Garfield complex
Did you know that the verb procrastiner is considered high level usage in French? When this fun fact was recently brought to my attention, several thoughts occurred to me: en un) funny, I use it - and live it - on a daily basis; en deux) euh, could one thus infer that the French always do today what they could put off until tomorrow?; et en trois) is procrastination a notion that I should therefore embrace wholeheartedly? (That is, more than I already do? Seems like an awful lot of love for one word.)
I'm in that final stage of the marathon where getting doused with Dixie cups of cool water from the side-lines and hoarse shouts of encouragement become vital. Whine alert! It's damn near a Herculean task to dedicate myself to reading articles on the knowledge gap and diffusion of innovation theories and communications these days... these sunny, glorious days. J'en ai marre.
In the evenings, walking past the corner café, I consciously slow my habitual charge, hoping to vicariously absorb my dose of lazy sunshine-worship by staring longingly at the patrons heeding nature's call on wicker chairs.
Returning home from work, I hole myself up in the kitchen and construct a fortress of studies, books, and electrical devices around my head. But the once impervious ramparts are showing signs of wear.
Plowing through scholarly articles and text books and abstracts, typing robotically to keep all of this often repetitive information stored away for later use, I try to ignore the laughing children's voices drifting up to my window from the street below.
The April rays of sunshine are piercing my self-made barricades now, taunting me to put down the media studies for a minute and frolic with the local barflys. "Allez, come celebrate the termination of a weird, bi-polar winter as the sun sets later in the night," the revelers seem to be cooing...
Mignonne, allons voir si la rose
Qui ce matin avoit desclose
Sa robe de pourpre au Soleil,
A point perdu ceste vesprée
Les plis de sa robe pourprée,
Et son teint au vostre pareil.
Las ! voyez comme en peu d'espace,
Mignonne, elle a dessus la place
Las ! las ses beautez laissé cheoir !
Ô vrayment marastre Nature,
Puis qu'une telle fleur ne dure
Que du matin jusques au soir !
Donc, si vous me croyez, mignonne,
Tandis que vostre âge fleuronne
En sa plus verte nouveauté,
Cueillez, cueillez vostre jeunesse :
Comme à ceste fleur la vieillesse
Fera ternir vostre beauté.
...Tonight JB and cousin Paul are treating me to their culinary prowess. "No, go work on your paper, really, we've got it all under control," they croon over tumblers of cider, as flames lick crusty onions and an oily Magret de canard pops and crisps in the skillet.
I want to play!
poem "Mignonne, allons voir si la rose" de Pierre de RONSARD (1524-1585)
I'm in that final stage of the marathon where getting doused with Dixie cups of cool water from the side-lines and hoarse shouts of encouragement become vital. Whine alert! It's damn near a Herculean task to dedicate myself to reading articles on the knowledge gap and diffusion of innovation theories and communications these days... these sunny, glorious days. J'en ai marre.
In the evenings, walking past the corner café, I consciously slow my habitual charge, hoping to vicariously absorb my dose of lazy sunshine-worship by staring longingly at the patrons heeding nature's call on wicker chairs.
Returning home from work, I hole myself up in the kitchen and construct a fortress of studies, books, and electrical devices around my head. But the once impervious ramparts are showing signs of wear.
Plowing through scholarly articles and text books and abstracts, typing robotically to keep all of this often repetitive information stored away for later use, I try to ignore the laughing children's voices drifting up to my window from the street below.
The April rays of sunshine are piercing my self-made barricades now, taunting me to put down the media studies for a minute and frolic with the local barflys. "Allez, come celebrate the termination of a weird, bi-polar winter as the sun sets later in the night," the revelers seem to be cooing...
Mignonne, allons voir si la rose
Qui ce matin avoit desclose
Sa robe de pourpre au Soleil,
A point perdu ceste vesprée
Les plis de sa robe pourprée,
Et son teint au vostre pareil.
Las ! voyez comme en peu d'espace,
Mignonne, elle a dessus la place
Las ! las ses beautez laissé cheoir !
Ô vrayment marastre Nature,
Puis qu'une telle fleur ne dure
Que du matin jusques au soir !
Donc, si vous me croyez, mignonne,
Tandis que vostre âge fleuronne
En sa plus verte nouveauté,
Cueillez, cueillez vostre jeunesse :
Comme à ceste fleur la vieillesse
Fera ternir vostre beauté.
...Tonight JB and cousin Paul are treating me to their culinary prowess. "No, go work on your paper, really, we've got it all under control," they croon over tumblers of cider, as flames lick crusty onions and an oily Magret de canard pops and crisps in the skillet.
I want to play!
poem "Mignonne, allons voir si la rose" de Pierre de RONSARD (1524-1585)
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Delphine