:: a.whisper.in.water ::

:: Wednesday, October 15, 2003 ::

[ In The Garage / I Will Stay ]
Gosh, it’s been a while. Since then, I’ve managed to wade through a week of exams; in lovable fashion, our professors attempt to evaluate all that we’ve learned before Fall Break before we have a chance to dash it all out of our heads to the tune of sitting around and playing Diablo 2, only taking breaks to eat the Best Food In The World. Indulgence threshold’s on the horizon, though, and I should probably get reading (or something worthwhile) tonight or so. Indulgence is hard not to justify after last week, though.

The start of the week was spent largely in the science library, though Nathan seemed to get it much worse than I: by Wednesday afternoon, the kid had spent thirty-seven hours in the science library, and slept for eleven. I can only lay claim to such numbers after a semester of not doing any work for a class; e.g. The Novel, for which I still need a grade. Oops.

Tuesday’s Advanced Classical class was straight out of your favorite mid-90s ABC sitcom.

· Some girl [in a smarmy voice]: So, are we all psyched for the exam on Thursday?
· Me [clearly panicked]: There’s an EXAM on Thursday?! The class giggles
· Some girl [disbelieving]: You didn’t know about the exam? It was in the syllabus!
· Me: Well, shit on me. I suppose our homework’s due today, too. The class giggles again.

Naturally, it was due that day, and I certainly hadn’t touched it since the Wednesday before then, sitting in Lunt Café trying very hard to think and not think at the same time…just fucking call me Waldo Motherfucking Geraldo Faldo. I gotta feelin’ (a feeling deep inside, oh yeah) that everything turned out decently well. A few unfiltereds are still sitting around my room, and will probably become part of a pre-test ritual, wherein one gets smoked. Whether or not it was accurate, I finished my last of three exams with 20 minutes to spare, and that hasn’t fucking happened in ages, though I suspect the last time it did was the Peace & Conflict final.

Dear Keith:

I’m sorry for all the denial bullshit I handed you concerning my being “a smoker.” As much as I want to qualify that statement with “occasional,” its fundamental truth, and the accompanying accusation, remains.

Love and Squalor,
-Z-

P.S. A mouse ate all the things you stored under my bed.
P.P.S. And by mouse I mean Leah. EV Nova? Fischerspooner? Forever entwined.

Those mornings, those stupid mornings when I’ve gotten too little sleep and I’m stressed from having to get somewhere. They’re the mornings when inanimate things die. My headphones, a gorgeous pair of Sony MDR-82LPs I managed to snag for $20 are gone, shattered against the wall. They deserved much better than I, to be sure…I, the Rain-Man-Lenny of electronic device users. I actually loved those things, I did. A replacement pair costs at least 40 euros, since the fuckers discontinued them. I would search far and wide (and have been, to no effect, really) for a replacement pair, or at least another pair that sounded as good. On the plus side, I threw up an away message conveying my utter terror at having no music, and came back to not only an offer from Aaron letting me borrow a pair of big ol’ Jensens, redeemable whenever I come by and see him, but a fucking pair of Chris’ headphones, along with one of the sweetest notes a man has ever written me, not that I need make that qualification to extract worth from the note. You all rock, and don’t let anyone else tell you otherwise.

Jenny, hardest of all rockers, came on Thursday, and accompanied me home for the weekend, though lamentably NYU is not Duke, and therefore its schedule doesn’t mysteriously match with Haverford’s, and thus I saw her off at Union Station Sunday evening. ::sniffle:: The weekend itself was great: a nice consummation of the intense post-Jamesian (oh, kill me) love that presently makes that aspect of life downright wonderful, though not without its issues: not only was the soul-consuming of Threesomes discussed, I remain Without Experience. And we all thought I was going to be the fast one.

Wanted: a romantic encounter, free of strings and other such complications, with a kind and understanding soul, and a hot bod. ::snickers-to-indicate-tongue-in-cheek-nature-of-proposition. (I’m not fucking desperate)::

If only it were that easy. So many complications on my end. I have no idea how Jenn found the whole affair so simple a weekend ago. Regardless, the next necessary step is to find love without dependence, devotion without confinement and neediness. Part of me feels this is impossible, in some way, like my actual understanding of love must change to accommodate an absence of need. I keep thinking about it: love is infinite in its complexity, in its causes and effects and dimensions and manifestations. Discuss.

Danny (who now goes to UMD) managed to swing by last night with his Colleen in tow, to the delight of myself and Silver Diner patrons alike. We actually saw Vanessa Reisin and Gabby Trager there, but if they saw us, they were too busy being people-I-know-from-long-ago to stop and say hi. He brought up the topic of worlds; i.e., unique intra/interpersonal spaces that simply don’t translate well to each other. Orthogonal existences, if you will. Example: relative to Danny, there’s the real world, the world of Danny spacing out, the world of Danny and Colleen, and the world of Danny and Aziz, the (very loose) principle being that none of these worlds really understands what the hell is going on with the others. I remarked that if Danny and I had our own world, it would definitely be Giant World from Mario 3. I later realized that both happened to be World Four, and my mind was blown. Danny and I were to see my recent obsession, Interpol, at the 9:30, but alas, they were sold out like some shit. I guess I can put the money towards an RIAA-legal copy of Turn On The Bright Lights, or perhaps new headphones. ::sniffle::

Music: Garbage – Drive You Home. I’m finally listening to BeautifulGarbage, and finding it pretty much the way I expected it to be: Butch Vig’s hyperproduced Breakup Album For The Masses, via the ever-sultry Angelfish herself. It’s pretty hard to swallow at times; I find it a little easier to listen to Violator and pretend Andy Fletcher is a woman. Reach out touch base, indeed. On a total sidenote, “Papa Was A Rolling Stone” is a fucking sweet song, and that’s as precise as I need to get to make you listen to it.


:: Aziz 4:15 AM [+] ::
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