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| Pulling at the pant leg of your bad disguise
So: "Anchorless" The Weakerthans
Cool Things
~ doing laundry
~ the jade elephant bonus
~ my wonderful boyfriend is coming with me to Oregon
~ my fabulous best friend is coming with me to Louisiana
~ carnations
~ not being in a dormitory
~ Hello Kitty bandages
~ the Sex And The City movie
~ free Coke
Uncool Things
~ stress
~ earthquakes
~ breakouts
~ getting stressed out
~ Paris Hilton being on the cover of National Geographic
More later
Kelli | | |
| Wish that I could travel his way
Pup: "He's a Tramp" Peggy Lee
We have a new dog. He's a bearded collie and he is overwhelmingly cute. Dad said his name is Briscoe, but my sister and I have decided to call him Jeff Goldblum instead. He's a real charmer. I'll keep you posted.
More later
Kelli | | |
| Dear Michael Crichton:
Hi. First of all, I just want to say I'm a big fan. I'm such a
fan that I am writing you this letter instead of working on my final
paper that's due at 5:45 tonight.
I have read several of your books and I think you're a great writer.
Admittedly, I saw the movie Jurassic Park before I even knew who you
were, but give me a break. I was three years old when Knopf
published the book, and I was six when the movie premiered.
Actually, I thought Steven Spielberg and Stephen King were the same
person, so I kind of thought Stephen King wrote and directed the film.
It really didn't matter either way; when I was six years old I was not
terribly concerned with the masterminds behind the images on the screen. There were
dinosaurs and popcorn and special effects to distract me. I know
I'm probably coming across as rude here, but I'm truly just trying to
be honest with you. I'd hate it if you didn't find out until
after we had picked out the wallpaper for the foyer. Anyway,
you're pretty cool. You're a Harvard graduate, a New York Times
Bestselling author, a guy who quotes Mark Twain and wears neckties with
diagonal stripes. You even have a dinosaur named after you.
I know you like to get right to the point, so here it is. I've been trying to finish State of Fear
since it was published four years ago, Michael. I anticipated its
release date like a giddy schoolgirl, and when I received a copy of it,
I tore through the first through chapters like an angry velociraptor.
(Ooh, I'm sorry. I'm sure you get a lot of raptor jokes,
being Michael Crichton and all. I'll try to watch that.)
Anyway, I just wanted to say that I'm sorry I haven't finished your
book yet. I don't know why. It's not really that it's
boring or anything. It's just that...no, actually, maybe it is
because it's boring.
Maybe it's just because my generation is being constantly hit over the
head with speeches and literature and films about global warming (or cooling in this case), and I
guess I thought you were above that kind of realism. Part of what
I appreciated about Jurassic Park and The Sphere
was the ridiculousness of the tragedies and the unbelievable aspects of
the terror. Those things were a way of discussing the real
problems -- the different perceptions of science and of society, the
way scientific experimentation has become a theme park in itself --
without being so obvious. You weren't the guy we talked about in
English literature classes, but that was part of your appeal. You
were thrilling and educational without being boring, and I always
respected that about you.
Basically, I just wanted to say that even though I hate reading books
that have charts in them, I'm not giving up on you yet. Maybe the
next time I pick up State of Fear and try again, everything will make sense to me. In the meantime, I plan to reread The Lost World a couple of times.
Sincerely,
Kelli | | |
| Still in the newsroom, waiting for the final copy of the last issue this semester.
It seems like we just started.
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| Qua resurget ex favilla judicandus homo reus
Requiem: "Lacrymosa" Mozart
Dr. Allen recently announced that he will not be directing the university choir next semester. He has been promoted to some new position; he has been given a bigger desk, a raise, a new title for his business card. When he told us, he seemed so nonchalant. He must have practiced, saying it front of the mirror that morning while he was putting on his glasses or lacing up his shoes. How he would explain the situation. How he would smile as he was saying it. Not too wide, not too phony. His kind eyes. How he would segue into it so that it seemed like no big deal. "Speaking of new and exciting things..." Dr. Gilliam would be taking over the university group, but after all, Dr. Allen would still reign over chamber choir and a handful of students taking voice lessons. He would still have the Mac in his office, the framed certificates and awards hanging up on the walls.
When he directs us in rehearsal, he loses himself sometimes. I look at some of the students who are thinking about the biology exams they bombed that morning or the boys they can't seem to snare, but when I look back at Dr. Allen, I smile. He briefly closes his eyes, swept away by the somber beauty of Mozart's Requiem. His hands float over his music stand and within moments he is miles away, wearing shiny black shoes and a tuxedo with tails, his podium rising out of the orchestra pit. And I can't even begin to describe it. The weight of the baton. The shiny slide trombones. The fierce shrillness of the soprano section in Dies Irae. My clumsy experimentation with sentence fragments and comma splices are so inadequate when compared with his dedication to his craft. What good is it to have power over a hundred thousand words when he can take fifty individual voices and make one glorious sound? Vowels gliding into an audience like ghosts, echoing, filling the hall with emotion, then dissolving.
Timing is essential with Mozart. The syncopation of each fugue is vital to the message.
One missed note could change everything.
I am surprised and not surprised. This kind of thing happens all the time, you know. Dr. Allen has been conducting concerts, offering advice and building the careers of hundreds of musicians since before I was born. A younger director has arrived, and he has such great energy, and he is doing wonderful things for the music department. I respect him and I'm in awe of his enthusiasm and knowledge, but at the same time, I know exactly what is happening. It all comes down to this. The new plaque on the door, a few signatures, a figurehead for ceremonies and banquets. A man in a suit. Richard Gilmore's new parking space. A farewell, a dead language.
More later
Kelli
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