The Naming of Things

Something is telling me, "Psst! It's time for a new post!" I am not sure what that thing is, but I feel inclined to obey it. That thing is probably Procrastination, since my empty blog-editing window somehow seems more enticing than my empty word-processing-essay-writing window.

I feel like writing about more Oxonian nostalgia, but I ought to refrain. Such unrestrained remembrance is unbecoming. Then perhaps I ought to write about my life, but that is most assuredly boring (I turned in a huge-normous paper. I am trying not to get sick. I am having surgery soon. I sleep a lot. I got a job at the library. I have wonderful friends.). Of course there are the little things in life which are so vexing, like 8.5"x11" paper, MLA documentation style, Talbot guys, my padiddle car, and the person in the library who gets change from their five-dollar bill and their quarters drop noisily and ceaslessly out of the dispenser.

I could wax ignorantly philosophic on the current state of things, but there are enough bloggers commenting on the quagmire of our culture.

Or, I could post up here something that I've written for class. But there is not anything of particular interest. Most of the poems I have done lately have been bad, and not worth posting. Or I could talk endlessly about my love of modernist poetry. Or all poetry, for that matter.

But I won't. I suppose I just wrote about what I am not going to write about. But that's okay. At least I've ruled out everything I won't write about next time.