What a jerk...

I may be behind in my web surfing (in fact, I know I am) but

Somebody needs to kick this guy's butt.

He's just so proud of being a total ass.

late/early. learly? eate?

I've gone and gotten myself a single room for next semester, in what could generally be regarded as the nicest dorm on campus. Whoopee. My grandmother gave us the money for a nice little flatscreen for my room (spoiled brat, I know), and I have one of those twisty medusa lamps and a metric buttload of photos and dilly dallies for my walls, so I aim to be nicely ensconced next semester. I just turned in my last final (yes, just now; it was a take-home and she emailed it to us, so I just emailed the damn thing back with my answers, good riddance). I had to read half the stuff we read this term to finish it (remind me to actually read Cat On a Hot Tin Roof sometime, my skim didn't do it justice) but paused to draw a little illustration for one story that I'm rather proud of. I think I may do a few more for that story when I feel up to it.

Wulfy is asleep on his bed behind me. I've avoided my room this semester because I no longer room with the adored Muffin (she wangled a single before I did) and my roommate for the semester was just too damn perky. All the time. I mean, I have perky friends, but damn. I felt bad for keeping away but there's only so much happyhappyjoyjoy I can stand, thanks. Next semester's going to kick ass--mine specifically, I'm not taking many hours but the classes I'm taking are the sort that will wear black leather and tell me to say "thank you" after every whack. Ouchies. The thought of the papers is already making my poor tender head ache.

Anyway, it's late/really fucking early, so I'm either going to eat some Easy Mac (surprisingly good stuff) or go to sleep, maybe both sequentially. The dinner Wulfy's parents bought us has kind of worn off--why wasn't I hungry when I ate it? Argh. I'm rambling, bye.

I'm starting to write the paper that's due tomorrow--oh wait, it's tomorrow already.

But it's on Charles Frazier, whom I adore, and it's only five pages, and tomorrow is Reading Day so I'm really going to write the dang thing tomorrow. Lucky for me he's only written two books so far and I've devoured them already. Mmm yummy yummy books.

You know what just struck me as funny? I write more about sex as a Lit major than anything else, it seems.

Beowulf didn't get any sleep last night writing his five page paper about Medieval Islamic society so he's asleep now...sort of. He keeps waking up and either

a) mumbling long rants in Tongues, I swear, or

b) telling me to go get some water from the creek we just passed on our hiking day trip (!) and whining that I and our driver (!) are laughing at him. And that we're doing it to be mean to him to get him to tell us where he came from and it's not working so there.

c) just grunting indistinctly and twitching, like a dog dreaming about chasing rabbits.

The hiking thing probably stems from leftover anxiety about his Hiking Camping and Orienteering class, which went on a camping trip last weekend. He didn't really want to go. I bet he'll detail the trip on his blogthingy, along with his instructor's crazy Peruvian camping stories.

dreaming of your Etcetera

I really shouldn't be writing here...I have two long papers due Friday, a performance piece to arrange and memorize (for my Renaissance and Enlightenment Literature class, oddly enough) another paper due midweek next week, two reading journals to write (because I'm a terrible student who hasn't already done this), finals to study for (FINALS stands for Fuck I Never Actually Learned this Shit, according to one group on Facebook), friends to visit, a Beowulf who often needs a good firm nudge to do his homework, and, importantly, a room to move out of. I'm switching to another dorm--admittedly an older and possibly grody dorm, but one in which I will have a room to myself. As I've hated living on campus this semester, this is a good thing; and next semester I have a shot at a single room in the nicest dorm on campus (score!) even though there's no guarantee. And if I get that room, I can keep it for next year and might not have to find an apartment in order to have some dang privacy.

Next semester is going to be hellishly busy (even though I'm only taking thirteen hours of classes) but has potential to be really fun. The Feminist Collective is, of course, putting on the Vagina Monologues, which I'm thinking about auditioning for (I figure hey, I should do it while I'm a fledgling college feminist and I have the chance, right? Even if it's become something of a cliche) and the Theatre department is doing the Tempest, and Vanilla wants me to audition for that--again, when the hell other than now am I going to get the chance to be in a good performance of a play? I could do community theatre later on but I don't know what I'm going to be doing in my life later on. I'm Carpe-ing the Diem, heh. I'm also going to try to work on my photography and creative writing, which have suffered like woah this semester because when I haven't been working on school shit, I've been sleeping and/or desponding too much for anything else. Though this might still be on the back burner depending on the job I get--up till now I've only been working in the summer at home, but I'm getting all anxious about saving up for grad school (IF I manage to make it into a grad school; the sleeping/desponding has been shaving bits off my grades, which have already suffered since the advent of the relationship with the Beowulf. I'm a terrible student. This CHANGES next semester, dammit, and I'm going to learn how to take decent notes {a skill I never learned in highschool because the classes were mostly too damn easy--thanks a lot, No Child Left Behind.}). Wow, that was a doozy of a parenthetical remark.

Anyway, I've got class in an hour and a halfish, and I haven't eaten breakfast, and I need to work on my ten page paper. I'll write the eight-pager tomorrow; that'll be the hard one because I don't give a shit about my topic. For the ten-pager, I'm writing on the effect of war on poetry; both the general paradigm shifts post-war that allow change in convention. Would T. S. Eliot written The [Godawful] Wasteland without WWI? Doubtful. But I may focus on the effect on individual poets who were involved in various wars in US History. I'll be using Whitman's "The Wound-Dresser" and E. E. Cummings's "my sweet old etcetera" for that--two of my favies! Yayz! And I found a collection of interesting Vietnam War poems and some political poetry about Iraq, to round it all off. I wish I had a month to write this thing. Maybe I'll revisit it for my senior thesis?

I had a really great idea for my senior thesis while laying in bed awake at three in the morning, but I didn't write it down so the only thing I remember about it now is that it was Fucking Awesome and would have Changed the Face of Literary Analysis As We Know It. I'm only brilliant late at night when I don't have a notepad on hand *facepalm*

Next semester I'm taking senior comps; I'm getting them out of the way early, that way if I do absolutely terribly (as I likely will) I'll have at least two more semesters to try.

I have a plot for a book rattling about in my head; one that could be a romance novel, in fact, although hopefully a good one...involving hippies. There are a lot of Nouveau Hippies around the area--sometimes it feels like to many, especially when they are of the opinion that deodorant is Unnatural and therefore Evil; and hey, their odour doesn't bother them! Some of these are actually in my ballroom dance class so it occasionally feels like I'm dancing with a Giant Armpit. I'm sure they're wonderful intelligent etcetera people but I don't know because I'm not fond of their apocrine sweat glands.

I will eventually have something to say about something important; my own life has swallowed me whole.

Emily Dickinson

...I wrote a paper on her religious views, as expressed through her poetry. I'm not terribly in the mood to post anything, so here. It's fairly mediocre literary analysis--though not bad considering I pulled it out of my nether regions the day it was due (I'm a terrible student, I know).

[Title]*

Emily Dickinson has been the subject of much discussion, ever since her work began to be published, about not only her work but also her mysterious personal life. We seem intent on discovering what she thought, whom she loved, and why she did what she did—especially, why she spent so much of her life in seclusion. Her religious beliefs also remain alluringly ambiguous; while some poems suggest an adherence to the Calvinist Christianity of her time and place, many others are wildly unorthodox. Having failed to have the dramatic conversion experience expected of her, her poetry at times expresses anger or confusion toward God; at other times she seems to adore her Higher Power and his Creation.

What is not lacking from Dickinson’s poetry is a belief in God in general. What is most intriguing is her view on who God is. Sometimes, her God is benevolent, even a teacher or pastor to her. In Poem 236, she writes, “God preaches, a noted Clergyman—/ and the sermon is never long” (Dickinson, 1204) In this poem, she speaks of keeping the Sabbath at home, outdoors; she revels in the beauty of nature and the lessons her God teaches her through it. Here, God is both a benevolent Creator and a wise and eloquent teacher. In Poem 39, she speaks of crying out to God upon losing loved ones, calling God “Burglar,” Banker,” and “Father” in the same breath. “Father” is one of the most common descriptors of God in Judeo-Christian tradition, a very richly shaded metaphor that implies he is a loving progenitor, protector, provider, teacher, guide, and disciplinarian. A father is both someone to love, and someone to fear. In Dickinson’s case, her Father God is someone to turn to in time of need, a provider and caretaker. God has already sent “Angels” to “reimburse [her] store” twice before; she cries out for him to aid her again, and seems sure that her compassionate Father God will once more supply (1201).

All this is a fairly typical, orthodox, non-threatening view of God. Her use of the word “Banker” is more troubling. While she also uses this word to mean that God will help her in her time of need, “reimbursing” her loss, a banker and a father are distinctly different creatures. While a good father has the interests of his children in mind, and gives freely, a banker has his best interests in mind. A banker would expect Dickinson to pay back her loan someday. And what is it she is begging for, anyway? Mere comfort? Love? Companionship? We can’t be quite sure, but whatever it is, is likely to not be easily repaid, as her Banker God would be aware of—and maybe not care.

Her use of the word “Burglar” is startling, but perhaps not surprising. The Bible itself describes God as “like a thief in the night” (New International Version, 1 Thes 5:2). The author of 1 Thessalonians (namely the apostle Paul) would have known the Old Testament well, and referred to it; in the book of Job, Job speaks of the same event referred to by Paul, namely the “day of the Lord,” Judgment Day, and says “when daylight is gone, the murderer rises up and kills the poor and needy’ in the night he steals forth like a thief ” (Job 24:14). In the same way, Dickinson is saying that God, while at the same time still the Banker and the Father, also the one who took her loved ones from her. She is hurt and angry with her God, and yet has no choice but the rely on him for help. There are probably many Christians who feel this way; God “taking” someone is, after all, a common euphemism for death; but most would not dare talk about it, much less with Dickinson’s intensity.

Dickinson seems even bitterer about death in Poem 1668. In this poem she relates death as a random, natural occurrence, as the Frost “beheads” a “happy Flower.” But she takes no comfort in the naturalness of death—even though the death of the Flower is “accidental,” she yet describes the Frost as a “blonde Assassin.” She resents that life moves on, that “the Sun proceeds unmoved,” and that another day passes with no consideration for death, even of something—or someone—she loved. Most of all, she seems bitter at God for watching the proceedings and not only not stopping death, but being “Approving” of the whole process. Unlike Poem 39, she does not cry out to God. He is not a Father or a Banker, or even a Burglar; he is no longer personal at all (Dickinson 1221).

So, Dickinson’s belief in and relationship to God was undeniably complex. In fact, her poems argue that God himself is complex; her God is not comprehensible, he is mysterious. She says in Poem 365, “I know that He exists.” The poem at the end of this line emphasizes it, standing out against her usual unusual punctuation. This poem she starts with a concrete statement: He exists, period. No more discussion about God’s existence, she’s already figured that out. However, she goes on:

I know that He exists.
Somewhere – In silence –
He has hid his rare life
From our gross eyes.

Yes, God exists, but only “somewhere.” She gives no concrete location—no typical “in heaven” or “all around” or “within me.” He also exists “in silence.” No glorious throngs of angels singing His praise for all eternity; no giant James Earl Jones voice booming commandments from the sky; no still small voice of guidance. Just silence. In some ways, Dickinson’s God at this point would seem to be the “watchmaker God” of Deism. But somehow He remains more of a concrete being than an obscure, distant Creator God. It’s not that he doesn’t care about us, he has merely “hid his rare life,” the glory that “our gross eyes” cannot bear to see (1211).

Dickinson also makes no mention of Jesus in her poetry, only God. For her, God does appear to truly reside “somewhere,” rather than having come to Earth, died, and taken up residence inside the hearts of believers. Perhaps her experience at Mount Holyoke Female Seminary affected her view of Jesus and salvation; being constantly one of the few girls who experienced no religious awakening, no dramatic salvation experience, perhaps it is logical that she would leave behind the idea of a Savior—no great Redeemer had come for her soul. Why should she put any stock in a belief that in no way applied to her?

Her views on death and the afterlife could well have been informed by this belief—or lack of belief—in a Savior. Death is often more of a concrete being than her idea of God; in Poem 355 he is as concrete as Night, Fire, or Frost (1209). More notably, in Poem 479 Death “kindly stopped” for Dickinson in his carriage, and they take a cold and melancholy, but not unpleasant, ride to her grave and eternity (1214). This is another odd feature of her beliefs about the afterlife. In her poems about death, especially those in which she speaks as one of the dead, she is very concretely in her body. In poem 124, she describes the dead as meekly sleeping in their tombs, waiting on the Resurrection. They are not in heaven, traipsing about on clouds, or singing eternal praises to God. They lie in their caskets as if asleep—a sight she would have been accustomed to when attending funerals and preparing bodies for burial (1202). In Poem 448, she describes herself as dead, laying peacefully in her Tomb; her soul, or whatever she would call what her selfness is composed of, is not in Heaven or in Hell, or wandering as a ghost; it is very decidedly decaying along with her body, as is the soul of the gentleman beside her; and they talk quietly until they are decomposed under the soil and forgotten above (1214). Even more frightening visions of death are painted in Poems 340 and 591. In Poem 340, she describes the heavy, rhythmic footsteps of her Mourners. She herself is “wrecked” and “solitary;” and her death itself is described as “a Plank in Reason” breaking, and herself falling and knocking into different Worlds all the way down until she finally “Finished knowing” (1207). In Poem 591 she dies in “Stillness…like the Stillness in the Air – Between the Heaves of Storm,” and describes her death itself as the windows failing, “and then I could not see to see –” (1215)

Her seeming lack of belief in a positive afterlife in these poems, frightening as it is, is in some ways mitigated by her beliefs in Poem 236, where she keeps the Sabbath “staying at Home.” In the last lines, after describing God’s sermon, she states, “instead of getting to Heaven, at last – I’m going, all along.” Her love of Nature and of her benevolent God allows her to see the life she is given on Earth as a kind of heaven, against the Calvinistic belief that humanity and the pleasures of life in this world are utterly depraved and evil (1203-1204).

In fact, she disagrees with religion itself on principle in many of her poems. In fact, that same Poem 236, while being cute, is also rebellious—after all, she’s not going to church on a Sunday. She even describes herself as angelic; opposed to clergy who “keep the Sabbath in Surplice,” she says, “I just wear my Wings.” Her own mind, and the Nature around her—a singing Bobolink and a beautiful Orchard—beautiful but everyday wonders—sustain her in a way church religion never could.

Even more, in Poem 373, she denounces not just religious ceremony, but religion and faith themselves. While she begins with a fairly orthodox “This World is not conclusion,” she does not go on to talk about how God or Heaven or Angels are beyond this World, but a strange “Species.” This mysterious form of being is beautifully described as “Invisible, as Music – But positive, as Sound –” She says that Philosophy doesn’t know this otherworldly Being, Sagacity can only know it through a Riddle, and scholars are puzzled by it. This is all well and good, but furthermore, Faith can’t show it either. This is the direct opposite of average religious thinking, which says that the mind can’t understand God, but Faith can help us understand. Instead, Dickinson says “Faith slips – and laughs” and not only is Faith a bit silly this way, it “Plucks at a twig of Evidence – And asks a Vane, the way –” Faith, at least as understood by the religious, is a false guide—going on but the tiniest amount of real evidence and asking the way from a weathervane, which points one direction one minute but changes with the changeful wind. But that’s not all. Not only is Faith false, says Dickinson, but the “Gesture, from the Pulpit” and the “Strong Hallelujahs” that “roll.” She describes religion as “Narcotics;” and not only are they mere pain-relieving drugs, they “cannot still the Tooth that nibbles at the soul –” In other words, no amount of faith, preaching, or congregational approbation can still the longing in her soul to truly know this mysterious, divine presence (1212).

In essence, we can never be sure exactly what Emily Dickinson believed (and really, it’s difficult enough to know what we ourselves believe), but we can gather clues from her work. Dickinson sees God as a Creator, a Preacher, and a Father; but also, in times of pain, her hurt and anger cause her to see him as a cold, far-off observer who doesn’t care, or as a thief who has taken away her happiness. At the same time, she loves the Nature he created, and is suspicious of church religion, believing her supreme being is greater than anything religion can offer. And though she is saddened, deeply, by death, and afraid of it, she does not always believe it is evil; and she believes that whatever makes her, her, will persist.

While we cannot call Dickinson an orthodox Calvinist Christian as she was expected to be, there is no doubt that she felt a relationship to God and to his Creation that many Christians should envy.


Works Cited

Dickinson, Emily. "Poems." The Norton Anthology of American Literature. Ed. Nina Baym. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2007.

Quest Study Bible. New International Version. Grand Rapids, Michigan: Zondervan, 1994.



*yes, I turned it in without a title. The next day, I turned in another paper with the same mistake. *facepalm*

Blaaaaarg

I am taking three Literature courses, a Humanities course, and Ballroom Dance. I had a paper and a midterm on Wednesday, a longer and more involved paper due today (that I finished at 3:00 in the morning because I had too much other oddly necessary stuff to do at times I otherwise would have worked on it), an even more involved paper due Monday, and just before we had our wimpy two-day Fall Break, I had three other midterms and a paper, plus I'm behind on the reading journals I'm supposed to be keeping in two of my Literature classes and I haven't started on my final paper and performance piece! for Renaissance and Enlightenment Literature. Anyone wonder why I hadn't updated this blog in a while?

I have a new roommate, just for this semester; she's Korean. She's very sweet and easy to get along with, but I don't make friends easily and I miss the Muffin. She also doesn't like having boys in the room so Wulfy usually isn't allowed over unless she's not there. And I don't exactly hate Wulfy's roommate; I just find him obnoxious, petty, and...odourous. Between the stress of classes, dealing with Wulfy's roommate, living in a room that doesn't feel like a home, having zero privacy, being in a different building that isolates me from most of my friends...I'm a wreck. So I haven't been writing.

And now Wulfy has his own blog and I let him start reading this one...and we got into a mild fightish thing over one entry.

So yeah, I'm not having the best time right and the whole blog thing has been put on the back burner for a while.

101 Words

I have been online as much as ever, I just haven't bothered writing--it takes too much energy and I've been working more than ever, while having occasional migraines. I'd never had migraines before this year, and it's beginning to worry me. I also had a (small) nosebleed while visiting Wulfy last weekend. I think it freaked him out as much as it did me.

Oh, and I got my driver's license on Wednesday. It took me long enough, didn't it?

And because anything else I would like to talk about is too private and/or close to be able to, have a 101 word story I wrote for my last creative writing class. It was good exercise in not wasting words--though one very verbose fellow student could not cut hers down, and so it ended up being 201 words. It was a very good 201 word story...but it was plain that too much odd detail was being included that could have been cut out without hurting the actual story. Anyway...mine is actually cut down and altered from a roleplay character history I wrote for a small, irl-friends-only game that went on for about two straight years.

"Caprice, a runaway, seventeen, sat in a lonely diner, drinking a cup of bitter black coffee to help stay awake as she rode west. The man beside her tried to lure her away from her seat with the promise of a warm bed on this cold night. She shuddered as she realized his true intention.

“Go to hell,” she said.

She laid a few crumpled dollar bills on the counter to pay for her coffee, only half finished, and walked outside. The man followed.

A few miles down the road, she stopped her motorcycle to wipe his blood off her hands."