In other news, here is a cool new word I found:
AUTOSCHEDIASM
It comes from Greek, auto is self and schedios is casual or offhand. Together they make a noun that refers to improvisation or something extemporized.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Snow Day
It has been snowing since I got up at 6 this morning, and it has not yet stopped or slowed. My car is buried under at least a foot of snow, but I don't have to go anywhere today because school was cancelled YEAH! An extra day to study for my Euro test. Another plus, it's beautiful, beautiful, beautiful outside.
But I have a problem with snow days; when I am alone for long periods of time, I think. Generally I just depress myself. Today was not much different.
I tried to figure out what inanimate object I am most like. I had already decided that I was m ore like an inanimate object than an animate one, you see. At first I thought perhaps a dead leaf. It lets itself drift about stiffly and then crumbles into pieces beneath a boot or buries itself beneath a pile of other dead leaves and rots. Then, the lamp on the little desk in the living room caught my eye. I thought, "I am like a lamp." I am purely decorative. People light me up when they will, use whatever illumination I provide, and turn me off again. Then I realized that I could not be a lamp, for a lamp may be turned on, and the reason that I was comparing myself to these various inanimate objects was my uncertainty that I was at all sexual. So, now I was thinking about lamps and sexuality and I noticed that lamps are, in fact, rather sensuous. The squat, rounded base I was picturing seemed like some sort of fertility symbol. I was reminded of that voluptuous prehistoric stone Venus that appears in the first chapter of every art history book I've ever read. The lamps are pregnant, I suppose. And even more appropriately, pregnant women are often said to be glowing. Then, I realized the lamp I had had in mind was hidden away in the back room, and the lamp that I was actually looking at had a very straight base, more like a brass dowel. In fact, as I looked around the room, every lamp that I could see was long and thin. The only one that was even slightly bulbous was clear glass with a straight metal rod inside. I cannot decide whether this is another example of my family's sexual repression, or whether it means that my mother (as she is the one who decorated the house and chose the lamps) is somehow dominated by my father, the only male in the household and therefore the only one to whom a phallic symbol could refer. Sometime within the week I shall take inventory of all our lamps. Maybe there are curvy ones upstairs?
Gah! This is what happens. I can't even decide whether or not this sounds idiotic yet. It probably does and I won't be able to see it objectively enough to notice for months. Frustration.
But I have a problem with snow days; when I am alone for long periods of time, I think. Generally I just depress myself. Today was not much different.
I tried to figure out what inanimate object I am most like. I had already decided that I was m ore like an inanimate object than an animate one, you see. At first I thought perhaps a dead leaf. It lets itself drift about stiffly and then crumbles into pieces beneath a boot or buries itself beneath a pile of other dead leaves and rots. Then, the lamp on the little desk in the living room caught my eye. I thought, "I am like a lamp." I am purely decorative. People light me up when they will, use whatever illumination I provide, and turn me off again. Then I realized that I could not be a lamp, for a lamp may be turned on, and the reason that I was comparing myself to these various inanimate objects was my uncertainty that I was at all sexual. So, now I was thinking about lamps and sexuality and I noticed that lamps are, in fact, rather sensuous. The squat, rounded base I was picturing seemed like some sort of fertility symbol. I was reminded of that voluptuous prehistoric stone Venus that appears in the first chapter of every art history book I've ever read. The lamps are pregnant, I suppose. And even more appropriately, pregnant women are often said to be glowing. Then, I realized the lamp I had had in mind was hidden away in the back room, and the lamp that I was actually looking at had a very straight base, more like a brass dowel. In fact, as I looked around the room, every lamp that I could see was long and thin. The only one that was even slightly bulbous was clear glass with a straight metal rod inside. I cannot decide whether this is another example of my family's sexual repression, or whether it means that my mother (as she is the one who decorated the house and chose the lamps) is somehow dominated by my father, the only male in the household and therefore the only one to whom a phallic symbol could refer. Sometime within the week I shall take inventory of all our lamps. Maybe there are curvy ones upstairs?
Gah! This is what happens. I can't even decide whether or not this sounds idiotic yet. It probably does and I won't be able to see it objectively enough to notice for months. Frustration.
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