|
MistressLirael
|
read my profile
sign my guestbook
Name: Erin
Country: United States
State: Minnesota
Metro: St. Paul
Birthday: 1/27/1986
Gender: Female
Interests: I enjoy playing percussion, reading, writing, swimming, drawing, talking, studying history, biking, playing football (and just about every other sport) with my friends, and a host of other things.
Expertise: I pretty much rock at everything.
Occupation: Student
Industry: Other
Message: message me
AIM:  MistressDenna04
Member Since:
7/19/2003
|
|
SubscriptionsSites I Read
|
|
|
|
| Really!?I dare say that most of my friends are already aware of this, but I become slightly agitated with people who mispronounce words, especially words which are wholly without complication. You know, words that sound like they're spelled. You might say that this is a result of a lifetime filled with people pronouncing my last name "...Borkelo", or "...Burkelo", and perhaps that has something to do with it. Hearing such travesties over loudspeakers IS rather annoying. But I think that in truth, I simply prefer to think of human beings as generally capable and intelligent (a risky venture, I am aware). I like to to think that if presented with a word such as NUCLEAR, most english speakers could handle its pronunciation. ...especially if that person is going to be on national television repeating the word over and over again. Really!? If I hear Sarah Palin say "nucular" one more time...well, I was already not voting for that ticket for obvious reasons. Let's just say that she is sinking my estimation of the human race. Isn't there someone on the McCain team who could knock some sense into her? I mean, she was clearly better briefed last night than she has been...oh...since the convention. Finish the job, people. Ugh... | | |
| A night much like thisIt's quiet.
In the air there hangs a humid stillness not unlike one only a few years ago. But that was a June evening, the last I spent with my dad. I couldn't see the towering cumulonimbus clouds in the distance, but rather listened to their rumblings as they circled before heaping our house with rain.
Tonight, I can still feel the sweat clinging to my skin, a product of the fact that I actually walked the parade route today in uniform. Stunning, no? The pillars of cloud were not there when I went outside to water the tomatoes, peppers and miscellaneous herbs and flowers in the backyard. They skulked beneath the horizon until the moon had chased the sun to bed, hanging alone behind a curtain of cloudy haze in a stealthy cresent of white.
I cannot quite pinpoint what it is that I am feeling right now. It may be that I miss my dad. But that is too easy. Instead I think that I am more fixated upon the curiosity that is the human mind. It takes one similar night, a sound, a smell to bring back a torrent of sensations, images and memories of the specific event past. And what follows is no less vivid.
My mind brings forth from what must be a storage shelf of video files clips of June 26th, the summer after my junior year of high school. I can see myself at Bachman's, looking at funeral flower arrangements. I remember writing a letter to my dad, only to have my uncle take it from me, and read it aloud at the funeral, something which still angers me to this day. He even mispronounced the nickname my dad had for me.
Maybe the storm which now hangs above the fields to the South will float this way and strike. Maybe there is something of my father in this stillness. I think that I will go out on the porch and remember.
| | |
| Arma Virumque......cano. Well, maybe I'm not going to sing. But then again, I'm not writing the Aeneid, am I. It seems to me altogether unfair, this springtime mashing together of the sexes. People get all fuzzy and precious and it means little. At least, that that I see means little. Would it be so much to ask that I might join in the frenzy? I think it not so. In all seriousness, I'd rather not become some black-capped chickadee, hopping about and chickadeedeedeeeeeee-ing my cute little beaked head off. But alas, neither can I be any sort of happy feathered fool in the middle. Rather, I am a white-throated sparrow, whistling a descending and decidedly minor tune to myself as a chaos of feathers and bursting buds and blooms flies riotous color before my face. But I digress. If you would, male or not write me a short list of constructive criticisms to my person, whether they be critiques of my character, manner of walking, speaking, or even my mode of dress, I would like to know. Send them to me in an email, a letter, a Facebook message...I care not. But I would like to know. Other than those cases in which a mutual attraction is simply not going to happen, why am I alone? I don't want to end my life that way. Not at all. I'll end up the old cat lady, only with a skunk or three. Sad, oui? | | |
| 1665 or betterThe last great plague of London is certainly being given a run for its money here at Olaf. I don't think that I can walk around campus, sit in the caf. or even in my own pod without hearing a chorus of hacking and coughing, groaning and moaning. It's ridiculous. And yes, I have fallen victim to the plague. It was carried via the swimmers, we think. Curiously, it also caused conjunctivitis in at least three of us. That, is strange. So, I'm going to probably be hacking up bits of lung for a while. Sounds fun. All I know is that I had better be well for Drag Ball. Oh yea! | | |
| Fishing for WaltersThis summer past, before my drum corps adventure, I spent not a few days on a boat with my uncle, fishing for walleyes. Now, the curious thing about catching one is this: You do not simply wait for a nibble and a jerk, and then yank the line upwards and reel it in. Rather, at the first few signs of a nibble, you let the line go slack. If you wait too little, and then attempt to snag the fish, it will have but stolen your bait, not even having gone near the hook. If you wait too long, the same. You have to time it just right, not letting the bugger know you're there until you know it's good and swallowed the bait. For, following those ten seconds, you slowly reel in, waiting for that telltale tug, that signal that lets you know it's more than just casually interested. You feel its weight, and you jerk the pole upright, pulling the line taut. Cross its eyes. And then, it's a fight to the finish. It cannot escape without breaking the line; and you've invested too much to let it go. Your hook is in too deep. You pull and you coax, let out a little line here, change the angle to keep the appropriate tension. Then finally, after a battle, maybe you'll pull it into the boat, into a net, and it's yours. But, if you've taken a false step at any point along the line, it'll thrash about, snap off the hook in its mouth, a badge of honor, and swim back to the depths whence it came. Hopefully, you've done it right, and the former will be your outcome, along with the joyous feast to follow.
Yay fishing.
| | |
|
