2005-12-05
context
�i need to be myself... i can't be no one else...�
I like that song. It's called �Supersonic.� Oasis has some pretty funk music videos. I've known �Wonderwall� since I was really young because my brother used to listen to it.
There was a blizzard going on beyond these walls. I was on my way home from a cardrive (listening and singing to the above) when it started.
I went all the way out to Heron to investigate the white mounds for my birthday party.
Number of stupid, offensive things said today: One. That I know of. But I'm probably more insensitive than I realize- that's a scary thought. Sorry.
Today I thought a lot about context. We're going to start reading Don Quijote in Spanish class and Se�ora Baca says it's important to understand the time and situation during which Cervantes (I wish I had a name with a silent �s!�) wrote it.
Context is so important. Things sometimes make so much sense.. but out of context. You put us all in a sterile, usual building every day, and there is your context. It easily crushes any imaginative whims. You crush them every day, you sit on them every time you plop down in your desk for each class. It seems we are all too bound to time and place. Circumstances that are realistic by their very nature can easily undermine or substantiate any claim.
sometimes it softly hits me in subtle waves that Petie and Sean are over. It's weird, but I still have mild realizations that they are not together anymore, they are not how I've remembered them as for so long. It strikes me as so weird sometimes. But then it's like, hey, get with it.
This poem is a lot like you: a treasure to discover. All the way back from Mr. Coble's eighth grade science class.
snow-flakes
Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.
Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.
This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.
-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
It's important to appreciate all aspects, including somberness. I like how it mentions the silence. Snow is mute. It slowly swallows up all sound, absorbing it into itself. This poem may be my lovely anthem for a while.
I really like this picture of Jon. It says a lot, even about how I feel right now.
As the silent snow descends... each flake is as graceful as... life....!!!
leesah-likes at 8:22 p.m.