Babbling before starting paper

It annoys me when someone asks how you're doing on your paper, and when
you tell them you haven't started yet, they give you this horrified
look. Especially when they're 70-year old grad students who (raging
assumption starts here) are probably retired and are only taking one or
two classes.

But onto more interesting things...

I can speak Cumberish, an ancient British language that resembles Welsh, and I never knew it. And I'll betcha you can too.

Here's how you count to four:

Eeny, meeny, miney, mo.

And here's eight, nine, and ten:

Hickory, dickory, dock.

Cool, huh ^_^


So
in my first dream, from which I was woken by a slapping noise that
turned out to be water dripping from the ceiling in my bathroom, my
father was some sort of revolutionary fighting against Saddam Hussein.
We were running down this hallway in an underground tunnel, fighting
snake-people, who kept swallowing the other revolutionaries whole. I
had to be at a certain place at a certain time to set fire to some
clothes, because apparently that would be a sufficient enough
distraction for my father to assassinate Saddam. A bunch of faction
leaders (of which my father was one) were meeting with him then, and so
everyone suspected that since my dad was absent, he was up to
something. He was going to press a Heero-esque detonator at exactly
10:00, but when he was looking at his stopwatch, the hand went from
9:59 to 10:01 without stopping at 10:00, so he got thrown off. Then I
woke up (in my dream) and the phone was ringing - it was about 9:00 on
the morning of the scheduled assassination - and it was my dad, telling
me to meet him at Rick's (a restaurant in York) in fifteen minutes. My
mother wanted to come, but I told her she couldn't... and then for a
minute I wasn't myself, I was a guy, and I knew I'd never see her
again. So either I'd die or she would, and it seemed likely that it
would be me. For some reason. Then the scene switched and Saddam was
talking to my father, telling him that if he took over, he'd only kill
a few hundred thousand people in the process, but if my father went
through with the assassination it would do something to the ozone layer
over Tokyo that would make the world go into nuclear winter and we'd
ALL die. Right.

So, in my next dream, after the dripping
ceiling... I was running around in my grandfather's old house, with my
father and a couple of vagabond kids, trying to get away from Rasputin,
who was going to kill us. We got up into the attic in enough time to
grab some weapons. I think my dad had a gun, but all I got was a rusty
katana that didn't have much of a hilt. Rasputin showed up, looking
like he does, you know, with the beard and the eyes, and he attacked
me. So I'm on my back on the floor with Rasputin trying to gut me, and
holding back his sword with mine held horizontally across my chest,
with my left hand pushing against the blade. You know. And he was
telling me all of the things he was going to do to me O_o Mostly cut my
intestines into bits or something. And then I managed to push him back,
and I drove my katana into his chest (which was really difficult) and
then into his skull, which was less difficult for some reason. Over and
over. It was a very bloody dream.


And now I should really write my paper.

On verbosity

It has come to my attention, through the works of William Wordsworth, although not through his poetry but through his prose, most specifically that prose which tries to justify or explain the modes and techniques of his poetry, that a sentence, through no fault of its own, grammatical or otherwise, even in the midst of the most interesting topic, will become, through the extrapolation of the meaning of said sentence and owing to the paths that further explanation take us down, although still important and meaningful, completely and utterly incomprehensible.

Try reading five pages of that after a dozen poems that are a thousand times more interesting than the man's explanation of them.

What's with Lucy? She's in about six of his poems, dies every time, but never at the same age. I'm really interested. I want to write my paper on it, but I fear I won't be able to come up with an actual explanation of it.

This monitor is so bad that I can't see the writing on the journal update page. Kingsbury computers really make me appreciative of my own.

I'll divulge upon my weird dreams later. Helping my father in his revolutionist campaign against Saddam Husein (please tell me I spelled that right) and killing Rasputin with a rusty katana always makes for an interesting night.