In honor of the lovely, shiny, new layout (courtesy of the talented ghost_factory), I am posting. After a long absence. Yes. Very long.

Winter's moving in at quite a spectacular clip, bringing with it all the lovely things of fall in a very hurried way. The leaves are beginning to turn, every so slowly, but I'm afraid that it will be too cold soon and we won't get the color I love. I have heard, though, that due to some of the long-term weather patterns in the West, the winter here will be even colder and wetter than usual, which, my eternal inner optimist says, means snow.

Hopefully.

We don't get snow often, more's the pity, but I'm hoping that the lovely long-term weather patterns mean that we'll bet getting some.

And in the theme of lovely, shiny new things, there's also a lovely new Ikea lamp sitting right new to me, shining its lovely new light all over the place. I'm quite proud of it and it is far superior to my other lamp which, sadly to say, ate through light bulbs like a monster. I'm glad it's gone, glad it's been replaced by the lovely new Ikea wonder of light and engineering.

There's a strange event that is studied entirely too little in this world, a miracle that is ignored, a feat of determination and ingenuity that I propose should be studied in-depth to learn the wonders of the remarkable creatures that perform this daring, death-defying feat.

I speak, of course, of Bingo Nights nation wide.

Bingo Nights! I hear you scoff. Bingo Nights are for old people!

Not entirely true, I assure you. Nor are they entirely for old women (but that is another topic entirely. I should write a paper: Sexism in the Bingo Hall.). But I will admit that Bingo Nights are predominately attended by elderly women.

And this only serves to make what occurs on these nights more remarkable.

What, after all, is more astonishing than seeing a 75 year-old, chain-smoking, cane-wielding, blue-haired grandmother suddenly jump up and cry in a triumphant voice, "BINGO!!!"? Or to see three kindly old women race to the concession stand to get that last bag of popcorn? If Darwin could have seen this, it would have thrown his theory of evolution right out the window.

Am still alive. Am just away and very busy. And away from my MacBook. Long live Mac! Be back soon.

Lately I've been thinking that my parents perhaps raised me in the wrong way. Though, to be fair, I can hardly blame it on them. It's not their fault I've turned out the way I have. I could blame the culture or the media or the Man, but why bother? I prefer to call it a phenomenon of strange and wondrous proportions.

For example, normal students, when asked what they want to be, answer, "Oh, I want to go to college and study to become a lawyer/doctor/teacher/soldier/your-career-here."

My answer is something like this: "Oh, I think that after graduation I'll travel to New York, infiltrate the Mob, and become a get-away driver. After a few years of rising in the ranks, I'll take over and use my Mob to conquer the world."

I'll admit, I get a few blank stares.

But the real kicker came today, while I was innocently working on a history project.

DEAN OF STUDENTS: Ah, what's that you're working on?
ME: Oh, just a project for Mrs.-
DoS: Are you in fact forging signatures?
ME: Yes. I mean, only the Founding Fathers' signatures. And it's not as though they're going to care.
DoS: I see a long and profitable career ahead of you.
ME: Really? Because I was thinking, what with the economy the way it is, that I should maybe explore some non-traditional career choices.
DoS: Yes. And if you make it big, remember me and my wisdom.
ME: Ah. Yes.
DoS: And while you're forging Franklin's signature, see if you can't pick up a few of his patent checks.

There are many ways to deal with an addiction, and many good places to go when go have one to deal with. Drug rehab, AA meetings, therapy. But where do you go when your addiction is to conflict? Conflictors Anonymous? That would go over well.

-Hi, my name's ilysia and I'm addicted to conflict.
-No, you're not.
-I assure you, I am.
-You are not.

But all joking aside (well, no, not really), I think I'm a bit addicted to conflict, as anyone in my American History class can vouch for. I obviously don't have to argue every point with my teacher. It's just a compulsion. It's a bit ridiculous, really. I mean, I spend so much of my time trying to make people think I'm nice and then boom, it's gone and I'm arguing over something. Intelligently, I hope.

I don't, for instance, shout obscenities or resort to name-calling. My goal in an argument is to demolish my opponent with facts and pure, uncut scorn. It's exhausting and leaves me in a terrible mood, but I can't help myself.

As I said, drug of choice.

I don't like Thursdays, as a rule. They're better than Tuesdays, obviously, but still not as nice as Wednesdays or Fridays. But today was different. Today was good.

This morning I read a short story that was actually very, very good by a guy I know. It was well-written and interesting and, well, great. Nothing starts the day off better than a good story.

This afternoon I got to see my French professor and her baby for the first time. Matej (damn the accents!) is so cute; I wanted to steal him, but then my professor would probably stop teaching me French.

I went to the recital of one of my friends, where she sang in German and Russian and Italian and English. When she is an internationally famous soprano, I am going to call her up and remind her of the days we spent together as children, so that she'll give me free tickets. I shall use my connections where I have them, for I have no scruples.

And there is some other news that I'm not quite ready to share just yet... but if it all works out I'm going to have a very busy summer.

I'd planned to blog about Watchmen, which I saw today. My advice if you're planning on seeing it: don't. I wasted $5.75 and three hours of my life for gratuitous violence, sex, and obscenities. The cinematography wasn't even what I was hoping for.

As I said, I was going to talk about that. But something else has come up that has got me thinking.

When I was in England, oh, it would be nearly two years ago now, I spent several days in the home of a wonderful woman, Fiona. She was an amazing, kind, and spectacularly great hostess, especially when a bit of homesickness caught up with me. She, and her husband, patiently ignored my unsuccessful battle against tears when I got a bit too homesick.

I learned today that one of her daughters was killed last month.

This is one of those times when I'm just not sure what to feel. Fiona is such a wonderful person. It's difficult to believe that something so horrible could happen to someone like her, but it did. I don't know what to say, what to tell her. I know that I have no idea how she and her family are feeling.

So please, take a few moments to pray for Fiona and her family.

I'll be the first to admit- I'm not a car person. I can drive (fairly well, I might add) and I know where the gas goes and that strange noises + car= bad. Beyond that, well, not so much.

But I do know that high-pitched squealing, strange smells, and smoke from the engine are no good indicators.

...

Tuesdays are awful.

It is always a momentous occasion in one's life when one learns new things. I have had the joy over the past few days of learning three very, very important life lessons. They have changed my life. I will never be the same. Ahem. Drumroll, please...

Life Lesson #1: No Matter How Hard You Try, You Cannot Drive and Eat a Fudgesicle at the Same Time

This one crushed me, honestly. It's okay on the flat and relatively uninteresting parts of the road, and even stoplights present no problem. It's just that those sharp turns are so damn hard to maneuver when one hand is madly clutching a stick covered in melting ice cream.

Life Lesson #2: White Tea is No Substitute for Knowledge, and Will Not Sustain You Through a Test on Ancient and Foreign Literature

This, too, has been a difficult blow to take. I was convinced that the Snapple would see me through the test, but I was sadly mistaken. Perhaps I did not sacrifice sufficiently at the altar of White Tea. Perhaps White Tea is jealous of Demon Mathematics, at whose altar I have been spending much time. Whatever the case, I failed miserably.

Life Lesson #3: Some Conversations, No Matter How Innocently Academic in Nature, are Not Meant to be had In Public

...

No. Just... no.

O John Green, you are a marvelous man, so funny and clever and entertaining. Paper Towns was brilliant and a fantastic read. Your videos make me snort tea out of my nose. And John Green, if I didn't love you so much, I might hate you.

Because you, along with the nefarious darkiknowwell, have conspired to rob me of a good night's rest. I began Paper Towns with the best of intentions, John Green. I was going to read a chapter or two before retiring for the night. Three hours later, there were only 60 pages left in the book.

Why, John Green, why?

And then, John Green, you committed one of the cardinal sins of fiction-writing.

You switched tenses.

With no warning.

With two chapters left.

I should hate you for that. But I can't. Because you, John Green, are still brilliant, and still clever. And Paper Towns was still amazing.

So, in conclusions, John Green, I leave you with the acronym of the NerdFighters (of which you are a founder and I a member).

DFTBA!

I love bookshops? Don't you? Who doesn't? And if you don't, why are you here? Moving on.

As I said, I love bookshops, but lately they seem to hate me. Books-A-Million (I know, I know. My personal library is more interesting and inclusive than their entire store. But I digress.) is the best bookshop in Nowhere, USA. It's a desperate relationship, what's between B-A-M and me. Twice in the past month I've been accosted by other customers, both of whom have asked for my help in locating a book before realizing that I do not, in fact, work there. I suppose I look bookish and in need of a pay raise?

The incidents of mistaken identity are amusing but harmless. B-A-M in general is harmless. Except for its queer habit of sticking its erotica right bloody next to its itty-bitty classics section. Very embarrassing to pass from a shelf containing Homer and Beowulf to one sporting Bed On Arrival. And then there was this incident at the Customer Service Counter.

RIGHTEOUS EMPLOYEE: Can I help you?
ME: Ah, yes. Do you have Sexing the Cherry?
RIGHTEOUS EMPLOYEE: Sexing the where?
ME: Sexing the Cherry.
RIGHTEOUS EMPLOYEE: I do not think so.
ME realizing how it sounds: Oh, God, no! I mean, yes. But also no.
RIGHTEOUS EMPLOYEE: I think you might want to go now.
ME: I am not the one who shelves the erotica right next to the classics!

In less insane news, the muse is back to stay. Apparently it was raining on her beach. Also: have gotten Paper Towns from darkiknowwell for my birthday. Much love to her and to the hilarious John Green. Nerdfighters FTW!

I have news! Much exciting news! (Though it unfortunately does not concern a certain vacationing muse.) Ahem. I've just been ice-skating for the first time in my life!

For shame, you may say, the first time? But I have an excuse; there are very few ice-skating rinks here in the Middle of Nowhere, Mid-America. We don't get much snow, though it can be cold. Very cold. But in any case, I have just conquered the ice for the first time. Though conquered is a little over the top.

It was much, much fun, and darkiknowwell saved me from hurting myself too much. Though I still have to kill my little sister for pulling or pushing me over several times. So here I am, still a bit chilled and sporting a few well-earned bruises and I ask myself, 'Why have I never done this before?'

I believe I know the reason behind it.

You see, when I was young and innocent, I once asked my father if he would take me ice-skating. "No," he said, frowning down at me. "If you fall and someone skates over your hand, all of your fingers will be cut off and it will be very painful and the hospital will have to sew your fingers back on."

I did not ask again.

This evening, happily wobbling about on the ice and trying not to fall over, I happily related the tale to Zach, laughing about how much of a liar my father was and how gullible the young, innocent me had been.

Zach, who used to play hockey and made me insanely jealous by performing crazy stunts like skating backwards (oh, the insanity!) and doing little circle-things, just shook his head sadly and proceeded to tell me that my fingers would get cut off.

I was shocked. And frightened. At any moment, I might fall and my fingers might disappear behind the razor-sharp blade of a vicious skate!

I did not fall, but am still amazed that those lies my father told me might, after all, not be lies. Frightening, that.

As anyone who's ever started a writing project of any kind will know, muses tend to disappear on vacation at the least opportune moments. My muse, who's been hanging around for a while, drinking my tea and eating my chocolate-covered pretzels (more on those later) and generally being kind and benevolent, has deserted me. Right in the middle of a few projects.

Let's be honest here. My muse? She hates me.

Most of the projects are completely unimportant. Except for the one that is totally, completely, irrevocably important. Yes, the one where I'm supposed to be writing a 6-8 minute speech (that's a lot of pages; I talk fast when I'm nervous) to give to a group of bratty little thirteen year-olds who don't give a damn. Not a damn.

I have two weeks to write this speech. I have an outline, presented to me by the class coordinator. I have instructions. I have no inspiration and no bloody muse.

My muse and I are in a vicious love-hate relationship. There are times when she'll stick around for months, bothering me at the least opportune times and making me write the most outlandish things. But at least she's there, and making herself somewhat useful.

And then there are the times (like the present) when she's gone (in Greece or Italy, I suspect) drinking fine wine and laughing at my misery.

She'd better get back soon. I'm about to resort to the ritual sacrifice routine.

From rosaleeluann

Grab the book nearest you. Right now. Turn to page 56. Find the fifth sentence. Post that sentence along with these instructions in your LiveJournal. Don't dig for your favorite book, the coolest, the most intellectual. Use the CLOSEST.

From Selected Poems of Edwin Arlington Robinson:

"You do not know them, but I do:
I know the way they used to shine."

And yes, that was the closest book to me, I swear.

So, ummm, I donate blood every couple of months. Because it's a good thing to do and, the ways things are going, I'm likely to need a blood transfusion at some point in my life. What goes around comes around, and so on and so forth.

But for some reason yesterday's donation left me feeling quite awful. Awful in the sense of headaches and cold sweats and downright damn poor health. So I've been moping around all day, laying in bed and staring at the ceiling and... I swear to God if that damn weather radio goes off just once more!

And just a thought: the Red Cross's slogan is Give Life. Know why? Because Give Blood sounds like it's an organization of blood-sucking vampires.

I have a confession: I hate the Post Office. Not just one, mind you. All of them. Every. Single. One. Which makes the fact that I ship things books regularly extremely... painful. Every time I walk into one of those horrid, official-smelling buildings, I start to clench my teeth. By the time I actually get to the point where I have to talk to a clerk, I'm so on edge that I'm very near to insanity. Take today, for instance:

CLERK: Can I help you?
ME: I need to send these books. You know, through the mail. If you please.
CLERK sounding very bored and official: Would that be media or first class?
ME: What is the difference, please?
CLERK: *sighs*
ME: Send them cheaply. Because I have no job and all the money I have comes from the pockets of those who are foolish enough to stand near me in line.
CLERK: Of course it does.
ME: Send then all cheaply except for this one. This one is special.
CLERK: Of course it is.
ME conspiratorially: If you can get this to the addressee by Christmas, I shall give you my soul. Or my firstborn child. Whichever you prefer.
CLERK: Read the sign! *points to sign*

SIGN: The US Post Office will no longer except souls or firstborn children in exchange for services rendered.

When you write something that others are going to read, whether it be a book, a paper, something online or an ad for shampoo, it's nice and proper to actually put some time and effort into it. Whipping it up in an instant without any regard for spelling, grammar, or intelligence is demeaning not only to yourself but to your reader.

Show some self-respect.

Show others respect.

Period.

The secular part of the holidays always brings me interesting challenges. You see, I love getting new things. Books in particular. And when I have money to burn, I go to a bookstore and emerge two or three hours later, leaving a trail of destruction and empty bookshelves in my wake, cackling in glee as I croon over my new loves. Never mind that I have ten or so other people to buy for, never mind that I have no time to pleasure shop, never mind that I have a monumental stack of unread books threatening to engulf my room. Such a day was today.

So when I slammed through the bookstore's tinted glass doors, my arms full of books and my wallet considerably emptier, I took a moment to think to myself, Wasn't I Christmas shopping for my sister and my father? Where did all these Neil Gaiman books come from?

I was then faced by an interesting conundrum. I could either live with my horrid deed or give the Gaiman books to my dearest father, who has fine taste in literature. But I would have to read the books myself first, just to make myself feel better. You see the difficulty. So I have remedied the problem thusly.

As I seem to be facing something like a academic/intelligent block, the two packages of candles are to soothe my tormented inner muse. Likewise the Gaiman anthologies. I need Gaiman to awaken my dormant muse! I must have it! I nearly bought a sock hat, but even creative death couldn't convince me to walk into Old Navy on my own.

In other news, last night was ShantyTown, a night when innocent, foolish young people raise homelessness awareness by sleeping outside in cardboard boxes and begging in the streets. Which isn't very realistic, because begging is mostly illegal in my town. Now, before you question my sanity, I have done this in previous years, and this year was far from the worst.

The impressively frightening peak came two years ago. Imagine the scene, if you will. It's dark, cold, and two o'clock in the morning. A youth minister and two teenage girls are seated around a fire, huddled together for warmth.

LESLEY: It's so cold. I can't feel my toes.
YOUTH MINISTER: That's the way, Lesley! Raise homelessness awareness by pretending to have frostbite!
LESLEY: My toes are in fact too stiff to move.
LIV: Is my nose still on my face? I can't tell.

At this point, a frightening looking man in shirtsleeves approaches the fire. He stands a distance away and casually toys with the 6-inch Bowie knife in his pocket before informing us that his name is Paco and he has, in fact, just been released from jail.

YOUTH MINISTER: Ah. Please go away.
PACO: I'm going to my mother's house. To sleep there.
YOUTH MINISTER: Please go away now.
PACO: Don't get thrown in jail, girls. The people there aren't very nice.
LESLEY: Yes, I can see that.
YOUTH MINISTER: stands up and attempts to make himself look larger Please to be going away, right now!
PACO: Your fire looks warm.
LESLEY to self: It is warm, scary man, as warm as you are frightening.
YOUTH MINISTER: GO AWAY, SCARY MAN, BEFORE I CALL THE POLICE AND YOU GO BACK TO JAIL.

And thus ended the saga of Paco.

No, really. I've been sort of slow with my reading lately, what with the major upswing in school work and all, and I'm making my slow, analytical way through Adventures of Huckleberry Finn at the moment, so how about a break for a little look at something cool?

Perspective is what makes the world go 'round, and it's what makes stories interesting. And conflict. And it's what makes grey black and white. Or vice versa. And when one brings in nature, nurture, and society, things get a little crazy. It's not a question of morality (or at least, I don't think so) but a question of perspective. And when looking at a problem, one really needs to see and understand both sides. In books, that's achieved beautifully by offsetting Beowulf (one of my personal favorites) with John Gardner's Grendel.

So what happens when black and white become grey?

It's always interesting, when I try to write, how blank my mind seems to go. I'll search for that one word, that one special word that my writing completely hinges around, and it won't be there. There's no explanation for this phenomenon- it simple happens. No thesaurus can ever compensate for actually knowing the word yourself, and so, in a disgrace, I was forced to quit my writing this evening due to a lack of words. English, my beloved, seems to fail me, but I understand that it is simply my failure of English.

And now, for a little book reviewing. On recommendation from the lovely blog bookshelves of doom, I read Madapple by Christina Meldrum.

( No matter, her warning is always the same: deadly. )

I leave you with the words of Winston Churchill:

-"You are drunk, sir. Very, very drunk."
-"And you are ugly, madam. Very, very ugly. And in the morning I shall be sober and you shall still be ugly."