:D

All he wanted to do was go to Disneyland, damn it!

quiet, quiet, ok

Crumbs from bread on the cottony, ugly purple bedspread. A poster half falling-down. A light bulb too bright. Drawers slightly ajar, draping wrinkled jacket, green neon clock numbers. Cords on the freshly-swept floor, magnets on the refrigerator, holding nothing up. Too many towels on the rack, paper on the floor, poem (that I don't read anymore) on the wall. October calendar dates, midway through November. Shoes in a collapsed mountain, opened contact solution, half-drained perfume bottle.

I like to write. Liked to write? Used to write? The compulsion is coming back. The good, solitary lines in the middle of math homework, the sudden, pseudo-interesting ideas. But I think I'm intimidated by the pen; I've been separated from fiction for a long time. How does one jump back into that?

I have fodder. Is that necessary? I once read an interview maybe, maybe just a quote - some writer claiming that no one is sufficiently prepared for writing until they're 35, because by then they've lived. (I may have muddled the exactness of that, but I'm sure of the idea.) That's once thing I hate about writers (or some writers).. they feel like they can make universal statements about writing, statements that are supposed to apply to everyone, because they've published something. I think it's bullshit, and strikingly pretentious besides. Carson McCullers was something like 22 when she wrote "The Heart is a Lonely Hunter" - an incredibly mature novel. Life isn't about the years.

I have fodder. Family fodder, an interesting family... who doesn't claim that? Love fodder, or an idea of it. A reserve of bitterness, to be dipped into when I realize I could be treated properly. Some change - of scenery, people. Perhaps an ounce or two of maturity. I know my faults, and I tango with them daily. I know friends and kind people.

[Speaking of kind people.. few really give a shit about kind people. People like interesting people. But think about how hard it must be to be kind. To not think about yourself for 5 minutes.]

Maybe it's not kind people, but kind actions. Some people are just better at them. No - it's a choice. Kindness or not. It's clear, but easy to avoid. Maybe we spend our time avoiding thoughtfulness...

chicago at night.

This weekend was interesting, a bit.

Friday night Upekha and I went downtown to Kay's apartment on Michigan Avenue and met her highly exuberant friends. After several hours of steadily increasing exuberance, we left and searched endlessly (well, for about 20 minutes) for a #6 bus stop. It was a magical search, though, as we came across no less than SIX rabbits. The first one was exciting, caused us to point gleefully and appreciate the unlikely brush with the animal kingdom. The second rabbit was just crazy - two rabbits in downtown Chicago? I mean, sure, this was a park.. thing, such that there were bushes and grasses and trees, but where did they come from? Did they, like us, ride the el trains? Were they sightseeing? Were they sailing rabbits, castaways near enough to the coast to swim to shore? Can rabbits swim?

By the third rabbit we weren't surprised anymore, and the next three were almost to be expected. It was something of a rabbit infestation, but a charming one.

I saw a sizeable rat leaping about on a garbage can, which was thrilling as I'd never seen a rat in public before (except in a pet store cage). I acquired a mutilated green-and-white polka-dotted umbrella, which might be in Luis's room. We sat across from a strange, spontaneously laughing man on the bus. It was altogether a magical night.

Saturday was uneventful and unproductive, but that night Upekha, Zach and I once again took the 6 downtown to watch a movie. We went for Borat, but because it was sold out ended up seeing Stranger Than Fiction, which I enjoyed. It left me feeling warm and content, and afterward we walked around for a while - hoping to go to a chocolate cafe, but it was closed.

We walked to Grant Park, hoping Buckingham Fountain would be on, such that we could admire the prettiness of the lights and the water and the city lights. It was off, but that was okay, because Grant Park is pretty and deserted at night, and we saw four more rabbits and two more rats.

That makes ten rabbits, three rats total. Which is more wildlife than I ever got to see back home.

I spent all of today (not really an exaggeration) reading "The Arabian Nights", deducing that I'm a slow (thorough?) reader. I have that uncomfortable, sterile feeling so unavoidably produced by sitting in my room all day reading what I must get read.

But the ten rabbits make all things worthwhile.

brightening up a marx paper

"...The capital has been used to hire more laborers and solidify the cycle - from surplus value to laborers to more surplus value, creating a widening profit margin for the capitalist. As the desirability of the unicorn became stronger, there were riotous masses storming the streets in search of their own personal mythological masterpiece."

(Thanks, Alex!)

a long-lost violin

Today I learned from Emily that bears don't actually hibernate.

And that I don't like South Indian food. It mostly tastes like pepper. I hate pepper.

I also, along with Upekha, Zach, and Stephen, stumbled upon the most thickly concentrated all-encompassing net of ethnic neighborhoods I've ever seen. In West Chicago, near Belmont. We went from Israeli, to Afghan, to Russian (quite the geographic jump) and ended up in Pakistani/Indian territory. We ate at a place that (if I remember right) was called "The Indian Garden", with a nice slogan, something like "Nirvana Cuisine!" Everything was peppery-tasting, except for the chicken (which was magenta) and the bread. Those were pretty good. So was the water. All five glasses.

The aftertaste left something be desired, slash we just wanted cheesecake. So we headed for the John Hancock building... but not before admiring the irony of "Gandhi Appliances" and "Siddhartha Jewels".

We also heard Islamic prayer emanating from a building we walked past. It was actually really moving for me, somehow, just to hear. It sounded very.. deep, serious, meaningful. Almost gave me chills.

The rest of the night was pretty standard - cheesecake, dorm, talking. I was lame/overworked enough to think I might read some of my hum stuff tonight - the Metamorphoses of Ovid - but I don't know if I have the concentration. Maybe just a little.. but Karl Marx looms on the horizon, prodding me with sharp objects as a reminder that I have a paper due Wednesday. I'm a little tired of economics.. or economic social theory. Weird - this quarter is almost over. Only a few weeks left.