May Memo Madness

    I'm alive! I survived finals week. Dare I say I'm thankful for this past week and a half of craziness because of how nice it feels now to have time? Time? What is that?
    The weekend was busy, too, but in a good way. Yesterday, I enjoyed what I only dreamed of having while I was working fast-food: a quiet Sunday evening. Even though the sun beat down during the day, once it went down it was cool and breezy, and the trees made lofty green rustling sounds. I sat on the deck rail while the guinea pigs puttered around and ate snacks, and I did my new journal challenge. I'm calling it May Memo Madness, and it starts officially today, Monday the 12th. Every day in May I am supposed to write an entry of 50 words (no more, no less), while sitting outside, writing in pencil, about anything signature from that day.
 

      This will be a good, quick way of recording memories. And it'll be a doable daily writing that will help me with word economy.

      Hop on, if you like. Happy Monday.

Happy Dickinson

     As far as personal life goes, writers don't have a very good reputation. The ones whose names everyone recognizes had preoccupations with the morbid, were depressed and alcoholic, had relationship problems, and died young. Emily Dickinson wasn't quite 56 when she died. She wrote a lot about death, although sometimes light-heartedly ("Because I could not stop for Death" --Death personified as a footman; "I died for Beauty-but was scarce" two dead people talking in their tombs about why they died).
      For my final essay in American Lit I, I think I'll write an analysis of a few of her darker-themed works. Maybe it will give me an idea why the best are so doomy. But before I dive into the gloom, I want to share a Happy Dickinson poem (if I'm not misreading it...which is quite possible).
      "I taste a liquor never brewed" celebrates nature--a nice theme, considering it's finally spring!
[Click to listen]

I taste a liquor never brewed --
From Tankards scooped in Pearl --
Not all the Vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an Alcohol!

Inebriate of Air -- am I --
And Debauchee of Dew --
Reeling -- thro endless summer days --
From inns of Molten Blue --

When "Landlords" turn the drunken Bee
Out of the Foxglove's door --
When Butterflies -- renounce their "drams" --
I shall but drink the more!

Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats --
And Saints -- to windows run --
To see the little Tippler
Leaning against the -- Sun --