you're too young & eager to love

I just spilled my (3rd) glass of Chardonnay.

On top of being unfortunate, that is also not how I intended to begin my first entry to this lovely DreamWidth journal. Alas, such is life. Speaking of this journal, I plan to fill it from top to bottom (if an online journal can be measured in such a way) with writing. Only the occasional commentary, like this, will intervene. I'm not egotistical enough to assume that anyone would be interested in the absurdity of my random thoughts. I'm also not the type of chick to rely on inspirational quotes to begin or end an entry, so no worries there. I do, however, love implementing lyrics -- fair warning.

Anyway, I literally, only moments again, finished watching Nowhere Boy. Why it took a year for this John Lennon biopic to finally be released to DVD is beyond me. While it wasn't, in my opinion, spectacular it was certainly worth watching. I always wonder how accurate these types of films are though. I mean, do we really know Lennon was that much of a dick? Hm. Aaron Johnson is a hottie. I didn't realize he was the same kid to play the lead in Kick-Ass ... which I didn't see, but I definitely did not make that initial connection when the strutted on screen as Lennon.

But enough about that pre-Beatles pop icon.

Tonight, I spent my three hour Instructional Technology class seething. Instead of teaching an actual lesson or directing us in these tedious projects we're supposed to complete throughout the semester, my professor decided to stand on her soapbox and preach. About everything from politics to how it is our duty as up and coming teachers to, essentially, help fund poorer schools. While I may or may not agree with whatever she said, there's a huge problem here, and it's a problem that I'm (sadly) noticing in many of my college English courses.

Your job as a teacher is to teach, obviously, and in the subject in which you earned your degree. So, who are you to talk about politics? This is a not a political class. It isn't a government class. You're supposed to be teaching me how to use PowerPoint effectively in a classroom setting.

We have English teachers that ask us to write prompts on whether or not we're pro-abortion; if we believe racism still exists; if President Obama's health care plan should be supported or not. I'm sorry, but you should be teaching the craft of writing and not using an English classroom as a political setting. Most students are uncomfortable or, at the very least, bored with these topics. When did professors stop believing that their students had topics of their own to write about? Seriously. Teach me how to use grammar properly. Teach me to expand my vocabulary, to have an understanding of the language. Teach me how, through writing, I can accurately describe my opinions, observations, and understandings. Teach me that, through reading, I can live vicariously and realize the perspectives of other people.

Don't try to teach me about liberal or conservative theories. Just because you may be passionate about that subject, does not mean you're qualified to teach it. Go back to focusing on Hemingway. You have a degree for that.

/End Rant.

A.

Fandom: The Tudors
Lyrics: Damien Rice


I know I left you in places of despair.
I know that I loved you.


You usurped a Spanish Queen and now your throne is full of thorns.

You are unable to give the King a son.

In a country where flaxen hair was desirable, your exoticism came in the darkness of your complexion, the deep set of your eyes and the shadowy fall of your hair. Now, he calls it a sign of the curse which is you.

You beat your fists against your belly. Claw at your arms in your grief. There is no child. There is only blood, for the second time. There is only an ache and an emptiness and his uncaring, blaming eyes. Your Ladies circle and coo and stroke your hair away from your face, and you push them away for the heavy taste of English wine. Madame, they call you. Majesty. But you were not born to this position and now you wish that you had not risen so high, because the fall looks dreadful.

The bed has been cleaned. The sheets are pristine and soft, but you can still smell the acrid scent of loss. Your boy that they took away, wrapped in linens, without letting you touch him. George comes and however inappropriate it is for another man to touch your royal skin he holds you while you cry. Kisses your temple and touches you with his thick hands. Hands that you held as a little girl when the hardest obstacle you faced was whether or not you were fast enough to run away. There is nowhere to run now. No place to hide.

You are not as strong as you supposed. Your ambitions blinded you, while your father turned deaf to your concerns. You have a marriage that can be dissolved if the King so wills it. A womb that will not hold a child. You are failing as a woman when that single trait was once your strongest characteristic. So, your husband finds enjoyment with Jane Seymour. Mark plays his violin. Thomas writes his satires, his poetry, and watches you with a desire born from familiarity.

The world continues on, neither golden nor silver.
You cry in the hold of your brother and your insides twist.