Eroding Night

Turns out school is a lot easier when you're not busy chasing girls and preoccupied by various other bits of teenage bullshit--I see to-day I got an A in both my fall classes, including the math intensive Astronomy lab for the Astronomy class I got a C in 13 years ago. I think more people should wait until their thirties to go to college.

Next semester I'm taking a math class (I did finally take a math assessment test a couple days ago and this is the first of two math classes I need to take) and British Literature II, which I'm really excited about. I'm not excited about having to get up at 9 or 10am, because the only British Literature II class available is at 12:30. Though it won't be as bad as to-morrow's going to be--for some reason the only time the guy from my insurance can come over to take pictures of my car is between 7:30am and 8:30am. Considering I normally go to bed at 4am, that's basically going to be the middle of the night for me. Well, I suppose I should be happy if this is the worst that comes of the whole business.

I'm getting in the British Literature mode already, I guess, having listened to Tim Curry read A Christmas Carol in its entirety last night. My impression of Dickens wavers between impatience with his sentimentality and delight at his fundamental sense of human weirdness. Somehow I enjoyed Washington Irving's dwelling on domestic, traditional English Christmas revelries more than the portraits of merry impoverished families A Christmas Carol presents. But I love how the ghosts, in their intention as allegory, work out to be creepy manifestations of neuroses. The child anthropomorphised Ignorance and Want living in the skirts of the Ghost of Christmas Present are nice and bizarre, conflating the Victorian obsession with the purity of children with Dickens' condemnation of capitalism. That's one thing I definitely love about Victorian literature--including literature from the time coming from outside England--the general distaste for capitalism and war.

Twitter Sonnet #458

Virtual drunk descendents wobble sword.
The plum progeny pillory pixels.
At dusk, keyboard blackguards each break their word.
Computer carts squeak on chassis thistles.
Perfect rectangular buttocks strain Yule.
No-one goes anywhere in a willow.
And every day, pinstriped rain makes a rule;
Purple in this red is not so mellow.
Useless sorts of water wait by a mouse.
Gambrel helmets cue Dutch Sith ancestry.
Turbo-lasers break the sturdiest house.
Late the marathon remembers pastry.
Early apples burn with bright concave space.
Photon torpedoes undermine the race.