so there's no realy reason for this except procrastination
Halloo!
Right now I'm frustrated with the rate of writing on the essay I'm making for my MMW class (that six-week long course that ppl in my college have to take as a GE.) Its got to be at least 8 pages, turned in on Thursday, and so far I've got about 5. I suppose I should give myself a pat on the back that I'm working on it now instead of putting it off further, but still I'm annoyed that I haven't at least gotten further on the quota I established for myself by tonight (needs to be 6 pages before I go to sleep).
My essay is about Spain (surprise!) While I really like Spain, its hard to care about an essay, because its overall hard to care about the class. Everything that the professor has said, everything that has been covered in the reading, I HAVE ALREADY LEARNED. On the plus side, its a nice refresher on 20th century world history, but its a bit of a damper that I actually have to take a class on things I've already learned. Sometimes I'm bored in class because its painful trying to listen to information I've already absorbed and memorized. (Surprise! World war one was fought in Trenches, everybody! Chairman Mao's cultural revolution really really sucked!)
So that's one thing that's annoying. I'm also really frustrated about my poetry class. So on the plus side, I got an email today from the prof asking if I could re-send her one of my poems so she could share it with the class...but. (there's always a but. ) I don't really like my group. there's two guys in it who just really, really suck. One of them doesnt' ever seem to do homework or give us poems to look at or say any useful comments (i exagerate a little...but not much.) Everytime the other one speaks, I want to thwack him upside the head. Actually, no one in the class likes him much, because he doesn't seem to really understand appropriateness, how one can talk about certain subjects, or what kinds of inflections one is supposed to use with certain words. He sounds like a really big jerk every time he talks. (mental THWACK!!!) And his poems suck. a lot. I mean, really, really suck. On monday he submitted a poem about superheroes, but it was really hard to read because it was so....incredibly bad.
you are fast you are good we look up to you bullets don't hurt you
etc. (that's superman)...
GRAAAAR!!! My inner poet dies. Its very hard to get the incentive to write anything good when every class I'm presented with really really crappy writings each week.
I'm also upset with myself because I don't think I've been submitting things worth reading the last few times (yet the people in my group seem to like them--but I would prefer to use my own standard of good than others, just because my standard is usually set higher and is therefore more desirable, at least to me. ) When I'm feeling really uninspired, I end up just writing poems about things that happened in my past, which feels cheap to me because I can make those really shocking and virulent without trying very hard, which makes it feel like cheating. This week I rather felt sick when I turned in my assignment, because the poems I wrote were really connected with some of the darker parts of my past, and it seems sick to me that I have to share those parts of me with the dumbasses in my group because its the only thing I could come up with at two am the day the assignment was due. meh.
I also felt ill because I dug up memories probably better left forgotten in order to write it...meh. Oddly enough, my paper for MMW is all about supression of memories, too.
hm...share the poem? hm. meh. why not. I'm hopefully not connected to anyone I really dislike on xanga anyway. (and there's the whole 'no one reads it' factor. )
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Abuse
Door slamming, I remember the sound, the screams, clutching
the golden, golden knob to close it, shoving clothes, stuffed animals under
crevice between wood and floor, pushing chairs, our tearful selves against it,
but he charged in anyway.
I don’t
remember what followed.
Eyes flashing, I remember the horrid blue gleam, running
away into a barricaded room, afraid of dying, burying hiding under laundry
suffocating from the force of my own lungs beating pounding choking on
teardrops, screaming voice “You can’t leave until you forgive me.”
I don’t
remember what followed.
She tells me, what she remembers, he hit and denied, hit and
denied and laughed when we cried and said we were beautiful, but stupid inside
and bit, ruptured pride and screamed and broke things but always
