A Day In The Life Of A Madwoman

In order to understand this post, several things must be explained. Firstly: I am homeschooled. This is a very important part of my life and something upon which I could expound for hours. I won't (tonight). Because of this, I attend a co-op group every Tuesday afternoon comprised of several local families--it started last year when my friend Sarah and I began meeting with another girl, Elizabeth, to go through a literature curriculum centred on The Lord of the Rings together. The next year, it branched out a bit, and we invited more people. We currently meet in Sarah's family's church basement--they attend a very, very small Russian Orthodox church, of which Sarah's father (also known as Father Jack Sparrow) is the priest. At the moment, I am studying poetry, Biology, and baking--things that just aren't best done alone. Secondly, our group is rather obsessed with The Scarlet Pimpernel at the moment. Sarah's sister Hannah has begun working on a play based on the book, and I have been delegated the role of Robespierre, because playing a villain a) is ever so much fun and b) suits my devious personality.

I was under the impression that we were to dissect a perch this week, but no, that is next week. Instead, we made insects. Yes! I think I shall name mine Max, after myself. (Maximillian Robespierre, of course. I am delighted, or worried, to learn that I made a hill out of paper mache and climbed up it in my skivvies, merely because it seemed like a good idea at the time. Apparently, I go mad in the later years of my life before falling prey to Madame Guillotine.) We started out classifying insects--mostly pictured insects in the book, but the Wallaces brought some sort of gigantic preserved fly that Elizabeth found languishing in the yard. Classifying is somewhat boring, so Mrs. Wallace, who teaches the class, suggested we spice it up by creating our own insects and then classifying them. So we did, utilising wonderfully scientific items such as Play-Doh, pipe cleaners, googly eyes, and pom-poms. Mine turned out to be a blue sort of ant-like creature with mandibles (like a praying mantis, or Shelob--those big things they chew with that rather resemble lobster claws) and wings and a mowhawk. I am aware of the utter scientificness of the last.

In the midst of the wonders of creation, mild-mannered Elizabeth suddenly burst out with "It's dem'd!", which elicited first shock, then hysteria from the group at large. As it turned out, one of the youngsters in their poetry class in the next "room" (the church basement is all one room, but we had the great canvas divider up) had been reciting the poem from The Scarlet Pimpernel (the point de obsession hereabouts at the moment), and had, apparently, said either "darned" or actually "damned" rather than "dem'd", and Elizabeth could not help her outraged correction. (For the record, the poem goes: "They seek him here, they seek him there / Those Frenchies seek him everywhere / Is he in heaven or is he in hell, / That dem'd elusive Pimpernel?") We, of course, assumed she'd been referring to her insect being especially bothersome, and made cracks about it through the rest of the class.

In poetry class, I had more opportunities to refer to Percy Bysshe Shelley as a slimy git (which is what I spent about half of last week's lesson doing)--albeit a slimy git who can write very well. I very much enjoyed his poem "Ode to the West Wind". Still, brilliance gives the bloke no excuse to go running off with other women and leaving his poor wife to go and drown herself. Also, worshipping nature is a bit dodgy, if you ask me. Sarah aptly described the Romantic poets as "the rock stars of their day", as their main point was rebelling against the social norm of the day, especially as per its relation to poetry, which had just been through an especially stodgy period. So far, none of the poets we have read about stood out as particularly good role models, except in terms of art.

Also, it is apparently becoming customary for Sarah and I to somehow find a way to chant "spam, spam, spam, spam, spam!" a la Monty Python at some point during poetry class. Sarah maintains that the reason that we are not told what is in spam is, quite simply, because spam is made of people. In connection, she iterated the tale of how her younger siblings Eli and Hannah were playing in the living room while she was playing Green Day's "Wake Me Up When September Ends" on the piano. Apparently, they were playing something to do with Mt. Doom, as they were shouting "Sam! Sam!" until one of them--probably Eli--slipped up and cried "Spam! Spam!" 

You are probably now under the impression that my life is very interesting. It is not. It is, in fact, Extremely Dull. Tuesdays happen to be the only days of the week upon which a decent amount of things happen. Sundays we have church, Mondays I have guitar lesson (I didn't put the student pick in my mouth this week! I am so proud of myself!), Wednesdays I have youth group, which has turned into a blibbering show of teenage lunacy and immaturity, but there is LOST in the evenings to compensate (and Mum and Dad go bowling, so I abscond with the computer--in a manner of speaking--and do my best to write all night). As far as I can remember, nothing interesting has ever happened on a Thursday. Fridays we become hyper at the approaching weekend. Also, Infuze Magazine is updated. Saturdays are usually dull, either in a good way or a bad way. If there are books to read and my mind has not gone AWOL on me, Saturdays often end up well. Sometimes we Do Things on Saturdays, although not always particularly entertaining things. 

Someday, I will have a fascinating life about which I will be able to document constantly. Until then, I fill LiveJournal and Xanga entries with the odd things that go through my head. Good night, and good luck. This is news correspondant Banui the Great, signing off.