| Statistics and being seasonally affected by disorders |
[Jan. 29th, 2007|12:16 pm] |
| [ | Current Location |
| | Lab a dab dab | ] |
| [ | mood |
| | ah | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Clicking clikciking cligkticktickclick | ] |
Statistics, according to the misprinted glory of the textbook, is " a foundation to human scents."
I'm not sure what that means anymore. So there I sat.
Patiently waiting for the sun to come up
Wondering if binomials were really going to change my life, as Rodney had promised. And if they do, is the world really going to smell a lot better? For now, I'll tend toward agreeing. Or rather, hoping.
In any case satistics is in the classroom with the great view. We can see golden horn, a high peak by the northern tundra's standards. Stats is a morning class which means we get to watch the sunrise. Every morning, the sun barrels out through the clouds or over the horizon. The rest of the day is like perpetual sunrise, until it becomes sunset. In either case, the suns rays cast tall shadows.
The other day was particulary cloudy and dark. I walked to school in some -20. A warm day, lots of cloud cover over night. I didn't want to be in statistics that day. It was my only class, and I would have rather stayed in bed, as many dark and dreary days make you feel.
And, there I sat, in statistics, waiting for my life to change.
Rodney didn't close the blinds that day because we could see the chalkboard. The sun wasn't trying to cast tall shadows on it, or make it gleam in the direct light. So our view was not obstructed.
I found myself drifting off toward golden horn. Trying to push my way through the clouds to its peak. Every now and then I'd hear 10 shouted, as it should be, when it is a factorial.
And then, my sweet ravens The jesters that they are provided the catalyst I needed to shift. Against the setting of the perfect view they changed my sense, of sight, that is.
Dropping, snatching, chasing, and tumbling through the air. Their toy, the midnight sun. A coffee cup that has imprinted on it a raven with the sun in its mouth.
The sun then poured through the clouds, and as I walked home, I didn't want to go back to bed. |
|
|
| It's Been a Long Time |
[Sep. 18th, 2006|12:50 pm] |
There are many things I could tell you about but they are all just small things, life flows along like a river, the surface is quite predictable, every morning the river looks the same but from the rivers point of view, every hour brings changes, the river banks are left behind as the river flows on to the sea. I feel this more as I get older, this rushing along to the sea.
I fell into the sea once, from a cliff. And as I drown in the water I woke up. There was no suffering, only the sense of being enraptured.
It's not that these small things don't matter. It is that, right now, I would rather listen.
Last time I was asked why I don't talk about myself I said, as tears suddenly leapt from their hiding place, I'm tired of crying. It's not that it's all so sad, it's that I know it hurts and i've made friends with it. Generally, I'm a very happy person. I feel happy. Really, I feel love... I think that's why it hurts.
If you know me, you'll know what it means to me when the old woman gave me slippers, when Dave managed to flatter me in a way that i'm beggining to pretend to understand equality, when i moved into my house with my roommate and organized it and painted the walls with our eyes, when i woke up the other morning to the grey horned owls harmonizing outside my tent while my lips tasted the freezing air, Or when i call my sister or my mom after the episode of Grey's Anatomy... we just know. We know and we feel because we've been there. I listen because i love you, and perhaps someday, the question will be asked, when the memory of how it all happened will unfold. How it all gets to the sea.
hmmmmm. |
|
|
| Scared? or just Sacred |
[Apr. 24th, 2006|12:09 am] |
We don't have much time left
so please don't touch me.
I'm not sure if it's because I'm scared
or just sacred.
If I could change anything about us
it would be our area code.
I'm the slowest rapidcycler in the whole wide world—
unhook me from the drip.
We are all entitled to our own hyperbole
especially you.
Montreal has made a fool of me
for the second last time.
I'm not suggesting we're all losers.
I'm insisting upon it.
(love always to you... thank you for your patience and forgiveness)
 |
|
|
| Dear Mum |
[Apr. 6th, 2006|01:51 pm] |
Dear Mom,
Lately I've been coming home and my guitar doesn't have much to say to me. But it's been on the verge of something big for a long time now. I remember when we used to rock.
That's it. A month. Anyone can do anything for 8 months is what I said. hahaha. The person that I was 8 months ago only wanted to be in a place for that amount of time. I find myself clinging to moments more now. No, I find myself clinging more. Not in an attached kinda way. But in the way that we consoled ourselves after leaving those who we love dearly. It's more of a see ya later anyway. (this was the beginning of a letter I hadn't finished about 2 weeks ago) ( My-scattered-thought ) |
|
|
| navigation |
| [ |
viewing |
| |
most recent entries |
] |
| |
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
willful_silence's journal
well... trying to be
rejuvenated