why does the blog call to me in my most sentimental moments?
probably because when I feel downtrodden, frustrated, stressed, cynical, or just really fucking bored and tired, nothing seems important enough to write down.
my sentimental moments, by constrast, seemed to be defined by an irrepressible urge to emblazon them on something that is less ephemeral than my experiences.

some notes on my weekend. important moments to return to perhaps in later date as achashverosh returned sleeplessly to his book of the words of the days. tonight read from the megillah for the first time--more enjoyable that i could have possible imagined. Got to scale a wall and break into Sareet's room when she locked herself out...hadn't done something that reckless and stupid in far too long. what a rush.
gili and seth and greg--the carlebach crew imported from NYC--a soulful shabbat. much more is happening. it's all happening says penny lane. too much is happening--sometimes i feel like all my experiences are just sliding over me. i try to grab ahold of them, but find that i don't have those kinds of hands. what would happen, i wonder, if i did?

has anyone seen the bridge? I am not going to write very much right now--I am in the kind of semidrunken state of happiness that would ooze out in my writing as multipotent sap. good friends, reasonably interesting classes, sunshine, a balanced schedule, promising horizons, checkered chef's pants, a room filled constantly with music. chocolate-covered almonds. satin-skinned girl born of the sea. root to the major fifth to the major seventh. resolve dominant to root. I wont sicken you with my gushing. i'll just bathe in my circle of fifths for now.

without looking (in case she's around) describe your mother. in detail. try to conjure a still picture of her in your mind. I can't even hold a clear or stable picture of my own mother in my head. It's fuzzy at best. The more I think about it, the more images flash into my head, but I can't hold any there long enough to take a good look at it. Like with my shoes, even if i were able to sustain a picture of my mother in my memory long enough to exhibit her features in detail, I would no doubt fill in gaps poorly, distort and mistake. Even if I were to suppose I could somehow perfectly reconstruct my mother at a point frozen in time--in immaculate detail--I still wouldn't have anything close to resembling my mother. My mother has never been frozen in time. And yet I know my mother when I see her, and no matter how much she changes, I am convinced that I will always know my mother when I see her. Why? Why couldn't someone come along that fits only the imperfect details that rattle around in the vague snapshots of my mind? Wouldn't I be then equally liable to mistake that person for my mother?

Perhaps I know my mother, and my shoes as well, far better than I think I do. Perhaps I have an immense store of knowledge about the details of my mother and my shoes that I never even paid attention to but that somehow came in under the radar, and exists in my mind in such a way that I can't access that information at will.

without looking, describe you shoes. in detail. how many inches long, high, and wide are they? What kind of material lines the back of their tongues? take out a piece of paper and sketch the patterns that marks the soles (no peeking).
How did you do? When I picture my shoes in my head, I can conjure a snapshot or two from different angles that my memory has recorded, but I can't sustain any of these pictures to construct the shoes in much detail. Even if I were to study my shoes for years and years, until I could hold and sustain a picture of my shoes in my memory long enough to exhibit their details, I would not have anything more than a somewhat-reliable still. I might reconstruct some features incorrectly, distort certain points. What's more, I would at best have in that still picture a rough approximation of my shoes at a frozen point in time--I wouldn't have shoes that move, that walk, that go on and off my feet, that touch asphalt and grass and carpet.
Here my meditation partner Descartes asks me: How then, can you be sure you put on the same shoes every morning?
I have no good answer, except for a vague feeling of protest. Why would I want to be sure that I was putting on the same shoes every morning?

primus. first listen. undecided.
verdict: worth a second listen.
so much busyness. hope i'm learning stuff. suspect i am but have not really taken time to slow down and take stock of what i've been learning. things are happening quickly. i'm happening quickly with things, in a way that i feel pretty good about so far. i worry about burning out but do not feel burnt out yet.
logistical frustrations insulate my moments of elation excitement and revelation.
gave blood today. pretty unequivocally good thing to do. a thoroughly safe good deed. no gray area that i can think of. Nathalia took my blood and we were both pretty happy about the situation.
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when i finally got back to my room i thought i had been robbed.
this thought did not arrive because i noticed anything missing immediately.
this thought did arrive because
my comforter was mussed.
this mussiness would usually be expected, except that I cleaned my room and meticulously made my bed before leaving the room.
i took quick inventory of the most valuable and visible things in my room: laptop, amplifiers, bass, discman, stereo,
decided nothing had been taken.
realized i had a roomate.
realized my roomate had finally returned to visit the room in my absence for the first time since Thursday.
realized that I'm getting used to having a single, even if it is not my ideal living situation.

superbowl just ended. saw first quarter. crazy mix of
patriotism and
militarism and
commercialism
notomention mariahcareyism.
spent some good times making bewildered and sarcastic comments with Jordan and Max at AEP.
then
cut out after the first quarter,
came back to the room,
fell in with morgan for the remainder of the evening.

i'm crazy happy.numbhappy. i'm a mess.