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Buh?
Right, so I don't like poetry. You guys get the idea.
Well, consarn it, this little tidbit to follow literally wrote itself in about twenty seconds in my head this morning, and I spent another five seconds fixing the rhythm issues before I realized what I was doing.
Thanks a lot, Sabrina. =P (Hooray for code supporting! Indents are now possible.)
Untitled for Irony
My attitude is cavalier—
I haven't a sense of shame.
And if you wonder why, my dear,
You've only yourself to blame.
I think I already said this....
....but I really am not fond of poetry.
But this is a random post. So bleh.
One of our cats returned last week. We had a set of triplets for a while; marmalade shorthair with some white blotches, and almost identical markings. The only way we could tell them apart was by their front paws and their upper lips. One, Lucky, has an orange "long-sleeve" on his right front leg and a "short-sleeve" on his left, and an orange moustache; the second, George, has his "sleeves" reversed, and is clean-shaven; and the third, whom I could never figure out a fitting name for and whom my father disrespectfully dubbed "Loser" because we suspected he was gay, had two "short-sleeves" and half a moustache, like someone had shaved off the right side in his sleep as a prank.
Their mother was a small marmalade with dark fiery orange eyes, named "Paco" because my mother and my sisters, who are terrible at names, found her in a culvert outside a Taco Bell and decided that "Taco" was a terrible name. My mother later told me that she always thought those eyes with that fur made Paco look demonic. I thought she was beautiful.
Poor "Loser" went missing after a while—not that I really blame him—so for about a year now it's just been Lucky and George. But I've been away at college for two years, so I miss a lot of the important news, like stuff on whether or not that high-school auditorium will EVER be rebuilt or why we now have twenty-odd banks and yet no industry in this blasted town, or what's happening with my cats. So I was never told that George had disappeared also.
I found out when I came home at the beginning of May, though. I figured he'd wandered off to set up his own territory, and to partially appease the skittishness he'd inherited from his mother. I think I was wrong; he showed up about four days ago, rather emaciated and very much hungry, so my current theory is that my next door neighbor, who hates us for having animals that can run over his lawn (which he is kind of obsessed with), and who was the primary catalyst for the decision to give my Laborador/Border Collie away nine years ago, decided to abscond with the cat and abandon him somewhere out in the wilderness near the local Air-Force base, and the poor guy has been making his way back ever since.
But he's home again, and turning into more of a lap-cat than he used to be, so that's nice.
My mother is currently crashed upstairs with a massive sinus infection, which she describes as "a ci'derblok id by dose". She wanted me to read to her last night—a chapter from Ted Dekker's Red—which made me feel really bad because it was rather close to the end of the book and I haven't read the book yet. She looked like she needed to crash though, so I offered to put on some Mozart instead. That and she said that "I Want You To Want Me" was tormenting her, so "The Marriage of Figaro" seemed like a better alternative.
It's been raining every other day here this week. I am rather pleased; this means we'll have a colorful fall this year. (^_^)
Waiter-training is over, so now when I work next I will not earn minimum wage, but instead $2.13. Wah-hoo. Plus I have to take an ABC test in the next town so I can serve alcohol. Good thing is, it's good for five years at any restaurant. Bad thing is, it's sixty-damned-dollars of my own money. Good grief.
Soooooo yeah. Fun times ahead.
Star Wars paper TBA. That's a massive beast, dude. About ninety-odd branches just in the first fourth of Episode IV, and most of those are not binary.
Merf.
So yeah, looks like a total no-go on the outside work this summer. I can't get a single contact anywhere for landscaping crews—even the one I know is hiring—and the agency for the Country Club just seems to be a waste of time, but that means ...This Is A Test.....
Not a lot o' talkin' lately. Not a whole lot goin' on.
Seriously. I'm tryin' to think of somethin' funny to talk about, but I got absolute bupkus. I live, though, so there's that.
Attempting to clean out my room is turning out to be rather a laborious process. Found a glass chess set today that I never used because both of the frosted knights were broken; it's in otherwise perfect condition, so I may glue the knights together, but I already have a wood set up on my game shelf, so I think I'd feel more than a bit pack-rat-ish for keeping both. I'm no collector, and one of them (or both) will end up collecting dust.
I also have mounds of paper to sort through and determine the usefulness, whether it be for me or for the recycling bag. I'm hoping the latter.
My mother is going to try and start working towards a master's in library science, since her English degree is not enough. She showed me one of the books required today; she's been highlighting grammatical errors and logical flaws, which run about two to a page, and this bothers me. Such sloppy craftsmanship on the part of the author raises significant concerns to me about the author's competence, and if this book (on informational science) is that loose with its format and is still required text for a master's, then you can imagine the faith I have in that program. I also read a section of the author's material, and he seems to be writing from the arbitrary standpoint that there is a concern over the distribution of information, and that this concern is "growing". He then went into a minor proof of how the vast amount of information is somehow "viewed with trepidation and fear".....and then I snorted and returned my mother the sorry manuscript.
I actually hope my mother gets her masters, because then perhaps there will be one more Competent librarian in the world, and not just a bunch of old women and spinsters who work around a plethora of information that they are "afraid of". Good grief.
Also, apparently the local staffing agency can't figure out how to leave a message with their clients saying "I'll be in my office at ______ tomorrow; call me then." I've been offered a job on the groundskeeping staff out at our local Country Club, but the darned people have been playing phone tag for over a week, and I may have to start moving pieces myself. I can't believe I have to play Mastermind just to be able to cut grass for eight hours a day. Sheesh.
Help me, guys. Give me somethin' to ramble about. Like Sour Starburst or somethin'
Oh! What about Milla Jovovich for Kusanagi? I dunno, and I got no other reason besides her role in Resident Evil; the thought kinda just popped into my head, what since I know people don't want Jolie in it, I have already made clear my views on Alba, and Sigourney Weaver is unfortunately too old.
Sigourney Weaver would have rocked, though. Linda Hamilton, not so much, but she at least could have pulled the attitude off, I think.
We need more women who care less about looking sexy and care more about being competent. Maybe Weaver should give some lessons.
Thoughts
I was walking across the parking lot the other day, and I realized a couple of things that a few of you might consider morbid, or far beyond the scope of what I should probably be thinking about at my age. It's all good, though.
I was thinking at the time how music resonates with me, and I realized two things.
1.) Alfred Reed's Russian Christmas Music is the last music I ever want to hear. The other piece I want to show you is Russian as well; I think it's because there's so much utter pain in Russian music, but always triumph at the end. This is a recording of my university band performing it two years ago, before I began attending. I was in the audience, and I could not wait for this part of the program. I lost my program from that concert, too; apparently I threw it in the aisle at the end, but I was too busy cheering and then crying for no discernable reason, so I don't remember doing anything with it. It's fifteen minutes, but listen to the whole thing, please.
2.) The music I want played at my funeral is "Salvation Is Created", by Pavel Tchesnekov, for men's choir. And now I need to give a small history lesson.
At the time Tchesnekov wrote this piece, the Communist Soviet government had decreed that all Russian music was to be written for the State, and only for the State. Tchesnekov wrote the hymn in response to this edict, and wrote nothing else for the rest of his life. "I will write for what I believe," it says to me, "or I will not write at all."
He died forty years later, without even hearing his work performed.
"Salvation Is Created", performed by the Rhodes Singers
Lyrics: "Salvation is created in the midst of the earth, O God. Alleluia."
