenezday Boots

I would learn to walk in heels for/make sweet love to these boots.

+ everything in Lush, a new lens for my camera, a typewriter, a record player for the house here, tights that don't ladder, fabulous handwriting, world peace and a puppy.

_____

What I will actually get:

-to see my family and dog

-to hang out with my friends

-to play with my goddaughter and meet my new baby cousin

-to trim the tree

-to walk on the beach with my mama

-to watch NCIS marathons with my dad

-underwear, socks, hugs, home-cooked meals, and some kind of board game (YES)

Not going to lie, this second list is a far better motivator for me to get my ass in gear. It sounds lame, I know, but thinking about hugs from my lovelies is making me do this.