Today I feel very blank. One of those days where nothing much matters, so I take a long time to do simple things. For instance, I spent about five minutes washing grapes. It could have taken me about thirty seconds, but I was inwardly compelled to devote myself to a meaningless task; somehow it was fulfilling. I was satisfied with underachieving today and it was unusually refreshing. I just wish I had my thoughts back, for they at least amuse--if not entangle--me. If you could read my mind today, it would look like the page of a Samuel Beckett play: short words chasing each other in circles.
"I may get through this semester without dying, but don't put too much money on it."--Armitage, following a fit of coughing during a discussion of King Lear.
My geology professor told us that if we sent him a photo of our Halloween costume, he'd give us a reward. I'm thinking, "Extra credit, score," so I send him the photo of me and my fellow magnetic words. Today there was a vote held in class and magnetic poetry got 2nd place. Woo! But what do I get? No extra credit, but a bar of Toblerone chocolate, which is at least better tasting than extra points (though probably not as enduringly satisfying).
I've been afraid of journaling lately. I'm afraid of the ugly things it brings to the surface.
You hem me in, behind and before;
you have laid your hand upon me.
Had dinner with Catherine on the floor of our room with the big fluorescent light turned off. We ate sandwiches and the meticulously-washed grapes and drank hot chocolate and talked in quiet voices, listening to Feist. "What is your ideal job?" I asked her. She started laughing and covered her mouth with her hands. "I don't know!" she laughed, shaking her head. We tossed around a lot of ideas but came to the conclusion that we have no idea what to do with our lives.
Most days I feel like writing is just acting.