To keep the door to my dorm building open, someone wedged an old copy of Let the Circle Be Unbroken in the frame. I thought that might be some kinda metaphorical, but it turns out is isn't. Maybe if I had ever read the book.
I was wavering on going to see Dylan Thomas's "Under Milk Wood" at UT last night, because I felt like I was getting sick but I knew Wednesday night would be my only chance to see it, but finally Becky took the offensive and pushed me out the door. Good for her. It was a really good show, and before it started we were allowed to associate with Cara and her Off-Off friends for a bit. The production had a live guitar or mandolin (whatever, I couldn't see it) to accompany the narration, which I liked. The size of the space and the set reminded me of Daniel and Laura's Midsummer Night's Dream, and so I couldn't keep visions of a pixie Laura and a shirtless body-painted Daniel from chasing each other around my head. Yeah, what's new, right?
I woke up at 3:30 this morning dripping with sweat. I know you didn't want to know that, but you all know what it feels like, and I think it might have some cosmic importance later on. So I changed out of my soggy clothes and tried to move to the non-sweaty part of my bed. And then when I woke up at 7:15, I was soaking again. Jesus. I figure it might have been some kind of symbol of cleansing that told me I need to do laundry. I checked my dresser, and I'm out of boxers. I've never run out of boxers, not once, because I have such a ridiculous amount of them. So I gingerly collect my clothes while trying not to wake Jeremy and I go down to the laundry room, where I find that my card is out of money and I have no quarters. So I go to the cash-to-card machine in Central, but why would that be working? It never works. It's just a hollow prop for prospective students and their families. So I find a few articles of clothing that are not dirty and I drag myself over to the Reg where they have other cash-to-card machines. I hadn't planned on speaking to anyone, so I didn't bother to engage in any hygenic practices like, say, brushing my teeth, but of course I run into all kinds of people I know.
So really it wasn't that bad of a morning, but I'd planned on spending the hour and a half before Media Aesthetics relaxing with a cup of coffee and Mrs. Voss's zucchini bread. The point of the story is, because I felt like I'd been through enough before 8am on a weekday, that I'm skipping my Hum class for the first time ever, and now I'm blogging and eating zucchini bread and drinking coffee and listening to Hail to the Thief and life is good for the moment.
As it turns out, we're discussing Wallace Stevens's "Sunday Morning" today in Hum. I'm a little sorry that I'm going to miss it, because that poem really blew me away. Well, OK, poems don't really blow me away, but it's one of those that I could've talked about with somebody for hours. I'd go talk to Bradin, my foppish Hum professor, but his office hours are always when I'm working. I really need to start making friends with my professors, or at least participate in the bare minimum of schmoozing. I just know my first recommendation letter is right around the corner.
Humanities Core Colloquium is this afternoon. I'm anxious. Who wants to hear me read a 7-page paper out loud? Not me, certainly. I'm sure it'll go well, but to have it over will be a relief. You know, as cool as it is to have gotten this, I don't really feel like it's my kind of thing. I keep asking myself, why aren't I reading fiction? Or contributing art to something, maybe. Back in high school, and even middle school, I guess I used to regard college as the place where I would just get to be creative all the time. Now? I'm spending 12 hours a week on... general chemistry? Every afternoon at a white-collar office job hovering over a photocopier? Reading pretentious academic papers? I'm not saying those are worthless things, because they're not at all, and besides, I volunteered for all of them... I just have this notion that I've lost touch with some basic part of my identity in the past year or so, and I wonder if the part of me that I consider my true "self" would recognize me now.
I know I'm going to get hell from Rita for this. Maybe I should just shut up and go paint a pretty picture.
Half a day before my parents arrive, and 8 days until Kristen arrives. Not such a bad looking next two weeks or so.
I was wavering on going to see Dylan Thomas's "Under Milk Wood" at UT last night, because I felt like I was getting sick but I knew Wednesday night would be my only chance to see it, but finally Becky took the offensive and pushed me out the door. Good for her. It was a really good show, and before it started we were allowed to associate with Cara and her Off-Off friends for a bit. The production had a live guitar or mandolin (whatever, I couldn't see it) to accompany the narration, which I liked. The size of the space and the set reminded me of Daniel and Laura's Midsummer Night's Dream, and so I couldn't keep visions of a pixie Laura and a shirtless body-painted Daniel from chasing each other around my head. Yeah, what's new, right?
I woke up at 3:30 this morning dripping with sweat. I know you didn't want to know that, but you all know what it feels like, and I think it might have some cosmic importance later on. So I changed out of my soggy clothes and tried to move to the non-sweaty part of my bed. And then when I woke up at 7:15, I was soaking again. Jesus. I figure it might have been some kind of symbol of cleansing that told me I need to do laundry. I checked my dresser, and I'm out of boxers. I've never run out of boxers, not once, because I have such a ridiculous amount of them. So I gingerly collect my clothes while trying not to wake Jeremy and I go down to the laundry room, where I find that my card is out of money and I have no quarters. So I go to the cash-to-card machine in Central, but why would that be working? It never works. It's just a hollow prop for prospective students and their families. So I find a few articles of clothing that are not dirty and I drag myself over to the Reg where they have other cash-to-card machines. I hadn't planned on speaking to anyone, so I didn't bother to engage in any hygenic practices like, say, brushing my teeth, but of course I run into all kinds of people I know.
So really it wasn't that bad of a morning, but I'd planned on spending the hour and a half before Media Aesthetics relaxing with a cup of coffee and Mrs. Voss's zucchini bread. The point of the story is, because I felt like I'd been through enough before 8am on a weekday, that I'm skipping my Hum class for the first time ever, and now I'm blogging and eating zucchini bread and drinking coffee and listening to Hail to the Thief and life is good for the moment.
As it turns out, we're discussing Wallace Stevens's "Sunday Morning" today in Hum. I'm a little sorry that I'm going to miss it, because that poem really blew me away. Well, OK, poems don't really blow me away, but it's one of those that I could've talked about with somebody for hours. I'd go talk to Bradin, my foppish Hum professor, but his office hours are always when I'm working. I really need to start making friends with my professors, or at least participate in the bare minimum of schmoozing. I just know my first recommendation letter is right around the corner.
Humanities Core Colloquium is this afternoon. I'm anxious. Who wants to hear me read a 7-page paper out loud? Not me, certainly. I'm sure it'll go well, but to have it over will be a relief. You know, as cool as it is to have gotten this, I don't really feel like it's my kind of thing. I keep asking myself, why aren't I reading fiction? Or contributing art to something, maybe. Back in high school, and even middle school, I guess I used to regard college as the place where I would just get to be creative all the time. Now? I'm spending 12 hours a week on... general chemistry? Every afternoon at a white-collar office job hovering over a photocopier? Reading pretentious academic papers? I'm not saying those are worthless things, because they're not at all, and besides, I volunteered for all of them... I just have this notion that I've lost touch with some basic part of my identity in the past year or so, and I wonder if the part of me that I consider my true "self" would recognize me now.
I know I'm going to get hell from Rita for this. Maybe I should just shut up and go paint a pretty picture.
Half a day before my parents arrive, and 8 days until Kristen arrives. Not such a bad looking next two weeks or so.
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