the fern unfurls.

In the past month, I have gone to Arizona, turned in my BA, gotten a haircut, gotten A's in all my classes, made a fire, and started dating someone. Happy springtime.

Did you see how I threw that in there--"started dating someone"--as if it weren't totally antithetical to how my life works and earth-shatteringly different and unlikely with my luck? As if I have ever really, consistently been dating one person? As if it weren't so strange as to be almost experimental?

I suppose it is. Experimental, that is. It is new (a few weeks old, now), fragile. He has relationship anxieties, I have relationship anxieties. We don't launch into long, emotional praises and reassurances. But we want to be kissing each other. So here we are, slowly navigating the dating terrain (and such new terrain!) while looking out for sharks and wildebeest. (Imagine us in khaki adventuring outfits, please. I am.)

Here's what I will tell you about him: He rarely drinks alcohol or coffee, but he has a kitchen drawer devoted to cocoa. His head is framed in cherubic brown curls. He is French. He is a teaching assistant in my Global Warming course, but he is not my TA (except he actually is, de facto-style). He is 6'2". He is in a play, is over half-way through "War and Peace", writes fiction. His bedroom is spotless and the shirt he sleeps in is under his pillow. He laughs at my French pronunciation, when I get brave enough to do it. He freely criticizes American food, and then shamelessly pulls out a box of Cookie Crisp to feed me with in the morning. He smiles frequently. He is frustrating. He is cute.

We will call him F.

F. and I are dealing with what I have termed a low-maintenance relationship. We date only each other but we do not monopolize each other's lives. We see each other when possible but we do not have talks about The Future. We are trying to do that thing where we enjoy each other's company without owning each other. It is low-pressure and frighteningly natural for me, the perpetually-single. I am not in love with him. But I like him a lot.

Of course, exploring the terrain of a relationship is new for me in almost every way. Lately I've been noticing that my own identity starts to grow fuzzy when I'm with him--it's as though it becomes ungraspable--what is it? What do I care about? What do I do? I have enough trouble with this when alone, but F. is the unshakable, regimented soldier of science. He's in the lab in the morning and at night, has a fangirl-like devotion to his elusive and brilliant advisor. He's building up material for a paper. His spare time schedule is filled out like he's at summer camp--three hours of rehearsal here, dancing on Friday nights, squash on X days, a day or two set aside for writing, and me after his activities, to drink tea with, to kiss. He approaches life like he knows exactly what he's going to do with it.

I'm glad of it, but it makes me wonder what I'm doing in comparison. He writes more than I do, and he's the geophysicist (geochemist, actually, I think) to my pseudo-journalist. My future feels a little like the valley below a cliff, and I'm teetering on the edge. I have a thousand interests and nothing is screaming for my attention. My goals involve what I'm making for dinner tomorrow night. I fear being herded into a secretarial position, pushing papers around a desk, getting put in the place of someone who doesn't know what they want.

F. is low-pressure, is fun, is warm and affectionate. But involvement with him is making me believe I better figure out what I want--and fast.

new home

For now, I am living here.

Things My Roommate Does That Make Me Want to Take A Machete to His Skull

Err, things that bother me. I have been keeping track in my head for a while now, I figured it was time for a comprehensive list. Allow me to preface this by saying that we did not know each other prior to my moving in, and we are not friends now.

Bathroom:

• He occasionally urinates with the door open. While I am in the apartment. While I am in the living room.
• He frequently does not wash his hands, judging from time between flushing (if it happens) and leaving the bathroom. I don't pay consistent attention to this, of course, but I have noticed once or twice.
• Lately, he has been not flushing the toilet. I go in the bathroom not only to find the seat up (really, him putting the seat down would be a luxury at this point) but to find it left used. Which means I have to flush it before I use it. And while I'm not a fragile and delicate flower of a woman, I'm also not a barnyard cow, and not flushing the toilet is just beyond the pale of what I'm willing to deal with.

Kitchen:

• Instead of putting his dirty dishes in the sink, he fills them with water and scatters them around the counters and stove.
• Rather than hanging pots and pans on the wall, or finding another place for them, he leaves both dirty and clean ones on the burners. Routinely, there is something on every burner, for example, the tea kettle, two dirty pots and one clean pan. One or more of these might be sitting full of water.
• He washes and dries his dishes with paper towels instead of sponges and cloth towels.
• Certain kinds of garbage--I'm not sure how he discriminates here--are left on the floor around the garbage can rather than inside of it. These seem to be recyclable items--beer bottles, cardboard boxes, glass jars--but he doesn't recycle, he just leaves them there. Which makes it look like we just throw garbage on the floor.

Living Room:

• He literally lives in the living room. On this one spot on the couch. ALL THE TIME. If I come home at any time, there is a 50% chance he will be on the spot on the couch. He spends no time in his own room. According to our other roommate, he only started doing that since I moved in, which weirds me out. All of his books are strewn on the couch and coffee table (some are falling behind the cushions), his laptop is sitting there, and his jacket is there as well, which prohibits anybody at any time from using the couch without moving his stuff.
• The television is on literally all the time. Sometimes he watches C-Span or MSNBC, sometimes old movies, sometimes it's on a channel that just plays classical music. But it's always on, loud, and I can hear it in my room because it's just on the other side of the wall. If he isn't watching these, he's playing a loud shooting game on his computer that leaves me to hear "BANG. BANG. BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG. BANG" OVER and OVER.

Miscellaneous:

• He occasionally smokes cigars in the living room. Such that they can be smelled throughout the apartment. He never smokes them outside.
• He has no social skills. You can say "Bye" when you walk out the door, and half of the time he won't respond. Same goes with "Hi." He buzzes up and opens the door for my friends and they say "Hi" to his face and he turns around and sits back down.
• On the other hand, he knocks on my door at every opportunity to show me a "funny youtube video" or other arbitrary and stupid thing.

Now. I am not a neat freak. My desk is covered in stacks of papers and books, and my dresser is covered in a pile of clothes and newspapers and books. But that's just the thing, it's my room. Not the living space shared by everyone. This apartment is already old, run-down and questionable in its clean state--put garbage on the floor and full dishes with water and leave them all over, and it looks like an abandoned shitfest. My roommate is an aesthetic cancer on this poor apartment.

So now... what to do? I was so miffed yesterday by finding the toilet unflushed for the third time that I attached a sticky note to the top of it reading: "(1) close door (2) flush toilet" and that's beginning to solve the problem, I think. I haven't encountered these two problems since I put the note there. But how do I begin to explain how obnoxious and disrespectful basically all of his behavior is? Do I continue to throw away the trash, put his dishes in the sink and hang up the pots and pans, hoping he gets the hint? Because I'm afraid that, given the right mood and circumstance, I might snap and just scream at him.

I whine, and whine, and whine.

I am a whiny woman, in retrospect.

I am only sort of this whiny in person. A little whiny but a lot sarcastic and self-deprecating, for good measure. I don't know if that helps, and it's very conditional on the context of my life right now. I tend to want to write in my moments of melodrama, to collect an organized spiel that I can review and work through. Not so sure if it provides that catharsis for anyone who reads this, though.

So heave a sigh of relief, here's another topic:

I have found that, recently, I am too attached to entertainment. And I don't mean I occasionally watch TV. I have watched the LOST two-hour season premiere twice since it aired last night. I have a string of shows I watch on Hulu, and I watch the Daily Show, almost religiously, every morning with my tea. Almost without exception, the things I watch are always online. I watch these things in favor of doing my homework--even, at times, doing any of it. And right now? I'm not overburdened with homework. I have my BA, which I'm decently into and which I'm not terribly nervous about any more. I could be applying for jobs. I could be thinking about jobs. But I'm watching ABC shows, and going through Facebook (I have, mercifully, cut back on this the past couple days). My brain has effectively given up, surrendered my intellectual ideals to the mediocre comforts of occasional laughs and drama that even I end up criticizing. What's going on?

I had written about this before (in the summer at some point), and I can't help but think it's just a continuation--and steady cultural grinding toward some kind of pop-reference-rewarding mental masturbation, frothy with Kanye West and People Magazine and easy commentary on Obama. I think in not even "lol" but rather the bastardized and neo-lol varient "lawl" and frequently experience the mental sounding-out of W-T-F. When something funny happens, or I have a thought I'd like to share, I immediately experience its mental transition into a status update. Ninety percent of the time I don't share these thoughts, because people don't need a constant stream of me. But some people don't restrain, and there is a certain universality to this desire to satisfy an avatar public, where cleverness rewards you with comments. After a date two weeks ago, in which the other party was not interested, he still added me on Facebook immediately after getting home at 4 in the morning. Why the urgency? Who knows. But Facebook is your people collection. Collect all you meet! Yet the craving of the voyeur is satisfied almost immediately after the add--and then your subject becomes your audience. Your Facebook is your Barbie doll self, change your clothes and your personality by editing your profile. Accessorize and individualize with the links you post. Put your best face forward.

The weirdest part is that Facebook has become the new cell phone; it is perfectly professionally legitimate and expected. Last summer my boss--the editor-in-chief of a respected, medium-sized newspaper--promised to put me in touch with some contacts. But not through email or phone numbers; instead, he added me on Facebook and used messaging. I have been thinking recently about deactivating my account, but the desire to keep my contact open has been a legitimate concern.

Not much of this is new, and I'm not complaining about any of it. But I think it's worthy of consideration. How does our real social life alter under the impact of our avatar social life? I might argue that opportunity for real social contact has expanded (i.e. "X X is in such-and-such place! Come join me!"/party or event invitations). But how do we conceive of it all?

Foucault suffers from my neglect (although in-class discussion has been amazing). But I want a thoroughly modern social theorist to conquer the internet and my retreating attention span.

in security

Last night I had the most banal nightmare.

It was around 4am when I shot up in bed, turned on the lamp, and lay there feeling dejected and fundamentally, suddenly, outside of my life. It was a dream about friendship; in it, I had brought friends back to my house (in Michigan, absurdly), and I made them a dinner while they sat outside at a table in the snow (their choice), but when I brought out the dinner they said the plans had changed, they were going to a restaurant where another friend was waiting and I could come if I wanted.

It had more to do with who the friends were--one friendship has been haunting me recently, as it does from time to time, and always my own thoughts leave me feeling cornered and vulnerable. But there was also just the action--the casual walking away, the disinterested invite, and my built-up desperation for attention, something that has always been so fundamentally un-me. But I've beaten it to death recently, letting my friends know I've felt alone, dreading--especially last quarter--weekends by myself. I've pushed it out of my head recently and I've been better at adapting than I used to be. I've taken more initiative and pursued some new and old friendships for company. But maybe it was the disinterest of my last date that has me dreaming of rejection at 4am, so uncomfortable it feels like a nightmare, so true that I turn on the light and immediately know, epiphany-style:

People are selfish. They listen and ignore. I am selfish too--I have and will continue to leave lonely people lonely in favor of someone else because it satisfies me, as everyone does. It just so happens that I've never been the one left alone, and now I am.

I can only kind of take it personally; it is, as always, the significant other that wins time and affection, that can give back the best and the most, and now it's all a matter of being unlucky in a pool of lucky people, and being unlucky for a long time. Friends commiserate with each other when they're both alone. No one in a relationship really needs to commiserate, and then your friends are pleasant people for brunch and movies every so often. If all of your friends are in relationships, then you spend lots of nights alone and you end up consoling people because their Other said something stupid or doesn't want to go all out for Valentine's. But really? At least someone is keeping them warm at night. Not one of them would trade me for a second.

That's been my mindset on bad days. I realize it's uncomfortably resentful and narrowly unfair. I don't claim that people in relationships hold the key to happiness, but I do believe they hold the key to a kind of security I feel too frequently barred from right now.

As it is now, I feel okay. I've been loosening up a bit; it's better to be alone and unhappy than to be clingy and making someone else unhappy. Today I thought of it as more of a puzzle. I am alone, have been since time immemorial, and will stay that way for a while, it seems. So how do I make myself happy alone? I need to look into projects, solo social diversions that make time alone a strengthening and rejuvenating thing (like it used to be). I want to mix in philosophy, enjoyment, peace, and contemplation. I should emerge every few weeks more interested in and aware of something, not increasingly resentful and socially desperate.

Knowing that is something, anyway.

a date.

I went on a date. Sort of.

You know that rant I had the other day, about how I fail at life? Well the date that was canceled became uncanceled and last night I headed to the north side with electric nerves and met my friends and had dinner and two glasses of red wine. This was before Boy came. After the wine my nerves were no longer electric but more like satin, and I danced around the kitchen. And was ready to meet a potential... something.

I was more than impressed when he finally did show up, bearing Great Lakes beer, and it was instantly clear that he was my type. For the record, my type usually goes along the lines of, physically, a mop of curly hair and blue eyes and a cozy shirt, a flannel in this case. Because I'd ironed out my nerves I started talking to him pretty quickly. A few cocktails were made and downed and then the four of us were walking to a bar. After a while one of the group dropped off to go to sleep (5am wake-up call). I had a Cosmopolitan. We walked back to the apartment and the other went to sleep too, and then it was just me and Boy on the couch and beer and infomercials until around 4am.

So here's the thing I hadn't realized about myself until last night: this whole journalism thing? It's, uh, kind of seeped into my personality. When I talk to someone, the natural tendency to float from question to question to question ("Where did you grow up?", "Are you a Lutheran?", "And how did you feel about it?") is very much present. Poor Boy. I don't know if he started the night intending to tell me his life story, but now I know it, down to his dad dying eight years ago and leaving him a guitar, his current no-marriage, no-baby outlook, and the fact that he likes to buy books online so that he gets a package in the mail.

There were pros and cons. The cons include the fact that he smokes (although he was very amiable as I reminded him that he was going to die of lung cancer). But the pros are pretty good. We have the same favorite book. We were able to talk for about six hours straight. And there was actual chemistry, at least on my end. Chemistry like he'd smile and I'd go a little soft, and I kept looking at the buttons on his shirt. I also liked when he talked about his job and mentioned specific cells and procedures and I had no idea what he was talking about. Ooh, talk nerdy to me.

He finally did leave at 4am-ish and there was no kiss (nor any physical stuff up until that point) but there was the awkward, drawn-out looking-at-each-other moment and then a hug. And a suggestion that we "hang out" again.

When I came back this morning he'd added me on Facebook. In 2010, I guess that's Step 1. Of course, I figure the ball is in his court, but my lack of dating experience always leaves me a little bewildered (are we friends? Is the anticipation of dating still hanging in the air? Should I initiate something?)... good thing this week is heavy on the work for me. Of course, there is an expiration date on this hanging-in-the-air thing, I'm sure. As of now, I wait for the unusually dark-and-brooding scientist to get in touch. Or I bother my friend to find out what he thought.

..on second thought, that seems like a good route.

Let's talk about how

I am a massive failure at life.

I have no money and owe at least $300 on my bank account, I bought a pint of Ben & Jerry's yesterday despite this fact, there's freezing rain outside and I have no rain boats and my shoes fall apart in the rain, I was going to have a group date this weekend but now it's postponed due to a friend's financial difficulties and the guy will probably get a girlfriend in the meantime, I spent an enormous amount of time this week trying not to pitifully be excited that I even had a date, I did none of my readings this week, my Nietzsche prof sent out an email expressing his disappointment in peoples' lateness for which I am at least partially responsible, other people are finding jobs and applying for schools and I have barely even thought about either one, I still need to deal with health insurance stuff from my mono hospital-going saga, I still need to apply for a Stafford loan if it's even possible, I have done almost no BA reading or work since one week ago but I know everything that has happened on Facebook, and, although it hardly requires mentioning, I have no motivation.

Please, someone kick me in the face.

Swiiiine feva.

Alright, I don't know if I have the swine flu or not, but the sick-day count is officially at Day 9 (if we're running a conservative estimate). Can I possibly get you to conceive of how truly shitty that is, in light of timing? I got sick over Thanksgiving, missed an entire preparatory week of classes and work and studying for Finals Week, and tomorrow that week begins and I'm still at least a few days from recovery. There have been two visits to the ER, two chest X-Rays, every symptom possible, and a load of prescriptions (antibiotics, steroids, an inhaler).

Last night I slept for 12 hours. Today my stomach feels weird, my energy is low, my cough is deep, and my brain feels like jello. I have been attempting a Hindi essay and knowing that much of my grammar and verb usage is coming out poorly. Tomorrow I have a physical science exam at 8:30AM. I have yet to study.

I'm getting to that part of sickness where you imagine socializing as if it's some extraordinary feat, worlds away. I can see myself, weeks into the future, fancy drink in hand in a bar with Christmas lights strung up, wearing one of my Party shirts, healthy, in make-up, laughing. (I don't actually know how or where this situation would take place, but it's a good stock image.)

HEALTHY PEOPLE, ENJOY YOUR HEALTHINESS.

I also have the urge to wipe down this entire apartment seven times with antibacterial wipes. Lengthy sickness has made me somewhat germophobic. Can I drink out of that glass again, or is it covered in SEVEN MORE DAYS of ILLNESS? Can I sleep on this pillow or will I reinfect myself? THAT DOOR must be COVERED in VIRUSES. AHHHHH.

It doesn't help that the boys have been stalking around and coughing and acting like they're somehow even close to how crappy I feel (hint: if you're still drinking beer, M., NO, you're not all that sick, now are you?) They should not try to be stealing my illness thunder, as absurd a concept as that is. Because you really don't want to look for whatever this crap is. Because it sucks. And it saps your energy. And it makes you whiny, as whiny as I am right now. (Notice: I will start acting human again in a few days, I think.)

My birthday is a week from tomorrow. First, I want health. Then, I want a cupcake.

Expensive things I want

1. A digital camera that takes high-res, gorgeous photos to inspire me. I would photograph food, flowers, and faces. I would create art projects for myself. And for you.

2. One pair of shoes that could be categorized as sexy.

3. No negative moneys in my bank account.

Food count: I have lentils, rice, and pasta. Outta milk again. Organic v. cheap, this is why I will never gain enough for a camera. Also, heart-stopping debt.

Work count: BA reading withers from inattention, stupid Bollywood skit requires memorization, something about a world music research paper nags at my memory, and what is ozone again? Where is my time going? Are evil elves in my wall siphoning it away?

Cripping debt + life in box + lazy = no sexy shoes.

Boo.

BAistan

I haven't told you about my BA yet, have I, Blog?

Well, I'm probably not going to right now either, because while it's endlessly fascinating I can't give too much away at this point. I have done some research and I have a lot left to go. I can give you the key words in descending narrowing order, however, which are: Afghanistan, Taliban, Pashtuns, ethnic nationalism. I promise it's very, very interesting.

One of the nice things about focusing on a BA topic is getting to fall into the depth of a subject again. Being on the quarter system, and taking four classes a quarter, means you can get into lots of things but you can only fall so deep into each one. Examples from my college experience: Marx, Durkheim, pirates, Russian literature, the world water crisis, AIDS, museums, early American colonization, the Beat Generation, Bretton Woods..

But with this BA, it's all Afghanistan all the time. I am learning odds and ends. I am collecting and printing articles from journals I doubt more than 80 people read. I'm investigative. It turns out I can't really go to Afghanistan and interview a member of the Taliban, so I'm sniffing out primary sources wherever I can. The number of formal interviews given by the Taliban to the press and recorded can probably be counted on two hands. I need ethnographies, travel writing, first-hand accounts, anything that takes into account ethnic relations.

I haven't been able to explore at all the past week (midterm PAIN and SUFFERING on a grand scale), and have been insufficiently lazy for the past several. I only have about seven articles read and miscellaneous bits of a number of books. So these last five weeks? It's Go Time. I need mega-discipline. I need to at least imagine that I'm on Adderall.

Anyway, in my more leisurely exploration of everything Afghan/Taliban/South-Central Asian, I have found some things worth sharing (learn something new today!):

Ghosts of Alexander is a frequently updated blog of political/social/cultural commentary on Afghanistan mainly, but also Central Asia more generally, by a PhD candidate doing his research in Tajikistan. If you want to actually know complex things about Afghanistan, this is an interesting read. I am thinking about emailing him for help with sources. (Also: we have a mutual Facebook friend. The world is small.)

The Kalash are a genetically unique tribe in the mountains of Pakistan; they're disproportionately blue-eyed and blonde. And also, still polytheists. Apparently there's speculation that they were left over from Alexander the Great's army. Just, wow.

Finally, Afghan Atheist. Because religion should piss everyone off, at least a little bit.

...I seem to be on some kind of pan-Asia mental tour. It started three years ago in China, trekked West to India, went up through Pakistan and Afghanistan, and now I'm eyeing Central Asia while I'm at it. Check in on me in three years and I'll be up around Turkey.

I am hopeless.

(As my roommates try to help me with physics concepts.)

M: "Now, let's say I have a cookie, and I'm breaking the cookie into a third and a two-third piece at a rate of 1 cookie per second. And then, I start breaking cookies into halves instead of thirds and you actually have two halves and the halves are the same so you'd have the coefficient of two..."
E: "But you don't have any more and you're not doing it any faster."
J: "Because the oxygen molecules are actually the same.."
M: "...let's just stick to cookies."

Epic intelligence fail.

lookit what I found

I am in musical love with Hype Machine. It is my new Youtube. It is magical.

Hype Machine collects mp3s from a million music blogs and compiles them in one place--it is a remarkably thorough music aggregator. This means you can type in any artist and receive not only sparkly and recent (and sometimes older) music from that artist, but also relevant live versions, covers of and remixes from that artist. Even better, type in a song you like and you'll more than likely hit upon covers and remixes of it. It delivers the fresh and revitalizes the tired.

Because it's put me in such a fine mood, y'all should partake of my bounty.

Basia Bulat - "Gold Rush" (New album drops in January, YES)
Basia Bulat - "Snakes and Ladders" (Mellower version of the Oh, My Darling track--much improved, IMO)
Canasta - "The Model" (Kraftwerk cover)
Ruby Weapon - "Two Weeks" (Grizzly Bear cover)
Laura Marling - "The Wrote and the Writ" (Johnny Flynn cover)

Professional passion.

One of the (incredibly lofty) newspaper internships I'm applying for requires that I write an "autobiography" of at least 500 words. Writing about myself isn't terribly difficult (I mean, I do it on here often enough) but trying to remember and decide what's important from the 21 years of my life thus far is strange, at best.

Perhaps the most notable aspect is something I think about often--passion. I think about it and it confuses me. I'm not sure that I have a passion.

I'm a passionate person, that isn't the problem. I'm passionate about life. I still want to do many things. But mainly, these things are not productive on the measurable scale of capitalist development. I feel indifferent about things like running a company or creating products. The many things I want to do are controlled entirely by me--going to X country, learning X language, learning the capitals of every country in the world, learning to cook X kind of food, learning to play a certain instrument, writing a novel, walking or biking a long distance, learning to better understand and appreciate things like physics. None of these things are marketable.

In writing an autobiography for a journalistic internship, I am probably expected to express a passion for journalism. In fact, I do not have one. The truth is, as I've rolled around and peeked at various careers, journalism is simply the most appealing in that, I imagine, it allows me to be as much myself as possible. It gives me not unlimited, but very generous independence in constructing a "product." It allows me to continue learning diverse things on the job as part of the job. It allows me to leave the building and be outside and journey to new places. I am not passionate about the process of framing a journalistic story, but I am often interested in the subject and passionate about my freedom.

Because I have no "professional" passion, I fear the ease of being depressed or at least uninspired in whatever future occupation I am swept into. As I get closer to graduating, this "swept into" thing feels more and more likely. I am a picky human being, hugely idealistic and easily dissatisfied and discouraged. I will have to make money. My skill set, background, and experience are not unusually compelling. And I don't have a professional passion. That means, more than likely, I will have to devote hours to producing something I don't care about rather than learning.

Not sure how to spin this one, autobiography readers. You will want to hear about how my passion for journalism developed and I can't give you that one. All I can offer is why journalism may be one of the few livable options I foresee.

In any case, it doesn't matter a whole hell of a lot. This is the sort of supremely high-end paper that will hire wunderkids who set up makeshift video reports after the tsunami struck on their Thailand vacation, or did independent investigative journalism on the perilous refugee situation in a Central Asian country, and then published it on their blog.

All my blog's got are long-operated, occasionally updated reflections on my life.

Most people I know are excited about working. I am not. I feel dread. Where are you, marketable passion?

musings on internet boomers.

While looking through the photos my dad posted to Facebook today, I noticed one caption that struck me as odd: "A wicked game of water volleyball."

I hope you caught the oddball element--the gratuitous and colloquial use of the word "wicked", which I am certain my 61-year-old father would never use audibly.

While I realize that the walls have been scaled by baby boomers and middle school kids alike, and Facebook is now a watered-down and universalized version of its previous university-elitist empire, interacting with my parents via Facebook is still vaguely creepy, like running into them at a party after my second drink. I now know how my parents present themselves, and likewise, they know how I choose to display myself. I know that one of my dad's favorite quotes is from "Saving Private Ryan" (the other is from "Shakespeare in Love", apparently) and that my mom, given the chance, will flood those personal boxes with information about herself. (One of her interests is "heated discussions about God and the state of the World" and in the favorite quotes section--I love this--she has written, "be the change you want to see in the world (or something like that) by Gandhi I think.")

Now, using the parameters I drew up long, long ago (think: age 15) to judge people via the internet, I am faced with the ability to label my parents with specialty labels normally reserved for the guy from my biology class (i.e. "Oh my god, he lists Nickelback in his favorite music?" or [true story] "Ew, he's a Republican.")

Now, of course I know my parents better and in a completely different context than the guy from biology. But really, isn't so much of the information in the way people choose to display themselves, in the in-between stuff, rather than the facts? One of my "friends" updates her status bar hourly after each break up, to let the world know how crappy she feels. I know very little about her, but I do know that she's something of an exhibitionist. I can also identify several narcissists, who happily spend hours photographing themselves in slightly varied positions in front of their closet door, or some other mundane space, in order to post all 57 on Facebook and wait in the glow of the screen for the hoped-for compliments.

OK, so I sound a little judgmental, but don't we all have new ideas of people due to the wily internet and the opportunity it gives people to package themselves? It's this realm that creates a new, weird social space. My mom now calls me to tell me she read the link or watched the video I posted to Facebook. That's not bad. It's just weird.

It's particularly curious for me to watch all of these adults represent themselves in such a clunky way. Being "friends" with more than my parents has given me a decent sample size, and a lot of adults just can't seem to adapt. Their messages and updates are rife with spelling and grammatical errors. Is the internet bringing baby boomer stupidity to the forefront, or are older adults just really lazy and clumsy?* (Bonus question: are younger people growing up and expressing themselves in writing likely to be better spellers?)

*Aside: I don't claim that young people are somehow more intelligent or better educated.. maybe more are just familiar with spell check.

My thoughts are that basically, we have a younger population that "gets" the internet, and an older population that doesn't. Some things--memes, pervasive irony, evolving netspeak ("zomg"), themed blogs--are more intuitive than anything, a sort of dog whistle separating those who understand this part of pop culture from those that don't.

What I find interesting is that older people are taking so long to learn. Maybe they just don't care?

an atom in a world of molecules

Let's talk about...

First of all, I feel like an atom in a world full of diatomic molecules.

Aside from that, tonight I finally got to go to a party. Last weekend made me beg for the week again (how is it that at 21, all of my friends put "doing homework" at the top of their Saturday circa 11pm schedules?) but this weekend I got a text from C. relating the glorious news: "I found a party, big and impersonal! Come join?"

It was what I needed. When I say needed, I mean it with a capital N, and possibly with a preceding "desperately". I needed something outside of hanging out with a couple, which is basically my only option anymore. How did the world turn into only a combination of twos? How is everyone so fortuitous? I mean, I expect there are other people in my sorry position of have-I-seriously-been-alone-so-freaking-long-lyhood. But really--it's a bit ridiculous how I know so few of them. My friends are almost all in the love bubble, and oh, how I believe they take it for granted.

On TV, there is an illusion of the bar scene, where attractive singles order their margaritas and sup them in a sultry fashion before the personal and understanding bartender. Always in these situations, other attractive singles float into the picture, as if life were fair enough to grant attractive singles. I am nearing the D-word--I am nearing the need to put on lipstick and go to a bar and sit alone on the stool and wait for the illusion with which TV presents us.

So tonight--the party of someone I didn't know--was needed. I got to nearly flirt with a third-year physics major/Vermonter for a while, someone I was perfectly happy to continue the conversation with, until he left at a friend's prodding. And there it went. But for a moment it was there--a prospect, a possibility. The reminder that I'm not entirely dead to the world of relationships. If he had stayed... well.

I wouldn't, by the way, be using this language if it weren't for years of caked on loneliness leaving me feeling so sincerely left out of the loop. Sincerely in the most sincere way. It makes me fear how no one I know who reads this will actually know what I mean. No one has gone so long without what can be called a significant other. When it starts to feel like true alienation from society, you have what can be called a problem. You have a serious fixation problem and you need to give in.

My friends have been filling in the gaps recently, and I've learned to adapt to calm. But if the third-year physics major had stayed at the party, I might feel differently right now. As it is, I feel a bit better in that at least I met someone. Really, that simple. I met a human that might have theoretically been interested.

I am this far gone. Even as I apply lipstick in the morning and feel curiously positive about myself. This is the result of knowing no one in my situation. It is freakish. Knowing no one who can have an actual boyfriend history at this age. It is alarming. It is a case study. I am a case study.

In other news, there is other news. But really, when you're this girl, who wants to write about anything else two gin & tonics under?

fomenting

I am in Hastings.

Things I have been doing a lot of lately:

--Reading
--Baristaing
--Thinking

I had this goal of reading 100 pages every day this month but I've done poorly every day. Seventy then fifty then ninety, and today only twenty (though I worked 3 to close.) But I've forgotten how much my parents prod me to help them with things and go for walks and scratch their backs and the like, and I suppose that's a good excuse.

Anyway, I've been collecting many thoughts and sorting through emotions and generally being productive on the inside of my skull, which is the most important thing. I will be here for another eight days of reading and baristaing and thinking.

signs of life

...and days before I leave the dreaded Bend.

I'm at the ice cream place, and as I bring the plate that held a piece of cherry cheesecake to the front counter, the guy at the register introduces himself and asks me to join in the bet with him and his coworker that he can do 200-300 push-ups in 5 minutes. He then engages me in conversation for a few minutes. If I wanted, we could probably be friends. Of course this happens at the very end of my stay here...

Oh well, I am generally very cheerful about leaving. I have 3.5 articles left to write, an interview tomorrow concerning zombies, two lunches with editors, and an exit interview left. Time to bid this town goodbye, and hopefully my lack of a social life and sprawling laziness as well.

If history is any indication, my locations over the next two weeks will only produce better feelings--hometown as a stress-free medicant where I may be able to hunker down with some books as I watch my brother, and Boulder as an energizing base before the unparalleled experience that will be my 4th year.

Hyde Park at this point is my nurturing, loving home. Every time I've been there this summer, I've walked the streets smiling compulsively. Summer does Chicago good. Hyde Park hums with dog-walkers and baby-strollers and bands of European students, bakeries teem with dignified, greyed professors picking up apple croissants, it all feels so right. Sushi choices, good beer, bookstores that burrow deeper and deeper. I fear I am becoming a yuppie. (At the tender age of 21!)

Giveaway #1: My deodorant, face wash, toner, shampoo, and conditioner are "all-natural" and have things like juniper, tea tree water, and mint in them.

(#2: I refer to myself as a "vegetarian" but I eat fish.)

Oh well. Let the labels fall where they may.

I am both in fear of, and braving looking forward to the impending year. A BA is only 30-50 pages, which means it is only really 15-25 pages, which means it is only 2-3 times as long as your typical paper, and so it shouldn't cause me interminable stress and bouts of crying, as they are wont to do. Still, my fantastically compatible advisor ditched me for Yale, and now I have to convince someone else to care about Pakistani ethnic groups and nationalism, which is sure to be tangentially related to all of their subjects (why such a dearth of Pakistan scholars at the U of C?)

But I'm confident I can do it.

Oddly, my lazy summer has regrounded me in certain ways concerning education. Certain things stand out--a certain independence from the cult of academia (i.e. take what is good and useful, leave what doesn't work), a rethinking of the term, a more liberal and free approach to my future (i.e. so many paths to take, so many ways to take them!), a resurgence of thought about life and information (i.e. more thought about depth vs. breadth of subjects, about the nature of focus).

I credit some of this thought to "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance," which I have yet to review on here but which had a residual and unexpectedly freeing effect. I will try to review it soon.

Most importantly, my mental state is such right now that I feel I can approach academia, get knocked down several pegs (as this year is sure to do), and withdraw the tools to fix myself. I feel a bit more tenacious.

With such a meandering post, I guess what I'm trying to say is, I'm ready to get back in the ring.

wait, what?

People bringing assault weapons to protests? Does this seem like remotely a good idea?

Reunited

...and it feels so good.

Today I wasted several hours after work. And then I felt bad about myself. And then I took a bath. And I was trying to read Blood Meridian, which is good but I wasn't very good at paying attention. I wanted to be reading, but something else. So I picked up one of my academic books from my stack--one I intend to use for BA research--and after a couple of pages my brain began to wake up. Thoughts! Deconstruction and theorizing! Words like "discursive" and "dichotomy"!

Maybe it doesn't seem like the most riveting of writing, but it was exactly what I needed--a reminder of how it feels to think in the unemotional, hard world of academic writing.

My university is stressful, scary, and usually destructive to the self-esteem. But it's also reassuring to know that there's a place in my life where things are extremely meritocratic, the truth is pursued relentlessly, and you don't win unless you have a damn good point.

Last year, via C., I found this: Andrew Abbot's "Aims of Education" speech. Every year the new students get one. It's meant to ruminate on why their education has a value equivalent to the massive loan they're likely to incur four years hence. Afterward, a professor is dispatched to each house for a post-speech discussion. My year, the speech wasn't so great. But this one, if you take the time to read it, is excellent.

I love this cornerstone.

jewish cowboys

The vast expanse of a night, bed, morning:

Now there's no tomorrow,
only yesterday.
But to live in the past
is to ride your life away.
I can feel in my bones:
I will die all alone.
Back down to the ground,
let the sage brush wait for me.

sorority rant.

Oh, how this has been building up.

I hate sororities. I am just going to say it.

I was going to write about something else but then I received a bitchy email and I'm feeling a little enraged, given that there was no need for its dripping condescension and wagging finger approach. It was, briefly, about car technicalities, from its previous owner. Why hadn't I removed the license plate and sent it to her parents, as we had discussed? she wanted to know. Does this mean I am still driving around with it on? Because that's illegal. And I had better take it off right now and give it to Friend X. Or (seriously) she'd have someone come at my car with a screwdriver and take it off herself (inevitably a herself, inevitably a sorority [gang?] member).

We had discussed removing the license plate, but she had also offered my destroying it as an option. Which I did. About two days after getting the car. It's had a Michigan license ever since. (She made no attempt to emphasize that if I chose this option, I should let her know. Because it was pretty obvious that I would do one or the other. Furthermore, I did not indicate at the time which of these I would do.)

After I pointed this out, she sent a response that tried to diffuse the first, unnecessarily vicious and stupidly condescending email, with an exclaimed, "Thanks for letting me know!"

Thanks for threatening me!

What does this have to do with sororities? Nothing really, except that this is where I keep experiencing attitudes like this. Attitudes that are condescending, cold, and frankly, falling all over themselves to make you feel like they're going wildly out of their way if you ask a favor. It is a sort of exaggerated maturity, I feel like, this certain (cue nasally, wealthy NY accent) Well I coooould do that but it's yooour responsibiiiilityyyy.

You know what's mature? Being a person that understands that other people occasionally rely on people not because they want to take advantage, but because most people play this larger game called Cooperation. If somebody asks me to do something that's easily doable, or even a little bit out of my way, I usually do it unless it's really difficult. And even then, when I break the news that I can't or won't do this thing, I don't make them feel bad for asking. Rather, I make sure to feel bad for not helping. Because people shouldn't have to feel too uncomfortable to ask if you'll do something like let someone into your apartment or mail a letter, granted you let them know you're grateful.

In terms of the sorority, I don't know if this ties to my particular relationship to it via a complex and tense friendship that they probably all know about, or if I'm just not a member of the Ordained Sisterhood and therefore unworthy of basic decency. Or maybe they even treat each other like this. I don't know. I just know that given my tangential relationship to sororities, joining a sorority is the last thing I want to do.

I will choose my friends myself. And I will choose ones that don't send me unwarranted, threatening car emails.

fodder.

I never used to think about my future. Not really. It was always, "Oh, I'll be a writer" and I would see myself with a pen and some paper (like anyone writes novels with pens and paper anymore) and think of a bunch of ideas I wanted to get across, and sew up the image with mild fantasies of success and peoples' identification. I wrote a lot more then, especially fiction, but rarely anything long, and even more rarely anything good.

Writing is the only thing that has ever seemed highly fulfilling to me. Apparently even feeding the starving is not is noble as arranged words and having them read. (I now feel differently, at least in that respect. That's all ego.)

I still would like to write, and still have dreams of writing fiction although the need or maybe the drive has been crushed like wine grapes from a seriously intense education. A high-caliber university education may leave you a more knowledgeable, and deeper, thinker, but if you get out with your self-esteem in tact and not in shreds, any hint of serious creativity is necessarily a result of your own fostering and protection. I have written, at this point, probably a hundred or so papers in college. And despite this, or perhaps due to it, my creativity has not been exercised too deeply. In fact, it has taken a hell of a beating. There is a reason my year ended on a decline in grades. I can't approach Microsoft Word anymore, and stick to the rhetorical structure, without some serious suffering. (Robert Pirsig may have been irritating in Zen and the Art, but he would be a relief to have as a professor.)

It is revelatory, and strange, that it is when I go home that I feel creatively refueled. This has happened on many occasions when I have gone home recently. I profess to hate the town, and yet some of the social experiences I've had (or come into contact with) there have been some of the most interesting and didactic. I closely know someone who is trying to deal with unutterable tragedy. I have a friend who has drastically changed religion and quickly married someone from a completely different culture. People from my high school are getting married and having babies (not often in that order), and some are already getting divorced. The coffee shop has its own mix of unique regulars; there's the transplanted, short African guy, raised English, who now teaches philosophy at a university nearby and will talk forever (he liked that I was reading The Brothers Karamazov, last time.) There's the family of Democrats and the intriguing diaspora of their attractive brood.

The strange sects of Christianity. The small town niches people fill. The blood-thirsty local politics and unbelievably intricate scandals. And surprising conversations that last hours with people you don't expect.

There is a reason I grew up romantic.

schedule and coffee.

My parent's prehistoric computer is, I'm pretty sure, eligible for submission to the Smithsonian at this point, but I will try to provide a little update anyway.

I will be...

In South Bend until the 28th of August.
In Hastings until the 13/14th of September.
In Boulder until the 27/28th of September.
In Chicago from then on.. with probably some random stops in Chicago during this time, too.

I hadn't intended to spend so much time in Hastings, but it turns out I can pick up weekend hours at the coffee shop and my parents will buy my plane ticket to Boulder in exchange for me staying here with my brother for a few days while they drive down to Phoenix (they're moving to Phoenix, has this been mentioned?)

Due to rent/car/gas/etc. payments, my money is rapidly dwindling and I can't afford to just spend all of September loafing (exercising?) in Boulder and not making Adult decisions. I'll still get two weeks in. And, well, the coffee shop is still one of my favorite places. This weekend back home has been unexpectedly Nice. I've become such a snob, looking down on this town. Or maybe I've always been such a snob. I still would never live here again, but to ignore the beautiful bits and pieces and worthwhile people that are here is unfair.

I think I disassociate with things for fear I will become them. I don't want to become a part of chain stores and narrow-mindedness and cultural ignorance. These things exist here, in abundance. But they also exist everywhere.

So, enough. If you'll be in any of these places during these times, or want to visit me, or want me to visit you, let me know. We can get coffee.

Zen and the Art of Paying Attention

I am almost finished with "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance," which I started a few weeks ago. It has been slow going, and by almost finished, I mean still 100 pages shy. Which brings me to tonight's topic, which relates to one of my bigger concerns recently: my attention span is deflating rapidly, to the point that full-scale books, and even longish articles fail to hold it.

I have been talking to a lot of people about this, because I know it's not just a problem I have. It is clearly a result of the internet, and the type of interaction people are allowed and encouraged to have with it. We don't read newspapers anymore, we read news aggregator sites (I usually read Google news.. and I write for a paper!) We check blogs daily for bite-sized information of some sort, be it political or social or scientific or personal. People look at Twitter--which enforces this tiny attention span with character limits--and get their information in snarky, packaged comments. In between we bounce between.. play little mindteaser games, update our Facebooks and read other peoples' status updates. But nothing lengthy. Spending an entire afternoon on one thing, whether it's a book or a painting or a piece of writing, feels like an excessive investment. We're used to quick leaps, with very shallow dabbling in each bit of information we acquire. It's about maximum consumption, minimal absorption. And it feels like static.

I'm certainly not the first to point this out. Over the past couple years, numerous articles and books have been published on the deterioration of the modern attention span. This excellent Atlantic article comes to mind. The author himself brings in a legion of friends who've felt the same problem. No one I've talked to has identified with me with quite the level of disturbed obsession I've been harboring, but I'm sure a lot of people out there do.

(Authors have been calling it for years. There is a mammoth novel by David Foster Wallace called "Infinite Jest" that serves as something of a sad warning against a reliance on being diverted. I haven't read it, but from what I know, the title refers to a film, or video game, or something, that's reputedly so entertaining that people who come into contact with it never stop watching it. It was published in 1996, but right now that thought seems eerily prescient.)

Wallace hit on something that frightens me more than just the idea of a shorter attention span--in conjunction with it, I am finding my self-discipline to be in such decline as to be almost nonexistent. I made up a reading list at the beginning of the summer. From it, I've gotten barely 300 pages into "The Brothers Karamozov" until, citing Thoreau's convenient quote (something about not reading any book you don't want to be reading) I dropped it straight away (without saying goodbye, because I cling to the idea that I will pick it back up sometime before summer ends) and relaxed into the comfort and ease of a Nick Hornby book. Then I joined a book club whose meetings I can't even attend and I'm now where I started this--near the end of "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance." And the only way I got here was through a minimal self-discipline. Because now, when I read a book, I spend the first 10 pages ripping my eyes away, or they dance erratically about the page, like I'm about to bounce to the next object on the screen. Eventually (maybe around page 15) I start to relax into it. My speed increases and I have regained an ability to focus. Despite how pleasant and calming it is, I still find the idea of bite-sized information tempting, and have to convince myself again and again throughout the reading that I want to be doing it, that it is more substantial and valuable. And that's ridiculous, considering I'm reading a book about Zen. Granted, the narrator is somewhat obnoxious, but still.

Like I said, I cannot stop thinking about this, both the shrinking of my attention span and the lack of self-discipline to address it. These issues have a set of corollaries that deserve their own attention (ha), but this post is not for them.

I have been considering how to deal with my self-discipline problem (which I believe arises out of my attention span problem, although maybe it's more of a chicken-and-egg dilemma) and radical thoughts keep entering my mind, but they all involve using self-discipline to improve my self-discipline. Read a single book every three days. Watch no internet-TV (an addiction that is growing the more entertaining television shows I find). Wake up early and go for a run in the morning. Study X amount of Hindi. Etc.

Distressingly, I become a mirror of my environment. All of the interns are gone. I have made no friends and cannot figure out how to. My meals have been less fresh, not more, as I cook for one and try to save money, and the grocery store is five miles away. And I watch TV and use the internet maximally.

Last week I had some success--I bought paints and supplies, and spent several hours one night painting. It's sad, but I was astonished at how much thinking I had to do. And how active the process was. And how little I feel I've been experiencing that on a day-to-day basis. The infinite jest, it feels, is on me.

If I work up the self-discipline (perhaps the correct term is "motivation") I'll write about this more in the coming weeks. If not, well...

Singing the blues.

If you have yet to see Sita Sings the Blues, you must do so. Right now. Stop reading! Make haste!

I had heard about this little wunderfilm back in Chicago, but only from a brief glance at a newspaper. The film festival I've been researching/interviewing people for (my recent interview with Sean Astin included) is including Sita in its repertoire, however, and today, after watching a trailer, my curiosity finally overcame me. Thankfully its creator, Nina Paley, believes in freeing creative content, and has offered it online for free.

Sita Sings the Blues has come to me at the right time. Alone in my room, I'm also singing the blues for a number of reasons... figuratively and literally. Not prone to need to sing in the past, the desire has been recently freed, perhaps by T.'s gracious teachings and encouragement. I'm still not much of a singer, but that doesn't stop me from doing it. Still, being in a silent bed & breakfast does. I realize when I'm driving (or watching Mamma Mia!) just how terribly I need to sing. The car allows me to. But most of the time, there's not really anywhere to go.

Anyway, Sita is also about a woman using her creativity to take control of a crappy situation. If your story has no happy ending, make it into an art project! I love it.

I remember doing this the winter before last, when I was so angry I thought I might lose all control of my actions. So I left the apartment, went to A.'s, and Kyle, A. and I painted. I painted an angry dog biting its own tail. It was immensely therapeutic.

The memory, and my various blues, and watching Sita, has given me a strong desire to paint something again. Oh where in South Bend are the art supplies...?

Now watch the film.