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Alas, gentle readers, a week has passed. I know, I know, I have grown neglectful, but you would not think ill of my disappearance if you knew how busy I was. Excuses run thin indeed. But oh, the sleepless vigils I have pulled this week . . .
But that is neither here nor there. Yesterday, the most miraculous thing happened. I met T.C. Boyle! Briefly, yes, at a book signing, but he was there and I was there and we SPOKE. Rapture!
Mr. Boyle read a short story from his latest book, Tooth and Claw. As usual, the unmitigated honesty of his characters' emotional reactions took my breath away. The story from which he read drew clever parallels between a cataclysmic celestial collision and the death of a child. He read exceptionally well. His voice filled the bookstore without any aplification, and his pristine diction reached every ear. I was pleased, however, to see that he faltered once or twice over a few particularly difficult lines. He was human. And I loved it. His brutal descriptions echo through my brain even now!
As for Mr. Boyle himself, he looked rather like a burned out rock star - unrully red hair shocked with grey, a messy goatee, impish smirk, weak chin. His eyes crackled. He wore a yellow blazer over a black t-shirt and jeans, moved with lanky deliberation, and smiled to himself. I found him desperately compelling. As much as I hate to admit it, I think I have now developed a celebrity crush.
After the reading, people lined up in front of the podium to get their books signed. Although the wait seemed daunting, by no means would I pass up an opportunity to approach the only man on the planet I look up to unconditionally. I mean it. I adore the man. His work moves me in ways I won't fully understand until I'm at least 2 or 3 decades older.
And I told him so. "Mr. Boyle," I said, suddenly afflicted with dry-mouth, "you're my hero." He seemed stunned, taken aback perhaps. I rambled on about the first time I ever read his work, how it made me feel, how it convinced me to continue writing stories of my own. I thanked him for being a writer and sharing his imagination with the world. "Because your books inspired me to keep writing, I am now at my first choice college on writing scholarship." He asked me which book of his was my favorite. I told him I liked East is East best of all, but I was so nervous that I blurted out that Kurt Vonnegut Jr. was my favorite author, and T.C. Boyle would have to settle for second place. Ugh.
Before I left, he wished me luck in my craft. I felt like I'd been kissed by a saint.
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Oh gentle readers, I must apologize for the lack of updates as of late. But you see, my schedule is grinding me into the dirt. I didn't think that 19 credit hours and a part time job would be so bad. I thought that I could handle it. It'd be just like last year, only this time around, I'd know what I was doing. I'd have my shit together.
Whatever. I've turned half dead and more than a little apathetic. As of this moment, I have not had REM sleep in 48 hours, and no more than 12 hours in the last five days. Ugh. On the bright side, I haven't fucked up any academic deadlines or projects. In fact, I've been doing pretty damned well.
All told, I really don't know what to say to you. I spent most of my day foundering around in advanced poetry workshop and fiction writing class. And now I'm stuck down here in the bowels of Olin library, romancing the microfilm machines so my customers can take a look at the New York Times. (I always hoped I'd get payed to fondle knobs, but this wasn't exactly what I had pictured.)
Oh yeah, here's a brief list of things I find hilarious today because i'm so overwhelmed by fatigue:
- The BAWLS brand energy drink I took out of the fridge was so cold that as it warmed upt, it attracted condensation on the outside of the bottle. HAHAHA! Get it? SWEATY BAWLS!
- My women's studies syllabus has (HO) written next to certain authors names
to indicate that their work can be found in a hand-out. THEY'RE HOS! BWAHAHAHA
- Whenever I use a public bathroomm, I am seized by the irrational fear that I have somehow walked into the Men's Room, and sat down in a stall without realizing my mistake. The fear won't leave me until I see a distinctly feminine pair of feet in the stall next to me. And they've gotta be really feminine - like painted toes feminine. And I'm only alright as long as they remain in my sight.
- The more fagtigued I get, the more sexually attractive the human race appears. Maybe being deleriously tired is rather like being drunk.
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Two words: Ravi Motherfuckingshankar. Oh gentle readers, if you could have only seen him play! On friday past, I flew out to Houston for a special concert - Ravi Shankar's festival of India III.
The concert was preceded by a troupe of classical indian dancers, none of which could have been any older than myself. They moved with exceptional grace and precision, despite the intricate trappings of their costumes. And what costumes they were - red and violet and white cloth, gilded, emblazoned with jewels, embroidered, and beset with bells. Every time they planted their feet, the bells would ring marvelously. I can't forget the choreographed movements of their eyes! So beautiful.
And then the concert began. The first half of the concert featured Anoushka Shankar, Ravi's daughter, and a full ensemble of Indian instruments - subhar, sarod, shenai, tabla, zither, violin, vocalists, you name it. Anoushka played the sitar while conducting the other musicians. I must say, she is extremely talented. In another twenty years, she'll be every bit the master that her father is.
During the second half of the concert, Ravi and Anoushka played several heart-wrenching duets. At times, it seemed that they were trying to outdo each other. The music flowed and surged with grace that could only be described through a series of hackneyed, cliche metaphors (which I will spare you). Never have I heard a more beautiful performance. The sitar is truly the king of instruments.
I am so inspired by their performance that I have decided to take up the sitar next semester. I want to learn. I MUST learn.
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j Today, gentle readers, I decided that I need a lawyer. Why? So that I can sue the Van Melle candy corporation for over a decade of psychological distress.
Mentos. Mentos have ruined my life!
I was but a child when I first witnessed a mentos commercial. A man in a business suit accidently sits on a freshly painted white bench. Oh no! Today's the big interview! What ever shall he do with those giant white stripes on his ass?
The painter certainly can't help him; he merely shrugs and shows the camera his best shit-eating grin. Whoopsy, he seems to say, accidents will happen. Especially to smug upper-middle class college graduates, like that fucker over there.
Suddenly, the businessman has a brilliant idea: he'll eat some mentos. High fructose corn syrup makes everything better. (Of course! Sugar is the answer to all of Man's woes. Why hadn't I thought of it before?)
And lo, as soon as the business man has popped a chewy mint into his mouth, he begins to roll around on the painted bench like a terrier in a dead fish factory. Aha! Now his suit is covered all over with white streaks of paint. It almost looks like cheap zebra-print fabric.
Bravo. It's always better to look tacky than to look misfortunate. Don't forget to wink and show your mentos to the camera. (That's right, bitch. You're nothing without it. NOTHING!)
At the time, this commercial didn't strike me as corny. Mentosworld is a happy world. All you need to succeed in Mentosworld is a pure heart and a tube of chewy breath mints (or, if you're in a mood to spice it up a bit, the chewy fruit flavors). It's that simple.
Even though the commercial didn't show what happened to the businessman later that day, I bet he aced the damn interview, found a 3 karat diamond ring in the street on the way home, used it to propose to his girlfriend, and had rough sex with her on the roof of their appartment building. And when the cops shined a spotlight on his bobbing white ass, he didn't panic. He just ate a mentos and trusted that serendipity would whisk his troubles away.
Life in Mentosworld makes sense.
But it doesn't exist. I know that now. No matter how many tubes of candy I consume, my life will never match the whimsical vivacity of a mentos commercial. Believe me. I've tried. And it's all XYZ corp's fault, damn their eyes.
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Because I am a tool (and sick of doing fiction class homework) I'm going to write a poem composed of nothing but the short story titles in my course packet. I may not add any words. I can't sever, subract from, or otherwise alter the titles. Every line must be a complete title, and only one title. The only thing I can add is punctuation.
And I heartily invite you, gentle readers, to analyze the resulting work.
The Year of Getting to Know Us
Girl in the flammable skirt,
The fat girl,
Wants
A good scent from a strange mountain;
In the gloaming,
Blue night, clover lake -
Romantic weekend,
The third and final continent,
The Dead
Snow.
What it was like, seeing Chris,
People like that are the only people here.
Girl -
The toughest Indian in the world.
Miles City, Montana
Train.
St. Marie:
Goodbye, my brother.
Cathedral
Train dreams:
I stand here ironing,
Helping
The behavior of the hawkweeds,
Sonny's blues
The chosen husband.
Please give me your best interpretations in the comments feature.
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Today, gentle readers, I would like to bring you up to speed on two very important events. First, the "soiled" panties. As of Friday morning, they were removed from the underpass and (I'm assuming) added to the groundskeeper's used knicker collection. Oh well. They were a good prank while they lasted.
Second, the situation with Spencer, child of destiny. Actually, it's Kay, child of destiny, as he prefers to be called. Or at least, he prefers to be called Kay; I'm not so sure about the "child of destiny" part. But at any rate, I shall henceforth call him Kay.
So Kay and I eventually ran into each other in Bear's Den, smack-dab in the middle of my 100 hour work week. Needless to say, I wasn't at my cognative best, sleep deprived and whatnot, but we managed to have a rudimentary conversation. It was enough to constitute a first meeting.
On the whole, I found him polite and articulate, if not somewhat overembellished. The gaudiness of Kay's personality lends him a particular charm, rather like the best Tim Burton characters. I would classify him as goth. He dresses nearly better than I do.
We hung out a little bit this weekend. After dragging him to a party at The Dude of Life's house on Friday, Kay invited me to a local goth rock show at pub in the Central West End. The music was OK. I didn't know anybody. Nevertheless, I had a splendid time playing pool with various freaky folks, talking music and neuroscience with a lab-tech named Marcel, and people-watching to my heart's content.
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Update on the "soiled" panties: the panties have long outlived their expectations. We put them up Monday night. As of now, Thursday evening, they are STILL THERE. I can't imagine that people haven't seen them. Man, I wonder how long the vile things will remain stuck to the wall of the underpass.
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Last night, I dreamed that the white of my eye was peeling away. I watched it happen in the sort of third person panoramic view unique to dream states. It hurt. When I put my finger to the damaged orb, the tissue eroded further, eventually dropping into my hand like a scrap of cooked eggwhite.
I knew I had to go to the hospital, but didn't have a way to get there. So I sat on the floor, swallowed the remains of my mangled eye, and cried. I woke up crying.
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In a streak of unbridled mischieviousness, Alan and I took two pairs of unused cotton panties (they didn't fit me) and smeared A1 steak sauce on each crotch.
See, we were trying to find the condement that looked most like menstrual blood. Alan suggested strawberry juice. I thought ketchup would make for a better consistency. However, when we reached the condement station at Bear's Den, we both knew it had to be A1 Steak Sauce. Gooey, ruddy-brown, and right at hand.
Well, we found out that A1 Steak Sauce looks more like diarrhea. Oh well. No matter.
We pitched one pair of soiled knickers into the bed of a pick-up truck on the south fourty. The other pair, we placed on an outcrop of the underpass. Even though people usually stare at the ground while they walk through the underpass, we figure approximately 2,000 people must have walked by the panties today, so at least 20 people should have noticed it.
But last I looked, the panties are still there, proudly presenting their soiled crotch to approaching pedestrians. No one has had the heart to remove them. I don't blame them.
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Washington University has it's own police department. We call it WUPD (pronounced "whoop-dee") for short. As if that wasn't enough to detract from their hard-nosed image, they've started replacing their bike patrols with scooter patrols.
And not just any scooters, but "poor-man's segways", as Alan likes to call them. They look almost like a segway, except for the fact that instead of an internal gyroscopic balancing system, they have a third wheel.
Naturally, I think this is a very poor decision on WUPD's part, and not just because it hurts their image. First off, they couldn't have picked a vehicle that was easier to evade. The poor-man's segways can't go off-road. A bike can go down a grassy hill, or even a few stairs, but the scooters are restricted to paved paths. And as if most cops weren't chubby enough, we have to take away their only source of exercise on the job and give them an electric scooter. Why I saw a cop riding by with a donut in hand just yesterday. Wash U's doomed, I say.
Did I mention that the damned things have really wussy horns built in? *Meep! Meep!*
Man oh man, I really want to take one for a joy-ride.
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Found on the wall of one of the many bathrooms on campus (and no, I won't say which):
Person A) What's black and blue and sleeps around?
Person B) THAT BLUE HAIRED GIRL WHOSE IN MY POETRY CLASS (sic)
In the words of Eeyore, thanks for noticing me, JACKASS.
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Every so often, something happens in my life that seems to indicate that everything is interconnected, that there are no coincidences and no mistakes. These events occur in threads - they lead effortlessly from one to another, with a synchronism that could not be achieved even by the most careful planning. Today, I entered such a thread.
At 11:09am, Joe appears in Bowles Plaza and tells me that there is a person with whom I must become aquainted. His name is Spencer. I ask Joe what Spencer looks like. Joe smiles and says simply that I'll know him when I see him. I can't miss him.
At 12:09pm, exactly one hour later, I sit down in Whispers Cafe with my laptop with the intent of writing a blog entry. But something is distracting me. I can't collect my thoughts. I feel as if something important is about to happen.
I hear a man speak to his friends behind me. The voice seems familiar. I turn and find myself staring into the eyes of an androgyn. Tight pink t-shirt, tight black pants, painted nails, styled black hair held back by sunglasses. Big grin. A few bracelets. A necklace.
Spencer.
But I couldn't ask. I couldn't ask him just then. What if I were wrong?
So I waited. I waited until the androgyn bid his friends goodbye and strode off to his 12:30 class, and the minute he was gone, I approached the two boys remaining at the table. Freshmen, both of them - I could tell by the e-comp book set in front of them. I made my introductions and told them I had a question that I desperately needed to ask of them. Noting their discomfort, I decided to preface the query with a racontation of what my friend Joe had said, and, when they seemed receptive, I asked them if the boy who had been sitting with them was named Spencer.
He was.
I don't know what this means, but I'm going to pursue it.
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