Cleolinda everywhere

More Formspring questions. Posted 3/9/10.


( So ... dreamed about Brad Pitt lately? )

So... yeah. I didn't get anything done today.

Political/entertainment news (and no, this is not going to become a regular feature): ( LJ-cut if you prefer to skip )

Twilight linkspam: ( TOUR OF TERROR '08 CONTINUES )

Regular linkspam: ( MOAR )

Fairly productive today. We've also got Pete on the premises, and that dog and his lampshade are the saddest thing I've ever seen. Meanwhile, I'm thinking of going back over some of my old work, the really short pieces, and dusting them off again. I'm sure this will upset the three people in the world laboring under the delusion that I was a good poet, bless them, but the problem with most of my poetry is that I always try to cram a story in there between the lines, and it occurs to me now that I might just try expanding them into vignettes. My prose voice is probably one of my few real strengths, so it's worth a shot, I guess. It might be nice to try submitting to magazines again, I don't know. I'm thinking about posting a few of them here instead. So... we'll see.

Hm. So for today's flashback... let's go with that mini-entry about The Black Dahlia. Note: I only made up one thing in that entire paragraph, and that is "crushed by a falling anvil." Every single other thing actually happened in that movie.

Linkspam! ( Zac Efron NOT in POTC4 )

Meme I saw a few people doing today: 10 Things I've Done That You Probably Haven't.

Of course, with this many of y'all around, someone here probably has.

(The key to filling out this meme: be really, really specific.)

( Man, my life was so much more interesting in college )

To all of you lucky, intrepid bastards going out to see The Dark Knight tonight: Godspeed, good times, and giggle at the Twilight trailer for me. And don't you dare come back here telling me how awesome the Watchmen trailer was on a big screen, or I'll thump you into next week.

ETA: WATCHMEN OFFICIAL HD ZOMG.

ETA 2: Well... it's not as bad as the Twilight cover.

(cleojones, who is not me, has seen The Dark Knight already!)

Livejournal caves, brings back Basic Accounts. ( Poet laureate, Emmy nominations, S&M Barbie and more )

Here's what I love: BellSouth insists that internet woes are a problem on my end, despite the fact that my internet is slow or out at the same time every day (with additional, random outages), which would suggest to me that it's THEIR PROBLEM, and THEIR NETWORK, because it's not like my modem's just going to be like, "I don't like afternoooooons, you guyyyyyys." So I call to complain yet again, and the BellSouth guy just sort of casually mentions that they're going to be out in my area working on the line, so turn off the computer and unplug everything and then reboot "at some point in the afternoon," but it is, in fact, still my modem that's the problem.

Uh huh.

At some point, I need to carve another pumpkin this afternoon/evening--it's been tempting to just leave the one I did last Sunday out there, but it's half-covered with black (and red) mold on the inside, and the long fangs I cut for it have now completely curled under, making it look toothless. Also, it keeps asking when Jello's going to be. Really, we need another jack o' lantern. I think I'm going to do a Jack Skellington face, but I hate gutting the pumpkin. I mean, I don't mind the goo; I mind that it takes me so frickin' long to do it. Also, I really wish I had one of the little sawwy knives that Valkyrie and Dr. Typo had. But really, our honor in the neighborhood is at stake. A new jack must be carved.

( Conversations with my mother )

A particularly juicy set of linkspam, with first looks at The Golden Age and His Dark Materials, and some choice Cruise and Federline schadenfreude: ( Read more... )

Oh, and if you play Kingdom of Loathing, make sure you log in for Crimboween today.

And finally, this_quiet: "Hi. I was wondering if you would be so kind as to link Light a Million Candles in your next linkspam. It's a website advocating against online child pornography, and I think it's really important that we get the word out there, that it's really happening, one of the more unfortunate products of the internet. Anyway, it would mean a lot if you did. Thank you!"


ETA: Cookies of Win go to sabinelagrande for not just deciphering the coded passage in Borden's parody diary, but for also catching a mistake I made. (I'm surprised I only made one.) (Yes, that was a functional cryptogram. Again: the kind of quality you have come to expect from this journal.)

...and all hell breaks loose. Well, sort of. Lights Out Entertainment and Movieweb (my beloved source of giant hi-res publicity stills) went and merged, and while they're merging, the giant hi-res publicity galleries are down. Oh, and all the pictures in the world came out. But it doesn't really matter, does it? Because I suck, and have not updated the Digest in several millennia. And everyone else is merging and improving and upgrading and generally making me wonder why I bother running a movie site, and then I remember that the point of it is to basically create a daily roll call of what's out there, not to break news myself, because it's not like I have that kind of connections or anything. Oh, and I am the only girl running a movie site. Well, probably not the "only," but it feels like it.

I think this is also why I feel sad about the LOTR trilogy coming to an end, because it was one of the first movies I started covering, and going out of my way to put up wallpaper, screen caps, extra features, etc., brought me a lot of readers back in the day. It's just--it's sort of like being a teacher and seeing your kindergarten students graduate college. Hell, I get sort of misty about all kinds of movies coming out ("I remember when they were first casting Master and Commander!"), because I'm sad like that.

And of course I've got two portfolios, an exam, and a paper to turn in and can't even begin to think of doing anything about the not-updating right now. I suck.

We're reading selected Yeats and/or Heaney poems aloud tonight, blah blah blah last night of this class, blee blee blee haven't started my paper due in two days yet. I think I'm getting the end-of-term blues, the kind you get right in the homestretch as it's all about to be over.

Mmmm. Serendipitous Chick-fil-A biscuit...

("Serendipitous Biscuit" is totally the name of my next band.)

Anyway. Workshop went shockingly well last night. Half the class was total deadwood--didn't say a word, and looked extremely inconvenienced to be there. And then I read their written critiques and--they like the story. So I have no idea what that's about. It was chapter 2 of the serial (you can read chapters 1-3 online), and I was nervous, and the first half with the ball and all got draggy, and I'm thinking all the guys in the class are going to hate it, blah blah blee blee NERVES! NERVES! NERVES!, and I get to class and my story comes up first, and I feel like I've just been introduced to the firing squad, and--

Holy hell, they like it.

And the really, really weird part is that we only had three manuscripts go last night, so we had extra time, and they spent it interviewing me on my writing process and research techniques. I am serious. I mean, Catherine looks at me with a perfectly straight face and says, "Could you talk a little bit about your writing process? There's a huge level of detail in the story--how do you get that when it's not even finished yet?" And my eyes are darting around the room like, "I am so going to get beat up after class." Seriously, this used to happen to me in grade school. I'm not saying I was a good writer necessarily, but I was pretty precocious in the sense that people would struggle to turn in a two-page story and I'd be sitting there with ten pages. I mean, as early as second grade, I was "that writer girl." And "that writer girl" was usually used as a taunt; the basis of my young identity was usually turned against me. Teachers would say nice things in front of the class about a story or a poem I wrote, and life would be hell for the next two weeks.

But... it was different in this workshop. There are some undergraduates (Catherine's one), but there are also people in their twenties and even twice that, teachers getting their masters' and empty-nesters going back to get a second degree, and... they wanted to know. The professor--a visiting writer--wanted to know, wanted me to talk about it. It was flattering but completely terrifying, because I just knew in my heart of hearts there was some crank in that room thinking, "Who the HELL does she think she IS?" But he never appeared. So they asked me questions and I talked. And Watson tried to get me to tell him what happens in the next part, and I just stonewalled everyone on that, not because I didn't know yet, but because it is a certifiable fact that anything you explain in three sentences is going to sound stupid. So I just said, "You know, the third chapter is online," and everyone else is like, "Ooooooo! She shut you down!"

So, yes... it was a novel experience.

Oh, and Crunk may or may not hate the Larkin packet, but I got it done in about 30 minutes. Awesome. Now I just have to help Sister Girl with her government paper and critique a shitload of poems. If you're interested, here's my poem from last class (not yet revised):


Written on the Body

It is written on the body that you are mine.

Dry inks have long been daubed
in smears of saffron
—there: left, and right—
when I wiped the goldenrod tempera
of spilled pollen
and claimed your collarbone.

The talcum silk of my cheek has imprinted
milky ghosts upon yours.

My eyes have dusted you azure
when you were quiet;
my hands, crimson when you were cold.
I kohled you indigo when angry—
penitent, traced ashes when I was done,

each fingertip’s press a map, spiralling
minute, entire, eternal
on your skin.

The cartography of my prayer is with you.
Go quietly
into that darkness, marked as mine.
I cannot fail to find you.

Marvelously unproductive day. Have been watching Carnivàle marathon (motto: “Hòoked On Phonìcs Wòrked For Mè!”) since early afternoon; all caught up now. Nick Stahl definitely growing on me.

Did talk to Vladimir. As predicted, he was quite upset with me about the NaNo, and of course he's right, I am stretching myself too thin. But I can't help it... (oh, shit. I just remembered that I have a presentation to turn in... a week from Tuesday? On Philip Larkin. I think. Hell. And I forgot to email Dr. Quinlan to get the article to read for tomorrow night's class. Piss.) Anyway. I can't help it--I couldn't stand the thought of having to wait for next year's NaNoWriMo, and I actually feel really good about what I've written for it so far. (Wrote a little more today, in fact, but I write out of order, so I can't post it on FP yet--not until I get to a part where it will make sense.) And it is BR-related, and maybe it'll help me focus...? I don't know. Vladimir liked it in the end, I think, but he made me promise not to take on anything new until spring ("Well, spring comes early down here, so... sure!").

And I sit here and think, You can do this. You don't make very good use of the time you have. So you have the time. You just have to take it and use it. I dare you. And then I remember that I've got to update the Digest, too, and get in touch with Neo Commentary because I've finally thought of something to write for them, but when Hotmail erased my inbox I lost the editor URL, and I feel a shutdown coming on. I don't know why I let stress shut me down so easily.

(Oh, and I have to talk to the English head about the classes I need to register for next Monday. Did I mention I have a weird shy streak? Gah.)

I need more tea.

Reposted from my old Easyjournal. Assignment for poetry workshop: response to a student presentation, a packet on a particular poet:


I hadn’t read Sylvia Plath since I was in high school, and that was for a creative writing class, and my perception at the time was that I did not like Sylvia Plath. (All right, I liked “Daddy”: “Daddy, Daddy, you bastard, I’m through.”) Her persistent Nazi imagery creeped me out, and the teacher gave the impression that it was totally alien to Plath’s ethnicity or upbringing—the Jewish victim was an identity she, a Cambridge-educated WASP, had wholly co-opted. My overall impression was that she was the spoiled priestess of adolescent depression, the ultimate poseur.

This was not a very good English teacher. ( Dying is an art, like everything else )


ETA: See the Sylvia trailer at Trailer Park.