School

4.15.2015

I have a new goal: set aside time to write (if possible) daily. This may be mundane journal type entries, but especially as I near the end of the semester, things are quite hectic and I think that maybe if I take some time to write daily– however briefly, it may offer me occasion to reflect and decompress.

I am working on a presentation on “Possible Worlds” in my narratology class, as well as a paper analyzing the narrative in an episode of a televison series. I selected the episode “Fight” from Masters of Sex. From the moment I saw the episode last summer I knew that i wanted to write about it, so I am excited to get to do so.

In American literature, our final paper looms with only three weeks away. I am doing some preliminary research there as I continue to hammer down the focus of my paper and the argument. More on that in another post.

Work is very hectic, so I won’t get into that except to say that i am very excited about these final celebrations. Each one is very special to me and I cannot wait to share in the joy with the brides and grooms i have the pleasure to work with. I couldn’t ask for a better “final chapter.”

This morning, I read Dickinson as the rain fell out my window. It later prompted me to pen my own poem (something about reading poetry always makes me want to write it.) It’s still a work in progress, but I’ll probably share it eventually.

In the interim, what I read this morning that really struck me, reposted from http://www.bartleby.com/113/3006.html


VI
IF you were coming in the fall,
I ’d brush the summer by
With half a smile and half a spurn,
As housewives do a fly.
If I could see you in a year,         5
I ’d wind the months in balls,
And put them each in separate drawers,
Until their time befalls.
If only centuries delayed,
I ’d count them on my hand,         10
Subtracting till my fingers dropped
Into Van Diemen’s land.
If certain, when this life was out,
That yours and mine should be,
I ’d toss it yonder like a rind,         15
And taste eternity.
But now, all ignorant of the length
Of time’s uncertain wing,
It goads me, like the goblin bee,
That will not state its sting.         20

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