Sunday, May 31, 2009

three shots o' blue vodka

..they fade fast.

Spent the majority of today chasing a book, reading the end of the book, and preparing a lengthy outline for an English paper. This morning I woke up frightened by it (withering in the shadow of my last bad grade), but by noon I was on my way to a north side book store, by one I was eating overpriced caprese, and by three I was at the Bourgeois Pig, on a love seat, exploring the dynamic between Naipaul and Adiga in their descriptions of 'the real India' (all about poverty, but how is poverty more authentic than any other experience?)

By six I was home, Japanese green tea in hand, by eight T. and I were having a modest dinner of dal and rice, and finally, by 11:45pm, an outline was sent to my TA. Then an impulsive call, an impulsive and short-lived party-hop, with minimal benefits but a social box ticked off in my mind and pent-up energy put to use. All done. And now it's 2am.

Today felt healthy in a way I wish I could better express. I felt wonderfully inspired after reading about an intriguing art project on a blog I read regularly--self-imposed limitations and an ascetic approach to entertainment intrigues me. I am thinking about adopting a less intense version of her regimen (today I listened to only one musical artist, one I had rarely listened to [Britta Persson], for example) because I think it has fantastic merit. We do have too many choices, we should focus more. Quiet down and allow ourselves less than we have access to; force appreciation and thought where white noise persists.

With this in mind, I was out the door in search of a book I lost last night (a search that brought me to the north side). In response to my paper, and my fear, I sorted it out as such: what requires my attention first?

(1) Calm down; you can write a paper.
(2) What interests you about this?
(3) Why?
(4) How can it be explored?

Simple, but elusive when the white noise of anxiety fills your head. It felt good, calmly and unhurriedly cultivating interest in my paper. Drinking my coffee, stretching my thoughts over hours. Walking the stretch of Fullerton, continuing to feel in love with the green the rain has infused into Chicago's resilient plant life.

No need for white noise.

Friday, May 29, 2009

A word edgewise.

Before the Orange Blossom beer wears off..

Uncomfortable, unpleasant territory awaits me in the next few days (a paper to write, a bristly TA to meet with, a Hindi final Monday) but tonight was excellent--T., A., a back porch, some diverse beer, a guitar, and a conversation about international relations (yes, talk about belonging here). To be with the two of them feels so good, so back to the basics. Makes me remember the summer after first year, with its dinners on the back porch, its treks-about-town, its guitar tunes. It was easier.

Luckily summer creeps ever closer, despite the finals week barrier. I feel OK about being in a smallish Midwestern town, as I was for the first eighteen years of my life. Have I mentioned my internship in any way? Perhaps I shouldn't specify too specifically, in case I end up doing some kind of back-to-the-homeland, city girl analysis (on here, of course). We'll put it at this: print journalism, feature writing, Indiana.

Drowsiness has caught up with me. More after the pain of tomorrow.

Thursday, May 21, 2009

another rainbow.

Tonight's agenda: Ate hummus on sourdough (as dinner?), wikipedia-ed through worlds of information on bog bodies, and wondered why I am not an anthropology major.

Summer has shone its face on us in what has suddenly become mid-May, and I am daily astonished to wake in saturated sunshine forcing its way through my four drawn Venetian blinds, in a morning pocket of warmth that already begs for looser clothes and iced tea. Summer finds me still a student in the quarter system, but my mind and body refuse to process that information--I am too happy as I walk to class, too influenced by the vibrancy of the greenness and insistent joy of the birds, too interested in establishing my place in nature rather than sitting in a closed room with a circular mahogany table. I could read academic articles but I could also read Jane Austen! I could buy cereal or I could eat ice cream for breakfast! (Which I did, incidentally, this morning.)

Summer is a reward for winter, an ever-cycling rainbow after the flood. I understand deeply and intuitively solstice festivals and wish--really--that they were still celebrated. Every season needs to ground you in its intentions each year. Summer is intended for life, play, exploration. It deserves to be recognized with bonfires and dancing and alcohol (why not mead?) -- June is convincingly the happiest month every year, always surprising in how patently good it is. July is for settling and growing only slightly disenchanted with the summer thing (the heat of mid-day forcing you back inside too often) and August stands on its own--strange and disappointing and disorienting in a way that has no answers. September brings relief.

The cycle of summer--extended joy, settling, disorientation--always feels a little like a coming-of-age, every year. It feels like a detached routine that pulls you in. Always falling for the sunshine, always burned by the sunshine, the fatigue and nap attempts, always slipping backward before the end, but usually a moment of self-assessment. Last summer was different for me in India, and it worked backward, but the American summer has a place of deja vu that I dig up every June. And I think it should be toasted, even if we don't see the harvest anymore.

Today T. and I made banana bread. I wore cut-off shorts I made this morning and my bare feet, a breeze came in through the window and I felt dazed, lazy. Summer.

Sunday, May 10, 2009

this post is for audrey.

I have had something to drink for four nights in a row. Tomorrow is a Sunday and I'll have tea instead.

I have been reading Gandhi's autobiography and it makes me feel slightly ashamed of myself--only slightly, because Gandhi was religious in a way I probably never could be. But his sense of morality and his self-regulation is careful enough to beg a kind of immediate admiration from those who take him in. The man believed things, and he believed them earnestly. Even the beliefs I practice earnestly I harbor a great deal of doubt for, and while I don't regret that, I have to wonder how functional they are as beliefs--are all beliefs transitory? Or are only my beliefs transitory? Static beliefs might frighten me too much to adopt.

I am in something of a good mood. I found something one of T.'s friends told me tonight about psychology interesting. He explained about some recent research a professor is doing -- apparently if one believes one is lonely, that's all that matters for their psychological state. The person might not actually be lonely. Conversely, one who spends very little time with people and feels satisfied in this, while this person may actually be lonely, will not suffer from the same psychological effects of someone with greater connections who perceives their own loneliness. So it's all in the head. As I reliably complain about loneliness... I found this information useful.

As for updates, T. is teaching me how to sing, A. is going to teach me to drive stick shift, and I will be trying to teach myself to swim like a swimmer.

Fights keep breaking out at this loud party outside, and I'm too sleepy to round this out.