Saturday, October 25, 2008
The space-heater in my bedroom must not be situated within three feet of anything, particularly, anything inflammable. Upon survey of my room, one discerns first the futon mattress on the floor. Next one may note the disassembled, wooden futon frame stacked to one side below the windows looking out onto nothing but the ivy that covers the side of the house. To the right, behind the space heater, stands a near-ceiling-high wooden bookshelf, containing at least two hundred books. On the floor, to one side, binders, documents, and more books (mostly dictionaries and writing supplements) rest neatly, if undecorously. On the mattress are piled six stacks of books and notebooks relating to my graduate classes and the section of beginning Latin I teach. If I shift heavily in sleep, these will bury me. If the space heater sets them alight, they will bury me in flames.
I spent the day reading about medieval archaeology and prosopography. At midday I broke off on a walk to the student recreation center, to read the first act of Kleist's Penthesileia on a recumbent bike, and then to swim about twenty laps. All this conducted in blissful solitude.
I do not like anyone.
Labels: archaeology, bedroom, books, bookshelf, flames, futon, Heinrich von Kleist, ivy, Latin, Penthesileia, prosopography, recumbent bike, sleep, solitude, space heater, student recreation, swimming
[Lauree Frances Keith concluded this diatribe at 5:22 PM]
Deflowerment
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
I went to the main campus library last night after having spent appoximately eleven minutes on an elliptical machine at the student recreation center, which took an enormous amount of time to find, situated as it is amid numerous other buildings. I left shortly before nine in the evening, still struck aghast by the result of my inquiry into renting a locker: "There's a waiting-list at least a year long." The blue-eyed pale-face (I have yet to grow accustomed to living in an area where I am darker than most of the other inhabitants) at the towel desk registered the expression of incredulity on my face with due professional sympathy, but I perceived my reaction startled him a little nevertheless. I proceeded downstairs to inspect the locker room, which is indeed smaller than the one adjoining my junior high gym. This scratches plans for daily showers there before school.
One must check out some book to complete the activation process for one's library card; I chose three books by Alexander Woolcott, a figure about whom I have known but never read in detail. This morning I read his words about A. E. Housman, describing the time when Housman was a marginal professor taking a set of his poetry to a publisher. Housman declined the offer by the publisher to accept royalties:
Professor Housman had written some poems because he could not help himself, and an extremely painful experience he had found it. He would no more think of selling these things which had been wrung from his troubled heart than he would have cut off his hand and sent it to market.The thought immediately sprung to my head, illustrative of Housman's nobility and my lack thereof: I would with little forethought cut off my hand and sell it, if I thought it would fetch anything. Nevermind writing anything worthy of publication.
Yesterday I began a sympathy diet with a high school friend, who currently resides in New York. I am not fat, to be sure, but I am just as certainly not slender, either; if only to find clothes that fit, among other reasons, I need to drop weight. Weigh-in: 145.
Labels: A. E. Housman, Alexander Woolcott, diet, elliptical, friends, losing weight, New York, poetry, professionalism, publication, school, student recreation, writing
[Lauree Frances Keith concluded this diatribe at 7:05 AM]
Successfully Evasive of Cockroach Attack
Monday, May 12, 2008
Showering at the Rec Sunday morning, I spied a roach the size of my palm climbing along the wall... toward my towel. I pulled the towel back from the wall and observed Gregor creep around the wall and out of sight, presumably to return to his nest to tell all his friends he saw me naked. I made a mental note that Gregor should be destroyed if we would again encounter each other, but not in seriousness; a roach that size would easily hold me in a headlock. As I stepped out, I looked around to determine Gregor's whereabouts, to dissuade him of any notion he might have that, because I spared his life the first time we met, we were then friends, and he might, hiding in my backpack, accompany me back to the Lauree Lair.
Gregor had, in fact, crept underneath the overhang of the door opening out of the shower, presumably to leap onto my head as I exited. This I managed to avoid, as I saw him first. I dressed quickly, since I had forgotten to bring Rodrigo, my boxcutter.
I meant to begin this with my thoughts on Romans 7, but no one would find them worth reading.
Oooohhh... kitties!
Labels: backpack, boxcutter, cockroach, Gregor, kitties, Romans 7, showering, student recreation, The Lauree Lair, towel
[Lauree Frances Keith concluded this diatribe at 2:39 PM]