Well no, this is one thing that I like, or rather appreciate, about Provo:
I love at two in the morning I can hear the trains outside, it sounds like they're passing right by my apartment. Love it!
Let me know if you can think of anything else that is worthy of mention and praise in this valley that some conclude to be "happy." (synonyms ranging from: content, pleased, glad, joyful, cheerful, in high spirits, blissful, exultant, ecstatic, delighted, cheery, jovial, on cloud nine, etc. On the contrary, antonym: sad).
Please let me know if you feel any of these fine feelings while congregating in this marvelous town.
sad
-L
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Stay Awake Don't Rest Your Head
I couldn't sleep last night. I really did try, but no good. Kendall made me start watching the OC, because apparently it's a show worth watching. So I stayed up all night watching the endless drama of young Californian teenagers. So this is how the night played out:
12:00(Noon): started Season One of the OC
4:15: finally went and saw Enchanted (amazing)
7:30: went to see the BYU Philharmonic Orchestra (good job Steven)
10:00: Taco Bell (good job Crunch Wrap Supreme)
12:00(AM): commenced AIM chat and continued the OC
2:00: roughly on episode 5 and getting life advice via internet connections
4:00: not tired at all (on episode 7)
6:00: Still not tired at all, my throat is slightly parched, episode 11
6:45: I realize my shorts are on backwards...yes it's going to be a long night (and I switch my shorts around)
7:00: I'm wondering why in the world can't I fall asleep, the sun is starting to come up, and I'm on episode 13
8:00: Ryan and Marissa have been on and off too many times to count, episode 15, I finally decide to close my eyes and pretend like I'm tired
12:00(Noon): Wake up to the sound of hand blenders and laughter--let the day begin
I live a fulfilling life. I'll let you know how the season ends. I should be doing homework.
-L
12:00(Noon): started Season One of the OC
4:15: finally went and saw Enchanted (amazing)
7:30: went to see the BYU Philharmonic Orchestra (good job Steven)
10:00: Taco Bell (good job Crunch Wrap Supreme)
12:00(AM): commenced AIM chat and continued the OC
2:00: roughly on episode 5 and getting life advice via internet connections
4:00: not tired at all (on episode 7)
6:00: Still not tired at all, my throat is slightly parched, episode 11
6:45: I realize my shorts are on backwards...yes it's going to be a long night (and I switch my shorts around)
7:00: I'm wondering why in the world can't I fall asleep, the sun is starting to come up, and I'm on episode 13
8:00: Ryan and Marissa have been on and off too many times to count, episode 15, I finally decide to close my eyes and pretend like I'm tired
12:00(Noon): Wake up to the sound of hand blenders and laughter--let the day begin
I live a fulfilling life. I'll let you know how the season ends. I should be doing homework.
-L
Thursday, February 21, 2008
High School Is Where Poetry Goes To Die
After hearing this quote in my honors lecture today I couldn't help but laugh and agree. It was true that trying to decipher meanings out of meaningless poems in high school was the most insignificant aspect of my life. This is not to say that I never appreciate an occasional poem of Dickinson or even Poe; but I think there is a fine line between the consideration of a couple poems and a forceful memorization of Frost's "The Road Not Taken." It also seemed that contemporary poems were simply ridiculous and had to meaning whatsoever; it's like the saying: "I understand English. This poem is written in English. I have no idea what's going on." And therefore after the mandatory readings of poetry set forth in high school, the two have us have parted ways, never really to see each other again. Tragic, I know.
However, after this lecture I have come to a conclusion that not all poetry, especially contemporary, is unaccessible. I have been introduced to Billy Collins and he has forever changed my outlook on life--well at least on poetry. Collins was the Poet Laureate from 2001-2003, and is basically amazing. I will now share a few poems. Have fun and may this change your outlook as well!
To begin is Collins use of the Paradelle, what is a Paradelle you may ask, I have such an answer:
"The paradelle is one of the more demanding French fixed forms, first appearing in the langue d'oc love poetry of the eleventh century. It is a poem of four six-line stanzas in which the first and second lines, as well as the third and fourth lines of the first three stanzas, must be identical. The fifth and sixth lines, which traditionally resolve these stanzas, must use all the words from the preceding lines and only those words. Similarly, the final stanza must use every word from all the preceding stanzas and only these words."
(The parody being that Collins simply made it up)
Paradelle For Susan
I remember the quick, nervous bird of your love.
I remember the quick, nervous bird of your love.
Always perched on the thinnest, highest branch.
Always perched on the thinnest, highest branch.
Thinnest love, remember the quick branch.
Always nervous, I perched on your highest bird the.
It is time for me to cross the mountain.
It is time for me to cross the mountain.
And find another shore to darken with my pain.
And find another shore to darken with my pain.
Another pain for me to darken the mountain.
And find the time, cross my shore, to with it is to.
The weather warm, the handwriting familiar.
The weather warm, the handwriting familiar.
Your letter flies from my hand into the waters below.
Your letter flies from my hand into the waters below.
The familiar waters below my warm hand.
Into handwriting your weather flies you letter the from the.
I always cross the highest letter, the thinnest bird.
Below the waters of my warm familiar pain,
Another hand to remember your handwriting.
The weather perched for me on the shore.
Quick, your nervous branch flew from love.
Darken the mountain, time and find was my into it was with to to.
Other such nonsense...
Child Development
As sure as prehistoric fish grew legs
and sauntered off the beaches into forests
working up some irregular verbs for their
first conversation, so three-year-old children
enter the phase of name-calling.
Every day a new one arrives and is added
to the repertoire. You Dumb Goopyhead,
You Big Sewerface, You Poop-on-the-Floor
(a kind of Navaho ring to that one)
they yell from knee level, their little mugs
flushed with challenge.
Nothing Samuel Johnson would bother tossing out
in a pub, but then the toddlers are not trying
to devastate some fatuous Enlightenment hack.
They are just tormenting their fellow squirts
or going after the attention of the giants
way up there with their cocktails and bad breath
talking baritone nonsense to other giants,
waiting to call them names after thanking
them for the lovely party and hearing the door close.
The mature save their hothead invective
for things: an errant hammer, tire chains,
or receding trains missed by seconds,
though they know in their adult hearts,
even as they threaten to banish Timmy to bed
for his appalling behavior,
that their bosses are Big Fatty Stupids,
their wives are Dopey Dopeheads
and that they themselves are Mr. Sillypants.
-Billy Collins
Forgetfulness
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.
-Billy Collins
Hope you enjoyed this as much as I did! You can read more of Billy Collins poems here
-L
However, after this lecture I have come to a conclusion that not all poetry, especially contemporary, is unaccessible. I have been introduced to Billy Collins and he has forever changed my outlook on life--well at least on poetry. Collins was the Poet Laureate from 2001-2003, and is basically amazing. I will now share a few poems. Have fun and may this change your outlook as well!
To begin is Collins use of the Paradelle, what is a Paradelle you may ask, I have such an answer:
"The paradelle is one of the more demanding French fixed forms, first appearing in the langue d'oc love poetry of the eleventh century. It is a poem of four six-line stanzas in which the first and second lines, as well as the third and fourth lines of the first three stanzas, must be identical. The fifth and sixth lines, which traditionally resolve these stanzas, must use all the words from the preceding lines and only those words. Similarly, the final stanza must use every word from all the preceding stanzas and only these words."
(The parody being that Collins simply made it up)
Paradelle For Susan
I remember the quick, nervous bird of your love.
I remember the quick, nervous bird of your love.
Always perched on the thinnest, highest branch.
Always perched on the thinnest, highest branch.
Thinnest love, remember the quick branch.
Always nervous, I perched on your highest bird the.
It is time for me to cross the mountain.
It is time for me to cross the mountain.
And find another shore to darken with my pain.
And find another shore to darken with my pain.
Another pain for me to darken the mountain.
And find the time, cross my shore, to with it is to.
The weather warm, the handwriting familiar.
The weather warm, the handwriting familiar.
Your letter flies from my hand into the waters below.
Your letter flies from my hand into the waters below.
The familiar waters below my warm hand.
Into handwriting your weather flies you letter the from the.
I always cross the highest letter, the thinnest bird.
Below the waters of my warm familiar pain,
Another hand to remember your handwriting.
The weather perched for me on the shore.
Quick, your nervous branch flew from love.
Darken the mountain, time and find was my into it was with to to.
Other such nonsense...
Child Development
As sure as prehistoric fish grew legs
and sauntered off the beaches into forests
working up some irregular verbs for their
first conversation, so three-year-old children
enter the phase of name-calling.
Every day a new one arrives and is added
to the repertoire. You Dumb Goopyhead,
You Big Sewerface, You Poop-on-the-Floor
(a kind of Navaho ring to that one)
they yell from knee level, their little mugs
flushed with challenge.
Nothing Samuel Johnson would bother tossing out
in a pub, but then the toddlers are not trying
to devastate some fatuous Enlightenment hack.
They are just tormenting their fellow squirts
or going after the attention of the giants
way up there with their cocktails and bad breath
talking baritone nonsense to other giants,
waiting to call them names after thanking
them for the lovely party and hearing the door close.
The mature save their hothead invective
for things: an errant hammer, tire chains,
or receding trains missed by seconds,
though they know in their adult hearts,
even as they threaten to banish Timmy to bed
for his appalling behavior,
that their bosses are Big Fatty Stupids,
their wives are Dopey Dopeheads
and that they themselves are Mr. Sillypants.
-Billy Collins
Forgetfulness
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.
-Billy Collins
Hope you enjoyed this as much as I did! You can read more of Billy Collins poems here
-L
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Single's Awareness Day
Just thought I'd give a little shout out to all of you without that special someone on this Valentine's day. As we all know Valentine's Day is SAD: Single's Awareness Day. I would also like to note that I think today's public displays of affection and intimacy are truly disgusting (repulsive, filthy, sickening, nauseating, foul, abhorrent -- take your pick).
Now don't you judge me, this has nothing to do with the obsessive flattery, the longing eye-gazes, or even the unearthly amount of pink clothing; I would just like to point out that does it really mean anything when you're boyfriend (or girlfriend I suppose), is standing outside your class with a bouquet of roses with the barcode still on the bag, flowers that we probably picked up at Smith's ten minutes ago, because they were on a last minute clearance. Not to mention that the flowers are now conveniently located next to the check out stand to grab at your leisure. Is this what our society has become? To turn love into a one day affair that consists of superfluous amounts of Whitman's chocolate Samplers and gaudy balloon decor? Is this day meant to celebrate love, or simply become a dog show, trying to see whose flower arrangement is bigger? Who has the biggest diamond ring? Who can buy the most frilly card? Sellouts.
Ere go, I would like to congratulate all the single adults across the world, thank you for not giving in to the sellout that is Valentine's Day. Instead of making today a big show of your "love" you simply are miserable just like every other day. Truly, today really is SAD.
With much flattery and devotion
-L
Now don't you judge me, this has nothing to do with the obsessive flattery, the longing eye-gazes, or even the unearthly amount of pink clothing; I would just like to point out that does it really mean anything when you're boyfriend (or girlfriend I suppose), is standing outside your class with a bouquet of roses with the barcode still on the bag, flowers that we probably picked up at Smith's ten minutes ago, because they were on a last minute clearance. Not to mention that the flowers are now conveniently located next to the check out stand to grab at your leisure. Is this what our society has become? To turn love into a one day affair that consists of superfluous amounts of Whitman's chocolate Samplers and gaudy balloon decor? Is this day meant to celebrate love, or simply become a dog show, trying to see whose flower arrangement is bigger? Who has the biggest diamond ring? Who can buy the most frilly card? Sellouts.
Ere go, I would like to congratulate all the single adults across the world, thank you for not giving in to the sellout that is Valentine's Day. Instead of making today a big show of your "love" you simply are miserable just like every other day. Truly, today really is SAD.
With much flattery and devotion
-L
Bipolar Provo
The last few days have been quite amazing--referring to the temperature. I would say a balmy 40 degrees, which is much preferred to the subzero temperatures from the previous weeks. You can imagine my happiness when I woke up this morning to the sun shining in the cloudless sky. I threw on a t-shit and light jacket and headed out the door to biology at a quarter to eleven. however, only a class later, a few well-spent hours in the LRC, and a lecture on the effects global warming later and I walk out to find myself in a full blown blizzard. That's right friends.
Let it be officially stated that Provo has been psychologically proven to be in a state of bipolarity. May tomorrow be sunny and bright. I think Provo weather and my shower should meet, they have so much in common....
Also let it be officially stated, by the expert from Michigan University, that in 100 years, due to global warming, wheat will no longer be able to grow in India. You think about that as you drive to work tomorrow. I hope you're all ashamed.
Oh, and finally before I forget, I would like to dedicate this post to my dear friend Miss Rosalind Franklin. I would just like to say this woman was spectacular, and she got quite the raw deal. So in honor of you Rosie I give you my own Nobel Prize--you should have gotten it to begin with. You did the work, I think you should get the credit. And Mr. Watson and Mr. Crick can just go fly a kite.
Hoping for the sun (and a society in which women were appreciated)
-L
Let it be officially stated that Provo has been psychologically proven to be in a state of bipolarity. May tomorrow be sunny and bright. I think Provo weather and my shower should meet, they have so much in common....
Also let it be officially stated, by the expert from Michigan University, that in 100 years, due to global warming, wheat will no longer be able to grow in India. You think about that as you drive to work tomorrow. I hope you're all ashamed.
Oh, and finally before I forget, I would like to dedicate this post to my dear friend Miss Rosalind Franklin. I would just like to say this woman was spectacular, and she got quite the raw deal. So in honor of you Rosie I give you my own Nobel Prize--you should have gotten it to begin with. You did the work, I think you should get the credit. And Mr. Watson and Mr. Crick can just go fly a kite.
Hoping for the sun (and a society in which women were appreciated)
-L
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Dear Mr. Sun
Oh, Mr. Sun, Sun, Mr. Golden Sun,
Please shine down on me.
Oh Mr. Sun, Sun, Mr. Golden Sun,
Hiding behind a tree (or massive snow-filled cloud)
These little children are asking you
To please come out so we can play with you.
Oh Mr. Sun, Sun, Mr. Golden Sun,
Please shine down on,
please shine down on,
Please shine down on me.
Thank you.
PS. Good news kids, I did very well on my biology test and I totally got the extra credit right!
Who won the Republican primary election? And the answer is....(drum roll please)...Mr. John McCain. Thanks ever so much, and come again.
Please shine down on me.
Oh Mr. Sun, Sun, Mr. Golden Sun,
Hiding behind a tree (or massive snow-filled cloud)
These little children are asking you
To please come out so we can play with you.
Oh Mr. Sun, Sun, Mr. Golden Sun,
Please shine down on,
please shine down on,
Please shine down on me.
Thank you.
PS. Good news kids, I did very well on my biology test and I totally got the extra credit right!
Who won the Republican primary election? And the answer is....(drum roll please)...Mr. John McCain. Thanks ever so much, and come again.
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