I Go Where You Tell Me To On Horseshoes
Apparently one of the downfalls of the electronic age is that even though it seems that you have all the information in the world at your fingertips, when you try to search for something a little offbeat, like, say, a particular passage in the Jewish Publication Society's translation of the Tanakh, when you can't remember the book and you don't want to read the entire Nevi'im to find it, well you're just shit out of luck. Heaven forbid we try to expand our minds or our belief systems using the internet.
The passage is this, my favorite thing to come out of my Biblical prophecy class, which I intended to cite correctly but have been shut down:
"When the sweeping flood passes through
You shall be its victims.
It shall catch you every time it passes through,
It shall pass through every morning
Every day and every night.
And it shall be sheer horror
To grasp the message."
I have been listening to a lot of Thom Yorke lately and it seems prophetic in its own way, which is probably why I woke up thinking about this this morning.
Last night I went to that invitation-only thing at City Hall, a premiere of a documentary about violence against women. It was emotionally devastating, of course. Nearly everyone in the room was crying at some point or another. Then we came out and had free wine and everyone got a little cranked. All in all, a success, I'd say. There was a section of the film about female genital mutilation, and apparently a guy behind me was new to the concept, because every couple of minutes he muttered "Oh my God!" and made a little sobbing sound. Female genital mutilation is in fact horrible and disturbing and I'm always glad when someone else realizes that.
Also, I'm clearly going to have to go see The Vagina Monologues if I expect to maintain my credibility in this business.
I should be writing my PELA paper. I took a bunch of written materials from both of my jobs so that I could get a good start, but I apparently left the assignment guidlines upstairs so I can't start working until I go get them. And I'm not terribly inclined right now. It's due next Monday, which might be far enough in the future that I just can't get excited about it.
I don't want to do today. I need an understudy.
The passage is this, my favorite thing to come out of my Biblical prophecy class, which I intended to cite correctly but have been shut down:
"When the sweeping flood passes through
You shall be its victims.
It shall catch you every time it passes through,
It shall pass through every morning
Every day and every night.
And it shall be sheer horror
To grasp the message."
I have been listening to a lot of Thom Yorke lately and it seems prophetic in its own way, which is probably why I woke up thinking about this this morning.
Last night I went to that invitation-only thing at City Hall, a premiere of a documentary about violence against women. It was emotionally devastating, of course. Nearly everyone in the room was crying at some point or another. Then we came out and had free wine and everyone got a little cranked. All in all, a success, I'd say. There was a section of the film about female genital mutilation, and apparently a guy behind me was new to the concept, because every couple of minutes he muttered "Oh my God!" and made a little sobbing sound. Female genital mutilation is in fact horrible and disturbing and I'm always glad when someone else realizes that.
Also, I'm clearly going to have to go see The Vagina Monologues if I expect to maintain my credibility in this business.
I should be writing my PELA paper. I took a bunch of written materials from both of my jobs so that I could get a good start, but I apparently left the assignment guidlines upstairs so I can't start working until I go get them. And I'm not terribly inclined right now. It's due next Monday, which might be far enough in the future that I just can't get excited about it.
I don't want to do today. I need an understudy.
spit at you by Nil at 6:40 AM
2 Comments:
Are you "invitation-only" now? Because I was thinking we should hit Grandma's happy hour sometime to re-enact the time we never had in Amsterdam. Minus the hash allergy. And minus the impromptu trip to Chicago via Greyhound (I looked up flights afterward, it would have been something like $30 more just to fly).
I originally spelled that "Grandman's," which seems kind of funny, considering I'm one of those assholes who says "grand" without thinking, then wonders if I sound like a wanker. Just like I wonder if I'm a wanker when I accidentally let a "wanker" fly.
um. fuck pela? yep. fuck pela.
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