Yesterday...

All my troubles seemed so far away. Not really, this is a happy post. I actually had things to say yesterday, but ended up being social until 3am.

So, first of all. There were classes. In Myth we've gotten to the part of the Odyssey were Odysseus makes it back home. The teacher titled the lecture "The Return of the King" and told us that he did that on purpose. He's a Tolkien fan. It wasn't just for fun though--Tolkien studied middle English and mythology and Latin and all this cool stuff. I don't think Aragorn is really based on Odysseus, but there are some cool parallels. The big thing is being able to tell people your name. In the Odyssey he tells different people different names because he doesn't know who he can trust. Aragorn has a million names that different people know him by. They are both wanderers for the majority of the books. They both have a lot of stuff to take care of when they get home.

Poetry is pointless. I wrote some more nonsense:
Victorian Era named after Queen Victoria. 1837-1901. How? Why? Who cares? Why ask questions so demandingly if you know there's no real answer? You would like us to ponder it right? Think about it and find it interesting. Well that only took about the time it took to read the first slide. Now it's slide six ad you've asked the same question in fifty different ways. You began this lecture by telling us how you're behind and you'll need to condense because you're only here for two more days. Thank God. We're not all scholars. We don't all have super hearing abilities so stop mumbling please. What is poetry? I'm going to freak out. We answered this question a month ago by saying there really isn't an answer. This is English. The point is always interpretation. Classifications are rather irrelevant. That's your point yet? You're making me hate your shirt. It wasn't my favorite to begin with. It's pink, but my disdain for you is making it worse. You are so easy to ignore. I don't even know what you're talking about anymore. The girl in front of me is drawing. We don't need more examples. That's all you are is a stream of examples. You have an important voice. I think you like it too much. You consider yourself a Historian. We're here to learn about poetry. I don't care to hear you drone on about the Enlightenment. I've known about that, in detail, for the last five years at least. Maybe the other people don't...how can they not though? I don't know if I've ever seen more vacant looks in one room. I wonder if this guy writes. He's much too analytical and unfeeling. He's like a guy that gets off on blue ray rather than the movie itself. Like focusing on poetic form instead of the meaning. Like Ringo being your favorite Beatle. Like enjoying handwriting rather than words. Like taking pictures of the frame, not the painting. Ah now he's talking about science--thing moving faster than the speed of light. Impossible right? I don't remember why Nick said so. We've thought other things were impossible or just false. The world used to be flat. The sun used to orbit the earth. The model of the atom. Things change. Can's assume we know everything. Or anything. What is real? Certainly not literary classifications. Woah man. Taking a minute for questions!? Now way. Dude, you're growing. You're wasting time though. You like to contradict yourself. Objectivity. Don't go there. We'll never get out of here. the clutch of circumstance. The mercy of public transportation. Blind chance. All knowing fate. Why am I here? To listen to pink shirted Irish man repeat himself for an hour. This particular hour of this particular day. English Romantic movement. Construction by literary historians. "Retroactively. Retrospectively. After the fact." Give us another translation why don't you. "We might identify a specific similar group of writers before we identify, or name them." Isn't that how it has to work? You can't name something that isn't there. Except zero. Image of a poet=gross stereotype. Pouring your heart and thoughts on paper. Comes from the Romantics. Okay. Grand. "Emotional collective." I like that. Well played to you pink man. We've gone over. Let us go! If we're supposed to live like we'd die tomorrow, I definitely wouldn't be here right now.

Filim (that's how they say it). Politics and film. It was kind of interesting. How political movies don't really come out and say what they mean all the time--the references are oblique so they don't alienate audiences. So basically political movies don't do very well, but "social problem movies" are popular.

I went to a concert at the Olympia Theater in Dublin. I forgot to mention it before, but it was a Boyce Avenue concert opened by Tyler Ward. I wouldn't be surprised if you've never heard of these people. It's the band I went to see in Seattle with Adrianna in September. It's probably not terribly interesting seeing another person's concert pictures, but the theatre is class, so here you go.

So, they're kind of blurry, but they're the best I've got. The theatre is pretty cool, and really old. They have a barrier for the audience because underneath the stage is the pit and it's only covered by curtains. The only annoying thing is that on the tiers they have this metal bar going around so that idiots don't fall off. The bar is the perfect height to block some of the stage. I like it though. It's a small large venue. The American girls that live upstairs were there though. It was random, but nice 'cause I had people to ride the bus back with. I love Americans. One of the girls hasn't been able to use the internet in her apartment so I told her she could use the wifi in mine. So we were in the living room peacefully until drunk Nate showed up and felt we needed to be livelier until 3am rolled around and we retired.










If anyone is interested, this is Tyler Ward:

And this is Boyce Avenue: The only thing to note about today was that pink shirted English man, the subject of my hate stream, is now the lecturer for Modernism as well. I think it might be an in my face sign that I should stop thinking about a double major in English. He did do much better in this class than Poetry. He was wearing another pink shirt though. It might have been the same one even. We've left Ulysses and are now on to Mrs. Dalloway by poor depressed messed up Virginia Woolf. I'm still determined to finish Ulysses however. Even if none of it makes any sense to me.

Also awesome: My pantry is full. Thank you Grandma, Grandpa, Madre, and Padre!