Moths Icarus

Ooh, 'nother brain storm. moths and Icarus who flew too close to the sun and got burned and feel to his death. does than mean that HH is Icarus and instead of pride its obsession/lust/love/perversion? hmm something to think about.

kay. the reason i'm having all these thought blurbs is i'm down with a sinus infection. no it's not the flu, and it's minor but i dont think anyone wants to listen to me being stuffy and miserable in the middle of class.

Group 4

Group 4 is meeting at the ITC on College St. Wednesday September 30th at 6:00 PM
Bring notes and Laptops if you want.

Butterflies and Moths

if Nabokov thinks the butterfly representative of the soul, then the heart must be a moth. moths continually dare to reach for the light only to be burned much like the human heart which constantly reaches out to find connections. the soul can flit happily about in the bright day spreading cheer, but the heart must be able to survive even in the middle of the night. about five minutes ago i had this little epiphany about moths and butterflies while rescuing an injured moth out of the Hannon stairwell. it was an adorable dusky gray thing very bright and alert for being stunned, and probably injured. his little antennae waving and crawling all over my hands. a bit like juggling a delicate hot potato.

injured butterflies aren't like that. they're too fragile and once they are hurt they pretty much die, at least that's from what I've seen. but a moth can survive. butterflies don't seek out the light because that is where they live, but moths, like hearts, must because otherwise all they will know is darkness, loneliness.

mini spiel

Picture

here it is. i have a feeling this is going to be an ongoing project but let's see what i can come up with. well for starters the comment that came with the photo is "Hello Horse Creek Hotsprings! Just had a lovely soak." its from a few years ago 3-4, certainly, probably the winter of '05. the snowmobile, my mother's '06 with that lovely metallic orange color i love so much is stopped about 25 feet from the spring shed. that's that brown building there between those two fir trees, i think. beyond that is the Horse Creek road. any way it's an orange '06 RMK that im riding with, and don't quote me on this, but i think it's a 156" track(?). the lovely, durable, and more importantly it fits on the back, tool chest/tub with lunch of salami, crackers, and cheese coated in snow is bolted down with a small coffe thermos, thats actually filled with hot water for cider, on the far side.

i remember my father saying something about the housing for the springs being built sometime in the '60s, '69, i think.

as for myself, my -100 packs and snowmobile bibs are coated with snow and the rest of me is clean as a whistle. it wasn't too cold that day, about 20 or so. just about perfect. an old hoodie head band and my same glasses. one glove because i hate betting fuzzies on my food. chipmunk cheeked and with my usual "oh your taking a picture of me" expression. i had braces for too many years to ever again grin fully. longer hair.

i have seen those trees many many times and yet they never seem to change, even though i know they must. still, i suppose fifteen odd years are truly nothing to a tree. sugar frosted trees, right out of a fairytale with the faintest hint of mist from the springs. a rather marvelous winter wonderland.

Picture

i have to wait for someone to email me the picture i want becasue it's back home. so it could be a while for that to get up.

Earliest memory

let's see i think i was about 3 or 4 and we had just moved into our new home. it's really more of a sensory thing than a thought thing. but i remember moving, being carried i think and then set down in warm golds and pinks and reds, like a sunset really but of wood and fabric. there's a vague feeling as if someone had told me to look around. so i did. i started pivoting slowly, taking in the picture covered, pine and red wood walls (it was my grandparents home and we had moved in with them), the dark furniture, the soft pink carpet, the open windows and green pastures. i started to spin faster and faster, blood rushing, stinging to my fingertips and my pale, pale blond hair whipping around and smacking me in the face when i got to dizzy to stand and simply fell to the thick carpet. i remember looking at my hair, white blonde, white gold i thought and all the colors and the warmth. home.

very vague but still about as early as i can remember.

pondering vs probing

personally i prefer pondering to probing so i'm just going to run with it. probing's a bit to clinical for me and since i'm not one for scientific introspection i'll stick with pondering

Welcome

welcome to Pondering Eternity the eng 431 blog featuring the major author Vladimir Nabokov, emphasis on the 'kov'. being as this is the first blog by me for this class it's just going to be this short greeting but i'll get back with more interesting things latter. like obsession...

anyway 'ta