It has come to my attention - or more accurately, it has been brought to my attention - that as of late, I have posted nothing new (which, by the way, I am touched by the sentiment). So. Recently:
I have endeavored to dare strike a match and descend into the deep, oneiric dark of Thomas Pynchon's "Gravity's Rainbow." One hundred pages in so far and the threads are beginning to catch on that match and shed a bit more light which, if he keeps up at this speed, will set him well on his way to approaching such blinding luminaries as Hal Duncan. But, as I am less than a seventh of the way through the book, my hopes are locked tight in reserve.
On the side, and because I've heard so much of her tooting her own horn that I simply could not resist looking into it, I've been glancing at (or ensnared by - I'm not sure which) Ayn Rand's "The Fountainhead". From the first chapter, she seems to conduct, not a horn, but a symphony with the elegance of a dancer. If I had the time to decently read both at once, I think the two styles would balance out into a wonderful coffee-like blend of auctorial caffeine (and, well, I write what I read. Probably a bit more than I realize).
Unfortunately for my leisure reading, but as an ambrosial change from much of my summer vacation, I am currently engaged in a Delaware County (Com. Co.) English class (Spectacular!! *droo-oo-ools* they grade me for writing!!!!!). I am also engaged in two other English classes, one of which focuses on creative writing (in the sense of watching poetry readings and writing vignette/poetical responses), while the other... well I'm there two days a week, but I think it has something to do with short stories.
Other classes are going well. Math, for example, is firmly rooted in what I learned last year. I believe we've just covered sine cosine and tangent. But only for angles. Science(s - again the plural) are going swimmingly - the one being related to oceanic ecosystems, wetlands, and recycling, while the other discusses meteorology with some basic physics on the side (and ever so slightly under the table).
Oh! But the news isn't all good. I've learned that taking three English classes, with every other course also calling for essays/ stories/ and whathaveyou to be written, has one central drawback , of only two words, so utterly obvious and so blindingly inconvenient, that it took me at least a week to think of it. I still can't appreciate its horribleness quotient.
This is a serious malady which I'm hoping does not work like a cramped muscle and spring up every time I overwork. Less ironic but more common is "Writer's numbness" which is where the writer bangs his or her authorial head against a stubbornly white wall to the point of losing all coherency or indeed consciousness. The fingers are then left to wander over the keys at will, vomiting forth something so random and abhorrent as to transcend stream-of-consciousness and ooze out on whole new oceans of putrescence.
And tomorrow, it's all over. Not the world as such, but at least most of the part I was talking about. I have a day off from school. Not that I wasn't warned, and not that I don't have the supplies stored away - some fresh off the shelf - for a long isolation in the otherwise vacuous hinterland of boredom that would otherwise inevitably result. I have books. I have homework (a new development in and of itself and something which I think will grow on me a bit more before it dries up, falls off, and dies like some newly disgusting fungoid shelf from a tree it has sucked the life and wonder out of. Wow. Those science classes really provide great metaphors...). And I can look for colleges, learn to drive, write, research, and somewhere in there relax. So I get some consolation for missing out on school, but still... *sigh*.
I have written here.
a "Dude" :)
-- "If you want to tell people the truth, make them laugh, otherwise they'll kill you" :)
I shall endevor to improve, polish, edit, and in general strive for excellence in writing so, come next year, I may once again enjoy so marvelous an experience as the Alpha writers workshop.
In an astounding and if-precedented-I-don't-remember Renaissance, I have discovered two new joys, not only nonrelated but in close propinquity (the same day no less) to each other. The pulchritudinous Pandora, a dulcet and dark delight of a deity whose dusty old box seems to have been cleared out and filled anew with symphonic splendor, provides me with such sumptuous stations as Bach, Vivaldi, and *drool* Philip Glass. The second discovery is that of a desire or ability to read classical literature. I now await good examples with which to feed this not-quite-nascent hunger. This is a robbery- GIVE ME ALL YOUR BOOKS!!! (spoken to the modernistic beat of classical compositions)
Let us begin a New Age, a redivivus of Renaissance through Pandora's music box and history's imagination, imagery and metaphor. Come Prometheus and let burn the luciferous fires to illuminate the literary luminaries of all eras.
And on that antiquated anachronism of a note I bid adieu to my solely sorroral audience, and a very fond farewell.