November 28th, 2012

Book Hands

The Numbers Barring the Words

So the sun really is setting earlier, in case you were wondering. I've had to take photos and answer questions about it for about a month for a paper I'm turning in to-day. I'm writing now at the tech mall at school which is extraordinarily crowded with students using computers for study and some, I guess, using them to register for classes. I registered for spring myself yesterday--only British Literature II. I'd planned on getting a math class, too, but I still need to take the math assessment. I guess I've lagged on studying for it, but I don't think I could've done much more to make myself feel ready to get any useful result on the test. I have been studying. Mainly I find myself just cursing math, my ancient foe. Aside from British Literature II, the only other class I need now for my associates degree is a math class for which, without the assessment, I may need to take two other math classes to get into. Hopefully I can find time over the next few months to bring myself up to pace.

I am looking forward to British Literature II. There are plenty of great American authors but the British just have so much more delightful weirdness. Wuthering Heights is much weirder, for example, than Little Women. Alcott's story is about a family and a young woman in that family becoming a writer. Bronte's has ghosts, delusions, reincarnation--and it's not even strictly gothic or romantic. And there's so much in British Literature of the time the playfully bucks expectations of genre. I'm reminded of how Peter Straub once described Jane Eyre as a great horror novel.

Twitter Sonnet #451

Softened injustice stymies for some time.
Broiled police absorb all the basil.
Mushroom clouds conceal nuclear mime.
Nose motions gone through are sharply nasal.
Blue vomit streams along the carbon barre.
Elongated toes pinion slats of wheat.
Weary Willie clouds took drops just so far.
Ice eggs give nuclei an inverse heat.
Toady ploughs affirm the successful grain.
Skies shot by crazy ships know what's real now.
Violet eyes swing at the tips of the mane.
Voices fade behind collagen men's row.
Rainy horses assemble on a track.
Undead earthworms plot a crochet attack.