8th
This is now a country-living lifestyle blog.
Tayler spent last evening making a table out of salvaged wood. (Shelf from old pallets, top from old door.) A.J. spent the evening listening to the Reds game. I spent the evening reading Catching Fire. I took a break to read Antigone by Max Wellman, and then portions of the Sophocles original, and then another play called Ponyboy, Sigh.
But then I went back to Catching Fire around midnight. I had dreams until my alarm about Finnick—who could possibly play Finnick in the next movie? I was marooned with the other “victors” in the Quarter Quell, and I’d gone off on my own, but was somewhat irritated that I’d swam from the cornucopia without having seen Finnick. In my head, he was played by an amalgam of Andrew Garfield (long neck?) and Alex Pettyfer (blond?). The graphics in the dream were about as high-resolution as a game that really stresses a Wii, so lots of clipping and fog. I haven’t finished the book and yet I already regret that I neglected to bring home the third volume. Mockingjay! Why did I leave you in South Bend when you could be here now?
This morning I went to church with Mom. We sat in the balcony seats so that I could have my spasms of incredulity in something like peace. I mean, my limbs flail and I find it hard to breath. The new pastor has worked very hard at dismantling the veneer of sanity/indifference we meek Methodists in the community had worked for many generations to maintain, re the mild message and hymn selections. He had us saying “Tah-dah!” en lieu of “Amen!” after he landed on another wacky declaration, i.e., “But they found that the tomb was empty! TAH DAH!” He referenced A Christmas Story and also a robotics competition. The cumulative addition of wider and more disparate pop-culture references in the service of “proofing” (that is, mathematically) the Resurrection made me very desperate.The little boys and girls below wore new sunglasses, treasures from the Easter Bunny! A glorious morning, however, and even the lachrymose service could hardly dampen my anticipation of how the fuck Peeta and Katniss get out off the island. (THEY PROBABLY SHORT THE FORCEFIELD? À LA HAYMITCH? NO?)
I have three weeks to craft a mini-performance of The Turn of the Screw; write 25 pages on Liam Gillick; shoot a final video art piece and install it. In the meantime is all this wining and dining with university folk who, for whatever its worth, like me better clean-shaven and gaunt.
UPDATE! I AM JUST KINDLE-ING MOCKINGJAY BECAUSE I MUST KNOW HOW IT ENDS NOW.
