Wednesday, February 20, 2008

swordfish

Apologies for the long delay on these posts! But due to technical difficulties and password troubles, I haven’t been able to blog in quite a while. Here’s what’s been happening in the meantime! -jl

Note: For as long as I can remember, “swordfish” has been my family’s catch-all password. I think it’s from an old Marx Brothers movie, though I can’t remember which… So if you ever ask a Langefeld What’s the password?, the answer will most likely come back: swordfish.

Posted by Jenn Langefeld on 02/20 at 07:13 PM
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Thursday, February 14, 2008

not another red carnation

For every life situation there is a fitting quote from the hand of Shakespeare.—J.V. Hart

So speaking as I think, alas, I die. [She dies.]—the character Emilia, Othello, Shakespeare

My most memorable Valentine’s Day is not the one when I sent the three best valentines I could find to the three meanest boys in the third grade. (An attempt to turn them into nicer people, which failed miserably.) That’s a runner up, perhaps.

But my favorite Valentine’s Day weekend—for several reasons—was spent in England, during my sophomore year. It was the weekend that I learned to die: stabbed by an umbrella and croaking my last words in a southern accent. Is there a more out-of-the-box Valentine’s Day than that?

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Posted by Jenn Langefeld on 02/14 at 07:10 PM
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Friday, February 08, 2008

this end up (or: writing makes a fragile state of mind)

Let us have the luxury of silence.—Jane Austen, Mansfield Park
If you prick us, do we not bleed?—William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

THE SCENE: a bedroom/study, at a large black (altogether lovely) desk, computer humming, cursor blinking. A page of text, also blinking, at—

THE CAST: the writer. Who is four hours into her work day. Her jaw aches because she has a habit of clenching it as she writes. This explains her headaches. As does the glaring screen.

The screen also arches an eyebrow (is this common among computers?), because the writer has begun to doodle on scraps of paper. Curlicues turn into storm clouds, into a mountain range, into a chateau, into an abstract drawing of a person scowling.

At which point, she tosses the paper and begins to snip off the ends of her hair.

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Posted by Jenn Langefeld on 02/08 at 06:56 PM
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