thesis // microcephaly

My senior thesis topic has been approved! Apocalypse in modern literature. Yep; that is, in fact, all I have so far. But it's a start! And I have a pretty good list of texts to begin looking at. So far, it's an almost definite yes to the Butler, and maybes on the others.

Octavia E. Butler's The Parable of the Sower
Kurt Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle
Frank Herbert's Dune
Phillip K. Dick's Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?
Pat Frank's Alas, Babylon
Ursula K. LeGuin's The Telling
Cormac McCarthy's The Road

I've also begun seeing a new therapist here in Maryland; Dr. Lockley, as she will be known here, seems to be a very intelligent and emotionally conscious woman, and the two sessions we've had thus far were very cathartic, and have already made me feel slightly better. Senior year, here I come. :D

AWESOME.

Someone was linked to my blog by Googling "Catherine Barkley breaking stereotypes."

Hi, person!

How I Spent My Memorial Day Weekend

{in list form}

I:
- relearned hospital corners;
- picked crocheting back up;
- also picked up more yarn than I'll need in a long time;
- was almost hit by lightning;
- didn't get to go swimming;
- dried a lot of dishes;
- went for a Sheetz run;
- camera-whored;
- taught my uncle how to blog;
- slept pretty damn well;
- pulled a fast one on my mom {with my grandmother as an accomplice}
- taught my grandmother how to play Cleopatra;
- actually beat Anna at Cleopatra;
- ate really well;
- was harassed by a bee;
- took the scenic route;
- was happy.

four days.

Four days and the semester from hell is over. I can't wait--but at the same time, there are things I'm seriously dreading. This semester showed me who my real friends are, and I don't want to be separated from them for so long. And next semester we're seniors; the dynamic changes. Soon we'll be going our own ways. I don't want to think about that right now.

I've been writing more; I've got a sister blog to this one for posting anything new there. I may even try to pick up on The Violet Hour where I left off--that is, picking character names. The plot's pretty solid and I had a few brainwaves while chatting with Karina and listening to Cal's masterful mixes, so maybe I'll actually get somewhere with it this summer. I'd like to. Prochazka is too great a character not to use, even if he's dead before the novel even starts. (Er, spoiler alert? Hardly.)

I'll have a different room next year, too! I've been in this room for two years. It's seen me through a lot. I'm eager to see what the new nest brings. I have a few inklings... the room number is, to my synaesthetic mind, white-red-yellow-blue, which may seem dramatically kindergartenesque, but really--all colors come from the last three and go into the former. There's no end to possibility there. And it's facing campus, which hopefully means a more successful and focused academic year.

[Yes, I do in fact analyse real life as if it was something out of a novel.]

On that note: If on a winter's night a traveler by Italo Calvino is a glorious mindfuck. Do yourself a favor and drop by the library to pick it up. Also, Vonnegut has not disappointed my expectations. Cat's Cradle is wondrous.

I've also been going over White Noise (DeLillo) again for my American Lit final on Monday. I read it sophomore year of high school; an ex-English teacher lent it to me, said I'd enjoy it even though I wasn't in his class for the assignment. It was funny then, but I didn't get it. First of all, I wasn't properly attuned to the absurdist elements, and my literary sensitivities weren't honed sharply enough to appreciate DeLillo's style. Now that I'm reading it now, the leitmotifs of death, pop culture, and the replacement of the real by the virtual--not to mention the titular white noise--are striking seriously unsettling chords. The book made me uncomfortable when I read it in high school; now it's like reading into my subconscious mind, which is always seriously disturbing.

Especially when your subconscious mind speaks through Don Delillo.

Ah well.

Ending on a good note (it's a new goal): Karina Overacker is my hero. Also, earplugs are amazing things.

Go fish.

I have only one thing to say: omega-3 is amazing.

Okay, so I always have more than one thing to say, but that thought is at the forefront right now. Though I'm dragging at the moment (long day, whew), I've been in such a better frame of mind the last two weeks, and I'm positive it's because of the vitamins Dr. S recommended. Even when I have my scattered breakdowns, and even though I'm still having difficulty with the agoraphobia and panic, I'm at least in good spirits, which puts me in a better position to combat this. And combat I do.

The weekend was wonderful; Easter is always an exciting time around my family. I'm not Christian myself, but most of my family does celebrate the holiday; then it's my birthday, my grandmother's, and my oldest cousin's, as well as my parents' anniversary. In summary: there's a lot of cake floating around, what what.

So since we had a five day weekend for Easter, I spent about a day and a half at home before migrating north with the fam to join up with the larger fam (that is, the Kling grandparents and the three main branches from their proverbial trunk, totaling fourteen people in all, though only thirteen could make it). There was a lot of food, a few movies, some reminiscing, a metric ton of chocolate, a few dozen People magazines, and much love. I didn't go to church on Sunday (I was the only one) but while the Protestant branches of the family (including grandparents) were at the second service I stayed home with the early-rising Catholic branch of the family, who had already returned from mass. From there we progressed to the country club for Easter luncheon, and I witnessed the closest thing my grandmother can muster to a homicidal rage. (The silly people had written down 'four' instead of 'fourteen' for the reservation; that was quite an ordeal.) That was our little family drama for the weekend--and the first degree burns another cousin suffered, courtesy of an impertinent teapot. Aside from Sarah's burns and my grandmother's wrath, it was really a wonderful weekend.

And a nice little haul, too! I'm honestly not that materialistic. I mean, I enjoy having nice things, and I enjoy receiving gifts--anyone who claims not to is fooling themselves--but a trinket or two, and I'm pleased as punch. My Easter basket is small as always, but I got a good bit of chocolate, some new makeup (which I needed), and Slumdog Millionaire, which was wonderful. I also got a new top from my mom, and my parents have promised me prescription sunglasses this summer, which I'm looking forward to immensely.

Speaking of summer: four more weeks! Three and a half, really! Well, no, okay. Four. But I'm going to tell myself three and a half because it makes me feel better. And until those four weeks are up I'll just plow through and lavish affection on my amazing friends.

And--not to abuse the transition, but--speaking of friends, I'm seeing Jill and Mike on Friday, and probably Jon, too! I'm looking forward to it. I miss them spades--they've both done so much for me, and hanging out with Jon is always an adventure.

For now, though, I think I'll just curl up with some Calvino and a pair of earplugs. The peace of mind the latter give me is totally worth having to turn my alarm up full blast.

[Apologies to the neighbors.]

So remember that paper?

That's history. Now I've just got a chapter and a half of psych left to memorize; Rabbit Run to finish (and write about, in comparison to Roth); a French exam to review for (easy peasy lemon squeezy); and... oh crap. What was that? Oh, I think that's it. Hopefully. I have it written down somewhere.

(NB: Forgive any typos; I'm working on the World's Worst Laptop while I'm at home).

Estas son las mañanitas

That's right! It's my birthday! Well, yesterday was, anyway. 21! I can now legally purchase the alcohol I can't drink because of my medication! It's still exciting, anyway. ^_^

Wednesday night I celebrated with Dan and Ambka, my best friends at college and ghetto godparents; we had pizza and watched A Christmas Story and generally had a wonderful time. They're pretty amazing people. Then in the morning we left on the 8:40 shuttle (the 9:00 ferry to Manhattan) and got a birthday breakfast at Penn Station. I really can't express how grateful I am for how wonderful they've been to me, especially as I'm recovering. They waited with me until my train came and texted me on the trip down to make sure I was all right. I don't need coddling--I just need encouragement and support, and they have done so much for me. Even though I'm still recovering, progress is progress, and I'm well on my way.

When I got to Union Station in DC, my dad and sister were waiting for me; the trip home involved all sorts of hijinks (including defrauding the Metro of $2 when the lines for exit fare were too long and my card was meant for regular travel, not rush hour).

Upon arriving at home there was a joyous reunion with my cats and then, when she got off work, my mom; then there was Greek for dinner (spanakopita and hummus!) and a carrot cake for dessert. All in all, it was a pretty wonderful birthday--one I'll recount more fully (and eloquently) when I'm back at school and have a better laptop, because this one is frustrating the hell out of me.

A tout a l'heure!

I should be writing the paper due tomorrow…

But instead I'm letting an episode of The Office buffer while I try out this new blogging function in Word 2007.

In other news, The Agoraphobia Chronicles continue! …They're really not that interesting, though, so, let's skip that. Things that do interest me at the moment:

1. Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I blame Tiffany.
   
2. Human response to vocal modulation. It's actually pretty cool. I've been doing a few minor experiments, of which I will write later.
   
3. Metafiction. I've always been fascinated by it, really—at least, ever since I learned of its existence—but reading Madame Bovary renewed my interest. I'm considering a second thesis topic, now—possibly something about the metafictional element in realist fiction of the 19^th century? Focusing on Mme. and Northanger Abbey.
   
4. Reinvention. I've changed my name and my hairstyle; what's next?
   

Yeah, I gave myself bangs. It worked out pretty well, actually, I think; if my career as a novelist/professor falls through, I can always pursue cosmetology. Or maybe I could be a masseuse! I do give damn good massages. And working at a spa sounds like fun. Great benefits, hm?

I really should work on that paper, though.

Smile when your heart is breaking.

I need 20 ccs of courage, stat.

I thought I was getting to the point where I can re-conquer the panic: basically, anger. It may be a largely negative emotion, but it's at least constructive. People make better decisions when they're angry. But apparently I'm not quite there yet. I've spent all weekend in my room, a slave to the agoraphobia, and while I'm tired of it, I'm also... strangely willing to let it control me.

Why am I so afraid of changing, even when I'm miserable as I am now? It's not because I'm comfortable, I know that. There's nothing comfortable about that. It could be the attention, I guess, but the one thing I crave most is independence and the ability to be alone. I just want to be normal again.

I need help to get there, but I'm not sure where to get that help. I'm already in therapy and on medication. What more can anyone do for me? What more can I do?

Where's that injection?

Desiderata, or: Give me a reason to try.

Go placidly amid the noise and haste
And remember what peace there may be in silence.

Relapse. It's a deceptively benign word. Not particularly ugly, nor frightening. Just a few consonants and vowel-sounds. Relapse.

I told my psychologist today that I was tired. Tired physically and mentally. Tired of adrenaline always being a bad thing. Panic disorder has robbed me of excitement and anticipation; any time adrenaline surges in my veins, even a little, it's fear. It's always fear. Tired of having my independence robbed from me. Tired of being a slave to all these pills. Tired of trying--and failing--to convince myself that it's not my fault, it's a disease like any other, I did nothing to bring this on myself and there's nothing shameful in being sick.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.

The receptionist in my school's clinic has a daughter with Sensory Integration Dysfunction, and she brought me in a few books today. The Highly Sensitive Person's Survival Guide; The Highly Sensitive Person: How to Thrive When the World Overwhelms You. They're comforting.

What's not so comforting: crowds, neon lighting, excessive warmth, loud noises, high-pitched noises, too many different noises at once, flourescence, the reflections of metallic/shiny objects, headlights, taillights, streetlights, bare lightbulbs, colored lightbulbs, garishly patterned things, strong perfume and cologne, the smell of industrial cleaning supplies, unexpected movements, strangers in close proximity, strangers touching me, unexpected touches in general. Those are just the triggers I've found so far. My family physician wants me to see an occupational therapist to learn how to deal with it, but that has to wait until summer, if it happens at all. But I need to learn how to deal with it. I want to be a normal, functioning human being again.

Therefore be at peace with God
Whatever you conceive Him to be

I wish so much that I had faith in anything, but I don't. The only thing I know with any certainty is that life is inexorable, in me and in everyone and everything else. But I wish I could lean back on a greater truth, that there was something to cushion the fall. My mom said to me this week that she could have kicked herself for not taking my sister and I to church as children. She said that even though she didn't attend and didn't really consider herself any type of Christian, she still believed in something called God and prayed when she needed support or comfort.

I don't pray. I take medication. I try to keep myself occupied. I grasp at straws. I call people. I wish I could pray and feel God but when I try, I just feel silly, and there's a big part of me that says, 'What are you doing? Why are you wasting your time? You don't really expect to feel anything, do you? You won't; there is no God.'

Whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life
keep peace in your soul

I'm doing okay. I'm on top of things. I'm in touch with all my professors and they all know that I am doing the best I can, and they know I would be doing more if I could. I'm an academic. Class is what I love.

They're cutting me slack because they know I'm sick. I can't cut myself slack because I feel, deep down, like I deserve this. And I don't know how to dissuade myself.

So I meditate and I read inspirational books like the ones Betty gave me, and I keep my room smelling softly of lavender and rose, calming scents; I listen to white-noise tracks of the ocean and I make myself go to bed early so I get enough sleep. But it's just not enough.

Peace. I want peace. Sometimes I think the only peace is the one that comes after life, and then I yearn for that. A couple times I've come close to acting on it, but then I remember what his death did to me, and I wonder how I could ever even consider doing that to my little sister, to my parents, to my few true friends. And there's part of me that still believes life is what I want, and that part, though small, is strong. So I cling to it as much as I can.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

I am trying. I will succeed. To finish is to win and I'll finish. I'll finish no matter what it takes.

Other things I am currently obsessed with, besides the aforementioned U. S. of Tara:

• "Jolene" by Dolly Parton (surprising, given my ambivalent disdain for country);
• Jane Kenyon;
• Italo Calvino's The Baron in the Trees;
• Italo Calvino's anything;
• Junot Diaz's The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao (on which I might be doing my thesis);
• Big Love (HBO);
• hummus;
• my cats;
• Le Magazine Litteraire (which I can only read with the help of the French dictionary which never leaves my side);
• sensory perception;
• holistic medicine;
• memory/nostalgia.

Also, I want to write something. I had a poem tonight at the very cusp of existence, while I was outside with my sister in the trees, but I lost it by the time we'd come in. I think I'll go try to salvage what I can.

Dutch Interiors, Jane Kenyon Christ has been done to death in the cold reaches of northern Europe a thousand thousand times. Suddenly bread and cheese appear on a plate beside a gleaming pewter beaker of beer. Now tell me that the Holy Ghost does not reside in the play of light on cutlery! A Woman makes lace, with a moist-eyed spaniel lying at her small shapely feet. Even the maid with the chamber pot is here; the naughty, red-cheeked girl. . . . And the merchant's wife, still in her yellow dressing gown at noon, dips her quill into India ink with an air of cautious pleasure.

I try not to inflict the psych-talk on people who aren't related and therefore obliged to still love me despite the neuroses, but I feel the urge to share right now, so. I will.

I've hit another low point. Not nearly as bad as it was freshman year, not at all. But it's the worst I've been since then. The anxiety is back, and with it, the depression. Of course, all of this only feeds into (and is, in turn, fed by) the ocular migraines I've been having, which also trigger my newly diagnosed Sensory Processing Disorder (otherwise known as Sensory Integration Dysfunction). The good news is, I've seen all my doctors, and I've got everything I need--a fresh prescription of klonopin, a hearty dose of Prozac, and a whole army of vitamins and supplements (Vitamin C, Vitamin D, calcium, Omega-3, and Vitamin B-Complex).

Still, the agoraphobia is there. I try to face it down, but it almost won last time. It didn't, but it was a close contest, so it's frightening. But it's going to be okay, because I'm even more determined this time. I did win last time, even if it was by a hair, and the last eighteen months were... wonderful. I have never in my life felt that good. And I'm going to feel that way again.

Plus I've got a whole slew of new tools. One is prompts that my parents can use if I call them in a panic. Another is the weekly therapy, which I wasn't doing before. I also have a few truly amazing friends at school who I know I can always count on--I'm not as alone as I was freshman year. And I've got goals to keep in mind when I feel like I'm too tired to go on. These include:

- Blowing my Honors Thesis out of the water.
- Going to California within the next two years to see Dono and Tiff and 'Rina and Bek. <3 style="text-align: center;">::::::::::

On another note, I've been watching Showtime's U.S. of Tara, and I have to say, I love Toni Collette.

::::::::::

AND! HOT TIP! In case you didn't know, you can download free tracks from Amazon.com. Not all of them are great, but there are a few pleasant surprises in there. Instructions:

1. Go to Amazon.com.
   
2. Choose 'Digital Downloads' from the sidebar, and in the list that pops up, 'MP3 Downloads.'
3. In the search bar at the top, choose 'MP3 Songs,' and hit 'Go.'
4. Knock yourself out!
   

Official Resolution #1: I will daydream more.

I fell into the habit of thinking I was lonely as a kid because I was usually alone. The thing is, I wasn't lonely. Ever. I had plenty of company in my stories, whether I was thinking them out in my head, or playing them out physically, or even--clumsily--writing them out. My first story was about a girl with no voice who must, nevertheless, save the world from evil. I found my voice while she overcame her own silence.

Through middle school and high school my stories matured, but they were still as vivid and vital as ever, taking over my thoughts. I'm relatively certain they're what kept the anxiety at bay for so long.

I had my iPod on shuffle tonight while working on my Faulkner paper for American Lit, and, right in a row, three of my old favorites came on--the Backstreet Boys, John Mayer, and Snow Patrol. (Yes, I know the latter two are still performing, but these were from old albums.) All three were songs I used to listen to on repeat on my Walkman, working through a scene. I felt fiercely homesick for the simple joy of creating a story for myself.

I need to daydream more. I think it'll be good for me.

Did you hear about the boy who burnt down the Kingdom Hall?

He was trying to light the bee on fire.

True story.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

I don't know why professors expect us to get any work done the week before Spring Break. Have they all forgotten their own undergraduate experiences?

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

On the other hand, professors can surprise you. It's nice when you find one who hasn't forgotten what it's like to behave like a normal human being.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Raisinets are boss.

Give me a reason to try.

There once was a girl by the sea
Who worried, "What will I be?"
While I'm here on this island
I'll march forward smiling
...But now for some pizza and tea!

I have the most amazing dad ever.

I am badass, English major style. I kick ass and take names alphabetically and according to MLA guidelines.

I seriously do not understand how I can pull these papers out of thin air like this. It's not that I don't work hard; I do. I kill myself studying. Just not for my English courses. I wait until a day or two before the paper is due to even start, and then I end up with something--forgive the arrogance--brilliant. It's my superpower, I think. I am Lit Girl, hear me roar!

On another note: this head cold is absolute hell. Eight days now I've been dealing with this (and before that it was a chest cold, and before that a stomach bug, and before that a migraine...), and I am ready to be done. For those of you who can take cold medicine without an adverse reaction--I hate you I hate you I hate you please give me your immune systems. I'll return it intact, promise.

freewrite #1, vignette #2

She had dreamt the night before of an old lover, one of the ones who said they loved her and meant it. His wife had left recently, or so the social pages said; but why she dreamt about him over the others was a mystery the whore was not interested in. Still, the dream clung to her lips and breasts all day, and it seemed like her johns noticed it too, because they seemed almost afraid of her. She didn't know why.

She told Hairy Back about the dream while he smoked a second cigarette. He kicked his heels against the table legs for a while before looking over.

"Let me get this straight. Your old lover came to you as a john."

"Yes."

"But didn't want sex."

"No."

"But then decided he did."

"Yes."

"Well, did he get it?"

The question was obscene, and for a moment the whore forget she was a whore. But then she remembered. "Not in the dream. He kissed me though."

"He kissed you. Curious," Hairy Back grunted.

He wanted her to continue, she knew, and because it was Hairy Back she did. "He said he'd lost God and his wife, and he wanted to ease himself into the deep pool of sin."

He snorted. "Was he always so melodramatically metaphoric?"

"Yes."

"Forget him, lady. He may have lost God, but that sort always finds It again in the end."

"In the dream--"

He waited. "Go on."

"Well. He called me a compromise. I had once been his Great Love and now I would be his Eve."

"He certainly does have a flair for the poetic."

"Hairy Back."

"Forgive me, lady."

She shrugged one shoulder at him, and he nodded. "Forget him, lady. That sort always rediscovers God in the end. They're bad news for our sort."

"Our sort?"

He took a long drag. "Those caught somewhere between drowning in the riptide and swimming with the current."

On tonight's episode of Is That Really Necessary?...

Light switches that control nothing; Yahoo messenger; Yahoo anything; the Huffington Post; and Michael Cunningham.

This, however, is utterly necessary:

freewrite #1.

So at the first meeting of our new creative writing club tonight, we did an exercise in which each member was given a line from a book or a poem, and told to freewrite for ten minutes. I swear, I got the strangest (it's the first in the following vignette), but I kind of love the characters that it spawned.

Thus--"Hairy Back and the Whore."

It was a good fuck, but hurried, as Hairy Back would be getting anxious. They never used names (that sordid touch pleased them). He called her what her johns called her, and she just called him Hairy Back because--well--he had a hairy back.

They met almost on time. He smoked; she didn't. She washed her hands. After a while he spoke. "Why, if you insist upon remaining pseudonymous, do you ask them to say your name when they--you know--finish?"

"What?"

"It just seems inconsistent to me."

"I donno. I guess it's the old cliche."

"You are distancing yourself."

"Maybe."

"Or maybe you enjoy the illusion."

"Maybe."

He took a long drag, exhaled, peered through the smoke at her. "Maybe you want to separate yourself from the whore."

She shrugged.

"It makes me wonder."

"Yes?"

"Is it possible to induce multiple personality disorder?"

"Maybe." She stole his cigarette.

The List, Part I [The Canon]:

The Man Who Was Thursday, G. K. Chesterton
Villette, Charlotte Bronte
Crime and Punishment, Fyodor Dostoevsky
Notes from the Underground, Fyodor Dostoevsky
The Brothers Karamazov, Fyodor Dostoevsky
Middlemarch, George Eliot
The Mill on the Floss, George Eliot
the collected essays of Ralph Waldo Emerson
A Room With A View, E. M. Forster
A Passage to India, E. M. Forster
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, James Joyce
Ulysses, James Joyce
Lady Chatterley's Lover, D. H. Lawrence
The Prince, Niccolo Machiavelli
Utopia, Thomas More
An Unsocial Socialist, George Bernard Shaw
Walden, Henry David Thoreau
Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy
War and Peace, Leo Tolstoy
The Aeneid, Virgil
The House of Mirth, Edith Wharton
The Age of Innocence, Edith Wharton

That, of course, is only the beginning of the list, and I doubt I'll be able to finish it for years, what with all the other reading I have. For example, just this semester I will be reading (and/or have read):

The Hours, Michael Cunningham
Jane Eyre, Charlotte Bronte [a reread]
Wide Sargasso Sea, Jean Rhys
I, Tituba, Black Witch of Salem, Maryse Conde
School Days, Patrick Chamoiseau
Madame Bovary, Gustave Flaubert
If on a winter's night a traveler, Italo Calvino
A Farewell to Arms, Ernest Hemingway
This Side of Paradise, F. Scott Fitzgerald
As I Lay Dying, William Faulkner
American Pastoral, Philip Roth
rabbit run, John Updike
White Noise, Don Delillo
Cat's Cradle, Kurt Vonnegut

A friend of mine reminded me last night (when I was freaking out [see: ~ing out] for some reason or another) that the familiar is not always better.

The familiar is not always better. I don't know why that resonated so much with me. Maybe because I've based the last three years of my life around the familiar. The familiar can't (or at least, is less likely to) give me a panic attack the size of Maryland. The familiar has already had its chance to hurt me, and hasn't, or has but only in ways I can deal with, so there's no chance of any great disaster. Right? Right.

But... no. Not really. Because you and the familiar are on familiar terms, that buffering politeness is gone. There's nothing keeping you on your best behavior but mutual regard, and if, for some reason, that falls through--the familiar knows a lot more about you, including where you're most vulnerable.

Not that the familiar is a bad thing. I like the familiar. I'm one of those homebody-everything-scheduled-and-planned-out people. But I'm starting to realize why my life has been tasting so stale lately.

It's all... familiar.

It's a new year; I'm an upperclassman now; I've come through a lot. I think I deserve to give myself a chance to appreciate the new.

What does it mean? In my dream last night I cuddled with a hot, young pandit in a movie theatre (we were front row, if that makes any difference to your interpretation) and just as we started to kiss, poisonous gas started leaking in through the vents. But nobody panicked. Then my neighbors' loudness woke me up.

So, what does it mean? The priest, the theatre, and the gas? I really can't make that one out.

My psych professor did, however, tell me that I 'dream interestingly.' We were talking about sleep and dreams in class, and he asked if anyone had ever dreamed lucidly, and I tentatively raised my hand. I hate raising my hand, because I hate when the freshmen look at me like I have every answer because omgzerz I'm a junior. Doesn't work like that, kiddos. But, anyway. He called on me and asked if I'd ever been able to repeat the experience, and I answered--again tentatively--"Um... I can't remember ever dreaming any other way."

Then, when he asked about sleep-talking, I raised my hand again, though a few others did, as well. For night terrors, as well. And for hypnagogic and hypnopompic images. He seemed impressed that I knew those names, but, goodness; I may be taking Psych101 this semester, but I too 200-level Psychopathology last semester.

I do have weird dreams though. I've been thinking about it a lot. There's that nightmare where a deer ate my face (don't laugh, it was terrifying!), where I killed the hummingbird, where the Yankees attacked a swimming pool and the elderly Confederates stood no chance (and I on my big black horse fell into the pool and drowned and my soul floated up to the roof and looked down to watch the burning bodies). There was the dream about the Buddha head and the tsunami (a beautiful one), the circling staircase, the one where my cats were actually humans in disguise. Weird freaking dreams, man.

Any weird dreams yourself?

Do you want to be a crazy person?

No, Mom, I don't. I don't want to be crazy. I'm fucking sick of my brain betraying me; I'm sick of these psychosomatic ailments. I'm doing everything I can, but it's not going to be a quick fix--it wasn't last time, either. So I need you to cut me a little slack, please.

I am not either particularly strong or particularly stable, but what I am is fucking determined. I'm not going to let it beat me, but it's hard, and it's going to hurt, and I'm going to cry. That's how it works. I'm going to do my best to do it on my own, but sometimes I need a little encouragement. I don't need to be asked right away, Well, do you want to just quit school and come home? Do you want to be a crazy person?

Because, seriously. No one wants to be crazy. Especially not me.

You know you're a college student when:

1. You spend the last fifteen minutes before class looking at lolcats instead of reading over the course material.

A question I've been asking myself a lot lately: Why are we so afraid of lacking depth?

Now, I'm not saying it's a good thing to be shallow. Far from it. People who focus solely on exteriors (and thus, tend to verify the stereotypes created to excuse them) are one of my biggest annoyances. But it seems to me that my generation is terrified of being seen as anything other than a few thousand leagues deep at every given moment.

Think about it: we must have discerning tastes in music and books, or we look down on ourselves (and/or others). We must follow the news obsessively and be prepared to comment on the economics of any given country at a moment's notice. We must never praise our leaders, only point out their flaws. We must only watch serious movies--preferably those that are foreign and/or existential--and, when we watch funny movies, we must watch them ironically, and always have a reason prepared for liking them. I love how it comments on the hypocrisy of today's generation. Well, it does subvert the asinine morals of the day. I read somewhere the director was trying to take a postmodern approach. We're afraid to enjoy anything for what it is.

Don't get me wrong--depth is hardly a bad thing. I read the New York Times online as many times a week as I can, given my schedule; I overanalyze everything I read or watch (hazard of the English major, I suppose); and I take pride in my collection of music, especially when I have a good band not many people have heard of before. I'm guilty of the same things. I'm just as elitist as everyone else in my generation.

But holy idealistic expectations, Batman, it's exhausting.

Thus, I am waging a war on elitism--at least, in myself. Those CDs I commented on before, the ones from high school that I loved before I'd discovered the glories of postmodern-indie-rock and Icelandic post-rock? I'm going to listen to them, and I'm not going to keep the volume down. I'm going to watch The House Bunny instead of The Wrestler (though I desperately want to see that too) and I'm going to enjoy it.

I don't know where I'm going with this, but then, I rarely do. Suffice to say, I enjoy the Backstreet Boys and Sigur Ros equally, and I'm not concerned about who knows it.

Things I have learned in the last twenty-four hours:

- This 'pleasant surprise' thing is not just a myth.

- In the 1980s, some French people had trouble with 'DJ,' pronouncing it 'dee-jee,' because in l'alphabet francais, 'g' is pronounced 'zhay,' and 'j' is 'jee.' Woo, confusion!

- There is actually a page on my school's website specifically for class cancellations due to weather, which makes my past frantic phoning of professors utterly ludicrous.

- 'Un,' which is French for 'one,' is not pronounced 'oon' or 'uhn'; the 'u' is pronounced roughly like the 'a' in the English 'all.' That's also what the 'i' in 'cinq' (five) sounds like. Good to know.

- I may actually have a job this semester, which would be beyond wonderful. It would also help with my goal to lose weight, since it's up two steep hills and six flights of stairs.

- My travel mug tastes like soap. I must rinse it out better after washing it.

- My new almost-boss is so much nicer than the last two bosses I've had. This is exciting!

- Hemingway, while still not one of my favorite authors, is much less unbearable now than he was in high school. Or perhaps it's just that I'm not reading The Old Man and the Sea, which, I feel certain, is the only book available to sinful bibliophiles in Hell. A Farewell to Arms, on the other hand, is much more enjoyable--though I still absolutely despise Catherine Barkley. What a fawning caricature of a woman.

- Really, this soap-tea thing is not pleasant. I must rinse it out better.

- Apparently my 'things I've learned in the last 24hrs' list has become a bulleted relation of whatever I happen to be thinking while typing.

- This happens to me a lot.

- Soap soap soap soap soap.

Don't you wish we remembered the way they do on television?

I had the latest episode of Desperate Housewives on while getting ready this morning, and it's mostly flashbacks. I don't know about you, but when I remember things, it becomes increasingly fuzzy. I can't remember what the room was like, what I was wearing, how I felt physically (unless it was extreme), or even (and this is bad) when it was. I have trouble remembering the day, and sometimes the month or year. I'm left with vague impressions, more like a Monet than a John Singleton Copley. Splashes of color, ghosts of movements--it's almost more like remembering a story I once read than something I once experienced.

While my memory may be bad, I'm relatively certain people don't normally remember in vivid flashbacks. But wouldn't it be wonderful if we did? If we could remember everything?

How much do you remember?

It's been a week for nostalgia.

As you may or may not know, my laptop--the dearly departed Gunter, may he rest in peace--left this plane of existence on December the 24th. This was a pretty cruel trick of fate, actually; he'd had his harddrive replaced in late October, and that rather expensive operation was supposed to be my Christmas gift. Luckily, I have the awesomest parents ever, and they deduced (as I had) that being an English major without regular access to Microsoft Word doesn't work very well. Thus, my pretty Satellite.

While I backed up my music about a month before Gunter's last breath, it was in a really abysmal state of disarray. Broken links, duplicates, duplicates that were broken links--it was bad. Thus, I'm fixing up Satellite's iTunes by hand. Which meant (after transferring purchases over) burning all my CDs by hand.

A lot of my old stuff is back at home and safely packed away, but I'd tossed a few poorly labeled mixes into my CD case before heading back. I listened through them while burning the 40+ CDs last night. Man, there was some good stuff in there! I'd forgotten how into Creed I was (okay, so, that's not so good--but it did really take me back), and that one song by Yellowcard I loved. Avril Lavigne, the Backstreet Boys, Sarah McLachlan, The Corrs, Santana, the Lord of the Rings soundtracks--I had truly eclectic taste. And while most of it is pretty banal (and/or pretty bad), it's still fun listening to the soundtrack of my formative years.


On another quasi-nostalgic note: going up to the 13th floor tonight to--for the second night in a row--watch iCarly with Stef. It's not good so much as amusing, in the vaguely wholesome, silly, simple way that Nickelodeon always was. It doesn't put stock in subtlety or subtexts, and that's kind of a relief, with all the reading I've been doing for my major lately.

And did I mention it's silly? Silly is not to be underrated. It can save lives.

Question of the day: Is that really necessary?

See: Uggs, Lil Wayne, getting so drunk you cannot enjoy the experience, Microeconomics classes, Paris Hilton, the crazy guy on the Staten Island ferry.

This, however, is utterly necessary:



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For those of you not in the know, I live on Staten Island (the forgotten borough of New York City), and, from my dorm room window, can see the Atlantic Ocean. And I'm not talking just a glimmer on the horizon--the North Shore is basically right at my feet, and the ocean stretches on and on forever.

There is a small island--apparently uninhabited, because I have yet to see a boat or lights there--right off the North Shore.

I desperately want to go there.

Field trip?

make it stop!

It is 1:37am (EST) and I should not be awake. This point was emphasized for me a moment ago, when a Sheryl Crow song came on. I mean, I know Staten Island has horrible radio stations anyway--but Sheryl Crow? Really? You couldn't find anything a smidge better?

Then again, I'm just stationsick for 94.7 The Globe. And, for that matter, for WXPN.

Is it really possible to be stationsick, you ask? Why yes, yes it is, especially when you live in a dorm full of females with shite taste in music.

And that, my good friends, is that.