I might post later again tonight since this isn't new material and because I want to try writing something happy. I like challenges. However, I was browsing through some old files and I came across this, and I was shocked to see how nicely it complements my current mood. This is something I wrote last year (two semesters ago) right before summer break. I had a rough school year- the roughest yet, to be sure- and I just couldn't wait to get home. If I would have kept a blog that year, it would have been TWICE as self-indulgent and pathetic as this one. So, here's the story of my year in a composition. I wrote it for a creative writing class. The assignment was something like, "Write about an object that triggered a change in you." I chose my Alexander statue. It might be a little confusing. The original paper helped establish time and perspective with italics. It's also a little TOO sacharine, a little corny at parts, too, but it's got that same rawness I've unleashed in a couple of these posts- always liberating. Oh, some background- Alexander the Great is my personal hero, always has been. I tried to represent my internal grievances and disappointment through an imagined dispute between myself and Alexander, who speaks through the statue. It's really a clash between the new and the old, the boy and the man.
The Statue and the Man
It’s time to go back to Fraser, time to spend hours, days, months getting sunburned with a good book in my hands, my hands growing black against the bleached pages. It’s time to see old high school friends, to pledge to jog every morning with them until fifteen pounds are gone, to pretend I haven’t changed. I’ll be back in my room soon to play my keyboard, resurrect my stereo, and fall asleep underneath dinosaur-themed curtains that should have been removed and replaced when I was at college, if not when I learned how to walk. I expect some awkwardness. That much is sure. My family will have to accommodate a new me, my friends will have to accept my changes, but they’ll learn, and we’ll make out all right.
But what of Alexander?
A statue sits in my room, a bust, to be precise, of Alexander the Great. It’s milky white, like a boiled oyster shell or like one buffed by eons of sandy undertows. I missed it while I was gone. At first, I could still feel its steely stare, calling me to greatness, asking me to pick up a sword and shield, showing me the glow of the unconquered, unseen horizon, just like I always had. I could feel it in everything I did. Certainty and resolve were my aegis. Ambition was my torch. I was going to be a scientist, a physicist, and I was going to find worlds within worlds.
Summer starts this Wednesday when I toss my computer and bike into my father’s van to again find Fraser and lemonade, and ice cream, and thunderstorms, and pools, and Frisbees. Friends, family, jobs, habits- all waiting for me to pick up where I left off, to jump back in.
But what of Alexander?
He’ll know. The man who sleeps beneath his gaze is a strange one. The person who dusts his shoulders is different, is foreign. The new man will avoid phone calls and family dinners; he’ll listen to his music louder than the boy of last summer did. He’ll dread tomorrow and his next two hour car ride upstate.
Slowly, things began to shrink- my ego, my ambition, my congeniality, my certainty, and my view of the ends of the earth. College showed me limits, college showed me reality. It took the spear out of my hand and replaced it with a job application. It removed my brothers-in-arms and substituted them for fat, droopy sacks- inhaling smoke and vodka and expelling puke and piss. The statue that I envisioned to be seated on my desk seemed smaller than the one I had at home, less detailed, less powerful, less magnificent. Shrunk.
Spring seemed to help a lot. In a last-ditch effort to fix my life at college, I obliterated my schedule. I could again feel the pricks of independence, and the short, excited, pulsating breaths they fostered. I started acing my classes and showing interest. No conqueror on my desk yet. I planned next year, science-free, tried making friends, consulted advisors, and applied for scholarships. Not even a helmet. Some wounds need more than a quick bandage.
I’ll be in the Upper Peninsula in June to paddle down crystal rivers, duel voracious salmon, and feel the tops of mountains under my toes. The jerky will be a salty delight; my flashlight, a scalpel to slice away the thick dark that hides most interesting creatures. I’ll breathe the same air, memorize the same tracks, and visit the same bait shops.
But what of Alexander?
He knows it’s no salvation or escape, only diversion. He’ll notice how the vistas produce shorter gasps; the sunsets, less sighs. The ghosts of the year will remain. Without wonder, all things, even nature, lose their luster.
Poker pots, used car lots, chocolate, and Slurpees.
Blockbusters, gut-busters, pool tables, “hello cable!”
Head pressed against the seat, I dream of heat, of barbequed meat,
Sand beneath my pale and shivering feet.
My computer and bike thump against the van walls.
They’re just as elated to escape Holmes Hall.
The frost of February, the dark of December,
These are the only things I remember.
With nothing to do, there was nothing to say.
So, I sat, silent, and wasted my life away.
Books and magazines! I’ll have time for the multitude. My library card is going to be scanned more than Paris Hilton’s American Express. There’s a fantastic, old swing that hides behind the building. If you can stand a splinter, you can find heaven. There, I’ll forget, delete, and dream.
But what of Alexander?
Books are great, but they can stifle life. They can leave you content with inaction, speculation, and indolence. Over the last eight months, they softened him with the brush of every page. Life shouldn’t be paper, but marble, white marble!
Curiously, I began to cherish the exams and the papers. Homework and studying were celebrations. They were privileges, divine invitations to do something.
There will be yelling and hugs and stories and shrugs. I can’t wait to see my family. We’ve been close all my life, confiding in one another, drawing strength from each other’s uncompromising individuality- our identity had always depended on how un-identical we were. Once again, I’ll have to sweep my sister’s teeny-bopper magazines out of my room and pry her cosmetics out of drawers. J.J., my brother will be gripping his football, clenching its laces, before I even set down my dirty clothes, and, of course, I’ll oblige him. My father will have a fruity, alcoholic beverage with three ice cubes bobbing in it, to raise at my return, and my mother will probably have too many bags, keys, coupons, papers, and order forms to really give me the over-solicitous pokes, prods, and embraces that all mothers are prone to.
But what of Alexander?
“Stand down, stand down, men! A welcome? Bah! Seize the interloper!”
Summer always fixes things, the student’s sanity-saver. Everyone fantasizes about chucking their back-pack into a cobwebbed corner. The crash of pool-side cannonballs is deafening before exams are even mentioned. No one can fight the call of summer. It’s when the sun and the earth finally see each other through the clear blue glass of warm skies and suddenly rejoice. Moreover, it’s that time of year when accomplishment and ambition, after building and developing all year, are finally bolted onto their final pedestal for all to see and marvel at. Diplomas and report cards last the whole summer, their radiance sufficient to condone all types of sloth and joy.
I scoffed at the honors college. Would a GPA reduction really keep this caboose on track? Harder classes and the challenges they brought were welcome to the intellect, but a deeper, more fundamental, side of my mind knew that I needed something else: renewed purpose, a jolt of ambition, a fire to set my spirits ablaze. No gold-leafed borders will encircle my name on the mantle this year.
I’m no Alexander.
He’s no conqueror, not anymore. Will he ever know marble, what it’s like to set enemies on fire with a stare or to launch thousands of men into oblivion and eternity with but a word? Summer offers him sleep, not success. The fire is on his skin, not in his heart. Let’s hope next summer, I find him more familiar.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Alterity
Week Two was a grind. I'm kind of comatose right now from all the Spanish. This post may or may not make sense.
Well, I fought it, and I fought it hard, but it's back. This disconnectedness, this black cloud that follows me. Things started getting overcast at about 11:00 PM, but I ignored it, showed some faith. But it's here, and it's a doozy, a downpour. This disconnectedness I feel, like there's no gravity, like I'm sliding off the world. And through it all, there's this sickening feeling, something akin to silent dread, disgusted shock at myself: if I woke up tomorrow with no one, in another country, I wouldn't care. I know it's just a feeling, and, therefore, something too fleeting to bring me to my knees, but it's getting close to crippling, and it's only been here for two days or so. Sometimes I feel like things just happen near me. The grades I get, the people I meet, the games I play, the things I say-they all just swirl around me, like an atmosphere of personality, one that could be dissipated by a cold front or a storm, a clean slate, a rejection of everything and everyone. They cling so tenuously.
I'd like to see all the big questions answered, especially "what are we supposed to live for?". Lately, people seem to be embracing an sort of eudaimonism, a "live for happiness. Live for yourself." I can't agree. I can't see the point of such a life, just like I can't see the point of having a point. My eyes are glazing here. Is this growing up? It feels like being mummified.
There are some pretty girls on this floor. I was trying to smile more, to take extra long to open my door in hopes of an impromptu run-in with one, and now I don't care to remember their names. Just. Like. That.
I have this friend. He's been here for two years. I've known him a long time. I see him quite a bunch. Last year, some girl really fucked him up. Dumped him for one of his friends he'd known since high school, and then came back to him, vacillating between the two at least three times. Before I came here, I told a mutual friend of ours that I'd help this guy "rejoin the world." Pretty words from an idiot with no sense of irony.
My roommate is a good guy. Guys are so leery of showing any kind of encouragement or praise for one another. I think it's because society has hunted the ego to extinction. One is embarrassed just to use the word "I". We're snorted at for talking about ourselves, praising ourselves, being excited for ourselves. Could it be traceable to the American Way- the competition, the pressure, the stress, the feelings of inadequacy? Maybe. Or maybe it's something more current, more concrete. Americans used to be renowned for their manliness, their swagger, their confidence, their long-striding, coon-cap wearing pioneers. Now, we're plagued by a sheepishness stemming from all the international animosity we've incurred. We're shaken. Our men wear girl pants now. David Bowie penned the writing on the wall. I'm sure the concurrent gender confusion is pertinent to this debate, as well. Gender is as much a choice for today's man as what type of car he wants to drive. Anyways, Joe seems to have that confidence that so many have lost. He'll tell guys to relax, to take a break, that they're working too hard, instead of hurling epithets or doubts regarding the guy's penis length. He doesn't strike when a flaw is betrayed. Take my other friend. He's been hounding me with texts lately to hang out. I've known him for awhile. He came over yesterday with some of his girl friends. Nervous and surprised, my tongue got wound in knot of Gordian proportions, and instead of bailing me out, switching the topic, defusing the awkwardness, my friend moves in for the kill, socially slaying me in front of the ladies. Maybe this is an analogue to the time-honoured cock fight. Now that assault is a fine, men fight over women with sharp tongues, not blades. Joe wouldn't do that. I like that.
"Just do, Alex. Don't think. Run in, guns a'blazing, and DO." I was doing that at first. It was working, even with everyone pegging me with questions of how I was liking my new school. "It's different," was all I said (lame answer, I know.). But I can't poke a hole in this cloud with insouciance, with living-in-the moment. It's only a strategy that works for those who have something to enjoy, who already have a clear mind. It's preventive, not restorative. It's an anti-fogger, not a window scraper.
Sartre talked about 'beings-in-themselves' and how humans naturally want to become one. An example of someone acting on that urge is a waiter who impersonates the ideal waiter. He bows like a waiter should, smiles like a waiter should, looks like a waiter should. He's no longer Joe Schmo, he's a waiter. These 'things-in-themselves' are like rocks. We long to be rocks. No needs, wants, motives, thoughts, just a pure ontological satisfaction. Maybe this is the horror that marshals the dark clouds. Maybe this is what I hate, why I can't tell counselors one career option. I don't want to be a 'being-in-itself'. Not a waiter, or a writer, or a lawyer, or a philosopher. I want to be a 'being-for-itself'. Haha, or maybe this is just a very eloquent excuse from a lazy asshole.
Keeping up with this Gloomsday Report, Sharks beat the Wings yesterday in a 6-5 victory. BUT, most of my favorite Wings picked up a point, which is always the consolation prize in a high-scoring defeat.
I can't talk about classes right now. I'll go into cardiac arrest.
Winter is like solitary confinement. Not only does it actually confine you to your room with the extreme temperatures, but it also denudes your senses. It's a room with white-padded walls. There's no smells, sights, tastes, feelings, or sounds. The cold and the snow mask, cover, dull, numb, and dampen each one respectively. My robust winter jacket is even starting to feel more like a straight jacket. My mind is rotting.
Browsing through my memories, I can't think of one person I'd like to be talking to right now. Ever get mad hunger, but you just don't know for what? Shit, I could extend this to just about anything.
I love people until I get to know them, like books- I won't read them twice. Once I know what some one's about, what makes them click, I move on. Could I be the most fucked up person on earth? Possibly. Other interpretations of this phenomenon: I get so fucking angry to see someone with a personality, a good grasp of who they are, a mission, opinions they believe wholeheartedly, and I get jealous. Yep.
Well, I fought it, and I fought it hard, but it's back. This disconnectedness, this black cloud that follows me. Things started getting overcast at about 11:00 PM, but I ignored it, showed some faith. But it's here, and it's a doozy, a downpour. This disconnectedness I feel, like there's no gravity, like I'm sliding off the world. And through it all, there's this sickening feeling, something akin to silent dread, disgusted shock at myself: if I woke up tomorrow with no one, in another country, I wouldn't care. I know it's just a feeling, and, therefore, something too fleeting to bring me to my knees, but it's getting close to crippling, and it's only been here for two days or so. Sometimes I feel like things just happen near me. The grades I get, the people I meet, the games I play, the things I say-they all just swirl around me, like an atmosphere of personality, one that could be dissipated by a cold front or a storm, a clean slate, a rejection of everything and everyone. They cling so tenuously.
I'd like to see all the big questions answered, especially "what are we supposed to live for?". Lately, people seem to be embracing an sort of eudaimonism, a "live for happiness. Live for yourself." I can't agree. I can't see the point of such a life, just like I can't see the point of having a point. My eyes are glazing here. Is this growing up? It feels like being mummified.
There are some pretty girls on this floor. I was trying to smile more, to take extra long to open my door in hopes of an impromptu run-in with one, and now I don't care to remember their names. Just. Like. That.
I have this friend. He's been here for two years. I've known him a long time. I see him quite a bunch. Last year, some girl really fucked him up. Dumped him for one of his friends he'd known since high school, and then came back to him, vacillating between the two at least three times. Before I came here, I told a mutual friend of ours that I'd help this guy "rejoin the world." Pretty words from an idiot with no sense of irony.
My roommate is a good guy. Guys are so leery of showing any kind of encouragement or praise for one another. I think it's because society has hunted the ego to extinction. One is embarrassed just to use the word "I". We're snorted at for talking about ourselves, praising ourselves, being excited for ourselves. Could it be traceable to the American Way- the competition, the pressure, the stress, the feelings of inadequacy? Maybe. Or maybe it's something more current, more concrete. Americans used to be renowned for their manliness, their swagger, their confidence, their long-striding, coon-cap wearing pioneers. Now, we're plagued by a sheepishness stemming from all the international animosity we've incurred. We're shaken. Our men wear girl pants now. David Bowie penned the writing on the wall. I'm sure the concurrent gender confusion is pertinent to this debate, as well. Gender is as much a choice for today's man as what type of car he wants to drive. Anyways, Joe seems to have that confidence that so many have lost. He'll tell guys to relax, to take a break, that they're working too hard, instead of hurling epithets or doubts regarding the guy's penis length. He doesn't strike when a flaw is betrayed. Take my other friend. He's been hounding me with texts lately to hang out. I've known him for awhile. He came over yesterday with some of his girl friends. Nervous and surprised, my tongue got wound in knot of Gordian proportions, and instead of bailing me out, switching the topic, defusing the awkwardness, my friend moves in for the kill, socially slaying me in front of the ladies. Maybe this is an analogue to the time-honoured cock fight. Now that assault is a fine, men fight over women with sharp tongues, not blades. Joe wouldn't do that. I like that.
"Just do, Alex. Don't think. Run in, guns a'blazing, and DO." I was doing that at first. It was working, even with everyone pegging me with questions of how I was liking my new school. "It's different," was all I said (lame answer, I know.). But I can't poke a hole in this cloud with insouciance, with living-in-the moment. It's only a strategy that works for those who have something to enjoy, who already have a clear mind. It's preventive, not restorative. It's an anti-fogger, not a window scraper.
Sartre talked about 'beings-in-themselves' and how humans naturally want to become one. An example of someone acting on that urge is a waiter who impersonates the ideal waiter. He bows like a waiter should, smiles like a waiter should, looks like a waiter should. He's no longer Joe Schmo, he's a waiter. These 'things-in-themselves' are like rocks. We long to be rocks. No needs, wants, motives, thoughts, just a pure ontological satisfaction. Maybe this is the horror that marshals the dark clouds. Maybe this is what I hate, why I can't tell counselors one career option. I don't want to be a 'being-in-itself'. Not a waiter, or a writer, or a lawyer, or a philosopher. I want to be a 'being-for-itself'. Haha, or maybe this is just a very eloquent excuse from a lazy asshole.
Keeping up with this Gloomsday Report, Sharks beat the Wings yesterday in a 6-5 victory. BUT, most of my favorite Wings picked up a point, which is always the consolation prize in a high-scoring defeat.
I can't talk about classes right now. I'll go into cardiac arrest.
Winter is like solitary confinement. Not only does it actually confine you to your room with the extreme temperatures, but it also denudes your senses. It's a room with white-padded walls. There's no smells, sights, tastes, feelings, or sounds. The cold and the snow mask, cover, dull, numb, and dampen each one respectively. My robust winter jacket is even starting to feel more like a straight jacket. My mind is rotting.
Browsing through my memories, I can't think of one person I'd like to be talking to right now. Ever get mad hunger, but you just don't know for what? Shit, I could extend this to just about anything.
I love people until I get to know them, like books- I won't read them twice. Once I know what some one's about, what makes them click, I move on. Could I be the most fucked up person on earth? Possibly. Other interpretations of this phenomenon: I get so fucking angry to see someone with a personality, a good grasp of who they are, a mission, opinions they believe wholeheartedly, and I get jealous. Yep.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Bildungsroman
Happy New Year!
Well, I think I've waited long enough, so I'll just dive right into this. I wanted to give myself a full week here before an entry, so now that I have, here it is. This entry might seem routine, but I guess it should. I have a lot to cover.
I'm here in Ann Arbor. There's about four inches of snow on the ground, and they're calling for up to ten more. My room is cluttered, cozy, and sandwiched between at least three girl rooms on each side. Our room overlooks a frat house and some other equally raucous buildings. People watching has never been so easy. Our Xbox Live is up and running. My roommate and I played for about six hours yesterday. Though I promised myself not to play it the first week, I let it slide on account of the male bonding it facilitated. I know the system. I've got a good feel for the place. It's not too tricky of a campus. Smaller than state, getting to class isn't really a problem. Finding them is. The buildings seem tossed around this campus like a bunch of toy soldiers spilled onto the floor. Sometimes I feel more like an archaeologist amongst ruins than a student. This hall really sucks. Location-wise, it's just about perfect. I'm close to everything I need to be close to. It's the people. My building is actually a residential college. I've been in these before, but none as quiet and dead as this one. The RA's are Nazis. They all patrol en masse,like a pack of junkyard dogs, probably to keep their courage up, seeking and destroying anything above 80 decibels. I couldn't even play video games last night past eleven with the door open. They told me it was "quiet hours" and that I had to stop. There's a lot of building going on around here. Every other plot is a construction site. Yesterday, there were two men goofing around. One was up on the scaffolding, and one was below, dodging back and forth while his friend above threatened to drop a wrench on his head. "Oh shit!" the guy said when his wrench slipped out of his fingers. I quickly turned to watch the hapless ground crew guy get impaled, but he was fine and evidently as surprised as me. He looked up with a confused look, laughter booming from the jackass on the scaffolding. "Hur hur, you won't believe this, but it went right down the stink hole!" Three seconds later, an absolutely LIVID construction worker erupts from the adjacent outhouse, nursing his arm. Tee hee.
Classes are awful. I tested into fourth semester Spanish here, as I'm sure I've said, and I'm starting to have some serious doubts. If my instructor wasn't so damn nice, I'd have dropped before we exchanged "Holas". On the plus side, I think we're all equally confused. It's not us who are driving this train, though. I have an American Cultures class, too, that I couldn't escape due to this stupidfuckingdamn "Race and Ethnicity" requirement this institution is so proud of. On thursdays, I have to sit through a two hour discussion. It's led by this Peruvian Martha Stewart who drones on and on, spit-balling with us like it's fucking talk radio. Typically, she'll just look around, nod, and then introduce some broad, controversial concept like capitalism. She'll say, "Capitalism...," then pause, waiting for some irrational tirade from her circle of victims. I can't stand classes like that. Make a lesson plan, don't waste my money. You provide the fucking service for me. After that, there's a freshmen writing class, which is going to be the most banal bullshit imaginable, and an English course on the coming of age novel, probably the only class I like. There's a really cute girl in there who claims to be a master of Taekwondo. I'd probably let her roundhouse kick me. I kind of destroyed any hopes of making friends in that class, though, when the instructor asked me to explain the plot of "Dune," which might be the nerdiest work of fiction ever. My explanation went something like this, "Well, the Atreides clan recieves dominion over the desert planet Arrakis from the Padishah emperor of the Corrino line. However, the prievious hosts, the Harkonnen clan, were really colluding with the emperor to trap the Atreides there and murder them. When the duke is murdered, his son, Paul Atreides, must assume leadership over the native people, the Fremen, and fulfil his destiny as the Kwisatz Haderach, a sort of messiah foretold by the Bene Gesserit order, to conquer the universe." And her answer,"....Well, yeah, sure. That sounds like a coming of age novel to me..." After that, we started talking about Charles Dickens and Jane Austen. So, there ya go, Frank Herbert. You write classics in my book!
I haven't been eating much. Most people pile it on when they're stressed. I'd say I do the exact opposite. This week, it's been pills for breakfast (Supplements, people! Don't worry!), oranges to keep from fainting, and then dinner at like 7:30.
My roommate is a really nice guy. His name's Joe. He's a Jew from St. Louis. A jolly fellow, he's usually sitting at his desk watching anime or playing Xbox with me. I accidentally told him that the cafeteria really "Jewed me on the piece of salmon they put on my plate," but he just laughed. He's not really the type to jump on the defensive when the opportunity presents itself. He's easy going. Yesterday, he joined me and my friend Alex on a tour of Ann Arbor, the second of many I'll probably take. Ever wonder how a city can have so many restraunts? Like, how can all of them profit? From the little chicken shacks, to the plush cafes, there's at least ten of every kind of restaurant here. It must have something to do with where they're located. They all must be perfectly spread out for each one to own all the business in its little hungry ward. However, I've seen pizza places not fifty feet apart, as well. Hmmmmm.
Another good thing about Joe, he likes metal. My first roommate was more into banjos and thugs; my second, whatever Billboard told him to be into. Yesterday, Joe was listening to Steve Vai, which was duly noted by me.
The shower heads here come up to about my nipple. So, fetus-like, I'm forced to double over to wash anything above my stomach. I know this hall is really old, and 6'0 men were a little less common back in the FDR administration. Hm, either way, I think I'm going to look for a YMCA when it comes time for my conditioner (I really have to rub this one in under a constant stream of hot water.)
This Ipod is excellent. After a week of stealing software, I finally threw up my hands and bought a reputable program to convert my music files. Once it was over, my regret was extinguished. I feel like I'm in a movie where all the long walking scenes have the perfect companion from the soundtrack. That's what Ipods do! They give your life a soundtrack! Pretty awesome. This one also has Wi-Fi capablities, which I originally scoffed at as just one other stupid gimmick feature that all the techies would marvel at, but it has been useful and fun! Yesterday, when I was lost, I accessed my school's website for a map. While waiting for class, I scour youtube for funny videos. I like having strangers hear me laugh. I think it's the perfect introduction. I've tried to laugh before every class I have because it can say so much so well, "I'm cheerful. I have a sense of humor. I'm a little goofy. I'm not quiet. I don't really care what people think. I enjoy the little things." You know, all the basic steps in the small talk dance.
Am I adjusting well? As well as I can. Do I like it more here? Not yet, but I think I will. Confident? No. Happy? No. Optimistic? For the first time in a long time, yes.
Well, I think I've waited long enough, so I'll just dive right into this. I wanted to give myself a full week here before an entry, so now that I have, here it is. This entry might seem routine, but I guess it should. I have a lot to cover.
I'm here in Ann Arbor. There's about four inches of snow on the ground, and they're calling for up to ten more. My room is cluttered, cozy, and sandwiched between at least three girl rooms on each side. Our room overlooks a frat house and some other equally raucous buildings. People watching has never been so easy. Our Xbox Live is up and running. My roommate and I played for about six hours yesterday. Though I promised myself not to play it the first week, I let it slide on account of the male bonding it facilitated. I know the system. I've got a good feel for the place. It's not too tricky of a campus. Smaller than state, getting to class isn't really a problem. Finding them is. The buildings seem tossed around this campus like a bunch of toy soldiers spilled onto the floor. Sometimes I feel more like an archaeologist amongst ruins than a student. This hall really sucks. Location-wise, it's just about perfect. I'm close to everything I need to be close to. It's the people. My building is actually a residential college. I've been in these before, but none as quiet and dead as this one. The RA's are Nazis. They all patrol en masse,like a pack of junkyard dogs, probably to keep their courage up, seeking and destroying anything above 80 decibels. I couldn't even play video games last night past eleven with the door open. They told me it was "quiet hours" and that I had to stop. There's a lot of building going on around here. Every other plot is a construction site. Yesterday, there were two men goofing around. One was up on the scaffolding, and one was below, dodging back and forth while his friend above threatened to drop a wrench on his head. "Oh shit!" the guy said when his wrench slipped out of his fingers. I quickly turned to watch the hapless ground crew guy get impaled, but he was fine and evidently as surprised as me. He looked up with a confused look, laughter booming from the jackass on the scaffolding. "Hur hur, you won't believe this, but it went right down the stink hole!" Three seconds later, an absolutely LIVID construction worker erupts from the adjacent outhouse, nursing his arm. Tee hee.
Classes are awful. I tested into fourth semester Spanish here, as I'm sure I've said, and I'm starting to have some serious doubts. If my instructor wasn't so damn nice, I'd have dropped before we exchanged "Holas". On the plus side, I think we're all equally confused. It's not us who are driving this train, though. I have an American Cultures class, too, that I couldn't escape due to this stupidfuckingdamn "Race and Ethnicity" requirement this institution is so proud of. On thursdays, I have to sit through a two hour discussion. It's led by this Peruvian Martha Stewart who drones on and on, spit-balling with us like it's fucking talk radio. Typically, she'll just look around, nod, and then introduce some broad, controversial concept like capitalism. She'll say, "Capitalism...," then pause, waiting for some irrational tirade from her circle of victims. I can't stand classes like that. Make a lesson plan, don't waste my money. You provide the fucking service for me. After that, there's a freshmen writing class, which is going to be the most banal bullshit imaginable, and an English course on the coming of age novel, probably the only class I like. There's a really cute girl in there who claims to be a master of Taekwondo. I'd probably let her roundhouse kick me. I kind of destroyed any hopes of making friends in that class, though, when the instructor asked me to explain the plot of "Dune," which might be the nerdiest work of fiction ever. My explanation went something like this, "Well, the Atreides clan recieves dominion over the desert planet Arrakis from the Padishah emperor of the Corrino line. However, the prievious hosts, the Harkonnen clan, were really colluding with the emperor to trap the Atreides there and murder them. When the duke is murdered, his son, Paul Atreides, must assume leadership over the native people, the Fremen, and fulfil his destiny as the Kwisatz Haderach, a sort of messiah foretold by the Bene Gesserit order, to conquer the universe." And her answer,"....Well, yeah, sure. That sounds like a coming of age novel to me..." After that, we started talking about Charles Dickens and Jane Austen. So, there ya go, Frank Herbert. You write classics in my book!
I haven't been eating much. Most people pile it on when they're stressed. I'd say I do the exact opposite. This week, it's been pills for breakfast (Supplements, people! Don't worry!), oranges to keep from fainting, and then dinner at like 7:30.
My roommate is a really nice guy. His name's Joe. He's a Jew from St. Louis. A jolly fellow, he's usually sitting at his desk watching anime or playing Xbox with me. I accidentally told him that the cafeteria really "Jewed me on the piece of salmon they put on my plate," but he just laughed. He's not really the type to jump on the defensive when the opportunity presents itself. He's easy going. Yesterday, he joined me and my friend Alex on a tour of Ann Arbor, the second of many I'll probably take. Ever wonder how a city can have so many restraunts? Like, how can all of them profit? From the little chicken shacks, to the plush cafes, there's at least ten of every kind of restaurant here. It must have something to do with where they're located. They all must be perfectly spread out for each one to own all the business in its little hungry ward. However, I've seen pizza places not fifty feet apart, as well. Hmmmmm.
Another good thing about Joe, he likes metal. My first roommate was more into banjos and thugs; my second, whatever Billboard told him to be into. Yesterday, Joe was listening to Steve Vai, which was duly noted by me.
The shower heads here come up to about my nipple. So, fetus-like, I'm forced to double over to wash anything above my stomach. I know this hall is really old, and 6'0 men were a little less common back in the FDR administration. Hm, either way, I think I'm going to look for a YMCA when it comes time for my conditioner (I really have to rub this one in under a constant stream of hot water.)
This Ipod is excellent. After a week of stealing software, I finally threw up my hands and bought a reputable program to convert my music files. Once it was over, my regret was extinguished. I feel like I'm in a movie where all the long walking scenes have the perfect companion from the soundtrack. That's what Ipods do! They give your life a soundtrack! Pretty awesome. This one also has Wi-Fi capablities, which I originally scoffed at as just one other stupid gimmick feature that all the techies would marvel at, but it has been useful and fun! Yesterday, when I was lost, I accessed my school's website for a map. While waiting for class, I scour youtube for funny videos. I like having strangers hear me laugh. I think it's the perfect introduction. I've tried to laugh before every class I have because it can say so much so well, "I'm cheerful. I have a sense of humor. I'm a little goofy. I'm not quiet. I don't really care what people think. I enjoy the little things." You know, all the basic steps in the small talk dance.
Am I adjusting well? As well as I can. Do I like it more here? Not yet, but I think I will. Confident? No. Happy? No. Optimistic? For the first time in a long time, yes.
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