she's reminded of her INSANITY

Speeding through Nabokov's Lolita has put a slightly vomit-inducing damper on finals week, a time when I am relatively tense and impressionable. I don't enjoy it.

I have also caught my elusive roommate's sickness. and today is one of those don't-you-fucking-dare-appraise-or-even-look-at-me days. for the latter I blame the book.

I am hopeless and the tiniest, tiniest thing has crushed me.

(no subject)

[Rough entry I'll never get around to refining]:

I have been almost absurdly happy lately. no big news or anything – I'm just excited by my projects and fascinated by everything around me, as usual.

Though here is one thing that has changed:

I am able to leave "stories" unfinished,
or better put: leave them trailing off, like something psuedo-avant-garde, or frayed, artistically,
without being unsatisfied. or at least without dwelling on them.

"stories" refer to real life interactions (and the mentally-constructed meanings attached to them, necessarily)

I think I can do this partly because I have learned to allow my own mind to reassure me: If I am able to recall the minute and occasionally profound details of a situation, what basis have I to assume that other people don't. You know, the ripples between people

I'll borrow a somewhat juvenile idea from my somewhat juvenile comparative literature class and say that we create, in our minds, what and who we love

Funny how we say "come visit! look me up!" as if to reassure each other, when what we really mean is
"I will probably never see you again."

A strange kind of intimacy, to know that someone else is reading the very books you are.

Wednesday 10:45 a.m.,

I was making my way to class from the library when I spied my Literary Gentleman. Several paces ahead he had crossed my path and for some reason, instead of going straight, chose to merge onto the sidewalk superhighway– not the shortest route from point A (music building bike rack) to point B (IV theater).

Patiently pausing for some bikes, I continued on my way, straight, vaguely aware that in taking his unnecessary detour he had set himself behind me. So that's it: a race.

Now our paths were parallel and when I chanced to glance over saw him almost directly across from me, striding along.

We continued, dodging our respective pedestrians, commenting idly to our lone selves, "look at the ridiculous strut!" ... "stupid girl on the wrong side of the sidewalk" ... "who can love that one's shrill yammering?"

On. More obstacles. Then who emerged to intercept my course but the professor to whose class I went, in conversation with another student. I kept behind them; he doesn't know me. Oh but watch out: there is where the detour reconnects, and he has no qualms about joining, with a wave, his fellow well-versed academics. The three of them walked; I aware of them and him, he aware of me, his companions not aware of me. They cut across a patch of young and fragile grass: not the design of an obedient superhighway-walker. I crossed the parking lot at a slightly wider angle than they, self-consciously.

Something happened between one end of the lot and the other to make it the case that when they next appeared, he was walking several paces from the professor and student. We each gravitated toward IV Theater. He chose to use the closest door, which is lower than the ground but wheelchair-accessible: in his doubling-back on the ramp we glanced at and passed each other.

I went in the back/main door because I like to scope out my lecture halls. Through the glass door and through the rear left door and down the aisle toward the relative front of the too-big room. Meanwhile he had strode across the front of the rows and turned up my aisle. I smiled to myself and whoever watched: this was a dance, sure and picturesque. He walked up toward the back and I walked down toward the front; he sat; I passed him and sat, two rows ahead. We were pretty, I refected.

To amuse myself I half waited for him to come sit by me. He did. a polite seat between us. We had a first conversation. Then he said "I think I'm expected to sit over there" and escaped behind me, then the professor started talking. Near the end of class I noticed that he sat alone. I distractedly wondered about this, then went up to turn in my late paper, then left and didn't look for him.

Curtain.

I might mention that this was the last day of class. oh tragedy.

(no subject)

If you would like to play the anonymous (or not, I guess) comment game, tell me:

the opening sentence, if you had to write one, to your current love story

tell me your secrets I will keep them safe inside me

Oh yeah. Yesterday while walking up toward I.V. from the lagoon bench, I felt for the first time that in a year, not now yet but in a year, I will most likely be mentally ready to move on from undergrad college life. without missing it immediately. Maybe the constant flux of kids around me– that is the cycle of fresh young shallow people coming in all the time– coupled with how stagnant popular attitudes seem to remain, are finally getting to me.

ChillaVista is today all day, just follow the music!

Q & A

Ryan's senior recital extravaganza was tonight. it was really, really good. I think everyone is at an afterparty right now.

I will say this: being socially deviant causes me to define my worldview more concretely, and frequently, than I might if I weren't constantly answering questions. Why don't I go to the afterparty? Because I don't like being around drunk people, especially when they're my friends, because then I judge them.

This is unrelated. but. I have a few hypothetical interviews with people in my head, with answers at the ready. The questions, posed to me, are all very direct.

"Why, months ago, did you turn cold and pretend not to know me?" Because I felt how easy it would be for me to become emotionally attached to you and I didn't want to.
"Why be purposefully, destructively vague?" Because I had to do something, and that was safe.
"Why, right after we had our first and only conversation, did you suddenly withdraw into yourself as if in warning against deep and complicated mental baggage?" Because I had considered how I was acting at the moment and was dissatisfied, and I am masochistic.

I am not actually masochistic.

Corey brought his posse to the barbecue yesterday and they jammed a little bit on guitars and that thing, the keyboard you blow air into. posse included one of his friends whom I dislike intensely, because of a comment he'd made about someone I would defend to the end of the earth. anyway just to make my life cinematic, without even knowing it, how kind of them, they played "Comtine D'un Autre Ete: L'apres Midi" from Amélie. cut to recent flashback:

At Joshua Tree the lot of us convened in the "Santuary" (big six-sided room) one evening to hear some speakers. We were early compared to most of the others. there were two pianos, one on each side of the room, and a girl was playing. I listened for a little bit and then I said, "This is one of my favorite songs in the whole world." and Quentin was attentive, and Kyle looked into me.

anyway here it is

(no subject)

woo hoo Chris!

I had an idea for an ongoing guerilla art installation where I and a team of stealthy ninjas would build simple treehouses in public trees in the middle of the night. but that is not very realistic. so I've amended it and want to make little gnome and fairy houses to install instead. in my free time. I wonder how many people would notice them.

OH NO IT"S JUNE