Oh, you sauce-box!
SO, I've been massively neglecting my science-y schoolwork to read Pamela: Or, Virtue Rewarded. Johnson just doesn't understand how women work, does he? "Oh, yes," thinks Pamela, "although this man has imprisoned me in his country house, seperated me from my family and friends, attempted to assult my Vartue, marrying him is a GREAT idea. Yep, and I should call him master and thank him for his kindness and condescension. Wow, he's sure swell. I ought to drop to my knees, kiss his hand, and thank the baby Jesus for his kidnapping me cause it meant that we could be in love for ever and ever." I'm pretty sure if she were real and alive today, she'd be 'proud of her sexuality as a woman', not virtuous, and would be in bukkake. I love it when female characters are so obviously creations of their male authors' fuckwitit bits.
It's cute when I get all outraged woman.
Beyond that, Dr. S.D. is letting me lecture on John Donne for her Common Tragedy class. I get to pick readings, I get to lecture, I get to lead discussion. How cool is that? So we are going to look at rhetoric use of death as a sexual motivator, ie. "Hey baby, nice eventual decline into the grave that shall claim us all. Wanna fuck?" using "A Fever", "A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy's Day", "The Relic", "The Damp", "The Expiration", and "Death be not proud". So if anyone has anything smart to say about these, speak up. Otherwise I shall just rock out with my bad Donne-loving self.
And reading all this Donne recently has made me cry lots (which A.H. says is the point). He is so wonderous that I cannot bear it. But it's also made me realize that I can't write a love letter. Or a letter at all. I can't tell anyone that I miss them and love them without sounding about 12 years old and under the influence of 17 Magazine. Advice on this would be good as well. Or those I love shall just have to learn to act as if I myself have written:
Sir, more than kisses, letters mingle souls;
For, thus friends absent speak.
Until then, I will just mock and sneer and insult and snark and underappreciate those I love. I will do those things without the love to the Superfluous Vegan, because he inturrupted my presentation about patronage during the Scientific Revolution to make a comment that was just a veiled insult about my historical (as opposed to scientific) take on it. I want to puke on his longboard in messy messy vengence.
It's cute when I get all outraged woman.
Beyond that, Dr. S.D. is letting me lecture on John Donne for her Common Tragedy class. I get to pick readings, I get to lecture, I get to lead discussion. How cool is that? So we are going to look at rhetoric use of death as a sexual motivator, ie. "Hey baby, nice eventual decline into the grave that shall claim us all. Wanna fuck?" using "A Fever", "A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy's Day", "The Relic", "The Damp", "The Expiration", and "Death be not proud". So if anyone has anything smart to say about these, speak up. Otherwise I shall just rock out with my bad Donne-loving self.
And reading all this Donne recently has made me cry lots (which A.H. says is the point). He is so wonderous that I cannot bear it. But it's also made me realize that I can't write a love letter. Or a letter at all. I can't tell anyone that I miss them and love them without sounding about 12 years old and under the influence of 17 Magazine. Advice on this would be good as well. Or those I love shall just have to learn to act as if I myself have written:
Sir, more than kisses, letters mingle souls;
For, thus friends absent speak.
Until then, I will just mock and sneer and insult and snark and underappreciate those I love. I will do those things without the love to the Superfluous Vegan, because he inturrupted my presentation about patronage during the Scientific Revolution to make a comment that was just a veiled insult about my historical (as opposed to scientific) take on it. I want to puke on his longboard in messy messy vengence.
posted by J at 4:03 PM
3 Comments:
I will write you a letter when the neurologist tells me why my fingers are numb so that I can regain co-ordination to do so.
Love you.
Not trying to pressure you into letters. You are sick.
I keep on writing things to you and family-bits and the Boy and not being able to mail them. I want to be able to write something I mean someday.
Also, my letter writing is stymied by my notecards. They are so covered in fairies and moons and flowers they make me a bit sick.
I got postcards that are lithographs from some 16th century natural philosopher. Maybe we should send each other blank things?
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