Calm

A lot has happened

I didn't get the Wolverine Summer Camps job that I wanted. Oh, well. I hope some suit-wearing prick got it instead, and I hope he's playing on his Iphone when some kid breaks a leg on the volleyball court.

This is finals time. They (I'm still saying "they"?) have a study week. It's pretty neat. At State, you had a weekend, and then finals week. So, since my classes are jokes, I'm just kind of chilling. I have a paper to write tomorrow, but I'm not that worried about it. I can do no wrong in that class. Anyone with a grasp of punctuation and command over a couple transitions (WHOA! TRANSITIONS, HOLY SHIT!) can ace the papers. If I'm feeling sprightly, I might conjure up a couple more tricks for this one. You know, it being the final paper and all. I might use a colon or two, maybe a parenthesis.

Spanish has kind of been pissing me off. We just had an oral exam. My partner got a 94% and I got an 89%. I guess she showed me up. It should be okay, I have great grades on the written exams. I don't know, there's just something about speaking Spanish. My mind is like a whiteboard. I see the phrases in-print, and I just sort of read them off. I'm like the Spanish Forrest Gump. I speak SO slow and SO deliberately.

There's this really cool song by Metric that I've been listening to non-stop. It's called "Help, I'm alive". Neat beat, very danceable. Great production (some have actually criticized it for this) Awesome vocals.

My friend, Franz, has a new "prospect" (his word. I call it a "cute girl"). Susan and I met her today. I want to give him a high-five right now.

Joe has been sick. Susan and I dragged him to a party last night. He was fine. He really hit it off with this one guy by the entrance. Then, as we're leaving, it looks like Joe is having his testicles chewed by a crocodile. By the time we get back to the dorm, he's popping pills and cancelling study sessions. Today, it was all sweat pants and day-time T.V. It's funny. He has like a sick suit. When he's REALLY hung over or otherwise ill, he puts on these grey sweatpants and matching sweater.

Over the last month, I've been calling in to this on-campus sex-themed talk show "Turned On." They actually have a blog on blogspot. I just prank them stupid with the most lewd shit you can imagine. Whenever I do it, I channel the voice of Carl Brutanandilewski from Aqua Team Hunger Force, which I don't even like that much. At any rate, he has a great voice for vile calls.

Susan is a dream come true. I'm madly in love with her. I brought her home for Greek Orthodox mass. Any shiksa who goes to that service deserves their own holiday. She said she had fun, though.

Here's a really good picture of us. It was taken yesterday.

Well, I'm a philosophy major now-on paper, at least.

My Red Wings have been destroying the Columbus Blue Jackets. They're primed for another parade. The Shark Tank has been punctured, and they're choking on cold, hard, air and their own suck. Funny, I had them going further. Boston swept, like I predicted. The Rangers are winning in the Capitals series, which is an ENORMOUS shocker to me. Sorry, Ovie :/ However, Ovie's attitute has been a little vociferous, a little too confrontational lately. Usually, he's content to just chest-bump the boards whenever he displays some on-ice bravura, but lately, he's been showing up to early morning practice sessions for the opposition. He got kicked out of one. When asked why, he said, "Because they're afraid of me." I really hope Datsyuk beats out his countryment for the Hart. He might be the best player in the NHL. Though his numbers aren't as great as Malkin's or Ovechkin's, bear in mind, Pavel skates against the top lines of the enemy, like on the penalty kill, and he skates far less than Malkin and Ovechkin. So, for what quality point-earning time he gets, I feel he makes the most out of it, more than Malkin or Ovechkin.

Susan's birthday was monday. I took her to the Macaroni Grille, and it was fantastic. Like an Olive Garden, only a bit nicer (almost identical, actually). I got her a Wolverine Ice Hockey jersey. It's a small, and she's swimming in it. She loved it, though, and, I have to admit, she's dashing in it. Yellow really complements her dark hair and eyes. Before I gave it to her, I dragged her in front of my mirror and made her shut her eyes. Then, I browsed through my closet for about ten minutes, just to build the anticipation. When it looked like she couldn't take it anymore, I grabbed the jersey and slipped it over her.

We've grown since my last post

I won't mince words: Susan is the best thing to ever happen to me.

Well, that's all for now.

I build it up to get it knocked down. I'm treading water. Not drowning, not swimming. Watching everyone else disappear on the horizon like freighters on Lake Huron while I fight the weeds around my legs. And I know, I know, that the slightest look from her can make it all go away. That the cloud can disperse, that I can be rooted, anchored to this world I'm spinning off of at terminal velocity.

Is that bad? That someone has this control. That I'm owned. That I can't make things better for myself. That I need someone to flick the switch, to tell me I exist "for a reason", that there's a place for me, that I'm great, that the world is lucky to have me.

And how much worse is it that I can't believe her? That I have to watch her say the most beautiful things and still take them with a grain of salt? I hate this filter everything has to slide through to get in my brain. The truth is putty. It's taffy. I love playing with it.

And, still, I'm getting ready to go drift through the same summer air currents, press my tired legs against cold porch concrete, nylon hammock, cotton blanket. Cushioning, stifling, stultifying.

There's a bunch of paradoxes I can't understand about myself. Knots that keep me so constricted, but can't be untied. I want to be a part of something, but I simultaneously despise any kind of organization, with their fucking name-tags, people saying, "resume builder!", and hours sheets. I want to be something great, but I can give it all up.

I need to decide for what and why I want to live.

My girlfriend is going away for awhile. But it's okay, we'll talk once a week, and I'll bum a ride off my parents to drive me half-way to some fucking diner to meet her for coffee.

I couldn't be more miserable.

Back to the same god damn, mother fucking, sorry-assed, piece-of-shit job. I'm the only person who can't make things better for himself. Everyone else can FIND things. People, scholarships, money, jobs. I sit with my thumb up my ass, blind to the world, groping my way through life.

Just when I think I could fade out, cease to exist, I find that I suddenly love life, more than anyone else. I'm an accordion, I'm a jump-rope, I'm a roller coaster, I'm a wave, I'm a string vibration, I'm a yo-yo, I'm a ship hull, I'm the sun, I'm a thermometer, I'm a volcano.

I'd rather be blind, deaf, and dumb than mediocre. I'd rather just succumb, just beat my brains out with alcohol and drugs, than spend my life like a dog trying to walk on two legs.

I need to leave and be alone. I need 5000 dollars to fall into my lap, and then I need to get out of here.

I have done nothing. I've met no one. I've written nothing. I've created nothing. I've said nothing. I'm treading water.

I fucking hate this school, too. I hate them all. They're a scam, a callous business, a piece of this world.

I hate this fucking post. It's terrible. Anyone could have written it. It's self-indulgent, it's angsty. It's seventeen-years-old. It's juvenile, it's puerile, it's pointless, it's selfish, it's ignorant, it's whiny, it's lazy, it's disgusting.

I think I've been depressed for awhile. I ignored it. I just thought I was weak (not saying I'm not). But I've been crushed like this before.

I'm at the bottom of a valley and the sky is black. The mountains are infinite and the land is barren. Guess I'll just stay for three more fucking years.

Coming here was a mistake. I lost a year. Even more, I lost a degree. I'm repeating things, I'm learning NOTHING. I'm learning not to think for myself, not to make decisions, because I'm always so fucking wrong.

I'm looking at a picture of me right now. I'm smiling. I want to vomit. As if the party could coax some happiness out of me? As if that was "what I needed"? I could sit here in this room for the rest of my life.

Something is wired wrong. Which wire can I cut?

And all this sadness, it's just not productive. It'll wrench my mind away from the things that could save it, it will keep it hopelessly dithering in my fear. I'll just keep sitting here, shaking at myself, trembling out of fear and rage.

Can I just have my fucking office job now? Can I just start dressing business-casual? Can I just start living for the water cooler chats? Can I just stare at a screen, make enough money to live, and then go home and be away from everyone and everything? Can I just be separate, at last?

Every time I laugh, I want to cut my vocal cords out. I would laugh. I have nothing to lose, I'm fucking daft. Those are the people who laugh like I do. The one's who are just too depressed to stop. Because what happens then? Well, it's not very funny.

How much money do I have to waste on myself? Enough to get professional help? Enough to go do something? To get an exciting internship? I'd burn it. I'll starve. I don't care.

How far can I go? Tell me, I'll go.

The more people I bring in, the more people I hurt. They're cockle burs. They cling to me, only to be deposited in a big pile of shit. Oh, I'm real good at latching them. I'm so fucking funny, and charming, and playful, and fun. You should see them fall. They jump right on to my sleeve.

I can't talk to anyone. They all remind me of things I hate to much. Home, this school, my past self, my future self. Being human has been hard.

Fuck this record. I knew "The Bends" would make me do this.

The Turn of the Tide?

Class was cancelled today, so I get an hour to doof around. I thought I should spend it on here. I have not been fair, my dear friend. We have grown apart, and I fear it's my fault.

Things have been good. Spanish is manageable. The key to college is figuring out what you can ignore. In my case, there are two classes I can virtually ignore: American Cultures 201 and English 124. I still go to them-skipping has always seemed too intoxicating to try- but I put virtually no effort into them. By sticking my head in the sand once in awhile, I've been able to free up a lot of time for myself, time to watch viral videos and read magazines. Today, I watched four face plants in succession and read about the fog forests of Chile. It was cool: as I read about the fog forests, my pages started to get soggy (the humidity is over 100% today. This asshole needs an umbrella). It seemed staged almost.

As the campus warms up, all the hibernating hippies start to bloom. One has to edge around the drum circles to resist the pull of peace. I've seen some other stuff, too. I watched a scrawny little dude climb an oak, all while his friends pelted him with Frisbees. I saw a massive Nerf gun war. Man have Nerf guns changed. They have loadable clips now. You should have seen the murderous smirk on this one kid's face when he popped out his clip like some kind of action hero. Before he could launch a Nerf grenade or grunt a one-liner ("I'm sending you foam" would have done nicely), his friend began batting him with an open umbrella, Nerf dart shrapnel ricocheting in every direction. Freaks, I tell you. In addition to the freaks, there has been a huge explosion in food vendors. This is a good thing. There's a tamale lady on my way to class. Once I make it to the ATM, she's going to need a separate cart just for me. Spring is doing a lot for us, melting our icy exteriors, clearing the haze, even if we are getting a little congested from the new allergens floating around. It's doing wonders for me, at the very least. Two days ago, the sun was dipping over a really pretty arch I walk under, and I was listening to some song. I think it was "Idioteque" by Radiohead. Awesome. Moments like that keep me around. Should I be inured by a constant, pleasant climate, I think I'd miss times like that. You need the bad to appreciate the good sometimes. I'll be down to my standard T-shirt and cargo shorts soon, and I'll settle into what I am yet again. I do change quite a bit after the school year is over. But I'll save a later post for an ode to summer. There are other things to discuss.

I am falling in love. Is it ever expected? Don't we all think it will never happen? Should we nourish it? Do we let it grow on its own? Isn't that the only way to prove it's real? How do I know I'm there in the first place? Susan has slid into my life like an arm into a sleeve after dropping into it like a meteor. It was almost like I didn't have time to be wary or uncomfortable around her. It was like fate said,"It's going to happen, so why not just skip all the pointless awkwardness?" But now that she's here, she's like a natural, organic part. She's the only person I can't seem to get sick of. I've mentioned it before: I get really weary of company, everyone, my best friends and family. I kept waiting for her to touch a nerve, get too close, hang around too long, but it never happened. I take her with me everywhere- the gym, the library, the cafeteria, the town, the laundry rooms, the computer labs. She's omnipresent. She's an enhancement, like music or food; she just makes everything better, every setting. EVERYONE loves her, in fact, including ex-boyfriends. One sent her a three-page, handwritten letter, another calls her up regularly and tells her they're going to get married. It's like a personality cult or something. I couldn't be happier about her.

But I'm not fixed, far from it. And it's heartbreaking to admit because I thought the problem was a problem of a "someone" that wasn't there. While I've told Susan that she keeps me connected to the world, a sort of liaison between myself and the stuff I all to easily drift away from, there's still something keeping me from being happy. John Muir once said, "I was on the the world, but was I in it?" I think about that quote almost every day. I don't know enough about him to call him my personal hero, but the more I learn the more I think I might start. We're both avid wilderness trekkers, and it seems like he and I have a mutual problem. Sometimes, when I'm really, really, bone crushingly, rocking back and forth sad, I say to myself, "There's nothing here for me." What if that's true? What if this store just doesn't have what I need in stock? Ever look at those giant lists of occupations or hobbies? Ever take the bull by the horns and just systematically build your life? I do it all the time, and my hand hurts from all the slashes I've made. And when I've scratched off nearly every profession, I'm left with the same dismal prospects: writer, historian, classicist, journalist, columnist, conservationist, environmental lawyer, professor. I haven't lived enough to really know, but nothing on this list really grabs me. These decisions are supposed to be so magical, so powerful, almost like you're getting claimed, like it's not even you that's making the decision (Think Sorting Hat or Excalibur). And yet, here I sit, making pros and cons tables, looking at salary charts, markets, brass tacks, bare facts, nuts and bolts, practical, pragmatic, rational BULL SHIT. Nothing in me leaps when I think about the future. Nothing lights up. God, what I wouldn't give to just know something for once, deep down in my gut, with intuition and certainty. My decision needs to come soon. There's no more excuses. I'm not new here anymore, and I'm certainly not young, not really. And then there's the question of whether or not this is even that important. Is a job just a job? Well, I guess it is for some people. Maybe I'm going at this the wrong way? Maybe I should find something safe, secure, and lucrative so I can enjoy my life in the spaces between.

This library is freaking raucous as hell. There's a black dude with a tie-dye knit cap singing and dancing at his work station like he's from an iPod commercial. There's frenetic, hysterical freshmen wringing each other out for forgetting their part of the project, saying things like, "We're fucked, man. WE'RE FUCKED." I see people on facebook, espn.com, yahoo, and wikipedia. There's mugs, thermoses, cups, and bowls. I need to leave, probably. I can't focus.

All in all, though, there's pretty much no drama in my life. That would be a good thing if it didn't mean there's also a dearth of stories. Those are my favorite things to write about. Hmmm, well there are some, but don't know how I could put them here... Maybe I should have kept this private...Well, if they get better, I'll consider taking this underground. I could devote this whole thing to stories.

Oh, I interviewed for a Wolverine summer camp job last weekend. I kicked ass, I think. It's a great job: Free room and board, decent weekly stipend, easy and fun work. I showed up in a T-shirt with a nominal collar and some jeans. The fuckers on my right and left looked like they were about to complain about the 90% tax on their bonuses. The women were sharp, too. Skirts and blouses.

I've been listening to different music this year. January was Radiohead month. February was kind of different. I tried listening to some blues, like the Black Keys, Elmore James, Muddy Waters, John Lee Hooker, Ry Cooder. March has been REALLY scrambled. I went to a Wynton Marsalis concert with Franz, which made me delve into my jazz stuff for a week. I have a lot of Charlie Parker, Miles Davis, and John Coltrane on here, as far as bebop goes, but I also have a bunch of other saxophonists that I'm just now remembering. After that, I found this album from Britain by a group called Grammatics (their album is self-titled). It's fucking awesome, every track. Try to steal it. Yesterday, new albums from The Decemberists and Mastodon came out. I've listened to the former, and I can't get my hands on the latter yet. More stuff is on the way, though.

Things are getting better, but I don't know for how long or for what reason, actually. I'm nervous, but I don't think I'm going to think about all this anymore. There's enough here for me to enjoy right now, and I'm going to do just that.

Plot Dump

I'm sick as hell. I think my body caught a bug, but fought it until I could let it consume me in peace, alone in my room. Kind of considerate of the bug to cooperate, I guess. I took a shower yesterday, laid down, and then didn't get up for five hours. When I did finally rise, Frankenstein-like, off my bed, I blindly groped my way downstairs and ate everything on the counter. After the feast, I found my glasses and saw about six people, slack jawed, watching my pizza-stained ass (I'm -7.0 in each eye, which is like in between a bat and a mole). I feel better today, but my throat is still a bit puffy. Lucky for me, I have a freaking Vernors vault in my garage, so if nothing else, my sickness gives me carte blanche with the ginger ale.

I'm home now. I haven't been in this room since January 6. It's no Panama City, but I should be looking at a pretty decent week. My magazines have been nicely stockpiled on my floor, and there's tons of beef jerky and hummus sequestered in my part of the fridge.

But this is all pretty boring.

Classes are all right. I'm getting pretty good at Spanish. I'm keeping up. Nothing else to say about them really, except that they're boring, for the most part, and tedious. They're not killing me anymore, though, which is good.

My life has taken some pretty interesting and unexpected turns this year. I feel bad about not writing in here more often. So, now I have to give a giant plot dump.

It's probably easier to do this by categories. Maybe I'll talk about people, one-by-one first? I even ripped some pictures off facebook.

Joe: My 22-year-old roommate. Eats whole pizzas by himself while playing old PS2 games. Breathes heavy, farts when girls are in the room. Also, happiest person on planet. Laughs at UPN sitcoms and apoplectic Japanese cartoon characters. Asked me, "Hey, do you want to live with me next year?" like the second week of school. Not wanting to sound like a dick, I said, "yes." He has made me sign up for a room very far from my classes but very close to his. Says "it kind of sucks for me." Want to hit him a bit right now. Still, very nice person.


Franz- My buddy. Comes over quite a bit. He's a man of very particular tastes, a collage of different brands and people- AW, Blues music, Mitt Romney, Schwepps ginger ale, Arizona Tea, barbecue sauce, Batman, Drudge Report, Detroit Tigers. Self-described "50-year-old" man. Reads the Wall Street Journal while we play Rock Band. Very fun, though. We piss our pants while swapping youtube clips. Does a decent Sandler, good Clint Eastwood, and phenomenal Joe (from Family Guy). Works his ass off. Gives private tours of his chic business school. Only person I know who writes more memos than essays. Helping to get my life together. Taught me about commodities, securities, futures contracts, and the Federal Reserve. Massages girls a LOT (more on that later). Darkest eyes you've ever seen, vampire-like, almost. Thinks cake is a main course, and eats pizza out of sheer boredom. Skinny as a fucking rail.


Zack- New friend. Lives down the hall. Has seen EVERY movie from Birth of a Nation to the fucking Watchmen, which comes out next month. Very funny. Full of movie quotes. Worked at Paramount over the summer. Has a film Credit on Friday the 13th, I think. Big guy. Gained a lot of weight after football, not uncommon. Can still run faster and longer than me, I think, based on what I saw when we worked out. Sprinted to his class in the Diag in two minutes because he woke up a half hour late. It takes me about twelve minutes to get there. Doesn't do homework, ever. Sits in my room all day and watches me do it, instead, or plays Rock Band 2, working both the guitar and the vocals at the same time. Brought me Challah bread for my birthday. Really nice, very friendly. Joined a fraternity. Stumbled into my room after they abducted and inebriated him for his initiation. Sang like a fucking beast when we played Rock Band. It brought a tear to my eye. Wanted to get an apartment together, spend a weekend at his house in Bloomfield Hills, and join him in California for Spring Break. Very friendly. Perhaps a little too much so?

That rounds out the guys I see on a daily basis.

Now for a story.

Romance has been a pretty bleak prospect for me these last two years. As I've complained about before, I just could not find a girl I liked. There were more pretty girls at State than grains of sand in the Sahara, but I wasn't attracted to any of them at all. Everything was a "hi, bye" type of relationship. I had absolutely no drive to pursue them or date them.

I moved into East Quandrangle on January 7th and was immediately impressed. My room was an island in a sea of cute girls. I was truly excited. But, in typical Alex fashion, I lost interest in all of them within a few days. I don't even know what part of my brain or heart caused this. They didn't do anything wrong. It could have been the school work. I was angry at the way classes ripped my life away, and I was even angrier at the possibility of someone ripping any more of it away. So, I guarded myself. I was cavalier. I "played it cool." This is about the time when I pledged to my guy friends that I would never stand between them and a girl that they liked. You know, the old "Bros before hoes" credo. Sure enough, within a couple of weeks, Joe developed a crush on a girl named Susan, who hung out with us a lot. "I won't fight you, man. Go for it," I said. And "go for it" he did, but he failed miserably. She came and watched him play video games. He invited her to watch movies with us. By the looks of it, she seemed to have an interest in him. However, when I asked her if she did, she denied any and all feelings. And yet, she still kept coming to the room. Flash forward to about two weeks later. There are a lot of people in my room, maybe seven? We hang out late. Susan looks really sleepy and curls up on my bed. We all sort of stare in wonder, thinking about whether she meant to stay there or not. My mind was doing somersaults. Do I take the floor? A chair? The hallway? Do I wake her ass up and boot her? She looked too peaceful for that. So, I voice my dilemma to the gentlemen, and we decide to wake her up together. Susan begrudgingly leaves. About a week later, the exact same thing happens, and this time, Susan looks dead asleep. None of us could summon the cruelty to jerk her out of it and send her packing, so we let her stay. After everyone leaves, I go brush my teeth, hoping maybe that she left with everyone else. I open a door to find the lights off and a girl asleep in my bed. By this time, I was tired as hell, and far from surrendering my comfy foam-layered mattress for some shitty steel-frame desk chair. So, I took a deep breath and crawled in next to her. What followed was a sleepless night, punctuated by an eight-hour, raging erection. These sleepovers soon became weekly because Susan liked sleeping in our room more (she said it was warmer than her room), and we quickly gained a reputation for having the weirdest relationship ever. Now, you may think I'd have gotten a clue by now, but I hadn't. Truth is, I really didn't know what to make of Susan. Sure, she would sleep with me, but she'd also give my friends sensuous back rubs. Here's where my friend Franz entered the mix. Though I can't remember if he ever explicitly stated it, I'm sure he had some feelings for Susan. He would tease her until her face was red from laughing, which I had remembered as a signature part of Franz's courtship method- small, gentle put-downs really do drive a woman's passions wild. Like a mosquito, he'd be on her the second she'd walk into our room, sucking the stress out of her with his fingers and then getting her to do the same. I watched all of these in utter confusion. Just what kind of game was this girl playing? God, I hate flirts, I thought. No, this girl isn't for me. Friends started pestering me about Susan after I told them I'd been "sleeping with her" (Don't worry, I explained the joke. I'm not a pig :D), and I told them she just wasn't my type. Besides, there was the credo. So, yet again, I told Franz to "go for it." And, for awhile, it looked like he was killing it. She would hang out with him, one-on-one, in his single until the wee hours. They had their own little private jokes and nicknames. One night, when, to escape the fracas that is my room, I was reading at a table in the hallway, the two walked by me, obviously on their way to Franz's room. "I'm stealing her from you!" Franz said with a smirk, and Susan smiled. I was getting pretty excited for Franz. So, I decided to feel her out, see if I could russle up some encouragement for my friend. I started teasing her about Franz, poking at the long, sexual massages they administered to each other behind closed doors her little nicknames for him- "Franzy-wanzy" being the most nauseating. I mean "yeesh"! And, to my surprise, this made her upset. Soon after, the massages stopped. Hmmmmmmm, curious, I thought. Next up was Zach. He seemed to have a little thing for Susan. So, for the third and final time, I told one of my friends to "go for it." So, he did. However, returning from her room one night, he came to me with a kind of resigned look on his face. "Congratulations," he said, "she likes you." I don't know what it is about revelations of this sort, but they seem to place you on a play clock. Action was needed, whether it be rejection or something else. I was shocked, but not really. I was embarrassed, but not so much. I was worried, but also suddenly confident. First things first, I had to sit down and see if I had any feelings for this girl, now that my friends were no longer in the picture (I don't know who taught me that there is virtue in forbearance, anyway. Maybe it's a Puritan thing). So I thought it over for the rest of the day. I thought about her. Then I thought about what an "us" would be like. Then, I knew. She came over that night, and I revealed my feelings for her. She then revealed hers. I interrogated her a bit, asked her about her little dallies with my friends. She explained that she was, in fact, trying to make me jealous. We shared some more stuff, and then she left. The next four or five days were a bit awkward. We spent a little time trying to describe it. We toyed around with "it's complicated" and "it's a thing". Finally, on my birthday, we agreed to date (this totally made my 20th birthday, by the way, a day I'd been dreading for months.).

So, without further ado, here's Susan.


Susan- Susan is my girlfriend. Beautiful, about 5'2, stunning, wavy, dark hair. Gorgeous, brown eyes. She's one of the sweetest people I've ever met. When I was sick, she made me green tea. When my clothes weren't fitting in my drawers, she folded them with me. When I'm about to grind my teeth into powder in frustration with my Spanish homework, she'll come work on it with me. She's fun. We're learning Merengue dancing and Salsa dancing via youtube. She can play most of the songs on Rockband on medium, and she can sing the shit out of Alanis Morissete's song, which might be the only one I can't make heads or tails of. She eats like a hyena, and I love it. Most important, she has a heart of gold. While she'll indulge in a cruel joke with me and Franz every now and then, Susan is just a really good girl. She practically raised her sister. Susan and her talk all the time, usually with her sister sobbing in the background because she misses Susan so much. She's a genius, and she's diligent. She's semi-fluent ("proficient" she says) in Spanish, which is also the world's sexiest language to be conversational in, I must say. In addition to Spanish, she's studying biochemistry and math. Also, she works two jobs: A research position and a hospital job. She wants to be a surgeon. She's what I've wasted two years looking for: A girl I truly admire.

I'm almost uncomfortable speaking like this/feeling like this. This girl has turned my world upside down. Once, we were talking, about this blog, I think. I told her I had a little depression gnawing at me, and she asked me why. I started to answer her question, but I lost myself in her eyes, and after awhile, it seemed like I was addressing myself, not her. I sort of split in half. It was the strangest thing. I was looking inward with full force. It was like seeing myself in the proverbial mirror for the first time. I was facing the beast, and it felt like finishing a blog post, only ten times sharper. It was almost too much, and I started to tear up, both out of gratitude for the honesty I found and out of sheer joy at having found someone I was truly comfortable around. I know she reads this now, and I don't want her to get freaked out by all this, so I'll just say that I'm very glad I met her and she's done more for me already than she knows.

I was trying to think up choruses for a song yesterday. I'm pretty sure I'll never write one since I don't have any musical ability. But I hear Zach is working on one, so I'm thinking about loaning him this. All I know is he's writing it for some girl.

I'm taking a leap.
Throw me out the window
for a trampoline
or the cold concrete
because you've won me,
you own me,
and when I close my eyes,
I see yours.



I thought I'd end with some more pictures.

These are from the day that Joe, Zack, Zack's cousin, Franz, and I went to the shooting range.



Here's some of me and Joe on a cold day.


And here's some of me with my brother and sister.

Here's a picture my friend Theresa drew of me! It has to be one of the coolest things anyone has ever done for me, and it made me smile more than once during my first trying weeks at my new school. It hangs proudly on my desk.

Here's an old one I found of me and my friend Shane, who I've mentioned in here before. I miss him a lot. I like our matching sweaters.

Anomie

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.

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.

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.