A Little Birdy Told Me Something

A peculiar day it has been, besides our quest through bureaucracy at York today. I went to sit outside to read Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere, but then I heard a bird chirping and the sound of thrashing. I looked out into the yard to see Cleta, our youngest, black cat, parading about with a live bird in her mouth. This was no ordinary sparrow she is wont to kill, but something bigger, about the size of a robin (though it wasn't one). After summoning my father to my aid, we pried the bird from the cat's mouth, put the bird-killer inside, closed the rear door, and set about capturing the bird to set it free. Now just imagine two men chasing a little, barely-discernable bird across a tiny backyard in near darkness, with only the faint glow of a porch light to guide them. Lucky for the bird, only its wing was slightly hurt - so after we raised it to the fence it flew off.

Public Service Announcement

My apologies to those who read my early morning rant or, I should say, rave. It has no place on this blog, so it has been deleted. Just letting the daily stresses get to me.

Casanova In Bolzano

Another quiet day once again. A mild drizzle of rain outside, as well as brisk winds. I have to work tonight, shortly, 4-9:30 at Chapters - picking up after those wonted, bored slobs.


Tomorrow I head up to York, to upgrade my degree to Specialised Honours. Next week I get to pick my classes.

Relatively uneventful day, no? I've been curling up with a book, escaping serious responsibility around the house - reading Sandor Marai's Casanova in Bolzano. Definitely worth picking up. It reminds me of the sub-plot about Byron in Coetzee's Disgrace.

Well, there's thunder and lightning outside. Gotta head off to work shortly.

It's A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World

A while ago, I was told I should post something on my blog that has nothing to do with books, work or school. When I think about it, there isn't much else to write about without divesting details of my private life - how dull ! Of course when you work a 40-50 hour work-week between 2 jobs, it leaves little else to do. What little time I have is precious - to be devoted to the love of my life, Viv, and when I can't see her at times (such as night-time) I read books or articles about books. Perhaps I should become a connoiseur of alcohol? Take a cooking course? Who knows ... but don't think I have no life ... I went out to a soca club with Viv last Saturday (though I kicked back for most of the night while she danced the night away). We also watched movies all of last weekend (from Anchorman to It's A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World).

I suppose that's enough for tonight. Did I mention Viv paid a brief visit while I was working, or scrambling, at Chapters this morning? I felt bad for not being able to screw around on corporate time a bit more, however, there was tons of work to get done - people called in sick for two consecutive morning shifts (me being one of those people).

ADDENDUM: I had to delete the quiz on sexiness 'cause it was messing up the posts' alignment.

Good Idea / Bad Idea

A few words of wisdom I encountered today:

What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done; there is nothing new under the sun. Is there a thing of which it is said, "See, this is new"? It has already been, in the ages before us. (Ecclesiastes 1:9-10)

Or in the words of the Bard, a goad of wisdom given to Achilles by Ulysses in Troilus and Cressida:

One touch of nature makes the whole world kin--
That all with one consent praise new-born gauds,
Though they are made and moulded of things past,
And give to dust that is a little gilt
More laud than gilt o'er-dusted.
The present eye praises the present object. (3.3.169-174)

As you can tell, I am feeling much better now--after a mug of soup, tea, a plate of lasagna, and coffee--and have been reading Shakespeare. Hmm ... the delirium must not be gone yet, reading Shakespeare when ill...good idea? bad idea?

This post has been brought to you by:

The Dispossessed

A strange twist of events ... woke up around 5 am feeling sick to my stomach, famished, sweating, delirious, dry throat, muscles aching and shortness of breath. So about three hours later I called in sick to both works ... and slept until about 30 minutes ago (2:30) in the afternoon. My lungs still feel a bit exhausted, like there is a puncture in them, otherwise the rest of my body is enjoying the rest.

They Call Me Hamlet

It's been a fairly busy day--work was achingly exhausting, cat came home with another sparrow (second or third this week!), faxing grades to the insurance company for a "Good Student" discount. All in all, I'm glad to be home and relaxing. Today has been one of those days, I felt weary with muscle aches for most of my 8-hour shift. If it were any other job, especially Chapters, I would have no problem trudging through the work in that time. However, I swear this warehouse harbours a great maelstrom where time swirls in primal form, pure chaos without form, because time NEVER flies during a shift--it drags on FOREVER. Or perhaps I just dread the work--I'm use to retail so I'm probably just being a whiner, or feeling inadequate.

The original reason I meant to post was to showcase this interesting essay on the mousetrap in Hamlet. Something tells me Hamlet is my favourite play--besides the fact I've been called a Hamlet.

The Allegory of the Poem

Evidently, I am expected to post on a regular basis, though I still would rather the time spent blogging be applied to realistic, life-oriented goals (the main reason I rarely watch TV). How likely it is that I will put off blogging is pretty low considering (a) after 10-11 hours of work a day, 3-4 days a week, (plus another day or two of 5-6 hour shifts) I'm pooped - so I look to the computer (aside from books) for an outlet i.e. escape and rest, plus (b) most of the work is mindless, mind-numbing, and consumes the mind - an unfortunately necessary evil - so I need a place to express inner anguish, frustration, &c. after a hard day of work (in other words: whine, whine, whine...), and last of all (c) it becomes a place to post reminders of why I'm going through university (to avoid working at these types of the jobs in the future): to mature by studying sophisticated thought(s). For now I'll dream (at least until they crush them in grad school, right?)

For today I thought I'd provide the lengthy, but rich opening to Torquato Tasso's addendum to his great epic poem Jerusalem Delivered called "The Allegory of the Poem."

Heroic Poetry, like a living creature in which two natures are combined, is compounded of Imitation and of Allegory. With the former it attracts men’s minds and their ears, and marvellously delights them; with the latter it gives them instruction in virtue or in knowledge, or in both. And as Epic Imitation is never anything but an image and similitude of human action, so the Allegory of epics is customarily a figuring of human life. Imitation looks to those actions of man that are subject to the exterior senses; and principally busying itself about these, it seeks to represent them with words that are effective and expressive and suitable for placing clearly before our corporeal eyes the things that it represents. It does not consider the manners or passions or discourses of the mind insofar as these are intrinsic, but onlyinsofar as they issue in externals, and accompany action, manifesting themselves in speeches and gestures and deeds. Allegory, on the other hand, observes passions and opinions and manners, not merely as they are in appearance, but principally in the intrinsic sense, and expresses them more obscurely through signs that are mysterious (so to speak), and only to be understood fully by those who comprehend the nature of things. Leaving Imitation aside for the present, I shall speak of Allegory, which is our subject.

And so he goes on...explaining how his reader ought to interpret the allegory of his poem by explaining allegory. I just wish I could get my hands on a copy of Tasso's Discourses on the Heroic Poem. From what I've read and understood, this documents essentially sums up the Renaissance interpretation, and re-vision of Epic and Romance. But it'll have to wait for the future - no more money to blow on books, gotta keep priorities straight.

Heading off to bed - get to work 12:30 to 9:00 later today. Joy. Another twisted, weird day of work: oh come on, the highlight of my workday is working on the "skinning" machine. If only I could flay...well, never mind...good night.

It Was A Dark And Stormy Night

After seeing my grades, a bit surprised considering how little I was in class, and something of a startling turn of events - I realize I spend too much time dawdling in front of the computer. If I am not wasting time, visiting unnecessary, mindless, amusing sites to blow time, I am sitting here thinking of something to write for this blog on a daily basis. This is not my grand reflection after a magnificent weekend at Vivian's, but more of an advanced warning. This is a notice that I will likely not be posting daily for the rest of the summer - not that anyone eagerly awaits these posts.

Love Lift Me

Cupid You Consider Love To Be 71% Idealistic, 85% Positive, and 71% Important.

You are the Cupid! You see love as ultimately idealistic, positive, and vastly important. Like Cupid himself, you feel that love is one of the greatest things in life. You see love as something wonderful and ideal. For you, love may be something spiritual. You feel that love is something much more than a physical reaction. You also probably feel that sex without love is something very, very wrong. Not surprisingly, you see love as something very optimistic. While you realize negative consequences can come from it, you still feel that love's pleasures vastly outweigh any possible negative consequences. Clearly, you are of much the same attitude as the real Cupid. It's no wonder that you'd be found on a site called "OKCupid". * To sum up: You think love is more IDEALISTIC, POSITIVE, and IMPORTANT than others. Please note that your percentage scores for each variable (found at the top) are a much more accurate reflection of your love attitude than this category description, which is highly speculative. * The other categories: Anti-Cupid Jilted Cynic Realist Loving Realist Cynical Idealist Cynical Cupid Idealist

My test tracked 3 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 61% on Idealism You scored higher than 53% on Optimism You scored higher than 43% on Importance

Link: The Love Personality Test written by saint_gasoline on Ok Cupid

The Lonely Blogger

Lately I have been wondering if anyone ACTUALLY reads this blog other than Viv. No one else seems to leave comments - which makes me wonder if my posts really are boring, or snobbish. Oh well. C'est la vie. I understand my taste in literature, humour &c can be a bit weird.

Anthropophagi @ York - Part 3

Salvador Dali's Cannibalism In Autumn.



Cannibalism has served throughout the ages as a metaphor for countless things. Brilliant authors and painters have appropriated the culture of the cannibal - like the Beatles emulated Southern Blues musicians - as a means to show the inexpressible horrors, or mysteries of existence: whether war, or religious doctrine.

Just remember that cannibals are people, too, but anthropophagi are equivalent to crackers: racist, white bastards.

Anthropophagi @ York - Part 2

As a part of this blog's continuing efforts to be fair in its series on 'anthropophagi', a brief educational part (a good 'ole 50s Film Board of Canada clip could not be obtained) from David Williams' book Deformed Discourse is available for viewers.

This blog would like to thank those who contributed to this ongoing, controversial topic. Anthropophagi is a serious issue at York - don't let your university became a base for man-eaters.

Anthropophagi @ York

I changed my upcoming class schedule recently. Rather than taking a course with the anthropophagus (otherwise known as the man-eater) Higgins, I opted for the following classes for my final year to complete a Specialized Honours English B.A..

(1) EN 41o9 - McLuhan / Frye - W 11:30 - 2:30 (Powe)
(2) EN 4184 - Renaissance Theatre of Transgression - R 2:30 - 5:30 (Juhasz-Ormsby)
(3) EN 4185 - Advanced Shakespeare - TR 1:00 - 2:30 (Cohen)
(4) EN 3150 - Writer / Critic - T 8:30 - 11:30 (Kuin)
(4) EN 3270 - 17th Century Perspectives - W 2:30 - 5:30 (TBA)

While I haven't taken any courses with these professors previously, their reputations as great teachers extend far beyond the classroom--mainly from word of mouth, compliments of Viv or Jeremy.

DISCLAIMER: I know it is cruel, innappropriate, and perhaps a bit immature to call a teacher an anthropophagus - especially one who I had only in my first year - but I blame peer influence. I have nothing against cannibals, they practice equality: they never discriminate between eating men or women, however, those creatures known as 'man-eaters' are simply intolerable, discriminatory, racist bastards. As you might know from previous posts, or conversations with me, I have no patience for intolerance, racism, or condescension in the classroom. At York we protest against these discriminatory injustices - racial, gender prejudices - so please join me in protesting against anthropophagi in the classroom. YOUR DAYS ARE OVER MAN-EATERS!

But first I hope you had a good chuckle reading, and learning.

The Italian Job

These days I can't write a post without referring to work in some manner. Lucky for you my work is boring and tedious, so I will never bore you with the details. The only thing you'll read, like last Sunday's post, is a rant or a gripe about slovenliness. But that extends beyond work, right? What can I say? I work 5 days a week at two jobs, day and night (from 9:30 am to 9:00 pm) more or less at Chapters and a manufacturer of lights and switches, called Atron Electro. Perhaps working at a bookstore seems exciting, which it can be, but when you work in the magazine department it's not. I get all the idiots, slobs and freeloaders. But enough about work.

On the reading scene, a few days ago I put down McCarthy's Blood Meridian to get back to Pulci's Morgante. No doubt McCarthy is a literary genius, and an excellent writer but I had to put it down because I realized I was forever digressing, never finishing a book. You need fortitude to read McCarthy, otherwise it will crush your spirit, like reading Dostoevsky when you're depressed. Pulci, on the other hand, is hilarious (if you've read enough medieval romances or liked Don Quixote). He's a witty satirist, whose clever humour reminds me of Loony Tunes cartoons. No wonder he is treated as the black sheep, or odd man out with respects to the Renaissance Epic Romance writers like Tasso, Ariosto and Boiardo. But enough chat, I have so little time to read.

After Armageddon

One of the great discoveries I made a while ago was the poet Clark Ashton Smith. Here is another one of his shorter poems, written in 1927, called "After Armageddon":

God walks lightly in the gardens of a cold, dark star,
Knowing not the dust that gathers in His garments' fold;
God signs Him with the clay, marks Him with the mould,
Walking in the fields unsunned of a sad, lost war,
In a star long cold.

God treads brightly where the bones of unknown things lie,
Pale with His splendor as the frost in a moon-bleached place;
God sees the tombs by the light of His face,
He shudders at the runes writ thereon, and His shadow on the sky
Shudders hugely in space.

God talks briefly with His armies of the tomb-born worm,
God holds parley with the grey worm and pale, avid moth:
Their mouths have eaten all, but the worm is wroth
With a dark hunger still, and he murmurs harm
With the murmuring moth.

God turns Him heavenward in haste from a death-dark star,
But His robes are assoiled by the dust of unknown things dead;
The grey worm follows creeping, and the pale moth has fed
Couched in a secret garden fold of His broad-trained cimar
Like a doom unsaid.

Is it just me or does this poem sound Blakean?

What Ever Happened To Manners?

Another tiring day of work. More like a tight rope walk. While trying to rectify an error with a cart of magazines, throng after throng of people were harrowing my magazine section. People had nothing better to do on a Sunday night than come take magazines from the shelves, read them for FREE at the store, and leave piles for me (approximately twelve feet stacked in a matter of 4 hours) to clean up. I wish I could be so ignorant and carefree as these people. No, I wish I could hire that Super Nanny lady from TV to come for a week to work and give these people a piece of her mind about decorum. People are slobs. And I have to put up with their shit for $8.75 (it's only high because I've worked at Chapters for nearly 3 years!) night after night. The sad part is most of these people are adults, grown adults responsible for children.

What ever happened to manners?

The saddest part is I have to let this happen, otherwise I will not have a job. Sometimes I think it's only the perk of getting 30% off books that keeps me working there, and the benefits plan, which I rarely use because I don't earn much money.

Sunday Is The Cruelest Day

I hate Sundays.

While most people hate Monday because it marks the beginning of the work week, I enjoy Monday. From Monday to Friday I am busy -- working, reading, school, &c. -- and Saturday is devoted to spending time at church with friends, keeping busy again. But Sunday, oh Bloody Sunday just sits there, dull, stolid, lollygagging. I never accomplish anything on a Sunday other than moping around the house all day, thinking about thinking about doing something. Even when I work on Sunday--almost every week--at Chapters I am scheduled for a 4 to 9:30 shift. So I end up dawdling, or worrying for most the day about trifling matters (this morning: repulsed by the grime on the stove and sink, I scrubbed it clean) to kill time. While this cleaning spat would seem like an accomplishment, it's like cooking in this house: a mediocre, necessary evil.

Why is Sunday the cruelest day of the week?

Shoot Me Now

I wish I could offer much more than daily reports about work, however, every night I come home from work I'm so tired. It's called the daily grind for a good reason. But I'm trying hard to keep my mind active with reading - finished Ballard's Crash and picked up Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian: Or the Evening Redness in the West. My mind seems to be suffering from a sort of torpor, or malaise, often lapsing into absentmindedness from all this work. This week I managed to screw up a few things at both jobs - forgetting to post a file at Chapters, not noticing the bay door was slightly ajar at Atron, etc. - and being screamed at subsequently. Compared to last week it isn't so bad, right? A week ago I was almost hit twice by stupid drivers in a Brampton school zone - one driver almost merged into my car rather than keeping with the flow of traffic, requiring me to brake suddenly and have traffic behind me nearly rear-end me; then a few feet away another idiot veered in front of car, he was turning left, with less than a second to dodge - moron turned without even looking. Then I got lost driving to my sister's place in Hamilton, stupid me turned two streets too early. But Viv was smart enough to give a quick call to my home, getting my dad to direct us from there. I feel stressed, and useless at the same time. TGIF, right?

If this rainy, boggy weather keeps up I won't be going to Wonderland tomorrow neither. Damnit. Life sucks. I want to be back in school, already. The real world sucks - brings out the silent-idiot type in me. Work bores the shit out of me, and the money is disappearing faster now than before school ended. WTF?

Peel Away The Flesh

Here is a poem from my heyday of writing--3 years ago--a time of creative evolution from innocence to experience. Back then I had (and still retain much of) a morbid sense of optimism, irony and puns. It is interesting to look back at these poems, especially because these were written BEFORE I started reading "weird pulp fiction". Take this poem for example:

"Peel Away The Flesh"

Every time I gouge my flesh,
Blood drips from my instruments,
From forks in the road,
My trail leaves weak blood,
Spilt along the wrong path,
Leaving another fork in the road,
It is my infliction that heals,
The soft complacent fruits of flesh,
It flays the skin, leaving me naked,
Bare flesh flapping in the breeze,
Fresh skin caressed by a frigid tease,
Wiping away the blood of the past.

Then there are poems written later--around 2 years ago--like the following:

"Margaret"

Carelessly, I laid you to rest for years,
Forgot you were there treading the waters,
In an old, forgotten, oar-less wood boat,
Floating, waiting for me to arrive, too,
And offer you my hand, like a prince,
On to the shores of our forgotten country,
Instead you sat there in graveyard mists,
Adrift, lost for years in the sombre sea,
Young, preserved like a photo, neglected,
Suddenly turning sepia in my mind,
Until almost lost, I remembered you,
That memorable face, looking at me,
Gray eyes like stone falling hard upon me,
And rescued you, from my memory.

I probably could tell a story for each one of these poems, written at specific events in my life--bouts of emotion or periods of musing.

"Reflection"

somebody shake me up, wake me up, stir me,
from this unconscious stupor of waking,
wading life every day, eyes wide open,
along same calm lake wake, hectoring
foam straddling my listless surface,
flushed on to the shores, all washed up,
skimming the murky Ontario mire below,
out in a trance, staring back at the sun,
swaying to and fro, back and forth, to and fro,
some lost boat floating, mechanically, metal
on top of my liquid skin, gliding along,
with the rhythms of each other, caressing
the lap of my shimmering, boggy waters,
resonating in a lull against that hull sway,
gliding along with the flow of the waves,
like in a daze, hypnotized by the erratic
swish of the image lying atop me, ripples
staring blankly back at me, this reflection.

If you care to read more, just plug my name: Vahey, David into www.poetry.com.

Three Cheers

Unless the sky begins to rain flying pigs, I cannot have a more unusual day. I spent most of the day assembling light-switch doodads, whatchamacallits for gawd knows what. My co-workers, two Guyanese ladies, brought me curried fish and rice for supper to my surprise. This Monday they're bringing curried duck and rice. I hate to sound like a Justin Timberlake song, or a McDonald's commercial, but I'm lovin' it. As well I have been indulging in the oddest hodgepodge of literature--John Donne's poetry and J.G. Ballard's Crash.

Don't think I'm calling this a weird day, no, far from it. Life has been good since school ended and starting my second job. Nothing but good times. Cheers.

Working For The Weekend

Today worked from 9:30 to 4 @ Chapters then 5 to 9 @ Atron, tomorrow working 12:30 to 9:00 @ Atron again. Yes, I'm earning money, but it's not going towards school as you might imagine. I'm working to pay off debt I accumulated during school for various reasons - (school and personal) books, car maintenance, GO bus tickets, &c. At least now, workaholic that I am, I can look forward to those two days of the week I don't work: Saturday and Tuesday or Thursday. This Saturday: Wonderland. Next Saturday: Camping, hiking and canoeing up north.
Third Saturday: Visit to the cottage. On weekdays I see (or saw) Viv, family and/or friends.

Well, it seems I have a life now.

The Undertaking

It is rare for me to ever post some of my poetry, most of it being hack work. I write poetry the way one digs a grave: to bury the past, post mortum. Often it is the only means to bury the burden of flesh, an appropriate home to dispose of the rank stench of rotted life. There is no other way for me to live with the past - let it rot in words.

"The Undertaking"

I went to the sepulchre for communion,
To taste what is left of bread and wine,
And savour the life I consume tonight,
Or else pay tribute to rotting landscapes.

Something is rotten in this state
Of mind, frozen stolid, in limbo,
Too far down without a laurel,
Or permission to return alive.

I go to the grave, at my only refuge I
Sing Babel, my high tower of strength,
And death the life I celebrate tonight,
Or else pay tribute to living landscapes.

There is nothing remarkable about these words as poetry, alas, but it makes life bearable again.

To Hell and Back

While I wait for grades to be released near the end of the month I am thinking about what courses to take next year. If I have my first choice I'll be taking the following:

(1) McLuhan / Frye - EN 4109 with Bruce Powe
(2) Renaissance Theatre of Transgression - EN 4184 with Agnes Juhasz-Ormsby
(3) Advanced Shakespeare - EN 4185 with Derek Cohen
(4) From Modernism to Post-Modernism - EN 3451 with Lesley Higgins and Marie-Christine Leps
(5) The Works of Franz Kafka (in translation) - HUMA 4700 with Mark Webber

My two pinch-hitters (back-up courses) will be:
(1) Greek Drama and Culture - HUMA 3100
(2) 17th Century Perspectives - EN 3270

Ideally, I'm trying to design my schedule to be in school three days (Tuesday to Thursday) so I can still work 3 days a week. Any further course recommedations?

Herbert West Reanimator

Hmm...been a few days since I posted. Viv and I's visit to our old school to give a lecture on Caribbean history was a success. I should say it was Viv's victory. She did all the work. The only part I contributed was the backdrop of European history--as garbled, and bungled as wont for me. My presentation skills were atrocious in my mind, leaning casually on the lectern, staring at one section of the class, stumbling over words, staring at the power point presentation on the projected screen, forgetting major points, &c &c &c. The class really enjoyed Viv's insights--especially the charts of imported slaves quantities, destination, &c. I suppose for a high school level course it was decent--well researched. Like all my assignments, good research covers for bad preparation.

Tired now--woke up @ 7:30 to dog puking four times, worked 9:30-4, stuck in traffic from 4:05-4:55, worked 5:00-9:00--came home and watched second last episode of Star Trek: Enterprise. Yes, I watch Star Trek, nerd that I am. I love the story lines, and the spaceships, colonies, &c. But you won't catch me reciting old plots, alien species, star charts, star ship classes, or reading episode guides (as my father is wont). No. I'll stick to what I'm good at being: a weird, protean bookworm.

Read the story on the right a week ago, now I wish someone would re-animate me. Tired. Realize what at fool I've been with my money. Going to read a book--biography of H.P. Lovecraft rather than Pulci.

Plan (along with Viv) to visit Hamilton next week to see my sister and her kids, and perhaps another individual. Cheers.

Said The Dreamer

The Refuge of Beauty

Upon My Trail Of Terror

Well I finally got my copy of The Last Oblivion in the mail a few days ago - I've been waiting a while for it to arrive by snail mail. First thing I realized when I started reading his poetry: Clark Ashton Smith will put anyone's vocabulary to shame, considering there is a four-page glossary of 'unfamiliar' words.

Some examples: (1) exiguous - scanty (2) foulder - to flash or thunder forth (3) Kobold - a mischevious elf or gnome (German folklore) (4) simoon - a hot, sand-laden wind (5) alabraundine - a precious stone known to the ancients.

Shortly I'll post some of Clark Ashton Smith's artwork.

A Vision of Lucifer

Clark Ashton Smith - A Vision of Lucifer from The Last Oblivion.

I saw a shape with human form and face,
If such should in apotheosis stand:
Deep in the shadows of a desolate land
His burning feet obtained colossal base,
And spheral on the lonely arc of space,
His head, a menace unto heavens unspanned,
Arose with towered eyes that might command
The sunless, blank horizon of that place.

And straight I knew him for the mystic one
That is the brother, born of human dream,
Of man rebellious at an unknown rod;
The mind's ideal, and the spirit's sun;
A column of clear flame, in lands extreme,
Set opposite the darkness that is God.

Work Party Photo

The Day I Was Born...

Your Birthdate: January 20

Your birth on the 20th day of the month adds a degree of emotion, sensitivity, and intuition to your reading. The 2 energy provided here is very social, allowing you to make friends easily and quickly. Yet you are apt to have a rather nervous air in the company of a large group. You have a warmhearted nature and emotional understanding that constantly seeks affection. You are very prone to become depressed and moody, as emotions can turn inward and cause anxiety and mental turmoil. It can be hard for you to bounce back to reality when depression sets in. When things are going well, you can go just as far the other way and become extremely affectionate.

What Does Your Birth Date Mean?

A Nerkle, a Nerd, and a Seersucker, too!

Today I made my first selection from my summer reading list: Morgante by Luigi Pulci. It is one of the four great Renaissance Italian Epic Romances besides Ariosto, Boiardo and Tasso, according to Jacques Barzun. I discovered these wonderful, influential classics from his book From Dawn to Decadence - drawn to them because Barzun alleged they were forgotten by most. It was even more of a delight to discover that Pulci is one of the great influences on Byron. But enough of this nerdy yawping. I'm reading it as part of my mandate to read the classics - I'm such a geek, I know.