In the resurrection, (#2)

I hope we don't have allergies. Can that please be included in "putting on incorruption"? Thankyou.



Tanning in the spring is like Emily Dickinson's poems.

When it first gets warm, you start off by wearing capris, cause you're too pale to wear shorts right away. Hence "mailman syndrome," since mailmen seem to have no qualms about skipping this vital step and going directly into shorts mode, thus subjecting the innocent populace to their unsightly winter legs. Or, in the words of the aforementioned poet,

"The truth must dazzle gradually, or every man be blind."

The US presidential election is like rap music.

You know how rappers never want to do songs by themselves? It's always "Jamie Fox feat. T-Pain" or "Black Eyed Peas feat. Justin Timberlake." That way, each song gets twice as many fans listening to it -- all the fans from each artist.

Such is the way of the presidential election: someone may hate McCain, but they voted for him because they like Palin.

Our Latin textbook is like Looney Tunes.

You know how in cartoons, there's always a sledgehammer/stick of dynamite/anvil appearing out of nowhere? Apply that same thing to Daedalus and Icarus. Seriously. "Oh yes, here we are in the labyrinth, which was previously described as being dark, but here! I have feathers and wax and fire! And hey, look -- the roof is gone, so we can fly out!"

I can just see Icarus flying across a cartoon sky with a blissful expression until he realizes his wings have fallen off. Then he stops, looks out of the screen at you for a second, and falls straight down.


Three extremely poetic feet.

Jen's feet are trochees: small, and accented at the front.

Tyler is an anapest: observe the accent at the far right.



I didn't know what to write about.

Then it struck me that my senior blog has a whole category of posts about feet. This blog didn't have any.

Problem solved.


Shall I Compare Thee?

Shall I compare thee to a winter's day?
Thou are more frosty and indifferent.
As snow upon the city sidewalks lay,
Your face a frigid beauty doth present.
Sometimes you coldly glare across the room,
When I attempt the slightest compliment,
And my advances never break the gloom,
Though your sweet face endures no detriment.
No, thy eternal hailstorm shall not fade
Nor cease to pelt me with rejection cold,
But my amour of sterner stuff is made,
My passion will for centuries be bold.
So now, I bid your photograph goodnight
And sleep to dream of our pure love's delight.


Demain, des l'aube

Demain, dès l'aube, à l'heure où blanchit la campagne,
Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m'attends.
J'irai par la forêt, j'irai par la montagne.
Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.

Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées,
Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit,
Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées,
Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit.

Je ne regarderai ni l'or du soir qui tombe,
Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur,
Et quand j'arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe
Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur.

Tomorrow, at dawn, the hour when fields are white,
I'll leave. You see, I know you wait for me.
I'll cross the woods, I'll climb the mountain height,
I can no longer live with you away.

I'll walk, my eyes affixed upon my thoughts,
No sound I'll hear, nor gaze on any sight,
Alone, unknown, back bent, with folded hands,
Sad, and the day for me shall be like night.

I shall not see the evening gold descend,
Nor far off sails making for Harfleur,
When I arrive upon your tomb I'll place
A green spray of heather and holly in flower.

~ Victor Hugo


On this morning.

The sun is not guilty today.
She knows full well she owes us a favor,
Having made us wait for so long for the pleasure of her company,
But now that she is here, she is merely fashionably late
And not guilty in the slightest
Gleaming happily through my white windowsills,
Quite aware that everyone is looking at her, and everyone
Is very glad she was able to come, and if
She could just stay a little longer, we would all be
So very delighted, so charmed, so grateful.
The sun is not guilty, not even close.
She has us wrapped around her ever-fashionable little finger.
After all, the moment she leaves, the party will be over
And no debutante should sacrifice her beauty sleep,
Much less one so much in the public eye,
So leave she shall, soon, too soon, leave us all
To talk about how lovely she was and how
We cannot wait for the next party.


In the Resurrection,

I hope people still talk in all their multitude of languages. Maybe we won't. Maybe we'll all have the gift of tongues. But I, for my part, would be delighted by the prospect of an N. T. Wrightish eternity to be spent, among an infinity of other things, learning every language. Ever. And just like the clothes in Narnia have no zippers or starch or elastic, we could learn without the need for prefixes and periphrastics and pluperfects.

I hope so.