New semesters..

A new trial in a new year has me sitting in here, publicly typing. I haven't done this much before (once at Penn, in the computer lab on a quiet afternoon) out of some kind of self consciousness, fear, or perhaps the simple difficulty of formulating thought under the weight of subconscious observation. So in the office I sit, feeling oddly inspired, though about nothing in particular. John sits at his desk, studying (as I ought to be) and I hesitate for a moment, wondering if he will look up at the unaccustomed mass of struck keys or if he will stay, satisfied in his scholarly world. I am not sure which I hope for. I think about writing all the time although I seem to make it to this page more rarely than I would like, especially after my birthday promise. But the thinking itself is good (I think :}) since one of the goals of writing regularly is to help words flow more naturally of my tongue or fingertips - sentiments without embarrassment or conceit. More than anything I hope the writing here comes across as real, whatever that actually means, lacking artifice or careful composition. I can promise you this is hardly ever "composed" - usually I am simultaneously typing and thinking - often staring at my half-written words wondering where was I going with this? and sometimes deleting or continuing but rarely with long hesitation. Surrealismo, as I studied in Spanish 203, the kind of writing that you simply let flow is not terribly far from this although the fact that I bother with grammar and logical connection moves it more firmly into the physical. The art of rambling, perhaps, is all that I am trying to perfect, something safe and noncommittal which strikes me as sad now that I have written it. I do wish to commit, to hope, to trust. Maybe I should start by calling to John.