One last glut..

Noone will be telling me to glut my sorrows on roses nor rainbows ever, ever again. This is because my British Romantic Poets last class is tonight, and my teacher, who quotes poety more than I do (and that's saying a lot) will no longer be my teacher.

It's been so lovely. I've enjoyed this class and the ideas that we've been tossing around all semester. It's driven me to the need to scream for the abstraction, but i've loved it notwithstanding... oh what I meantersay...

That's a word from Dickens for you.

Now reading Great Expectations. I wonder whether a book written on the upbringing of Estella Havisham would not make interesting reading?

But haven given that idea some thought... i'm inclined to say NO. Because that's what gives Estella her charm. We don't have her story. She is elusive, like the estrellas-- and we should hope to get no closer to the stars than to her.

For this same reason I hate to blog, and I go for blogless stints. It is the ONLY reason I could hate blogging. It takes away my inner life and puts it on a page for whoever to read.

Given, I don't write everything in here. Most of the really juicy stuff I leave out. Most of the important stuff never graces the net. In the past few days i've written, simply WRITTEN and not posted several intense rants-- on topics that are, of late, weighing heavily on my mind. Each time I thought better of sharing these writings with you readers and simply deleted them.

And it's a shame, you know? Cause it's my best writing. And it makes me feel sneaky and dishonest-- even though I am perfectly right and sensible in keeping a bit of me for me.

Finished translating Jessie's birth certificate and just looking for a chance to make it to the post office and send it off to Florida to be verified via 3-day-mail.

I'd like to mail myself to Chile.