jesus_loveth_u on Xanga

Weblog

Thursday, 22 October 2009

Currently
What Einstein Told His Cook: Kitchen Science Explained
By Robert L. Wolke
see related
I'm sitting in the computer lab at MWL waiting for my class to start their english presentations about the enviroment. I like this class, but my professor knows more about power point than I do. She says that she won't grade us too harshly on our lack of technology skills, but I'm a little worried because no one in the class has earned an A yet. Dun, dun, dunnnnnnnnnnnn...

Chemistry is really difficult, but I get to sit next to Zac, Emily (a gal from my floor who knows Chem back and forward and upside down), and Heidi ( a gal I went to Girl's state with, she's catholic, and she's awesome). These people make chem possible for me to survive. My professor also makes innuendos about elements like: how "easy" Cs is, if you take Cs to a movie it will give up it's electons without a fight. It at least breaks up the monotony. :)

Biology I have with my roommate, Katie, Brent (a cool guy from my FSHN professionalism class), and Brian ( also from FSHN, he had a cool red mohawk for a while, we went to The Laramie Project together). This class is all about memorization. It's very hard, our professor expects a lot from us, but I think I can get out with a B.

Food Science class is the BOMB! My professor is Dr. Lester Wilson, he is a research food scientist at ISU. I'm hoping to do a mentorship with him next semester about apples. :) Lester's son is married to Katie Biechler. I'm doing really well in this class cause I love it. We're learning about how food works, it is super amazing.

My honors group has the theme of food, so today we are watching Ratatoulle and frosting cookies. I can't believe I'm getting one credit for this class. :)

Friday, 16 October 2009

ancestors
by Harvey Ellis
my ancestors surround me
like walls of a canyon
quiet
stone hard
their ideas drift over me
like breezes at sunset

we gather sticks
and make settlements
what we do is only partly
our own
and partly continuation
down through the chromosomes

my son
my baby sleeps behind me
stirring in the night
for the touch
that lets him continue

he is arranging
in his small form the furniture
and windows of his home

it will be a lot like mine
it will be a lot like theirs

Thursday, 15 October 2009

Apology

by Jason Whitmarsh

That last love poem I gave you, I want to apologize for that. It was
crudely put and several of the metaphors leaned too heavily on sea
life. I love you so much more than that. The best pan of the poem
was the beginning, and that had nothing to do with you, or me,
or how much either of us loves each other. It was just a line from
another, better poem. Most of the poem sounds defensive, like I've
been accused of not loving you, or you of not loving me. Not that
I think I don't love you, or you me. I don't. Still, one could read a
poem by someone else and it'd seem more authentic—you'd be more
likely to think that poem was dedicated to you, I mean, than to think
mine was. One could even argue, too, that by studiously avoiding
your name or any identifying traits, I was making this poem fit for
more than one person, like women in general, or a second wife, or
your very attractive sister.

Wednesday, 23 September 2009

EARTH VOICES
by: Bliss Carman (1861-1929)
I
HEARD the spring wind whisper
Above the brushwood fire,
"The world is made forever
Of transport and desire.

"I am the breath of being,
The primal urge of things;
I am the whirl of star dust,
I am the lift of wings.

"I am the splendid impulse
That comes before the thought,
The joy and exaltation
Wherein the life is caught.

"Across the sleeping furrows
I call the buried seed,
And blade and bud and blossom
Awaken at my need.

"Within the dying ashes
I blow the sacred spark,
And make the hearts of lovers
To leap against the dark."

II

I heard the spring light whisper
Above the dancing stream,
"The world is made forever
In likeness of a dream.

"I am the law of planets,
I am the guide of man;
The evening and the morning
Are fashioned to my plan.

"I tint the dawn with crimson,
I tinge the sea with blue;
My track is in the desert,
My trail is in the dew.

"I paint the hills with color,
And in my magic dome
I light the star of evening
To steer the traveller home.

"Within the house of being,
I feed the lamp of truth
With tales of ancient wisdom
And prophecies of youth."

III

I heard the spring rain murmur
Above the roadside flower,
"The world is made forever
In melody and power.

"I keep the rhythmic measure
That marks the steps of time,
And all my toil is fashioned
To symmetry and rhyme.

"I plow the untilled upland,
I ripe the seeding grass,
And fill the leafy forest
With music as I pass.

"I hew the raw, rough granite
To loveliness of line,
And when my work is finished,
Behold, it is divine!

"I am the master-builder
In whom the ages trust.
I lift the lost perfection
To blossom from the dust."

IV

Then Earth to them made answer,
As with a slow refrain
Born of the blended voices
Of wind and sun and rain,
"This is the law of being
That links the threefold chain:
The life we give to beauty
Returns to us again."

Tuesday, 08 September 2009

Solitude

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;

    Weep, and you weep alone;

For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,

    But has trouble enough of its own.

Sing, and the hills will answer;

    Sigh, it is lost on the air;

The echoes bound to a joyful sound,

    But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;

    Grieve, and they turn and go;

They want full measure of all your pleasure,

    But they do not need your woe.

Be glad, and your friends are many;

    Be sad, and you lose them all,—

There are none to decline your nectared wine,

    But alone you must drink life’s gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;

    Fast, and the world goes by.

Succeed and give, and it helps you live,

    But no man can help you die.

There is room in the halls of pleasure

    For a large and lordly train,

But one by one we must all file on

    Through the narrow aisles of pain.