introspective periscope

introspective periscope : peeking inside since Y2K

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Biorhythms and Rant

slightly after noon - fourteenth of march, 2001, having just woke up.

okay....so i am sitting here enjoying granola with raisens and milk in a little ceramic bowl that nacho made last semester in ceramics that was meant for rice. i'm glad i got two boxes of this stuff cuz its DAMNED good. mom and dad took me to Aldi's, this bargain grocery store that was decorated with aisles upon aisles of discounted food, with the boxes the discounted food came in strewn about the floor, grocery carts that you had to rent for a quarter and, as no discount food store would be complete without, a ton of people donning mullets. Eating this cereal brings about the all too vivid memory of my father, who, trained by my little brother, who was, in fact, trained by me, insisted for the entire week that we were home to say, upon seeing a mullethead, "business in the front; party in the back". Lovely. Just lovely. So, maybe I shouldn't be so glad that I've got two boxes of granola to remind me. Regardless, its yummy and has this strange cinnamony taste that i really am digging on here. Right. So.

Yesterday was busybusybusy. Is that a word? Sure it is. I've been finding myself staying up later and later every night and developing that strange insomnia again. Could be something to do with my fleeting thoughts about a boy in England who is forever frustrating me. It could be something about the fresh air. Regardless, I've once again managed to miss my Bible as Lit class. I'm withdrawing today. In a sense, its a relief. That class was starting to insult my intelligence. If that woman talked to us like people rather than sunday school kindergarteners, perhaps I might have enjoyed it. A professor who cannot fill the hour and a half time slot with information that is, overall, new, bores me to tears. This woman, as tiny and old and sweet and energetic as she may be, disgusts me in that if I hear the definition of the word "redacting" one more time, I will be forced to hurt people. Lots of people. Many people. Quite possibly *innocent* people. So, I think it best to withdraw and try again when I'm in more patient spirits...like in September.

After rationalizing all of that out, I hit up my Rennaissance to Baroque Art History class and enjoyed it. This was the first time I enjoyed class as much in some time. It was reminicient of the classes that made me take this prof again in the first place. He made everyone come up and really *look* at the slide of Bodicelli's "Damned Being Cast Into Hell". He made us do some rather irritating excercises that always make me appreciate and remember the work a little bit better, for more interesting reasons than "THIS WILL BE ON YOUR EXAM" (which he jokingly calls quizzes. sure. quiz. its only an hour and a half of Name-That-Artist). Nacho and I sat on the floor when all of the other sheep returned to their desks to take diligent notes. This time, I really felt like I was learning again...like I'd made some secret connection with the art that can only be brought about by Associate Professor Paul Ben-Zvi. So props to him for dat.

Then, I went and got my nose pierced on a rather impulsive thought out oxymoronish sort of way. That was rad and my adrenaline rush was as good as crack. Not that I'd know. Then I went home and took a nap. Right. This is getting less and less interesting. I had my analytic philosophy class from 6-9 and okay...storytime. i honestly believe that of the possibly 9 students in der kommissar's class, only 4 of us actually maintain some true life intelligence, let alone, SOCIAL SKILLS. there is this girl who thinks its okay to come in at 6:30 rather than 6. Maybe if she hadn't taken the time to run to Giant Eagle to get that pint of iced cream to eat for three hours, she could've made it on time. If it were the first time, maybe i would be more kind...but sometimes, she comes an HOUR late. Then, she spends the three hours running in and out of class, most likely, we assume, to the bathroom. Nacho and I are convinced that she has a horrible deteriorating case of diarrhea (or however you spell that liquidy dilemma). So, we fondly refer to her as Plop, Plop. Its funny if you hear nacho actually call her that because...well...its hysterical. So last night, she just up and rips one in class. I mean...LOUD like. And, as cool and calm as can be, she looks up from her brown iced cream (ben and jerry's, and my favourite kind, at that, that hooker-ho-beast) and says, "excuse me". I don't know what I expected her to say, but that wasn't it. Maybe I was waiting for the PlopPlop confession, a teary tale of her terminal pooping. I about died. Yes, I realize this was immature. I didn't laugh in her face or anything. But all I could do was look at Nacho and go Plop. Plop. I am not a compassionate person. I never claimed to be. This is why I keep my compassion in a flask, only to be taken out on sunny days when I feel like people might expect and/or need some of the kind of compassion that only I can dole out. Sure.

And, through this rather mundane busybusybusy spectacular day, I wrote a little something something. I wrote it in the gift that Mark gave me last weekend as a late Christmas gift. If it were up to me, I'd be celebrating Christmas in March all the time. Its a little notebook with lined paper that is only lined on one side and blank on the other, which makes for an excellent place to both write and illustrate, sketch, and doodle. I love it. The cover is even better. Its sort of thickish (not in the girth sort of way that Mark might demonstrate) and is green and looks as though there were leaves pressed into it while the paper was wet...and then, someone sprayed a hint of gold over it. Its gorgeous. I intend to bring it everywhere so I don't go littering my notes with poems and doodles. Thanx, Mark, baby. *smilewinkandnod* So, I think I've ranted on enough. Get to the poem already, Carole. Jeez.

~Biorhythms~

On a day like today,

i don't need anybody but myself...

i've got the hint of spring in my lungs,

the warming sun on my face,

the breeze of a jet stream messenger

blowing through my burgendy black hair,

and visions of green creeping from under

remnants of march's last snow.

On a day like today,

when the weather is as fickle as my heart,

i need only walk and breathe and be.