We Meet Again

That crazygeniusbastard (maybe if I run it together, no one will notice the profanity. Oh hi Mom.) Hemingway and I met again today.
For literature, the assigned reading was For Whom The Bell Tolls.

Remember last summer, when it took me almost a month to read that book? Remember how I was intimidated by it, and then hated it, and then loved it?

So do I.

Anyway, it was lovely to discuss the book with actual people and an actual professor of literature. It was also reassuring to discover that the themes I gleaned from the book last June/July are real, live WIDELY ACCEPTED HEMINGWAY THEMES. Hoorah!

There may be hope for me and my English major after all.

P.S. I have officially come to terms with the fact that I am taking a class entitled "Gender and Sexuality in Literature of the American Tropics" this spring. I have to fulfill a human diversity requirement for my major, and Multicultural Literature was full. I'm on the waitlist, but things aren't looking good on that front. So...gender and sexuality it is.

Don't get me wrong here; there is absolutely nothing wrong with the subject of this class, and as a matter of fact I've always thought I should take a GWSS course whilst at Morris, as it's not an area I'm familiar with. That's the thing, though. It's not an area I'm familiar with. And the course sounds so...specific. With the English classes I've taken thus far in my college career, readings have spanned many eras, topics, and writing styles. If I found myself uninterested in a topic (ahem. Romantic British poets, I'm looking at you), I merely had to grit my teeth and wait it out. But with an entire class dedicated to one topic, if I find it uninteresting, I'm pretty much stuck.

Still, I am looking forward to trying something new. I'll let you know how it goes.

Things That Scare Me

Part 1: Emails like this

Hi, Holly,

Thanks for your message. For students who haven't already taken the Intro to Creative Writing course at UMM, I'm asking them to send a short sample of their work in fiction. It doesn't have to be anything perfect -- just something to give me an idea of the level you're working at.

Thanks!

Part 2: Schedules like this

MWF:
11:45-12:50 Themes in World History
1-2:05 Advanced Fiction Writing (conditional: see above email)
2:15-3:20 U.S. Multicultural Literature
3:30-5:10 (W) Honors: Power of Place

Tu Th:
10-11:40 Intro to Stats

Dear Old Hemingway

I'm giving dear old Hemingway another chance.

I had an unfortunate incident with The Sun Also Rises in 11th grade (I've mentioned this before). The unfortunate incident was that I hated the book. To this day, when I think Sun Also Rises, I think man lying on his bed in a dark, European apartment whining about his 'war injury' (I didn't catch what the 'injury' was until my English teacher explained it to the class. Thanks, Mrs. Nelson).

And then, last winter, Hemingway's Snows of Kilimanjaro managed to edge out Fitzgerald's Winter Dreams in my American Lit. class.

Despite my professor calling Ernest a "crazy genius bastard," I was not amused.

However, being the noble, selfless, forgiving person that I am (translation: he's on my list of authors I need to read), I'm giving dear old Hemingway another chance.

I'm reading For Whom the Bell Tolls.

It's a war novel.

Oh my.

P.S. On a lighter note, I'm thinking of reviving the Expatriate's Club in Paris. Anyone interested?

P.S.Again. I just realized that Hemingway would probably absolutely hate the fact that I refer to him three times as "dear old Hemingway." Not very masculine, is it?

Three Months in the 17th Century

For the past few months, I've been walking around campus worrying about things like Holy Office votes, Pope Urban VIII's views on the Thirty Years' War, and Galileo's potential heresy.

I would walk into a meeting with several cardinals at 9:00, and walk out at 9:30 just in time to change for my intramural badminton match.

For the past month specifically, I've been consumed with an attempt to depose the Pope. I met with different factions to try to convince them, I sent emails, I strategized with professors, and I wrote and delivered speeches. I was even imprisoned in the Castel Sant'Angelo (which, ironically, I got to see when I visited Italy a few years ago) for a week when the Pope began to suspect my efforts.

It's funny to think that it is all over now, and that my side has lost. I'm a little disappointed, yes, but honestly, when you worked as hard as you possibly could, when you did absolutely everything you could think of to forward your cause, then it's not so bad to lose; at least you can look back without regret. I suppose I sound like the disgruntled loser who is trying to mask his loss with nobleness. And maybe I am. But I don't think I could have done things differently. I trusted the people I needed to trust, I said the things I needed to say, and I had a lot of fun doing it.


Here's the speech I gave today, right before the failed deposition:

I do not have any illusions about our purpose here today, nor do I wish to overly prolong certain unavoidable business. In a few minutes, the ballots will be passed out, and the voting will begin.
Some of you will undoubtedly remember that the entire premise of a Pope is that he is elected by God. You will vote yea. Some of you will undoubtedly look upon me as a champion for the secular, as one who seeks to diminish the Holy Office and all that it stands for in favor of bloodthirsty Philip and his Spanish minions. You will vote yea. Some of you will cling to your gilded ceilings, choosing to ignore the threat that looms outside the gates. You will also vote yea.
Some of you, however, will recognize that God’s will is almost impossible for mere humans to decipher. You know that while God is incapable of making mistakes, sometimes his intentions are skewed through the leaded pane of humanity. God did not vote for Urban VII those many weeks ago, gentlemen. You did. Nor can you be sure that your actions reflected the will of our Heavenly Father. No one has that certainty. All we can do here on Earth is to act, with much prayer and reflection, in a way we feel is Godly and true. Some of you now feel that our Lord is pointing us down a new path; towards a new Pope, and a revived Church. You will vote nay.
Some of you believe me when I say that I have no desire to disband the Holy Office. You see that I am honest when I assert that a Pope made so by force is a Pope in name only. It is the duty of the Holy Office, and no other body, to appoint a Pope, and I consider it the very highest insult when some of you claim that I believe otherwise.
I regret that the Holy Office and the Spanish armies have been brought together in such a tumultuous manner, but I see it only as a natural result of Urban VII’s unreasonable actions; he not only imprisoned a peaceful diplomat and an innocent cardinal, but he refused to post the charges in detail for all to observe. Despite my belief in the rationality of their concern, however, the presence of the Spanish army does not change my reverence for the Holy Office and all of its functions. Those of you who see this will vote nay.
Last week, I had the privilege of reading a speech delivered by an esteemed Cardinal. In it, he outlined the qualities of leadership, somehow managing to apply the majority of them to Urban VIII. Despite the Cardinal’s thoroughness, however, he missed one leadership quality, one that quite eclipses all others.
That quality is selflessness; a leader should put the needs of his people above his own egocentric inclinations. In this respect, I find that Urban VII has failed most grievously.
Good Catholics are being butchered, my friends. You know this all too well both from Cardinal O’Neill’s stirring speech of last week and from reports that agitate the streets of Rome and become more and more urgent as the days pass. Is it not the Pope’s primary duty to protect his flock that they may flourish and receive God’s grace? And what has the Pope done to ensure their protection? What has he done to answer the pleas for help that fly at him from all parts of Europe? You all know that he has done nothing but sit on his throne and stare at his precious ceiling.
And yet, when a rumor floated across the Vatican that the Pope’s title may be in danger, that his dear power may be diminished, he leaped into action. He rashly imprisoned two men with only vague charges for justification, and he brought the wrath of the Spanish army down on the Holy Office. Clearly, Urban VII’s sense of absolute control is the issue he has his eyes constantly upon. His people must wait in the periphery. Some of you who are disgusted by this obvious selfishness will vote nay.
In a few minutes, when the ballots are distributed, I wish you to remember this: now is no time for passivity, for moderation, for pause. There is more hanging in the balance than the Pope’s dignity; we are voting upon the life of a Catholic boy stranded in Protestant Europe. We are voting upon the salvation of a soldier fighting for our cause, and committing unavoidable crimes in its name. We are voting in the hope that we may gain a leader who is willing to make decisions for the good of God’s Church, rather than for the elevation of his own selfish ambitions. We are voting to ensure that the Catholic Church remains a beacon of light for all the world.
May God move in your hearts and guide your pens towards His will.

Me and John Adams

What have I ever done for my country?
John Adams spent years and years in France and the Netherlands trying to secure treaties and loans for the newly created United States. Before that, he helped establish said United States. Before that, he stepped forward, despite the outrage of his Patriot peers, to defend the British soldiers who had begun the Boston Massacre. After that, he was President. After that, he prevented the United States from entering another war with England and France. His refusal to maintain a standing army lost him a second term in office. After that, his son was President.
I said the Pledge of Allegiance every day of K-8, and every week of high school. Now I don't say it at all.
On the Fourth of July, my family usually goes up to Lake Superior. We usually have a bonfire, and there is usually strawberry shortcake, and there are usually fireworks.
Then I write a blog post.
Every so often I think to myself that I'm happy to be American.
Every so often I look up at a flag and feel romantic and special and I smile and walk home, self-satisfied.
John Adams said: "Our obligations to our country never cease but with our lives."
John Adams also said: "I must study politics and war that my sons may have liberty to study mathematics and philosophy. My sons ought to study mathematics and philosophy in order to give their children a right to study painting and poetry."
What have I ever fought for?
What have I ever given my country?
I sit in a classroom and pretend to be a Spanish priest. I talk to factions, I make deals, I deliver speeches.
I enjoy it, but what does it all matter in the long run?
The things I focus on, the things I read, the things I study, they're not real.
They're not real anymore.
They may make me smarter, but they're nothing but pieces of paper now.
John Adams built a country out of similar pieces of paper, but he built it out of actions too. He didn't sit back and let other men do the difficult work. He did it himself. He created something unprecedented.
And he was vain, and he did have a bad temper, and he was stubborn.
But he loved his wife, he loved the law, and he served his country in the best way he knew how, which was the best possible way he could have done it.
Maybe it's silly to compare myself to John Adams. It's probably silly for anyone to.
He was just a short man with a wig and a wonderful wife.
But he lived for his country.
I merely live in my country.

A Speech

Here's a speech I gave in my Trial of Galileo class last week. I suppose if you're not in the class, you probably won't know what I'm talking about, but I'm proud of this speech.

Is there a career out there that would allow me to write and deliver passionate speeches all day? That doesn't involve going to law school, spending millions of dollars on campaigns, and wearing ugly pant suits? Didn't think so.


Appeal to His Holiness, Pope Urban VIII
No one thinks more highly than I do of the faithfulness, as well as the abilities, of the worthy gentlemen sitting in this very room. Considering my great respect for them, I shall speak forth my sentiments freely and without reserve. This is no time for ceremony. Should I keep back my opinions, through fear of giving offense, I should consider it an act of disloyalty toward the Majesty of Heaven, which I revere above all earthly kings.
I have listened for these past few weeks to you gentlemen go back and forth about issues of science, of church law, and of biblical interpretation. And while it is all very interesting, I couldn’t help gazing up at your gilded ceiling. If you look very carefully, you can see that there is real gold inlaid in the dome.
Tell me, how many soldiers could just a small bit of that gold feed? How many war horses could be shoed, how many blankets could be purchased, how many mugs of ale could give courage to how many hearts with the wealth of your ceiling? I have heard that the taxes of the people here in Rome are spent on building projects. Is your ceiling one such building project? It’s beautiful.
Your Holiness, forgive me, but above all else, allow me to be blunt. In Spain, they do not bow to your likeness, and murmur, “Your Holiness,” as the Italians do. In Spain, rather, you are known as the pope who has refused to lead his own Church in the great cause of our lifetime. You are the pope who has claimed poverty, but who still somehow manages to afford gold encrusted ceilings. You are the pope who has neglected to declare this war a Holy War, therefore condemning many of those who fight faithfully on the Catholic side to Hell. In Spain, they see your refusals, and your claims, and your neglect as evidence of possible Protestant sympathy.
In Spain, Your Holiness, they call you the Protestant Pope.
They have reason to be bitter, just as you, gentlemen, have reason to be afraid, for as we sit in these hallowed halls debating petty issues, thousands of faithful Catholics are being butchered. Catholic cities are being pillaged and burned. Formerly Catholic lands in Poland, Germany, Bohemia, and Livonia are now controlled by the Protestants. Even now armies gather north of the Alps. If the Protestant side should defeat the Catholic forces, they will have almost undisputed access to Italy. No one in this room need wonder which city they will set their eye on first. There is a chance that soon this ceiling will be blackened by fires set to Rome. The gold, of course, will be removed and used to fund the enemy’s cause. I am quite certain that it will feed a great many Protestant soldiers.
Squabbles over who will cast ballots for which faction will surely become obsolete when there is no Vatican left, no Rome, and no Church. Whether or not the Earth is spinning cannot possibly matter when compared to the Protestant threat marching upon it.
Your Holiness, I implore you; give us a leader all true Catholics can unite under, and prove to the world that the strength of the pope’s leadership is enough to quench even the fiercest enemies. Join Spain on the field of battle and rightfully declare this war a holy one. Tear down your gilded ceiling, for truly, gilded ceilings are for times of piece.
I wish to conclude, as is only proper, with a Bible quote, in hopes that we never forget who’s cause we are fighting for, and what we are fighting against: “Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. Put on the full armor of God so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand” (Ephesians 6:10-13).

Broken Glass

What does broken glass mean?
Is it the beginning of something, or is it the ending?
I’m sure I don’t know.
I only know that it was a cappuccino bottle that broke, one of those little ones that come in six packs like they’re beers.
I didn’t even notice the bottle until it fell from a desk in the middle of lecture,
Sending crystal shards tumbling to all corners of the room.
The prof stopped speaking, which surprised me;
I’ve seen them push through cell phone rings
Through whispering
Through endless coughing fits
The broken glass did it, though.
Again, what does that mean?

Jon was up in a minute, slouch left at his desk,
Keeping his place in his open anthology.
He began to pluck dripping pieces of glass from the tile with his fingertips,
Crouching in front of the prof,
Who I think was trying to make a joke.

The girl who spilled was out the door by then.
I didn’t realize until later that she had cut her hand on a piece of her own former bottle.
Which might be ironic.

Something about the way Jon knelt and gingerly picked shining shards from their caffeinated graves
Made me jump up and offer to fetch a broom.
Will mumbled something about checking the Humanities Lounge
But I didn’t waste any time.
The lady in the Division Office showed me the janitor’s closet, and handed me broom and dustpan.
She was very kind.

Prof still wasn’t lecturing, which was still strange, but I supposed
That it would have been more awkward to sweep through American Indian Writers,
To scrape glass to the beat of Sherman Alexie.
I read a book once with a heroine who didn’t know how to sweep.
She had to be taught, and of course it was pretty romantic, because the boy who taught her was in love with her.
But how funny to not know how to sweep.
I’ve always hated it because you can never get all the dust
Or all the glass.
No matter how hard you try, there will be a line of dirt left when you are done
Particles too fine to be flipped into the dustpan.

Today I see no glass glittering in the corners.
Jon’s back in his seat,
And I’m back in mine,
And the prof is speaking again.
And all I can think is how strange of a morning that morning was,
And how it certainly must mean something.
But for all the drafts I’ve made of this narrative,
For all the deep romance and tragedy I’ve tried to pull from it,
I can’t decide if it’s only beginning to mean something because I want it to
Or if it was nothing from the beginning.

I'll Miss Things

Gosh, I love it here.

Have you gotten that impression yet?

Why would I ever want to leave?

Grammar and Language is being offered this fall. I want to take Grammar and Language.

A ballet version of Cinderella is coming this fall. I want to see Cinderella.

MCSA secretaries are being appointed this fall. I want to be a secretary.

Rocky Horror Picture Show is being shown (as per tradition) in Edson this fall. I want to see Rocky; this year will be my first year actually understanding what's going on.

I have friends that I'll miss.

I have family I'll miss.

I have professors I'll miss.

I have three jobs that I'll miss.

Sometimes (as you may have guessed), I don't know if I want to go away to Salzburg this fall. I know it's a great opportunity, and that I've wanted to travel my entire life, and that part of the reason I came to UMM in the first place was because they have such a good study abroad program, but still. I guess I'm a little scared. Not of Austria, but of leaving Minnesota. Is that crazy?

Julie seems to think so.

Lenten Resolution Revealed (among other things)

This morning I sat in Turtle Mountain Cafe, reading Langston Hughes, eating my breakfast yogurt, and sipping a hot chocolate that would have tasted better had I not witnessed the worker making it. She dumped a few scoops of powder into hot water and stirred it around. No whipped cream or anything. So much for Fat Tuesday.

I'm giving up chocolate for Lent (and any admiration for my sacrifice is much appreciated-I think chocolate is probably the hardest thing I can possibly give up, save reading, which would not even be realistic), so I thought I'd better get as much in as I can while I can. Will eat a Kit Kat later as well.

I've also been dreaming of Spring Break. 1 exam, 1 four page paper, and 3 days are all that stand between me and home.

Friday Doings

Not that my day has been particularly earth-shattering (so far), but if you've been wondering what exactly occurs in my daily life that leads me to post the way I do, here you go:

7:11 a.m. (for some reason whenever I wake up during the night or early in the morning before going back to sleep, I always remember the exact time I woke up, down to the minute. Weird.) Woke up coughing (that's right, The Cold still lives.), bobbed head up to gulp water and check clock. Bobbed head back down and feel back to sleep.

8:00 a.m. My alarm went off. Time to get up for real. Did I? Nope.

8:49 a.m. Woke up again. Bobbed head up to see that The Roommate was dressed and reaching for her backpack. She has class at 9:15 as well. Gave shriek of horror, then jumped out of bed and rushed around getting dressed. For the first time in about a year I didn't have time to put mascara on (sad, I know).

9:05 a.m. Left dorm with The Roommate, heading to class. It was snowing outside, which for some reason disoriented me. Isn't March supposed to mean spring? Or is this just the lion end?

9:15 a.m. American Literature II began. We discussed George Chesnutt's "The Goophered Grapevine." I liked the story all right, but I don't think it's something I could write a 4 page paper on. Unfortunately, I have no choice, as I've procrastinated on the required paper all semester.

10:20 a.m. Class ended. I walked back to my dorm via The Student Center because it's warm and because I like to see what's going on.

10:25 a.m. Back in room. Folded/hung up laundry from last night. The wrinkles, I suppose, are my own fault.

11:14 a.m. Walked with The Roommate to lunch. Ate with Katie, Evan, Mariah, Aaron, Tim and King. I had fish, a salad, and a cookie, in case you were wondering.

11:35 a.m. Headed to class.

11:45 a.m. Beginning German II began. We had a test on Wednesday, so we started a new unit today. Said new unit is all about food and drink, apparently, which should be interesting. I embarrassed myself considerably by shouting out "Spinach!!" when the professor asked what the green blob in the picture was. It wasn't spinach. It was noodles. Hmph. Looked like spinach.

12:50 p.m. Deutsch over, walked back to dorm with Aaron (a different Aaron from the one I ate lunch with).

1:00 p.m. Chatted with The Roommate a little bit before plopping down on my bed with Mac. Went through my bookmarks bar, as I do a few times every day. Here's the order: Facebook, UMM email, Apple movie trailers, IMDB, The Pioneer Woman, 4 or so other random blogs I follow, and a quote-of-the-day website. I usually try to check BBC and Huffington Post as well, but didn't feel like it today. Then, of course, I came to my own blog. Hi.

I Carry Your Heart With Me

A few things I've done today:

1. Took a German test (horrific. I was so tired last night, and the Nyquil was kicking in, and I just stopped caring about dative verbs. It happens, although I certainly hope I get my act together for the next test)

2. Walked to Subway with my roommate for dinner. The girl behind the counter was quite chatty: "You know Andrea broke up with her boyfriend of 2 months and she called in to say she couldn't work. When I broke up with my boyfriend of 2 and a half years I worked every single day!"

Can I just have my Italian BMT please?

3. Played intramural volleyball. We had an off night, which was really okay. The not so okay part was two members of our team being poor sports and huffing off the court afterwards like they wanted nothing to do with the rest of us. If there's anything I've learned playing sports, it's that any loss (or win) is a culmination of events. Bad serves, missed blocks, out-of-bounds spikes, etc. It's incredibly unfortunate when people choose to point fingers and dwell on individual plays.

4. Went to community council, which was interesting and fairly heated as usual. I spoke up against spending money on things like paint-your-own-piggy-banks and tie-dye-shirts, and was instead in favor of using our money for something more permanent, like lamps or chairs or a Blu-Ray player. I don't think I made a whole lot of friends at that meeting.


I guess this hasn't been a very Valentine-y post, but here's a Valentine-y poem I found to love things up a bit:

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

-E.E. Cummings (I Carry Your Heart With Me)

In Just Winter

In just Winter
The world smells like ham and cheese sandwiches
which I notice as I walk from class
Past the table where Dom sells
truffles
and love poems
for Valentine's Day
and I keep my head down
because I promised to buy one
and I haven't.
I used to pick the melty cheese
off the sandwiches we had at school
and eat just bread,
wincing as I encountered some American
I had missed.
Past the igloo on the mall
soft and melty
the entrance a black hole with mush surrounding
I never went in, you know?
Mom used to tell me not to make snow forts like that
because they can collapse
and crush you into suffocating whiteness.
I was only allowed to dig a little bit into the plowed snow
at the edge of the driveway, making a half cave
that barely concealed my sled and I.
It's just Winter
and the world is of softening snow
and ham and cheese sandwiches.
Someone asked me why I didn't say anything in American Lit.
Her name might have been Brittany or Angela.
I said I just didn't feel like it.
How does one explain
that the soggy world outside
(even as it dissolves into nothing)
means more today
(as it drips to nothing)
than even F. Scott Fitzgerald?

No More Winter Dreams

Today my American Literature professor called Ernest Hemingway a "crazy genius bastard."
And I have to say, that even after an unfortunate experience with The Sun Also Rises, I agree with her.

We're finishing the Modernists this week and retreating back to Dickinson. I don't want to go back to Dickinson. I want to stay with the Modernists! Nothing against dear Emily, but I studied her last semester as well, and two consecutive semesters of depressing, abstract, randomly-dashed poetry is too much for me.

On top of that, because we spent the first 15 minutes of today's class discussing E.E. Cummings' Buffalo Bill, we lost time discussing Hemingway's Snows of Kilimanjaro. And since in order to give Ernest his due we'll have to pick up on Snows on Friday, F. Scott Fitzgerald (who was supposed to commandeer all of Friday) is instead being cut down to one story.

As you may have guessed, the main reason I was so excited for this class over Christmas was because of F. Scott. And now he's being pared down to Babylon Revisited. Winter Dreams are discarded until further notice (perhaps forever) to make way for Snow (on a mountain in Africa that is no longer snow covered, according to the footnotes in my Norton (thank you global warning)).

Early Morning Breakthrough

This you should know about me: I'm kind of bad at talking about literature. At least, I'm bad at talking about literature in class.

Today, however, today was a breakthrough.

We're studying Carl Sandburg in class. I love Carl Sandburg. He writes poetry the way I think I would write poetry if I had sufficient talent in the area.

Anyway, here's the poem we were talking about ("Child of the Romans"):

THE dago shovelman sits by the railroad track
Eating a noon meal of bread and bologna.
A train whirls by, and men and women at tables
Alive with red roses and yellow jonquils,
Eat steaks running with brown gravy,
Strawberries and cream, eclaires and coffee.
The dago shovelman finishes the dry bread and bologna,
Washes it down with a dipper from the water-boy,
And goes back to the second half of a ten-hour day's work
Keeping the road-bed so the roses and jonquils
Shake hardly at all in the cut glass vases
Standing slender on the tables in the dining cars.

And all of the sudden, while staring at this poem, sweat dripping down the back of my neck, hoping to goodness the professor wouldn't call on me, I got it. I was pulling out patterns and symbols and random observations like there was no tomorrow.

I guess "Child of the Romans" is kind of an obvious poem, but it was a proud moment for me nonetheless. I think I'm officially an English major now.

Pains, Classes, Plans

Honestly, I don't think I've ever ached so much in my entire life. My muscles seem to have aged about 50 years overnight. I can't roll over in bed without effort. Walking is done gingerly and very, very slowly. Stairs are nearly impossible. When limping around campus nowadays, it's not uncommon to hear cries of "gimpy!" aimed in my direction. Snowballs, too. I'm the Tiny Tim of Morris. I'm Terry in An Affair to Remember, only without the nice painting.

All my pain, humiliatingly enough, is not the result of a romantic accident or even a knife fight. Nope, it's the result of two hours in the RFC on Sunday playing volleyball, and an hour yesterday of playing badminton. Both activities might have turned out all right, but when I play sports, I tend to perform uncoordinated lunges and dives that stretch my body in ways it's probably not meant to be stretched. Three hours of acrobatics, I suppose, were bound to bring pain.

In other news, I'll give you a list of my spring classes:
American Literature 20th century and forward
Beginning German II
The Trial of Galileo (Honors)
Art History Renaissance to Modern

In other other news, I've recently begun planning for my Great Study Abroad Semester. I know I want to go somewhere where I can practice my German, and I obviously need to go somewhere where I can take courses that pertain to my major. The search is currently narrowed down to Austria and Germany, with Austria inching ahead. Salzburg especially is looking really good right now, probably because of my passionate devotion to The Sound of Music. Will keep you updated.

Some More Winter Scenery

Holy expletive, it's cold out!
The walk from my Humanities Building class to my dorm, which only takes about 3 minutes, is enough to freeze my ears, numb my cheeks, and stiffen my knees.

Yes, that's right. It's 10:15 a.m. It's January the 21st. And it's -15 degrees, with 17 mph winds.

Having been born and raised in Minnesota, perhaps I should refrain from ranting so much about the intense cold. I should be used to it by now, shouldn't I? In fact, perhaps I should even be ashamed to complain about it. Perhaps I should bang my chest and claim that Minnesotans are made of stronger stuff. We swim in lakes in the summer and fish on them in the winter. We consider 40 degrees to be wonderfully balmy. We watch tornadoes swoop through our next-door neighbor's backyard, while standing in our own. We're fearless, and what's more, under our thick skins beat hearts of steel that cannot be frosted over. Not even in -15.

Yes, I'm surely proud to be a Minnesotan, although I guess I'm not stoic enough to refrain from admitting that Florida is looking wonderful right about now.


This is a photo of my window, almost completely frosted over. It's been this way for a few days now.

Finals Week, Part II

I'm on a study break. I tried to do an hour of straight memorizing American writers and their works and the terms that describe their works, and I barely made it.

It's only the first day of Finals Week, and my brain hurts.

Maybe because I spent all weekend (literally) trying to make a thesis based on an essay we read in Honors, based on one of the paper topics provided. It kept not working and not working until I finally realized that it was not going to work. So, I switched topics. At 2 a.m. this morning. Wrote until 5. Woke up at 10. Wrote until 3:30. Turned the paper in about fifteen minutes before it was due. And it was probably the worst paper I've ever written. Not for lack of effort, but because I didn't have time to make it good.

That's the worst thing about this semester, I think. I'm trying so hard but my grades still aren't where I'd like them to be because I don't have time to focus on one subject or one paper or one reading for very long; the others start calling to me before I have a chance to even sit and consider.

Now my brain hurts and I don't think I can spend much more time with this American Lit. stuff I'm currently doing.

But okay. Here's the plan:

Tonight: Finish typing up study guide for Am. Lit. Study study guide.

Tomorrow: German final 11-1, study Am. Litl, Am. Lit. final 4-6, Work on Understanding Writing paper, Writing Room work 7-7:30, Info. Desk work 8-10, Finish Understanding Writing paper

Wednesday: Social Science work 9:30-11:30, Think of an idea for/research/write Icelandic Sagas paper. All day. Get 'er done. Info. Desk work 6-8. Finish Icelandic Sagas paper. Preferably before 3 a.m.

Thursday: You're not done with Icelandic Sagas? You've got to be kidding me, Hol...well...you have until 4:30. WRITE. After 4:30, take a few cleansing breaths, collapse limply on bed, then get up and start packing. 7:30 Mom arrives. Load car. Go home. Sleep until Saturday.

It's 10:14. 4 minutes past my alloted break time. Must go.

An Unexpected Poem

While dutifully reading an uninteresting (to me) essay for my Understanding Writing class, I found this lovely poem at the very end:

To My Colleagues in the Field

And when that certain grounder
skips blur-white
across clipped June grass

and I move quickly but fumble it
the ball popping into the air before my eyes
I need you moving to cover second

timing my work while the ball's between us
ready to take my toss
tap the bag in stride

and wheel your own true throw to first
in time
you and I will teach the world

to collaborate

Tom Romano
The University of New Hampshire

A Disparaging Day

I'm feeling a little beaten down by college right now.
Got my Honors essay back today with an A-, but also with comments labeling it as "smart, well observed, and unusually well-written," but also as "superficial, unconnected, and undeveloped."
Truthfully, I've been getting comments such as these on a lot of essays lately. My writing is great, my style is wonderful, but apparently there's not much behind it.
This is obviously extremely troubling for me-to have professors think that I can write pretty, but that I'm ultimately uninsightful and unable to make strong arguments.
I had a bit of a breakdown after Honors, needless to say.
Crying unabashedly, I walked through campus, down behind Spooner and Gay and the Science Building, until I finally realized that I had nowhere to go. In the end I would just have to turn around and head back to the library to make things right.

College can be a surprisingly lonely place sometimes; your friends can sympathize, but in the end they have their own studying to do. Your parents aren't there to tell you that everything is going to be okay, and that when you wake up in the morning your problems will have worked themselves out. In college, you have to work your own problems out before bed. You have to be independent, and you have to bounce back from things whether you want to or not. You always have to try harder next time. You have to write two papers and study for a test in one weekend, because you have no other choice. Because you did have a choice; you chose to pursue higher education. You're paying for your classes. You wanted to be here.

And so I'm trying very hard not to let the A- and disparaging comments get to me too much. I have miles to go before I sleep, and I don't intend to waste time dwelling, unless said dwelling will help me to write a better paper.

Goodnight, blog readers. May your struggles lead to triumphs, and may you find a secluded park bench on which to sit and think whenever you are in need of one.

Reasons Why I'm Happy (A List)

I'm happy today. Happier than I've been in a long time. Not that I'm not a happy person in general, but this kind of bouncy, fizzy, spontaneous, wonderful happiness only comes around every so often, only lasts for a limited time, and only occurs for the following reasons:

1. It's Friday, the beginning of Labor Day weekend. Hence, I have no classes until Tuesday AND therefore have a short week next week.

2. Along with some dorm mates, tonight I have chosen to rebel against the hit-but-most-often-miss Food Service and make the trek to China Buffet instead.

3. The weather outside is my very favorite kind of weather; windy, mid-60's, sunny, and Fallish.

4. I'm wearing a comfy purple plaid shirt. Sometimes your clothes just make your day, I think.

5. Tonight is free movie night on campus, and District 9 is showing. Not that that particular movie exactly fits my happy mood, but how can you go wrong with a free movie? (Actually, I lied. The free movie last year was G-Force. That was very, very wrong).

6. Tomorrow I'm driving down to St. Paul with some friends to shop at bookstores, to eat Cossetta's pizza, and to generally revel in the glory that is a big city.

7. I got my first birthday card today! I'm turning 20 in 5 days, you guys! It's really happening, and I'm actually okay with it. Not that there's anything I can do to prevent my aging anyway.

8. I had a good time in class today. Didn't embarrass myself in German I, spoke up a few times in American Lit., and learned a great deal despite it being Friday and beautiful.