Mary Versus the Trumpeting Legions of Apathy

Just spent a melancholy half-hour on the bus, listening to the Decemberists' 2011 album The King is Dead . Oh, the first half-hour of the ride wasn't bad, read Enos, listened to a book about crusades, but the second half, staring out the window listening to the music that had so moved me a year ago, I got to nostalgia. I'm constitutionally prone to nostalgia, especially at the turning of the seasons: late spring and early fall. This time I started thinking of all the people who used to be such a part of my life, part of the routines of my days and weeks, who simply aren't any more. They've moved or I've moved and they keep moving and I keep moving. Jon Stoddard who went to Utah or Jon Johnson, who just went 20 miles south; Carrie von Bosie, who used to run grad student lunch, or Beth who used to haunt the institute building. Amy and Lindsey who I used to live with. My sister who is now two moves away from San Antonio--I don't even turn onto the street by h...

I'm gonna count this for a whole month of journalling, because I somehow can't just have new years resolutions: I need to have new months. Actually, I set a lot of goals. Goal setting is probably one of my strengths. Goal achieving being a totally different thing. But I love Sundays for reflecting, and Fast Sundays are like King Sunday for reflection. Here's the nuts and bolts of it: Ah, February... What I Did Not Do: Write a full draft of my dissertation Lose 5 pounds What I Did Do: Enjoyed a visit from my parents to Texas Figured out my weekly routine Finish revising my novel Send my novel to an actual agent of novels Party it up: Pink Dance, dates, "Knitting Circle" Move to a new apartment with a new roommate Start a new novel Get an article accepted for publication Study the heck out of the idea of love and friendship in the gospel Ah, March... What I'd Like to Do:   Lose 5 pounds Write a full draft of my dissertation Run a lot mo...

Last night I read an article about being a runner that said that you have three milestones in becoming a runner: one is the day that you decide to run until do other forms of (usually wimpier) exercise; two is the day that you call yourself a runner and you're not faking it; three is when you see that running is what you do, it's who you are.  While I like to run and I run a lot, probably more days than most people, I always hesitate to call myself a runner, probably the same way that I write a lot of poetry, but I hesitate to call myself a poet. But I do write a lot of poetry and I run a lot, and since I've recently share my poetry (quality unspecified) , I might as well share with you some of my favorite runs as well. and let's pretend that this is a ranking, even though I know that's going to change depending on what mood I'm in. 5. Kaliningrad Loop This, or something very like this--I don't remember going on such a big road, but we definitely cross...

It's a holiday. I don't have work at the writing center. I do have work I could do, most importantly, work on my dissertation, which I haven't worked on for a month. I haven't been lazy: I've reviewed an article for a journal, produced a podcast, editing someone else's dissertation. I've even been writing: I finished a novel, I revised a book review, created 10 lesson plans. But I'm having a hard time just sitting down and working on my dissertation. Oldest song in the book, right? But it's not like I want to do anything relaxing. I don't want to watch Hulu. I cancelled my Netflix. I'm ages behind on the PBS shows.  I don't want to just chill with the friends of mine who do have the day off. I don't have any holiday plans for a bike ride or a trip or anything. I'm stuck in this unpleasant not-doing but also not-not-doing. Do I take the day off in earnest or work in earnest? The library is closed, but is my build...

--> Two years ago's propaganda posters were the best--they were good looking and reminded me of what I wanted to do with my year, so I decided to go for it again. Blogger has, as usual, ruined everything when you try to upload, but remember that these look awesome in practice. Anyway, all that aside.. This year's New Year's Resolutions posters are themed...Victorian work advertisements! Sport  & Athletics ·      Runs the very Toughest of all Mudders ! ·      Is in fit, fightin’ shape with a slender girlish figure ·      Hikes ONE HUNDRED MILES— with her sister! ·      Runs with unwanted and unkept canines! ·      Finishes the course of Zombies, Run! with glee ·      Works out an hour a day--excepting the Sabbath --> Family and Social ·      Seeks out new frie...

Here are some more of the weird things I've found in my old notebooks. Ah, what a youth I was..! Go child-- my mother said to me-- go and and wash the poop from your shoes. Take paper towel and stick and hose and wash the poop from off your shoes. For Adam's sake was all man curses that pleasures might a price demand And for a day's wanterlust and romp, to spray one's treads out will suffice. For simple pleasures, and carelessness, a simple recompense is made. So go and use the outside hose and wash the poop from your shoes. *** My lad, I'm glad you've some to stay And watch the house while I'm away Before I go, just let me say Don't poke the monster. If you're feeling bored and dull Play hide and seek with the mad troll or eat moat frogs until you're full But don't poke the monster. And if it's really dreadful weather Tie medusa's heads together and tickle her with griffen feather But don't poke...

 Mr. Gimley was 64 years old, his mother peacefully passed away. Mr. Gimley mad ethe funeral arraignments, spoke at the eulogy and grieved the appropraite length of time. Then he retired early from his high position at a successful insurance business, sold his house and his condo in Florida, and moved into the orphanage. "Excuse me," said mean Mr. Stiles, the director of the orphanage, "you don't belong here." "Excuse me," said Mr. Gimley, "I'm an orphan." So Mr. Gimley ate gruel for breakfast .... and lunch.... and dinner. He dressed in patched rags with torn hems. He scrubbed the floors with a toothbrush. He played stickball (but not as well as the other orphans) He learned long division under kind Miss Stu and cheap walletmaking under mean Mr. Stiles. When Christmas came, he savored every section of his orange, with was naturally his only present. "Gee, Miss Stu," he said. "being an orphan ...