Thursday, November 29, 2001

feeling rather uncomfortable chills, and I can't really tell whether they're emanating from the premeds in my chem class, from winter's bastardly sudden entrance, or, most likely, from various vague premonitions and uncertainties. I seem to be fumbling through my last week or so of classes, and I'm not quite sure why. Hm. yes. much uncertainty. but Shabbos is coming. no doubt.

Tuesday, November 27, 2001

The cherry blossoms bloomed today--what, four months early?--fooled into spring in the middle of November by the uncharacteristic circumstances of a too-gorgeous day. I saw buds on the huge magnolia tree outside my window. My horticulturist friends tell me this is bad for the trees--to be shocked into new life only to meet the imminent coming freeze.
I can't help empathizing--I am just now waking up to the semester, only to find everyone closing up shop.

Live by uncharateristic circumstances, and march boldly into the coming freeze.

So on my way home from Kinko's I see a bright yellow sign posted on a lampost. I thought it said this:


My first reaction is to look quickly around, and to try to remember if I am wearing a head. Once I recall that I have a bandana on my head, I begin internal debate on whether my bandana would be judged as a hat until I come upon the central question:

I re-read the sign:


"Oh, of course," I say, "silly me." As I put aside my bandana-hat debate I come upon the question:
By this time my feet have already carried me past the lampost, leaving me to wonder about the new Hate-cleansing campaign on Thayer, and whether I will be vulnerable to it wearing a bandana.

Monday, November 26, 2001

I'll give Whitman the stage this morning. I"m quite out of it at the moment, and am in no mood to take the stage myself, and Walt--he's so damn lovely.

"I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you

I loaf and invite my soul,
I lean and loaf at my ease observing a spear of summer grass...."

Sunday, November 25, 2001

This weekend: what a tease. Throws me together with all sorts of people I love (you know who you are) just briefly enough for me to realize how much I love them, why I love them, and how fucking ridiculously far apart we now live from each other. This wouldn't be a problem if America were a smaller country--or if transportation were quicker and cheaper (josh sunshine that's your cue). And then there's nothing really to do but go back to school,
and go on with my life
and hope that parallel lines will hit vergence points on a close horizon.

Friday, November 23, 2001

A large, angry, motorized wharthogg seems to be stomping around above my head. Either that or there is construction in my attic.
My attic: historic home of leggo cities, my 9th grade cell project, a small army of stuffed animals, and too-cool retro suits that my dad would probably like to forget he has.
All gone now. The pink shag carpet, plywood covered walls, windows, unused sauna--gutted. Stuffed animals and cell project relocated to the attic refugee camp that once was my room, and soon will be a home office, or something of the sort, once the motorized wharthogg quits the attic and my parents move me up there. T'will be odd--I've lived in the same room for most of my life--but given the fact that I'm pretty easily adaptable, and that I don't live at home really anymore, moving to more spacious digs in the attic probably won't be to gutwrenching.

A note to readers: spell check broken, the true atrociousness of my spelling now bares its ugly face. Avert your eyes, or send corrections to Thanks and God Bless.

Don't you know it's gonna be
all right
i'll love my illusions.i need that kind of ill-ness.
deciduous trees.
lizard tails and deer antlers.
Dew-y grass, freshly cut.
family and friends. college and work. the color blue, the letter g, and the number 2.
life immortal.

Thursday, November 22, 2001

Morning at JDS.
Usual suspects: Z, Dr. Cook, Mr. C.,
also some random, awkward, and brief ionic bonding.
Ride/Metro/Bike:Max Levine. Dan.
Blues skies. Locked house|||successful break>\in
Some Do Not entertains, so far in an ambling sort of way. Where is it headed?
Hebrew conversation with Ima. Chem.Workout.Food.Johnny's--with
Usual Suspects: Neil, Sunny, Resnick, Steward, Avi, Dan, Jaquestrap, and of course Johns. Cameo Tamar Naomi Yoni
At times hypercomfortable to the point of awkwardness. Goodness. Home. Ethan.
Full sentences tomorrow?

Wednesday, November 21, 2001

"Aint' it great to be back home" singeth Simon and Garfunkel (Peter Smith--poet, aspiring Yates incarnate, conessiuer of all things metal--insists that Garfunkel deserves more love than he gets. Gives chocolate-covered Kudos to Graceland, but says that does not justify our negligence toward Mr. Garfunkel).
Great indeed. Debated the fruit|full/\less|ness of counterculture with Max in the cozy busom of Southwest Flight 459. Spent some good quality time with the folks, especially Dad, who showed off his new acoustic for me and gave me some on-the-spot critique of some stuff I wrote this semester. Saw my attic--the always inclimate wilderness that sits atop our house, once adventurezone for mischeivous little boys--gutted thoroughly (my parents are advancing after many years of deliberation on plans to civilize the wilderness. Talked to frazzled Tamar who gave me love and no promises. Conspired with Dr. Swerdlow. Communed with my aged and out-of-tune Steinway upright. Quality time with Ford Madox Ford to cap the night. Tomorrow: JDS, mmmm....just saying it evokes too much. We'll put that back in the box for now and I'll return to Ford's Some Do Not.

Max's link of the day

Tuesday, November 20, 2001

Home is what you can take with you, writes an articulate man of Nature. My bags are not yet packed. I am on my way. I am excited.

I am green
I am green I am green I am orange.
orange leaves.

Sunday, November 18, 2001

Ari emerges, revived, living as he had set out to live in September

Before, that is, he ran face forward in to a
and shattered into a million pieces. Now feeling quite together, I can throw myself into life no holds. This weekend has been spectacular. Community Shabbat--Friday night services/free dinner--of couse did not/could not fail to uplift. Kabbalat shabbat is consistently one of the finest hours of my week. Ian Gray and Jared--neither Jewish, escorted me to Orthodox services this week, plunging full force into a service entirely foreign in language, practice, and content. I live best here when inspired by such adventurous spirits.
I skipped out after dinner, down the hill, with many of the brownies I made love to last year and have not loved enough this year, to see George Clinton and his glorious Parliament Funkadelic. I won't even venture to describe. I will only say over four hours of intensely involving performance--which continued after the club turned the lights on, after the club turned the power off--lef me thoroughly spent, staggering, unable to speak, barely able to make the climb up college hill. Saturday night saw a play on the Middle East conflict with Ariana. The play reminded me of the importance and immense difficulty of dialogue, especially as many of liberal-minded tend to dangerously equate humanitarian ideals with the Palestinean cause (an equation that, at best, fails to take into account the complexity of the variables). After Ariana departed, I turned in early, put to sleep by Hilary, who read me the first chapter of The BFG. I woke up at 3:40, Alex found me, we roused chris and co., to go see the great battle: Earth's Atmosphere vs. Huge Space Rocks. We watched, frozen to the roof of Arnold Lab, cold enough to evoke some ridiculous jealousy for the burning space rocks. Back home. Defrost under covers. Excessive sleep. Get busy livin.

Check out max's link of the day. or NOT. for some reason this link is not behaving. silly link.

Thursday, November 15, 2001

The human eye
perceives the visual world only through its perpetual motion. Even when we think are eyes are fixated and still, they are in constant movement. This is called physiological nsytagmus.
If this movement is stopped, we see nothing.

This all strikes me as a rather momentous event. I should mark it in some way. Revelry. Lutes. Yes,

Obscene. They've made this way too easy. I am probably not organized enough to keep this up. I am, no doubt, sufficiently curious to try it out.
I haven't taken a shot at something like this since back in the day, so I'm going to be the nervous rookie roady.
Clear my throat.
Step timorously up to the mike, eyes on feet.
Peek up at the masses, too numerous to be seen and distinguished.
Tap gently.

Testing? Testing? One...two...check, check one...