Dead Things

1. My voice. Still.

2. Drive—the new TV show starring Nathan Fillion. Who kills a show after three episodes? Oh, right, the same people who killed the last show starring Nathan Fillion. And this time, there aren’t even enough episodes for a shiny DVD set.

3. Joan of Arcadia. Finished the second season recently, and am still bemoaning its untimely cancellation. The reason? Apparently the average-viewer-age was 50, and they wanted to appeal to a younger demographic. (Stupid American youth-driven society.) And I, sadly, didn’t even discover it till it was over.

4. Firefly, of course. And Angel, and Buffy . . . no, wait. Buffy’s alive (again). And there’s a new comic out Thursday. Good timing, too—it’ll be a nice reward after me two finals that day. A nice *small* reward, anyway. The one problem with comic books is that they last about 30 seconds.

5. My academic motivation. But we knew that.

Not-dead-things:

1. Science fiction! Thanks in large part to—

Battlestar Galactica. Three seasons in, the creative team behind this show still doesn’t disappoint. Even their few mistakes (the occasional sub-part episode or annoying subplot) are forgivable in light of their unflagging creativity and their commitment to what the story needs rather than what the fans want. Also, when it comes to raising-the-stakes? *Nobody* does it better than these folks. Nobody. And they just got renewed for a 22-episode fourth season! Woo and hoo.

Also much thanks to Lois McMaster Bujold and her Miles Vorkosigan series. Character-driven sci-fi, carefully plotted, with elements of spy-stories, mystery, and space opera . . . not to mention complex and believable social and political structures *and* genuine scientific knowledge—well, it’s not easy to find. Or to write. Plus they’re just fun. I’ve read most of the series now (including three in the past 2 ½ days), and they’re highly recommended. For, um, older persons.

2. Tolkien. Christopher Tolkien, that is. He’s just published a novel-length version of the Turin story, edited together from the many incomplete versions left by his father. Which leads to the question: who should direct that almost-inevitable movie adaptation? And who should be cast as Turin-Turambar-Mormegil?

Dying things:

1. Veronica Mars. The first of season three’s final five episodes airs tomorrow night. According to internet rumor, these five episodes are most likely the end of the show as we know it. Next year it will be (a) cancelled, or (b) revamped to the point of unrecognizability. And, well, season 3 has been rapidly declining anyway.

2. This semester. (Calloo, callay! We chortles in our joy.)

3. My bank account. 1 ½ hours in daily commute time, and 2.79 is a good price for gas.

Undead things:

1. 12-tone music. Seriously—go listen to it.

3. Vampires. Obviously. (Unless we’re talking about I Am Legend, ‘cause in that some of them are alive. It’s all scientific and weird and depressing, though, so let’s talk about something else) . . . .

2. . . . like the practice organ upstairs. It lurks in a windowless practice room, waiting to numb the senses and dismay the heart with hideous screeches and dead Gs. In fact, that’s probably the reason why organ majors are so scarce—it kills them. I should be safe, though: I never go in there.

Yea verily and forsooth . . .

. . . my voice is dead.

Not *dead* dead, in the strewing-graves-with-flowers-farewell-sweet-maid-i-loved-her-more-than-you kind of way. More in the really-bad-cold-probably-shouldn't-talk way. Except I didn't have a cold, I had Episcopal Holy Week.

I love Holy Week--loved the services and even most of the music--but my voice was already tired, and couldn't take all the extra singing. And I'm afraid I won't recover before Sunday, which is *really* depressing to contemplate, because our chorale concert is Sunday, and we're doing lots of brilliant pieces. Latin-motet-stuff, arranged-by-Jackson-Berkey stuff, and really-cool-spiritual-with-drums stuff. And it makes me happy, and I want to sing it all, and I'm afraid I won't be able to without my voice *really* dying. Which would be bad.

In other news, I really shouldn't be here because I'm supposed to be finishing a first draft of a paper that's due tomorrow, and I should also be sleeping so I can get up in time to practice for my rhythm audit tomorrow (because my grade in that class could use some help). My lack of motivation is disturbing. Or at least my lack-of-being-disturbed by my lack of motivation is disturbing. Or something.

(I mean, you think you're apathetic as a junior. Then you become a senior and discover whole new levels of apathy and irresponsibility. Then you graduate, and start a fifth year of college at a new school with a new major that will take you another 3 years or so to complete . . . . and it's so far beyond apathy that it's a whole new thing. It's like uber-apathy. Grades and studying become wholly meaningless concepts, and you're constantly on the verge of quitting and driving to Alaska. Which is insane, because you like your snow in extreme moderation.)

The one bad thing about Holy Week (besides my voice being all dead and stuff), was our Easter anthem (which we sang twice and failed-to-sing once). It starts out okay--he arose, he burst the bars of death, etc.--but then, without warning, it spins off into incredibly bad theology cloaked in even worse poetry:

"Then first Humanity triumphant passed the crystal ports of light
And seized Eternal Youth."

And this is why I don't flee to Alaska. Because if I can become an organist-choirmaster-person, I can ensure that at least one church in the world is spared this sort of drivel. And that, in its own small way, will make the world a better place.

Besides, getting paid to play the organ in a church with liturgy and footwashing is just *cool.* 'Specially since the organist doesn't have to sing, and therefore has a not-dead voice. Which also falls under the "cool" heading in my book.

And with that thought, I'm going to actually take a stab at my paper. (Yes, I split that infinitive intentionally and with malice aforethought. Consider yourselves mocked, ye vague and ineffable grammar police!) All those of you who are not grammar police and who are blessed with voices and without papers should sing happy songs and go to bed early; and all those of you without voices and with papers . . . well, let me know anytime you decide to run away, 'cause I'll come. Particularly if you're paying for the gas.

poem of the week

when faces called flowers float out of the ground
and breathing is wishing and wishing is having--
but keeping is downward and doubting and never
--it's april(yes,april;my darling)it's spring!
yes the pretty birds frolic as spry as can fly
yes the little fish gambol as glad as can be
(yes the mountains are dancing together)

when every leaf opens without any sound
and wishing is having and having is giving--
but keeping is doting and nothing and nonsense
--alive;we're alive,dear:it's(kiss me now)spring!
now the pretty birds hover so she and so he
now the little fish quiver so you and so i
now the mountains are dancing, the mountains)

when more than was lost has been found has been found
and having is giving and giving is living--
but keeping is darkness and winter and cringing
--it's spring(all our night becomes day)o,it's spring!
all the pretty birds dive to the heart of the sky
all the little fish climb through the mind of the sea
all the mountains are dancing;are dancing)

--e e cummings