Nothing that can't be fixed...

...Except I really don't have much to say.  I keep making blog-notes in my head, but by the time I have time to write them, I have forgotten them, or am far too sleepy to write them, or whatever.  And so the pattern continues today.

Let's see... I'm going to have to miss the second home-field MOA game in a row next weekend.  I forgot what weekend it was, and signed up for a theatre thing on the same day.  On the upside, it's a supremely awesome theatre thing, known as The 24 Hour Project.  Wherein all the craziest theatre students meet up for a smallish shindig at 7pm on Friday, and shortly thereafter, the writers wander off to do their thing.  They have until roughly dawn-ish to write a selection of short plays (one per writer), and then the actors (that's me) and directors and techies show up and start rehearsing said plays.  Curtain goes up on the finished product at 7pm Saturday.

Umm, what else...

There's more theatre yay with the R & J gear... I know what basic design I'm using, and I've got most of the specifics of Romeo's and ...I think Mercutio's frogs.  There's all manner of uncertainty yet, like I still need to figure the exact number of frogs required, and I don't know if any of the pertinent cast are lefties, and I'm just a little nervous about actually getting the construction underway, since that's when I'll figure out for sure if I can actually do this or not... yeep.  But it's a fun sort of yeep.

There's academic woe.  But it requires ranting, so due to the proximity of bedtime I won't go into it (in brief: craptastic prof + required course I'm not interested in = grr).  Well, some of it requires ranting, the rest requires bashing my head against the wall and panicking (or: so that's why I couldn't find graduate anthropology programs that specialize in Greek archaeology).  

And, although I've already failed spectacularly at the daily poem thing, it is still poetry month:

HOME by Viggo Mortensen

He's got a deep, abiding respect
Verging on idol worship
For where things end up.
There are unopened letters
In his refrigerator, a fake
Fingernail in his soapdish,
Shoes everyplace.
These things, and many more
Leavings, fragments, balancing
Reminders of a breeze
From a slammed door--
Configurations of sanctified loose ends--
Have become the living net
Above which he performs
The movements that make
The clock work.

I seem to have brought home some sort bug home from spring break.  My disease-catching skills know no bounds, apparently, as I spent break hiding in my parents' apartment, trying (and failing) to do homework.  'Course, I also didn't get as much sleep as I should have last night... figures.  Guess I really do need to exercise almost every day to keep my insomnia under control... and also stop doing homework after dinner.  Seriously, my wind-down time after homework (after anything, really, but especially homework) is insane.  I quit mucking around with pleather (more on that later) around 7pm, but still only five-and-a-half hours of sleep.  :P  So.  Called in, kinda-sorta napped, am now watching Quantum of Solace and mustering energy to do something productive with my inadvertent day off.

Right, mucking about with pleather.  I'm designing the rapier frogs & belts for our campus' production of Romeo & Juliet.  EEEEEEE!  \o/  It's going to be so awesome!  I'm making pleather prototypes/mock-ups at home now, then once I get feedback from the director and the costume designer, I'll be in the shop doing for reals leatherworking.  :)

Also, I'm told that this is National Poetry Month, or something?  Well, given that, I did get a shiny old copy of the Complete Poems of Robert Frost (hardback, 1949 edition, 1964 printing) last weekend (for a dollar!!), and there was a paperclip on this page:

THE PASTURE

I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;
I'll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may)
I sha'n't be gone long.--You come too.

I'm going out to fetch the little calf
That's standing by the mother.  It's so young
It totters when she licks it with her tongue.
I sha'n't be gone long.--You come too.

The farm I was raised on, although cowless for all my lifetime, has a spring out in the woods by the pasture.  It gets all clogged up with leaves, and needs to be raked out around this time of year.  So I thought this was a good poem to find a random paperclip attached to.  :)