Of mice and moose.

Lately the phrase "a tragedy of broken teacups" has been stuck in my head. Indeed, it exists as one of the most quoted description of the genre of Realism, which my blog also takes its name from. A faithful representation of commonplace things.
Frank Norris was the one to pen those famous words in his essay The Responsibilities of the Novelist.

The last thing I want to think about tonight are commonplace things.

The daily grind, the very ideals of Realism to me lately are so tiresome. I cling to literature that gets as far from real life as possible, everything from J.M. Barrie's Peter Pan in the light of day to enjoyably guilty forays into Laurel K. Hamilton's Merry Gentry series curled up in bed. I have little funny or engaging to say tonight. I hope mostly to send my words into the void in the hopes that maybe when I've gotten them out of myself I'll be able to get some sleep. I've got a melancholy big enough for the Romantics.

The simple fact of the matter is that daily life currently has some difficulties. The Stinky Man Thing is deployed. My dogs both are reaching the end of their lives. My neighbors are desperately tempting me to hang my head out the window and yell exceptionally untoward things at their midnight revelry. Yet day to day life draws on apace, and although I do not want to play anymore, my wants have very little to do with what will or won't happen. I get enough of the tragedy of broken teacups during the day. I'll have no more exacting attention to what is. At least not in the books I read or write about.

Tonight I'll take my rumbly tumbly to make Rice Krispies Treats and eat them while they are still warm. I'll go to bed way too late to be happy in class tomorrow but have a breakfast of the leftovers waiting for me. Peanut butter slathered Rice Krispies and a Monster caffeine bomb and I'll be running fast and long on the breakfast of champions.

And as Alfred, Lord Tennyson once wrote:

"Tho' much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."

Useless Facts. My head is too small and full of stuff. I need a bigger head.

Roses may be red, but violets are indeed violet.

It takes more calories to digest a stick of celery than it provides. Celery has negative calories.

Charlie Chaplain once won third prize in a Charlie Chaplain look-alike contest.

The glue on Israeli postage is certified kosher.

The dot over the letter "i" is called a tittle.

A female ferret will die if it goes into heat and cannot find a mate.

Rhino horn is made of tightly compressed hair, not bone.

Donald Duck never wears pants but whenever he exits a bath or shower he wraps a towel around his waste.

For every foot a giraffe is tall, it has an inch of tongue.

It seems that I have a very limited amount of space in my head, and crap like this comprises most of it. On that note, I'm going to stumble off to grab some noms before returning to Political Science and French... Medieval Studies, headaches, and miles to go before I sleep.

Well shit.

I had written a witty but pleasantly brief entry to resuscitate this blog. While the subject was perhaps not exiting, and the reanimation of this site for me has been a success, sadly that particular post was DOA. Cause of death? The Internet ate it. No shit. While reading it aloud to my Mumsy in the Preview screen, I noted a small grammatical mistake. I hit the 'back' key in order to correct it. BIG MISTAKE. So. I sit here, and rather than attempting to recreate the sad loss of that entry, I simply will have to put together a smaller and less exiting one which will be constantly compared to the deceased entry. Because tropes are fun, the lost entry will grow in our hearts and minds until no feat of skill or heroic act by this one will ever truly match it (despite the fact that it was never that good in the first place) and this entry too will likely die a sad and understated death due to lack of readers.
Speaking of death, recently my Great Aunt died. I wrestled with myself a great deal about if I aught to put an uppercase "Evil" in front of that title. Generally fond of epithets but not actually one to speak ill of the dead(ish), I decided to add this explanation. In life she had good qualities, I'm sure. I just don't know what many of them are, primarily because any action on her part often ended relationships, either by her disowning another member of my family or by their refusal to ever speak to her again. Having met her relatively few times over the coarse of my life, I really can only operate on this evidence, which, obviously, has not been good.
What earthly reason could this be relevant in a blog which professes to have the focus of literature, you may ask. Well.
It turns out among the possessions she left behind, I was bequeathed a set of volumes. Beautiful little (each no longer than my hand) red volumes. Of Shakespeare. Which were published (no joke) in 1909. This actually took some work to find out, because they are old enough that not only was the copyright information in a slightly different place than I expected to look, but all notable numeric information was written in roman numerals. Hot. Damn. Hot, squishy, flying DAMN!!
For any who know me well, this windfall will be accompanied with raised eyebrows and a general understanding of the whirlwind of emotions currently at war within me. Firstly I do admit I feel some guilt at gaining so much (in my eyes) from the death of another person. I do guilt very, very well having been raised Catholic on one side and Jewish on the other. Woof. This emotion, I have to admit, was overridden quickly by excitement and avarice at the thought of gaining another (Yes. Another. Not including this I actually have two of Willy's complete works. I'm not crazy... there are real reasons. I swear.) set of the bastardly Bard's works. This was followed immediately with a touch more guilt and then a desperate attempt to stem the flood of little exited squeaks that seemed to be leaking from me as I examined my lovely little books.
You see, I have a deep love-hate relationship with dear old Willy. Midsummer Night's Dream was the first bit of high literature I ever encountered, and although on occasion I'd like to exhume Bill and kick him in the genitals, I have such a deep and abiding love for his wordplay that I can do naught but hoard what I can. Demonstrated by the multiple copies I posses. One was a gift from my Stinky Man Thing. Generally Disgruntled, he really has got some lovely qualities (not the least of which, apparently, is sexcellent taste in books) he bought a copy that I had been lusting after and gave it to me. Leather bound and gold-leaf edged, it adorns my shelf and for the most part receives much gentler treatment than my other copy which was the text I ported to and from my Early and Later Shakespeare classes at university. With reams of notes on nearly every page and likely enough highlighter ink to drown a small child, I feel no shame in keeping one copy safe from my less than tender care.
In any case, I digress. The time for this post to meet its end has drawn near and I must away to fondle my lovely new books. I look forward to returning here (before the year is out) to enjoy my own inner monologue turned text.

Why is a raven like a writing desk?

Because there is a B in both and an N in neither.

This semester I have been taking Chaucer as one of my high level English classes. Over our trip through the Canterbury Tales something interesting has happened to me. In our modern setting for literature (ever since around the 19th century, I believe) there has been huge mania for the author to be absent from the work. Show, don't tell. I've listened to that phrase repeated over and over until I felt as though were I a horse, they would have been pounding dead chunks of me into the floor rather a while ago. I've been noticing Chaucer, though. In this work, his influence appears everywhere. His commentaries on everyone and everything are woven as delicately through the text as some exquisite thread woven through a tapestry. He speaks through the Wife of Bath,where he gives woman a voice and he tears apart old and shopworn ideas. He establishes the hierarchy (The Knights Tale), and then pulls it apart in front of our eyes (Like with dear ol' Topas). I find I value his opinion, albeit from hundreds of years away and beyond the grave. Where Shakespeare is oft regarded as The Bard (capital letters and all) Geoffrey Chaucer stands out in his work as a nicely flawed, and very real man. Now, likely his personality was nothing like the image I've crafted in my head about this author. Needless to say, there stands some evidence that he was anti-Semitic. He generally tends to be bitingly critical of some, while pardoning others easily and without second thought.
I find I enjoy this image. His contradictions and uncomfortable flaws make him seem like one of us, which may well have held his appeal for the community at large. Not an aristocrat and not a peasant, Chaucer straddled both worlds, and with his quirky honesty becomes appealing to all. Like a good friend, sometimes he drives me up the wall. Sometimes I hate him a bit. Never before in my life have I felt this way about an author. I find I had been content to leave the curtain drawn, and not cared to look at the man behind it. After all, the great Oz told me not to, right? This class has given me a different perspective. I find myself looking at literature in different ways, suddenly conscious about the author in ways I never had been before. Simply, it rocks toast. (Yes, toast.)
I find what I enjoy most to be the picture of him and his motley crew of pilgrims that has formed in my head. Luckily for me they don't have to be based in reality, I have my text, and my imagination. Happily, neither of these things have much to do with the world at large.

Harharhar...

Descartes walks into a bar. The bartender asks, "Would you like a drink?" Descartes replies, "No, I think not." Descartes then disappears.

So Mrs. Lincoln, how did you like the play?

I have stumbled very uncomfortably upon one of the most ingenious scams of all time. Before now I had sympathized with victims of this plot, but never had been on quite this impressive a business end of a car dealership buggery. After doing fairly well today at school and work, I made my humble way over to the car dealership service center to see about fixing my drivers side seat belt buckle. I confidently stepped through the door, assured that I would be well taken care of by the kind female voice that had directed me through the door. Smiling faces lined my way through the winding road up to the service center. Breathing a sigh of relief, I outlined my plight to the kind goateed fellow who approached me, and with an assurance I was in good hands. Grinning, he went inside to price the service that would return my car to safe working order.

Now, a brief tangent: I find life is all about relying on others. Lawyers rely on the cops to bring them the bad guys, investigators to gather up the evidence, judges to argue before. Actors need costumers, writers, directors, (and possibly worst of all) other actors. All of this winds down to the simple fact that where ever one goes, it is impossible to escape without at least briefly being in a venerable position. This leaves room for somebody to screw you over. Usually the person doing the screwing will be wearing a tie.

Back to my original story, the smiling and goateed gentleman who so confidently assured me of his ability to help returned, a carefully calculated look of alarm and empathy on his face. It was at this point a cold stab of fear jolted through me, and I noticed; the man was wearing a red checkered tie. One of those ties that every denizen of a car dealership wears... those terrifyingly ostentatious ties that aught to say "Run! Get out now!" but never seem to become noticeable until the guillotine drops, and your bodiless head lies blinking up towards the sky, a splattering of blood on the pavement.

This all led me to the enlightenment I now suffer. These places design parts to break. Specifically engineered to wear out, keeping the part just complex and unique enough to be exclusively available only from the dealer. It is bloody genius. They have a stranglehold on the masses, people who have no other choice but to play their sick little game. Honestly, I am impressed. And likely will be walking bowlegged until this time next year after discussing the cost for this relatively simple repair.
Never before have I encountered such impressively subtle brutality as that tie wearing gentleman showing me a single slip of paper.