Help me out here.

When is Gothic capitalized and when is it not capitalized?

Maybe I should've asked this earlier since I'm turning in my bibliography tomorrow.

Won't somebody PLEASE update their blog today?

I want to procrastinate a little longer.

I'm almost finished...

with my second annotated bibliography. And good thing, 'cause it's due Monday.

It feels kind of fruitless and pointless really. I don't have to actually write a research paper for this one -- just do the research and annotate it.

Here's the title of the would-be essay: "Like Staring at a Car Accident: Masochism and the Gothic."

Good thing I don't actually have to write this one. I've discovered that I really love abstracts before the article.


In unrelated news, the wasp, after a brief escape, is back. You have no idea how distracting a buzzing wasp can be when you're trying to read about the "dialectical-imaginative" qualities of masochism.

Diggin' in the Dirt

I just had a telephone conversation with two of my cousins. Karis is five and Ethan is three and a half. I REALLY wish I had a picture of these kids. They are two of the cutest kids in the world. No exaggeration.

This might not be fun for anyone but me, but I thought it was really cute.

Here's how the conversation went with Ethan:

Ethan: Hey.
Lauren: Hey, Ethan! What's up?
E: Umm, Karis just hit me in the head.
L: Ohh, that's no fun. But that's what big sisters do sometimes.
E: Why?
L: I don't know. But little brothers hit, too. Right? Did you know I'm a big sister?
E: No. Did you hit your brothers?
L: Yep. Sure did. But they hit me, too.
E: But you don't hit them no more?
L: Nope 'cause they got bigger than me. Now I like 'em.
E: You like 'em now that you're growed-up?
L: Yep.
E: But guess what! Next year I'm gonna be at the same school as Karis! At the pre-K!
L: Whoa. Man. You're getting old, huh?
E: Yep. I'm gettin' BIIIIG.

-- Then Karis gets the phone --

Karis: Hey, Lauren.
Lauren: Hey, Karis! Whatcha doin'?
K: Well, me and Ethan were diggin' outside and I got dirt in my eye.
L: Ow. Did it hurt?
K: No. It just felt...(long pause)...dirty.
L: Oh, well, I'm glad it didn't hurt.
K: But I don't really know how dirty feels, though.
L: Me, either. What were you digging for?
K: Lava.
L: Whoa, cool! D'you find any?
K: Not yet, but we're gonna dig tomorrow, too.
L: You know what? My brothers and I used to dig on this big dirt hill. We were looking for buried treasure. We didn't ever find any, though.
K: You're so silly! You can't find treasure in Georgia!
L: Yeah, I guess we're not close enough to the ocean, huh?
K: Nope. But if we lived closer to where Pirates live, you would probably find some.
L: Yeah, you're probably right.
K: But we do live close to Florida!
L: Yeah, have you been to Florida recently?
K: Yes! Very recently! I went with my daddy's cousin. He likes for us to call him (something in Turkish). That means big brother. Okay, 'bye!

Man, I love kids.

IronKids Bread

When I was a kid my parents were health freaks. We could only have carbonated beverages once in a blue moon. We never had any kind chips or little snacky foods unless it was graham crackers. We ate balanced meals EVERY night. You can ask my brothers. One night Parker stayed at the table 'til the wee hours of the morning until he ate all of his spinach. When he finally ate it, he threw it all up. (Okay, maybe it wasn't the wee hours of the morning, but we always ate dinner at six o'clock, and it was definitely dark outside by the time he finished.) When I went to my friend Keri's house, I always pigged out on Domino's Pizza, Dr. Pepper, and Dorito's until I was sick.

The worst thing, though, was that we had to eat wheat bread. That's right, when most kids were eating PB&J with Sunbeam with the crust cut off, the Duffey kids were eating whole wheat bread and turkey. I HATED it. I always asked my mom for IronKids Bread. "Mama, it has just as much calcium as wheat bread! It says so on the commercial." But my mom wasn't havin' it. She knew what refined flour would do to a kid's intestines.

But here's the kicker: My mom bought a loaf of the Kroger equivalent of IronKids Bread a couple of months ago. Maybe more than a couple of months. In fact, I'll say it's been a few months. I haven't touched the stuff, but prefer my 9-grain wheat bread. And, yes, the "IronKids Bread" is still around. Not a speck of mold. (Months, I tell you.) Mmm, preservatives. (The commercial didn't say anything about that.)

This isn't exactly a butterfly...

I have a pet wasp. It's as much of a pet as a pet can be without actually being able to pet it. (Think of fish here. Although, as a kid I definitely tried to pet my fish a few times. I had a marble molly that suffered the effects of being pet one too many times. But she ate her babies so I was a little mad at her anyway.)

So as not to sound completely whacko, let me explain. In the room that I use for all of my studying which, I guess, could be labeled my "study," the windows are the old roll-out kind. Except there is one particular window in my study that does not, in fact, roll out.

A few months ago, a red wasp found his way into the space between the two panes and the screen. (Why are wasps "he's"?) I can't open the window to let him fly out. The screen isn't the kind that is easy to remove from the inside. So the wasp has been stuck for a few months.

I've been wondering when he is ever going to die and join the rest of his bug friends at the bottom of the window sill. But this little guy has a serious will to live, apparently.

So I've been feeling sorry for him. I mean, that's stupid, right? I got stung by red wasps so many times during my childhood that I should just laugh a sinister laugh and watch him die slowly. But it's sad that they have such a short lifespan and that this wasp is forced to spend a vast majority of his life not being able to fly in open air and being forced to look at the exoskeletons of his dead friends.

Today I walked around the outside of my house, braved the overgrown holly bushes and tried to force open the window from the outside. I could only open it maybe an inch wide and I propped it open with a rock. The wasp still can't find his way out. I'm staring at him right now. I did all I can do. The rest is up to him.

Okay. So I am whacko.

Butterflies, flowers, hearts, and sunshine.

I've been thinking... Why have I been on a serious streak with all of my blog posts lately? I mean, I'm really happy right now. I should be reflecting that with my posts.

So I'm gonna.

Just as soon as I think of something to write about.

And it's going to be gooood.

And I have finished one annotated bibliography.

Nice.

Forget the Hiatus.

I just found an interesting quote. It's referencing the Progressive Era (1880-1920) but I think it's even more relevant now.

"... (Intellectuals) had no direct responsibility for practical affairs, no first-hand knowledge of the world's workings, and hence were free to demand that reality be something other than what it was or could be.

... Intellectuals may be intellectually negligible, but they are an important cultural force nonetheless. Because they wield the power of language and symbols, their values and ideas are broadcast by the press, movies, television, universities... Thus, intellectuals are the influential out of all proportion to their numbers. Worse, it may well be that their leftist political and cultural attitudes are permanent, beyond the reach of rational argument.

... The inner need for pervasive meaning was satisfied through most of history in Western civilization by religion. But as religious faith began a retreat, beginning in the 18th century and proceeding apace in the nineteenth and twentieth, the intellectuals' need for meaning did not decline but remained urgent. Now, however, meaning must be found in a secular belief system. It is difficult to think of anything that would fit this specification for most intellectuals other than politics. ...To be a civil religion, however, this politics cannot be the politics of mundane clashes of material interests and compromises; it must be a politics of ideology."

From Robert H. Bork. Slouching Towards Gomorrah. (New York: Harper Collins, 1996)

Do you agree? Talk amongst yourselves.

Hiatus

I think I'm going to give the blog a little break until about May 1st.

(By then I'll have my 2 annotated bibliographies, my final short story draft, my research paper, and one of my finals turned in.)

Iran to move toward large-scale enrichment

This really scares me. Not because I actually believe that Iran will build nuclear weapons but because I'm afraid our leaders are going to decide we should be the disciplinarian again. At our own cost. We can't handle another war. We can't even handle this one.

Story here.

First Impressions of Earth

Man, the new Strokes album is amazing!

I thought it was time for a change.

You know I like to change things up every once in a while. So I thought it was time for a new template. One of these days, I'm going to make my own background, but until then...

Now I just wish I could find a dress that has this brown flowered print on it.

(Dang, when I republished my blog, I lost my sitemeter. Now all of my stats are gone. I'm starting again with 0 visitors. Who will be my first visitor?)

Mama Jo

I talked to my grandma for a few hours tonight. She is, without a doubt, one of my soulmates. She understands me like no one else ever has. Gosh, I love that woman.

Without getting too sentimental -- nah. You know what? I'm going to get sentimental. I don't do it often.

Mama Jo (that's what we call her) will be 82 this year. She's still taking care of my grandpa who has Alzheimer's. She has really bad arthritis. And the problems with my grandpa have led her to a pretty severe state of depression. But Mama Jo hardly ever complains. She listens with patience to everyone else's problems (including mine). She sees and understands people with a depth that I will probably never reach. She has such compassion for others because she does see them so wholly. Being around her for even ten minutes confirms my belief in a loving Creator and the goodness of others.

When I'm around her, I just unload all of the thoughts and feelings that I haven't told anyone or even expressed fully to myself. She just draws it out of me with a kind word and a half-smile. She is the deepest thinker I know. She sees everything as it truly is -- all of the faults and perfections. She sees so many dimensions to people that I could only hope to see.

I can't explain her. I can't describe her. She is who I want to become.

Is charity dead?

(I realize the photo's a little corny, but I was getting some really cheesy pictures when I googled 'charity'.)

The other day in my Literary Theory class, I got into a bit of a heated discussion with the professor and another student. They both maintained that there was no such thing as true charity because charity is ultimately self-serving. I don't usually talk in that class because the professor's kind of hot, and I don't want to embarrass myself by saying something stupid. But I'd had enough when they matter-of-factly stated that there was no such thing as charity.

I mumbled something from my seat in the back of the classroom and the professor saw my mouth move, I guess. He asked me what I had to add to the discussion. I said, "That's a personal belief, not a truth." When prompted, I added, "I believe in true compassion. And true compassion leads to true charity." The other student, a guy that's probably in his late twenties (and thus, knows everything because he's a couple of years older than me) said, "But even when you do something nice for someone else, you'll feel better about yourself."

I had a lot to add to that comment, but I could feel my face getting red. So I shut up. (Sometimes I really hate that I'm of Irish descent.) I was getting a little agitated because I KNEW that this guy thought that I was being naive, that I'd never actually thought my argument through. But I have. Countless times. And I've decided that true charity is pretty illusive -- it's a slippery little sucker -- but it is possible. A person that commits a compassionate act without a single thought of feeling good about themselves has become truly charitable. Right?

When the class was over and I was walking out, the professor said, "Hey, I didn't want to offend you. I'm just a pretty cynical guy and sometimes it comes across a little too abruptly." I just said, "I'm pretty cynical myself sometimes. No problem." But what I MEANT to say was, "I can be pretty cynical myself sometimes. But I want to believe the best of people. I try to see redeeming qualities in others. I want to believe in kindness and goodness. In fact, I'm learning to look for those qualities instead of the bad ones. I'm trying."

What do you think? I want to know. Is charity dead? Or was it ever really alive in the first place? Can man be truly charitable?

Atlanta vs. New York City v.2

Looks like there's another strike against Atlanta... We have fine people like Cynthia McKinney representing our lovely state. I could say a lot about this whole debacle, but who cares, really?

For the story, go here.

What's the score? New York: 2, Atlanta: 0

(By the way, we workshopped my short story yesterday. It went pretty well. I got some good feedback. Glad that's over, though.)