I dream so many dreams, I put my heart at stake

So, I'm writing here again because I had an idea that I had to share with the world at large, or at least as large as my lj world is..

But, my exam format is quite straight-forward. There are about 15-20 questions on the exam, and you have to answer 4. To study, obviously, you go through your notes, but also you look through old exam papers to see what questions are likely to be asked, and prepare for about 6, in case they suddenly add or don't include questions in a form you can use. All this is a long lead-up to what I actually have to say.

The first exam I wrote was on early modern europe, which was beautiful because there's just so much to say from so many different perspectives. Science, philosophy, theology, politics, literature, all of it. But an important part of the european mindset was fear of the other. What this ultimately led to was my super answer of doom! Vlad the Impaler and the defense of europe against the Turk. See, this has the advantage of being both about the external other (the Turk), but also about the internal other (the vampire). So clearly, vampirism in early modern europe!

And having just done some casual 'research' on the subject (ah, wikipedia...), while Vlad the Impaler was a bit early (mid 15th C), there was a sudden vampire hysteria in the early 18th C, which would then suggest some quiet pseudo-vampiric behaviour from 1500 to 1700, the exact time period of the course. In fact, the witchcraft trials sensationalised matters to a degree that witchcraft involved such things as drinking blood and demons and whatnot. I mean, take a look at Goethe's Faust, which is also late, but gives a good picture of the witches' sabbath, or some of the records of the witch trials and the popular ideas about them. Hmm, I think I could actually have a foundation for the argument...

And this is why I'm not a good historian. I don't play with facts so much as mess around with the ideas behind the facts. But hey, it's fun!

I know, I know, I haven't updated in what, three months? four? Well, my apologies, but my lack of updating isn't likely to change much. I finally got around to getting a journal, so now my rambling thoughts are recorded on paper rather than the internet. Also, you're much more likely to get in touch with me through facebook or email than anything else.

So, I was listening to Ben Folds' 'Rocking the Suburbs' today when something hit me: 'Losing Lisa' is strangely similar to the Beach Boys' 'Good Vibrations'. The irony is the extreme difference of the natures of the two songs. In a way, the songs could serve as the meeting and break-up songs for 'Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind'. 'Good Vibrations' is the quintessential 'falling in love with someone exciting' song, while 'Losing Lisa' is a song about people moving apart, for many of the same reasons that brought them together. The lyrics don't give as accurate a depiction of the similarity of the songs, you have to listen to the music of both. Anyway, listen to both, if you don't hear it, listen again. I think it's there..

( Academic 'what the crap am I doing with my life?' questions )

Happy (belated) Thanksgiving! (by a day to all Americans who read this, and by a month and a half to all Canadians.)

P.S. Never, ever, if at all possible, take a course with a certain lecturer of a certain subject, whose name shall remain unwritten here because of privacy and self-protection. You could always ask me who it is, but then again, it's not that likely that you're likely to have the opportunity of studying under this particular individual. Ass.

So, this summer, I was chatting with one of my (several) employers. And he was saying about how there's very little as pompous and asinine as someone who knows enough to start to understand things assuming that they know enough to fully understand things. He gave as an example a nineteen-year-old saying with complete conviction that he was a medievalist, and a teenager saying to a father who'd lost his son to a miscarriage that he understood the father's pain, because he'd just broken up with his girlfriend. My friend/employer said the appropriate comment to make would be that the teenager would say that he couldn't understand how much it hurt, because he'd just broken up with his girlfriend, and that really hurt, and losing your son would be so much worse. I heard and understood it then, but just now it came back in a way that really made me learn it with my heart and not my head. I was, of all things, reading a web-comic, and one of the characters was torn away from his pregnant fiancée, given no way to get in touch with her, and then, later, had her get back in touch with him and tell him that she didn't want him in her life. His response to the crushing force of despair and loneliness he was experiencing was to try to commit suicide (ultimately unsuccessfully). The character says, "...some people say that suicide is the coward's way out. I say that they've never been to the bottom of that pit. When you're down there, you're empty. The only thing you have in the depth of your gut is a searing pain that you can't get rid of, like someone's stabbed you and twisted, like you're choking on something hot, like...it's difficult to describe. But no matter how simple another alternative may seem to the casual observer, to the person that has reached that moment of despair... ...to them, and to me, there aren't any alternatives." And I was reading this, trying not to write a paper at the time, and I thought to myself, well, suicide is the cowards' way out. And then I stopped and thought about it again, and the crushing despair that I can only start to understand, as my depression tends to be angst-fueled selfishness, and I realised that I can, to some degree, at least understand the tip of the iceberg of emotion going on here. And much as I can believe that suicide is, indeed, inherently selfish and cowardly (and there are semantics games I can play all night about what is suicide and what is not, but they don't really apply here), I can't argue it with the force or compelling power that someone who's personally experienced suicide, be it their own attempted, or the success of someone they knew. My depression, while legitimate, isn't of the importance of those who have truly suffered, unlike me.

So, I was thinking about Christmas and things I either really need or really want. And so I post an abbreviated list here, for all to see.

( Gimme Gimme Gimme (I know, so selfless of me, eh? )
Somehow, I doubt I'm going to get everything on my wishlist..

So, um, I've been in Dublin for about two weeks now, almost a full week on my own. Life in Halls (the residence) is a bit more drunken than I'd expected, but I suppose that has more to do with the amount that the Irish drink in general than anything else. The amount of drinking is about in proportion to the drunkenness, if that makes any sense. But the Warden at Halls is really cool. He's strict, but is very focused on the idea that uni is not just about the studying, but also the social aspect. He just about told people to go out partying and to if not actually get drunk, at least drink pretty regularly, even if your grades might not be quite as good. I quote: "Your degree won't get you a job. It will just get you a job interview. The social skills you learn here [in res] will get you the job." I've been meeting loads of people, and my flat is just about full. My roommate is Ciaran something, a French-Irish guy. He's cool, really laidback, and a bit of a hippy. There's a Slovakian-Belgian guy down the hall (his roomie hasn't come yet, so probably a second-year) and two Irish lads across the hall from me. They're all sound lads, and I'm not really foreseeing any serious problems, just the odd failure of people to meet initial expectations or communicate. I briefly tried to do rugby, but I'm no longer insane. I found out the difference between a year's worth of playing and oh, about fifteen years' worth. So instead I think I'm going to do fencing (Gaelic sports are based on a tryout, which I'm nowhere near good enough for). I joined the Christian Union, the Hist, the Phil (old debating societies, happy parents?), and the Historical society. I may also go for the Classics, the Theo, and/or Dance, but depends on how much time I've got. Oh, only eight hours a week for History, though German for beginners adds another 2 hours, learning for historians 1 or 2, and tutorials 2. Even so.. Oh, and the internet is a royal pain in the rear. I can't get onto AIM or MSN Messenger because of the firewalls, even though skype works. Must ask around about getting through on either IM service. And I'm realising something that I suspected for a while last year: While I miss the convenience of being home, I don't get homesick because it's time I moved out and started off on my own.

So, I am now in Dublin, I move into res on Friday, then there's a week's worth of academic frosh weekery and classes begin on the 9th. Just thought I should let myself know..

Ooh ooh, nearly forgot, I also have a mobile now, and a bank account, and I'm registered with the Garda (Irish police) –it's cuz I'm bad, and an immigrant. If anyone wants to call me now, well, that's really too bad, because I don't have anyone on the ol' friends list who's in the Euro mobile system.

It's Talk Like a Pirate Day!

Have you gotten in touch with your pirate-y side yet today? No? Then do so now!

So, I was working with bleach the other day, in a fairly un-diluted form, and I wasn't wearing gloves for most of the time I was working with it. As a result, I slightly damaged my fingertips, removing, I think, a thin layer of skin and exposing more sensitive skin to the air. This hasn't been a particularly great hardship, as the skin is already healing, but it's been an interesting experience. Because my fingers are more sensitive than usual, I notice little things in much greater detail. When I rubbed the stubble on my chin, I noticed the roughness much before I could even see hairs. I can feel the bumps and ridges and pores on my skin in ways that I had never even thought possible. I can feel the oils on my skin and how they slide on the surface of my skin and between my fingers and my skin. When I stroke my cat, I can feel the individual hairs and the thicker coat she's growing as the weather starts to turn towards autumn and winter. I know I must sound like I'm high, perhaps because I inhaled too much of the bleach, but I know that's not why. You know that feeling of being more alive than usual when you've had just enough to drink that you're feeling almost tipsy? Not drunk, not even really tipsy, because your senses aren't really dulled. You notice things and make connections between subjects that you'd never thought of together, and the next morning, when you look at the ideas that you wrote down the previous night, you still understand them and can put them to serious use. The point in a good, classy party, where the alcohol flows freely, not to get people drunk, but to stimulate conversation and observance. When used in proper amounts, alcohol brings joy. Earlier tonight, I split a bottle of Rodenbach Grand Cru (very fancy, very tasty, and very posh) with my dad, and I, at least, and probably my dad as well, hit that joy spot. It was a bit strange to have that combined with my particularly sensitive fingers, but it made washing the dishes after a bit more fun than usual, even if I ended up re-doing several pots. I guess I could conclude that sometimes we need that bleach to remove the hardened protective layers surrounding our more sensitive cores, which need to be exposed to life so we can re-experience things, but I really can't say stuff like that with a straight face, so you'll just have to imagine the last sentence being read with a very sarcastic voice, even if deep down inside I do (sorta) agree with it.

So, upon returning from Pennsic (medieval fight club/party/social/general insanity-iness) and lazing around for a week, I record a vastly shortened version of things. I fought, I marshalled, I helped out, I shopped, I partied, all in moderation. I bought my first kilt, got what I need for my first Saxon round shield, dressed up like a monk for the first time, fought in what was really a cohesive unit for the first time, camped with Settmour Swamp for the first time, went to and helped out their party for the first time, and was seen by a friend while I was wearing non-medieval clothes for the first time. There were a few more firsts, I think, but either I forget or don't feel like mentioning them. War was fun, but different. I'm no longer as interested with hanging out with the former pages as much, and I don't feel the need to be all loyal the way I used to. I guess that, for the first time, I realised that I'm playing a game, and if the other players decide to go out of their way to irritate me and those around me, or cheat, I can stop playing. The SCA has no real holds over me, and the reason I play is for friendship. I like the fighting and artsing and history, but if anyone wants to ruin it for me, I don't have to put up with it. I give respect to those above me only because I feel like playing the game, and if they forget that I don't have to give them any respect, well, I'm perfectly capable of reminding them. Anyhoo, the East won, I came back, and have been slacking or working around the house since. Most of my friends have gone off to uni by now, but I've got a month till I leave. Still, things are falling into place for Dublin, and I seem to (probably) have a place to live. Hopefully, I'll figure out some way of seeing King'sians this year, but...

So, like usual, I've been busy avoiding updating, because when interesting things happen, life's to exciting for me to update, and when life is boring, there's nothing to update about about. Fortunately for all of you, I've just experienced mild excitement, but am now bored, so I update for you, the adoring fans. Lesse, there was Ann Arbor, which was fun and food and friend filled (but no more alliteration).

Yesterday, I was going to work. Really, I was! But the stupid bus never came, so I ended up bumming around the mall for a while and then bumming around with friends. See, I hate the mall. Absolutely detest it. But I had a couple experiences that are worth telling, so I will. The first one was comedic. You know how there are often those little booths/carts in the mall? Well, this one was a modelling/acting one, where they tried to sign up people for it. Now, I have no interest in that, but as I was walking by, the woman randomly stopped me and asked if I wanted to be a model. I said no, and moved on, but the damage was done! Or something like that. Probably no one found that amusing, but it was funny to me, because that's probably one of the last things I'd expect someone to ask me. And now for the other mall story. Y'know how I said that I hate the mall? That's because I don't like the anonymity and general rudeness that happens. But I went into Hollister (for the first time ever) and found that there actually can be some politeness and friendliness at the mall. I am officially sold on Hollister, if I can ever really afford it...

Later, I went swimming, then played, um, Dynasty Warriors, I think, where I whupped around nasties for a while with friends. Then today, they went to the shore, while I did the work I was going to do yesterday, and got mild heat exhaustion. I think they got the better deal. And the thing that made my day today was a cheque from King's telling me I'd been awarded the Almon-Welsford Testimonial prize for the highest score in Latin. All $100 of this prize is in memory of the late Major Augustus Welsford, who perished in the Crimean War in 1855. I found this strangely (and morbidly) entertaining. Of course, I won't be using the money for King's stuff, but rather uni expenses at Dublin. And on that note, I'm off to ice cream, and then bed.

(On Comic Books, or something like that)

So, I, um, was reading comic books. Yeah, I suppose this does indeed make me a nerd with too much time on my hands, but if it makes things any better, they weren't MY comics. I borrowed them from a friend. Of course, to undo this, I read nine collections in ..about two and a half days. Yeah. So.

Anyway, I'm pretty sure that I prefer Marvel to DC, for the most part. I mean, Batman's pretty cool, and so are his enemies, but the others... I have no real interest to see the Superman movie because I just don't care about Superman. My first real introduction to superhero-dom was with the X-Men, and they're ..human in their super-ness. I just don't connect with the DC superheros the same way. Superman's born into his powers and it just comes naturally to him in a way that is completely different from, say, Wolverine, who has to suffer to come to grips with his nature.

But where I was really going with this: Why doesn't anyone make history comic books? And there are a few kinds of "history/historical comics" that could be done. There's the Mythological & Heroic type, that's been touched on with Conan the Barbarian. But there could be a sort of New Grimms' Fairy Tales version, with the stories from Babylonian, Egyptian, Greek, Roman, Norse, Russian, Celtic, and all sorts of other Mythologies brought to the page of comic books. There's the Historical type, which could follow the events of a particular period, or the events surrounding one individual. These would probably be the hardest to do properly, but with good research and the ability to mix text describing some of the less gripping events and the images of action... They could win awards. There's also the Historical Fiction type, which could create and focus on minor characters in major events. Of course, there would probably be a need to add little bits of fiction to the more "purely historical" ones, but that ought to be kept to a minimum.

And yes, I am fully aware of the fact that few people would read a comic book about the political wranglings of Parliament in 1732, or some such time, but I'll admit, I was thinking mostly of the Medieval era, with the wars, vicious politics, and all around bright colours. There would, of course, be characters from other eras and certain events from those other eras that would bring interest, but all in all, I think it would work, while educating people about fact.

And yeah, yeah, yeah, I know just how nerdy this suggestion really is...

You know how, when you're feeling sorry for yourself, you're supposed to go out there and do stuff? Like hanging out with friends, going to the city, going out to eat, and just generally goofing off? Well, it's really hard to get up and do crap when: A) there's no one around with whom to do stuff, B) you don't have the money, C) you don't have transportation, and D), you don't have any way of getting the money or the transportation. Yeah, so the feeling sorry for yourself just circles back on itself. Also, job hunting is stupid, and I ought to take a page from turquoisexkiss's book and start selling stuff I've made. 'Course, first, I'd have to start making stuff...

So, now that I am 19, I shall try to catalogue a few things that I know with absolute certainty:

Girl Scout/Guide cookies (the thin mint ones, of course) are best when you stick them in the freezer, forget about them, and then find them on a hot summer day.
Music should sound best live, and when you know the band.
Graham crackers and semi-sweet dark chocolate chocolate chips are a self-sufficient snack.
Oreos are not meant to be dipped in milk, just eaten as you drink the milk.
Also, oreos, when consumed with large quantities of Coke, will fuel any late night of study or writing.
Cats are crazy, in the greatest psychotic, hyper, beautiful, furry, warm, purring way possible.
Bad hours in a job are better than a bad environment (cubicles).
Wealth is not in material goods, but in skill, ideas, and land. Thus, business, banking, and even real estate, are bad.
Edward Lear, combined with J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, and mixed with hints of Lewis Carrol, Robert Service, and T.H. White, all seasoned liberally with a generous helping of the Bible, especially the Old Testament, will twist and warp a young mind in marvelous directions.
Comedy is "Monty Python and the Holy Grail," not "White Chicks." Similarly with "Flying Circus" and "American Idol," or "The Simple Life," or "Friends," or "Everybody Loves Raymond," or or or...
Dressing up in armour is a perfectly normal hobby.
Playing violent team sports is the sign of a well-adjusted individual.
So is naming household items, like furniture, toy animals, cars, and plants.
Finally, and most importantly, no matter how hard I try to escape His love, I cannot flee Jesus Christ, my Lord and Saviour; no matter how often I turn from Him, He awaits only my word to take me back.

"I thrive on the simple joys of life, like a smile from a girl just trying to be nice." –Comatose Collin, "Celibate Hippo"

So, my sister and I just watched Baz Luhrmann's Romeo and Juliet, y'know, with Leonardo DiCaprio in it and all that. And yeah, he's really pretty silly, but my sister and I were have a conversation about scariness among the Montagues and Capulets. ( Read no further if you have little familiarity with the play, and if you do, read to laugh. )

And to change the subject entirely, I also recently saw the recent Pride and Prejudice. Now, having seen most, if not all, of THE Pride and Prejudice, I was entertained by certain aspects of the newer version. Ultimately, my sister and I decided that the more recent version has better cinematography, while the older captures the details better. Still, the newer captured the feeling fairly well. Coren, you'll appreciate this: Jane Bennett is played by an actress by the name of "Rosamund Pike." I think that they should do another Chaucer story for a movie and cast her in it. Oh, and Kiera Knightley is one of the few actresses who I will call truly attractive, mostly because I think she's really beautiful, and I generally won't call someone I don't know attractive if there's not some feature that particularly attracts me. (It's the smile.) Oh, Natalie Portman is another..

And in yet another drastic change of subject, I've been getting back into the proper mode of physical abuse that Medieval style combat is. I've been going to my local SCA (Society for Creative Anachronism) fight practices, and getting badly bruised, and this past weekend I went to Quest, which was fun. ( My bruises are truly amazing. )

Lastly, I love Edward Lear/Edmund Gorey/Tim Burtonesque Victorian Gothic noir weirdness. Oh, and really horrible black humour. Go watch Kind Hearts and Coronets if you want to know what I mean.

So, all LBP fans, I apologise for the break in internet activity and availability, but I've been on the road or in Indiana for my sister's graduation. It was fun! Haha, that's probably the worst summary I've ever given.
( To remedy this: )
Yay!

So what I'm trying to say here is that I'm not sure if I'd want to graduate from TCD if they don't have the full graduation for the undergrads, which they probably won't because they're a big school of seventeen thousand (17,000) students, and they're being annoying right now, what with not giving me vital information that I need. And I feel icky and so I'm off to shower, which I'm sure you wanted to know.

Ah, suburbia, my loathing for you knows no bounds. What is suburbia? It is the most artificial, synthetic imitation of nature ever created (and, of course, I don't believe in exaggerating). Because I'm a Baudelaire fan, I'll analyse suburbia from his pov. I'm going to argue that he'd think of it as a hideous crime against humanity. If the synthetic is good, and the natural is bad, and the synthetic is meant to not serve the natural, then the idea of suburbia (artificially reimagining the natural) is horrific. See, one could argue that the worst and "worst" parts of popular music would never have existed without suburbia. To pull a Marx, the suburban ideal is a result of the bourgeois inability to truly know what's best. Throw off the oppressive yoke of the rat race rulers! Suburbanites of the world unite! You have nothing to lose but the chains of "comfort" and a world of living to win. Long live la vie boheme! Death to the yuppie oppressors!

Also, I'm bored because I'm done and no one else is, and I can't walk everywhere because everything's all suburban and way too spread out.

Plus, I'm über-pretentious university boy, I know, I know.

(please note the user pic: an old soviet propaganda poster saying I-don't-know-what, though I like to call it the Russian Rosie the Riveter)

I struggle for the words to express my emotions. I have finished in Halifax. Well, unless TCD falls through. I have been to my last FYP lecture (intriguing), I have done the last FYP oral exam (bombed), and I have written the last paper (crappy).
Shortly, I will be home, and I have realised that in this past month I have discovered a kindrid spirit to whom I have still not yet truly spoken. This person helped rekindle a certain joie de vivre I have been lacking for years and probably will soon lack once more. I have seen the joy of the city, of the night life, of wine, and of comrades in intellect, mischief and arms. I had not truly understood Baudelaire's "Get Drunk" until this moment, and I only now realise it as I return to my usual grim, dour outlook.
Coren, Martha, and Judy made a Medieval feast in my honour this past Tuesday. I had so much fun, the food was excellent, and the company beauteous. I could describe the entire night, but in a way, that would somehow cheapen it. I'll mention Beaner and Tori (who weren't at the feast) doing a lot of the dishes just for the fun of it, and the broken glasses at the bottom of the staircase after we didn't move the dishes quite safely enough. These people are my family, and I'm leaving them, and I now want nothing more than to both be with them and go to Ireland.
I saw Victor off and said goodbye to Martin this morning, and I won't see them again, or at least not for a long time. Cameron moved out, and I've missed a bunch of my other friends. I'm packing my room up, or what used to be my room. With none of my posters on the walls, without Marya's letter on the door, without the blanket on the window sill/seat, and with all the furniture moved back into its original position, this is not my room anymore. King's isn't home anymore. Now, it's not my dorm room, but the room I'm visiting. I had wondered how I would be able to stand returning to New Jersey, and now I can't wait to leave this waiting room to go anywhere I can make "home". But I want to bring my freedom and friends with me, and I've known since high school, or perhaps earlier (moving makes you grow up much faster and earlier than you should ever have to) that I can't ever have all my friends and family and job and school and church and and and together.

So, Monday was not a particularly good day. I had 2 exams, one of which counted for 30% of my grade, and the other about 10%. I bombed the oral exam, because I really don't like philosophy. I like art and literature, and history, and even science, but I really don't care about Hegel, Nietzsche, Rousseau, and Sartre. Then I had my Latin exam, which I ripped through. But Wednesday more than made up for the unpleasantness of Monday. I went out to find various and sundry works of Baudelaire, which meant that I hit numerous bookstores. The weather was beautiful, so I was wearing a tshirt (the new FYP shirt!) and shorts and zories (flip-flops to all you non-enlightened folk). Because I was feeling weird, I was also wearing a cool Irish tweed cap I'd gotten for Christmas at a particularly jaunty angle. Combined with semi-emo hair (unkempt, uncombed, longish, and having hair over one eye) and my oh-so-cool Matrix-y sunglasses, I was entertaining myself with my current state of being. So, in my adventures, I went to a bookstore on Spring Garden, with only one book I needed, then to the VIA Rail on Hollis, where I discovered that VIA Rail just doesn't run on Tuesdays. What? But so I'm going from Halifax to Montreal on Monday, arriving on Tuesday morning, and spending the day in Montreal so I can go into New York on Wednesday. Then I went down Barrington to Ingles for another bookstore, which had just sold its Baudelaire. So I returned all the way down Barrington to Prince, where once again, I found no Baudelaire. But when I went back up Spring Garden to Queen Street to the fourth bookstore of the day, I found a second Baudelaire work! Huzzah! And then I went to Pete's Frootique for bread, and returned home. All in all, my wanderings were about 8 miles (pushing 13 kilometers. I really need to work on my metric.) Of course, shortly after the train station, I decided that I was no longer interested in wearing my zories. So I took them off, and wandered barefoot through downtown Halifax, messenger bag slung over one shoulder, zories in my hand so that I could put them on to go into stores. I loved it so much: the weather was beautiful, I was spending a lot of time in used bookstores, and I was wandering around barefoot. I passed several people who had to laugh when they saw me barefoot, shoes in hand, and a great big grin on my face. I think the best part of the day was when I was walking up Spring Garden by Winston Churchill, I passed Harriet going down (or at least, I think it was Harriet, the sunglasses were a bit disconcerting) who saw me and (I'm probably entirely reading this into what actually happened) shot me a glance of kindred spirits in absolute joy of life. And then I had a tea party in my room that night, and it was classy. Especially when I finished the night off with mulled mead with a couple of friends. Incidentally, I need to return the mugs and fruit bowls I "borrowed" from Sodexho...

I probably should have cut this, but I'm too happy to put myself behind a single line of text.

I'm bored. Not quite so bored as I was at the start of the week, but still bored. Apathy rears its ugly head,except that in a way, boredom is necessary for all art. Says Baudelaire, at least. I find it strange to talk to people and realise how profoundly different we can be. For example, I was chatting with a girl who says that she genuinely hates certain people: namely, the ones that see everything around themselves as ends to their means. Which I understand, but I find that I cannot really connect. I can say honestly that I do not hate anyone. Hatred is so intense an emotion and so deeply damaging that I cannot maintain it in my mind for more than a day or so. I told her this, and also mentioned that I find myself frighteningly similar to Mersault in Camus' L'Etranger. I can look around me with near complete detachment and, while not use others, I find that they are entirely other to me, and I have no affinity towards them. All too often, I find myself sitting on my balcony, smoking and drinking, watching others walk to church, to the theatre, and to the match. To mix allusions, when Yeats says in "The Second Coming" that "The best lack all conviction, while the worst/Are full of passionate intensity." I am an unnerving mixture of the two. I'm apathetic towards so many emotional issues, but on rational issues, I become emotional. How can I manage to be both a part of "the best" (no arrogance there, no sirree) and part of "the worst"? Lord God, grant me the grace to love Your creation like You do. You've already given me the ability to not hate, I beg for the ability to love.