Tuesday, October 30
Anyway. I'm more concerned about French (although I've been doing more of the work; I did the last set of Labo exercises) and Syntax (hopefully this paper will be more pleasing to the graders.) But really I'm not concerned. I'm doing all right. Something about this semester makes me feel more alive, more part of the real world. It has to do with this kind of stuff: falling behind in classes, having an affair, etc. It feels good. Elena said something about a lack of wholesomeness, but I disagree. I feel really wholesome. It was a wholesome affair.
The events of the day? Oh, blah. I did French work before French. Being in the class actually made me feel better about having done less of the work. I came home to find a collusion of do-goody girls around our kitchen table, calculators in hands. and Respect, vol. 1. Then I made a messy cheese and tomato sandwhich, which I took to class with a banana and the copy of Modern Love that I had been carrying around in my pocket. That class is really a shame; it just doesn't work as a three hour long tooth-pulling session. If it met two or three times a week, people would do more of the reading and the discussions would be so much better. As it was, it's still a great poem, especially sonnets XVII and XXXVI. After all that, I came home, called my parents, got mad at the internet, and made myself another big quesadilla. Ester was quite distraught, I think mostly spurred on by Bruce's response to her paper. African was tiresome but got more exciting towards the end. I didn't come back here until late, instead going to McCabe to catch up on French, then the SAC meeting, then Paces. Morgan asked me to play Monday nights, but how could I spend that time on stage and not in the kitchen? Elena and I conducted a wonderfully fragmented conversation, under a continuous barrage of interruptions from waiters and loafers, in the manner of a sitcom or perhaps a piece of absurd theatre. About the stuff you talk about; relationships, rationalization, movement rules. I worked on my Ling paper from then (11:45), finished it, hit print, just as McCabe was about to shut down. The print command didn't go through in time; the computer shut off with the lights. Thank goodness for Claudia Sell, who took me back inside and asked the mean man to turn the lights back on for a second. She and Perry and I stood in front of the printer as a string of at least six documents came slowly out (mostly e-reserve readings), but my paper never got its turn. Luckily I was able to e-mail most of it to myself, and use Joel's printer (mine still isn't working, despite a new ink cartridge. Now it's not responding at all.) I wrote some of this stuff and went to bed.
when you finally finish pretending
to read that chapter