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About Me:

My name is Olivia and I am a senior at Butler University. I spend most of my time in Lilly Hall as a BFA Dance Performance major. When not in rehearsal or ballet class, I write papers for my English Literature second major. In my super-abundant, never-lacking, this-is-highly-sarcastic spare time, I attempt to cook in my apartment kitchen, watch Youtube videos of ballet, knit sweaters that never seem to come to an end, and read books both silly and serious. If I could take any class at Butler just for kicks, I'd go for DiffyQ.

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Posts Tagged “paper”


“Final”-ly? Get it? Get it?

I’m done with finals!

After I finished dance finals on Friday, I went straight into academic final week, which is when most of the rest of campus freaks out.

The finals week schedule of a dance/English major

Saturday: I attended the Butler School of Music’s Rejoice! holiday concert with a friend and saw Blue II ride across the stage during a rendition of Blue Christmas. I had never been to Rejoice! before, and this was the 25th anniversary of the show, which is offered every year, free to the Indianapolis community. Students from the University’s various faculty- and student-led choral groups performed with the Indianapolis Children’s Choir and two students from Butler’s Dance Department.

At the end of the show, there was a live auction for a special conductor’s baton and the chance to led the choir in the Hallelujah Chorus. The show was terribly exciting, and it should probably merit its own post, but I’m feeling lazy.

Sunday: I failed to get groceries due to the snow.

Monday: I sat my dance history final and wrote about Imperial Russian ballet and Romanticism until my fingers went numb.

Tuesday: I submitted my final copy (final for the class at least… I’m about to revise part of it yet again as soon as I finish this blog post) of my Irish literature paper. The final title? An Argument for Cosmopolitanism: Creating National Identity in Brian Friel’s Translations.

Also, I completed the science lab I had missed due to a Nutcracker dress rehearsal. And studied like mad for physics.

Wednesday: In the morning, we presented our dance for the Choreography I final. In the afternoon, I sat the physics exam. I don’t really want to talk about it. In the end physics might have come out on top in this semester-long smackdown. I was not doing too badly, but then I rather abruptly ran out of time. I thought the professor told us we had four hours, and I was doing a solid 25 problems an hour, just barely. Twenty-five times four is one hundred. Perfect.

However, at 3 hours, 15 minutes, he announced, “Fifteen minutes left.” Panic! Let’s just say physics won this round, hands-down. It was not the best way to go out after a semester of hard work, but there’s nothing I can do about it now. Oh well.

After I frolicked with a friend through the halls of Lilly (which means we played with the piano in one of the practice rooms and I showed off my awesome C minor scale, of which I quite proud), I checked more books out of the library to read for my proposal for a summer project through the Butler Summer Institute. If anything progresses past this planning stage, I shall inform you.

Thursday: I woke up with the realization that I was done, done, done with this fall semester of my junior year! I had a lunch date with the on-campus Catholic priest, Fr. Jeff. I’m going to be president of the Butler Catholic Community next semester… wish me luck! Our last president was extremely organized, so I have large shoes to fill.

Now I’m just finishing up little things before I fly home. For example:

1. Scrubbing the kitchen floor to rid it of the salt that gets tracked in from the snowy, slushy, disgusting sidewalks.

2. Organizing the massive heaps of school papers that congregated on my desk during the last third of the semester.

3. Pestering my one remaining roommate, who–I must add–is exceedingly tolerant. When she is not being troublesome.

4. Drinking massive amounts of tea. Necessary.

5. Finishing one book (remember McCall Smith?) and starting another (which I got way back in September for my birthday and which turned out to be the second of a trilogy… I have a winter project!).

6. Organizing and consigning to the “deshank later” pile about ten pairs of pointe shoes. Okay, perhaps there were only eight pairs. I despise going through pointe shoes. I never want to admit they are dead, because that means sewing more. However, when one cannot stand en pointe without the box collapsing forward, it is time to bid the offending shoe adieu.

7. Taking a Playdough break with a friend. I found Playdough while organizing a hideously untidy drawer and promptly decided to distract my friend, who probably really needed to finish the due-the-next-day computer science project. Hanging out with friends who still have finals when one is finished for the semester? Probably not the best idea. However, I created a Playdough rabbit in anticipation of seeing our two baby rabbits when I go home for break in a few days. Admire.

My friend made a person. Sadly, the arm did not want to stay. I managed to capture the Playdough limb mid-fall in one photo, a fact about which I am extremely proud.

Concerning fire alarms

I returned to my apartment last night after finishing my self evaluation for my ballet final this afternoon. Each year, dance majors fill out a survey with their opinions concerning their own progress in areas like placement, musicality, flexibility, dynamics, and professionalism. (There are a lot more categories, but there’s a sampling for you.) We turn in this evaluation when we take our juried class that comprises our ballet technique final.

Finishing this evaluation was necessary, and I did it during the on-campus Starbucks‘ last Jazz Combos performance of the semester. I am sad to report I only got to see the last combo group and half of the last tune from the second set–since my class, which ends an hour after combos begin on Thursday nights, ran over by ten minutes–but what I saw I enjoyed. The last group did a mash-up of “A Child is Born” and “What Child is This?” that was really cool. As my jazz musician friends might both say (or not), they got chops.

Ahem, anyway. The class that ran over was Irish Lit, and I have more or less successfully presented my paper. Before I leave, I still have some citation issues. But dance finals are my first concern.

I was lying in bed, sleeping the peaceful sleep of one who has a ballet final the following afternoon when what do I hear? Sirens and a man’s voice telling me this is an emergency situation and I should exit the building. Panic! I flail around a bit until I find my glasses, phone, and room key. The next task is grabbing pajama pants and my jacket.

It was only when I was standing outside with the rest of the residents of my building that I realized wearing no socks made it like wearing no pants at all, since the arctic wind of Indianapolis goes right up one’s pajamas at the exposed ankle.

I froze my tooshie off, and when they finally let us back in thirty minutes later (past two in the morning), it took me another thirty minutes to thaw and fall back to sleep.

Point being? I’m writing this  at 8:40. My next class is at 9 am. I’m still wearing said PJs, so I should probably get moving, but I’m sooo tired. Darn fire alarms.

At we know we’ll be safe, right?

Speaking of safety, here's one of the emergency "help me" poles that dot the campus. You can call for police assistance from these.

[UPDATE: So due to computer issues and that fact that I did have class at nine, this post is actually going up at 10:40. But you should note that it was written the morning after a fire alarm, which makes any nonsense it might contain excusable. I think.]

Nutcracker, finals, and more finals

I apologize for my recent absence, and I’m here to tell you I’m about to disappear again. Nutcracker is over now, but we have plunged head-first into dance finals. I have taken half my pointe final (the other half is today), my pas final (the week before break, actually), and my modern final (yesterday). I have the rest of pointe and ballet technique still to go.

What else do I have to do? The quality of this post will be rather poor, I’m afraid, and the rest will consist of a list of the finals a dance major might be expected to finish. You have been warned.

After I finish dance finals, academic finals begin. I have written exams in dance history and analytic physics. I have to present my long Irish paper tonight, and the final draft is due next Tuesday. I also have to present a dance I choreographed with two other junior dance majors next week for my Choreography I class’ final.

And at some point, I really need to do my laundry. Cooking is generally a good idea as well. A very long time ago, I made this magnificent frittata. Today all I have is barley vegetable soup. Good, but it’s not going to last.

Frittata time!

Thanksgiving without novel-writing

This will be the first Thanksgiving in four years without the nagging sense of an unfinished Word document lurking in the back of my mind. Actually, that is false: This break, while seeing the completion of a whole physics problem (hooray!), has yet to produce an edited Irish literature essay or a dance history paper. So this Thanksgiving, I will in fact retain that lovely feeling that I should be writing. I just do not have NaNoWriMo to look forward to once my family is safely in a turkey-induced comatose state.

(Are you confused? Do you want a quick recap concerning National Novel Writing Month? Might you wonder why fellow-blogger Cathryn and I looked so snazzy and ready to produce 50,000 words of fiction in a month in our matching t-shirts last year? Follow the embedded links, my friend.)

In honor of a NaNo not written, I give you a selection of those NaNos that have gone before, brave lights in a wilderness of inchoate thought, intrepid souls wandering the fearfully embryonic haze of my mental process. (Last sentence = 38 words. Those thirty-eight words might not have made sense, but there they were, about a third of the way to one hundred, which is just under 1/16th of the way to a full day’s writing quota, which is 1/30th of the cumulative total of 50,000 for the month.) (Words in last parentheses = 52. It would have been more had I bothered to type out all the fractions.)

Excerpts follow the bold type. Please don’t judge.

2005: Grimly preoccupied in a strangely satisfying daydream in which he bit Austin’s fingers—which oddly tasted like fresh, crisply ripe apples—off and spat them onto the floor while the two girls giggled and the third girl glowered with the Irish boy, Will’s feet traced the path to the library automatically.


2005: Will stood abruptly.  I will brandish my own eraser! he thought.


2006: Inside was all cracked green linoleum counters and fluorescent lights.  I was enveloped in a hug as dry as the turkey.

“Penelope!” cried Aunt May.

“Aunt May!”  I cried back.  The conversation was the same, every year.

“How are you?  How is school?”

“I’m fine.  I’m glad we have a holiday.  I’m so busy with school now.”

“That’s nice.  And how is the cat?  What’s her name?  Lily?”

“Lilac.  She’s good.  She’s gotten fat.  How is your cat?”

“Good, good.  She’s very happy.”

A pause….  Then, the inevitable—

“Look how you’ve grown!”

I smiled and pulled myself up to my full height: five feet, four inches.  “Last year, the doctor said my growth plates closed.”

Aunt May faltered: the cherished tradition had been broken.  She seemed to sense she just witnessed the birth of an iconoclast.  Her instincts always were uncannily keen.

I pecked her turkey-dry cheek and allowed myself to be pulled into conversation number two with Uncle Zach, who had been plaguing my little sister.  She tossed a cheeky grin at me as we traded relatives.

“Cecilia!”  I heard Aunt May cry as I turned to Uncle Zach.  “How are you?”

The rest of the night proceeded as usual.



Aunt Abigail’s pies were glorious to gaze at, magnificent to inspect.  They outshone any comet during their ephemeral blazes of glory.

The important word in that sentence would be ephemeral.

Aunt Abigail lived only fifteen minutes away, but the ride wrecked havoc on her pies.  Somehow, the drive shook her masterpieces so the delicate balance between crust, filling, and lavish embellishment on top was disturbed.

“Help me with the pies!” she cried, before the door was even fully opened.  Like rescuers carrying survivors out of a smoldering ruin, we formed a chain to pass the pies into the safety of the house.  The pies looked perfect, of course.  They always appeared to be unharmed in the beginning.  But like a mother sensing danger, Aunt Abigail knew that all was not right with her beloved pastries.

We stood crowded in front of the kitchen table, staring at the pies.  Aunt Abigail, her hair frizzed around her pointed face, gave a gasp as Grandpa Ralph pointed.  “The one on the end!”

Sure enough, the magnificent swirl of jelly and peach sunk into the center of the pie, like a slow rendering of a meteor hitting Arizona.  Soon, all the pies were in the process of a slow decay.

“Thar she blows!” Grandpa Ralph cried as one pie emitted a stream of clear, red liquid at least an inch into the air to come spattering back down on Aunt May’s white tablecloth, already spotted with the pies of years past.  Grandma Margaret poked him in the ribs, as she did every year, and he fell to muttering about Henry Melville.

Once the pies had finished collapsing and Aunt Abigail was soothed, Cecy and I exchanged glances.  “Fifteen minutes,” I told her.  “Or I have take you along the next time I go somewhere and you’re stuck at home.”  The betting was not new: the offer of a ride was—I had held my driver’s license for only three months, but I was already intoxicated with freedom.

“Don’t be stupid,” Cecy said.  “It will take her at least forty-five minutes to remember.  Otherwise it won’t be dry enough.”

Exactly sixteen minutes later, Aunt May exclaimed, “The turkey!”

Cecy smirked as she passed me.  “Fifteen minutes isn’t long enough to suck the moisture from a bird.”


2006: “I will come for the girls in two weeks.  They need only their dancing shoes.  Any questions can be forwarded to the Department of Supporting Characters.”


2006: The syntax rushed out to meet them, wringing his browned hands.  Gwen had only seen syntaxes flitting around the edges of a festival the Academy danced at, hurriedly setting up something for the plotline.  The mark of a good plotline was the seeming absence of any of the Administration, though it was the driving force behind the story.  Frantic syntaxes, weighty languages, dangling prepositions (the code name for a character stranded somewhere, usually the result of a fake death), misplace modifiers (characters who were separated from their proper plotlines), and many more things could, in a cursed instant, be visible.


2007: Rhys pulled her aside and began explaining in heavy, rapid Welsh.  Lugh, Fionn, and the Dagda headed uninvited into the house to make some tea.  Boudica shrugged and followed, claiming she had to use the bathroom—an anachronism that no one, not even the author, noticed.  Arthur prudently left Molly and Owen alone.


2007: Molly could hear Aunt Mali talking on the phone.  “Sut mae?  Mae hi’n Mali.  Dw i’n cael newyddion drwg.


2007: “I was here looking for the Pied Piper in case he decided to see if the Scottish exile spell thingy had worn off.  So I was here when Lughnasah rolled around, and I happened to be trapped inside the castle fortifications.  Luckily for you, I had decided to rent a troupe of ninjas to help me.”


2008: “Nofiais i, nofiais ti, nofieodd he, nofieodd e, nofi… something ni, nofioch chi, nofi something nwh. Nwh? Maen nwh?” She conjugated the rest of the way through breakfast, forgetting her mutations, butchering her mental pronunciation, and having a thoroughly enjoyable time. George Sanderly, secret nerd. That was her.


2008: George brushed her teeth and folded her laundry and jotted off some inane answers to the chemistry lab report. Error margin: 105% Was that possible?


2009: Verily sat miserably in her beautiful home on Moscovia. House arrest. Just because she had hired the dancer who killed another of her dancers. That wretched Karina. She was never as turned out as she thought she was, and Verily took grim satisfaction in that fact.

Also miserable was Dave. He had not been granted any part in the novel for about twenty pages, and he was bored and hungry. Bored because all he’d been doing was hopping from ship to ship, selling his stash of digital, contraband watches. Hungry because he had sold his last one a few days ago and had no more money.


2009: Reguis was nice, but he had a hankering for some Latvian galert, and he’d heard there was a nice little country-colony called Riga on the United Holland States.


2009: When the migraine struck Moscovia and Ffionios, it also struck Deep Space Convertor Triple Delta. Rowan felt the full force of it in her left temple. She looked up. Every other traveler was bent over in pain—every other traveler, that is, except for the children. A baby waved its rattle in the stroller. Two toddlers had discovered one another and were tangling hands and bumping nearly bald heads in greeting. A six year old sucked contentedly on her lollipop, eyes intent on her broken ocular screen, her free hand busily waving away the constant stream of steam that was blocking her vision of the picture on the screen.



“What’s your hometown called?” asked Rowan politely.

“Esgairgeiliog,” said Lowri.



2010: N/A. So sad.


If you managed to make it all the way through this monstrously long post… Happy Thanksgiving!

Catching up sans mustard

I am done! It is officially Thanksgiving Break, and I survived last week.

Monday: Irish Lit paper due. Dance history abstract due. Full run-through of The Nutcracker. Butler Catholic Community meeting. Done, done, done, and done. Physics.

Clowes Hall

Tuesday: The Nutcracker run-through. Science lab. Attending a concert at Clowes to see my two jazz-musician friends play = awesome. Sigma Rho Delta meeting (albeit briefly, as the concert ended after the start of Sigma Rho). Physics.

Wednesday: The Nutcracker. (Do you notice a theme here?) Frantic studying for the massive physics test. And–oh yeah– more physics.

Thursday: Physics test. Doomdoomdoom. And The Nutcracker. Frantic reading for my Irish Lit class. Speaking of Irish Lit, I got my paper back and extremely surprised to find that some of the things I thought were awful could, with some refinement, actually fit into my convoluted thesis. Much excitement ensued.

Around 11:15 pm, I enjoyed watched all the students stream off campus to see the Harry Potter movie, though I regretfully remained in order to sleep in order to dance safely the next day. However, I saw fellow-blogger Justin looking quite spiffy in his purple Dumbledore robes and cotton-ball beard.

Physics produced a mixed reaction. I felt like I hit most of the key concepts in the two problems–for any interested: the law of conservation of momentum, the law of conservation of energy, the work-energy theorem, projectile motion, force diagrams, forces like tension and friction, uniform circular motion, and collisions–but I didn’t actually get a concrete answer for the last part of the last problem.

More infuriating than a simply inability to finish was that fact that, by the end of ballet class, the idea that was previously slow to come to me had made its way into my brain: the equation for time down. Duuuuh. Also, I realized that the distance one would travel around the rim of half a circle is in fact pi*r, not 2*pi*r.

Friday: FRIDAY! I had nothing due. The most pressing duty on my list was laundry. I spent my breaks yesterday compiling a Thanksgiving Break playlist for a CD. I ate a pumpkin muffin. I watched my physics professor demonstrate gyroscopic motion by standing on a stool and letting the torques (or something…) from the gyroscope make him rotate around. Best physics class ever. I really wanted to try the gyroscope out on my own. Maybe next time.

This break is off to a fabulous beginning, and I’ll looking forward to the rest of the week! I do have a bunch of homework to do, but, you know, sleeping will occur.

Off to get some more tea…

Since I been gone

Looking at my post list, I see it’s been five days since I’ve released a new blog! Sorry about that. This past week has been super busy. Here are some of my excuses:

I saw the Paul Taylor Dance Company quite some time ago, so perhaps it does not quite count as an excuse. I harbored mixed feelings about the program, but I adored “Esplanade,” one of great masterworks of the twentieth century. The video below is from the beginning of the last, crazy section. I also enjoyed seeing the solo the Butler dance department’s modern teacher Susan McGuire originated in “Dust.”
YouTube Preview Image

Dancer Thanksgiving potluck. My roommate and I brought apple-cranberry bread. And when I say “my roommate and I,” I mean I provided some of the ingredients and got out the bread pan. Then I watched my dancer roommate and my troublesome roommate make it together. Moral support, ya know?

Trader Joe's apple bread mix with added, homemade, cranberry sauce

Nutcracker Studio Dress rehearsal on Saturday! Studio Dress is when the department first runs the entire production in order, in costume, in the largest studio. After Studio Dress comes a week of production run-throughs in that same studio (Studio 310). Then comes Thanksgiving Break. Then comes production week in the theater. The performances are fast approaching.

Attending the Jazz Combos performance in the campus Starbucks to see my two jazz-musician friends. One plays the French horn; the other, the bass. Coolness. Would anyone like a post on French horn majors or jazz minors?

Writing the introduction and outline to my dance history paper on Irish dancing
Writing and writing and writing my Irish Lit paper. I finally finished the rough draft last night–before 11 pm! My friend gave me a CD and said I couldn’t listen to it until I was finished with the paper. How’s that for motivation? To be completely honest, I am rather disappointed with the result, since my thesis is pretty convoluted and not incredibly dependent on my readings of Translations. Oh well. It’s done for now, and I can fix it over Thanksgiving Break. I turned the paper in earlier today–all 21.5 pages!

Writing my Irish Lit paper--do you like my stack of sources?

Mastering the art of the Rubik’s cube. I will defeat you! (And I have, just not without the aid of a cheat sheet once I get to the final layer. I confuse the algorithms for reorienting the corners with those for reorienting the sides: R2 B2, R F R’, B2 R F’ R is for corners and R2 U’, F B’, R2, B F’, U’ R2 is for the sides. Maybe if I type it enough times I’ll remember this. This is clearly the top priority right now.)

I have a massive physics test on Thursday. Like, with enough surface area such that one can’t ignore air resistance massive. Everyone studying for the past week massive. A friend’s friend telling me this test made her abandon her dream of becoming an engineer massive. (Said friend is now a sixth grade math teacher.) Now my Irish Lit paper is done for the next few days, I can turn all my attention to studying for this test.

Oh yeah. I have a bunch of reading for Irish Lit, too. Whoops.

In mourning: NaNoWriMo

I have mentioned Nanowrimo. I can’t explain it again. I’m too heart-broken.

I have decided against participating in National Novel Writing Month this year: I have too much to do with my Irish Lit class’ huge paper (which I am started to panic about a wee bit). This kills me, as my little sister is doing it, and I’ve done it for the past four years, and… and…. Grrr. I’ve dubbed this November NaPaWriMo: National Paper Writing Month. The idea is that I write a page and a half of my Irish Lit paper each day. My progress so far? Negligible.

Still, I couldn’t resist writing a little before breakfast this Monday, on November 1. For your reading pleasure, my completely unedited, auspicious, to-be-unfulfilled Nanowrimo. Call it a tribute to a Nano novel unwritten. Don’t judge. I hadn’t had caffeine yet.

The ancient Peruvians were known far and wide for their hot air balloons. This is a little known fact nowadays, but in their time they were quite famous. Ballooning can be quite technical; ballooning manufacture can be quite complicated. Above all, ballooning requires no small measure of bravery: A single man, aloft in the sky, at the mercy of the winds, with only ballast and fuel supply to determine his way. Ballooning requires a certain, shall we say, sensitivity. Once up, you cannot push off and steer too much. You have only the power to influence the forces already acting on her. Ballooning is above all learning to cope with what you have, learning to go with the air flow, as it were.

That is what our hero was telling himself as he floated high above the trees of his hometown in a stolen air balloon with very little ballast. It had been a quick getaway; he had not had time to outfit his chosen ship properly with sand. Sand was heavy. Very, unexpectedly heavy, even. A man on the run is not going to place much sand in a stolen hot air balloon. A man on the run with a rather, shall we say, lofty figure, is not going to stop and check over each supply of ballast.

He had made a quick getaway, at least. Little ballast, a blast from the fuel flare, and he was up above the canopy cover of his hometown, floating free as a bird.

Freer even, since he had not idea how he was going to descend.

Student Choreography: It never ends

Actually, Student Choreography is over, so my title may not be entirely accurate. I feel like I have so much more time now that it’s over. Of course, I should be writing my long Irish Lit paper. But, you know. I needed one weekend to chill out, right? That’s what I’m telling myself.

Back to the Student Choreography report. I’ve told you what Student Choreography is and a bit about the music I used. Now to the dancing:

I’m not completely happy with the final result. I learned quite a bit in the process of choreographing this first piece, and I think certain choices were successful. But. If I had to do it over again:

  • I would maybe chose different music. The Art Pepper Quartet’s version of “You Go To My Head” proved to be an ambitious choice for someone with not the greatest musical acuity.
  • I would try to work more efficiently. I called so much rehearsal, and I really am grateful for my fifteen dancers for putting up with me. They were all very cooperative, so I definitely owe them a big thank you!
  • I would not be so stiff. I realized half-way through that my choreography tended to be walk-to-a-place. Dance-in-one-place. Walk-elsewhere. Repeat. I needed more moving phrases and more formational shifts that were not so arbitrary.
  • More dynamics. There were moments with different moods, but it tended towards doalotofmovements,oneoneachcount and hold. Repeat.
  • I just didn’t like some of it. There was no time to revise, however, so onto the stage it went.

Despite all that, I’m really glad I participated in Student Choreography. The very fact that I can pick apart my dance ’til the cows come home proves that I got a lot out of the experience, right?

My piece was called “All the Stars’ Eyelids,” by the way, which is the literal translation of the first few words of the Welsh song “Ar Hyd Y Nos.” The Welsh title actually translates to “All Through the Night,” but the first few words start, “Holl amrantau’r sêr ddywedan,” which is “All the stars’ eyelids say.” My piece was an ode to odd people, and I thought the title was fitting.

And that was the story of my first choreographed work in the Student Choreography showcase. It was not entirely successful, but I learned a lot from the experience.

Dancers from my piece on the Student Choreography flyers!

Procrastination tactics

I have so much to do. So instead of doing it, I shall proceed to complain about it. Even though I secretly love it all. (And I’d better, since I’m paying for it.)

But seriously, yo. It’s Fall Break. What have I read in the past three days?

  • Jonathan Culler, On Deconstruction, preface, introduction, and section 1, omitting only pages 43-64. Next to a dictionary.
  • Ronald Gene Roland, Divided Ireland: Bifocal Vision in Modern Irish Drama, preface, and chapter six prelude “The Beginning of the End of Gaelic Language and Culture” and the article “Friel’s Translations: the Ritual of Naming.”
  • Josephine Lee, “Linguistic Imperialism, the Early Abbey Theatre, and the Translations of Brian Friel” in Imperialism and Theatre (antho. ed. J. Ellen Gainor)
  • Melissa Sihra and Paul Murphy, “The Dreaming Body,” intro in The Dreaming Body: Contemporary Irish Theatre (anth. ed. Sihra and Murphy)
  • also from that anthology, Eamonn Jordan, “Urban Drama: Will Any Myth Do?”
  • also from that anthology, Paul Murphy, “Brian Friel’s Wonderful Tennessee, or What was Lost in Translations
  • Intro, chapter I “Theories of Reading: An End to Interpretation?” and chapter II “Response, Intention, and Motives for Interpretation” in Stories of Reading: Subjectivity and Literary Understanding by Michael Steig

Still with me? And because I had to have some down time, I read,

  • John Green’s An Abundance of Katherines


Well, that was boring. My reasons for (inflicting) typing my book list for you:

  1. It makes me feel accomplished.
  2. I wanted to brag about said accomplishments.
  3. I need an annotated bibliography, so that was the first step of me getting some of the text out of my notebook and into my MacBook.
  4. If you ever want to write a paper about Brian Friel’s 1980 play Translations, about the subjectivity of text and/or standards of nationalism, or about Irish theater, I’ve just given you a nice little list of sources.

But it’s all okay. I have my power song to keep me going.

The power of K'naan, that is...

Hmmm. Perhaps another list (you can’t escape!) is in order… a studying/pape-writing/watery-lentil-soup-making/being-on-Fall-Break playlist?