Monday, February 7, 2011

Another monday! My how they come.

This week is going to be exciting. Sort of. More like scary.

1.) Mock Trial
Mock tiral is a hypothetical court situation acted out by high school and college students. It's my school's first year. All the other schools think that we're 'cute'. It's not a good way to go into a competition.
Our competition begins tomorrow. It's gonna be intense. It's two and a half hours of straight court. Good thing I like it.

2.) People.
Let's just say they're intense, too. Even the ones who seem like they'd be so easy to deal with. I think everybody needs a week in the woods by themselves. Especially me. Sometimes you just need a break to recover from being so out there all the time. You know?

3.) Choosing classes
We have to choose our classes for next year by next Monday. I feel like this is going to be one of the biggest decisions in terms of my life next year. There's a lot of interesting classes at school that I want to take. One is an architechural design class. Another is journalism. All are interesting. 

I think that's it for now. Those are the big ones. 

I thought I'd leave you all with a poem for this week. They're actually lyrics. Analyze how you will. I just like the thing itself.

By Andrew Bird

I dreamed you were a cosmonaut
Of the space between our chairs
And I was a cartographer
Of the tangles in your hair

I sighed a song that silence brings
It's the one that everybody knows
Oh everybody knows
The song that silence sings
And this was how it goes

These looms that weave apocryphal
They're hanging from a strand
These dark and empty rooms were full
Of incandescent hands

An akward pause
A fatal flaw
Time it's a crooked bow
Oh time's a crooked bow

In time you need to learn to love
The ebb just like the flow

Grab hold of your bootstraps
And pull like hell,
'til gravity feels sorry for you,
And lets you go
As if you lack the proper chemicals to know

The way it felt the last time you let yourself
Fall this low
Oh time
It's a crooked bow
Time's a crooked bow

Fifty-five and three-eighths years later
At the bottom of this gigantic crater
An armchair calls to you
Yeah this armchair calls to you
And it says that
Some day
We'll get back at them all
With epoxy and a pair of pliers
As ancient sea slugs begin to crawl
Through the ragweed and barbed wire

You didn't write you didn't call
It didn't cross your mind at all
And through the waves
The waves of a.m. squall
You couldn't feel a thing at all
Your fifty-five and three-eighths tall
Fifty-five and three-eighths tall


No comments:

Post a Comment