And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

~ The Waste Land, "The Burial of The Dead", Eliot

Tuesday, January 20, 2009
as it gets deeper and deeper into the heart of winter, something grows inside of me. like there is this life inside of me that is going to burst, because there is way too much hope in me. after writing about the mein kampf copyright controversies and self-narrativizing--everyone does it to some degree or the other, so don't give me crap--("in my country, we ____ [invents the most outrageous thing, or frames it in the most outrageous way]") , i finally got into the super-exclusive, superhard, media law class--so i am going to be studying american copyright law and first amendment stuff beside pre-laws and grads. today at the first american lit class, we were asked what did we thought our ancestors thought when they came to america. there're 5 students in this class, which is going to make it probably a frightfully intimate experience, and people are already talking about their lesbian partners on the first day of class. so i said, i have no immigrating family members, i said, obviously, but strangely my boyfriend's father, who is from burma, only started telling him about why he came, and how he came, when i entered the picture. and i told them about funny pamphlets distributed by my school's international students' office, among them is, "what is a U.S. American?" which my room mate and i had a ball pouring over. i found a contact who does arts editing for our college newspaper, and he said, if i had a story, tell him. i am going to spend some part of this weekend writing my review of cynthia ozick. today was inauguration day. i get teary when i see old black women crying, you know? even though the more cynical part of me snorts, idiots! he's not black, he's not really african-american, he's--and unfortunately, the facts lack all lyricism--biracial. i'm also taking a class called history of the book--we study, touch, the materiality of old manuscripts, memorize different parts of a book, and its taught by the curator of the rare book library, which houses, among other things, a copy of the gettysburg address and original manuscripts of e.b. white's charlotte's web. and i am also doing a seminar of hamlet through the theory of bloom, derrida, and de grazia. too much hope in me, i could burst.

[publishing] Publishers Weekly . Dystel & Goderich . New York Center for Independent Publishing . Association of American University Presses . Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators

[people] clarisse . nurul . aunty zarina (ummi's bakery) . jeremy . pak . cyril . softblow . karen & kenny (booksactually) . eric . joel .

[other loves] digitaljournalist . ballet dictionary . poetshouse . urbanwordnyc

[me] dawn, singapore, new york city, ithaca.

[yesterday] 94 dean drive, tenafly
the wages of dying is love
hello, america
reeling from the snow
bill's mechanics
doctors and nurses
things to do when you have lost your voice

[archives] January 2007 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 October 2007 November 2007 December 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 July 2008 August 2008 September 2008 October 2008 November 2008 December 2008 January 2009 February 2009

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