I would rather have a nod from an American, than a snuff-box from an emperor. ~Lord Byron
If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning.
Name: Sian
I paint, write, and dance. Also cook vegetarian food.
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I ran into yet another student from my Latin class, at the library this afternoon. She was there looking for that same book, hoping to get a head start on it. I was there looking for the book, hoping that looking for a book that's never, ever going to get there makes me an optimist.
She says that the professor definitely has a personality... that's a phrase that's beginning to strike terror into my poor, quivering little heart... but that I should have no problem talking him into letting me take the class. Yay!
Okay. So, that article was about the HFAF, not the OWF. Well, it's almost the same thing. One practices Royal Arch, and the other doesn't. And OWF is much larger.
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Women of the Lodge
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Her title is The Past Most Worshipful the Grand Master - an odd title for a woman, but women Freemasons appear to have little truck with the politically correct trend for making titles gender-specific. "I know I don't look like the Duke of Kent [her equivalent in male Freemasonry], but it's the same sort of situation," says Eileen Gray, CBE. She is the head of The Honourable Fraternity of Ancient Masons, one of the two orders of women Freemasons in this country. The fraternity has been around for nearly 100 years and has a membership in the region of 1,000 women. Its headquarters are in north London, and there are lodges all across the country and overseas too. The Freemasons here follow the same ceremonies and practices as their male counterparts, bizarrely even calling each other "brother". "We were formed from the men and we followed the men in practice, we use their ritual and it comes naturally to be brothers in a Fraternity," says Ms Gray.
So, what sort of women want to be Freemasons? Social workers, teachers, actors, judges, business women and housewives make up the ranks. But what are they looking for when they join? "It means different things to different people," says Ms Gray. "It broadens one's outlook on life, and gives different interpretations. We see people come in who are not used to the business world, not used to learning the ritual, and as they learn the ritual, that gives them confidence in public speaking, and it's really nice to see so many people blooming with their self-confidence." To the outside world, the women's main contribution is to charity - they hold collections at the regular meetings and the cash goes towards good causes, in particular hospices. Death threat Records show that women have been involved in Freemasonry as long ago as 1277, when a woman mason - the society's roots are in stonemasonry - was working on the carvings for the porch of Strasbourg Cathedral.
The ruse came undone when, at the end of the meeting, her husband opened a cupboard and Lady Elizabeth tumbled out. Her fate hung in the balance - there was discussion about whether she should be killed so she could not divulge the secrets. Eventually, though, the men agreed she should be allowed to join their lodge. In 1913 the first women's lodges were established in Britain. Mixed lodges had existed for a long time, mainly in France, but it took three pioneering women to break away and form the first three lodges, called Stability, Wisdom and Strength. But, as with the male fraternity, there is uneasiness among wider society about the existence of such "secret societies". "We are not a secret society we are a society with secrets," says Ms Gray. "People think that because something is secret there's got to be something wrong with it. And it's not particularly secret, but because it has its rituals within it, which are known to those that participate, it can sound weird to people. Shunned by men "But unless you belong to a golf club or a cricket club, you don't necessarily know the rules and regulations of that sport, and it should be viewed in the same way".
Things have gradually changed - although the United Grand Lodge of England - a self-proclaimed "society of men" - would need to change its rules to give them full recognition, and this isn't on the cards. However, one male Freemason conceded women take the academic side of Freemasonry as seriously, if not more so, than some of the men - and they learn their lines better too. |
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The book is still not there. I checked. I think it's actually being sent surface mail from Bristol, England. Which means it should be here by next July.
I have got to stop staying up late and talking to friends in other states. I really do. I was up past midnight last night, talking to my friend the psychology major, and then, I wound up staying up even later than that reading and whatever else it is you do, when you can't sleep.
We've gotten into the habit of talking every Tuesday night, after watching Tommy Lee go to college for an hour or so. It isn't exactly profound, but it gets me out of having to talk about the DSM, and it gets her out of having to talk about anything remotely language related, so it works out fairly well for us. It also keeps us from fighting about the fact that Psychology is a load of horse shit. So, Tommy Lee it is, and that's a subject we pretty much agree on. In any civilized society, the students would have already started a rebellion, clubbed Tommy Lee to death for sheer stupidity, and then sought out the administrative officials who sanctioned it, in the first place, for more painful and more lingering deaths than that. Then, again, the University of Nebraska already has a 75% freshman drop out rate (the first year), so what's one jerk off more or less?
It seems that one of her professors is actually upbeat and positive about the whole show. Professor Idiot says that they did a great job of not making Nebraskans look like hicks. Well, that would be just great, if the goal of a University were to produce urban sophisticates. What they haven't managed to do is make anyone look like a serious academic. Not the Chancellor, not the Professors, not the other students... Not even Tommy Lee's honour-student roommate.
I love the whole philosophy of Land-Grant schools, in general. They are one of the most American elements of American education. The idea that everyone deserves a chance at a really good higher education. That if the farm boy whose grades were low because he was out pulling calves during finals weeks wants to show up, and take classes, he can do it. Of course, he'll wind up working his ass off to stay, but the point is, he has that chance. If you want to know what Nobel Prize winners and what-crap came out of the school, look it up. If I keep talking, I'll be onto Folk Schools in about 30 seconds, so...
So, the general consensus of opinion is that Tony Falcone is just a big, boy-whore, and he was really sucking down big ones, last week. Not a terribly flattering thought., but honestly. I would have thought that one of the primary qualifications for being in a marching band would be the ability to walk and play a musical instrument at the same time. Then, we spent a while discussing where, exactly, Tommy Lee taped "it" while he was playing with the swim team. Evenly divided between to his stomach, and between his legs.
Which brings us to this week's conversation, which, of course, included the latest "package" comments from the show, and as a psychology major, she, of course, was obligated to point out that Tommy Lee's fixation with this may suggest that "it" is virtually non existant, after many years of drug use, and that "it" may not have had to be taped, anywhere. We also discussed possible diagnoses for him--and there was quite a range, of course.
The, and this is, of course, one of the great dangers of having eclectic tastes, we jumped from Tommy Lee to Meatloaf in one fell swoop. Psychologist Friend is a big, big BIG Meatloaf fan. I choose not to think about that. To put it in perspective, though, she is the only person in the whole world, who has ever said the words, "I've heard that song, before, but I didn't know it was from The Rocky Horror Picture Show." There is far, far, too much Rocky information in my head. There is far, far, too much Meatloaf information in her head. It still, somehow totally missed her that Meatloaf was in Rocky. So, she's becoming a very, very, belated Rocky fan. She watched it--at home, of all places--with her boyfriend. I am working on the two of them to get them to go out to the midnight showing, sometime. There's a theatre there, which actually continues to stay in business entirely due to that one movie. A beautiful, decaying relic of the 1940s, where they actually let you throw lunch meat and play with squirt guns. The whole place is sort of coated in a thin layer of lard, but it's definitely an experience.
For the record, my hair has now grown out to the point that it's reasonably presentable, and I don't feel bad walking down the street. The layers are not yet gone... it will be several months before I can get them cut back out, but now there's enough weight, even on the top layer, that it lays reasonably neatly over my head. Today is a little bit warm, and a little bit humid, so of course, I have two choices: Frizz or curls. I chose curls, which means there are now enough chemicals on my head to start a major warehouse fire.
So, assuming that I manage to get through the next ten days without doing anything outrageous, I will look presentable for the first day of class. I know that's a little unlikely. Last night, I was sitting, watching TV and not doing anything useful to occupy my hands, so, I wound up doodling. Still haven't gotten all the ink off my arm, again.
I will not experiment with new hair cuts, new hair colors, fingernail polish, or henna for the next two weeks. I will wear an apron, when I paint. I will avoid any and all sources of poison ivy and/or insect bites. I will not run with sizzors or other sharp objects.
And I will plan my wardrobe carefully, to avoid getting to class and realizing that I'm still wearing my pajammas, or worse--any variation of political T-shirt which might disincline professor with a personality from letting me take his class.
No, really. It should be fine.
As usual, I stopped by the bookstore, hoping to buy my book. And, as usual, my book wasn't there. This time, they had added a little, yellow sticker to the shelf tag, informing everyone that the book was due in on the 2nd. Guess lots of people have been asking about it. Alot. The guy I talked to while I was there suggested that I could "pre-pay" now, and then they would call me, when the book got in. Yeah. Sure. I'm going to hand over my money now, for a book that shows no sign of showing up until well after class has started. A book that I've been being told should be there in a couple of days for over a month, now. Nope. Not a chance. I managed to say "No," Not particularly politely, but without the use of any pejoratives, and with actually laughing in the guy's face. Good for me.
Latin, I have been told (ad nauseum) is the pinacle of human linguistic achievement. It is the purest, and most elegant mode of expression, and quite possibly the only language ever spoken by man which is suited, also to the tongues of angels. Greek is, of course, more consise, and a little less melifluous, but still a towering colossus above any of the modern languages. And, as my Greek professor told me on the first day of class (Greek 101), if it seems difficult, don't worry. The first twenty years are the hardest.
In sharp contrast, English is at the very bottom of the midden heap of human utterance.
I didn't study Classical languages in highschool. At least, not beyond a few word derivations copied from the dictionary during detention. I took French, and then German, and all things considered, spoke them fairly well. I was very good at asking where the restroom is, or ordering a cup of coffee. The day-to-day small talk of a tourist, or a foreign exchange student. I had studied German for three years before the class was introduced to anything remotely literary. It was Herman Hesse's Siddhartha. Because, of course we all know that Buddha was born in Munich, and consequently, Buddhism is a central element of German culture. Later, I took French in college, hoping for something more substantial than I had studied in High School. But, of course, once again, I was sitting in class, practicing how to talk about shoes and socks, and whether I took the bus or a taxi to class.
One difference between a modern language and a Classical language is intent. No one takes Attic Greek so that he can talk to Greeks. He takes it so he can read Aeschylus or Plato. Therefore, you get to skip all the excitement about "hello, my name is..." and "would you like to go for a walk with me." You wind up studying more syntax and memorizing less vocabulary. Syntax is the way that language is put together, the way you make "dog bites man" mean something totally different than "man bites dog." Vocabulary is what any idiot can look up in a dictionary.
The difference, though, that I'm just beginning to appreciate is one of perspective. Studying a Classical language is like standing back looking at linguistics through a wide-angle lens... You see the language that you're learning, but you also see (with some distortion, but still clear enough to be useful) where that language connects to other languages, and you begin to see patterns. Studying a modern language is more like zooming in in sharp focus on one, particular branch of the tree. You memorize, you work on reducing your accent, you focus on the particular things you would like to be able to discuss(business, if you're a businessman, art, if your an artist, and so on) and it takes a long, long time before patterns emerge.
I am back on campus, still looking for the Latin text for my Latin class, and wondering how, exactly it is that a bookstore can possibly be that fouled up. It really is just a simple case of inventory. You count books. You tell people on the phone what you have (or, in the case of this particular bookstore, what you don't have). Well, since that didn't work, and since I really don't have anything better to do, I'm here, again, "checking back a couple of days later." No book. I did, however, see yet another student from my class peering dismally at the empty space on the shelf where the book that we've all been ordered to buy ought to be. And why not?
When I graduated from the university, one of the big mile markers was when I wound up buying an exorbitant number of books that weren't required by any of my professors. Now, I'm going back to take a few language courses, and it's really great to be buying books that are required, again. The sheer gripe time pleasure that I've gotten out of these five books (not bad--about seventy bucks worth, all said and done). I called the Bookstore this morning, to ask about the last book on my prof's wishlist, (yeah. You guessed it. The one that's actually in the language in question). I was told that yes, the book was there, and all I had to do was come, pay an arm and a leg, and pick it up. Well, I got to the Bookstore, and the book isn't there. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't really matter. The prof will, of course, blame the bookstore, for not putting his order in until the last moment, and the bookstore will blame the prof, for not getting his order there on time. And, the entire class will spend the first three weeks of class downloading the text from Perseus. Which, let's face it, would have been the cheapest route, in the first place, so when the books finally arrive, they won't sell, because we'll still be printing off the internet.
So, what to do on a university campus, when the book that you were going to buy isn't there, and classes haven't started and you don't know a soul...
I picked up my campus system password. (Which includes a new personal home page for me to play with) and now, I'm here.
So, where do you find INTP personality types, other than the linguistics department? The computer lab. This particular INTP also happens to be in linguistics, and has actually taken courses from the professor before. So, I asked her about him. He's very smart, and very good, and very helpful... it was the smart part that I've been wondering about, so that reassurance was nice. But he has a "personality". I'm not sure whether she actually said "asshole" or if I just inferred it, but the general thought that he's a bit of a jerk was implicit. I don't really care. In the first place, I don't mind paying to take classes from a smart asshole. In the second place, he's enough of an asshole that I was warned, but not enough of an asshole that his student was worried about saying it to someone she'd never met before. So, as long as he's a moderate asshole, and not a progressive asshole, I'm fine.
I do not, by the way, have the formal prerequisites to take this class. I'm relying on independant study to make up for actual in-class time. On the bright side, I've been doing all my independant work in a series of composition books, so I actually have the proof. Of course, the proof is illustrated with caricatures of former language instructors, many of them wearing colorful ethnic dress... So, we'll see. At least you can always count on an asshole to behave predictably.
This is another Pepsi campus. That is, in exchange for an enormous amount of money, the university has agreed to sell only Pepsi on campus. So, I'm going to get back into the Mountain Dew habit I thought I had left behind years ago. Then again, that means lots of nice Pepsi boys running around. Despite the swill they peddle, I have always had a weakness for Pepsi guys. It could be the shade of the uniform, which is so much nicer than Sunburn red or Buffalo Brown, or the legs (yes, there's such a thing as a leg woman) or conditioning from my malleable youth, but... there really is something about a Pepsi guy.
I had one of the most beautiful conversations one human being can possibly have with another this weekend. The conversation that I've been looking forward to for two years. The conversation I've been having blissful, perfect dreams about. That conversation.
The one where my busy-body aunt asked me how my ex-boyfriend, the one my family was always more in love with than I was, is, and I got to answer (Truthfully, and without lying) MARRIED.
Wooohooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
You wouldn't believe how fast that conversation ended. It was beautiful. It was perfect. Well worth the wait.
It's just that there are so many people in this world who seem to think that I am the font of all knowledge when it comes to that boy. MARRIED, MARRIED, MARRIED!!!!!!! And I'm thrilled. Not so much for him, actually. Mostly, for myself, and what this means to me. Mostly, that I have finally reached the point that I can quit hearing about him.
I don't know the actual date. I set it at officially August 31 (because he said end-of August, and that way, I'm sure.)
Don't get me wrong. There's nothing actually wrong with this guy. No hideous deformities, no personality disorders, no shady past. I can envision someone being happy with him. Just not me. And, as I have now passed the 3rd or 4th anniversary of the "Just not me" decision, it's about time that I quit hearing his name--at least, quit hearing his name from people who think I'm wasting my life, if, at this very moment, there is not a child shooting forth from my loins. You know-- the kind of women who say "It's the over-particular ones what get left behind."
MAAAA---ried! It's short, it's sweet. It shuts people up faster than suggesting the incest taboo is outdated and winking at your brother.
I'm thrilled. It's just so convenient.
My ex-boyfriends should get married more often. E-mail me if you want one of them.
Step #1. Recognize the fact that the Pope is, in fact a foreign power. Yes, he's the spiritual "leader" of millions of Catholics, but he is also the temporal leader of a very real, very physical nation called "The Vatican," "Vatican City," or "The Papal States." He signs treaties, appoints ambassadors, controls territory, and even has a seat at the United Nations. For all practical purposes, he functions as the head of a government.
Moreover, the government in question is NOT an ally of the United States. In World War II, the Vatican had a treaty with Mussolini. (That is to say, the Vatican was, for all practical purposes, a member of the Axis.) Now, the Vatican refuses extradition, and acts as a haven to fugitives accused of abusing, molesting, and sodomizing American Children.
2. Revoke the Passport and Citizenship of every person who makes an oath of allegience to this foreign power. Yes, I know that the foreign power in question refers to it's oaths of allegience as "Vows of Poverty" or "Holy Orders," but that's really just semantics. If you stand in front of God, and/or witnesses, and swear to obey a foreign power, that would be an Oath of Allegience.
Read the back of your passport, people: To make an Oath of Allegience to a foreign power is to renounce your American Citizenship. Period. Full stop. No ifs ands, or buts.
At ordination, Roman Catholic Seminarians renounce their American Citizenship.
Immigration and Naturalization should send these foreign nationals a letter informing them of their new status, including the proper forms to apply for visas, green cards, and so on:
Dear Father So and So:
It has come to our attention that you have made a public oath of allegience to a foreign power. Please relinquish your passport to INS within 30 days.
Love and Kisses, INS
3. If any of these foreign nationals sets so much as a toe out of line, deport his ass (along with any other offending part of his anatomy) back to his country of citizenship. I don't just mean "If he's actually caught raping a child, deport him." I mean, if there's any suspicion. And, while we're at it, deport every priest and cenobite in the whole damned parish: obstruction of justice is a crime, too.
The Vatican is not going to fix this problem. The Vatican has a history of sodomy and child molestation going back centuries. Ask the little boy they painted gold for a papal coronation. Ask the Medici popes.
And if anyone actually finds a celibate priest, somebody should call the pope.
Today... for those of you who are unaware... is torment Sian day. It really is.
One of my cousins was reading questions to us off the internet. Scenarios. Psychiatric story problems.
Man goes to his mother's funeral... meets a woman, but doesn't get her name or phone number. No one else knows, either. Two days later, he strangles his sister. Why?
And, of course, the first words out of my mouth would have to be "So the woman will come to her funeral."
At which point, my beloved cousin informs us all that if you got the answer right--and I did-- that you are thinking like a sociopath. Lazzez les bonnes temps roulez! Oh, yes, all kinds of fun at my expense.
So, we found another "personality test" on the internet--don't worry, more for fun than for diagnostic value-- and... I'll never hear the end of it. I wound up with an 85% sociopath rating, which, by the way places me in the 93rd percentile. Yay! I'm above average. Profoundly gifted.
My cousins are rolling on the floor, as we speak.
Grumble. Grumble. Grumble.
I thought I was doing well. An entire week of family, of talking about the cute little buny rabbits in the back yard and the weather--which was a little hot, at first, but has now cooled down, remarkably--and how much all the children have grown since the last time I saw them. No eyes clawed out. No problem.
(Okay, so I had to tell one, teeny tiny little white lie to expedite coffee, but considering it was for coffee, I could be excused for so much more!)
But I did. I thought I was doing well.
That is, until we got to the airport.
Two and a half hours early.
And sat down, in the coffee shop, accross from a TV.
Which was set to CNN.
With my aunt.
The "Progressive" Democrat.
Crash! Bang! Thud! A week of diplomacy and good will up in smoke.
Well, in any event, I got to use the phrase, "Yes, but we're not living in a democracy; we're living in a constitutional republic," in every day speech.
You have to love aging flower children. They're so resolute, driving their BMWs.
The only thing Auntie and I agree on, when it comes to politics is that one of us should be permanently committed. Being insane, she's unaware that it should be her.
So, we sniped back and forth about Bolton, for a while. (She believes that the post should be left open, in war-time, indefinitely, until the senate has managed to sit on a hill side, holding hands, and selling Coke products for at least a few more months.)
And then, we went on to the next story... and the next... and the next.
Then, we put her on a plane.
And I'm still glad that I lied about the coffee.
Randis on I'm really beginning...
alohalani on I'm really beginning...
today
October 2006
July 2006
June 2006
May 2006
March 2006
February 2006
January 2006
December 2005
November 2005
October 2005
September 2005
August 2005
July 2005
June 2005
May 2005
April 2005
beauty parlors suck
dancing
food
intp personality
italy
my campaign for everything
nanowrimo
political views
puh-chah jazz hands
quest for graduate school
sex scandal
things which dont lend themselve
We did say 'he' regardless that we are women - but it seemed a bit silly, so we've allowed 'she' to creep in 
