What is the meaning behind your birth name?
Submitted by turtlegod.
My given name is Alexandra.
I share it with the Greek prophet Alexandra, more commonly known as Cassandra, who spent a night in Apollo's temple. The snakes licked her ears clean, and because of this, she was able to forsee the future. Apollo fell in love with her, but she didn't love him back, and he placed a curse on her to prevent everybody from believing her prophecies.
There were many Alexanders in Czar Nicholas II's family, and it is from his maternal grandmother, Maria Alexandrovna of Heese-Darmstadt, that I take my name.
My grandmother nicknamed me Araña, the Spanish word for "spider."
I have since used it as an artistic pseudonym, and its roots are also found in Greek mythology.
Arachne was a master weaver in Athens, and she was so proud of her work that she boasted that her weaving was better than that of the goddess Athena. Athena transforms into an old lady and warns Arachne to respect the deities, but Arachne, true to mythological form, not only challenges the goddess herself to a weaving contest, she weaves a tapestry of the twenty-one episodes of the gods' infidelities. In one telling of the myth, Arachne hangs herself when she realizes her mistake. In others, Athena punishes the foolish girl by turning her into a spider.
Araña is also the alter ego of Anya Sofia Corazon, Marvel's latina female Spider-Woman.
Show us an awesome mustache.
Submitted by Soup.
In honor of the upcoming Olympics, what could you win a gold medal in?
Submitted by TheFiercestCalm.
I think I would win an Olympic medal in awesomeness.
I don't know if any of you on the big bad internetz know this, but I am the reason why Saturn is still in one piece.
A couple of years ago, several races of aliens threatened the civilization on Saturn. I had been going to Saturn almost every weekend for about a year in my friend's minivan and already I had built a nice little gas lake-front house and a reputation to go with it.
Around the first year anniversary of my first visit to one of the outer planets, we were visited by several groups of malevolent aliens who wanted to get rid of my nice little weekend home and the gas lake that was in front of it. Now, me and my other human friends love the tanning on Saturn. It's nice and cool, and it's much too far away from the sun that the UV doesn't reach you as fast as it does on Earth. I was not about to let this happen.
And so, a rubber band, two glow sticks, an out-of-tune Fender guitar, and seven shorn sheep later those fuckers were back on their home planet with a few sore appendages.
That's pretty damn awesome.
I've got a podcast, na na-na- na-na nahhhh.
*dances around*
I'm still at home, and I'm still editing last night's audio.
I got a sweet surprise and am still reeling from the memory of it.
Can't wait.
ugh.
Just got back home and finished editing a couple of episodes for the podcast, and now I'm freaking dying because I am extreeeemely tired.
I also have no new anything for poetry night, which means that I have to stop listening to Timothy Francine Henson and start writing.
I also have to shower.
Bad.
It is currently one oh seven, and I have counted the blog entries I'm supposed to have to the ones I actually do, and have come up short. As of July second, I am supposed (emphasis on the word "supposed") to have ten blog entries, and including this one, I have seven.
And so, in order to rectify this amazing mistake, I am going to...
rectify.. it.
Yes.
Moving on.
Let me give you a slice of my life.
(Hence the cunningly and cleverly crafted title of the entry.)
I am seventeen.
I am currently enjoying what is left of my summer vacation and what is starting to become a very enjoyable indie rom-com in which I am currently the co-star.
I'm the host/editor/bumbling creative breeze behind The Poet's Passage Podcast. If it's on the internetz, that's my fault. I am very sorry.
And I am in Puerto Rico.
Sure, yuk it up. You'll laugh now because I'm on a ridiculously small island that has a ridiculously high humidity percentage, but when hell freezes over and global warming turns the Arctic Sea into a hot tub, I'll be wearing a wool sweater and going "What?!!?!?! Betch."
Let's see. Most people I meet consider me to be a poet, but I prefer to be labeled as "stable."
My hands don't like being still, and my ears love to hear new and strange things.
My motto has always been : If you love it, set it on fire and then film it and frame the cat.
(I'll get you, cats.)
The wind will shape us.
The wind will make us.
The wind will unravel what we worked so hard to weave.
The wind does not care when it blows your face in my hair, and to the wind it does not matter that your lips are glued to mine. It's so terribly ridiculous.
For a moment there, I forgot how to spell that word.
It's almost 1AM, and sometimes I wonder whether I am writing a blog entry, a poem, a slice of my actual life, or a piece of fiction. This is one of those times.
Have you ever been watching a movie and found yourself panicking because you don't know how it's going to end?
You know, you find yourself missing the pedictability you set out to avoid by renting an indie film or a foreign movie about cars and you don't knw how to quell the thirst for something mindless? Also, when you don't know how long the movie's going to last and if you'll have to plan your next meal around this spontaneous combustion of cinematic proportions?
I don't know what's going on, only that I am thoroughly enjoying it.
