So what I am doing these days instead of blogging is piles of Latin. It makes me cry, it's so beautiful. My poor sister; she's always having to put up with my emotional breakdowns from Dido or whoever it is this time.
Greek is a bitch. It always is.
Alongside these, I'm running my school's classics club literary magazine. I'll link to it when the issue's put together, okay?
I've been reading Camus' L'Homme Revolte, which is good. I like reading in French, though it kind of makes me look crazy. I tend to read it under my breath, moving my mouth and all. Maybe it doesn't, though (make me look crazy). No one seems to notice.
I'v met this nice guy and that's distracting. Not unpleasant, but it heightens things.
La Dispute also heighten things. God, I don't know...
I'm having a hard time sleeping, but I don't know. This is all pretty much par for the course.
I had two hours sleep last night and stream of consciousness seemed like a good idea, probably because of that. I'm sure I'll post something that will refer to this post with embarrassment later, but what the hell.
I'm also doing National Poetry Month or whatever. I'm writing a sonnet every day and let's see if it makes me better at it. Here's today's. Maybe it's okay? I don't know. Anyway, here it is. The slanty rhymes are on purpose, just by the way.
This morning I went out before the sun
a yellow hydrant fluttered nd the birds
were fishes in my gaze, as low as words
across the screen in foreign films. The one
thing I could see most clearly was the van
left in the lot -- I thought it was a ship
to sail through stars; it was the baited lip,
it seems, of some low-sunken fish-eyed man
who tried to say the air was nice. My son,
you're younger now than me: We are submerged;
this is the sea; we're drowning, having won
the right to walk upon the boiling sand
where light crawls thick through heavy waves and tricks
us, gaping fish, into its soft, dark hand.
Have a better one than I'm having, kids.