The Agony

Philosophers have measured mountains,

Fathomed the depths of seas, of states, and kings

Walked with a staff to heaven, and traced fountains:

But there are two vast, spacious things

The which to measure it doth more behove

Yet few there are that sound them; Sin and Love

Who would know Sin, let him repair,

Unto mount Olivet; there he shall see 

A man so wrung with pains, that all his hair,

His skin, his garments bloody be.

Sin is that press and vice, which forceth pain

To hunt his cruel food through every vein.

Who knows not Love, let him assay,

And taste that juice, which on the cross a pike

 Did set again abroach; then let him say

If ever he did taste the like.

Love is that liquor sweet and most divine,

Which my God feels as blood, but I, as wine.

George Herbert, as promised. He is amazing, and that is not even a good description. One of the things that made me admire him all the more is that he wrote a ton of poetry and then before he died he gave his poems to a friend and told him to publish it, if it was worthy of publishing. If it wasn't, then he wanted his friend to just throw it away. That is incredible. I don't even have that good of a story, and I don't feel like I could do that. Perhaps because it isn't good. Maybe when I get awesome good and start writing the literary equivalent of gold bars with jewel encrusted cases, I would feel comfortable saying to Helen "I'm dying tomorrow, so here's my whole life's work. If you think it's any good, publish it. If not, chuck it into the nearest dumpster." Yeah. Or not. I don't trust her. Meh heh heh, just kidding. 

On a related note, I don't like having to use the Xanga format for poetry, which forces a space between lines, but what can I say? Xanga is not made for poetry. Which tells you something.

P.S. Nice picture, huh? Looks kinda like I'm looking into... your soul. That's right. You go pay your library fine.

 So yeah. I'm totally still alive, though no one knows yet. I will update soon with all fun and goodness included- probably as soon as I get back to school.

Heh heh heh. *runs*

Summer is awesome.

...Annnnnnnnnnnd here are some awesome quotes from "The Wee Free Men" by Pratchett. It is the other awesome influence I have been under, besides the Bourne Ultimatum, which if you haven't seen by now you deserve to be eaten by fire ants.  

"*No words could describe what a Feegle in a kilt looks like upside down, so they won't try."

"The other Feegles had formed a circle around Tiffany, and this time they'd drawn their swords.

'Whut's the plan, Rob?' said one of them.

'Okay, lads, this is what we'll do. As soon as we see somethin', we'll attack it. Right?'

This caused a cheer.

'Ach, 'tis a good plan,' said Daft Wullie."

"They can tak' oour lives but they canna tak' oour troousers!"

" 'Let's gae!' cried Rob Anybody.

As one Feegle, the pictsies swarmed down the galleries and across the floor and up the slope to the hole. In a few seconds the chamber was empty, except for the gonnagle and Fion.

'Where have they gone?' said Tiffany.

'They'll run arroond for a while, mebbe stun a few bunnies and fall over a few times,' said William. 'They'll slow down when they find oout they don't ken what they're supposed to do yet.' "

"Even in a dream, even at a posh ball, the Nac Mac Feegle knew how to behave. You charged in madly, and you screamed... politely."

"Wentworth was sitting on a large, flat stone, surrounded by sweets. Many of them were bigger than he was. Smaller ones were in piles, large ones lay like logs. And they were in every color sweets can be, such as Not-Really-Raspberry Red, Fake-Lemon Yellow, Curiously-Chemical Orange, Some-Kind-of-Acidy Green, and Who-Knows-What Blue."

" 'Mister Rob Anybody Feegle and sundry others?' said one of the figures in a dreadful voice.

'There's naebody here o' that name!' shouted Rob Anybody. 'We dinna know anythin'!'

"We have here a list of criminal and civil charges totaling nineteen thousand, seven hundred and sixty-three separate offenses-'

'We wasna there!' yelled Rob Anybody desperately. 'Isn't that right, lads?'

'-including more than two thousand cases of Making an Affray, Causing a Public Nuisance, Being Found Drunk, Being Found Very Drunk, Using Offensive Language (taking into account ninety-seven counts of Using Language That Was Probably Offensive If Anyone Else Could Understand It), Committing a Breach of the Peace, Malicious Lingering-'

'It's mistaken identity!' shouted Rob Anybody. 'It's no' oour fault! We wuz only standing there an' someone else did it and ran awa'!'

'-Grand Theft, Petty Theft, Burglary, Housebreaking, Loitering with Intent to Commit a Felony-'

'We wuz misunderstood when we was wee bairns!' yelled Rob Anybody. 'Ye're only pickin' on us 'cause we're blue! We always get blamed for everythin'! The polis hate us! We wasna even in the country!' "

" 'Visne faciem capite repletam,' said the toad. 'It was the best I could do in a hurry, but it means, approximately' -he gave a little cough- 'Would you like a face which is full of head?'"

"Weewee mens! I'll scone you in the boot!"

So there you have it. Go now forth, and read it sine die, or I'll gie ye a skelpin' across the earhole.

I need to speak to my muse. Lately, he has been darting through my head at the most inopportune times. Like in my finals, or during class, or during study time, or now, when I should be writing a paper.

It's very distracting to try and explain musical intervals or write about the Aeneid when you can tell he's there, climbing the curtains in the back room or peeking out from behind the couch, pretending he is like any other cat. He doesn't fool me. I know the myths of the prebiotic soup, or anything that I happen to be paying attention to at the moment is like the little feather toy of my mind, dangling out for him to catch and dig his claws into and drag to the ground with a resounding thump. 

First, there is a moment of expectant silence, while he pretends to sneak up on me while I try to ignore him. Half a minute later, I can see that his pupils dilating and I can tell he is onto something. I try to pay attention and pull the offending thought process away, but it's too late. He's much too quick for me. His hook-like claws have already made contact, and he is hanging off the end of the feather toy and not about to let go. I try to pull my thoughts out of his little paws, but he is stronger than he looks. And it's not like I actually want him to let go. He helps me make connections between subjects I had never thought possible to connect. Like between the gods of the Iliad and the Aeneid, or the architect and the philospher, and today he even explained why the musical intervals are not out to get me. Even fairies and tinfoil don't escape his little sharp teeth. They are, in fact, some of his favorite subjects along with grocery clerks and banshees, or angels and blenders.

Plus, even if he's annoying or misses the feather toy and gets my hand, he's just too cute to ignore. He is fluffy, after all. And so he just lays there and snarfs on the Aeneid, drooling all over the cool parts and trying to pull the boring bits to pieces. I think he thinks that there has got to be something chewy in there somewhere. 

Eventually he lets go, and my attention span springs out of his paws like a spring, but it is too late. I have already been distracted beyond all distraction. I leave class, still in a daze.

Then when I get home, I write things like this. Sigh.

I HAVE WASTED AN HOUR, AND IT IS STILL FINALS WEEK.

No kitty treats for him tonight.