yrmencyn: (Default)
This is really more for my own notekeeping than anything else, but it's a good poem.  You might as well read it (oh, and this one has the same typesetting problems as I've had in setting my own poems in HTML).

Pamphlet on Ravening (Trouble in Mind. New York: Knopf, 2004.  67.)

You cannot will intoxication, vertigo, a ravening or wild
                         Love.  Of wisdom, I have plenty,

Like a keep of potted meats before the blizzard comes.
                         Of sweetness, I've a bowl of plenty, too,

Though it's against the law to harbor wonder

In the prison of the Post-Hellenic world where
                                           I move easily
Miraculous and moving

                                           On the slower barge
Up the River Hubris in the post-curiouser world.
                                                                    Wondrous:

I was a hunger artist once, as well.
                                            My bones had shone.
                                            I had rapture on my side.
yrmencyn: (armadillo)
Y'all.  There's, like, a freaky parasite in my body.  Or at least that's the interpretation I've decided to run with.  See, I've been having these awful muscle pains in my left shoulder region for a few days now.  This morning I woke up and felt better, which was an immense relief.  Immense, that is, until halfway across High St. (as in, I was jogging across High and this happened at about the turn lane), I suddenly felt like somebody shot me with a rubber bullet.

The sensation hasn't really gone away, and that was about eight hours ago.  Now, that's not to say it hasn't changed.  The intensity's gone down a bit (no thanks to the cocktail of an 800mg ibuprofen and a Tylenol 3 I took, which seem to have done essentially bupkis) -- I'm able to sit at a computer and type now, which would have been unthinkable around, say, six.  But the really interesting thing is that the Godawful Intense Epicenter of Doom has wandered laterally, and is now centered on my upper tricep, shooting lines of ache and numb down my arm occasionally.  Except when it wanders back toward my scapula.  I've decided it's easiest to envision this condition as the result of a muscle-walking spider wandering around under my skin.  You know, like you do.

So today's been a wash, basically.  I did manage to print out poems for tomorrow and read them, although I haven't commented on them.  And I did do the [agonizingly dull] reading for tomorrow's translation seminar (boy, will I be glad when we're done reading the German theorists), though I haven't written a response yet (qv earlier comment on recentness of sitting at computer abilities).  So now that I'm managing to be marginally functional, I need to buckle down and get things done.  Either that or go to bed stat and get up at, oh, six a.m.  Which will never happen.

ETA: I forgot to mention the best thing I've done for myself today (other than going to Cup O' Joe for espresso beans): I have some pigeon peas that I use mainly as pie weights when blind baking a crust. So, in need of localized hot treatment, I poured them in a sock and microwaved them for a minute. So good! Though if my pains continue tomorrow, I'm going to look like a crazy person with my Boy Scout-sock beanbag.

-----

In other news, somebody translated William Carlos Williams' "This Is Just to Say" into lolcat.

click me! )
yrmencyn: (qc - drunk)
One of these days I'll write a real entry, but for now I'll just say that the wedding was lovely, the drive back uneventful, and now I'm here back in BR.

Here's a poem I wrote en route back.  I should note that as I wrote it, the last info I had on TS Chris, from Thursday afternoon, was that it was scheduled to become a hurricane and be at the entrance to the Gulf this afternoon, instead of petering out into a low-pressure area just off of Cuba.

Jackson, Mississippi, with its obelisk aloft )
yrmencyn: (qc - drunk)
Today at work?  Slower than yesterday.  I know, how is that possible?  But it was.  And tomorrow will only be slower: we pulled one chart for tomorrow.  One.  And actually, we didn't pull it so much as note that Kelli already had it on her desk.  SLOW.  I think I'll have to bring a book or something tomorrow.  Keep a stack of charts handy, to be sure, so I can appear to be doing something productive, but realistically?  There won't be anything to produce, unless Ashley or Kelli give me lab lists to pull.  I can't believe I'm wishing for lab lists.  Oh, God, only one more day, then it's camp time, blessed blessed camp time, where all I have to worry about is making sure kids don't kill themselves or others, and that there is, for example, at least one toilet seat per ten campers, accounted separately by sex (ACA regulation SF-16).

Today at work was slow enough that I wrote.  It was, in fact, not the best stuff I've ever written, but what do you want?  It was written with a drug pen on pink paper left over from -- I think -- running off lipid sheets.  So there's that whole 8th grade emo thing going on, and whaaa whatever.  Writing as a habitual discipline and all that jazz.  Oh, and as always when I'm working in odd tongues, ye old back-referencing disclaimer-type link.

pálabres )

Thank God.

Jun. 19th, 2006 12:18 am
yrmencyn: (qc - drunk)
Well, it's something at least.

Subsiding to matte )
yrmencyn: (qc - drunk)
Well, I mean, not everything: the car's still broken.  I had forgotten, however, the oven-like nature of the garage, which has baked my trunk bone-dry, so that's nice.  And last night I managed to write the poem that I'd been working on; it didn't come out as originally envisioned, but I think I got most of the touchstones.

Si ça fait orage )

ETA: Forgot to mention. I talked to Susannah on Monday, and now I have a better idea of what I'm doing at CBC this summer. Apparently I'm to teach Drama and function as something which... isn't named as such, but which sounds to be an amalgam of a Senior Counselor and an Assistant Program Director. As she said it, teach drama in the morning, walk around in the afternoon making sure everything's going smoothly (or whatever schedule happens). No cabin this summer, seems.
yrmencyn: (food)
I seem to have just broken a wineglass.  Blast.  I'm very annoyed, because it wasn't even mine and thus I feel compelled to replace it *rolls eyes*.  Hélas.

So, let's see.  A veritable bevy* of food-related items. 
1. DSC00014
I have eaten a lot of pistachios recently.  I bought a bag of them in some gas station in... I think Kentucky, but maybe Tennessee?  Anyway, I ate them all the way back from KFLC, spitting them into a soda fountain cup.  The shells, les voici (plus from other days afterward, of course).

2.  DSC00018
I made Giada de Laurentiis' Roman-style chicken tonight.  Well, kind of.  My memory failed me yesterday, and I bought pancetta instead of prosciutto, d'oh.  Still tastes good, nevertheless.  Oh, and I should have brought the chicken to room temperature before browning, then it would have... uh... browned.  Luckily I had some extremely gelatinous chicken stock/drippings left from a while back, so that makes up a lot of the lost flavor.

3.  John Folse (famous Louisiana chef) is hosting/catering a Friends of French event next Wednesday.  The plates are $50 apiece.  Apparently faculty had been instructed that they must invite (i.e. pay for) a student.  I had not gotten an invite (we'll skip over my being miffed, since the faculty member who likes me most... lives in New Orleans and doesn't associate with rest of the French Dept.), and thus I was very sad.  Let us observe the menu I was missing:
Canapés: Duck Rillette, Almond Mushroom Duxelle, Spicy Shrimp
Soup: Bouillabaisse
Salade Niçoise
Entrée: Coq au vin
Dessert: Baba au rhum
I mean, Goddam, how can I not be there?  And then today a little bird tells me Caroline didn't want to choose somebody, and just said "assign me somebody."  Well, she was never assigned anyone, so I assigned myself to her.  Now as long as there's still space left I get to eat the tastiness.  Whee!!!

4.  I adore Abita's seasonal beers.  Their current seasonal beer?  A "harvest lager," which is a nice crisp lager with -- get this -- a light taste of Ponchatoula strawberries.  It's delicious, much less fruity than a lambic but much more rounded than your standard beer.

&c )

* bevy is herein defined as "three or more"
yrmencyn: (Default)
The main problem with having class only one day a week is that I always think "eh, I've got a while yet to do <whatever>," I put things off, and then I spend Thursdays, especially between classes, in a maelstrom of frantically completing readings/translations/presentations/whatever.  It's a little exhausting.  Today's assignment du jour was a presentation for Occitan class, which I had, of course, put off.  I will give myself minor props for having responsibly done Actual Library Research on Tuesday to choose my poem to present, but then I sort of didn't do anything on Wednesday.  Wise move, Bierschenk, very wise.  So, I didn't really get much of the reading for today done, being too busy finishing up a translation/minor analysis/blah sheet (you know, the sketchy notes you write to yourself to help prod your brain into regurgitating the crap it's been tossing up like a Yellowstone mudpot while you work on the piece to be presented).  And then Carla, oh Carla, she went first and gave a dazzling presentation that pulled in bloody Julia Kristeva and made casual reference to Lacan and Marx (to be fair we've dabbled in some Lacanian and Marxist theory in class, so that's not too out of wack).  Great.  I wing this shit, dammit.

Nevertheless, the presentation went off pretty well.  I did have a moment of panic when Stone asked me if reading the poem (which enlightens class tensions between noble and non-noble trobadors) had clarified my understanding of "The Kohler"... I blinked while my brain scurried rapidly around inside my skull, trying desperately to figure out what the bloody hell he was talking about.  Eventually some perceptive synapse mentioned to the others that this was probably the Marxist article that I had unaccountably failed to read despite my best intentions.  Some rapid hemming and hawing eventually led me to the code of courtly love compiled by <insert name of monk that's in my notes here>, which made, if not an apt surrogate, at least a reasonable diversion that I could expound upon.  (Dr. Stone, if you ever happen to read this, er... oops?).  Also I again mixed up the verbs jazer and jauzer, which is just getting stupid, and I think I'll get them tattooed with proper translation, one on each inner forearm.  Since one means 'to sleep with' and the other, basically, 'to cum' (honestly couldn't tell you which is which), that will be quite the conversation starter.  As a sidenote to the ja(u)zer thing, I started blushing furiously when he pointed out the resultant translation error.  This had absolutely nothing to do with the content -- I can talk about pretty much anything in an academic context without anything more than an amused smirk on my face, just ask my Pynchon class of Spring Qtr 2004 -- but rather with being wrong.  I can't help it, and it drives me absolutely nuts!  If I'm wrong, I'm not even usually too upset about being wrong, cause hey, it happens and life's too short to care too deeply about it, but nevertheless my face erupts in an upswelling of blood that I can feel.  It's beyond ridiculous.  Feh.

Carla said to me after class that I should stop "putting [my]self down" after presentations (I said something to the effect of "and, as usual, my presentation just sort of trails off into the dust" to finish tonight).  She said "I used to do the same thing, to make myself look better, but I'll tell you the same thing a friend told me: you don't need to, your presentations are great."  She's got a point, I'm sure, except that I'm not being self-deprecating in a reverse-self-aggrandizement manouver, at least not consciously (there's no accounting for the subconscious), I'm just... that way.  And in this particular case, I just honestly hadn't planned out an ending, and I figured humor was better than saying "Uh, that's it."  Hard to make people understand, really.

The upside to the once-a-week thing is that I usually feel relieved on Thursday night.  Not relaxed as such, mind you, but generally relieved.  I actually do feel relaxed tonight, having eaten my chicken w/ black bean sauce and curled up in bed with Anthony Bourdain's A Cook's Tour: In search of the perfect meal.  I adore Bourdain's writing.  He's the same one who did Kitchen Confidential (now adapted into another in a long line of good shows canned by the braintrust at FOX).  He is quite possibly the funniest food writer I know of, and certainly the most vulgar.  He curses, heaps aspersions on other cooks, rhapsodizes on loving oysters, generally fails to give a fuck.  I love it.  None of that pretension garbage.  Anyway, read his books.  A+++ WOULD READ AGAIN.

Also in the recommended reading category, a book I finished a couple of days ago, Jonathan Safran Foer's Everything Is Illuminated.  It's the story of the narrator, Jonathan Safran Foer's, trip to the Ukraine to find the woman who saved his grandfather from the Nazis.  The interleaving storylines, the interplay among metanarratives, the use of language as a far more malleable and expressive medium than it's usually understood as... it's beautiful.  It's brilliant.  It's deeply moving.  I nearly cried in Highland Coffees when I finished it, because there was such a delicate bittersweetness in its conclusion that I was honestly surprised.  The characters unfold slowly, almost imperceptibly, throughout the novel, such that although they're utterly familiar at the end we can hardly recognize them as the same strangers we met in the opening scenes.  And despite my talk of interleaving and metanarrative, it's beautifully clear and lucid, with none of the emotionless, highfalutin formal experimentation that mars so many "brilliant" recent novels.  Everyone can love this book.  You need to read it, now.  If you live in BR, I'll lend it to you on the condition that I will require its return.  I cannot stress enough how serious I am in this recommendation: I avoided the book for, literally, years because I didn't believe it could possibly live up to the hype, but I was totally and completely wrong.

In terms of other fine literary stuff, we were discussing Cajun poetry in Ancelet's class today, and I started to read a chunk of one of ZR's most powerful poems, "La vérité va peut-être te faire du mal" ("The truth might hurt you"), and I accidentally got dragged into it, not only reading but reciting, performing a whole page of text.  I had so much fun, it was so wonderful.  God I love poetry.

To close this long and disjointed entry, I'll leave you with Dr. Stone's translation of a Medieval Occitan poem that he gave us last week.  It's an alternating discussion between two speakers on a moral question, a genre called partimen.  It is untitled (most medieval poems are), but I'll title it "The Ass-wind" )

ETA: I just had to add this. This is a part of my life that most none of y'all know about, since I've only gotten really obsessive since I moved down here, and usually the computer's already powered down when it happens. In fact I just booted back up to add this. I have gotten, in the past couple of years, quite persnickety about the state of my oro-nasal cavity at bedtime. In the bathroom, after peeing, I brush extensively. I scrub the back of my tongue until I set off my gag reflex twice (and I have a quite atrophied gag reflex). I snort and hock like nobody's business. I'm sure Kregg, whose bedroom is across the hall, must think that I have to extract, nightly, some sort of primordial creature with suckers and tentacles from my sinuses. It verges on both the ridiculous and the vile. But when I go to bed, at least for long enough to go to sleep, I can usually breathe halfway clearly through my nose. That's worth it. Plus the nose-octopi are a pernicious infestation which must be rooted out vigilantly.
yrmencyn: (Default)
Benedicte: Tamen en ecclesia tua non credo.

Regard now the Revenant )
yrmencyn: (qc - drunk)
Crepe myrtles really are kind of spooky sometimes, but I love them.

First Flush )

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