The Wednesday before I left Maryland, Seth and I had one of those long, synthesizing/rehashing conversations on the hood of my car. It was a warm, quiet night, and we had just meanderingly come home from seeing Garden State, walking past sprinklers and pausing on the steps of Chevy Chase ES to discuss our mutual discomfort with the movie's emotional affect. We discussed Modernism vs. Postmodernism - all the self-referentiality nowadays, the cataclysmal self-consciousness that reduces human experience to cliches. I suppose we felt reduced by our reactions to Garden State. And I said that we couldn't be paralyzed or ashamed that everything has been said and done before - Woolf, et al., write every moment as absolutely new, overspilling cliche.


I would like to say more about my last days in town with Seth, particularly our very nice last day together, but there really isn't anything. I think I feel done with this blog, and with all of the conjuring of the past I've tried to do. Something is fundamentally different now, and it's not just that Seth and I are pretty conclusively apart; it's some sort of private paradigm shift (to keep with the Postmodern buzz-words). I'm no longer so concerned with monitoring my own life. I'm no longer disproportionately or remarkably happy or unhappy; I'm living instead of Alive, and I feel passively abstracted and content. So far this year, I've read (everything I've been assigned!) Rousseau and Kant, Fowles and J.G. Ballard and Calvino, Saussure and Freud and Lacan. I've copy-edited for six hours straight, five times a week. I've stayed up for hours gossiping with Jess Mo., been picked up, and gone on a date.


It's not that I'm particularly full of potential, or that my surroundings are so rich; it's that it feels better not to notice. This is the fruition I wanted - the construction of my life as a self-perpetuating system, so I can sit back and absorb and enjoy. Concerning Seth, of course I still care about him, and I'm glad that we're still so close. As for this blog, I'm not up for it anymore - but I'll let you know if I change my mind.

[Cont.] On to my first important point, which is actually just an extended (bizarre, incongruous) story: On Friday the 13th, my aunt and uncle were in town for the approximate 10-year anniversary of my paternal grandma's death. My Aunt Jane had called my dad several months ago, informing him that she had their father's ashes (he died in 1988) and was incapable of disposing of them by herself. At the time, we had my grandma's ashes in our house (my dad didn't remember where exactly, which appalled my mom). It was decided that this 16-year lapse in filial duty should end over the summer, in the DC area, after dinner at my house and copious wine. The adults agreed upon American University as the final resting site, since my Grandma Muriel was head of the Sociology Department and apparently my Grandpa Joel obtained an Anthropology degree there. (I have no idea what he did with it, since I think he was a Psychology Ph.D.)


Anyway, the adults wanted to do this on Saturday, but I pointed out (joking) that illegal acts like ash-scattering are better done under cover of darkness. There was the added draw that they would be tipsy at the time (with the exception of my dad); this happy confluence of bravado and natural concealment was unlikely to be repeated at midday. As we got our jackets and filed into the car, my father reminded us that we didn't know ash-scattering was illegal. There had been some talk of trying to obtain permission: "Hey, do you remember Professor C.?" my dad had said, mock-enthusiastically. "Well, we've got her remains here, and we think it would be a great idea to scatter them somewhere on campus." (Beat.) "Oh, by the way, she won't be in class on Monday." Now, in the car, my Uncle Murray announced that he didn't believe what we planned to do - namely, evade campus security long enough to shadily dispose of human remains in a flower bed - was illegal, anyway.

"It doesn't matter whether you believe it," my dad said, thoughtfully. "This is not some existential question about whether God is alive."

My mom and aunt, both lawyers (and sharing the backseat with me), quickly chimed in that they were certain it was illegal, but willing to pretend otherwise; they had learned about it in law school.

"In cremation class?" my uncle said.

On River Road, we approached the turnoff to my grandparents' old house. The adults were suddenly overcome by this promising new opportunity to expedite the ash-scattering. It was even, apparently, not technically trespassing to do so - as long as we stayed in the grassy strip at the periphery of the lawn, which was public property. As a sober person, I felt it was my moral obligation to object stridently. "Think of the Golden Rule!" I said. "Would you want strangers coming to your house at night to do such a thing? Would you want your children to dispose of you in a drainage ditch?" The others claimed they wouldn't mind, but, grudgingly, we continued on the route to AU. After about 15 minutes of attempted parking (God, acting through the construction patterns on campus, apparently did not smile on our task), we found a small lot in walking distance of the Sociology building. Carrying our two small parcels (one was in a cardboard box, and the other looked like simulated wood?), we self-consciously traversed the remaining distance; my dad and uncle talked about what a terrible postmodern story this would make, and how some further zany misadventures must inevitably befall us.

I said, "What would really be appropriate is if we had all gotten in a car accident on the way and died."

Outside the Sociology building was a bed of black-eyed susans and a path extending, eventually, to a main road; an AU bus parked ominously across the street. The two men opened their parcels to reveal plastic bags. I had been waiting the entire time to see whether the ashes would really look like kitty litter (as in A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, which was over-referenced that night), and I was disappointed to discover they were too fine and not gritty enough, more like dusty sand. Well, my dad and uncle punctured the bags and upended them over the flower bed, where the white ashes fell in wide swirls, in jarring contrast to the dirt. Everyone noticed this discrepancy and wasn't sure what to do. My grandma and grandpa were both at the very least agnostic, and their children were the same; nothing had been said to consecrate the act, and I don't think anyone knew of a decorous way to obscure the ashes. My father, matter-of-factly, began to kick dirt over them.

I felt a little sick. "Dad, you're stepping on your parents."

He said, "I think a good ending to the story would be if we realized the ashes were too conspicuous, so we peed on them."

My mom and aunt decried that as a terribly inappropriate joke, and we all walked back to the car (with a brief stop to discard the bags and boxes in a dumpster). I don't remember my grandpa much, but I used to participate in AU academic life a little with my grandma. I remember sitting in on a class, being babysat, when I was eight; I tried to keep still and look attentive so the other students might think I was a precocious college student, and I was surprised to find I understood most of the lecture. Another time, I handed out hors d'oeuvres at a cocktail party for her graduate students, feeling grown-up and self-satisfied. The second to last time I was at AU was for my grandma's memorial service (the last time was for those As You Like It hijinks), but the campus seemed surprisingly familiar. I walked up ahead with my dad, wearing my blue windbreaker, and he put his arm around me; I told him that his peeing ending idea lacked verisimilitude. [I think my second important point will wait until later, because I'd like to post before I go out this evening.]

Okay, a quick summary so I can get on to two more pressing points: Seth and I saw Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle in early August, which is the most convincing peer pressure I've ever seen to smoke pot. I have never smoked pot, and I can't imagine I would write about it online if I did - but Harold and Kumar is populated with nerdy, otherwise upstanding, externally successful potheads, and I have to admit the idea of drug use and people like my friends coexisting is compelling. I had actually gotten over this temptation (it was around August 5 that I saw the movie) until I watched The Breakfast Club, something I hadn't seen since childhood, at Seth's house the other day. In an expression of inter-caste unity, the prom queen, jock, geek, and two varieties of troubled teen smoke up together and laughingly or tearfully tell their secrets. I want the transcendent comradery that only illicit substances can bring.


Also, Seth was sick the other day, so I kept him company watching the Olympics. We commentated like during the DNC, and Seth transcribed ridiculous forced/mixed metaphors and awkward turns of phrase from the former-gymnast pundit. Unlike during the DNC, Seth was wearing a ratty bathrobe and made periodic moans or spasmodic contortions to indicate sickness. "I feel like death," he said.

"What are your other symptoms, besides feeling like death?" I said, trying to be helpful.

He felt better the following day, and I've continued to watch the Olympics, sometimes with him and sometimes alone. More than anything else, the gymnastics reminds me of an unfortunate period in my childhood when a neighbor family "watched" my sister and me before school and left us essentially unattended. Along with their two daughters, we decided to teach ourselves to do flips - which we accomplished by standing on their parents' bureau, across from the double bed, and launching ourselves in the air between the pieces of furniture, ideally landing on our feet or backs on the bed (versus the carpet, or the footboard, or whatever). I spent a long time teaching myself to do flips off the diving board at the public pool, with less consistent success (which is okay, because failure on the bed might have paralyzed me), but there's really nothing like the sensation of turning head-over-heels in open air. I did gymnastics for five or six years, and I miss that ease and motility. My sedentary body feels like such a burden now.


Anyway, Dave P. came back to town from Russian immersion at Middlebury, and a gathering was held in his honor on Wednesday. He had a basement full of Duplos and other exciting toys. I think if my social interaction never matures beyond this point (which it presumably will), I can be content - participating when I'm able to do so authoritatively, and otherwise finding sinister Duplos like the frowny face block and what looked like a guardtower and a microwave. I wasn't alone in my immaturity: GPaul composed a kinky limerick on Tara's behalf, she did his hair and attempted to draw various anatomical features on his leg (the boys are distressingly better at that than we are), and a contingent disappeared for a long time looking for popsicles. Yesterday, I experienced far more bombastic crassness when my family saw The Producers at the Kennedy Center. Some of the jokes I could have done without, but it was well worth it to see chorus girls and boys cheerfully dancing in a swastika formation (with gay-Hitler somewhere therein). [Broken into two posts for your scanning convenience.]

And love is not a victory march

Conveniently, I didn't do very much that was interesting from late June to mid-July. I hung out with various combinations of Hank, Alison, Natalies D. and G., Seth, and Tara. I also read two or three books, overplayed XO and my new Smiths' Greatest Hits CDs, and watched such important cultural documents as Fahrenheit 9/11 and "I Love the 90s." One noteworthy exception (to tedium) took place on June 28, when Ben Folds/Guster/Rufus Wainwright played at Wolf Trap. I really hate Rufus Wainwright; I found his act obnoxious and simpering, especially when he brought his famous mother onstage to play piano during "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." Guster was adorable and very catchy, though - three nice Jewish boys covering "The Boy With the Arab Strap," which I happily appended from my seat on the upper balcony. Apparently the band also covers "Come On Eileen" sometimes, albeit not that well!


Ben himself was in top form, though he played for only 40 minutes. I got my money's worth: I was a member of the "Army" horn section, something I've been practicing since Fall 2002 (grin). After the concert, my next significant life event took place on Saturday, July 17, when I awkwardly attempted clubbing for a second time. Tara and I fussed over our clothing and pre-gamed at Natalie G.'s, using daiquiri-flavored wine coolers and homemade tequila sunrises. Natalie's friend Rachel, who is poised and wise, stopped by in time to teach us about eye makeup and cleavage. Then, we Metroed to DC and pretended dignity while walking several blocks in the dark, in the rain, in high heels and shielding our hair with community newspapers. There was a restaurant in the basement of the venue (the Hawk & Dove), where I sat for a while puzzling over the new code of social ethics governing at whom to glance and for how long.


On Thursday, July 22, Dyanne, Tara, Seth, and I went to Ted Leo/The Pharmacists at the Black Cat. For reasons that were never fully explained to me, Dyanne and Tara wore formal gowns. [I wore my Indie Kid costume and a rain slicker, and Seth wore his everyday-indie clothes.] In the club, it was hot, dark, smoky, and crowded, so the girls attracted only occasional incredulous notice. Ted executed his set on speed (everything was 4x the pace it should have been), and made occasional plodding, useless remarks on the "punk rock community" and feminism. Last year after Tara, Nick S., Seth, and I saw the New Pornographers at Black Cat, we encountered shadiness on the way to the Georgia Ave. bus stop in the form of a motorcycle gang (I suppose? a rumble in the distance climaxing in a stream of motorcycles on the highway). This year, our post-show sketch factor was more personally tailored to Misses Dyanne and Tara. A homeless man on the road shouted at Seth, "How come you can get three beautiful women, and I can't get no woman?"


Another passerby insisted (well, it was an empty threat) on shaking Seth's hand. "I gotta get your autograph - I gotta meet the guy who's got three such beautiful queens," he said. I guess I should always travel at night with girls in prom dresses, if I want to be accosted by strange, probably unemployable men. Anyway, the next evening I saw my sister as Lady Macbeth in the BAPA summer show. Two years ago, some friends and I made a really ill-fated trip to see Seth in the same company production (As You Like It, apparently). I was suddenly struck by how young we must have been; Seth, as a rising junior, was only one year older than my sister. And, when I was his age, I was a BAPA stagehand, uncomfortably tongue-tied around the other CITs whenever they discussed their love-lives. I suppose I'm lucky to have a younger sister to make high school seem darling and poignant.


On Saturday, July 24, I attended Live on Penn with a quorum of Bivalves. Fountains of Wayne was the opening act, followed by my beloved They Might Be Giants. It was actually a pleasure to see both groups (hearing "Denise" live was unexpectedly fun), but TMBG alone delivered hardcore bliss. I stood near Dyanne and Tara in the second row, in reach of the guardrail delineating Us and Them, and at ground zero for the confetti explosion during the second song. I know I hopelessly, continuously compare the present with the past, particularly for recurrent events - always gauging differences in atmosphere and impression, asking myself whether I'm happier now. The experience of watching TMBG last year from behind a tall fence was incomparable. I stopped for a moment, amid bouncing and belting song lyrics and shyly forcing eye contact with John Linnell, to realize that I was honestly very happy. There are things in my life that I dislike, but I'm separate and content - and if I'm smart (and blessed), I will keep that.


The final thing I want to mention is how much I enjoyed the Democratic National Convention. Seth and I had a date to watch Kerry on the 29th, sitting rapt in the basement and occasionally cheering or commentating. I feel impelled to do something useful with my time, maybe actively join Penn for Choice or the Queer Straight Alliance. I think/hope (?) there's no shame in being maneuvered in the direction of social consciousness.

Here is something from around July 7, to placate Dyanne while I work on more:

Fifteen minutes with you
Oh I wouldn't say no

Seth and I saw Napoleon Dynamite circa its release date, which brought back surprisingly fond memories of middle school dweebdom. I know, I'm still a dweeb, but less spectacularly. Back then, there was such unself-conscious ungainliness among my group of friends (the pariah femme clique). It was charming, idyllic, and nowadays alien, since we're all so relentlessly self-aware. One illustrative anecdote: The Humanities and Communications Magnet held a graduation pool party/formal dinner/dance, which provoked various degrees of consternation as I wondered first whether to wear a two-piece swimsuit (I decided against and was very much in the minority), and later whether to wear a dress or a skirt, pantyhose, makeup, etc. The dance itself was a mess, after all my preoccupation. A nerdy boy - worse off than me, I perceived, in the social hierarchy - cornered me and confessed a three-year crush and asked me to dance. After a brief, awkward attempt, I ran and hid in an upstairs dressing room for the remainder of the evening. Aww (grin).


Before the movie, Seth and I walked through Bethesda's night scene: whole blocks of outdoor tables sporting tapas, Thai food, & more. Seth expressed an old desire to swipe food from a table as we passed, which, I pointed out, he's been saying for almost as long as I've known him. His courage/manhood thus challenged, he left me at a bench by the former Giant-turned-store-for-seasonal-or-transient-proprieters, returning several minutes later, at a jog, with a handful of nachos for both of us. [He acquired them with permission from two young men at Jaleo, who reportedly looked Weirded Out.] On June 25, Seth arranged another food-related outing with Nick S. and Tara, for beef and pork ribs, buffalo wings, collard greens, etc. I'd never eaten such things before, and, in spite of my relative finesse with chopsticks/Maryland crab dissembling (or not so much), I found dinner very taxing and overly awkward. Afterwards, we meandered over to Bethesda Metro, where we discovered innovative phallic graffiti, and Nick chased Seth around brandishing an umbrella.


An old friendly acquaintance of mine, Griff, appeared from the shadows and engaged us (mostly Nick and Seth) in esoteric conversation for more than an hour. Then, Nick left us for a concert, and Tara and I fell asleep to the sounds of Wayne's World in Seth's basement. She and I were roused unhappily at approx. 12:50 AM, and we made it home - to meet again, nine hours later, for a day-trip to Rehobeth Beach, DE. Liliya accompanied/transported us, Tara navigated, and I sat uselessly in the backseat eating other people's food. We got lost only two or three times. In various states of scandalous undress (poorly concealed bikinis), we appealed for help from 1.) antique show docents at a community center, 2.) staffpeople at a small airport in a cornfield, and 3.) clerks in a tiny convenience store located (for serious) on a median strip splitting a fairly well-trafficked road. We did make it to the beach by early afternoon, and, after further adventures in parking and eating lunch, we completed a condensed version of all my favorite childhood beach things.


Highlights included: playing in the water, playing at Funland, consuming a half-pound of Candy Kitchen sweets & fudge, and later eating delicious Chinese carryout in our laps as we crossed the Bay Bridge (it appears, from this entry, that meals are very important to me). Funland, the boardwalk amusement park, has acquired a souped-up Real Ride, "The Claw," which Tara and I tried. It has a retractable cylindrical base, from which extend arms (or "talons," I guess), which are attached to cages (?? God knows?). Tara and I were bolted into a purple cage, which had no internal seatbelts, only handgrips - the idea being that, if you lose your grip, you fall into the grill part of the cage, but I'm fairly confident I could fit through the slats. So, the ride begins, the cylinder protracts, the cages spin, and then the arms begin to pivot and the cages turn upside-down. At that point, Tara and I were looking up at the underside of the ride - the mechanics of the cylinder and arms - and I was contemplating the size of the slats, etc. I told her afterwards that it was the amusement park equivalent of a tequila shot: more doable if you don't know what to expect. [To be continued....]

What I've been doing with my free time (including the countless hours at work when I'm not working) instead of blogging:

15% Reading Freud's A General Introduction to Psychoanalysis, which is fun but taking a long time because...
40% Sleeping. I am far too young or old or lazy for a 40-hour workweek. Also:
25% Updating the DP Style Guide, incl. cross-referencing and converting the whole thing to HTML
20% Socializing

But a post is coming soon.

You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands

Seth was away at Beach Week on June 3, so we celebrated our two-year anniversary on Monday, June 7. Last year, we went to Pho; this year it was A&J's, for a $10 meal of dumplings, tripe, bean curd, and wontons. He asked me what we should do after lunch, and I suggested going back to my house. "To do what?" he said.

"Hang out, have conversations,” I said. “We've been managing fine so far."

"Do you mean today, or for the past two years?"

Both are generally true, as I replied - I can't conceive of the sheer volume of conversation hours the two of us have logged. Our dates have been mostly walking around/sitting in various Bethesda locales, punctuated with media appreciation and restaurant meals. It's remarkable how much we've found to say about ourselves, our friends, books, and music (with incidental other things like world affairs and religion). For example, on our anniversary celebration day, we: played a record of T.S. Eliot reading "Prufrock" and made fun of his British accent/Midwestern drawl fusion; became disproportionately excited over "Bizarre Love Triangle" while playing New Order in the car; and were self-consciously sentimental.


Other things that we've done on dates more recently (because the chronology is superfluous): walked to The Other Side of Town, where there are actual homeless people and a fenced-in dirt lot next to a dingy CVS, and lay on the couch in his basement after his parents were asleep, watching "Who's Line is it Anyway?" For once, in the countless times we've done that, we didn't have to worry about a legally enforced midnight curfew - because I am no longer 17, and neither is he! We also played Scrabble, visited Bethesda ES playground, and read poetry out loud. I was pleased to report those things to my boss, when he asked how I spent my day off (last Thursday). He looked a little appalled and said, "Ah, freewheeling youth."


On Thursday, June 10, I saw Seth, as well as Hank and Tara, for Harry Potter. Neither of the boys has read the books, and Seth hadn't even seen the first two movies; Tara and I provided whispered plot summaries. Afterwards, we sat for a while in the picnic chairs chained outside Potbelly's, while Hank rooted through Tara's purse. (He also abandoned it in a wheelchair-access elevator across the street, but Seth made him retrieve it.) On Wednesday, June 16, Nick S., Tara, Natalie G., and I met for dinner, and afterwards Seth came and Natalie left – and we went to my place to watch Duck Soup. It was our first exposure to a Marx Brothers movie (for everyone but Seth), and it was really surprisingly funny. We chased it with soft porn that we found on channel 350, playing with my TV's new sybaritic features.

[Part 2] The following night, I made impromptu arrangements with Eric and Tara; we finally saw Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, which I loved more than I can justify. I identified with it like crazy, mostly concerning Seth + me. Near tears afterwards, I babbled to my nonplussed companions about redemptive worthwhileness, the cleanness of any pain that we would choose to do over ("I would love you over..."). I imagined being forewarned, approx. two years ago, of everything that would happen with the two of us - would I choose it anyway? The absence of regret, in the face of preordained crumminess, seems like a powerful restorer of value. For their part, Tara and Eric mocked me, and I nursed my grand & isolated moodiness until Eric put on a TMBG CD.


We took a dodgy, circuitous route back to Tara's, then changed our minds and veered further into the District/poorly lit wooded streets/other semi-local highways - all to prolong singing along to TMBG songs, and otherwise to enjoy each other's company. Eventually, we entered Bethesda Naval Hospital grounds (Eric, as a brat, has access) so that he could use the ATM there (??). Tara and I whined, so he left us in the car with the music on; after a brief exchange, we concluded that we were essentially obligated to steal his car. Haltingly, at maybe 3 mph, I drove in a wide semi-loop across the parking lot. Then I attempted to cruise up to the ATM vestibule, but Eric met me halfway and directed my attention to the six or seven police/security cars stalled to our right. We did get off military property without legal incident, but not before driving up to the roof of a parking garage and lying on the hood of Eric's car, stargazing and overlooking a huge sweep of Bethesda forest/military infrastructure.


On Monday, May 24, I started work at SAIC - a multinational tech corporation mainly involved in defense contracting. As Sandi (I think?) pointed out, Tara (at Anteon) and I are rival contributors to the military-industrial complex. Well, marginally: I help edit a 20-page color newsletter called Spectrum. I think it's remarkable that I'm being paid $13/hr to rewrite and copy edit articles. I've never been good at anything lucrative before. Also, they've given me my own office - larger than my dorm room last semester - and mostly they leave me alone to slip into blissful, self-sustaining misanthropy. The other interns seem to be friendly with one another; I pass them in the hall talking about the party scene at their respective colleges, or their career goals, or whatever. I glide by as a social nonentity. Though I love my friends, being absolutely unattached has its place (in my psyche?) too - at least, as long as I can go back and forth at will (grin).


That reminds me (of my failed attempt to have a roommate): Arielle, please help me to do what you did for my birthday, by June 21. Arielle made me a mix CD of my most overplayed songs from last year, as well as some of her own favorites. I really love that CD, and I think it would be fun to compile some for-proselytizing top picks. But, I'm almost done: On Wednesday, May 26, I returned to RM for the Spring Choral Concert. As an alum, I was called onstage to participate in the finale, "The Heavens Are Telling," which was bittersweetly fun. Afterwards, I met up with Seth - still in his Madrigals tux and newly recognized with a departmental prize for musical theater - and we drove to Montgomery College and made out. I justified this impropriety by saying it was "kitschy" (because everything we talk about nowadays leads back to Unbearable Lightness). He said, skeptically, "Well, maybe by the actual definition."

No change, I can change,
I can change, I can change....

And songs are never quite the answer

First, happy two years of whatever the hell we're doing to Seth (grin)! He gave me a belated birthday present last week: a Nathanael West paperback, purchased in February, that I'd refused to accept until he added an inscription. This apparently took five months. In his long-awaited message, he cited our two-year-old "sinusoidal but ultimately wicked-cool relationship," which just about sums it up. I do care about him tremendously, and what we've done to each other has been at times dysfunctional but probably worthwhile. In other news, I haven't been in the mood to post lately, but I have maintained a list of things I've been doing. I'll now edit/condense judiciously: After I got home on April 30, I spent a week sulking (my customary response to lifestyle changes), and granted access only to my immediate family and Seth.


On Friday, May 8, I had my momentous first encounter with other friends, to see Mean Girls and sleep over at Tara's. GPaul, Michael, Joe, Sarah, Liliya, Tara, and I met at Potbelly's for a pre-Regal meal, authentically reliving High School in Rockville. Mean Girls was awfully good; I liked it better than Kill Bill, as I confessed with appropriate shame afterwards. We exited through a subterranean passage that culminates mysteriously across the street, in a small unmarked building facing the theater. Then we went back to Tara's to play Trivial Pursuit, which was interminable, and to concoct Unknown Beverages, which was sort of entertaining/awful. I kept trying (weakly) to quip my way out of the game: "I am a conscientious objector to Trivial Pursuit," "Does anyone else want to secede from this activity?," etc. Finally, exasperated, I said, "Let's play something exciting! Strip alcohol!"


Incidentally, I think I played something close to that last weekend. We did drink, and we played strip Spin the Bottle (where removing an article of clothing was an alternative to kissing, to accommodate monogamy). I'd never played Spin the Bottle before, and I'm vaguely regretful that I had my first experience with that iconic childhood activity under such shady circumstances. On Wednesday, May 12, I spent time with Anne, Liliya, Natalie G., Tara, and Nick S. in Bethesda. We wandered purposelessly for a while, and were escorted out of the park near Bethesda Library by a police officer. Apparently it closes after sunset, which is unfortunate because night is really the only appropriate time for playgrounds, if you're 19 or 20. When the police officer arrived, Tara had just finished teaching us how to make our own bus passes from discarded transfers/expired passes. Also, I had begun the sentence, "Speaking of small illegalities, Nick, you shouldn't..." [I was going to say shoplift from Wawa.]


After most people left to attend to their sane sleeping habits, Tara, Nick, and I purchased emergency Diet Red Bulls and watched The Exorcist on his laptop. The movie made me sort of want to attend Georgetown, which was probably not the intended effect. On Tuesday, May 18, I finally met up with my RM '03 crew: M/alex/Mike (as host), Jen, Ranwa, Sarah, Andrew, & more. We ate homemade pizza and watched Jurassic Park without nearly enough irony. In high school, we were Good Kids - but we expressed an abstract intent to get drunk together. It probably won't happen, for lack of safe drinking circumstances, but I think we should commit to finding a forest or a quarry or something (maybe a gorge? I'm picturing a natural depression littered with beer bottles from those who came before. On a related note, why is it that we don't have a local Makeout Point?). [Part 2 is on its way!]

To get this out of the way: I feel more or less obligated to write something retrospective, now that I'm home from my First Year of College. And I want to do it honestly; most of last year, to be frank, was a mess. I coped badly with being uprooted, and I was worn out from seven years of academic social striving. I didn't remember why I was doing it, which made it hard to do without parental compulsion. Through some combination of events (with the help of various friends and nice adults), I got myself under control, and I was even extraordinarily happy towards the end. I feel at a loss now, though, because I (myself in my normal state) hardly experienced a freshman year. Even when I was happy, I was in the throes of a strange overwhelming emotion that clouded judgment. By external standards, I guess I did fine: my GPA will not be a 4.0 (gasp!), but I think I can and will get rather close. I lost weight and acquired leg muscles, which is a novelty (I'm working on my arms this summer). Any sort of healthiness is a novelty.


Also, I obtained two summer jobs, versus zero for much of last summer. On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, I'm editing a bi-monthly technical newsletter in McLean, VA. On Tuesday and Thursday, I'll be working as a store clerk/receptionist at Bethesda Academy of Performing Arts, where ideally there will be other teenagers to play with. The last time I worked for BAPA was three years ago, on a volunteer basis (this time it's for pay) - but I remember logging hours by sneaking off with two co-conspirator CITs to play the "penis game" (which involves saying the word "penis" progressively louder until someone gets embarrassed). When I return to campus, I'll have another Real Job to look forward to, as well as a new home with close friends, fairly firm plans to major in English - Twentieth Century Literature and Culture and European History, and no classes that start before noon. However much freshman year felt like a failure while it was happening, it seems to have set up my life next year to be fun, successful, stable, and interesting.


I remember walking home across the 38th Street bridge, a day or so before leaving for Maryland, and thinking that there was hardly anything I wanted badly and couldn't have. I want to join a choral ensemble, but I can probably manage that next year, especially if I put some of my summer salary toward voice lessons. I'd also like to fall in love with someone on campus, eventually, because that would certainly be less stressful and more convenient - but it's not a priority, more like a vague preference not to die alone. Whatever happens with Seth and me this summer, I strongly hope we don't do anything to make each other unhappy next year (which would probably happen if we kept going out over distance); that would be a shame, because he and I ought to be on the same side. Aside from those things, I feel honestly blessed - and I feel like a more focused, grounded, and capable version of myself than I was a year ago. I think the rest of my life is probably doable, as long as I bear in mind my own (many) limitations.

VISUALIZE SUCCESS
(but don't believe your eyes)

I had a final on Thursday and a paper due Friday at noon. In the process of accomplishing those two things, I stayed up for 61 hours. I didn't really have to do that, but forces kept conspiring against my body being healthy or sensible; for example, at one point I was too hungry to sleep, and the following day I was too sleepy to eat. After my ling final on Thursday, the world was golden. Wynn Commons was sunlit, and people were congregating at the little cafe tables all across the front of the Student Union and the back of College Hall - studying or chatting, making an appealing amount of noise. The street was blocked off for construction, so I took a woody and circuitous route home. I realized (though it was probably obvious before) that I've fallen in love with Penn, and now I pine for it. But: I was sloppy-looking, wobbly, a survivor of sleeplessness and testing, and concealing earplugs in my fist; I wore them to the final, which turned out to be a good idea, but I was too ashamed to let other people see what I'd done.


I got home to my cell, took a shower, and put on a tank top and skirt for my DP reporters' dinner. As always, clothing and cleanliness were enough to make me feel human, undoing some of the ridiculous and damaging things I'd been up to lately. We met at Pizza Rustica; I had complained ineffectually (because a local pizza place delivers for free to the DP every night in exchange for ad space), but the pizza was wonderful, and it was nice to see everyone again en masse. Particularly Garrett - everyone is obviously so grateful for how hard he's worked with us this semester. We gave him a present, and he gave each of us a box of chocolates and a note. Over dinner, Farouk expressed some horror that I hadn't started my ten-page Chinese history paper yet (due in maybe 15 hours).

Garrett, always chill, said, "That's plenty of time." I remember once he remarked distractedly, over editing, that he had a 40-page paper due in two days, that he should probably start.

After the meal, most people went drinking, but I didn't have the inclination or a fake ID. I walked home cradling my chocolates and finally began my paper, which I finished at 11:40 AM the next day. Following a harried rush to the library to print (my printer ran out of toner on page three of ten, because I am irresponsible), and more scrambling to College Hall, I deposited the paper at 12:03; both my professor and my TA looked nonplussed at my blatant panic. Then, my parents arrived to help me tear down my room, and I was back in Maryland by 9:00 PM. My month-long happiness seems to have dissipated now that I'm home, and the vague pressure in my temples is back; but I'm not overtly unhappy, and maybe I'll reclaim it when I return to Penn in four months - or, ideally, it'll come back over the summer.

I might as well use my requisite procrastination time (reading days) to talk about my weekend. Friday, April 23 was my sister's birthday - as well as Dena's, Shakespeare's, Nabokov's, and probably others I can't remember; happy birthday, Dena! Speaking of Vlad, my sis first read Lolita when she was 12 (I read it at the much more appropriate age of 16), and in the grand tradition of facilitating her moral bankruptcy, I decided to get her Portnoy's Complaint. I actually spent a long time looking at American Pastoral, the Pulitzer Prize-winner, but I had to go with the one about masturbation. Happy 15th, dear!


I took the train home uneventfully, ate family dinner, and watched Lauren open presents. Then I declined a date with Hank to see Into the Woods, in order to try futilely to get something done. On Saturday, I "worked" more and saw J&H in the evening. The actors, pit orchestra, and crew did a wonderful job with the show, and I'm glad I got to see it. I think I like J&H more than Seth does (he played the title characters); certainly a few of the songs are really effective, esp. "Your Work and Nothing More," "Dangerous Game," "Sympathy, Tenderness" (in the murder scene), and "Confrontation." I had seen "Confrontation" performed once before, and it was exciting to see Seth do it.


It's more the plot structure that's problematic/irritating. Nobody should have to wait an hour to see Jekyll transform, listening to endless explication through song. The back-story is not that difficult to grasp: he's in love with Emma, he's driven to restore his mentally ill father, he befriends a prostitute, yes we've got it. A lot more narrative attention should be given to what Jekyll tries to do about these unwanted transformations; we ought to get to see him battling the dark aspects of his psyche, not complaining about how undesirable his situation is (while other people explain to us that he's exhausted/demented).


Also, maybe it's just that I'm stupid or distracted, but there were plot developments that really baffled me. What does Jekyll do to be able to stage that "Confrontation" at all? Shouldn't we be provided with some evidence that he can semi-control himself, before that scene? And why on Earth doesn't the prostitute, Lucy, leave when Jekyll instructs her to? I understand the "Dangerous Game" connection, but I thought she was still in love with Jekyll, too? I wish her song had explained the complexities of the decision, instead of musing irrelevantly on how nice it would be not to be a prostitute. Those things were definitely more bothersome than the hackneyed sentiment or lyrics' simplicity (staples of musicals, anyway); but, independent of all that, it was a pleasure to see RM do so well with the show.

Afterwards, I waited a while as Seth networked. A parent (Elissa's, I think?) told me, "You should watch out for him. He has a reputation for murdering pretty girls."

Finally, I hung out with Seth outside the school until 11:30. On Sunday, I actually worked (which meant I had to skip the March, which is terrible); and I went back to campus on Monday morning. Most of the people on my train, it seemed, were in town for the March. I sat next to an HIV/AIDS activist who had spoken there, and she told me about her experience, while sewing pieces of a brightly colored quilt in her lap. At Penn, I worked for a few hours and then attended the Adultery pizza party/film screening at 7:00. Our movie was actually surprisingly hilarious and awesome. I didn't expect my scene to be funny, but, after Lauren F. tells me to strip, I make an awkward, frightened, hapless face in the direction of the camera.

What actually happened was that the camera operator kept filming me after Lauren's injunction, and I didn't know what to do. After an interminable few seconds, I said, "Should I start?" (but that didn't make it into the movie).

EDIT (11:57 PM): I want to tack this on tonight, because I'm excited. I just found out I was elected Copy Editor of DP for next semester - a voting member of the Editorial Board, and I get a (negligible) salary! I'll be the youngest person on the Board, which might be a little weird, but hopefully they'll continue to think I'm naive/ridiculous in a sort of cute way.

[Part 3; I don't like long posts] The next day, I woke up appallingly early to cover an ambiguously newsworthy event near Old City. I took the subway and located the appropriate elementary school all by myself (and Mapquest). Afterwards, I befriended the photographer so that she would help me home; she ended up imparting wisdom about academic and social life at Penn (she was a graduating senior). Then, I got a bagel and cream cheese from ABP - which never happens, because they stop serving at 10:00 AM - and slept until my cell phone rang. It was Joyce, an RM student (and friend of Seth and LiJia's) who was accepted into Penn Regular Decision. She was on campus for the day, so I immediately threw together a jean skirt outfit and led her around my favorite parts of campus.


She was not impressed with the Student Union (wood paneling and armchairs and working fireplaces!) or my bookstore. There's a secondhand bookstore around 40th, which I suppose ought to be cooler, but I find it kind of shabby and depressing. I suppose I should probably explain about the bookstore: First, it's the store that most Penn humanities professors use to order textbooks, so the back shelves are endlessly interesting in terms of their sheer volume of potential knowledge. Also, it's a relatively small store, so there isn't a great deal of breadth in the fiction section - but the stock choices are all dead-on. I find the Penn Bookstore (a vast Barnes & Noble) really overwhelming; I never find anything there unless I go in with clear intentions, and even then only sometimes. However, I can't go into the independent bookstore without finding three things I want badly. Joyce did like the on-campus bubble tea place and Penn in general, and it was nice to meet her.


At 2:00 PM, I took her to Adultery class, where I worried too much that it wouldn't seem like a Real Class. We did have actual discussions about actual books during the semester. That day, though, we discussed the "epistolary novel" we'd written as a class online. I did my novel postings at about 4:30 AM each time, so that I'd be sleepy enough to be shameless and uninvested in my writing; I think everyone treated the assignment that way. Our prof called the result, "Les Liaisons meets Melrose Place," and then he assigned us a group film project for Wednesday, adapting "the novel" to "the screen" (both terms used in the loosest possible sense). The rest of class was sitting outside, where [a girl] in my group chatted with Jon about how much she was enjoying To the Lighthouse (I was pleased), and then narrated about how she tried to steal Unbearable Lightness from the bookstore and was asked never to return (I was aghast).


Anyway, nothing noteworthy happened on Tuesday, but Wednesday (filming) was a lot of fun. My group filmed the end of the novel, including: a death in childbirth!, boating accident/murder?!, wedding! & wrongful imprisonment!, and love scene (sort of)! Because life hates me, my role involved standing in front of a mirror, wearing a bowler hat, and being instructed to strip. However, the joint birth/death scene was virtuosic; a girl "gave birth" to somebody's pink backpack from under a blue sheet, and her grief-stricken friend adopted the backpack. The boat scene was our other triumph. Jon had provided a toy boat, and Dana wadded some paper inside it and tried to set it on fire, on-camera. That didn't work, so instead her Hand of God reaches into the shot and tips the boat over, with a self-produced exploding sound (oh, also, jail was a bike rack). Our class is planning to meet on Monday for pizza and a screening of these ridiculous things.

On Thursday, I turned in my final paper in Poetry class, bought a birthday present for my sister, and then spent about ten hours at DP. I've been copy-assisting lately, and last night was a particularly good night for it, since Thursday is Beer Night. I walked around the newsroom with my Sam Adams beer, feeling oh-so-slick (I think it was the first time I'd possessed a beer bottle), and Laura (an editor) said, "Oh, that's adorable, it's as big as you are."

I sat down between Laura and Garrett (the other editor) and said, "I've never finished a whole one before." Apparently that was a ridiculous thing to say, because the quote was immediately written up on the News Office quoteboard (grin).

Afterwards, I wandered over to the Editorial Office, where the Ed Page editor, Eliot, was playing with his guitar. To the tune of "Brick," he began to sing, "10 PM, Sharon is copy-assisting...."

I said, "That's just like abortion." Which was immediately written up on the Editorial Office quoteboard.

I decided to quit while I was ahead and actually get something done. At about midnight, though, Garrett came by and asked if I wanted anything from Ben & Jerry's. I already had a bag of Sour Patch Kids, and my half-finished beer. I obviously needed cookies and cream ice cream as well.

"I really like the combination of alcohol and candy or ice cream," I told Danielle (the copy editor).

"You'll fit in great here," she replied.

At 1:00 AM, she and I took a break to go up to the roof of the DP office, ostensibly to look for the Executive Editor. It was such a nice night; we reoriented and found Freshgrocer to our right, and discovered that there were beautiful old houses - a whole network of residential streets, with little courtyards and ivy on the buildings - to our left. I never would have guessed those things existed in the shadow of the hulking, windowless DP. I finally went home at about 1:30 or 2:00. I had finished copy-editing a while before, but I wasn't allowed to leave until I completed my First Beer. I surreptitiously poured some of it in the bathroom sink.

EDIT: Candy for all who read this far (as suggested by Tara)!

[Part 2] So I got home, showered, and immediately changed into something appropriately light and skanky, before rejoining the throng in the courtyard. Another amateur (Penn-affiliated?) band was playing a Beatles song, which struck me as adorable and very strange in context (a common theme during the weekend). I met Jess, Kellen, Ted, and Anne on the steps separating Lower and Upper Quad - and we chatted for a while about the drunken silliness in our midst; on the way to meet them, for example, I saw a boy lean out a window and yell at a group of girls, "Hey, you girls!" in what I can only assume was an abortive seduction technique. We parted ways again, with Jess, Sarah, Joe R., Nat, Mollie + friends, and me assembling to see Kill Bill: Vol. 2 at The Bridge.


I think I enjoyed the movie, but right now my most pressing memory associated with it is of Joe passing Jess and me a hip flask (!!), containing whiskey, across several seats in the theater. Jess and I stared at it for a long moment, hardly believing that an act of such anachronistic shadiness had occurred, before passing it back unsampled. It certainly looked like something from another era; it was what Hemingway would have taken to Kill Bill. After the movie, Nat threw an impromptu party that was actually very successful. The quantity of alcohol, first of all, was admirable; Jess, Kellen, and I missed margarita-time, because we were talking about lit and playing with his digital camera. However, Joe made me some very tolerable tequila sunrises, and later (when I was too drunk to pay attention to what it was called) I had some sour apple-flavored liquor that tasted just like a Jolly Rancher!


Meanwhile, all party guests were branded with UPS stickers that someone had gotten for free online. Ted gave Meredith, Anne, and me amazing massages in succession. And the ambience: The Simpsons was playing on mute most of the time I was at the party, which speaks to someone's care and devotion in taping episodes. Moreover, the following charming, out-of-place (of course) songs played: "Stairway to Heaven," "Strawberry Fields Forever," and "The Freshman." The latter inspired everyone in the room to belt along - and I was nursing one of several tequila sunrises, singing, "For the life of me, I cannot remember / What made us think that we were wise and / We'd never compromise.... We were merely freshmen," and feeling very content and self-conscious (or conscious of my fallibility and the youthfulness of everyone in the room).


On Saturday, I woke at noon, showered, and put on my graduation dress and flip-flops, in preparation for a full day of Fling. During daylight hours, I mostly sat or walked around campus with friends, getting as much visibility out of that beautiful dress as possible. I remember talking with Sarah outside Au Bon Pain, watching the busy exuberance on Locust Walk and listening to distant music from the Quad. At night, I attended a carnival on Wynn Commons and moonbounced in a skirt. There was a giant inflatable slide, too, which I remember experiencing once before, with childhood ecstasy, at a county fair - but the line was always too long for me to recover that lost, pure happiness.


I summarized Fling as follows: equal parts debauchery and regression (two of my favorites). We all consumed frozen chocolate-covered bananas, falafel, cotton candy, and grape-flavored Sprite; I think we were supposed to be drunk at the time. We also sat on the concrete and watched an a cappella group ("She Moves in Mysterious Ways," in honor of Commencement speaker Bono, was dear), the Penn Swing Dance Club (featuring Joe), and Penn Jazz (featuring Kellen and Ted). Late in the evening, Anne, Sarah, and several other people filmed a music video of "Beat It" at a carnival booth, while Jess and I looked on in mortification/admiration. The others partied after that, but apparently I'm too cranky to drink more than once per week, even on special occasions like Fling. I went home instead, and bade a quiet farewell to the last social weekend of the semester. On Sunday, I wore something vaguely sketchy to Team Meeting at DP, but the moment had passed. [Still more to come.]

I compiled a really exhaustive list of song associations the other day and showed Tara, aweing her with my procrastination skillz. I have associations for everything from "Don't Stand So Close to Me" (my sister) to "Don't Know Why" (Jess Mu. and Anne) to "There is a Light That Never Goes Out" (Natalie G./Deb). Even though it's ridiculous that I did this, I'm glad to have it; it reminds me that I did have musical tastes and influences long before I knew Ben K. and Seth. And it encouraged me to listen to such pretty, vaguely ludicrous (for a dorm room) songs as "Stairway to Heaven" and "Night and Day."


Finally, it proved to me that, although I'm not "into music" the way Kellen and Jess Mo. are (they have very scopic, up-to-date knowledge), it is a meaningful part of my life - probably because I personalize practically everything I hear (or read, etc.). I have trouble making myself find new music, though I do, because I get so attached to what I already know.

So please be sweet, my chickadee
And when I kiss ya, just say to me
"It's delightful, it's delicious, it's delectable, it's delirious...."

That, for example, is extremely darling. And, gosh, I am still happy; it's been more than three weeks now. I find I'm counting days as if it's a new, promising relationship, and the start-date/anniversary is March 31. In many ways, it feels like two years ago - the expansive sense of possibility, the wonder at the opportunity to feel this way, the promise of future happiness that The Hours sez is actually happiness. Maybe I am in love with my life? Probably I'll have to lose this rush eventually, like last time; but I am honestly lucky to have felt it twice so far, and once that's not dependent on a boy.


Well, I have a lot to summarize, starting with last Friday: I participated in the first annual Slavic Bazaar undergraduate research conference. I delivered a paper that I wrote during my awful week in March, which is when I did practically all of my important assignments for this semester (grin). It was a silly Comparative Lit paper on God as an amatory rival and dichotomies vs. continuums of love and religion and blah blah blah. It had nothing to do with Slavic concerns, except insofar as it was written for a class called "The Adultery Novel In and Out of Russia" (they were clearly desperate for participants and took me anyway). The night before, I printed out a colloquialized version of the paper and stapled it to index cards, read it over once or twice, spent considerably longer deciding what was appropriate to wear, and settled on overdressed.


I was woken up the following morning at 10:00 by an extremely loud, unpolished version of "Californication," amplified by speakers directly below my window. I assembled my notes and walked out into a thick crowd of tank tops and baseball caps, wearing my suit skirt and sweater and feeling like a killjoy intruder on Fling. On the way to the conference site, I passed my beloved independent bookstore, which keeps a table out front with on-sale books. Impulsively, I bought a hardcover copy of The Corrections (maybe because it was referenced on The Simpsons recently?), marked down from $26 to $9. The cashier praised my choice and flirted with me, which is always a plus at that bookstore. Brandishing my new novel for added courage, I found the room housing my panel ("Love and Seduction in Fiction") and was relieved to discover it was small - just large enough for an oblong table and ten or so people.


I spoke first, and I think my presentation went fine. Afterwards, we had a lovely discussion about misogyny and the perseverence of gender constructions over time, which is exactly what I needed to talk about (I didn't bring it up). I felt satisfied and less vitriolic in the end. Also, an anonymous old man listened to our presentations and panel discussion, and eventually interjected with an inappropriate, longwinded remark about how, back in his day, nobody had premarital sex or committed adultery; he was married at 19 and it worked out great; his kids, however, all but one slept with their future spouses before the wedding, because times have changed. We all commented on how sinister he was in Adultery class on Monday; someone called him "our blind man" after Madame Bovary (I love Adultery class wit). [More is coming, again.]