readingredhead (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
readingredhead) wrote2007-03-01 03:43 pm
readingredhead) wrote2007-03-01 03:43 pm
Headache, but otherwise okay.
Don't have too much to do...that's a first. Really, I have plenty of things to do, but they're not all going to get done.
I think my favorite thing I did today was work on a project in Art. We're supposed to draw a superhero or action figure or something, so I asked if I could draw a character from one of the books I'm writing. So I drew Holly, from Azuria, my great unfinished&unplanned novel. Her story's being changed around as I draw her, because of how capable (or rather incapable) I am of drawing things well, but it's a good exercise in character creation.
I've got a lot of chemistry stuff, which I should be doing right now. I'm not...this is possibly a bad thing? I need to finish up the homework and then read the chapter as a review for the test. I think I'm going to do that now...yeah. And print my history paper, and that's really all I have to do for tomorrow. Wow. That's a feeling I could get used to. Maybe I'll actually get the chance to (gasp) write? Or read?
On an unrelated note, I like Derek Walcott. I did not used to like him, but now I think I do (handsiness aside).
"Kneel to your load, then balance your staggering feet
and walk up that coal ladder as they do in time,
one bare foot after the next in ancestral rhyme.
Because Rhyme remains the parentheses of palms
shielding a candle's tongue, it is the langauge's
desire to enclose the loved world in its arms;
or heft a coal-basket; only by its stages
like those groaning women will you achieve that height
whose wooden planks in couplets lift your pages
higher than those hills of infernal anthracite.
There, like ants or angels, they see their native town,
unknown, raw, insignificant. They walk, you write;
keep to that narrow causeway without looking down,
climbing in their footsteps, that slow, ancestral beat
of those used to climing roads; your own work owes them
because the couplet of those multiplying feet
made your first rhymes. Look, they climb, and no one knows them;
they take their copper pittances, and your duty
from the time you watched them from your grandmother's house
as a child wounded by their power and beauty
is the chance you now have, to give those feet a voice."
-- from Omeros, Chapter XII
I think my favorite thing I did today was work on a project in Art. We're supposed to draw a superhero or action figure or something, so I asked if I could draw a character from one of the books I'm writing. So I drew Holly, from Azuria, my great unfinished&unplanned novel. Her story's being changed around as I draw her, because of how capable (or rather incapable) I am of drawing things well, but it's a good exercise in character creation.
I've got a lot of chemistry stuff, which I should be doing right now. I'm not...this is possibly a bad thing? I need to finish up the homework and then read the chapter as a review for the test. I think I'm going to do that now...yeah. And print my history paper, and that's really all I have to do for tomorrow. Wow. That's a feeling I could get used to. Maybe I'll actually get the chance to (gasp) write? Or read?
On an unrelated note, I like Derek Walcott. I did not used to like him, but now I think I do (handsiness aside).
"Kneel to your load, then balance your staggering feet
and walk up that coal ladder as they do in time,
one bare foot after the next in ancestral rhyme.
Because Rhyme remains the parentheses of palms
shielding a candle's tongue, it is the langauge's
desire to enclose the loved world in its arms;
or heft a coal-basket; only by its stages
like those groaning women will you achieve that height
whose wooden planks in couplets lift your pages
higher than those hills of infernal anthracite.
There, like ants or angels, they see their native town,
unknown, raw, insignificant. They walk, you write;
keep to that narrow causeway without looking down,
climbing in their footsteps, that slow, ancestral beat
of those used to climing roads; your own work owes them
because the couplet of those multiplying feet
made your first rhymes. Look, they climb, and no one knows them;
they take their copper pittances, and your duty
from the time you watched them from your grandmother's house
as a child wounded by their power and beauty
is the chance you now have, to give those feet a voice."
-- from Omeros, Chapter XII
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I haven't gone through the walcott packet, but I really liked the one we read in class. "The classics can console. But not enough." Loved it.
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