Phallocentric Finals and Icicle Fountains

The final days of November have passed in frozen and not-quite-frozen hours of dark incredulity at the utter lack of hobbies a man is allowed to have in graduate school. I barely pick up my mandolin. My tuner ran out of batteries and it took me a week to notice. I'm officially spending all my money on sandwiches, because only warm piles of bread and cheese can fuel the brain and comfort the soul with equal efficiency. Running out of tea is an ever approaching doom that seems narrowly avoided with every shopping trip.

But on the bright side of things, having seen my first Aurora in October, I've now walked on my first frozen lake (or very large pond, depending on your taste and geography). Contrary to my usual grace in new things, I didn't fall through. The winter seems to be the best season here-though the Minnesotans never cease to complain of its mildness. The snow here maintains an absurd powdery lightness, and it's great for snowball fighting. On frozen lakes. Or outside of schools. Or behind the apartment at two in the morning. Even the slush on the highway seems to hold its texture.

My desk has a nigh-professional quality of book-stacks interlaced with papers, the stained tea-cup and its adjacent rings, gloves and wallet and coins. I'm very proud of the whole arrangement. There are books in three languages, and I've read at least a sentence out of each of them. I have my print-out of my notes for the big Literary Corpus test tomorrow, and a first draft of the adjacent paper ready to be edited and turned in tonight. I have three massive collections of runology articles for the paper due on Friday.

And then the Old Norse exam on the fifteenth. And then sweet freedom: Over a week of utter solitude to work on my novel and my thesis in peace and vitamin-D deprived inspiration. No roommates and no sunlight. Perhaps I will start seeing the hidden people. Or the Christmas lads creeping around behind the doors in the empty rooms.

In the meantime, snow and dismembered penises. Iceland truly is the center of diehard feminism.

 Sperm whale.

 She's not uncomfortable. She's just trying to be creepy for

her family, who will see the picture.

 Killer whale.

 Less dehydrated killer whale.

Seals.

 More sperm whale. Just cause, you know, it's impressive.

 The totality of our masculinity,

in spongy cross-section.

Postcard throw-back.

Bulls. Tom Waits wasn't lying.

Art. These scrotum lamps were on sale

at the gift shop. James and I were sore tempted.

That's mankind, down at the far right.

This is James being, in fact, uncomfortable.

 Mythology, at its most elemental. Loki and the goat,

trying to make the ski-goddess laugh. 'Cause this is

what Scandinavian women like.

Elf-penis.

It's for the kids, you know?

The rodent and other small critters collection.

 What new philosophy is this?

 HUMAN! If you're not uncomfortable yet, this post

has failed. But this guy's ego, trust me, was far larger

than that lump on the left.

Reindeer.