"I wonder what it is that I did to make you move in across the way from me..."
The last one and a half days have been not very eventful, but sort of worth mentioning. Firstly, it is significant that I had a rather stupid realization yesterday of what it is my parents are doing for me by providing for me still- this is, the opportunity to revel in my age, and to enjoy my life while I'm young, apparently. And I see that, but the double entendre would be that though they provide for me, I am still scraping along, and thusly blocked from doing anything truly amazing when I'm still young, because I'm still using my sparse allowance to live, for the most part, and still chalking up debts left right and center anyways.

Seriously, I'm in a good mood. I'm not irked at my mum anymore, which is good, because she's spending the week here. It's nice to have her around actually. Classes went well today, and I did surprisingly awesome in my marginal lit. essay. The probable gang member and I pissed through our English class rhyme tossing, something which he is considerably better at then I, but that I still enjoyed. He's been working at it for the last little while (this rhyming scheme) and has gotten quite good at it. It seems so innocuous a thing at first, but they're actually quite crafty- one made me laugh out loud in class at a completely inopportune moment, but oh well. The poet I was thinking of that this reminded me actually expanded into two poets later. First, Gertrude Stein:

In This Way

Keys please, it is useless to alarm any one it is useless to alarm some
one it is useless to be alarming and to get fertility in gardens in salads in
heliotrope and in dishes. Dishes and wishes are mentioned and dishes and
wishes are not capable of darkness. We like sheep. And so does he.

And second: Marianne Moore

Critics and Connoisseurs

There is a great amount of poetry in unconscious
fastidiousness. Certain Ming
products, imperial floor coverings of coach
wheel yellow, are well enough in their way but I have seen something
that I like better--a
mere childish attempt to make an imperfectly ballasted animal
stand up,
similar determination to make a pup
eat his meat on the plate.

I remember a swan under the willows in Oxford
with flamingo colored maple-
leaflike fleet. It reconnoitered like a battle
ship. Disbelieft and conscious fastidiousness were the staple
ingredients in its
disinclination to move. Finally its hardihood was not proof
against its
proclivity to more fully appraise such bits
of food as the stream

bore counter to it; it made away with what I gave it
to eat. I have seen this swan and
I have seen you; I have seen ambition without
understanding in a variety of forms. Happening to stand
by an ant hill, I have
seen a fastidious ant carrying a stick, north, south, east, west,
till it turned on
itself, struck out from the flower bed into the lawn,
and returned to the point

from which it had started. Then abandoning the stick as
useless and overtaxing its
jaws with a particle of whitewash pill-like but
heavy, it again went through the same course of procedure. What is
there in being able
to say that one has dominated the stream in an attituded of self
defense,
in proving that one has had the experience
of carrying a stick?
(1916, 1924)

*This example of Marianne Moore is not the best one I could think of. My favorite one however, is much too long to write down at this moment ( "An Octopus").

I honestly thought I had much more to say than this, but I think I'm currently too pre-occupied with these two projects due tomorrow.
  ¶ 4:25 PM