In which a video makes a request.

WATCH ME. seriously. Ellie is probably going to use me for her fourth quarter paper. So she really thinks you should watch me.

In which I forget to write enough blog posts for the quarter...again.

Whoops.

In which I write a P.S. to Mrs. Healey.

P.S. Can we please talk about E. E. Cummings in class because FEOISM;LKDFMGV;AOIHEG;HIOAEHGTALEKJF please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please

P.P.S. Yes, this is how I (productively) spent my free period.

In which I write about Richard Wilbur's opposite poems.

So the original reason I chose to write about Richard Wilbur was not because I'd ever heard of him or found him fascinating, but because when I was around twelve years old, my favorite aunt gave me a signed copy of his book Opposites, More Opposites, and a Few Differences. Partially because of the fact that signed books seem to be a bit more impressive and mostly because I do really love the poems in this book, I figured it'd be about time to do a bit of research about this poet and who he is. (Yes, he is still alive.) 

I discovered, to my dismay, that his "more mature" poems are...exactly that. More mature. More serious. I don't know why I was expecting to find a plethora of only short, witty poems. However, in reading, re-reading, annotating, and analyzing his other poetry, I have found a deeper respect for Richard Wilbur and am actually quite impressed by his ability to have two completely different, yet both expertly and well-done writing styles.

But for now, I just want to talk about the poems I enjoy the most- the poems from the book I was given, Opposites, More Opposites, and a Few Differences. 

Some of them are extremely succinct, yet the shorter poems seem (to me, at least) to be the most funny of the bunch.

For example:
39.
The opposite of opposite?
That's much too difficult, I quit.

Many of his longer "opposite" poems contain more than one opposite for a single item or action. This is sometimes due to the dual meaning of certain words. It makes the poems all the more funny, as they now have two different punch lines.

For example:
1.
The opposite of duck is drake.
Remember that, for heaven’s sake!
One’s female, and the other’s male.
In writing to a drake, don’t fail
To start your letter off, “Dear Sir.”
“Dear Madam” is what ducks prefer.

In snowball fights, the opposite
Of duck, of course, is getting hit.

I think it's fitting that Richard Wilbur wrote an entire book on opposites. He himself seems to have a dual nature, as well as often writing even in his more "serious" poems about opposites and antitheses. Though I had regretted it at first, I am really finding myself enjoying Wilbur's poems more and more. 

Which I'm happy about.
Phew.

In which someone answers the question "Why did the chicken cross the road?" in a complicated way and it blows my mind.

The real simple reason the chicken crossed the road, was because it was there, in its way. The chicken would have gone that route whether or not the road was even there, just because it was the route it was taking. Chickens do not know about sides or reasons to cross.

In which I share my favorite poem.

You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.

Come with me, then,
And we'll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—
Open to me!
For I will show you the places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.

Ah, come with me!
I'll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I'll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.

e.e. cummings

In which I have an existential crisis.

I have been trying to get through The Stranger by Albert Camus. I was going to try to read it in French, but let's be honest. I don't have time for that. 

Anyway, I'm halfway through the book and completely loving it. I'm pretty sure the way this guy lives is supposed to be a nonexample of how to live life, but I wish I could live like that. And the way he's been feeling? That's sort of how I've been feeling lately.

I wish I could just not care about anything and be calm and relaxed all the time, not worrying and feeling like nothing matters. I do feel like nothing matters, but for some reason I just care too much about everything and stress out about every little thing. I wish I could just not care like him.

I don't think I'm SUPPOSED to want to be like him, but I do. Not that I want to kill anyone or anything, I just want to be able to go with the flow and take life as it is. He's just so detached, which I wish I could be.

I kind of feel like I'm the opposite of Camus' main character. Ever since we talked about existentialism in Mr. Ingram's class, it has stressed me the fudge OUT. Like, why does anything we ever do matter if everyone is just going to die eventually anyway? Does life have meaning? Does MY life have meaning? Camus' character answers, "no." I've been worrying about it and stressing out about it all year, trying to figure out the meaning of my life, but this book is helping me to accept the fact that maybe there IS no point. Maybe I should just stop stressing out about it and realize that there is no meaning and I don't need to worry about it so much. Then I can become as detached from life as Camus' character is, and I can live my life without so much stress.

I don't know. This whole post is rather melodramatic. Don't mind me; I'm just in a weird mood today. I'll let you know if it continues. Not that you care much anyway. I don't even know who I'm talking to. The internet in general? Maybe I should stop. Sorry. 

I'm out.