Wednesday, April 26, 2006

at least sleeping beauty was well rested

We need moments by ourselves, quiet intervals to refresh and recharge. And if these are not obtained often a small revolt of some sort occurs in my case the sudden realization that my clumsiness is not all innate and my snappish conversation is not motivated simply by some hidden mean streak. When I stood to move tables and felt the timid tingling in my limbs, the odd perception in my brain - everything moves in slower motion and yet with infinitely more clarity if only I can focus upon it long enough to appreciate the value - the lump in my throat and the dull listlessness in my demeanor I realized straight away that I needed a night off for sleep, for refection. With luck this will be the illness of my childhood that was remedied painlessly by a good night of sleep and solid naps during the day. I cannot afford time in these last few days to laze around by myself nor can I risk exacerbating a minor problem before the many trips I am about to embark upon. I undertook to do too much, lured by the evening companionship and idle amusement that has been so lacking for much of this year, and sacrificed my physical well-being for the sake of the mind. Lucretius, I'm sure, and Apuleius would have much to say to me about the division or unity of these two concepts and I doubtlessly will contemplate them tomorrow morning, awakened by the morning sun and restored of mind and spirit.

Tuesday, April 25, 2006

raindrops on roses

A perfectly toasted bagel, a unassuming parking place, a disc tossed just far enough for an energizing catch; new houses and streets, the red-striped couches, books in the mail. Today there was kindness and unexpected learning and the sheer joy of living. May we all find the same tomorrow in the vivid prose of Apuleius and the company of friends reading it.

Monday, April 24, 2006

Love, part 2

I fell in love again today. I knew it was coming, I knew my second wind was there, lurking as it always does waiting for the prime moment to spring, and it hit me before I was ready. At the Green Line, avoiding the frenetic soundtrack, trying to finish the Apuleius, drinking too-sweet (but real) lemonade, I was seized in a moment of inattentiveness by the notes of Jeff Tweedy and carried into the sudden shock that I was about to cry. The instant where you chest seems to swell painfully and your stomach tightens and your face tingles and pulls into a smiling grimace which accepts the emotion but rejects the expression of it - I can't cry in front of other people, not about this, not today, not here - it seems so selfish and so personal and even trivial in some sense - the daily feeling I carry around and rarely pay attention to (and look, here still I get choked up again) consumes me and I am lost in the ripples of the chords and the image of Ethan's face, just with a single look. I hold our first attempt at vows in my hands and try not to crumple the pages as I look at the words that affirm us, together, in the small life we hope to lead. The quiet meaning sustains me every day that I live. As much as I reject the notion that this relationship defines me I know that I would be empty without it, adrift. And I stare at the page and count off the seconds.. my sister walking in.. my entrance.. leaving my parents.. and suddenly every other task at hand is meaningless. Thirty seconds of music and I am more committed to ceremony of marriage than ever before in my life. I am overwhelmed by the power of the feeling, terrified at my sudden helplessness, and yet unbearably happy. To think it all started with charcoal drawings, starred ceilings, a single note.

Like the color indicator in titration

Perception is influenced by perspective, far more than we generally give conscious credit. My mother looks at a paint chip, surrounded by whiteness on the card and thinks "what a nice yellow" and then gasps in horror at the brightness on the walls, nevermind that the uncovered pink surfaces and the extra lighting and the removed curtains all have their effect. The sideline heckles and compliments based only on the current game, not realizing or caring that in a real club game I would be hopelessly outmatched on defense, outthrown, outmarked. I may have energy but I am a young enough player to need the maturity of experience and the help of track workouts. I feel like an intelligent scholar until put firmly into place by older students, or younger students with their own splendid brilliance; I think I am a hockey fan until I realize I don't even know the team names. Parallax was one of my favorite phenomena in chemistry, crouching down to read the proper liquid volume by examining the ellipsis. With the right perspective, perception takes on a universality that is unquestionable. It's just a question of finding the right angle.

Saturday, April 22, 2006

The nearest willing hand

To be in a house brings a sense of familiarity and ease that I never quite feel in my own room, despite not knowing the owner and never having set foot inside before. But the permanence, the capacity, the clean-feeling furniture and the wide countertops make me instantly comfortable, ready to trust in the hardwood beneath my feet and the faces that sit around me. I feel as if I can say anything in this setting to these people and they will listen and laugh and tease no matter the topic - the true sign of friendship. We laugh at Jen's toes and I forget to sign my name; hands wander across shoulders; we have touch: we have trust. Physical contact is what lacks most in my life these days, for Ethan and I have plenty of cerebral communication but there is no hand-holding walking to class, no squeezes while washing the dishes, no singing while mincing garlic. I miss the simple expression of human contact but am too reserved to reach out spontaneously and invade personal space. We are all so guarded. But tonight a house sets us free. Perhaps it is the red lights of the security system, the perfect give of the couch cushions, the pizza in our stomachs and the chocolate smeared across our faces, the stories that will never leave the table; little moments of unity. I wanted to stay on the colorful stripes and watch the rabbits try to escape but the sprinkling rain and my toothbrush called me away. May the openness return unbroken.

Friday, April 21, 2006

Rainbows have nothing to hide

The sun sets while we're not paying attention, slipping by in the deepening conversation and drips of ice cream saved from my shirt. We are already saying goodbye, already measuring our final moments here, together, in once place. Making plans to make plans - how many farewell concerts will we give in the end? I look back and regret that I held myself apart, away, for so long captured by what was lacking and refusing to fill the empty spaces. I still cannot, but the edges soften over time, the bandage refreshed to keep the wound clear and clean - it always hurts when you finally rip it off, but at least then the depths have healed. A constant give and take, a weighing, a measuring. So late we attempt for so much; if only (eithe!) if only - there are no words for such things. I know I cannot take everything with me and I am forced to pick and choose my memories, select the moments of greatest importance. Perhaps I am always calculating and comparing and competing - either myself with others or third parties alone - but however much I judge things I hope never to adopt the infiltrating mental state. I wish I could write poetry without feeling trivial, I wish I could constantly tap into lyricism and the easy ebb and flow of language but it slips through my fingers if not on the right topic, in the right room, about the right things and people: quicksilver in my mind.

Thursday, April 20, 2006

At the Green Line

The houses are close together but there is still greenery, still space, still cracks in the sidewalk with shoots of resilient foliage fighting an endless battle for sun and dirt. Today they need not fight for solar rays since those fall blindingly on the bright pavement tearing my eyes almost instantly especially upon leaving muted indoor lighting, seeming so much more artificial than normal on a day like today. Across the street is the now-wild expanse of trees and bushes and paths that once were probably very prescribed but now have grown into tame wildness, inviting and cool, well-leafed despite the bowls of dust in so many other places. We sit across from each other and avoid prolonged eye contact, instead looking at the slats in the table, the cars lazing by, the breeze in the leaves, the work we've been putting off for hours, and talk about life and love and classics and hope. We talk about the intensity of vision, the power of a glance or a compelling gaze - do we avoid each other's eyes now out of respect for what has transpired previously in our lives, fear of too much openness, or unaccustomedness? Still, I do not mind the lack of intensity. It helps build the luxury of the evening, builds an atmosphere in harmony with the surroundings. We simply choose to exist - sharing a space but partaking of the community - we are as much the furniture of nature as the small tree shading us.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

n
was typed by accident, but I'm sure it stands in for something integral, natural, or whole.
I think the mystery is part of the fun, and something is lost in the satisfaction of concretely defining it, so I will abandon all efforts (and pander to my sleep-desirous form).

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

Like an ethical R and G?

How private are these public writings? Do I need to tailor my comments for the audience I know is reading or for the general public who may stumble upon this and set to the text? Should I consider the privacy and feelings of those reading? Is it ethical not to, when I am aware that this realm is truly in the open for anyone to read, despite the closeness and privacy I feel every night when I write, wrapped in the darkness of my room with only a single lit lamp and the eternity of buildings out my window? Is it like those provocative Sharon Olds poems where she writes about her father and her brother, disparagingly? Does she have the right? Should she have the right? Whose place is it to decide? (How much of a cop-out is this entry, and how much should it matter to me anyway?)

Monday, April 17, 2006

April 17th, 2006

It's like when you really, really have to pee but you're in a meeting that you can't duck out from so you're stuck at the big table with all the head honchos staring at some powerpoint presentation that you could have just read perfectly well on your own at your desk in private but you know you can't leave even though you're getting all squidgy in your seat and wiggling your feet under the table because you're trying not to openly fidget too much so everyone notices your problem but you just can't concentrate on the suddenly trivial task at hand because everything else is suspended in anticipation.

Sunday, April 16, 2006

Discraft and Daredevil

I am completely addicted to ultimate, or at least to discs, as anyone can see with only a five-minute knowledge of me. Today I spent an hour on the field at 34th and Chestnut throwing; yesterday two hours playing pickup; thursday twenty minutes throwing before class and then almost three hours worth in the evening what with practice and "soccer practice". And still, despite the odd pains in my hand and shoulder, I wish I could do more and I have no logical explanation. A constant need. There is a sense of rightness with a perfectly released disc, the knowledge that it will travel in the hoped-for path exactly as it was thrown, eternally satisfying. There is the exhilaration of a high catch or a low scramble or a sweet bid when no one (perhaps even yourself) suspected the throw was catchable. The firmness of a disc trapped in your palm, the gentle spin off the fingers, the smooth passage through the air. Like an odd, circular, flat bird soaring - poetry that we can create and sustain through mere physical action. If I had to pick between playing ultimate and just throwing it would be a hard decision. As much as I enjoy flowing up the field and pulling out all the stops on defense there is something elegant and simple about two (or more) people on a field, conversing through the motion of flight.

Saturday, April 15, 2006

So much depends upon a red wheelbarrow glazed with rain beside the white chickens

The cursor is blinking patiently at me, waiting, as I stare at this screen in empty thought. I feel like I used up all my words yesterday, finally let the three thousand pound elephant out of the room (although I suppose there's another one in a different corner if we can ever turn our gaze). Somehow with those exclamations I freed myself to some degree and am now stunned by the plethora of options. I could write about politics, ultimate, olive oil, important memos, garbage. Still it winks at me, knowing my predicament and either laughing at it or sympathizing - it's hard to tell with a personified bit of visual data. And yet we have some form of relationship in my mind however odd and crazy that may sound. With my computer constantly trying to implode, the actions of my cursor in any given open window are indicative of the health of my system. I fear the freeze, worry about the uneven tempos, panic when it never appears. It serves as comfort in empty space and apparently inspiration for words, however slight they may end up tonight. I am exhausted by thought and possibility, by sun, dust, and sore toes. And yet, for the first time in a while, I am content.

Friday, April 14, 2006

To rule them all

I am filled tonight with a seething mass of words and images from which I find it nearly impossible to select a single thread for a single paragraph. Sometimes the tasks I set for myself are beyond my own ability, but still we must try. I felt like I've gotten away from the title of this blog (or at least the url) so I went back to month number one of posting and took a look at the definition I pasted in there and tried to think of what I do not know, can't remember, or don't want to name. That's a fairly easy task though (geography, song lyrics, loneliness). Ethan and I rarely utter the private words "I miss you" on the phone or over email - love is a common enough term these days, but "miss" is hidden, buried, almost taboo. We fear the admission to ourselves and imposition upon the other, of making the situation less bearable through acknowledging the difficulty - an absurd idea since it's hard to sink lower and we'll be back together in three weeks. But only for the summer. This outcome has become more and more present to me in the past few days, and will be sold into concrete fact on Monday when we fax in our admissions decisions (although mine, at least, is no longer in question). I am consumed by a level of insecurity that has been long absent since I fell into this relationship - not if we will survive as a couple, but if I can keep myself sane and focused while apart for so long. I have reverted back to what comfort I have, bare as it is, in this case the ring of power (as it has been often named) which I used to hold onto every night as I fell asleep like a toddler sucking their thumb for comfort. I had my ring. And I took it off two years ago when the bling came out of the box and didn't look back until a few weeks ago when suddenly I needed that security blanket again, that assurance that in fact time will fly by and we will be together again. Two engagement rings at once from the same person may seem like overkill (much like a page-long paragraph.. yes, I know I'm cheating) but it seems to do the trick. I just wish it didn't have to. I wish I could be a strong, modern, independent woman who is utterly sensible and would shake right out of this self-doubt and into the kind of confidence that produces dissertations after three years. But I am torn horribly between my own desire for further study and pandering to my emotional happiness (though clearly the rend has been mended since I have made my decision independently). So I take comfort in the little things - a minor league hockey game, bags of frozen green beans, ultimate (my daily fix), trader joe's, an email that says "I miss you". Never in this struggle will I be alone.

Thursday, April 13, 2006

muddled and spent

I am all tapped out tonight, exhausted by class and work and demanding conversation this evening on the nature of recognition and relationship and meaning. I am tempted to simply cut and paste from my gmail chat record into this form, but somehow that seems like cheating, since suddenly this patently one-way method of communication would turn into a repeated conversation which seems against the spirit of things. We did decide, however, that I am an egoist and you are a voyeurist, and that relationship, however tacit, still forms a part of who we are, and in fact makes us take on ourselves. I suppose there really is no rational reason to write here, despite my professed intentions, in such a distanced and impersonal medium and yet I return day after day to the page seeking something - self-validation? vindication? notoriety? simple acknowledgment? Perhaps all of the above, and for those reasons I see no need to stop.

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

Love, part 1?

I think someone needs to make clear to the world that love is as real a thing as any intangible. I hear people who don't believe in it, people who seem totally distant from the concept bemoaning (or simply denying) the absence in their lives. But I think the greatest misconception is that love has into involve constant fireworks and life-changing experiences. Mostly, in my experience, it is much more sedate, comfortable, cozy. Sublime, some might say. Certainly there are moments when I feel hyperactively emotional and feel like skipping down sidewalks without delay but the majority of my days are spent in a quiet certainty and trust. Still water can in fact run deep, to beat an old cliche to death. In this same light I firmly believe that you never stop loving anyone, although your relationship to the emotion may change over time. Affection may falter but a truer connection, especially of great trust is much harder to let go of entirely regardless of the circumstances. This ties into the idea of the impossibility of hate without love - hatred for someone once loved can really just be seen as unhappiness at the outcome, at the perceived lack of what was formerly present. These last few days have forced me to think seriously about these concepts what with my wedding homework, and I have discovered how difficult it is to put any of these thought into coherent and meaningful words. Looking above I feel as if I have failed, but this is only a start. More tomorrow, in my head if not on the page.

Monday, April 10, 2006

A fog (thank god for chords)

These are the days when I want to give it all up, start over anew in every part of my life. Which of course instantly reveals its own lies, since the reason things are so hard to bear is that they are so dear. You can only truly hate what you love, since you must know it best. Words make this no easier to endure. The uncertainty, the fear, the despair, the hope of solace. Everyone gives their opinion and I know I must keep my own counsel, but the conflicting ideas are overwhelming. There is no way to avoid a betrayal of some sort, which gives rise to the worst type of choice. If only, if only we had the ability of prior retrospection to choose properly. Who can say what is most important to value now, since every decision we make in the next week will tweak our future options and relationships? We cannot know. We can only hope, guess, dream, become lost in the strains of the twelve-string. What shall be our hymenic?

Sunday, April 09, 2006

Fell in love.. in the key of C

I suppose it is a silly thing, but I prefer to listen to music in complete privacy. I don't like to talk after the symphony, I don't enjoy giving opinions on how much I liked a performance or a piece especially in detail. It's the same reaction that I think many feel to the standard "how are you?" questions, in that the answer that they would truthfully give goes beyond the expectation, but to hold back seems false and therefore unsatisfying. It would be better to not say anything at all. I suppose in the case of music I hold back because I fear the judgment of others (oh the joys of American society!), that my opinion will be thought meaningless or trite or simply wrong. Also because there are certain things that when I hear them move me to the point of tears due to some inexplicable sublime element. I cannot describe these things satisfyingly in words, and I am often embarrassed by my strong connection to a chord progression or harmonic twining. Are others so rooted in the primacy of sound, the primality of it? I often feel touched to the very core and to express that specifically to others reveals all that depth and hiddenness that I have striven to keep private, to keep safe. Even here I keep myself so formal (I can see it, even if you can't sense it. Can you? I wonder how much you can see of me on this page...) in an effort to not reveal too much. Won't tell you the songs, the names, the distraction that wells up and entrances me to the point where I give up work and stare blankly at my computer screen, absorbing the purity of sound. All-encompassing. I grow lost in the notes the way I grow lost in the pages of good book, jolted back to awareness unhappily at the end of a chapter or the applause of an audience. Ending up, as I feel now, monumentally unsatisfied: an addict crying out for the next reality-bending fix.

Saturday, April 08, 2006

Where there's a will...

Should a friendship, by definition, always be a comfortable affair? By comfortable I do not mean happy or content but rather in the sense of assuredness and solidarity. The devil you know, in some way, is certainly a comfort even in consideration of other devils you don't. But how long can the devil you know stay a friend, a confidante, before fading into the ubiquitous land of acquaintances and then occasional thoughts that stray across a wandering mind? It's a common adage that love takes work but in my limited experience it seems that real friendship takes just as much if it is to have any depth - I suppose because friendships are just love by a different name and with a different form. Being constantly comfortable too easily leads into complacency from which it is hard to stir. Always at stake is the question of if the ripples caused would be paid back by the delight released: a hard quandary, one not to be entered upon lightly. The renewal of suspended association is especially poignant in this way, since there may be so many unknown reasons to keep the separation which will not be revealed until it is too late, and there is nothing for it but another breaking. Naturally this is the pessimistic view, but it is the very real fear involved in trying such an attempt. Is it worth the risk? And not only the risk of discovering difference, but the risk of a lack of reciprocation. Passive rejection, as it were, is none too pleasant. But the life led alone, even by choice, has its own chilling consequences which I, and I think most others, find too difficult to pursue. Once you've decided to leap, it's often best to ignore the width of the crossing.

Friday, April 07, 2006

The good fight

Every day I battle against the forces of sensitive teeth and freezer burn, and feel as if I am slowly losing. My fridge is quite small, although not the tiniest, and does contain a serviceable freezer which currently houses half a bag of potstickers, tamales, and a lot of frost. There should also be green beans included in the list (all from Trader Joe's, mind you) except in the name of honesty they are currently sitting upon my desk as I type, being funneled one by one into my salivating taste-buds. The best snack I have ever found: crunchy, cold, nutritious, sweet, refreshing - all 24 ounces, which is wherein the problem lies. My teeth (quite sensitive to cold) require a slow consumption rate which, in turn, allows the beans to thaw slightly as they sit out which removes their most highly desirable quality (crunch) and requires their return to the ice-box. This outcome naturally falls victim to my laziness and ends the snacking session - never more than five minutes at a time - and hence we are faced with the problem of freezer burn. There is no equitable compromise that I have found - cold teeth prevent speed and time creates mush, my least favorite description of food (except, perhaps, for putrid). If only I could find smaller bags! If only I would cook some to speed the process. If only I had a compatriot as crazy about frozen green beans as I. But I fear it is not to be, and as I type the frosty edges are melting and the crunch is fading. There will be no relief until summer when fresh beans abound: sweet, crisp, cheap.

Thursday, April 06, 2006

one good paragraph

I have noticed that my writing tends toward the unwieldy, particularly when it's late or I'm tired or have little to say. While rambling certainly has its place in writing, there is a certain distillment of thought present in good clarity of language and denseness of prose that I admire. Compacted passion. In a bold new move, I have decided to finally embrace an experiment that has haunted my evenings and simply try for one good paragraph every night, on whatever topic, to concentrate my thinking and my process to a small degree. Even these introductory sentences are harder to write - more deliberate, more edited, more weighty. We do value our words more when we have fewer of them at hand. With luck, a week from now I will feel successful and you will feel relief.

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

Economist vs. Aquinas

Don't get into a discussion about "want" in economic terms with a pious man: this is what I have learned today. The banality and physical nature of the conversation will drive him crazy, and then lack of application to the spiritual world, as he sees it. Dogma vs. dogma. It has been a long night, and we have plenty of other things to do so naturally this is what we discuss. Do people always have a choice, even one they choose not to take? Does an addict choose to continue their habit even if they "want" to stop? The economist would say no, that their action indicates their choice. People can choose not to be hungry in various ways, some more or less extreme than others - they can steal food, eat dirt to filly their stomachs, or kill themselves. There are plenty of other options too, but this sort of argument is lost on those pure in motive, constrained by vision through morality. Is that view necessarily worse? Perhaps not, it is simply different. For the success of society perhaps we need that type and this together, a check and balance - a moral compass to hedonistic action.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

Diagnosis?

Apparently I have allergies. It's either that, or the most transient colds I have ever encountered. This process all started years ago in high school when I would go to sleepovers at a friend's house and come home sniffly and congested and with itchy eyes. I always assumed it was the lack of sleep that always occurs at spend-the-night-parties, leading to some sort of bodily revolt. But after I began to experience the same kind of reaction at my own house, on college breaks, the truth became evident. All my friends had dogs, you see, and we had a cat. A slow reaction buildup, I suppose, since nothing affected me (as far as I can remember) before high school, but these things happen. I have unfortunately become more allergic with time, as it seems, and am unable to spend more than a few hours in the company of a pet even on antihistamines before my eyes and throat itch and, shortly thereafter, a pathetic wheezing emanates from my lungs. It's not a pretty sight, nor is it one that I am fond of.

But I was entirely taken back when on Sunday night I awoke from a peaceful slumber and endured several minutes of nose blowing and sneezing apparently out of nowhere. There was no relief until I commandeered my second pillow and propped myself up, at which point I promptly fell asleep again and in the morning felt mostly fine. A bit sniffly in the afternoon, but nothing serious. Perhaps I had picked up a tiny cold over the weekend or was again suffering from my standard lack-of-sleep ailments which are all too common. But then! This morning I awake, feeling just dandy, and yet within an hour of crawling from my bed I am visited by a serious bout of sneezes and nose-blowings that appear unstoppable. One claritin (actually Loratadine or whatever the generic is called) and within twenty minutes all symptoms were gone. I find this very odd, and very allergy-indicating. To what, I am not sure. I have had no such reactions in any of my previous time in this state, or any, for that matter. And I find it hard to believe that some allergen is present on Tuesdays but not Mondays. I also find it hard to believe that the issue is present in my room, since I have recently laundered and dusted and vacuumed. Perhaps I am only suffering from the 24-minute cold. Tomorrow we'll find out if I've got it licked.

Monday, April 03, 2006

Disappearing reappearing ink

I find it almost impossible to not scratch my eyes when they itch or anything else, for that matter, but eyes seem to be the worst. I think it may be due to their normal situation of wetness that makes the itchy dryness that much worse to endure. There's nothing for it in the end, I suppose - only with time unscratching will it ever go away.

I am highly distracted at this moment by the manner in which my blogger screen is functioning. When I hit backspace (which is a frequent occurrence, given the astronomical number of typos I generally make) the letters I am attempting to delete are not disappearing right away. They remain for a full second at least which may not sound like much time, but is an eternity in the world of instantaneous computer reaction. The odd thing is if I am quick enough to correct my mistakes, I appear to type over and replace the faulty letters as I go, some kind of strange insert feature almost. I am vaguely hypnotized by this and have lost any and all track of where I was headed.

I suppose I ought to say a word or two about my non-writing weekend, which was spent in surprisingly sunny and warm Virginia, playing at Fool's Fest with a pickup team that I, rather appropriately, managed to pick up with based upon two (although really only one) connection to the group. It's highly refreshing to play coed outdoors, which I have lacked since Summer League and is surely my favorite manner of playing. And tournaments, especially of this low-key nature, are the best sort of situation since everyone has a stake in winning but no one cares too much if we lose, since nothing but pride is in question. And I lost most of my ultimate pride a long time ago, or at least learned how to suppress it fairly well. I think everyone should have to play on a perpetually losing team for a year to gain a sense of perspective, and regain the enjoyment that good, pure competition brings separate from the elation of victory. I value a game well played more than anything else, although I can't deny that it's nice to put up a few more points here and there. Overall it was a good time. In my one sentence of personal recap, I actually played pretty terribly on Saturday, apparently losing my hands at some point on the ride down, but managed to redeem myself fairly well on Sunday, I believe, although I am still a stranger to the elusive layout-D. Someday the moment will be ripe and I will seize upon it like a bee in a glass of lemonade. Or me upon a bag of apricots.

Apparently I'm hungry and thirsty. Ultimate weekends are the most exhausting kind I've ever found, and I usually take a few days to get fully back on my feet. So Mondays, like today, I sit in a wretched torpor trying to accomplish what monstrosities I meant to undertake over the weekend but didn't, and regret my decision to sleep or party or watch TV instead of starting in on the two longest assignments of the year. The good news is that I decided several years ago to privilege health and happiness over studying, so I fully intend to find myself curled up in bed happily snoring within the hour. Homework can wait indefinitely. My dreams cannot.