a Feline Day

Life at Haverford is no utopia, I think I've been quite explicit about that in the past; perhaps excessively so. Yet in spite of all that, when I leave Hall at 6:45 after talking about Bartleby and Borges for three hours, walk down the hill to the apartments with a smile on my face, mind whirring gently with thesis questions, it can't be all bad. The master of the uncanny makes my experience here "unheimlich" a lot: familiar, home-like, and uncomfortably unsettling all at the same time.

I've developed a rather cat-like sleep pattern lately, and I think it's been invading other aspects of my life as well. This afternoon, when I came back from a decent stint in the Science Library working on a paper, I had just enough time on this uncannily warm afternoon to snatch a few winks. A cat nap, as they say. Some soothing tunes in the background, I curled up on my westward facing bed, windows on 2 sides, took off my dangly silver earrings so that I could properly snooze, and let the 3-4:25 pm sun melt me into my leopard-spotted pillows. I think I might have actually woken up to my alarm purring. Maybe not. It's so easy to empathize with the tendencies of my furry friends to sleep during the afternoon hours to compensate for nocturnal activities, although mine might be slightly more intellectually demanding than, say, mouse hunting.

Also, in true feline fashion, I noticed the V's of Canada geese flying over the fieldhouse through a salmon colored sunset this evening. The birds are going south, as am I. Both of us headed down the coast to the Beach, which makes me happy. I like the beach in the fall, and it will be nice to have some time to get work done in a different setting, watch some cable TV, and see the flaming blue van again. I might even spend some time working on my baby, if I get overly ambitious =).

In 48 hours I'll be able to regroup, get some sleep, and bond with the cat, of whom I seem to be resembling of late, especially with regards to my fur-bristling nature. Retract those claws, Thea. I've had to add the caveat "or that could just be me being bitchy" to far too many statements this week, and have been nearing the cacao quotient of unsweetened baking chocolate (super-híper-amarga, como dicen), so I need a little time to temper myself back into a more agreeable state.

But at the moment, one more paper, a trip to the gym, and an early morning trip to the PMA are what are in store. Almost there...

Darkroom Comedy

You've got to be joking. Maybe if it weren't all happening at once and to me I'd think it was funny.

Last night, after sitting in the library freezing my ass off, watching the senior librarian explain to me for the second time how to use the online book catalog for THREE HOURS (keep in mind, these would be hours 4, 5, and 6 for me, as opposed to the rest of my Spanish Senior Seminar), I trudged back to the darkroom to finish my project. Said project, aka "An exercise in Futility" by Thea Williamson, salvaging photos from ruined negatives with nonexistent photo paper to print on, didn't start until 1:00 am, due to an excess of students in the darkroom.

Also loitering among the toxic, funeral parlor-esque chemicals was another hanger-on of indeterminate origin. Some cute blonde artsy chick that clearly didn't have a purpose. It was beautiful: she was consummately supurfluous, and always right in my path on the way from the enlarger to the developer. Hanging on to some guy in our class, the paragon of the 'hipster' aesthetic. Short choppy blonde hair pinned back in an oh-so-deliberatey mussed fashion by bobby pins, one highlighted chunk of bangs a shade more platinum than her natural color; a dubiously "handmade" courderoy skirt with brightly colored stitching over baggy jeans, topped off with paint-spattered shoes and yes, legwarmers. Cable knitted olive green FRAYED legwarmers.

Why is it that every guy I've seen lately is irresistably drawn to vapidity? She actually said at one point: "Oops! oh, my God!, I'm *so* sorry I bumped you! Did I ruin the picture." And she used the asterisks. Her friend graciously replied "Uh, yeah. I can just reprint it, it's no big deal." Why must people like this exist in my immediate vicinity, let alone within my 6 feet of personal space?

It's time to get off campus. Out of the state, preferrably.

INSC

Mmm, internet connection in the Science Library carrells (how exactly does one spell that?) is a good thing. I love my iBook. I also made myself Sunday brunch today, at 10:30--grits and scrambled eggs. Warm, steamy breafasts are always a good way to start the day.

Blue skies and cool weather on this Sunday early afternoon should be conducive to productivity, and there's another intramural game this afternoon to take my mind off of less agreeable activities. Six days till fall break, and all I've got to do is write a paper about pre-1918 film, along with various and asundry thesis projects. Vacation, here I come...

Amarga.

Amarga, in Spanish, means bitter. It's the name of a García Lorca character, and it's also the designation for dark chocolate. In Barcelona last year, walking around with my sister, we ran across a bakery/confectionary that made its own chocolate. They also sold t-shirts to match the designs on their specialty bars: coffee, pistachio, milk, white, and yes, bittersweet. 66% amarga, the shirt said. It was royal blue with a great minimalistic sans-serif font on the front, and it came with hot chocolate mix and a bar of the specified chocolatey goodness. Too bad they only had extra large in stock. I would have been proud to say that I'm only 66% bitter, like the Valrhona bar. Alex said that was too generous of an estimate, and that I haven't been 66% since sometime in the height of my secondary education, circa junior year of high school. Now, I'm not so sure, but I think I'm fast approaching the 66% mark.

I've always loved dark, bittersweet chocolate, and if I were a little cheesier, I would say that I fancied myself to resemble it: something not everyone wants to eat, but a little sweet...you know: really great in small bites, and fantastically delicious, but if consumed in mass quantities just kind of makes you sick. Never been one to gravitate towards large group settings, and it does take a certain quality to really appreciate the more uh, euphemistically "ecclectic" aspects of me. But I'm not cheesy, and have never been given to speaking allegorically, so just ignore all of that.

Tried to go out tonight, shouldn't have. I hate what Haverford does to me. Oh well, at least I have all of Sunday to get work done.

amarga?

Some people have mentioned in the past year or so that I don't really merit the moniker of "bitter" any more. Lately I'm not so sure. Perhaps it's Haverford that does it to me. Perhaps it's being in a static social scene. Perhaps it's my incessant desire for change and movement in my life, that is completely unsatisfied at the moment. Quizás, Quizás, Quizás.

Procrastinating tomorrow (as with this evening, when fell asleep while reading Borges...in English...for CompLit) shall include rationalization of title. I know you're all enthralled.

Bzzzzzz,

just a little.

When I left the fieldhouse this evening, on a tight schedule to get cleaned up before the first Spanish Film Series presentation of the semester, I walked out into brisk air. It made me slow down mid-stride and look up at the sky, to see if I could find what I'd been waiting for. I'd been waiting for a night like those I remember from autumns past in Pennsylvania; those nights coming home from the library, a practice that ran late, a looping suburban run. A night when all of the divergent jumbles of thoughts in my head get frozen for a moment, and I realize the power that something purely aesthetic can have over me.

Tonight was one of those evenings when the sky, cloudles and stardusted, seems to go on forever, infinitely deep and smooth. Tall pines and maples cut out backlit silouettes that frame my walk home across the quad, the lead overlay on my glassy sky: un cielo infinito so clear and bright, that starts off cerulean, passes imperceptibly into shades of royal blue, and on into a cobalt so dark and pure that you'd swear if you dropped it on kitchen tiles, it would shatter. As my gaze travels upwards, I can't help but shut up, tell myself to stop jabbering on inside my head about whatever trivial stress is bothering me, and look for that first star. Yadda yadda, puny feeling in relation to celestial universe, blah, blah, berate self for not looking up at sky more often. You know the drill.

My ghetto digital watch kept flashing the seconds, and I had to book it home in order to shower, feed myself something on the run, and be present to kick off the 'Serie.'

"Duh, I knew about that shit all along, no biggie." said the omniscient, infallible narrator with an artfully haughty raised eyebrow. And she went back to studying chemistry.

Buzzkill

So I'm not sure what it is about October that just wants to piss me off so badly...it's only been two days. Maybe it's the weather. I feel like I'm trapped in that Shakira song:

Si es la lluvia de todos los dias que ha aumentado su nivel
ya la musica no tiene el mismo efecto que solia tener
que no se ni que idoma hablo...
Y por mas que yo lo intente,
no me escucho ni mi propio voz.
Ya no sé si he vivido diez mil días
o un día diez mil veces....

Maybe its that it's been raining more,
because music doesn't have the same effect
as it's supposed to.
I don't even know what language to speak in...
And as much as I've tried,
I don't even listen to my own voice.
And I don't know if I've lived a thousand days
or just one day a thousand times.

Only problem is that the Spanish pop goddess is talking about love (the song's called "I Need You" for christ's sake), and all that's getting me down is life in general. I feel that "oh-shit-i'm-overinvolved" vibe coming on, like I've been blowing off schoolwork to deal with ostensibly 'real life' stuff, and eventually that's going to be a problem.

Part of the problem is that I hate looking like a slacker. I'm a procrastinator, to be sure, and I may not be the most organized person in the entire world, but I do my work. Having my Spanish prof. think that I just don't care enough to find a thesis topic kind of blows, because that's very much not the case.

Having my photo prof. think that I just have "sloppy" composition only because I can't afford a tripod also, as they say, blows. Especially since I spent an inordinate amount of time taking what I thought were really cool pictures of coffee, and worked really hard on the assignment; too bad the class thought that i 'failed to execute' what I was attempting; usually the teacher says "Okay ____, thanks for showing us your pictures. Let's move on." With me this morning, all that I got was her looking at the grade sheet, tilting her head with a sort of quizzical "hmm...." and some arched eyebrows. Give me a fucking break. They weren't that horrible, were they? Other people in the class just did theirs the night before!

Having the Watson committee eat pizza on the dean's couch in his cluttered office didn't really impart the seriousness I had hoped for in the interview, and I just want to go in and shake them all, yelling "look, you stupid people, I put a lot of work into this, and I know half of the other applicants just threw their shit together the week before!"

And of course, having to objectively look at all that shit and realize that none of it's really that important, and that if I'd been just a little more organized, a little more observant, and a little more aware of the fact that I'm not going to get by on just my *charming* personality, I could have remedied all of the aforementioned situations before they squashed me down a bit. What's that, Thea having problems with overconfidence? That's a new one. It has not been a good week for my interactions with authority figures, which worries me. Usually, I have difficulties enough dealing with my peers, and I can handle adults just fine, but when that falls apart too, it's a bit of a downer.

Fortunately, I have in the cupboard what I discovered in Sevilla is the remedy for any and all bad moods or buzzkills: Nutella. Crusty, slightly warmed french bread and sweet chocolate hazelnut spread tempers bitterness quite effectively. I am a little perplexed as to why professional basketball players are advertsing it; apparently I should "TRY KOBE'S FAVORITE." Whatever, man. I don't ask questions as long as it keeps tasting good.

Hopefully this weekend will be fun; big plans for First Friday in Old City, and much productivity with regards to work.