The Sky Is Crying

I am hesitant to write a blog about real events. It seems that this page becomes more and more an outlet where I can vent some pent-up creativity. I guess that can still be true even if I am writing entries that apply to my daily life but it also seems like my daily life is so uninteresting. However, I have no particularly interesting stories (fantastical) to tell and I enjoy the sound of clacking keys so I will parlay some information about my life.

Teaching,

There, that's it. No specifics. I don't want to make the anonymous users of the internet jealous if they happen to have just completed or (even worse) completed a long time ago a bachelor of education and are looking for a job. I guess I narrowed down the field a bit and probably achieved what I set out not to. But isn't that the way it always goes?

A desire to teach has been rekindled and continues to be around 1:05pm on weekdays but my apathy seems to grow throughout the rest of the day and I find myself thinking that it isn't me, it's them. That attitude doesn't really help anybody and I am only consoled by the fact that a partial few actually do understand some things but that also has nothing to do with me.
I find it scary that in most cases involving students their academic careers are almost completely decided by them. The instructor has very little control in the sense that the marks are there for those who want to get them. I never knew how easy it is to get marks and succeed. However, I know this only as a result of experience so maybe it's not too much of a missed opportunity and more of a right of passage that leads all adults to conclude that all children are stupid, unmotivated and lazy. Two generalizations that are real almost all of the time (don't forget that adults have no souls and have forgotten the true meaning of life).

Book Review

I recently read V for Vendetta and dare I say I liked the movie more than the novel. Perhaps it is because I saw the movie first or maybe it is because the novel was one of Alan Moore's earlier works. Either way, I feel that the movie told the story of V quite eloquently. Obviously there is the fact that without the novel there would be no movie but it should be noted that of all the movie adaptations of Moore's work (remember the V for Vendetta movie came out before the Watchmen movie), V for Vendetta was the best. I really liked the dialogue in the movie and was expecting (and was disappointed when it wasn't there) the long, albeit kind of silly, alliterative monologue that V delivers. I think it had the right effect. I was also surprised about just how crazy V was in the graphic novel that was a little down-played in the movie.
Ultimately, the novel was amazing. I thoroughly enjoyed it but I particularly enjoyed the recent interpretation of the story in cinematic format. I feel the movie captured all the themes of the novel with quite a few aspects of the story altered but still packing the same punch intended to be delivered by the novel.
Well done, Wachowskis. The Matrix sequels are the only blemish on your career. Keep up the good work.

Yours valiantly, vehemently and always vibrantly,
Le double-V

So long and thanks for all the quantum theory

I am slowly getting stupider. I can almost feel my brain deteriorating to become a mere shadow of what it was during university. Without the constant, albeit ignored, hammering of knowledge into my cerebellum the muscle that is my brain will wither until it becomes like all other muscles in my body: barely noticeable. I almost wish I was back in school so that I could work out my cranium to prevent this decay but the thought of monetary gain is too tempting to ignore. I guess my brain will achieve its maximum strength as that of a high school student.
I need to start doing science in my spare time or something. If only I had a little more extra time that I could spend studying and then use the current amount I get relaxing. Or maybe I should just stop being such a lazy bitch. Either way, I'm an idiot and it's only going to get worse.

Winters of Asgard

Lundgirn shovels the walkway that leads from his small, wooden chalet down to the lake. The night is still and each falling snowflake seems trapped in time as it floats slowly from the cloud covered, black night sky to the snow covered, white ground. His breath streams out in turrets of steam as he struggles only slightly with the work. The night was still. The only sound was the periodic scraping of his shovel against the stone path. The lucid night was soft and yet heavy around him as Lundgirn opened a way to the lake. The frozen lake. Lundgirn lived alone in his chalet. He was the sole person who lived in this part of the woods. He had spent many years perfecting his home and making it as comfortable as possible. Every morning he awoke to shovel the walkway. He would return, eat and then venture outside again to shovel away the newly fallen snow. Once finished for the second time he would enter his living chambers to gaze at his pictures. Night would fall sullenly and he would tromp outside to light his lamps. The woods would be alit with dim light, amplified by the white ground. It would create a slight haze effect. Like that of dreams. Lundgirn would then shovel the walkway a third time in the night before retiring to his bed chamber and dozing into a soft sleep. All year this is what he would do. All year the snow would fall. His setting would never change. The snow he shoveled would pile up but it never accumulated more than a day. Each day would bring the same amount of snow. Lundgirn noticed at first but eventually grew to accept it. He accepted it as he accepted that he would never see Hirst smile again. Hirst. Every time he got to the lake Lundgirn would feel a chill and he would know without looking that he had reached the end of his path. The cold air would not chill him the way that the feeling around the lake did. His soul would slowly get colder as he approached the edge of the frozen waters culminating in a frigid end as he reached the shore. He was chilled for what lay at the bottom of the lake. Frozen in time. Frozen in beauty. Frozen in ice. Frozen in life. Hirst. Lundgirn lived his life to pave a way for her when she would awaken. Lundgirn knew that the winter could not last forever and eventually Hirst would be free and they could be together again. The winter could not last forever. Each year he told himself that. Each new snowfall would be the last. She would rise from the lake, no longer a prisoner. He would no longer lift the snow from the walk.
The snowflakes almost seemed to hover in mid-air. Each one held in place by invisible strings. Dancing on the air but never acquiescing their place in space and time to give up their vigil amid their brethren in the dense night. Each snowflake trapped in time. A twinkle of lamplight off the top of the frozen lake. Lungirn lifted a shovelful of snow. He feels a deep chill and he begins to walk back to his hut, through the immortal snow.