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.