Demosthenes, Sophocles, and Sisyphus

I wonder at the categorization of style, the means of determining what makes one writer unique from another. Certainly, in a gut way, differences are easy to determine even to a casual reader: Elevated vs. plain language, complex vs. simple sentence structure, literal or figurative language, parallelism or variation. But the subtle differences beyond that are much hard to distinctively see much less reproduce. I am of course referring to my own current situation (I never seem to completely divorce myself from present circumstances - ta paronta, to Plato) in which I find myself instructed to take a speech from Sophocles, Oedipus Tyrannus to be exact, and re-write it in the style of Demosthenes. All in Greek, naturally, which is enough of a challenge to begin with. I have read a small bit of Demosthenes, enough that I can see a difference in his writing and the iambic trimeter of Creon's words, but to cognitate (yes, that "n" is on purpose) well enough upon something to reproduce its kinsman is far from an easy task. It seems to fall under the same type of mental exercise of trying to learn to speak a language you've only ever read, or to write one (especially formally) you've only ever spoken. The brain is wired in a one-way pattern and suddenly the duality must be forced upon it.

I was thinking tonight, as I often have in the past, of using this space for some kind of linguistic exercise of trying to write the same thing every night for a week but in a different style, or from a different point of view. I don't know what to start with - a description of my surroundings? An encyclopedia entry? A paragraph from a novel or non-fiction piece? As I find myself in this very instant I am overwhelmed by the possibilities, stuck in gaping awe of the magnitude of what I would attempt, particularly would I try to emulate the style of a certain author each night. Whose work do I truly know well enough to attempt such a thing? My outside reading would definitely need to become more focused and I wonder if, even so, I could manage such a thing well enough that even you would know the author, or at least be able to see the difference. I think even more fascinating would be to have the first attempted style be my own, as well as the last (whatever style I may lay claim to, I suppose). To evaluate the influence of others upon me. To see how perspectives can change based upon context and recent memory and the revelations of another. I would hope to learn and change and become a fuller version of myself. Perhaps I will never attempt this more out of fear of my own rigidity than the lack of a good starting place, or organizing framework. Maybe someday I will take up this burden and successfully bear it as far as I desire. As long as the boulder doesn't come crashing back to the same place every night I am sure I can be satisfied.

Busywork

It turns out that writing every day is a difficult thing to actually do. While I have been mostly successful, it's a bit of a struggle most nights to convince myself that I do, in fact, need to sit here for at least five minutes and elocute as best I can about some sort of topic coherently. I'm not sure how many of those adjectives and nouns I satisfy every night, but I give it a college try, or at least a post-bac try as best I can. I'm not sure why I've managed to stick with this commitment more successfully than other ones (like running every day or doing my laundry once a week or going to the store on a certain day) - it's no more useful in any real sense. I suppose it ends up being that in some sense I have a blogging partner which is of course you, gentle reader, who like my current nonexistent running partner, waits patiently out in the cold anticipating my arrival so we can share a few minutes together.

Regardless of how true my comparison is, it exists on some level in my mind that is apparently sufficient to draw me over to the keyboard and screen and away from my vaguely comfortable bed where I happy try to spend at least nine hours every night. Mostly I'm close to successful. This past 38 posts have definitely eaten into that time, however, so my feeling of obligation must seem to run pretty deep. This is fairly absurd considering there are only about four of you bothering to read ever (that I know of for sure), although I suppose my belittling your interest isn't really the nicest thing of me to do. See how cranky I get when I'm tired?

I marvel especially at this whole phenomenon considering my utter lack of ability to keep a journal or diary when I was younger, which I attempted here and there on more than one occasion. I never wrote often, and generally hated what I wrote when I looked back at it later. Adolescent angst and whatnot does not make for lucid and flowing prose. I think part of my problem is I never wanted to dwell on the details of my short-term-memory life in such detail as to record them to any degree on a regular basis. I'd like to think I'm avoiding that here, although it is obvious to me, and I'm sure to you, that things have a way of creeping in and either taking over topics or coloring my opinions about things. It's hard to divorce yourself completely from your present life in such a personal and possible form of expressions. I have essentially no boundaries or guidelines beyond levels of decency and my own sense of privacy, which varies from night to night. Clearly today I have little so say of any serious personal nature and I correspondingly feel quite detached from any of the words that I put on the page. This might be my least-edited post ever, and I think you should probably regret it. I don't usually alter much, but here and there I'll change my diction or syntax a little - occasionally I'll delete a sentence or two to refocus a paragraph, to attempt a sense of flow or unity. Tonight I'm just happy to have put in ten minutes by now, enough to leave off and try again tomorrow. I guess we all have to trust in the value of practice.

Only nice to strangers

I spilled tea all over my chair today in class. Fortunately I was standing at the time, and class had just been dismissed (as much as college classes are ever dismissed - it's more like the professor stops talking and everyone decides to leave) so there wasn't a major ruckus caused. And fortunately our class is next to a tiny kitchenette (yes, I know that's redundant) so there were paper towels and a sponge right there to help me clean up the mess. The amazing thing is that no one mentioned my clumsiness in any way. Either we're finally grown up enough to not laugh at each other's shortcomings, or the other students don't feel they know me well enough to mock me, no matter the intent. Perhaps both are true. I suppose in that case, the question becomes: if they would laugh at me, should I assume them as friends?

In love with the written word of a cranky man

Tonight I plagarize, too full of the day and ready for sleep to think coherently for myself. I thought about love tonight and today, thought about what I could say. I was ready to start off with "Love is really just about convenience" which is a more sentimental comment than appears off the bat, and I hope to come back to it another day. But love for me tonight is really about Edward Abbey to whom I have finally crept back, begging for forgiveness that I abandoned him for so long. Maybe I really just miss the west - it's one and the same.

But how can I pick a paragraph? An emblematic moment? How can I convince you all to read something by this man, preferably non-fiction, although the fictional stories have real enough description. I suppose in the interest of not over-thinking things, I should just write out what caught my attention two nights ago, and gave me the idea. From The Brave Cowboy which I have not read and believe is fictional:

The great cliffs leaned up against the flowing sky, falling through space as the earth revolved, turning amber as whisky in the long-reaching lakes of light from the evening sun. But the light had no power to soften the jagged edges and rough-spalled planes of the granite; in that clear air each angle and crack cast a shadow as harsh, clean, sharp, real, as the rock itself - so that though they had endured as they were for ten million years, the cliffs held the illusion of a terrible violence suddenly arrested, paralyzed in time, latent with power.

If you've been to Utah, Nevada, Arizona, you'll understand.

Anticipating

It is amazing how easily I can distract and derail myself. I have been meaning for several nights, even weeks almost, to write something about love that has thought behind it and comes across as more than a hollywood clip. It's a hard thing to work up the courage for, I can tell you, and so I continue to blather on about other things, not following the first sentence that comes into my head but censoring that and thinking for a long time until a second, more "suitable" arises. This is the problem with considering an audience, I suppose, which part of me certainly hoped to acquire and part of me figured I never would, since I only ever actually told one person about it (Ethan) and he's not terribly interested. Which is how I figured most people would react. And who's to say, really, what the right reaction is? (You see how quickly I digress?) So while I sit in the utter privacy of my room, tonight even with almost all the lights off, just the glow of my screen and the dim fluorescent bulb above my mirror and the orange glow of the parking garage out my window the perfect, intimate situation for writing about something so personal and individual is revealed and yet I still hesitate to take advantage of it. I had hoped to use this forum as a way to explore thoughts about any subject as well as writing itself and so my hesitation dismays me. Courage! But not tonight, I fear, for the hour is later than I had hoped and there is much work to be accomplished on the morrow. And yes, this is a bit of a cop-out, although to my credit I almost forgot to write anything before I shut down tonight so the fact that I have come so far is worth more than it shall appear upon reflection tomorrow at the brevity and cowardice within. Tomorrow I will find the gumption to strike out with the first sentence that comes to mind. It may be inane and what comes after it may not follow, but this I promise you. Whatever words fall into place will rest upon this page.

A swelling of pitch and volume

People occasionally end up in conversations revolving around a mythical soundtrack of their lives. This concept was made less unrealistic by the advent of discmans and currently by the profusion of ipods, although this still remains a personal and private soundtrack, not a swelling background that infiltrates the entire scene as we find in films and television. But I wonder about the preferences we reveal through our choices, as well as the adaptability of the human opinion. The Cobb coffee shop is the perfect example of this for me - every time I go in they are playing something different, and every time I find the selection perfectly ideal for the situation. Clearly since my experience, purpose, and context are very similar, vastly different musical selections should not be able to coexist peacefully in my image of the location and yet this occurs without question. Why? Surely they cannot intentionally suit my mood. Rather I suppose it is a manifestation of my internal flexibility in this regard. Some have it to a greater extent than others, I suppose.

The question of musical choice is a tricky one. It is often viewed as a facet of one's personality and possibly indicative of character. There is an instant connection between two human who suddenly discover a similar favorite band or concert experience or even radio station. A link between unknowns. I have always found myself drawn to chord progressions and baselines more than lyrics or specific melodies (beyond their interaction with harmonies) which has led me to enjoy various forms of just about every musical genre. I don't think this makes me some kind of musical everyman, but rather a pleasure-seeking dilettante. My favorite genre for many years was proclaimed as Classical and while this may even still be the truth, the sad fact is that I hardly listen to anything anymore and probably cannot lay real claim to any area. I find this an odd pickle to be in on car trips in which my opinion ought to have weight - people are constantly befuddled by the lack of preference in the vehicle for a specific station. I know I am not alone in my indifference, or rather my admission that to find one station consistently acceptable is virtually impossible. Even serious fans of certain types don't like every song that exists in that manner. How difficult it is to keep the controller informed of every preference constantly, especially when another, better, option may not currently exist? So we give up, say "anything's fine" and ignore the bits we want to tune out. Really it should just be the driver's choice especially on long trips if there is contention or true apathy.

I'm not sure why this topic comes to mind tonight as I write. Perhaps it is due to weeks of car-riding and tonight's foray into Coldplay as my Greek homework soundtrack since I rarely listen to anything at all while I study. Perhaps because my first real connection to Ethan was forged in the strains of Radiohead and the off-pitch plink of piano keys. I am forced to evaluate our relationship, present and future, constantly as I pass through these days in anticipation of our future and so I can complete my officiant's homework diligently before our next meeting. So many things come back to a note, an image, a progression. I cannot say what our soundtrack would be - I feel almost hubristic trying to imagine an all-encompassing plate of songs to define or at least heighten the feeling in our lives. Is it even necessary? And yet so many parts of life are filled with actual music that would seem to be lacking without it. We must fill the void of silence.

Follow the money, don't get lost in the clauses

I thought some not-very-coherent thoughts today about the labor supply at universities. There is a petition going around to support graduate funding for students which is apparently being worn away after five years, allegedly to the detriment of the whole function of the university. The idea falls in line with lots of current arguments about labor - the rise of part time benefit-less positions instead of permanent laborers in a valued workforce. Job security, worker quality, productivity, customer (or student) satisfaction. Concerns that every sort of company has to deal with to some degree, although some places are clearly much better at stifling conflict than others. While I see the point of the university (they do want people to graduate on time, after all) my instinctive sympathies are with the graduate students, if only because of recent strikes at other schools and my own impending matriculation in some such class. But I am wary of a blanket opposition. Aside from the concerns of undergraduates spending less time in classes with tenured professors and the potentially hazardous compression of what should be a detailed and in depth educational maturation, I wonder if the specific examples cited can't simply be exempted in some way. For example, there is the fear that only five years of funding would prevent students from applying for exterior programs or travel that are enriching yet would subtract time from the free bank limits. There are also concerns about families with the distractions of children (so they need more time to write dissertations) or with medical conditions or family crises etc. I am not sure exactly what solution might work for all, but surely some method of exemption or expansion of the application-based sixth (and greater) year funding could fill the gaps and still encourage people to write in a timely fashion. I suppose I could ask Ethan to help me figure out the incentives in this situation for all involved - faculty, universities, students, undergrads, hiring institutions - but I suppose it can wait for a while since Penn will be figuring out the current debate without me.

And I realize that this is rather dry and non-illuminatory, so for the sake of whimsy I would like to remark that 1) I really like the hot air balloon at the Philadelphia Zoo and 2) I am fascinated by the odd rubber-cement-esque adhesive that is often found on packaging connecting labels to plastic. It's rubbery and flexible and peels off easily and stays tacky and it really fun to roll around in your fingers. I wish I could get a giant box of it - I'd be entertained for years.

Lexical shorts

If you can't get home, it's nice to have a piece of home come to you. Nothing quite like telling stories to the people whom you experienced them with. Nothing quite like ending sentences with prepositions either (go English!) Nothing quite like a short, boring, and time-saving post. I'll be verbose again by the weekend.

Like Amundsen

Restlessness is an unfortunate condition that affects many of us hardworking Americans from time to time, to various levels of detriment. Some might consider this an expression of adult ADHD but that explanation seems rather lacking since the levels of diagnosis are sky-high and often an inability to concentrate can be blamed on temporary and recognizable factors. I can discern my level of distractedness and restlessness by my tendency to transpose things when I write which usually only occurs in long strings of numbers, but occasionally happens in words, particularly Greek. And this is in the context of handwriting, so typos cannot be blamed. Some part of my brain fires a little oddly every now and then, I suppose, and this tendency is definitely exaggerated on occasion.

Currently I don't have that type of inattention, but rather the sort that leads me to stare out windows at planes or watch a nice old rotary clock ticking off the seconds, peacefully rotating around and around, lulling me into daydreams and repose. It is difficult to concentrate on the same task all day, all month, all year. In the normal workforce, this conundrum is resolved by the weekend and the standard vacation although people say that Americans rarely use all the time off allotted to them in any given year. I suppose I can reason out motivations for this, but in truth I never have truly understood why one would choose to remain at work when the option of traveling through France or reading in the library exists - and the paycheck still comes in the mail. Days like today, weeks like this week, require minivacations to help motivate concentration and provide a respite periodically. So I check my email, eat something, walk around the quads, play Snood, write on this page. Every hour or so I have a few moments of different intellectual activity so I can keep my sanity, but in the end anxiety about the final deadline pushes me back into my chair, feet up, pencil in hand.

They say the average American moves seven times in his life (or maybe every 7 years... I believe it's the former). While this may be partially due to a lack of job security I think it is more likely ascribed to the sense of restlessness, of a need for freedom (i.e. new things) that plague our colonist mindset. Ever westward, and when the west was won, back east and north and south. A traveling itch. Meandering much like this writing, I suppose, which really had no need of its own to wander. So I shall settle it down in the archives, walk away, and settle myself with a banana and Euripides - stationary - for at least an hour.

Eeyore or Piglet?

I find myself on the edge of so many endings in my life, and so many new beginnings. Six weeks left on a main chapter, then a short intercalary, and then a new act, even more than one, begins. I wondered a week ago if I would still maintain a sense of wonder about Philadelphia and the prospect of leaving does contain momentary regrets, although nothing sufficient to keep me here. Perhaps I'll come back for a weekend once a year if I stay on the east coast but aside from that I will be happy to move onward.

The plot lines that describe my time seem suddenly fleeting and I both hesitate to move on and strain eagerly in the yoke, hoping to press forward a little sooner. Anticipatory melancholy, I think, is about the best way to put it. There are too many uncertain edges right now to have complete confidence in my future months, but enough milestones assured that provide points of focus and clarity. The gaps just need some filling in. Some form of employment, housing, german class, plane tickets, summer league, spring league, invitations. Cake. Vows.

It is obvious to me tonight (as it was a week ago, I believe) that my contentment with being in Pennsylvania was contingent upon my prompt return to Chicago and now that the day is much farther away, uncertainly assured, my composure has fallen off a bit and I find myself eager to slip back into a gentle despair about class and grad school and the evident truth, as I have come to realize in the last two weeks, that I have a snowball's chance in hell of seeing Ethan more than on extended school breaks for at least the next two years. A fate I do not wish to contemplate. One I hoped never to write of here, if only for the avoidance of pathetic sympathies. We have made choices and thus I cannot complain. I could choose differently if I truly wanted to. This is what I have learned from Economics, from Ethan, perhaps the finest lesson. Action reveals preference, however conscious we are of all the factors in play.

Richard has taken a moment here and there this year to teach me points of advertising too, tantalizing hints into the mass psychology that marketers take advantage of. The way to present information so that the subject will infer connections that you can legally protest you did not make explicit. To use blinking lights in commercials to foster memory in the consumer. I wish I could use these tricks upon myself, often, walk around under a strobe so as to better grasp the little things that will escape me over the coming months, little things that are the bread and butter of life, the yin and the yang of sanity, recollection and hope.

My anticipatory melancholy appears to be more strongly weighted on the latter than the former and I suppose that every moment I emphasize one or the other element more strongly. Tonight, despite the ease of preparing for the current week which brings its own great challenges and joys, I am pulled into the state of a mournful attendant, watching the familiar and hence the comforting begin the final descent into nothingness. I do know that there is a brighter future coming (there always is, it seems) and that new doors are soon to open for which I have been waiting many years. And my words belie the relief I feel at the prospect of finishing the program I have come to contemn and leaving the odd silence of the place I reside. The past weekend was spent celebrating hope, achievement, promise, expectation, and joy, and the realization that I have turned into my mother and will cry from now on at any vaguely emotional event. I'm really just a sap at heart, and a sap should be just as good as crying in celebration as decrying the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. In the words of Hugh Grant, from now on I intend to be impressively happy.

Down memory lane/Only I find this interesting

I have an email in my inbox from "smurnagh" which for some reason makes me think of Smaug every time I see it. This isn't a very nice association to have, since the said user-name corresponds with my current Greek prof who, while a formidable character to be sure, is hardly a fire-breathing, hobbit-eating, treasure-hoarding flying reptilian, or if so I have seen no evidence personally. Every time I get an email from this address it makes me inexplicably happy. I'm not sure if it is the juxtaposition of identities or the association with sixth-grade english that gets me. Today it reminded me of our group project on "The Hobbit" which required the "publication" of a newspaper chronicling events of the book. We had an interview with Bilbo, a bit on goblins (I think), possibly a crossword puzzle, a soup recipe, and a political cartoon of Smaug sitting at a restaurant looking at a menu and ordering up some Hobbits and Gandalf up for lunch. I traced the dragon from the cover of some book and put the rest in and naturally thought I was very clever. Ah the follies of youth.

While we're on the sixth-grade english track (possibly my favorite class ever aside from AP Chemistry sophomore year) we also had to do a Hobbit video project where we told the story of going to Beorn's house and then getting captured by the elves. We filmed in Katie's backyard (it was nice.. she's in the family that's heir to the Gamble fortune, i.e. Procter and Gamble who makes every product you've ever used in your house) and our scene starts with me moronically proclaiming "Hello, Beorn's house!". I still have no idea what possessed me to make this statement and actually remember when I first saw the final version that I had no recollection of making it. Maybe it is sadly true that I don't listen to what I say. I'd like to think that's a momentary and unusual fault, but I suppose I am the worst judge possible of that kind of behavior.

Sixth grade English was awesome though, I have to mention it - it must be immortalized somewhere! We learned how to diagram sentences (still one of my most favorite skills), had a formal debate in class about who was responsible for the destruction of Camelot (totally Mordred's fault), wrote stories, read Good Night, Mr. Tom which is awesome and sublime, ate gummi bears (I love teachers who use food as bribery), and created our own coats of arms. I had a motto although I don't actually remember it - my older sister translated it into latin for me since I hadn't started studying that yet. Something about truth being a good thing.

I ought to say something briefly here about style - I suppose I have my own style of writing but I do think that it fluctuates between levels of formality across posts. Today I think I have been highly influenced by some serious blog-hunting which ended up with me spending 40 minutes with Katina, or at least her written word, which was infectiously interesting. We weren't ever really close, but she's definitely one of those people that I think about every now and then and get nostalgic about. Which may be part of the reason for my current memory-fest, now that I think about it. But I've noticed that in a lot of my posts I tend to avoid contractions and sentence fragments (except for emphasis) and other features which I consider to be elements of a more formal style. Not so here. I have wondered if that makes my writing seem pretentious (now that I actually have people who read I feel a vague uneasy self-consciousness about my writing all the time, which probably confirms my fears) but no one's told me so I will continue merrily onward.

Anyway, for the sake of joyful nostalgia I would like to make a suggestion to all my friends in the area who read - anyone up for a home-movie kind of evening this summer? I know Joe has a fine piece of filmography and I have one from high school.. I would be surprised if no one else has anything - at the least I can attempt to make Ethan play any and all recordings from his high school band, which I think ought to count. I should mention that this event, should it ever occur, will need to involve some quantities of alcohol, or at least chocolate. So. This appears to be so far off-topic that it appropriately concludes my rambling nonsense for today. Apparently all that woozy plane stuff hasn't completely worn off.

Airsickness

So I am back again. Circling back and forth in three days is something I am quite unused to and I feel much more off-kilter than I did a week ago after a five hour airport ordeal. At least by the time I arrived then I was too exhausted to feel out of place or detached, and a night of good sleep was very restorative. I suppose I can hope for the same effect tomorrow, although the few hours I have to spend awake tonight are rife with all the problems of air travel - tiredness, vague nausea, odd hunger, dehydration, twitchy muscles. But it is nice to be here, even if I will soon leave the windy city for the exciting state of Indiana which is running on some version of time that I can never quite understand. In that kind of a place, though, does it really matter?

Sticking our heads in the sand, and liking it

I have discovered that it is much better to read Euripides as farce or satire than as tragedy. Suddenly the perpetual weepings and wailings of Helen, the moanings of Menelaus about his tattered clothes and lost army, take on a sense of absurdity that seems intentional rather than overwrought. While I do think that some of the dialogue is meant to have a comedic effect, I doubt that the sum total of the play is supposed to read like a caricature or parody, but with that mindset it actually becomes fun to read. I suppose this is the kind of attitude I ought to approach my recent life with as well - laugh at all the complaints and frustration and move on to a new plot-line. It is true, after all, that much of life is only bourne by laughing at otherwise interminable situations, or unctuous companions. We laugh not at the situation but at the absurdity of it so as not to get caught within the despair of reality. There's nothing quite like intentional self-delusion.

Filling space.. like a goalie in the net

I must confess I am writing tonight without anything to say, mostly because of my internal promise to write something, if only pathetically, every day at which I have been mostly successful, barring occasional extenuating circumstances that imposed great hardship on my internet and/or writing time-frame.

I would like to mention the fact that I ate 8oz of beef tonight and will probably die from Mad Cow disease shortly but I am quite pleased with myself, since I haven't consumed such a large quantity all at one sitting in a long time. The hunger pangs are rather stunning, though, after 2 hours of ultimate followed by another hour of soccer. My Tuesdays are going to be exciting for the next 6 weeks or so. But fun. It is a strange transition between sports. The fields are roughly the same size and the games have similar objectives (although I guess pretty much all sports do - score points, keep the other guy from doing the same) and there are 7 people running around on the field (plus a goalie in this case) trying to work together effectively. Find flow up the field, using lateral and backward motion when necessary to keep things going. I have a terrible instinct to use my hands after playing ultimate which luckily caused no problems today and rarely does, although it takes a great deal of control in certain situations. I was actually thinking it would be fun to have a goalie challenge of sorts, pitting ultimate players and baseball players and football players against each other to see which one transitions the best into a soccer goalie. All three involve spinning projectiles that must be caught at all costs (or in some defensive cases, deflected). While I am sure that real goal-tending is quite an art, I do wonder about the crossover ability of other athletes, much in the same way that 100-meter sprinters can blossom into bobsledding powerhouses, although I suppose Hollywood can't really be held to the task for that one.

Regardless, I have no real point to this and thus no real ending. I will have to think of one, and later (fat chance) give you some sort of Discovery Channel tagline like "despite all these facts and opinions, the mystery of sports-crossover has yet to be definitively resolved".

Runway lights

I can see the lights of the city twinkling out my window, the ankles of basketball players dancing on the gym floors, the smooth bright lettering on top of the hospital declaring "PENN" to all of Center City. It turns out, as I discovered today, that I like Philadelphia. Every time I return to Pasadena, or more recently Chicago, there is a sense of belonging and comfort that the surroundings impart. I am entering a known place with friendly people and where I know my way around the streets even without maps. There are people that will provide me with constant companionship if I seek it, and places and space for me to sit alone in comfort. I don't have to adapt myself to a foreign culture any more, or put on a show of civility for the masses. The phone numbers I want to call are local.

Many of these categories are certainly not met by my current state of residence, but there are other delights to which I have become accustomed. A place on campus where I can meet my friends every day for lunch without fail, and never mentioning a plan beforehand. Abundant strawberries and mangos and honeydew in all seasons. Bananas as garnish. Free, easy printing; DVDs from the library; my clutter; my books. Monk's.

Calvin and Hobbes greet me every day when I sit at my desk, Ethan smiles gleefully, tigers prance, pirate ships sail across stickers, a birthday cake and pancakes remind me of the pleasure found in the simplicity of lines. There is a clutter in our apartment that is very much ours and so despite the mess, I find it a comfort. Here the clutter is only mine, which is a comfort and sad reminder. But that is what this year has been for me, so in a way I am coming home. I flew in this morning with anxiety only about departing (since my flight had been cancelled) and arrived with peace of mind after a long, turbulent nap. I felt as if the city were trying its hardest to be welcoming - my bag was waiting for me at claim number 3, the train came 5 minutes later, I was off and towards my room not 15 minutes after that. It was warm, 70 at least, with a nice breeze and not too humid, even sunny. I had good mail, no junk, and thought that even the locks to my suite were oiled while I was gone. A lovely morning.

I do like looking at the lights of the city, even if in daylight the scape is not much nicer than Gary, a much prettier view than the gravelly roof over Powells. I have buses and cabs instead of the freight trains, but neither bother me much anymore with the windows shut at night. The blinds keep out enough light to let me sleep but let in just the right amount to wake me up five or ten minutes before my alarm every day. One of the greatest pleasures in my life - the undisturbed waking. I would not say that Philadelphia is my favorite city nor that I would like to stay here for years more. I am not even sure if I would ever like to visit once I leave for more than a day at a time. But it is not such a bad place to live. I suppose it's growing on me. I also suppose my rosy feelings are belied by my impending return to Chicago, only three days away. We shall have to see how I feel a week from now, when the return is final.

Maladies

My arm is amazingly and inexplicably sore. One of those sorenesses that you notice when you make some unusual motion and think "well, looks like I did too much of ___ yesterday" except in my case there doesn't appear to be anything to fill in that blank. It appears that the rotating parts of the muscles, rather than just raising and lowering, are the issue which makes me wonder if I somehow managed to sleep with them twisted oddly last night, and am paying the price today. I don't recall getting in any fist fights, or moving large objects, or taking up left-handed tennis recently, and although the pain does conform to violin-playing position, that was several days ago and laughably short in duration. Thus inexplicable, I am obviously puzzled.

I ought not let this bother me, though, based on past experience. There are days when I wake up and feel like I have arthritic ankles (or at least they ache in the way I imagine arthritis feels) or hours of spontaneous (and painful) nerve twitching which I coincidently dealt with the afternoon, causing a few blocks of what I'm sure was very awkward looking walking while I clutched Ethan's hand in a death-grip for fear of my whole leg giving out on me mid-stride. I often have a knee or a shin or the balls of my feet in pain for a few hours or a day for no apparent reason. My high school cross country coach once called me, half-jokingly, defective. The good news is it appears my parts are replaceable, or at least fixable, overnight since sleep usually restores me to my previous state of hale vigor.

In high school my sophomore year I was on the track team at the bequest of the same coach, who begged me to join, explaining that the experience would help my speed-work for the fall season. During one workout I was suddenly struck with the ability to inhale, but stripped of the power to consciously choose to exhale. In the middle of a 400 repeat I stopped and stepped off the track and tried to breathe in my customary rhythm to no effect. I felt like a balloon about to pop, but every time I thought I couldn't possible breathe in more it would all rush out, seemingly by accident, and then start all over again. I was terrified. Aside from nearly being hit by a car on a run one day, it was the only moment I have seriously feared for my own life. This may seem melodramatic, but being completely unable to control your breathing leaves you entirely helpless and vulnerable to a point to which I hope never to return. Needless to say I started crying in a strained, jerky fashion (not being able to sob properly, naturally) and my coach ran over to figure out what the problem was, got me to calm down, and somehow at that point I could breathe normally again. My parents took me in to the doctor the next morning who was the least sympathetic MD I have ever spent time with, and who concluded that I probably ate too much before I went running and had an odd stomach cramp. My father, on the other hand, called up his doctor, explained my symptoms, and promptly was advised that I was suffering from exercise-induced asthma and to get a prescription for an inhaler and that I would be fine. Which of course proved to be correct, as was corroborated by my regular pediatrician when we finally got to see her.

The whole point of this is that my relief was primarily based upon the quantifiable nature of my problem. For once, someone could explain what was wrong with me and tell me how to fix it. A non-anomalous condition. While my day-to-day complaints are less threatening and transistory, their spontaneous nature is subtly disturbing. I do wonder if I have some kind of odd arthritis or other issue in my ankles, and if so what can be done for me. The days that they ache are long and uncomfortable and nothing seems to help them feel better. While I doubt this odd arm-pain is going to recur I still wonder why, and how long. At least I don't have to spend the rest of my life dependent on medication or in fear of triggering the symptoms again at every step. Maybe if I haul out the violin and give it a whirl the muscles will get stretched out again, like a recovery run, and tomorrow this will be gone as easily as the dreams I'll have had.

(...)

I can't start off by writing my title, as I have slowly discovered. Every so often I manage to think of something really perfect (at least to my mind) before I write, but other days I sit with the cursor blinking unconcernedly in the blank while my mind races around in a willy-nilly fashion creating and rejecting options faster than I can keep up. You would think that I should learn from this and just dive in to writing, but I almost feel like the title is my thesis statement, or at least some strange part of it, and so I feel very aimless without something to jumpstart my writing. Today the empty title box will have to do, and I suppose I will end up with something witty in it finally, like "Blank" which of course I can't use now since it would be repetitive. I am a master at shooting myself in the foot.

I tried to write last night with the horrible title "Porky Pig" about my feeble attempts to roast pork loins and tenderloins that never manage to come out right. The problem is the temperature - my recipe calls for half an hour per pound at 325 but using this method it never gets up to temperature. Last night I tried for 350 with no luck. I have left the pork in for almost twice as long and STILL it only creeps up to 140, and we're shooting for 155. I don't know if I need to tent it, turn the oven up higher, put the pan closer to the flame, or just give up and never try again. It's a little frustrating. And my mother, fount of all knowledge had nothing useful to say, as it turned out, which leaves me feeling drifting and baseless - a place I rarely feel in the kitchen (although foolish and dim-witted are customary - when I err, I do so boldly and generally with great confidence).

This fine page-long account of pork, and I'm sure something more interesting and poetic, failed to come about since blogger seemed to seize up in some kind of cardiac arrest and refused to let me post, although I could read my own blog and even log in for a comment. Very odd. Today, mid-day writing again, I have lost that sense of purpose that I like having when I sit down to write. The pork is too distant at this point and feels dull. I was thinking about writing something profound about marriage vows, but I'm not quite in the right frame of mind. I think the cause is, as it was last time, the lack of lunch and ultimate which leads me ultimately into a heinously short attention span. Although today the object isn't throwing (although it's quite a nice day for it) so much as cleats which are still pressing. Apparently I have a hook-up in Philly who can bring me a pair (for free, I think) but I'd rather go to a store and buy some I can try on first. With these in hand (and a subsequent trip to TJs), my future is definitely looking up.

The elusive silver sandals

No one seems to make comfortable shoes that are cute. And no one makes cute shoes that are comfortable. It's been a long long day of walking around, so this point becomes even more salient and frustrating. I have now been looking for shoes for over six months without any luck. I'd like to think of myself as flexible - I want a) sandals that are b) silver or off-white and c) have a 1-inch or lower heel. These do not exist. I came the closest today I have ever come, discovering a Cole Hann/Nike crossbreed that was only half an inch high, strappy, silver - with nike air in the heel, and a padded sole under the toes. Perfect. Except for the black nubby rubber tread on the bottom, which for some reason the designers decided to have on the sides of the soles also. This will not do for a wedding. Or any other formal occasion, unless you're one of those rock-star types who can wear holey tank tops and cut-offs to the Oscars. But no one actually does that, and I certainly wouldn't be the first one. The most depressing part is that there are about forty pairs of cute strappy silver sandals that I really like, except for the 3/4/5-inch heels. I am not kidding about that. They start at three inches and just get taller and taller. I can't understand who wears shoes like this. Although I do understand why people do - you can't buy anything else. Why does everyone in society have to be tall and slinky? I have tried very hard to square with the fact that I will never meet those expectations but this uncomfortable pretense is being carried too far.

Really, the truth is that I'm hungry and tired after walking around fruitlessly all afternoon in rain with very little to eat. This, as I think is obvious, puts in a not-good mood which I intend to remedy soon with pesto, chocolate, and indoor. Nothing like food and frisbee.

Stairway to Preschool

The full-circle life may be literarily interesting but in practice has its ups and downs. As short as my life has been so far I feel vaguely hubristic writing about such lofty and enduring themes but Chicago for me offers many things that fit the bill, and tonight it's what comes to mind. I went to campus again today (back in the library for homework, a nap in McCormick lounge, chatting with a Broadview resident, a quick trip to office hours, throwing in front of Eckhart and of course unix boggle) and spent a good day not far distant from a couple years ago. This is a small full-circle for me, a larger one would be if I end up back in Illinois for grad school and spend another 4 years (or longer) writing papers and trying to be intelligent about things that have no certainties. Another pretentious exercise, but at least one that I find fascinating. Another full-circle option is if I end up at the Field again this summer housing and/or moving and wrestling with Filemaker and lost objects which is actually what I'm hoping for, although this circle would take a turn for the worse, into the third quadrant, for example, if by necessity that position becomes permanent and year-round again.

The problem is that these things are small, really, in the sense that they only encompass my life post-high school. But there is one small and strange moment of revelation that I feel every time I step onto campus and venture into the Eckhart basement - for a moment I return to pre-school. It's in the smell of the exterior stairwell. I can't quite explain what the smell is - dingy, humid concrete - something oddly like pee and apple juice - a mustiness that never passes. The first time I went into the stairwell by the archway in the RC it hit me and I was shocked into surprise. I knew the smell, but it took me a few moments to place it. I have never forgotten after that and think of my preschool every time I descend. It is a strange feeling, especially so when I was in my first quarter of college. It's hard to forget the morning I spent running around with She-Ra and Lincoln Logs, the day I stapled my thumb or smashed a little boy's finger in a bathroom stall. I still feel guilty about that. We are so close to our childhoods if we bother to keep in touch with them. I had lunch with a friend today and we talked about people who let their work persona overtake their personal life. I hope this is never the case for me. I don't want to lose my love of skipping or snow-angels, my excitement about Disneyland and Girl Scout Cookies, my preference for hot chocolate over coffee and fresh squeezed lemonade over margaritas. I can't imagine "becoming a suit" as they say, and although I have no intention of putting myself into that specific field of employment, it's still all too easy to bring the trials and attitudes of the day home. I'd rather do the opposite - bring hopscotch and popsicles to work with me and maintain a childlike wonder about the tasks we do every day. At the very least, I hope I can still go back to Eckhart every once in a while to breathe in deep.

Boob tubes

There's nothing quite like sitting on your ass for a few hours and watching mindless television after a day of academic thinking. I love cable. And all the myths of television are true - two measly hours and I feel like my brain has atrophied to the point where I can't think of any words to write. Utterly uninspired. Add to this the fact that my finger tips are sore from a series of ill-fated attempts on the guitar and you find a post with disaster written all over it. I guess like with the guitar, a few more days of practice with TNT and I'll be able to escape from Law and Order quickly and without pain. You have to build up the callouses.

Never what I expect

[I appears that my routines have been upended. Here I am, for the second day in a row writing in the not-evening, after missing a day entirely. And is it morning on the early side and I am the only one up, although for my normal day that's not very remarkable. If it weren't, THAT would be remarkable.]

I like the light in the morning and the feeling of alertness it instantly bestows on me when I wake up as a direct result. For several weeks at school I have managed to wake up before my alarm every day simply because I have been in bed early enough and the sun has decided to shine instead of hiding in clouds. Today is cloudy, but bright which is as good a compromise as you can get, and the result is much the same. I yawn but am awake, happy to be so, and the peace of the morning is found in the gentle hiss of the radiator, the muted clanging of the train, the dull thunk of the keys as I strike them. If I listen carefully I can hear either birds or someone else's radiator squealing in the distance and the odd dripping and lumping noises of the humidifier - like a cross between a meditation garden fountain and the air bubble explosion you get from water coolers every once in a while. I want to describe every feature of these few minutes I have by myself for reflection today, preserve the minute detail and sensory perception so I can look back in two weeks and not just remember but be present again. The detritus on the table from two nights of excitement - a plate full of crumbs, a mostly eaten bag of cookies, an empty Chimay bottle (blue label, mind you) three used cups, all different - plastic, glass, ceramic - a receipt and grocery list, a free book, a library book, a folded dirty napkin, the box of Settlers, and Ethan's snoopy hat, perched on its head with the bill pointed towards the window. It looks like a fuzzy open takeout container and I half expect to find some pad thai if I start looking into the cavity. A small expanse of life. As one west coast public radio station says, "morning becomes eclectic". In our case I think it safe to say "table becomes eclectic" as well, although I feel like to ought to through a random picture frame and a piece of sporting equipment down to help justify that description.

I suppose the task over overall description is too vast for this short space and time. I hardly would know where to go to next, or how much to go back and edit, expand, clarify what little I have already. In Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance the main character talks about a student who had trouble writing a paper on a town until she was given a specific brick in a specific building to talk about as a starting point. Otherwise there were too many options. I approach this writing in the same way. Often when I sit down I have been thinking for several minutes what to say since there are usually plenty of things I have been thinking about - at school there is never shortage of time for extemporaneous thought - but rarely do I produce anything remotely like my intentions. I sit and start to think of how to begin and everything seems forced and strained or bland (how many entries can I start with "tonight,..."?). So in the end I seize upon a sentence - generally the first one the comes into my head fully formed, some sort of grammatical Athene, and I springboard off it and try to keep going. This is how I ended up today on mornings and dirty tables instead of the anticipation of the day's activities or my feeble but exciting attempt to play again after at least a year completely off. That is surely worth an entry, but perhaps another day those words will flow. I wouldn't go so far to say that I am engaged in some sort of surrealist form of writing or a true stream of consciousness but to a certain extent (as cheesy as this sounds) my topic chooses itself. Once I fall in love with a sentence, I can hardly give it up for something as silly as a proscription.

After an extra three hours at the airport...

There is a moustrap in the corner and I don't have enough socks but I would rather be here, and now, than anywhere else. The little things - knowing where the bathroom is in the library, where to find a copy of the student paper, where to get cheap samosas for lunch, proper computer lab etiquette, which floors P and PA are on, where the nearest post office box is to the ATM. Little things, essentially inconsequential, but taken as a whole things that tell me where I belong, or at least help throw into relief where I do not. Today was a day for intentional and accidental meetings with people I have known, including someone who called because he thought he was hallucinating and apparently almost ran me over today. An incident of which I have no memory, to which Ethan responds "maybe that's why it happened". At least it's a happy oblivion I find myself in. I discovered that the one feature on campus I have missed the most is the main stairwell at the Reg. So open and inviting with the angular curving up each level and the indirect lighting on the textured walls. I was actually excited to be there doing work, which is a novel experience compared to my motivation in the last several months.
The peanut butter has been untouched on the trap for three days and there's always the washing machine. Click your heels three times and find out the moral of the story.

Conspiracies

I spent tonight with Cato, Caesar, Cicero, and Catiline aside from a slight interruption from a Trojan Horse mysteriously on my computer. Amazing how the Greeks are never completely gone from Roman pursuits. But we should learn from Sallust - the worst examples come from the best intentions and the most foul way to live life is not speaking, not spoken about, and obedient to sleep and stomach. Doesn't sound half-bad to me.