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fictionali really should stop freaking out over little things.
i just can't seem to break out of this solipsism.
my blame, my hands, my fault, my damage.
when it's not mine, it's done to me.
it still hurts.
today continues the seesaw weather that has characterized this whole winter. it is blue, and beautiful, and warm. i ended up cutting my first class this morning, and just sitting out on the Arts Quad, over by the Art & Architecture Schools, soaking up the breezes and sunshine. reading my book. that was nice.
yesterday i attended a poetry reading by Elizabeth Alexander. strongly recommended, if anyone has any interest, especially the books entitled respectively the Venus Hottentot and the Antebellum Dream Book.
really good stuff. she read well too, which is always a plus. there's nothing worse than having poetry ruined for you by a poet reading poorly.
afterwards there was a wine and cheese reception in the foyer of Goldwyn Smith Hall. lots of people stopped to talk with me. it's an interesting sensation, knowing the people in my department.
it's so weird, because i fought against this so hard. this still isn't really where i want to be. i want to be where there are bright lights, warm baths of people watching always, attention. i want my inner dramaqueen to come out of the closet. yes please. but no, here i am. studying. great big dusty works of long ago, and some of just yesterday.
this morning, i was thinking that spring-like weather makes me think...well sometimes it makes me think of one certain autumn in a city very far away. but that's another story.
it always calls to mind other eastern springs, romping in central park, smelling the scent of dirt, old grass, the city.
as i was walking to the Arts Quad, i noticed an old man with a guitar was sitting perched on a wall, playing Marley with his black polished guitar. he looked kind of rastafarian. and he had his guitar case out for spare change. i hadn't ever seen anything like that out here, so i smiled real big, thinking of home. he told me i had a beautiful smile. i remembered that was the thing that everyone wrote about in my highschool yearbook, those who didn't know me well enough to say anything else. a beautiful smile. i guess it doesn't show that i would trade it in a heartbeat for a sulky sultry look and some more beauty of body instead of beauty of heart.
i just can't seem to break out of this solipsism.
my blame, my hands, my fault, my damage.
when it's not mine, it's done to me.
it still hurts.
today continues the seesaw weather that has characterized this whole winter. it is blue, and beautiful, and warm. i ended up cutting my first class this morning, and just sitting out on the Arts Quad, over by the Art & Architecture Schools, soaking up the breezes and sunshine. reading my book. that was nice.
yesterday i attended a poetry reading by Elizabeth Alexander. strongly recommended, if anyone has any interest, especially the books entitled respectively the Venus Hottentot and the Antebellum Dream Book.
really good stuff. she read well too, which is always a plus. there's nothing worse than having poetry ruined for you by a poet reading poorly.
afterwards there was a wine and cheese reception in the foyer of Goldwyn Smith Hall. lots of people stopped to talk with me. it's an interesting sensation, knowing the people in my department.
it's so weird, because i fought against this so hard. this still isn't really where i want to be. i want to be where there are bright lights, warm baths of people watching always, attention. i want my inner dramaqueen to come out of the closet. yes please. but no, here i am. studying. great big dusty works of long ago, and some of just yesterday.
this morning, i was thinking that spring-like weather makes me think...well sometimes it makes me think of one certain autumn in a city very far away. but that's another story.
it always calls to mind other eastern springs, romping in central park, smelling the scent of dirt, old grass, the city.
as i was walking to the Arts Quad, i noticed an old man with a guitar was sitting perched on a wall, playing Marley with his black polished guitar. he looked kind of rastafarian. and he had his guitar case out for spare change. i hadn't ever seen anything like that out here, so i smiled real big, thinking of home. he told me i had a beautiful smile. i remembered that was the thing that everyone wrote about in my highschool yearbook, those who didn't know me well enough to say anything else. a beautiful smile. i guess it doesn't show that i would trade it in a heartbeat for a sulky sultry look and some more beauty of body instead of beauty of heart.
