stagnant

"I trade books with the devil sometimes," she says.
"He enjoys Oscar Wilde(of course)and
his favorite form is essays, funnily enough.
Me too.
We don't talk much.
...
anyways--
--'Rage after convenience' was the name of...this one."
Adding, "This dream."
(Only in context
and not even then!
does it make any sense for an outsider.)
"Don't take that personally."

______________'''_-'


She yells, "I loved you through it all!"
and he stops.
''Sign the wire with love,''         ---(hemingway)
     he smirks.
''or with Washington Irving's name,''         ---(catchtwenty2)
     again.
''or with any of the other books you're so into these days!"

-rae

Two Hundred

When I made this blog, I had a misconception about satire.

Save maybe a few negligible posts about elevator outlets and emergency feed knobs, this blog has never been what I now know to be satirical.

What I read in my literature class makes me feel small for wanting to write satire

witty like Twain and Bukowski,

or gracious like Pope and C.S. Lewis,

or bitter like Heller and Golding.

Palanhiuk, Bradbury, Orwell...

Ignorance truly is bliss

until we're blindsided by Swift.

I turn my eyes up to the mountains. I don't see them as I used to; I'm learning that they're probably the most insecure part of this area. I'm expecting the worst and am frustrated that everyone seems to be preparing for the best. My irrational fears occupy my thoughts, as they are wont to do.

Ignorance truly is bliss

until our city sinks into the ground.

Underneath the mountains is the other end of my building. My side is reflected in the glass so I can't actually see into the lobby, but I can imagine someone else doing the same thing as me. We're looking into each other eyes and don't even know it. Maybe that's why I feel unsettled.

Eye contact does that to me. The real, 'I am looking at you' eye contact.

It electrocutes me; it's oppressive and invasive, but I can't just let go. When I somehow finally manage to tear away, I'm tingling with the memory of it and all I want to do is look back to see if I exaggerated the sensation.

The moving sun makes the opposite room more visible.

Ignorance truly is bliss

until we realize that no one is looking.

I really should have called it 'coffee-flavoured thoughts' or 'coffee-flavoured musings.'

Where are those careless observations? That bliss from 200 posts ago?

I still don't write satire, and though I write far better than before, I can't help but consider the cost. I'd never actively seek out the influences, but I will confess to taking advantage of them when they do come.

I write in a room of mahogany, with bookshelves for walls and echoes for company, where I can see the dust in the air because the sun is blaring. The chair I sit in is so uncomfortable that it makes my back ache for days after, but that's the cost for using the room.

I imagine what I must look like from the doorway--a chair, a lamp for nighttime, a side table with clear liquid in a clear cup.

All are dark forms against the bright window behind me.

A silhouette

and a shadow.*

I endure sitting in the chair because when I get up to stretch and look back on my writing, it's illuminating.

I am aware.

-rae

*Plato's Allegory of the Cave

On the map

There are a lot of options on my bookshelf:

Mark Twain

C.S. Lewis

Some fact books about civilizations, metaphors, and the etymology of words

The Time Machine

A French Book of Mormon

Peace Like a River

Fahrenheit 451

and an atlas-that's the most tempting.

But I know what I really need to read: Confessions

It's not like there's an underlying reason why I don't want to read it, I've just always had this thing with books: I read the first chapter, and even if I love it, to get through the rest of it is very rare. For example, Peace Like a River took me about four tries until I finished it, and it became my favorite book.

I knew I was going to like Confessions when I picked it out of a few other options to read for my class. I just didn't know I'd find something like this within the first few pages:

"Have pity on me and help me, O Lord my God. Tell me why you mean so much to me. Whisper in my heart, I am here to save you. Speak so that I may hear your words. My heart has ears ready to listen to you, Lord. Open them wide and whisper in my heart, I am here to save you. I shall hear your voice and make haste to clasp you to myself. Do not hide your face away from me, for I would gladly meet my death to see it, since not to see it would be death indeed."

I mean, isn't that beautiful? I thought so, too. Anyone could be saying that and you'd believe they were sincere. I could be saying that.

That's all I wanted to share today.

And with that, I sat myself down on the couch to enjoy jeopardy and a handful of pepperoni.

-rae

Crestfallen is a juicy word.

Little Women, which I’m supposed to have read over a week ago, is still sitting in my bag somewhere. The book has such a weird shape, and the laptop case I carry around really can’t hold much more than, well, a laptop, so it’s stuffed in one of the back pockets.

Before I left this morning, Jude started speaking to me. (Jude Law’s voice is my conscious/narrator.) Rae, he said, Little Women is a classic, praised all over the world for it’s… well, actually, I’m not sure why. But that’s because you don’t know why. I don't even like this book either. Why don't you look it up on SparkNotes? You’ll have to figure out some way to avoid all the ads—

He never sounds right when he voices my thoughts. They get too distracted and, more often than not, are superfluous to what I had intended to tell myself in the first place. He stopped talking for my sake, which really didn’t help. I mean, there’s a reason I chose his voice to listen to all day.

I’m looking at the mountains and the grey sky as I type this sentence. Like, right now I’m staring at them. They remind me of why I started writing and how gloriously talented I am at ignoring that book.

I really want to eat my fish crackers, but it’s too quiet.

I push the button on my computer that tells me what the weather is going to be like for the next week: little raindrops inside the snow.

Splendid.

That’s on the next day, too.

Spectacular.

And then snowflakes… snowflakes… snowflakes… the word ‘crestfallen’ pops into my head for some reason… snowflakes. In a cheap way, it’s kind of ironic that all the snowflakes look the same.

…

…

…

Jude laughs.

-rae

MISERABLE WRETCH! FOUL DAEMON!

I am currently sitting in my favorite study spot on campus.

There's a wide window where I can see the mountains right in front of me which only made this experience all the more... well, just read on.

This spot was a little more inhabited than usual, but I sat down anyway in the only available seat and resumed my reading of Frankenstein.

I am about to make what I have recently learned is called tangent:

I hated this book in high school. My tenth grade English teacher made me read it and he (along with what seems like every other English teacher) completely exhausted me of any appreciation I might have had for the book prior to his class.

The list of detested books also includes The Great Gatsby, My Antonia, and The Chosen, all of which are probably outstanding works.

Well... maybe not My Antonia.

To be honest, I didn't even finish Frankenstein the first time.

Anyways, the book just pops up on my reading list for British Literary History (the history about literature from Britain) and I curse this professor that I haven't even met yet.

Well, the first time I felt like an idiot was on the first day of class

BECAUSE

the teacher whom I thought must be terrible to assign the reading of such an abhorrent book turned out to be one of the most passionate and sincere and donut-providing teachers I've ever had.

But hold on, I'm shamed even further.

(Tangent ceased.)

I actually did finish reading Frankenstein the second time.

I didn't really realize what was happening until the kid next to me tapped me with the highlighter I must have let drop from my fingers.

I took it and then looked at him.

"Thanks," I said.

"No problem," he said and continued to look at me strangely for a few more seconds before asking, "are you okay?"

I blinked in confusion, and then felt something wet on my face.

No... I couldn't actually be crying-

Oh, for the love...

I turned my face away quickly and showed him the book.

"Ah," I heard him say in understanding. "'Nuff said."

That was the second time I felt like an idiot. And not necessarily because I was crying in front of someone, which was bad enough, but because it was this story, this once despised, disgusting monster (haha no pun intended) of a book that had made me cry.

"No creature had ever been so miserable as I was; so frightful an event is single in the history of man."

No, that's not how I felt.

It was just a good quote.

-rae