free as the wind and the demise of my french academia

Hey guys, I'm back to a good academic standing! I got cleared this morning.
I worked really hard both times in that Advanced French Composition class. At least I passed this time.

death of a saleswoman

There is definitely something growing inside of the drain in my sink. I remember seeing a preview for a horror movie when I was a young young young'un child. There was a giant man-eating slug that came up out of the drain in the bath tub (note: it might not have been a preview, I might have dreamed it. I did that a lot as a child). Well, that slug is now gaining strength daily in the plumbing of my bathroom sink. Trust me, it's invincible. I started with generic drain cleaners, I moved on up to a name brand tonight. The drain now drains....but the slug is not dead. It is still there, I can see it. It's something whitish and growing.

If I mysteriously disappear, I have been eaten.

Do I pour bleach down my drain?

hacer, faire, to sigh

I've been spending a lot of time in the artsy's building of campus for to work on my documentary.
The building is silly. It is inhabited by first-name-basis professors, opera singers, string quartets, and playwrights. At certain times of the day 100 people march through with matching sheet music clogging up every stairway. Anytime you accuse anyone of talking to themselves they make the excuse that they're rehearsing, down in the basement I've seen fencing classes, and we're all utterly pretentious because we each personally invented the thrift store.

There used to be a girl who always wore a cat ears headband and a cat tail pinned to her pants.

One third of the building's people are clinging to cameras--the film children all about to tip over under the weight of large camera bags and tripods, the second third of the occupants wear aprons stained with chemicals, and the third third are carrying sketchbooks, weighty sculptures, bags of sand, n'importe quoi* three times larger than them. Like ants.
There are five floors and the lucky studio arts kids get windows to their rooms. I, a film child, have to descend to the second floor and work in a lonely room called The Cave. Tell me you envy me, you liars. Every time I go into the building, I pause before going down the stairs and I wistfully look up at the other floors with their lightness and brightness and their social butterflyness, then I heave a great sigh and begin my descent. The only thing that takes me away from sunlight is the belief in documentary. And if you don't understand how strong my draw to the outside is, you do not understand how much I care for documentary.

*doesn't matter what. pronounced "namport qwah"

I just finished the enormous room.

e e cummings words are so beautiful I could cry.

it is determined that we are two separate feathers in two separate wings

(I'm in the F wing)


I was at this evening of poetry tonight at another's little home, the stock of university kid's dwellings kind of place (though of the artsy's nicely decorated variety), and I had to use the upstairs bathroom because the downstairs with the women's sign on it also had a sign that said "out of order, go upstairs" scribbled on purple construction paper. So I headed up the steep flight of steps and there crammed into a corner was a crooked shaped bathroom with the toilet stuck in the eaves and a door for a crawl space to my left hand and a pile of rolls of toilet paper to my right. All I can think is, why would I want this to ever end? Why would I ever want a million dollars and your newly constructed condominium? Why would I want your plastic picket fence? I'm living in charm. I'm living in quirks. I'm living in revolution. I'm living in poetry.

And it was great to have a discussion of poems and ideas this noche because my body has been going through some sort of spring reworking. I go to sleep at 12:30 and wake up at 6am and have nothing to do but read e e cummings and Gwendolyn Brooks.

dear united nations

So I might've been upset for a minute that I will no longer have any classes from my two favorite film professors. But it might be even cooler that I am going to work with them as soon as I'm done with this documentary.

AHHHHHHH!!!!!!

I knew this would be the coolest year ever.

discaught

only in the library for a minute and already I'm on twelve tangeants.

Three papers, neighbors, and I'm done with school work. C'est tout !
But what happens? Not three papers. What happens is I open up my lap top in the cubicle that is in the very back corner of a quiet floor, but I let myself glance up and across a few crowded shelves my eyes lock on a large red book: THE FIRE DREAM. I can't resist the fire dream's draw, I walk closer and see underneath it all sorts of amazing titles: "American Mischief," "Armed Love," "KILLSHOT," "God's Ear."

Don't you see? I'm doomed to failure! I already have four library books at home, two for leisure reading on top of the e e cummings book I bought a few months ago that I'm reading now and the Gwendolyn Brooks poetry book that was on sale in the bookstore today. Now I have four more books stacked beside me.

Oh help! Oh help! I'm drowning in a sea of print and yet my thirst is still not satiated. And I'm distraught because I just found a band from the 1960's that I am in love with and I'm not sure what to do about it.

At least it was a lovely, lovely jogging evening.

a pagan for rodeos

I believe one should pour a cup of dirt over life. I miss gravel roads and people in Wrangler jeans and fields and wild spaceness. I've got the upper midwest still in me blood. Though I hardly passed as a native, I could never bring myself to say "bayg" instead of bag and other some-suches. You know, never took to the binge drinking and barn dances too much. I gobbled up books to have a form of metropolitan support of art and literary societous discussions and detective adventures.
Maybe I will start an afternoon tradition of pouring a glass of water into the garden in front of my house then squishing my toes in the mud. I could make raucous proclamations about the healthiness of dirt and never letting my mother have the satisfaction of having a daughter with clean feet.
(Though I do wash them every night, Momma.)

My sister is crocheting damnation. OK, I take that back, she's crocheting flames. And I'm contemplating crocheting the sea this summer. I want it to star in my next film. We're reviving the old yarn arts currently. Very dangerous stuff.
Accordion dangerous.

i shall dig a hole from my garden to yours and then grab your ankle

I'd grab your ankle and we'd pretend we could stop smiling that we were in our earthenware tunnel together. If I had enough forethought I'd grab a record player, a phonograph, a turntable. A few albums. What's a phonograph without albums? What albums would you like me to bring if I were to dig that tunnel from my garden to yours and if I were to even think with some forethought to think to bring some things with me?

Well, anyways, I wouldn't be able to stop smiling.

met you in st. louis but had definitive feelings about not meeting you again

or a ramglings from a slightly nerdy direction


Today I learned lots of FANTASTIC THINGS and it confirmed my ever growing desire to stop stuffing my brain with cotton and instead do nothing but study my major, play with balloons with children, and do manual labor or work in a restaurant. And read poetry in periodicals and eat grapefruit.

I learned FANTASTIC THINGS from books entitled things like "Television and Child Development, third edition" and "In Front of the Children, Screen Entertainment and Young Audiences." And I might have snuck in "Dibs in Search of Self," because I love that book madly, truly, deeply. So now I have perused a lots-a-bit of what is going on in brains of children when they watch Blues Clues and Mr. Rogers.

Let's face it, Media is just about the coolest thing to hit this planet. Makes me want to don my proverbial glitter dress and dance on my roof.

ahem, to quote a great Saint (or Santi), "Another song."