Melanie’s blog

Algebra is getting on my nerves and tumbly hunger.  I forget the damn formulas the second i'm done using them.  How wel do i have to do to place into Math 107?  into precalculus? Algebraic prowess and then a lack of it never changed my life one decimal.  Philosophy, literature, and art move my self/life/psychology in what feels like cosmic shifts of perception.  math resides in the same place as ideological structures:  Our lives are run and determined by these structures of ideology just as they are run upon mathmatical patterns.  Yet most of us never realize or understand our own structures.  The diffrence comes here:  ideology should be realized so that it is not delusional or harmful.  Our ideology also can easily be realized and then altered, the pattern rearanged to fit our own needs and reality itself.  Math, however, can only be explored and pattern-adjusted to fit the universe at an extremely complex level--to complex for the average person to ever understand (if A beautiful mind and Pi(sp?) tell me anything).  So why should i practice math?

why are the air conditioners on in the library quiet room?  Its always so warm in this room in winter, but then June hits and they think -hey lets blast cold air on everyone- when it isn't hot, or even warm, outside!.  this is seattle.  I'm still wearing my shitty winter jacket everywhere even though its ripping apart and all ugly and poofy and green.  Now i have to wear it indoors too.  Thanks, seattle university.  I guess it was worse in january when my philosophy room was crankin out the air conditioning.  I guess it was worse when i had to live in the dorms and the showers went cold and blasted my skin off.  It was also worse when the cafeteria was never fucking open and we ate nothing but beef jerkey and lime tostitos from the conveniance store.

Also fuck you seattle university for denying my math transfer.  Algebra 1 is algebra 1 no matter how you cut it.. not college level my ass-- if i had the time to take that credit at s.u., all i'd have to take is MATH 107 which is below algebra level.  lame.

And fuck this paper for being so obvious.  semi-lacanian reading of the 'dream' theme of Dogeaters aint that cool after all. 

me: I can't drink that much tonight, i've got an 8 page paper due tomorrow.

him: I could write that paper for you right now and get an A

me: bullshit, you don't know about my shmancy cultural theory knowledge.  Its LACANIAN theory.

him: you said his name wrong

me:  well i'm analysing a book you haven't read

him: what book?

me: dogeaters

him: o i read that book freshman year, it sucked.

me: fuck you. (drinks)

My senior year of highschool, our class took a trip to the waterfront at some Tacoma park to take pictures for the yearbook.  The school thought that seniors would look like they formed some cool solidarity since graduation was so soon.  I stood in the group and scowled my best, things hadn't gone so well during the last half-hour or so before the shoot, when we were allowed to walk around the rocky 'beach' and socialize.  I was alone, and that was usual, so i went to the water to look in and see the birds and fish and little bugs or crabs that cluster around puget sound's infectiously green and thick shores.  It was a custom of mine since childhood to catch crabs (and set them free), i loved crabs, i didn't care if they pinched me.  the crabs on the beach closest to my house lived underwater, and grew to the size of your hand; grey or rust-red. 

I had the misfortune to be close to where the Triumvirate were 'playing'.  They hunched down by the water.  then they began to find crabs, and threw them as far and as hard as they could away from the water and onto the dry sunned rocks far up the bank.  I told them not to, whining a little in my tone, feebly, half-joking shrieks that amused them and fueled everything they did to bother me.  And they realized that the fun of killing crabs could only be topped when it hurt my feelings as well; because, as everyone knew, i was a vegetarian and animal-rights supporting, peter singer-reading utilitarian, compassionate, angry mystic, who loved most and only animals.

so as they threw the crabs on the rocks, i ran to get them and took some of them back to the water.  all of the ones i could find.  I couldn't make enough a 'deal' out of it to stop them, but i'd run around and look a little extra stupid if it meant saving a crab.  I overestimated, sentimentally, typically faithful to an imagined reciprication of love, a pulse of the natural and innocent, just how much a fucking crab can feel.  It isn't very much at all, i think now.  Crabs feel barely more than flatworms, and they certainly don't know how to bounce back an empathetic aura.  But one thing i'm sure remains here:  If i was on a beach, and i could talk with my friends, or i could throw a ball, or i could fling and smash shit, i'd choose over and over to hold a teensy crab.  Finding crabs is one of the best things about life i can think of.  As good as tea, or riding le metro a Paris dans un soir d'ete.

Cancerian nature deserves some internal respect, respect for the way that we stare at crabs and curl up like crabs as cowards whose home and mother birth-sac is the dangerous worldwide sea.  Safe within the death-drive of the sea, maybe within interconnection.  Maybe the cancer is only afraid of how ego and ignorance isolate us.  Maybe we are greatly at peace with all the brutalities and contingencies of nature, as long as it holds us.  hmm, maybe. 

Its too bad i've been writing about all this, its not something i like to roll around in, and i don't want to use it as a symbol or an anchor.  I just found out that he searches for crabs, so i needed to pay some dues to the crabs and the cancer who i can't share a womb with.

things i have learned my junior year so far:

1. post-structuralists think its super valid to draw 'reason' without logic.  Its like religious people who worship language and know nothing about linguistics and are on acid.

2. pain in martial arts can be fun

3. i will always look at jezebel.com rather than do my homework, eat, or make it to class on time.

4. porn 'ent bad atol

5. cuteoverload.com always fucking overloads/freezes my computer

how do i try and improve my life? use technology as a crutch, spend hours on the internet, look at porn, create detailed lists and schedules that i'll never look at again.  And wonder why i'm not working, and why i'm not happier, and why things feel stuffy and not quite enough.  These would be great reasons for me to start therapy, however, because i recently went out on a limb, against my 'nature', and singed up for TWO activities recently (french tutoring and yoga), i am feeling a little retarded and unwilling to go for another activity.  My feeling of masturbatory self-indulgence will rise farther.  I should be working or doing a service activity, but working makes me wanna die, die, and kill, and service makes me feel self-indulgent for attempting the illusion of true altruism.

Cirque du soleil is super fantastique, i want to go again and again and buy their dvds and shit.  Also, i want to go make a smoothie.

I always liked that scene in that stupid movie with angelina jolie and john cusack when he finds her crying in the supermarket due to her plants' death.  Its just so cute and sad.  She's like 19 years old and lonely and she can't even keep a plant alive.  My little fern, who/which i call grendel, has been dying ever since he moved into my apartment.  I kept him alive well enough for over a year in the dorms, and he flourished at my mothers' place, but now i think its too late.  I even repotted grendel, to find that despite the dried white-brown leaves, he was floating in a pool of slushy soil.  I over-watered him and grendel now is a tiny, crunchy, root-rotted mess.  Please don't die, grendel.  If you die, I'll know that not only am i twenty years old without the ability to pay for my life, have a job, have an adequate social life, have a car, understand rent, school payments or taxes, keep on birthcontrol, and regulate my food allowance, but I am also unable to keep a damn fern alive.  The water-sun balance proved too complicated.  This reminds me of the air-plant i killed as a child.  I thought they lived off air. 

Modest

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While browsing feministing.com , I remembered something my mom had mailed to her when I was a kid.  It was a christian org's magazine called "beautiful girlhood" that wanted to massively opress women with crappy theories about guarding feminine innocence and sensitivity.  So I decided to see if Beautiful girlhood still existed and during my search ran into this "Modest Swimsuit pattern" modeled above.  Yes, this is what this teenage girl has to wear on the beach.  Although from the background of this picture, it appears, as i estimated, that these girls are stuck in the middle of bumfucking nowhere, far from beaches and evil secular peers.  Even better, the girl gets to sew her own swimsuit!  Intermediate sewing level!

Sometimes I don't want to go to grad school or work with refugees or read more books or write more shit i'll never finish.  Sometimes I want to take ecstasy and get paid for bare knuckle fighting. 

This is why no one takes me seriously during acedemic meetings, job interviews and the like.  While i say, "this is a personal goal of mine," or, "i'm commited," they can read quite clearly that my eyes say, "Fuck you, I should smash your face in and go score some acid." 

Although i wonder why i got cut from cheerleading as a seventh grader, due to the coach's intuition that i didn't care enough... what did my eyes say then? "This is all really, really, dumb, and i'd rather be trying sex and cigarettes"?  Katie Jane Garside of Queen Adreena said something really profound about this.  She said something to the effect that although she had these desires and dreams for purity (and she is a very enlightened person, who spent months alone in the mountains), she could never be rid of the polluted city inside herself.   

Still haven't found Will.  The fact that not a single one of his friends has answered my texts or calls is pretty revealing.  I was going to call the hospitals and jails this morning, but now i'm not so sure.  It may be time to try to forget and use this adrenaline for homework.  I'm so sick of Broch i can't even concieve of writing a paper on The Sleepwalkers.  That book is fucking shitty.  There is absolutely no excuse for such convoluted "philosophy" and for trying to illustrate these ideas within characters.  Broch is also quite as ass for hiding his own opinions behind a character who supposedly wrote the story.  "Dr. Betrand Muller" has obviously identical views to Broch.  Not that I can understand what those views are, since neither of the two believe in defining thieir terms or giving examples of the terms, or examples of the terms' connections.  Nor are they opposed to self-contradiction. Ironically, the word "irrational" appears hundreds of times in the last essay.

"The City of Ladies" is more interesting.  But for my city of ladies, I totally banish the Virgin Mary.  All she ever did (mythologically) was not have sex and give birth in some hay.  So I am letting Samantha Power rule my City. http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-8834212485573890101&q=samantha+power&total=135&start=0&num=10&so=0&type=search&plindex=2

plunging into present tense:  I hold my coffee like it's the holy grail.  Again, i walk to the library with my coffee and my huge bag and my hair all in my face.  Isn't every morning like this?  And isn't it getting old?  My total inability to work in the evening or night has squished my homework hours into the morning, but the problem could reside elsewhere.  after all, not once in my remembered history have i ever finished a written assignment, perhaps any assignment, earlier than the day it was due.  So how can ever finish anything without a due date?  This must be the root of my tense and overdrawn feeling, my poseur and hypocrite feeling, as i apply myself acedemically. 

I read Christine de Pizan, I read Heloise, and I know beyond anything that I am not one of the exeptional scholors.  I am living in a time when we're all pushed into acedemics, but born in any other time, and i would never have started this cancerous aspiration to be a [scholar].  My ability is small.  I am lazy.  My attention passes quickly.  I want to be Wordsworth's sister who could run around in nature and contribute a line of poetry or two.  But then, she did become an opium-addicted drooling retard who died young and alone.  Perhaps not, perhaps I will take a moment to do my work, to amount, compile, and sign of this damn blog.