Cleolinda Jones (cleolinda) wrote,
Cleolinda Jones

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I wish that the entry immediately following The Update of Familial Woe hadn’t been about a TV show, but... there you go. I keep trying to write a follow-up to that entry, not because anything else has really happened, but because I think you deserve a response to all the support and the stories that you shared. In fact, I think that made me more emotional than my own situation did. I tried a few times, tried to draft an entry, and just couldn’t do it. I read every single comment as it hit my email, and even though I’m not sure if I can go back and reply to any more, I did just want to say--thank you.

Class is going really well. I actually made it all the way through Comus, even though more than half of each page was occupied by vast masses of footnotes, many of which pointed out such crucial insights as: “Milton added an ‘a’ to the word smoke by means of a caret.” Yeah? Smoake this.

I really love the class itself, though--the professor’s full of energy and it’s only an hour-fifteen and we move quickly. I’d been enduring three- and four-hour classes for a couple of years now, so a class that’s shorter than your average movie is an amazing concept to me.

Speaking of movies, I have finally dragged the DVD player back upstairs from the rec room, where I had been keeping it for friends who came over, because... my room totally has no seating. A desk chair and a bed. And piles of stuff, much of it still in packing boxes from 1) college and 2) the move to this house.

If I have to go out and buy a cheap player the next time someone wants to come over and watch something, so be it, because that thing ain’t never leavin’ my room again. I sliced open my little finger trying to get behind the cabinet to hook up the cords, and this was still one of the least difficult hookups I’ve had to do. My parents were just about up my ass with wanting to help me do it, but really--in a small, cluttered room, more hands are just less helpful. Every time someone’s helped me before, it’s ended in yelling and snapping and tripping over things, and just--no. I did it myself, and I am never doing it again. We might as well just solder it to the cabinet, man.

So for the last three days, I’ve had The Matrix on nonstop. I am almost of a mind to just soldier through it until the parody is done and stop jumping around, because I need to feel like I’ve accomplished something.

Whenever I don’t know which movie to do next, I put in The Matrix. I think it’s because I consider the movie to be a really awesome action movie full of self-indulgent crap philosophy. (That is to say, I think the basic concept is really intriguing. It’s just that the Wachowskis, IMO, come off like guys who really like to hear themselves talk and enjoy thinking that they are a lot smarter than you are. By the time you have Colonel Sanders lecturing Neo at the end of the second movie, SHUT SHUT SHUT.) But unlike the Star Wars prequels, the first Matrix movie is at least put together well enough that you can still enjoy it if you shut your ears to all the blather. It goes down easy, is what I’m saying. Also, I am a huge sucker for techno music.

(You know what’s interesting? Both The Matrix and The Phantom Menace came out in 1999. One movie’s got a guy saying, “Wow, his midichlorians are way higher than normal!” The other one’s got a guy saying, “Wow, his neurokinetics are way higher than normal!” And the actor who plays Mouse is also in AOTC. Coincidence?)

(Wait, I’m confused. Mouse is clearly shown getting killed in the first movie, right after the déjà-vu part, yet I remember him running after Neo in the second movie. What?)

(I still haven’t seen Matrix Revolutions. I have it in my Box Lid o’ Movies for the Book, but... I’m afraid of it.)

More about the book, as if you weren’t sick of it: We’ve turned in a blurb for the Publisher’s Lunch newsletter, so if you get that in your email, keep an eye out. I think it’ll be the first time I’ve actually seen my name (or, if you like, my pseudonym)--not to mention the book title--in print, and I’m stupidly excited about it. I figure, I have plenty of time to get jaded about the publishing process; if my first book feels like Christmas eve, I may as well enjoy it. Particularly since I can’t seem to write it.

I’m just so tired. And really, there is no reason I should be this tired. I can’t tell if I just need more exercise/vitamins/sunlight or whatever, or if I really need to be checked out. I have a couple of doctor’s appointments next month anyway--I’m having my thyroid tested, just to be sure, and a few other things. Maybe it’s depression, because I seem to have that come around in cycles. Whenever I have something big I have to do, I seem to get depressed--anxious, you know, that I can’t do it, I suppose. Usually sheer desperation gives me an energy kick right before the deadline, and usually I can pull up, so to speak, before I crash. I’m the girl in your dorm who used to start the research paper the morning it was due. But there was one semester I couldn’t pull up, and I did crash, and I kept crashing, and I almost didn’t graduate. It was bad. I don’t know if there’s some major metabolic shift that happens in your mid-twenties, but suddenly the last-minute death-defying research papers I could get away with at nineteen and twenty were just no go a couple of years later.

So I don’t know. I’ve got to establish better writing habits, because I can’t afford to crash like that again.


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