very nice

May I recommend a listen to Serge Taneyev's Piano Trio in D Major Op. 22. As Borat might say, its "very nice".

rum can replace having a soul

It's that time of year. Again! That time when those friendly lawyerly profs apologetically or sadistically pronounce "hey class, as if we haven't made your life enough of a misery since, well whenever, finals are here!" Happy Hanukkah indeed.

So, congrats to my erstwhile colleagues for doing what they do, so well. (In case you don't know what that is, lets just describe it as massive amounts of self-inflicted self-esteem crumbling and all-around misery.) And my sincerest sympathies for the soiling of your hopes and dreams in the ultimately misguided attempt to attain those hopes and dreams via law school.

Don't worry, if money can't buy happiness, it can buy the near empty and hollow equivalent: booze. Now, get those student loans to good use and clink some pint glasses, shot glasses, and handles' of the Captain.

right at the light

For all those times that I don't remember. It wasn't as if you didn't care. Even when you weren't there.

For all the kisses that weren't kissed. It wasn't as if you didn't want them. Even when you turned away.

So why tears, why now? So why guilt, why now? Have your stories finally rung hollow to your ears?

Walk till you come to the spoiled stone fence. Take a left. Walk till you see the right at the light.

"ouch"

Who knew vacuum cleaners were so hilarious?!?!? (Click here and check out the right-hand column for amusement and temporary flashes of empathetic pain.)

... a conversation to be

"I feel a constant thirst though I'm always drinking," she sang.

"That's ok" her sister smiles.

"I'm falling, walking stone from stone."

"Smile," the older girl says. "This song is a good thing."

playing grownup

We do the grocery shopping, clean the flat, and tell ourselves "no" when we ask for the 15th time if we can buy another pint of Ben & Jerry's. We have our own insurance, claim ourselves on tax forms, and set the curfews. Five days a week we put on dress-up clothes, get on a real live train, and somehow manage to arrive at so-called work before you-got-here-late-today o'clock. And we get the rent in on time. Well, at least some of the time.

We have these real responsibilities and people actually do depend on us -- especially when people is loosely defined to include our pet hamster, Frank, and the first person singular. So why does all this still feel like playing grownup? And what magic will keep it this way?!?!?

smile, i'm broke

I am not a fan of the thanksgiving holiday. Truth is, I'm apt to snarl at length on the inherent hypocrisy of the event. One day to express gratitude? Really?

That said...

During this time of mass layoffs, economic nationalization, retirement-accounts-turned-vanishing-acts, and all the other financial hysteria, it may be difficult to recall that there are some things worth being grateful for. Things like avocados or cottage-cheesed pasta. Or friends who understand why there won't be presents circa December 25 or who appreciate that the week of Jan19 might not be the best time to crash at the DC pad. And certainly for bathtubs that are ideal size for long hot soaks that leave one's skin looking like prunes.

So, I am thankful for employment, my over-radiated apartment, patient friends, and yummy things I can actually afford to buy at the grocery store. Thankful today, this Thursday, and some random 45 second slice the first week of December.

apparently we do... some of the time

"We will not negotiate with terrorists." Not only is this ultimatum a foolhardy notion, turns out it isn't even true. The powers that be negotiate when the terrorists are AIG, Citigroup, Detroit, et al other companies too "big" to fail. Except here we mistakenly confuse this as capitalism, instead of what it really is -- economic terrorism.

brewthanks

What if I had never lost my nerve
Or if the pain had waited til' later
Maybe then I'd be there
What if I had waited for the ball
Never wondering why
It didn't appear
What if I had made it one stop more
And kept the mountains
Where I knew where
What if I had left the party early
Smiled a good morning
Then stayed the year
What if I had made fewer regrets
Found less time for joy
Leaving it all a tear

oh, no!

Bad news on the pirate front. An Indian naval ship took out a suspected pirate mother ship. Reading this update made me sad -- its almost as if the governments/militaries of the world are uniting to destroy the romantic hopes and dreams of a bunch of privileged white younguns'. Hey grownups -- this is NOT change we can believe in!

Listen up, we want pirates. So here's the plan. Harass those guys, harangue em', on occasion even blow up their ships. Make it tough for them to score. Pirates are naturally cool, but pirates who have to be kung-fu masterminds of Battleship are waaaaay cooler. And do your part to keep our warm cuddly pirates bad ass and topical. Maybe stage a few inevitably flawed helicopter rescue attempts with camera-wearing commandos.

Give us drama, give us some laughs, a few poignant love triangles. But for christmas-sake, leave those pirates' mamas out of this.

further proofs that i'm 5

As if any were needed...

I'm all kinds of excited that piracy is on the rise. Yes, my wannabe pretend-to-be adult brain says "This trend increases the transaction costs associated with international freight shipment-- and that has to be bad for trade. Not to mention that the potential for environmental catastrophe for all the fishies is like, big. In the event that a hijacked supertanker has a spill, or goes up in flames, who is liable?"

But the real me goes "Yippee~ I want to be a pirate too. I do I do I do."

a declaration in the key of me

In my ongoing effort to eradicate the 1st person plural from usage I propose to:

1. Amend Thomas Jefferson's application of "we" to I and/or the currently assembled group of oldish white men who kinda agree.
2. Eliminate "we" from the first line of the US Constitution. The people is a fine way of beginning the document although, The currently assembled group of oldish white male property owners who kinda agree would provide a more descriptive and illuminating introduction to all following themes and items.
3. Replace all instances of "we" in "We Shall Overcome" to you and I. As in, You and I shall overcome or you and I shall all be free some day.

Next word on the chopping block: propose.

et cetera

Reasons I broke up with Daniel Craig:

• His lovely, lustful toned abs made me want to cry
• Financial troubles (i.e., he had a job)
• He traveled frequently
• When we cuddled he just talked and talked about his feelings
• He quit smoking
• Didn't mind filming steamy love scenes for some movie, but wouldn't film one with me
• His overall lack of ambition

getting out of bed was the worst decision i've made yet

Maybe I got out on the grumpy side of the bed today.

Or maybe, everyone has taken more than their share of the oxygen and left me with the surplus CO2, alone in the sandbox.

Either way, I listen to depressing instrumental versions of rock-a-like songs and wish to be less fervently anti-doing-mean-things-to-annoying-people.

got hate?

Sickening that 5,125,752 people can't see past their prejudice.
Sad that 5,125,752 people see fit to withhold choice that they enjoy.

Thanks, we get the message -- equality for some.
Thanks, we get the point -- justice should be blind only some of the time.

Am I bitter? Yes.
Because yesterday, a slight majority saw fit to continue tyranny.

Am I hopeful? Yes.
Because soon a generation will bring down this wall of hate.

Before us stands a wall that encircles the free sectors of this society, part of a vast system of barriers that divides... separates. Every man and woman is forced to look upon a scar. . . . As long as this gate is closed, as long as this scar of a wall is permitted to stand, it is not the marriage question alone that remains open, but the question of freedom for all mankind. . . .
Americans, Californians, if you seek peace, if you seek prosperity for yourselves, your children, your country -- if you seek liberalization, come here to this gate.
Americans, Californians, open this gate!
Americans, Californians, tear down this wall!

proudly exercising my constitutional right to vote no

The cost of participating in the voting obsession for a microscopically indiscernible gain (if its even a gain) -- is a deal I can refuse.

I have not and will not cast a ballot in this election. Over the past months scorn, rebuke, and frequent raised eyebrows have been levelled for the simple expression of this intention. Its not a matter of not caring -- oh, I do. Technically I'm even registered in a battleground state! So how could I say no to choosing between dufus 1 and dufus 2? Remarkably easily!

Click here to watch a fine economist explain why he won't vote.

on food

Spring rolls should not be consumed on an alcohol-free stomach, nor (respectively) after/before 3am/3pm.

At a tapas bar these favorites are termed "thin-sliced fried potatoes" -- when eaten out of a bag or a can we call them "potato chips".

Salted herring was not-so-much a delicacy in the former USSR.

Canned cabbage doesn't taste as bad as it sounds and it beats another night of ramen.

a spirit’s yearning cry

When life comes, as it came. When love comes, as it came. When grief comes, as it came.
Then someday, maybe can I say with his words as if my own, "I have lived to get a better understanding of myself and those close to me, many of them now dead."

rock this country

Happening now: music taste degenerating in the direction of that horrible stuff on my froshmore playlist.

Apologies all around to those sad, unfortunate band of brothers who will hear my inevitable off-pitch crooning "we going to rock this country/ rock this country/ right out of this world."

Advise ya'll to duck-n-cover.

Or if you are a first responder -- HELP!

the world is going mad

That's all.

That's all I have to say.

a short commentary on oatmeal

Its mushy. And kinda gross. Somehow it makes a nosebag with the raw stuff seem appealing.

On the plus side...

Its cheaper than ass. (Ooops, 'grass' -- I totally meant grass.)

come me my

Slightly ashamed, I eavesdropped on the silent conversation. Compelled to violate visual space. Though reproaching myself, the stare shifted not at all. Rude was no word for the way my eyes bore into that heated exchange. All I was was fixated, fascinated, unnerved. And not one bit of notice did they pay this direction. That is, until the thought screamed much too loudly, That. I want that. Then, and only then, did he turn towards the unvoiced interruption. The briefest of an understanding smile. Staying put they left me, again. To eavesdrop on the utterance-free dialogue. Compelled, ashamed, and unnerved.

another brilliant analysis

Lazy-assed folk have properly grasped the opportunity costs of work. And have subsequently captured in actionality their illuminated understanding.

saturday thoughts

Returning to a first love isn't necessarily simple. Not when the first love is something called books. Loving a plural pulls a girl in so many directions. And when there are always more books to be devoured, how can a girl ever be actually content?

On the desk sit the collection of M Twain's short stories; an irresistible overdose of witty cynicism. Atop the coffee table are the books I ought to, want to read. Shelved in the coffee table are waiting texts by A Sen, A Solzhenitsyn, V Wolfe -- to list the authors visible from this angle. Scattered round are wonderful stories needing to be revisited, embraced anew. On hold at the library are two books recommended by the wise prof. Once I pick them up (in approximately 90minutes) the present near equilibrium can only be upset.

Dishes need washing, furniture wants dusting, various to put away, sundry to do. But I'm distracted. Oh, do I adore this distraction.

kipling knew

awake are no slobbery kisses
her paws won't lean on the pillow
no echo of mingled sleepy sounds
awake, the spell leaves. she goes.
a spell of fantasy, broken.
my wish let me imagine
my imagined gave pretend
then slipping
falling
startled i wake
i seem to hear her breathe
sneeze and snore
i reach to rub her ears
legs and belly
lean to kiss whisker or paw
and all i kiss is nothing
touch nothing, hear nothing
there is no slip, no fall, no dog.

i've got soul but i'm not a soldier

I'm still a bit worse from the wear of imagining a night of debauchery in the East Village. Technically, Sangria probably doesn't qualify as debauchery. However, the Sangria-induced fondling of the Greek-born, Egyptian-bred belly-dancer might. To be fair, I wasn't really fondling -- just making sure her girls were cancer free. This is also an inspired way to display the obvious merits of my innovative breast cancer awareness fundraising scheme.

Following activities included a demonstration of my eclectic dance style. I'm of the school that thinks shaking ones hips semi-annually and falling periodically counts as dancing. As the Killers croon, "I wanna stand up, I wanna let go." And then the Sangria pulls me to the floor.

where or where is the promised update on your nefarious activities????

This prolonged silence is unattractive, even on someone as yourself who finds it impossible to be unattractive.

Miss McClain, I need to know whether some Sheikh has whisked you off to his dudgeon...errrr em' "palace" (yes, I totally mean "palace") to be his head concubi... errrrr em' "wife". Basically, there are a few things that are worth knowing: are you in with the mucky-muck of some oil-rich state yet? Can I come visit your oasis in the oil fields? Is it true that you wear silk underwear underneath the burka?

Oh, you don't wear a burka. Well, that's understandable, Your figure hasn't been shot to hell ,yet, by birthing all the little sheikhs' to be. When it goes, you can bet that currently fine ass of yours that you'll have a burka folded nicely on your then empty bed.

So it goes. Rest assured dear one, when your currently fine ass has borne the brunt of time, I'll still be your friend. A better one, seeing as I will no longer be consumed by a murderous jealousy. What a day that will be.

Write back. Be sure to tell me all about the desert, fast horses, armored vehicles, and trodden-status of women who are not you.

me

conversational styles of men and women, a comparative analysis

"In the interest of something like disclosure, here is something you probably should know about me."

"Ugh-huh," he sort of mutters.

"If this thing happens, I'm likely to, at some point, stomp my foot. Either literally or otherwise. Perhaps both."

"Ugh-huh," he sort of mutters.

"It is just what I do."

"Ugh-huh," he sort of mutters.

"Seriously! Its not a big deal. I don't know why you have to go and treat this like the end of the world. It isn't. Get over it already."

"Ugh- sure," he sort of mutters.

"You are so sweet and understanding."

"Ugh-huh," he sort of mutters.

...its been awhile, she said

Today, I "ran" into a friend from years gon' bye. From all those many years ago when I was in college and said things like "like, I don't know. I was all like and like he just like stood there and like did nothing. Like totally." From back in the day when I thought showering at a guy's place circa eight in the morning meant something, as opposed to just pity.

Anyway, about this friend. I couldn't remember his first name, though I didn't realize this immediately. I didn't notice because I was too busy calling him by his middle name; perfectly oblivious to the fact that this wasn't his first name.

Point being, I must be doing something right since I got out of Dodge.

Wait a second... how is that the point!?!?

Can't recall. Something about increased neuronal activity indicated by early onset amnesia.

around a world

She changed me when
I did not notice.
She grinned, eyes sparkling,
Knowing what I could not.
Having found a simple truth,
Generously she shared the secret.
With laughter. By love. In life.

As a pulsating canvas
She has ascended whole
From all the rejection,
Tragedy,
Fatigue,
Success,
And accidents of a mortal existence.

The story mapped on her body
Shines love to her friends.
Pain, softening her eyes,
Hidden behind laughter,
In time I saw. Sometimes unseen,
Perhaps misunderstood,
A soft residue of life strives on.

i think i said that

Today during a meeting I happened to ask my employer whether the organization could rent a jump-house for the staff. Judging from her silence, she thought this a fantastic idea. Also judging from said silence, I think she was contemplating bringing in a couple clowns.

That's fine by me, so long as they are sad clowns. Happy clowns give me the creeps.

"One word of truth shall outweigh the whole world."

MOSCOW (AP) -- When Alexander Solzhenitsyn's "One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich" appeared in the thick monthly literary magazine Novy Mir back in November of 1962, taboos were shattered. Buried secrets were unearthed. And the Soviet Union was shaken to its foundations.

Solzhenitsyn's short novel described a single day in the life of a carpenter caught up in the Soviet Union's secret network of slave labor camps, where starvation, bitter cold and punishing work regimes were the rule and, it has been said, the average life expectancy was one winter.

The author was working as a provincial math teacher, and his greatest work, "The Gulag Archipelago," was still to come. But "One Day" was to shock the U.S.S.R. and the world.

Some of the crimes of the dictator Josef Stalin were exposed and denounced following a secret speech by Communist Party leader Nikita Khrushchev in 1956, as part of his short-lived campaign to reform the brutal Soviet system.

But Solzhenitsyn's novel, based on the seven years he spent as a prisoner, was the first real expose of the gulag - a word derived from the Russian "Glavnoe Upravelenie Lagerei," or Main Camp Administration.

Solzhenitsyn, who went on to win the Nobel Prize for Literature but was exiled from his homeland because of his work, died of heart failure Sunday at age 89, his son, Stepan Solzhenitsyn, told The Associated Press on Monday.

The gulag was, Solzhenitsyn wrote, the "human meat grinder" for processing what Stalin sneered at as "wreckers," vermin and "enemies of the people" who allegedly sabotaged Soviet progress to the workers' paradise. The grim process started, typically, with a knock on the door late at night, an arrest on charges of trivial or imaginary crimes, condemnation by a secret tribunal, transportation by unheated rail car and finally incarceration in the camps.

The prisoners formed a secret army of slave laborers who built railroads, worked in mines and cleared forests in some of the world's most inhospitable terrain. In the end, by the most authoritative estimate, the gulag systematically ground down some 29 million souls.

Armed with his literary talent and prodigious memory, Solzhenitsyn (sohl-zheh-NEETS'-ihn) spent more than 40 years working in secrecy, in fear and finally in exile as he chiseled away at the lies that supported the Soviet system. And in the end he, as much perhaps as any individual, helped to bring it down.

To read the rest of this article: http://hosted.ap.org/dynamic/stories/S/SOLZHENITSYN_LIFE_OF_DISSENT?SITE=FLMYR&SECTION=HOME&TEMPLATE=DEFAULT

boyzone are poets

Here's the thing: life, work, and futbol practice can't be taken particularly seriously when accompanied by a "Foreigner" power ballad or a "Take That" uptempo number.

--> (chorus) Yes, yes baby! I'm working the cheesy pop.

Conclusion: I'm in little danger of being taken seriously.

--> (repeat chorus)

yet another instance where a professor did me the favor of crushing my hopes and dreams

Every word that cascades from Rudy's mind is genius, poignant, necessary, illuminated. His heavy Cuban accent makes 66.6667% of these gems unintelligible. This serves to add to the market value of the semitelligible third. Half of this passably understandable talk (or 16.6667% of the whole) occurs during smoking breaks.

Once, during an attempt to prove the seemingly hopeless point that a gal my size could gracefully exit through the same office window that her buck-ten midget-sized nemesis barely squeezed through, his accent was nearly entirely understandable for successive sentences, absent any nicotine inhalation. Standing in the bushes outside the then occupied-by-me window, unlit cigarette hanging loosely from his chops, Rudy decided to quiz us on the implications of paragraph 19 of random scholar's article in the 1969 Economic Geography, spring publication. Specifically in relation to Sam's brilliant analysis, on an entirely unrelated topic, made during class hours earlier. (Apparently, the relevance of an article he read 35 years previously occurred to him somewhere between pulling the cigarette out of his pocket protector and climbing through the bushes to better witness my failing evacuation.)

"Em, Rudy. Due to this particularly awkward position that I find myself currently occupying, (indeed the untrained eye might say that I am technically stuck in this window,) that particular paragraph of that otherwise memorable article has been driven from the functioning portion of my so-called brain. However, I think that... [begin to draw a preliminary outline of a particularly insightful, albeit straightforward logical interpretation on some topic that probably related to incentives.]"

Interruption.

"No, quite sorry. I don't have a light."

So, you can see how I got it into my head that Rudy looked to me as a bright light in the future of economic analysis and theory.

Imagine my horror, shock, and disappointment that after his two crushing exams nary a comment was made regarding the brilliance of my economic analysis and insight. Adding insult, my chicken-scrawled essays were red-penned with statements like: LOL; amusing; maybe you could write for comedy central; you seem bitter- are you married?; somewhat to very creative, though clearly better suited to an anthropology course.

If I ever get around to writing that suicide note, I'll be sure to thank you Rudy.

ice-9 is...

... proof that life is never too late for discovery of the worthwhile books.

my lil' sister kicks ass

Admittedly, she hasn't quite finished her first round in this years nat'l champs of 156 awesome junior chica golferettes. And, admittedly she is facing the hardest (by ranking) hole on the course.

Whatever!

She's tied for 17th... and at one point about an hour ago she was tied for 8th. Which further supports my assertion that she kicks ass.

Like, mine!

3 very good reasons to be thankful

1. Randomly ran into a friend on a train platform during his walk of shame.
2. Softball team winning without my having to get out of bed.
3. Other folks undefeated records.

how things coming before are discussed after

"So you see I already had my breakdown.” I sip my black decaffeinated Fair Trade tea, weakened with milk. When in Scotland it is only seemly to do as the Scots even if it means partially ruining a perfectly good cup of tea. “It bloody well wouldn’t do to have another one. Greedy wouldn’t you say?”

“I’m not sure bloody well is the expression you were searching for.” Reaching across the small coffeehouse table he grasped my hand to his. “At any rate, it’s over. You got out.”

I smile. That hand grab was awfully well played. Rather impossible to count the number of times I’d been told “you got out!” As unoriginal as the sentiment was, hearing it roll off a Scottish tongue was a delightful addition.

“Geez gal! Your hands are freezing.” With the slight raise of the eyebrow he asks a silent permission. I smile and shyly look down as he “warms” my cold paws.

“As to that breakdown of yours,” with a squeeze a bit strong for warming purposes “it sounds like a sanity break. And you have my permission to be as greedy as you like… provided it involves me!” He throws me a smile initially teasing. It softens as he casually asks, “When?”

“A bit over a year ago.”

His gaze rests gently on my face as he begins to trace slow circles over my right palm with his index finger. This holding hands business across the table is a bit conspicuous for me. I don’t stop him; supporting the direction things are presently headed. Hopefully we can move away from the clown car of my past life. I had been different. Broken. That weakness is an embarrassment.

“Don’t be embarrassed.” He says in his low, rich, accented tone. “It’s a bit… heroic.”

“It wasn’t my doing. My friends rescued me.”

“Look at me.” He gently commands. “You are stronger than you let yourself believe.”

His hands tighten over mine as I shake my head in silent disagreement. My mind wanders back. Back to those sleepless nights in the rickety apartment on 3rd St, tears stubbornly absent. I would hold the pillow close and will the tears to flow. My involuntary stoicism left me feeling like a failure. That feeling of being empty. As if I had run out of all goodness, kindness, and love.

His continued chatter interjects itself into my consciousness. Shame on me, I hadn’t heard a word of that last bit. Scotsmen talk whether or not their audience pays mind so I hadn’t exactly been rude.

He looks at me waiting for a response. “I’m sorry. I was a wee bit distracted. Could you say that again? As in the last ten minutes.” My tone is serious, my eyes playful. He thinks I’m kidding. (Success!!!)

“Em’, I was saying that this place is shutting up. Would you like to go to the PGC?”

“The what?”

“PostGrad Club. You know I’m on the board.”

“I’m not a member.”

“Despite what you may have told me!?!”

I giggle slightly. “You won’t be forgetting that?”

“It’s rather etched into my mind. Associated as it is with how you looked in that lovely undergarment.” His deliberate gaze shifts down from my eyes for a long second.

“And you claimed to remember something other than my cleavage!” mock indignation fools no one.

He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me close as we wait for the light to turn. “Oh, I remember everything,” he says. “Your voice, your face, your smile. Your smile when you said you were a member of the club.” He pauses, smelling my hair. “How you left without saying goodbye. And how your elfish friend flashed me your boobs. Repeatedly.”

“Do you remember the part nine days ago when she didn’t give me time to get my goodnight kiss?”

“You want to lay all of that at her door?” referring ever so gingerly to my propensity for mixed signals.

“No.” I admit with a smile. “I just want you to rectify the situation.”

We silently cross the intersection. As we step onto the far curb I snicker slightly.

“See, ‘rectify the situation’ is subtle for…”

He doesn’t let me finish. I should be expressing mock indignation at this flamboyant interruption with bonus back-dip. Instead I open my mouth, slightly. With a smile.

“What ye be grinning at?”

I arch my eyebrow in that irresistible way. “You really should rectify the situation again.”

anonymous shame is a highly effective instructional resource

Half six in the morning

"It makes quite a statement. This could... this has..." I leave the thought hanging and contemplate uses of the $2500 first prize. With the haze of the unslept fogging my brain, I mercilessly read over the essay again. My inner voice finds the proper tonal pitch to convey the urgency embedded in sentences laboriously composed throughout the last 16hrs. "If I'm being completely honest about this," I say to the cat curled up on the arm of the loveseat, "perfectly honest; well, I've done quite a good job. Not a masterpiece, of course. Not bloody Keats." With a contented chuckle I realize that never having read Keats, presumably it might be on par... or better. With that pleasant thought and a look at the clock I find my way upstairs to bed after an approximately 37 hour absence.

"Not bad -- no masterpiece -- impressive really." I mumble this repeatedly until passing out.

Waiting patiently in my inbox following afternoon

"Bad," she writes. "Not good. Takes the reader three pages to figure out your point. By then not enough time to develop point. Structure all wrong. Advise to start again."

I'm shocked. She's wrong. As a compromise, a few aesthetic changes are made. Recommended alterations ignored. Moment of hesitancy before pressing SUBMIT NOW button.

Conversation months later where, mistakenly, I believe that I'll be haven' the last laugh

"Admittedly, you did have a point. Still, it wasn't that bad. It got an honorable mention and a few hundred bucks."

She smiles. "No, I was wrong." A sideways glance and a very pregnant pause. "My comments were much too kind. Much less deserving than I noticed on first read."

Confusion passes over my face. First read? She read that slapt-together paper more than once?

Her smile widens to its distinctive fearsome width. "Oh, yes. I removed your name, of course. By mid-term we had all edited it numerous times. It was less coherent under the hood than it first appeared. Excellent sample of what an academic paper should not look like. "

"And by we all...?"

By "we all" she means the required upper-division GE econ writing class of 40+ students.

a kiss through the bars of Orion

A friend sent me an email today that left my heart glad. In it she included a few candid photos taken over past months. They served to remind me of her beauty, passion, and soul. Perhaps I lovingly misplace these truths in her smile. She walked me through what was to be seen and I believe now to know her. Knowing her, how can I see anything less than this quiet wisdom; the capacity to listen, love, lose, and find the worthwhile in life?

My dear, I miss you too.

the ride

I keep a spoon in the freezer, eat lemon curd to get high, forget names that might be better unforgotten, cry till laughter chokes up the tears, and pound keys on a piano poorly. And sometimes, I recall what sensai O'Shea taught me ages ago... ^#*@, it doesn't matter.

He was so right.

admission...

... I traveled to work via Metro this AM in my jammies.

That, or I slept last night in my clothes.

looking left and leaving

Heartbreak, feel free to mock me. And in turn, let's pretend that you were a two season blessing and not a regular curse. Everything else can remain as it is, as it was. I won't ask for any other lie. I'll own to what I did, what I didn't do.

Waking up next to you in the morning, I did not know how hard that would be. Held tightly by your numerous, merciless tentacles, you stole the day's breath from me. By choice, I believed in the logic of you. The unconquered fear. The words, dearer a girl cannot say, that pounded against your soundless ears he should have heard. With the scent of his leather jacket tantalizing my brain, I left blank-faced and cold. You provided the pain, friends the tequila and the cold chased itself away.

Had I shed my armour and shown my heart he would have melted. For me. But never had I surrendered anything like my heart. Never made myself so vulnerable or so strong. Never asked myself to change.

Heartbreak, feel free to mock me. You know better than any the extent of my folly, my foolishness, my excuses, my doldrums, my depressions, my frightened unbelief. Mock me as you will and know that I hate you.

the limits of bitter & sweet

You are submerged in the mass of freedom, and you push and shove with the others in the station waiting room. You absent-mindedly examine announcements posted there, even though they can hardly have any relevance for you. You sit on the ancient passenger benches, and you hear strange and insignificant conversations: about some husband who beats up his wife or has left her; and some mother-in-law who, for some reason, does not get along with her daughter-in-law; how neighbors in communal apartments make personal use of the electric outlets in the corridor and don't wipe their feet; and how someone is in someone else's way at the office; and how someone has been offered a good job but can't make up his mind to move -- how can he move bag and baggage, is that so easy? You listen to all this, and the goose pimples of rejection run up and down your spine: to you the true measure of things in the Universe is so clear! The measure of all weaknesses and all passions! And these sinners aren't fated to perceive it. The only one there who is alive, truly alive, is incorporeal you, and all these others are simply mistaken in thinking themselves alive.

And an unbridgeable chasm divides you! You cannot cry out to them, nor weep over them, nor shake them by the shoulder: after all, you are a disembodied spirit, you are a ghost, and they are material bodies.

And how can you bring it home to them? By an inspiration? By a vision? A dream? Brothers! People! Why has life been given you? In the deep, deaf stillness of midnight, the doors of the death cells are being swung open -- and great-souled people are being dragged out to be shot. On all the railroads of the country this very minute, right now, people who have just been fed salt herring are licking their dry lips with bitter tongues. They dream of the happiness of stretching one's legs and of the relief one feels after going to the toilet. In Orotukan the earth thaws only in summer and only to the depth of three feet -- and only then can they bury the bones of those who died during the winter. And you have the right to arrange your own life under the blue sky and the hot sun, to get a drink of water, to stretch, to travel wherever you like without a convoy. So what's this about unwiped feet? And what's this about a mother-in-law? What about the main thing in life, all its riddles? If you want, I'll spell it out for you right now. Do not pursue what is illusory -- property and position: all that is gained at the expense of your nerves decade after decade, and is confiscated in one fell night. Live with a steady superiority over life -- don't be afraid of misfortune, and do not yearn after happiness; it is, after all, all the same: the bitter doesn't last forever, and the sweet never fills the cup to overflowing. It is enough if you don't freeze in the cold and if thirst and hunger don't claw at your insides. If your back isn't broken, if your feet can walk, if both arms can bend, if both eyes see, and if both ears hear, then whom should you envy? And why? Our envy of others devours us most of all. Rub your eyes and purify your heart -- and prize above all else in the world those who love you and who wish you well. Do not hurt them or scold them, and never part from any of them in anger; after all, you simply do not know: it might be your last act before your arrest, and that will be how you are imprinted in their memory!

A. Solzhenitsyn

from a recent conversation

There exists a place of luscious, unimaginable abundance. A warm spring hidden in the cold of northern extremes. A canyon rift perilous to enter, treacherous to escape. An Eden shorn of life’s breath. A valley of death, disfigured in perfection.

In chorus, old wives and aged warriors insist that the Sick Heart is a curse, that it is death. They know of its beauty, its danger. “Stay clear,” they warn. "Join us, the masses, and choose the path far from it."

But the passionate feel what they know not, do what they ought not, become what they can not. They search with single purpose that must bare the lonely beauty of death's river to their hungry eye. They will find their heart's desire. And wish themselves away.

deep thinking hurts

One of the downsides to employment (other than being instantly un-dateable) is the probability that one's hardhearted employer doesn't shout "Hey everyone -- gather round. In recognition of some really really supposedly hard work, lets take the summer off. What do you say?!?"

Followed by energetic high-fives all around, of course.

a mime in gold paint makes this song work

People all get ready'
Cos we're tearing down the stand
Rebuild what's gone unsteady
And see it through with newer hands
And what has gone between us
Is a lot, is a lot
And who'll be there to clean us
When you're not, when you're not

People all get ready'
Cos we're breaking down again
Rebuild what's gone unsteady
And see it through with wiser hands
And what has gone before us
Is a lot, is a lot
And who'll be there to ignore us
When you're not, when you're not

We have all the time in the world
To get it right, to get it right
We have all the love in the world
To set alight, to set alight

People all get ready'
Cos we're breaking down the band
Rewrite what's gone already
And see it through with angry hands
And what has gone before us
Is a lot, is a lot
And who'll be there to ignore us
When you're not, when you're not

And we have all the time in the world
To get it right, to get it right
And we have all the love in the world
To set alight, to set alight
Just look up, just look up

a secret that I’m divulging to no one in particular

I want to play golf again.

I mean, I would like to hit golf balls and see what happens. Maybe.

It depends.

something wise someone wise once told me

Yes, I think that caring for loved ones trumps public service and 'changing the world' – and I believe that until recently only men made these kinds of foolish mistakes.

another post about food

I didn’t enjoy living in Washington DC – the area, but I like living in Washington DC – the city. It’s nice because one can get most places either by walking for a few minutes or taking the Metro or both. My apartment is 2 ½ blocks from the local library and the local library is directly across the street from Vace, the Italian deli with the best pizza in DC.* Can you guess how many visits to the library conveniently turn into “well since I’m practically there, might as well get a slice”?!?**

It's a good thing I have to walk at least as far as the Metro everyday, otherwise I’d be horribly fat from all that delicious deliciousness! Sometimes, I even make up things to do just so that I have to walk to do them. For example, this coming Saturday I'm going to walk the 5 blocks to the zoo, and not because I enjoy gawking at overfed animals. Indeed, the thought of all this strenuous exercise is almost as fat-burning as actually doing it. Almost! At any rate, my plan is to go early in the day and then, on the walk back, stop at Vace for a slice.

* Stated more accurately: "the Italian deli with the best pizza I've had in DC."

**In case you were wondering, the answer is YES; I moved to my current neighborhood and sold my car because I wanted to live near the pizza place. In my defense, they also sell freshly made pasta and incredibly tasty gelato. So I didn’t move just for pizza. Really!!!

my day, starring me

I unfortunately have both strep throat and a job. This unpleasant coincidence meant that I left the office shortly upon arrival and worked the rest of the day from home. The arrangement worked well for everyone. I could hop in a cold shower every time my fever spiked... and my coworkers weren't reminded that I had totally exposed them to nasty germs all last week. (In my defense, I didn't know! Well, I knew that I felt like crap... but we had a uber-big project, so it didn't pay to find out just how crappy.) Point being, they were happy to see me leave today, despite the VP assuring them that I was no longer very contagious.

I exaggerate my pariah status slightly. See, someone had to be at the office at 7am today and I was the lucky volunteer. I figured strep or not, that no one was going to be too thrilled to finish off their three-day weekend with an early arrival at work. And yes, they were all quite happy that I hadn't passed off the joy to them.

And now, having completed the perilous journey to the Italian deli, I gelato into a pleasant feverish coma and bid all farewell.

running forward

There is a story in my head. Reasonable, excusable, tough as nails. I'm proud of this story in my head. I'm happy with this story. How compelling yet unchallenging it always remains. Why would I want it to be true? Truth defeats the entire point.

I wish more of it were true. Because then, maybe, I'd be able to pretend a little longer. Maybe then it would be ok. Maybe then I wouldn't notice my choice. Just a little while more. In a second. In a minute. In a sometime else.

So, story in my head, you said what you had to. You did what you had to. Now leave.

its paint your man-hole day

Crystal City, you sure are the class act of sidewalk maintenance.

well put

"The only lesson to be drawn from utopian dreaming is that all utopias are
hells. All attempts to design society by reference to one narrow conception
of human nature, whether on paper or in the streets, end in producing
something much worse."
Matt Ridley in Nature via Nurture

a la mode

The moment I realize that my pecuniary challenges are friendlier than believed: When a credit card listing my name escapes its leather binds and disposes $600 into the Annapolis economy.

The moment I realize that I have pleasantly arrived at the dreaded pasturelands of paupery: 120 seconds later.

aren't i clever

I think a clock radio would be a nice addition to my few square feet of daytime reign. Not only would a second alarm clock serve the useful purpose of irritating my neighbors, a radio would allow me to listen to NPR to my hearts content.

NPR is a truly wonderful and addictive thing. 1) You feel so much smarter just listening to it, regardless of whether you understand or are paying attention; 2) unlike C-SPAN you actually can pay attention on occasion; 3) working "I heard a very interesting story this morning on NPR" into any conversation immediately lets everyone know that you are smart. Or fierce. Or a douche.

At least I don't have the tote yet!

playing behind

My dad can't find a punchline. He gets lost so fast in a knock-knock joke that you'd think he was driving through Northern Virginia. Speaking of which, in the time it takes to fly from California to NOVA, board your moon-ship of pedestrian blight at Dulles, and beam back to 1995, it might occur to you that OJ and OJ who? belong between "knock-knock" and "you're on the jury!"

And as you'll realize sometime in the next six words, this sort of thing is inheritable.

confession to a pint glass

We called him 'Biceps' because he had big biceps. We knew this because he had us feel them. And because we had pretended to forget his name.

Near the end of the time spent with good food, un-witty banter, bicep-feeling, and unsuccessful sailor spotting, Rachel had gone off to snag us a table at the after-hours cafe. Meaning: make a private call. In the freedom of relative anonymity, speaking to no one in particular, though presumably to Biceps, “you know I hate ...”

I pause to swallow the medium-amber, pretending it’s a Fat Tire. I have verbalized the forbidden feeling, truth. “Well not hate, but dislike. Dislike that I did well enough on that stupid test, that stupid LSAT, that effn’ law school happened. It’s stupid. That place should burn in one thousand and ninety-six fires.”

A moment of silence. My barstool confession lacks luster and is patently unimpressive. A pretty white girl comfortable enough in life’s amenities, bemoaning fate’s cruel play. The fate that will satiate her with dark wood paneling , fly her first class, install granite countertops in a spacious kitchen, afford luxury vehicles, bring Mediterranean vacations on client yachts. “What sympathy can she, can I expect” I ask to no one in particular, though presumably to the bottom-third of the pint of what I want to be Fat Tire.

I pay up, walk beside the cobbled street, and sit at the table in the café window. Rachel has a pot of tea and a second mug waiting. Sipping hot normalcy, I nearly tell her that I’m absurd. But I don’t. Instead, I say something about sailors. She laughs. The nagging absurdity of me begins to drift away, soon buried in sands of thoughtlessness.

Pretending to tease she asks, “What was that?” Her smirk fails to hide the earnestness.

The words wait an unnatural second. “Nothing,” I murmur. “Just silliness. And sadness.”

dead blogs tell no tales

"My phone won't let me text. Sometimes it decides not to ring when someone is calling. It doesn't even tell me if I missed a call."

I pause. The phone's disabilities embarrass me. Hearing myself, I realize that the description sounds vaguely similar to"there is a monster under my bed. It won't let me get up in the morning. It also ate my homework." I'm embarrassed by me.

Madge, the surly Verizon tech support person, finds me ridiculous. Interspersed between her futile attempts to exorcise the mobile terror are unoriginal wails of "ugh! It just froze again... did I mention [insert previously unmentioned complaint]." Madge is determined. Determined to stop the pathetic whining. It took me three months to get frustrated enough to call tech support; Madge is beside herself in fifteen minutes, perseveres, and eventually emerges triumphant.

A friend conspiratorially whispers, "don't tell your Mom. Don't tell anyone."

I vigorously nod my agreement. This story goes no further. The secret is safe. A reader-less neglected blog tells no tales.

Ironically, it was a picture-message of my thigh that froze the phone. Just wasn't enough memory for something that size.