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So. I suppose I manage to be wildly stereotypical, as you can probably tell from the timestamp of this post. Started writing, quickly stopped writing, even more quickly managed to forget that I had stopped writing. I enjoy the fact that I'm not at all like anyone else in this matter. Sort of makes a person feel interesting and unique in her own special way. It wasn't until I got (what I think was) a spam email related to my blog that some musty recess of my mind recalled my lapse. *cough cough* So, yes. I have resolved to even go to the trouble of bookmarking this page, in the hope that it will encourage me to procrastinate by posting instead of listening to NPR archives or thumbbing through the APOD. We shall see.
At the moment, however, I fear that the course of widsom does not in any way involve posting a blog. Finishing my 8.251 pset or my prelab for the 21-cm hydrogen spin-flip detection might be good. Or something like that. You get the idea.
Mmm... tastes like winter break. I spent all of yesterday and part of the night before cooking for a dinner party. It was wonderfully extravagant to be able to spend such a ridiculous amount of time on it. And, for the most part, I was quite satisfied with the results: samosas, curry, rice, a lemon tart, and a double chocolate torte. And, as we obviously didn't have enough food, Laura made aloo ghobi and Felice brought chocolate truffles. I must confess that I thought Laura's was better than mine, mostly because she was more daring with the spice. (I've managed to acquire this fear that everyone—except myself—will hate what I make because it's too spicy...) Still, not bad. And I got to have fun with my three rather unnecessary cooking implements that I splurged on after Christmas (a pastry blender, a tart pan, and a springform pan).
May I recommend to all of you, as was done for me, a book that I can only describe as wonderfully diverting? In point of fact, even if the answer is no I'm still going to advise you to pick up Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell. On the condition, of course, that you don't feel the need to stick your nose up in the air because they're both magicians. And maybe even if you do, because they're both 19th century British magicians. And because they say things like "chuse." And because Mr. Norrell hordes books and doesn't want the pages to get dirty. One day, perhaps, someone more eloquent than I will describe French House's kitchen as well as is done with M'sieur Minervois' abode: "There was an elderly bunch of celery that had lived too long and too promiscuously in close companionship with the charcoal for its own good."
I got to see my nephew twice so far, which was nice. He's quite cute, and my brother seems to be a very loving, happy father. He'd probably try to hang me upside-down by one foot for saying so, but I think the appropriate adjective might even be doting. *grin* So much for the hard-core Megadeath fan.
*Happy gurgle*
I'm very, very fond of being home. No doubt it helps that "home" currently includes lights, a tree and friendly gingerbread smells, and that yesterday it was full of friends. And that I have yet to see a problem set jump out of any closets or attack from under the bed late at night. Still, there are things about home that I think I would enjoy even without the holidays. This is probably not the place to begin explusing my theories about pattern recognition and repitition in anthropology... but that's never stopped me before. I suppose what I mean (more or less) is that many of my often repeated experiences feel safe and comforting at a very fundamental level. Silly things like the way the living room carpet feels under bare feet (the red one that my mother claims has needed to be replaced for the last ten years), or watching the fog come over the hills from my favorite reading spot behind the curtains... Most excellent. Oojah-cum-spiff, even.
It was a bit surreal to have Christmas come so quickly. I got off the plane at 11:00 California time and the gingerbread house party was at 2:00 that afternoon. We ended up with a much smaller crowd this year than usual, though 'twas most enjoyable in any event. I think my favorite house was Kate's—the structural stability became more and more questionable as larger portions of the house mysteriously disappeared. In the end it managed to topple in a very earthquake-esque fashion, which I felt was quite appropriate given the location.
I noticed again this year how, oddly, it's rather difficult to describe what has happened in a semester. One might think that, which such a wealth of material to draw from, it would be significantly easier than recounting things on a more regular basis. But no. Lies. All lies. (No doubt spread by the damned liberal/socialist/communist media.) When I ask for news since someone has last regaled me with tales from afar, it's nearly an impossible question to answer. Judging from the responses, it is a truth universally acknowledged that "not much" happens in a six-month period of time.
This was, in fact, written on the 23rd. Lacking an internet connection, however, it gets posted on the 26th. Just to confuse you.
And so, gentle reader, the blog of Milly doth commence. This is a rather unfortunate event, as I've always had trouble with beginnings. They manage to comport themselves in a distressingly awkward fashion. And, unlike awkward relatives, its absolutely impossible to just give them the boot. You may think that you've disposed of a perfectly horrid beginning when, lo and behond, you find that some other cheeky passage has taken its place. (Then again, perhaps it's more analogous to Aunt Charmlack than I've supposed. I'm told she often has a sister who objects to spontaneous demises, and that the sister may make herself more unpleasant and more difficult to avoid than even Charmlack herself had.)
At all events, a good beginning remains for me merely an elusive, Platonic ideal. One of these days I shall stumble across a beginning to really sweep the reader off her feet—to astound, intrigue, and tantalize her while maintaining that air of superior reserve that allows the writer to turn her nose toward the heavens. A beginning that will hint subtly at things to come, that will amuse the reader with Baktinian humor, but that will cause our reader to pause and reflect on life's more grave and important topics.
Lacking this at the moment, however, I wil simply ask that the reader go out into the literary jungle, hunt down and capture a splendid beginning, and return with the trophy to tack where my most excellent beginning ought to have been. I might even ask that it be properly stuffed and adorned with glass eyes, but I really shouldn't be too demanding. At present I will offer only the following as a placemarker:
Milly begins.
Now, should the reader take even a passing interest in this Milly, he might ask "but where does she begin?" And to this, unlike to the majority of questions, I have an answer. She begins on a plane.
To be more precise, she begins on a plane 36001 feet above the ground, that (were the plane to suddenly find itself at a radial coordinate 36001 feet closer to the center of the earth) would be near Wausau, Wisconsin. This plane has traveled 1001 miles since taking off from Boston, and (at rough approximation) has 2000 miles of further travel before reaching San Francisco. She begins while sitting in seat 6F of this plane. She also begins while she is in the process of heartily enjoying the conversation taking place in seat 7D, 7E, and 7F—owing largely to the fact that it is taking place in French. It is entirely possible that I ought to feel more than slightly guilty for eavesdropping, but my only excuse is that a family is traveling with a very cute little child, and that French is after all a very pretty language. Do you really think you could resist the temptation to perk up your ears upon hearing a father say to his coughing child: "Tu as un problème?" Exactly. Glass house and all that.
From my entirely Milly-centric point of view, however, the most exciting thing about Milly's beginning is that it signals that I have, at last, finished my final exams for first semester (as of yesterday at 4:30). I hope that—although the reader cannot hear my voice or see that nervous twitch in my eye that appears whenever I ponder the subject—my state of mind will be thoroughly understood when I remind the reader that I was left with two days between the end of exams and Christmas. I also hope that when the person responsible for the academic calendar is found floating in the Charles (or maybe on the ice of the Charles), nobody will foolishly conclude that I was in any way involved. Or that it's worth remarking on that damn spot of blood that I can't seem to wash out.