Productivity

Or lack there of.
I locked myself away in my room about two hours ago with the intent of being hyper productive- finishing my oral presentation, catching up on readings and even doing a rewrite on one of my papers. It's really not happening.
A few minutes ago I looked at the clock and thought to myself, "Really? I've been in here that long and this is all I have to show for it?"
All I really want to do is watch my new Sherlock DVD freshly arrived from B&N in the mail yesterday. In fact it's sitting next to me while I work, being all tempting. When are Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman not tempting? (Never.) I'm not going to give in and watch it because then I'll be up all night and probably get even less work done.
On the bright side this is my last week of classes. On the dark and gloomy post-modern side, finals are almost upon me.
I've been bombarded with fantastic ideas for my NaNo story, or rather the sequels to it. I have what I hope will eventually be a five book series plotted out with these characters and I'll just see scenes or hear bits of dialogue in my mind and I have to write it down with notes like 'this should happen in book 3' and such. My NaNo novel is actually sort of like a prequel to what I'd like the series to be.
Oh and this distracted me a bit too.

Eleventh Doctor Busts A Move

Yes, yes, I'll get back to my NaNo in a minute, but it's blizzarding outside so I can't go shoot my bow or take a walk around the cemetery to cheer myself up, this has to be it.
It's a very silly interview with Matt Smith on Craig Ferguson's talk show (I'd never seen the show before this), about 10 minutes in he shows off some very nice dance moves. He also wears some interesting socks- I think his pant legs are a few inches too short, but oh well.
This will, inevitably, eat my sidebar, but I think it's worth it.

Being Unproductive: a celebration

In light of the giant weight off of my shoulders with all papers complete, a reprieve from classes until Monday and little left to worry about until finals, I enjoyed an extremely unproductive afternoon. The weather was gorgeous, so I went on a long walk around town, but then decided to wander off by the creek in search of a good climbing tree. I haven't climbed a tree in ages and sometimes the urges of my tomboy childhood in the middle of nowhere return.
My search didn't yield anything too promising, the best bet was in some one's yard and that just seemed mildly inappropriate and like it might alienate my neighbors. However, cutting up by the range at the sportsman's club (it was empty, I regretted not bringing my bow, I would have had perfect solitude to practice), I ended up below the cemetery. As I write this I realize it seems slightly creepy, but it was so quiet, I just lay down in the grass- not in the cemetery proper mind you- the sky was that shade of off white that is so common in autumn.
With the tombstones in the distance behind me and the sounds of the water trickling over rocks in the creek, I felt very content. For some reason it made me think of "Ode to a Nightingale" by Keats. Particularly this stanza:

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod.

Hmm... this whole scenario is sounding even more morbid. I couldn't remember the stanza exactly, but some of the words and their impression were floating through my mind. I do feel like perhaps I should watch Bright Star again now. Well to veer away from that, I should tell you I spent most of the rest of the day making things for my Etsy shop and listening to Pandora Radio.
Because of my love of analyzing and debating (English major all the way) I am a member of online forums so that I can discuss some of my obsessions that are more obscure where I live. I've recently become a member of the "Sherlocking" forums and this afternoon I wanted to go waste a bit of time there. To my chagrin the site is currently disabled due to hacking problems. Many of the members are also bloggers, but they all belong to camp Tumblr. Curses to Tumblr and its ridiculous exclusivity- you have to be a member of Tumblr to follow or comment.
I was eager to share the geekery of a recent whim of mine:

I stitched over the top button hole on my coat with red thread. It's a long story, but it has a Sherlock significance.
This has been an extremely long post. I'm going to go drink tea now. Ugh, looking at that photo has made me realize that I have really unattractive, ungainly hands. Well, I guess I should take 'hand model' off the list of possible careers now.

Colin Meloy Procrastination

While procrastinating -or as I like to call it- searching for inspiration I stumbled upon Colin Meloy's Twitter. Colin Meloy is singer/songwriter/guitarist of one of my favorite bands: The Decemberists. I loved this quote pulled from two of his tweets:

"John Keats would've had a very different view of romantic love if he'd have witnessed newly cohabitating couples picking out sofas at IKEA.
….Pillowed upon my fair love's ripening breast, To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, like a plush Klubbo & matching Skog"

He makes fun of Ikea and references Keats. Wow.
I have to go finish a research paper, make up a journalism portfolio, study my notes on World War Two and significant media studies of the 20th century and take care of my cats and my crazy family. Or... I could just procrastinate some more.

Script Frenzy Approaches!

Everything on the Frenzy website has been reset for the new season of writing adventures. There aren't as many participants as in NaNo, so the boards don't appear to be as ridiculously active. However, there is the Plot Device Machine on the home page that produces wonderful "plots" such as these I collected over the past few months:
During a summer lightning storm -a Parisian fishmonger -invents the cure for a broken heart
After a harsh break-up -a hot-headed public defender -finds and rears abandoned adult triplets
Dressed like Liberace -a talking lobster -wreaks Godzilla-style havoc
After reading a coworker's email -a toddler with a smoking problem -must kill the president to save the country
After eating some bad cheese -a talking lobster-receives dating advice from the afterlife

If these aren't inspirational ideas... check your pulse please. It's a very good procrastination tool at any rate.
My current plot would break down to: In a world where no one cares about theatre any more- a group of broke students- try to produce artistic integrity from themselves and the possibly clinically insane. I'm excited about it, though it may seem a bit lame. I've been reading back over journals I kept at drama school and backstage during plays, writing down truly bizarre incidents friends have told me about, etc. I want to capture the chaotic energy and stress of creating theatre as well as the inexplicable way things sometimes come together, the story-telling and bonding, randomness and tantrums. Overall, what makes working in the theatre and going to the theatre an experience unlike any other. Hmm... this may be harder than I thought.
Also, last night I broke the 'O' key off my laptop. I can still use it, I just have to press the little pad where the key used to be. It still made me sad, I've kept this machine pretty pristine for almost a year.