Oh, bugger.

I changed something. It makes me laugh. His name is Draco Malfoy, and now he adorns my page. See him on the left? He's looking at you.

PRESENTLY:

pages read this week: 144

this semester: 707 + 144 is 851

In the midst of: Lolita

The Road (literally read the first page only- but it's a start)

SENTENCES OF THE WEEK:

She said it did not matter a bit; but that, if she ever found out I did not believe in Our Christian God, she would commit suicide. She said it so solemnly that it gave me the creeps.

Oh, she was very genteel: she said "excuse me" whenever a slight burp interrupted her flowing speech, called an envelope an ahnvelope, and when talking to her lady friends, referred to me as Mr. Humbert.


So there was Charlotte swimming on with dutiful awkwardness (she was a very mediocre mermaid), but not without a certain solemn pleasure (for was not her merman by her side?) . . .


Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the majority of sex offenders that hanker for some throbbing, sweet-moaning, physical but not necessarily coital, relation with a girl-child, are innocuous, inadequate, passive timid strangers who merely ask the community to allow them to pursue their practically harmless, so-called aberrant behavior, their little hot wet private acts of sexual deviation without the police and society cracking down a\upon them. We are not sex fiends! We do not rape as good soldiers do.We are unhappy, mild, dog-eyed gentlemen, sufficiently well integrated to control our urge in the presence of adults, but ready to give years and years of life for one chance to touch a nymphet.

The last passage especially strikes me as awkwardly truthful, and suspiciously so. It makes me ask the question-- uhhhh, Nabakov, how do you so intimately know the mind of a pedophile? And how would you know that they do not have a single vengeful, violent, thought in their heads, or that they are not intent on hurting their victims? Of course, Nabakov probably put loads of research into his book before he wrote it, but if he did, then this passage must be somewhat true. Huh. I've always thought of pedophiles as evil, sadistic, hedonistic people, who couldn't control their perversive urges, but Nabakov makes me think otherwise. I bet the families of pedophile victims will not agree with me and would probably would throw Lolita in the trash (and burn it too). Just a thought. Just an observation. Au revoir.

Goodness.

Charlotte Haze has died. Killed in a car accident. She found Humbert's secret diary, where he writes all his frustrations of having to deal with Charlotte herself, and all his yearnings and desires for little Lolita. She found it, realized he was a total pedophile out to get her daughter, with no intention of ever loving her, and FREAKED. As any person should really. So Charlotte tells him to get out of the house, and he goes up stairs to his room. While Humbert contemplates the dire situation he has gotten himself into, Charlotte goes to send three letters in the mail box down the street. One for Lolita, one an application to a new boarding school (hopefully away from Hummy the Pedophile), and one letter to Humbert himself. Unfortunately, on her way, she gets hit by a car, dragged some ways down the street, and dies. Which means that

HOLYMOTHEROFGOD, 
LITTLE DELORES IS GOING TO BE ALONE WITH HUMBERT. Who is a nymphet-loving pedophile for chrissake. Goodness.

Like, seriously, that's the worst situation ever to be in if your under the age of twelve. Little unsuspecting Lolita is so going to be taken advantage of by her ever-loving step-dad. I mean, Humbert is practically popping at the seams at the thought of finally being alone with his Lo. He's going to pick her up from her summer camp, and I can't wait to see what happens next.

Claimy claims of the day.

In the song "Your Love Is A Song" by the band Switchfoot, the pensive, tenacious air of the lyrics, along with the mellow drum and guitar accompaniment and the powerful, husky, and dreamlike quality of the singer's vocals combine to evoke an overwhelming sense of breathlessness and euphoria surrounding the song's subject, a love so solemn and earnest it becomes the singer's reason for living.
                                                                      -On Paper Wings' blog

The educationally stimulating childrens' game Questionaut incorporates pleasantly jubilant music with whimsically quaint animation to create an inventively playful adventure.
                                                                     -Norwegian Wood's blog

In this painting of a couple meandering down a sidewalk, the relaxed broshstrokes and comples simplicity of the colors embody a feeling of pleasant passion which mesmerizes with its unassumingly focused design.
                                                                      - That One Guy's Blog blog

In this shocking yet comically amusing video we observe an unusually grotesque reaction to some news that set a strange wild boy into a mystifying tangent of caterwauling violently. 

                                                                       - The Ozone Lair's blog

In this picture of lightning striking the Serengeti you are overwhelmed by it's explosive power, seductive presence, and docile setting which creates a sense of euphoria, fear, and loneliness.
                                                                       -Chillin in the Nyle's blog

I think perhaps I like On Paper Wings' claim the best, because I adore that band and song. And he is indeed, husky. BUT I THINK SHE DELETED IT! so the link is useless :(

I tried being humble, but nevermind that now. [CLOSE READING]

I had to do it. I love 300. and Gerard Butler. I also think it's funny that it was set in a world of painted-on six packs. Ever since this movie, whenever someone asks, "what is this?" or questions something along those lines-- I have the insane urge to kick someone down a black hole and yell
THIS
 IS
SPARTAAAAH.
 But I've resigned to only do it in my head.




4 categories/words to look for in movie posters:
color scheme- dark? light? inbetween? what do they make you feel?
setting or environment it projects- inside or outside? a background?
wording- powerful words that draw the eye, that make a statement?
placement of characters or objects- does the placement affect the way you view the poster or your thoughts on it?

12 or more words (and phrases) to describe this 300 poster:
bloody
rage
anguish
determined
glorified
indifferent (wife)
emotionless (wife)
warrior
deadly
hostile
challenging
courageous
in the dead of night
warfare
bloodshed
angry
despairing
unsubmissive
exhilarating
foreboding
seductive (wife) quite possibly Gerard too
explosive
disturbed
furious
grim
harsh
loud
wrathful
threatening
electrifying

Claim:

        In this electrifying poster for the film 300, splashes of blood, open-mouthed screams of rage and anguish, and determined, hostile facial expressions,  deliver  impressive  feelings of wrath, exhilaration, and bloodshed that are sure to be felt in the heat of battle.


Until next time, this, is Spartaaah.

Lolita

I've started Lolita, and it's incredibly intriguing. It started with another book however. My mother handed me Reading Lolita in Tehran, a book about a college professor in the Middle East who forms a book club at her home, filled with hand-picked students with the specific purpose of reading books that are banned. As women in their country, they share their lives with each other and realize what it means to be a Middle Eastern woman (certain clothing, permission from men to do certain things, despite being college educated women). At the same time they analyze Lolita.

However, I could not get past the first couple pages of the book, I thought it rather boring--forgive me if you think otherwise. I decided to give Lolita a try, to start at the beginning of sorts. It was a good choice, there's really nothing quite like it. For those of you who don't know, Lolita is a book that is narrated by a pedophile. Not Vladimir Nabakov himself, just the character he invented while writing it.

Humbert Humbert. Isn't that the most peculiar name? Reminds me of bumble bees for some reason. Humbert H., is the name of the pedophile, who, throughout his whole life, has had a fascination with the younger female generation. He even comes up with his own classification of the attractive, soft-skinned, juvenile girls that he admires from his park bench (from everywhere really). He nick-names them "nymphets." He's so funny, when he analyzes these girls, especially when he fantasizes about them. Humbert wants them to forever play around him and his park bench, and never let them grow up. It's not that he's a bad person, at least I don't think so, because he truly appreciates their figures, their smiles, and their untainted hearts and minds. Of course, Humbert has the urges of an adult male, but he tries his damnedest to not stray from what society has already approved of. He even marries a woman, and fell for her simply because she was quite childish in her behavior and looks.

His marriage ends in disaster, his first wife ends up dead in California, and Humbert moves to the states, where he meets Charlotte Haze and her daughter Lo, short for Delores, Lolita, or Lola. And so begins his Heaven and Hell. Heaven, because he finally has in reach, the opportunity to take advantage of his beautiful nymphets, the most beautiful of all being Delores. At this point in the story, he sneaks little caresses, touches, brushes of the cheek, creating secret highs for himself, constantly having to hide his arousal from being around his Lolita.

Lolita seems to have a teensy crush on Humbert himself. In fact, I forgot to insert it earlier, but Humbert is a sex god, apparently. He'll sometime refer back to his extremely good looks, and the numerous women that would gladly throw their selves at him. Alas, Humbert Humbert only likes little girls. Poor babies. One of those women, who unfortunately fell in love with Humbert, is Delores' mother. She expresses her love to him, fully expecting him to reject her immediately, in a letter. However, Humbert thinks on it and devises a plan. By marrying Charlotte Haze, the mother, he will be undeniably closer than ever to his Lolita. Decisions, decisions. And that's where I'm at in the book. Right where Humbert is practically salivating at the thoughts of how much a "father" gets to touch his "little girl" (fatherly hugs, kisses, etc). I'm guessing that he's gonna make the decision to become a really loving, caring, unusually touchy-feely father. Just a hunch.

Ashes to Ashes, we all fall down.

I've read the first four chapters of Angela's Ashes, and it's put me off of a few things. Like drunkard, selfish, worthless, alcoholic fathers, and having kids. I mean, I've already decided I never want kids (that may or may not change), but this book really puts "popping them out" into perspective. If you've never read Angela's Ashes, here's a taste:

It's about this family, formed by two parents-- Angela and Malachy, who by some accidental "I was in the moment and it felt good" incident, had a kid, and we're forced to marry in order to keep the family name respectful and all that. Malachy, the father, is a wooooorrrthless, selfish, non-father, who spends his days working (if he can even get a job) and then spends his wages on beer at the many bars he hops to after the work day ends. It is because of him (well, that's my conclusion anyway), that THREE, not one, not two, but THREE of his 6 children DIE BECAUSE OF MALNUTRITION AND POVERTY. You'd think he'd learn after the first, but noooo. Go ahead, you worthless father, and drink your wages all over again, so that your children will once again go hungry in the middle of the night. Despicable.

The thing about this book, is that it's a memoir. Frank McCourt, the author, and the main character who grows up throughout the book, has amazing stamina and a very large forgiving heart. He paints his father as a loving man, who just messed up a little, not as an out of control alcohol who can't decide what matters most: his starving wife and children, or that bottle of Jack.

Back to the memoir part. Frank McCourt uses humor through a child's eyes as he grows up miserably. It may be because of his childlike ways, that he is ignorant of how things truly work in the world, but it was probably for the best. For instance, Frank goes to confession with all the other little boys in his catholic school, and feels the pressure of coming up with a sin. Frank has a problem--he hasn't actually sinned. The only thing closest would be listening to an inappropriate story, which he can't really help. So, he overhears the other boys sins-- lies to their mother, stealing money, stealing food, stuff like that, and he ends up going to confession and confessing that he had done all the other boys' sins as well. Ha, he ends up sinning by telling that he had sinned to the priest, when in actuality, he had done nothing wrong. Oh, children. Then he throws up his first communion. That apparently, was a sin--so I guess Frank got his sin after all, even though he couldn't help it. I can't understand religion sometimes. A lot of times actually.

I like you, Nick Flynn.

Ta-da. Here it is, the poem and poet of the year. It's pretty good, but it's all rushed together like stream of consciousness (that's probably what makes it good) or something. Don't try to make too much sense of it, it somehow fits into place and makes sense on its own. I like it a lot, even though I try not to affiliate myself with any sort of religion. I thought I was taking a leap of proverbial faith when I read this, but I wasn't. Nick Flynn ends up pretty much voicing my thoughts on this topic. Flynn writes this as though he was there when (and if) Jesus was around, and as if he knows Jesus' thoughts. It was in the "Faith and Doubt" category of the website, and I picked it specifically for the "Doubt" part. Only because I was curious about people's reasons for non-believing.

This poem deals with the unknown of Jesus and his death. and why, oh why, Jesus had to die in the first place.

It's unique and makes me think. Makes me wonder if Nick Flynn was a child when he wrote this in 1960. Just the words used and the way they're used makes me lean towards a less educated person than a college professor. Just a comparison, no insult, really.

 If you happen by this, try to read it all the way through.

jesus knew

By Nick Flynn b. 1960 Nick Flynn

unlike you and I jesus knew he’d die

some days a headache woke him it

lingered nothing terrible but the word

hung around his temples like this

soul everyone wants but can’t find jesus

knew he’d die he just didn’t know how

& that bothered him sometimes & then

he’d do one of his little bootleg tricks

what the hell, didn’t hurt anyone

didn’t make anyone disappear for-

ever but the tricks stopped working he forgot

why he did them & what for he confused

a story about a guy named jesus

with a story about a father he never knew

& it all began to hang like a motheaten coat

pulled out of a trunk on shaky days hey let’s

return to the scene of the fucken tragedy at least

we all know how it turns out instead of this end-

less uncertainty hey let’s sell our souls a few

more times no one’s really counting (those

little papers you trade for your sins,

what do you call them? anyone? no?)

—anyway—jesus this jesus that

god of nickel god of dime

right, the real jesus he was lost he walked in-

to the desert not far really his friends his

disciples he told them he’d come back

like us he said this every time he left but jesus

never said wait never pointed to the sky

never claimed he’d rise again never asked us to eat

his flesh jesus never asked anything as far

as I can tell he got tired everyday & then slept

sometimes okay sometimes un-

bearable, the dreams, the father

pointing a finger at everyone a finger we can’t

even look at.

30% off for lateness

I'm going to shove all of my sentences of the week(s) in this one post, since they're long delayed. There are some memorable ones, especially on Guam.

Starting with Lolita :

That old woman in black who sat down next to me on my bench, on my rack of joy (a nymphet was groping under me for a lost marble), and asked if I had a stomachache, the insolent hag. Ah, leave me alone in my pubescent park, in my mossy garden. Let them play around me forever. Never grow up.


That solemn pool of alien urine with a soggy, tawny cigarette butt disintegrating in it struck me as a crowing insult, and I wildly looked around for a weapon.


No temptations maddened me. The plump, glossy little Eskimo girls with their fish smell, hideous raven hair and guinea pig faces, evoked even less desire in me than Dr. Johnson had. Nymphets do not occur in polar regions.

From Angela's Ashes:

They multiply faster than Hindus. --in reference to fleas.

And lastly, I had an interesting borderline-assault conversation with a drunk person on Guam. There I was, with my 2 cousins, walking down a hotel and expensive shop-lined street in a village called Tumon, when I see 2 white young men sitting at a table. The reason I point out their skin color, mind you, is because the ratio of white people on Guam to Chamorros is, like, 1 to 2 bazillion. Whereas, here in Fort Fun, the ratio is more like 500 white people for every 1 non-white person (it's not that much of an exaggeration). So, naturally, I spot their whiteness, but I don't think anything of it. Until one of them grabs me and asks for a picture. I think they wanted a picture with the "locals," so I agreed (not that I had much of a choice with his whole arm dragging me to the camera).  I muttered to myself:


"We're not even locals."
"Really? Where are you from?" says the drunk man.
". . .Indiana"
"NO WAY. I'm from Florida! (well, you gotta be from somewhere, buddy) Where are you from?" says drunk man. So, first, he thinks it's a really cool that we're from two different places that aren't that remotely close together at all, and second, it's like he forgot what he already asked me. Redundant, much?

So, the drunk man's buddy takes his picture with us, with one of my cousins wailing: "BUT WHAT IS THIS FORRR?" in the background.
And then he holds out his hand, as if expecting me to shake it, which is exactly what I do. Then I walk away.

"WELL THAT WAS KINDA MEAN..."  he yells back at me, which of course it wasn't. He started toward me, to I don't know, confront me, but his buddy stopped him by saying, "whoaaa man." All I did was shake his hand, not try to instigate a fight. And for chrissake, I look like a little 12 year old brown girl. What a drunken crackpot he was.

I guess, since that's my first instance of being near a drunk person, I thought it was significant enough to put in my sentences of the week post. I later saw the drunk man's friend (who took the picture) sitting down, with his head in his hands, while his drunk friend went camera happy on all the tourists in a hotel. That's what you get, bud, for letting your friend get drunk.

Currently (for reals)

In the middle of Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
                           Then We Came to the End by Joshua Ferris
                          Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt

pages this week: 177

This semester: 530 + 177 issss 707

Currently (not really)

This is for last week, on account of how I was kinda on Guam. And my grandpa's internet sucked there.

I started Lolita by Vladimir Nabakov
             Roald Dahl's Tales of the Unexpected

Pages read: 143

This semester: 387 + 143 = uh 530

aaaarrrrrghhhh. (concerning my bloggity blog)

So... I'm going to have a gazillion hours to read on my plane flight. Literally, like 18 hours. So, since I totally don't have any sentences of the week for last week (I'm super-duper busy packing), I'll make it up this week. Some time (provided I have internet access on Guam), I swear.   
I SWEAR IT, Mr. Hill.


and also? I think everyone should read THE EGG (there's a link below). It boggles the mind.

KTHANKSBYE.



.

Week 2 Bloggy Tour

I knocked on these door steps:

As Told by Ginger
On Paper Wings
M_Hendrix
ETYAFTER
The Ozone Lair
Noodles
Apples to Apples
Feist Fan
Hidden in a journal


Pages this week: 110
Pages this semester: 387


Currently reading:
Then We Came To The End
Roald Dahl's Tales of the Unexpected

I dare you.

Go on, click the link.
Read it, then soak it in.
I dare you, whoever the heck reads this.
Besides, I think it's worth it.    http://galactanet.com/oneoff/theegg_mod.html

Think so too?

Not nearly there.

I'm not nearly at the end of Then We Came To The End, but I'm getting there. When I look back at what I've read, I realize that this book is made out of all these random thoughts, experiences, and feelings of coworkers--that, though completely random, interweave themselves in this great big pathway  leading to the impending doom of being laid-off. Every couple of pages, I find myself reaching for a nearby piece of paper, and tearing off scraps to mark hilarious passages, or witty comments.

But wait, not all is funny (yay) in this land of cubicles, but funny (nay). The weird, awkward kind of funny. In fact, one such funny-nay story surprises me--the story of Janine Gorjanc and her dead daughter.

It goes like this: Janine Gorjanc had a nine-year-old daughter who went missing one day. As her fellow coworkers became aware of her situation, they deemed it necessary to help. Thus, posters were created, taped to lamp-posts and various buildings around down town chicago, and one very-large billboard depicting her daughter's fourth-grade picture was put up, overseeing the highway as millions (I'm sure) of cars went by each day.

But then one day, the searching stopped. It was because Janine's daughter was found dead, wrapped in plastic, in a parking lot.

Slowly, but surely, everyone went back to work in their cubicles, and time went on. But not without the sadness and grief positively (negatively) radiating from Janine Gorjanc. As all mothers, who are grieving, Janine found herself in compromising situations, and doing unexplainable things.

Her nine-year-old daughter loved Toys R' Us, Gymboree's, and especially the play-pen with all the little plastic balls in the net at McDonalds. This was one of Janine's compromising situations in which she often found herself. Every single day, Janine would go to McDonalds, and sit quietly inside the play-pen, with all the little plastic balls around her, and stare off into space. Every single day. She became a spectacle of sorts to her fellow coworkers who caught her by chance when getting lunch. And then every single day, they as well, would go and watch her in the play-pen, and try to figure out just what was going on in that mysterious head of Janine Gorjanc.

It's such a sad, sad story. I mean, to find your own daughter wrapped in plastic, DEAD (strangled), when you had all the hope in the world prior to that, that she was still alive, sound, and healthy--that's just terrible. My parents tell me all the time: A parent should never outlive their child. What a depressing story. Anyway, that's all I'm given to sharing at the moment. Just thought it was the part that stands out the most in this book so far. Hasta la vista.