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So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.

The Profile

Age. 34
Gender. Female
Ethnicity. that of my father and his father before him
Location Altadena, CA
School. Other
» More info.
The World

The Link To Zanzibar's Past
This is my page in the beloved art community that my sister got me into:


Extra points for people who know what Samarinda is.
The Phases of the Moon Module
Croc Hunter/Combat Wombat
My hero(s)
Only My Favorite Baseball Player EVER

Aw, Larry Walker, how I loved thee.
The Schedule
M: Science and Exploration
T: Cook a nice dinner
Th: Parties, movies, dinners
F: Picnics, the Louvre
S: Read books, go for walks, PARKOUR
Su: Philosophy, Religion
The Reading List
This list starts Summer 2006
A Crocodile on the Sandbank
Looking Backwards
Wild Swans
Tales of the Alhambra (in progress)
Dark Lord of Derkholm
Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?
The Lost Years of Merlin
Harry Potter a l'ecole des sorciers (in progress)
Atlas Shrugged (in progress)
A Long Way Gone (story of a boy soldier in Sierra Leone- met the author! w00t!)
The Eye of the World: Book One of the Wheel of Time
From Magma to Tephra (in progress)
Lady Chatterley's Lover
Harry Potter 7
The No. 1 Lady's Detective Agency
Introduction to Planetary Volcanism
A Child Called "It"
Is Multi-Culturalism Bad for Women?
Americans in Southeast Asia: Roots of Commitment (in progress)
What's So Great About Christianity?
Aeolian Geomorphology
Aeolian Dust and Dust Deposits
The City of Ember
The People of Sparks
Cube Route
When I was in Cuba, I was a German Shepard
The Golden Compass
Clan of the Cave Bear
The 9/11 Commission Report (2nd time through, graphic novel format this time, ip)
The Incredible Shrinking Man
New Moon
Breaking Dawn
Armageddon's Children
The Elves of Cintra
The Gypsy Morph
Animorphs #23: The Pretender
Animorphs #25: The Extreme
Animorphs #26: The Attack
Crucial Conversations
A Journey to the Center of the Earth
A Great and Terrible Beauty
The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian
Dandelion Wine
To Sir, With Love
London Calling
Watership Down
The Invisible
Alice in Wonderland
Through the Looking Glass
20,000 Leagues Under the Sea
The Host
The Hunger Games
Catching Fire
Shadows and Strongholds
The Jungle Book
Beatrice and Virgil
The Help
Zion Andrews
The Unit
Quantum Brain
The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks
No One Ever Told Us We Were Defeated
Memento Nora
The Name of the Wind
The Terror
Tao Te Ching
What Paul Meant
Lao Tzu and Taoism
Libyan Sands
Sand and Sandstones
Lost Christianites: The Battles for Scripture and the Faiths We Never Knew
The Science of God
Calculating God
Great Contemporaries, by Winston Churchill
City of Bones
Around the World in 80 Days, by Jules Verne
Stranger in a Strange Land
The Old Man and the Sea
Flowers for Algernon
Au Bonheur des Ogres
The Martian
The Road to Serfdom
De La Terre à la Lune (ip)
In the Light of What We Know
Devil in the White City
The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August
Red Mars
How to Be a Good Wife
A Mote in God's Eye

want to read: Last Hunger Games Book, Honeybee Democracy, The Bell Jar
The Juanes Module

Juanes just needed his own mod. Who can disagree.
Please come to Boston for the Springtime
Friday. 4.6.07 6:23 pm
I'm GOIN' TO BOSTON to hang out with my old suitemates K, K and J. Seeeee you suckas on the flip-side.

Comment! (6) | Recommend!

Murder from the Shelf
Friday. 4.6.07 12:10 am
No foreign war or can feign refine
The blank dispassion I had as mine
As to the local store I took myself
To purchase murder from off the shelf

My face a dull and hardened mask
I set upon my given task
It was not a question of morality
Just another lesson in mortality

Hands so steady, mind so clear
Lacking disgust, lacking fear
Of petty conscience, there was no sign
Where soft lips would be, a thin straight line

If could but lure my victim here
By promising there was naught to fear
There would be no passion in this crime
Just a SNAP and then a breaking spine

Sickened by only the thought 'he runs free'
Knowing time will bring my victim to me
Such wretched item, loatheful louse
Contained within escap-ed MOUSE!


So still she lies with waiting ear
For footsteps of her foe to hear
With naught but Death mirror'd in her eyes
For Chance to offer sweet reprise

Comment! (1) | Recommend! (1)

the mouse! The MOUSE!
Thursday. 4.5.07 7:55 am

I've been keeping my door religiously shut since I found out about the mouse... and we haven't seen evidence of the mouse since I started doing that.... turns out I've been shutting the mouse IN.... a bit on a Phenomenon moment there... I'll have to update this later and tell you what happened last night but I'm late and I didn't sleep a wink!

Comment! (3) | Recommend! (1)

What success looks like
Tuesday. 4.3.07 9:52 pm

This may be very meaningful to some of you.

I know it is for me.

It represents my first steps into the vast world of C++. Which I must learn in the next 15 days, or die trying.

And you have NO IDEA how long it took me to get only this far. gd compilers!!

Comment! (5) | Recommend! (1)

Auggie my love
Tuesday. 4.3.07 7:44 am
My friend wrote me an email... I enjoyed it so much I had to reproduce it in whole here. I swear, some of these letters I get from Auggie make me think of the letters I read in Romantic Poetry between all of the poets and their brothers and friends. I imagine people calling my house in future years requesting her letters to bind into a book about her, because people won't be content with just her published work.

As the French have realized that old chateaux, manor houses, and barns
are cold and draughty, with ceilings so high and doors so low that
their residents can never get them clean and suffer from escalating
brain damage, and walls that only crumble away into more dirt at the
slightest touch of a dust rag, the British have arrived in droves to
buy them up, generally turning them into BnBs and gites. This also
allows other British people to vacation in France without having to
interact with the French.

The resulting "holiday" networks warrant further study and a series of
obscurely weighted charts. Throughout the year, foolish British 11th
century building owners who would never normally associate, regularly
socialize, rejoicing in their ability to brew a proper cup of tea and
trim a climbing rose. Holiday goers frequent the same chateau summer
after summer, for two of three weeks at a go, and their children
remain loyal as they mature. As that dirty old man in The Quiet
American said, I am British and therefore I have habits.

Which brings me to the main subject of this report, which is my theory
that the British suffer from an overabundance of meals, such that
they've forgotten which ones are supposed to be the important ones and
intead select which ones to hang their days on according to personal

I meant to go on from here with a long report on tea time, breakfast,
coffee time, elevenses, lunch which may be called dinner and begun at
four in the afternoon, tea time, and dinner which may be called
supper, and wind down by bemoaning the result that the people I'm
staying with generally eat nothing after 2:30 lunch, filling the
evening instead with an extended cocktail hour (it generally being
acceptable to begin drinking once David has begun cooking lunch), but
I've been handed an overfull glass of red and shan't be writing much

So here's the quick report: I'm wwoofing at a chateau in Normandy
with a British couple, but will within a week be moving down to the
Pyrenees, where I shan't have internet or phone access, to chase goats
in the mountains. In May I'll be making sheep's milk cheese in a
French commune, but should be communicado once more.

For now, these people wish their names were Fletch and Muffy. I was
greatly relieved when it occurred to me my first week here that they
love to hate each other, and the French, and probably me. Perhaps, as
with our sheep, it is simply in their nature not to outwardly manifest
fondness for those humans to whom they are closest.

Your adoring,

Comment! (2) | Recommend!

Of Mice and Roommates
Monday. 4.2.07 6:51 pm
Yesterday Chris and I tried to catch the flying mouse. At least, we tried to see if there was really a mouse by moving the refrigerator (where he believed it to be hiding) very quickly and see if anything ran out. I already knew there was a mouse, so I was just along for the ride.

We blocked off the entrance to the kitchen and the bathroom and I put a large paper sack on the floor, just in case, to see if we might catch it.

Chris: Do you think you are capable of killing the mouse?
Me: Yes.
Chris: You're such a Republican!

Chris: Are you going to jump up on the table like a little blond girl?
Me: Well, maybe. It better not try and run across my shoes, that's all I'm saying.

Chris: Don't you think mice are cute?
Me: No.

Chris: How on earth could the mouse jump up all those stairs?
Me: Have you ever seen how high a gerbil can jump?
Chris: Oh. Yeah.

Chris: If we catch it, do you think we should throw it out the window?
Me: No, of course not. If we go to the trouble of catching it alive, I'm going to take it down the stairs and put it outside.
Chris, nervously: You don't think we should just throw it out the window? I think it would be fine.
Me: It would break its little legs!
Chris: I think it would be fine.
Me: Let's just move the refrigerator.

So we moved it, and what should come out?!?! Nothing, of course. There were a million other nicer places for the mouse to hide. But we did find enough mouse droppings to convince Chris that it existed and that it was disgusting. Then I worked the broom and he worked the dustpan til the kitchen floor was clean again while we discussed the relative merits of cheetahs and tigers (since he'd lent me both Two Brothers and Duma one after the other).

Chris: You know that faggot? What was that faggot?
Me, aside: Already heard this one.
Chris: You know, the faggots, with the tigers?
Me: Sigfried and Roy
Chris: YEAH! Sigfried and Roy. And he got attacked by the tiger and it ripped off his face. That's the worst thing that can happen to a faggot, you know, when somebody rips off his face.
Me: ...
You may wonder that I did not speak up here against both his stereotyping and his diction. However, I know him well enough to know that had I said something about it, he would have launched into another story, much longer than the current one, about how he loves gays so much that one time he saved these two total fags from the certain death they were going to experience because they were being pushed around by big, thug-like mob irish guys from South Boston and he intervened, and so the thugs beat him and his friend up instead, while the fags ran away in a fag-like manner. That's the other reason that his hand towel has blood on it, you see, because they bashed his teeth against the concrete and he hasn't had the proper surgery to make them better again. So I changed the subject by pouring myself a bowl of Rice Krispies.

As I was washing the strawberries for the cereal, Chris came over and told me that I really couldn't wash them like that. I gave them to him and he put them in a bowl and then filled the bowl up with water and swished the strawberries around and poured out the water. "People really have no idea what terrible pesticides are on these strawberries," he said. "You could really get cancer. I'm really glad you're listening to me about this." He said that like a man whose girlfriend never took his advice on anything, which is exactly the case. He started filling up the bowl again, interjecting that some people only do it once but he always does it twice so that he's sure that he's got all the pesticides. "Really," he continued, "People have no idea. And I'm not some kind of wacko, either..." he paused, and then started laughing. "Well, I guess that's debatable" I started laughing too, and he said maybe that was something that could be decided at some other time, and we were laughing and straining the strawberries in our kitchen with the refrigerator in the middle of the room so the mouse couldn't climb up the back of it to get to the counter, and a row of rubbermaid containers and milk jugs and paper sacks walling us in, and it was a moment, you know.

One of those moments that make roommates closer.

Comment! (7) | Recommend!

The Ghost Does the Laundry
Monday. 4.2.07 2:35 pm
So just now I went down into my creepy, creepy, creepy basement, where I was changing my loads before going back to school for class. Everything down there was as I left it, which is why it's a good idea to do laundry on Mondays, because nobody else does.

Well, except for one thing. Somebody had evidentally been down there since the last time I was there because there was what seemed to be a small pile of white things sitting on the top of the dryer. Upon closer examination one could see that they were a little white towel and a set of white, blood-stained bedsheets. We're not talking a spot of blood here, and we're not talking about a just-used-to-carry-a-murder-victim amount of blood, we're just talking about a bit of blood here and there all over the linens, kind of like someone used the sheet to repeatedly blot his face after shaving (see: my roommate's hand towel). Why the unknown person would choose to place these things on top of the dryer instead of perhaps... the washer, or something, and why he or she had decided to leave them there instead of taking them back up, or emptying the dryer or washer and placing my things on top, no one can know.

But all I can guess is that the ghost in my house, with all her showering, has at last decided that the linens need cleaning too.

Comment! (4) | Recommend!

Graduate School
Monday. 4.2.07 1:57 pm
We were eating lunch together in the upstairs classroom as the clouds of another cold Providence day settled around the second floor of the geology building. For the first time in a while it was just us and there were no prospective students to impress.
W had just made another of his depressing remarks when R, who is working on finishing her Phd in the next year and who has just accepted a 3-year post doctoral position in order to stay here in Providence suddenly said,

"Oh come on! Is no one happy here but me?"

A very awkward and extremely ominous silence followed.

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