Me & Chicago, from the top of the Hancock Observatory. 

Scalp massages-- just give in to the feeling. 

The Wrigley Building! Oh, and some cool people. 

Nick's massaging some art. 

Filet Mignon and A-1 steaksauce... mmmm! 

Look how straight the Chicago sidewalks are! 

If you want his body, and you think he's sexy... 

Frodo with a bobo. 

Keke, Roy&Sonia @ Endymion 

In yo face, Keke! 

Mardi Gras! 

The Thinker

Rodin's The Thinker has probably been the most prominent and influential piece of art in my life. My fellow academic-gamers understand-- our trophies are all "Thinkers."

When I see The Thinker, I see victory through contemplation. However, I also realize that the figure carries a great burden on his shoulders-- the burden of being one who examines life and the current state of affairs. By reflecting on the world that surrounds him, the thinker is forced to take responsibility for that part of the world which he can control. For the person who goes through daily life without regular contemplation, the problems which humankind faces are problems for someone else to take care of. The Thinker is forced to consider his own role in society, and finds himself to be accountable to some degree for its wrongs.

What's so beautiful about The Kiss is that here we see the Thinker getting some love! Truth be told, the Thinker is not solely a mental being. He has a physical presence, with toes that long to curl in passion (thanks Nate), and emotional needs which can only be satisfied through meaningful interaction. She has come to burst his little bubble of isolation. Her love is the fuel that will allow his brain to continue to function, working to use his creative potential to better the entire human race. Without love, the Thinker's thinking would surely become cynical and jaded.

Now, we are all the Thinker to some extent. And sometimes being the Thinker can be very lonely-- you feel like you're the only one who cares about what's going on. Remember to appreciate that part of yourself, and appreciate it when you see it in others. Keep thinkers around you, and know that beneath their serious exterior, they are people who need love just like you. And don't forget to kiss your thinker!

This is the coolest thing ever! Do you know why? 

just a little morbid

Keke: I need a jean jacket.
JO: You need more clothes like India needs a Tsunami.
Keke: (in a clever, childish voice) But it wouldn't be tragic if I got a jean jacket!

Today I worked a retirement party. A retirement part with no dj-- only one background cd playing over and over. Let's imagine for a moment that I die and God judges me to be a sinner who has rejected his saving grace. The omnipotent gives me the option of A) the fiery pit where there will be eternal weeping and gnashing of teeth or B) working an eternal retirement party with no dj.

Which do I choose?
The FORMER-- way, way less painful!!!

Retirement parties in concept are very depressing. Think folks--you are celebrating the end of a person's productivity! I mean, not ideally-- ideally people should stay busy after they retire, taking care of grandkids, learning handicrafts and working to end world hunger. But, if retirement means just sitting around and doing nothing, that just plain sucks.

Conan's getting old. He's like 55 in dog years. This brings to mind the question: Why do people get pets, knowing that they will learn to love them, and then certainly see them die? I mean, sure, we don't think about the death of the animal on the day we choose to take it into our home, but, come on, we know what we're subjecting ourselves to! I guess the love we give and receive is worth the inevitable pain, just like with humans. I guess life's like that. ;)

too awesome!

I saw The Fens at the Neutral Ground last night. They are too awesome! Make them famous, people!

I've been thinking a lot about free market economics lately, thanks to a fortuitous meeting on the plane ride back to New Orleans. I've also been thinking about God and stuff. More on both of those later... What have you been thinking about?

Kersplat!

I cried in Interpretive Approaches today. Suprisingly, I didn't make little sobby noises, so I don't think anyone noticed. The prof was talking about all the -isms of literary theory and the people who've devoted their lives to them. The theories are all fascinating, and all of the sudden I realized that I am just like the people writing these texts. I've always seen great thinkers as wholly other and above me; really they're just very organized, well-read, and confident intellectuals. Upon the dawn of this epiphany, I felt a sense of interconnectedness with these dedicated, serious, mentally-oriented folks. And then I thought about how most of them are dead, about how someday I will die, about how eventually the entire universe will break apart. And the whole pursuit of literary theory-- as well as of meaningful exsistence as a whole-- suddenly seemed futile. So I wept silently for myself and my newfound siblings.

I love my literary theory teacher, I promise. He's an amazing man who fills my head with wonderful thoughts. But the class is two and a half hours long, and he always promises that he's almost done, that it's almost over. And then it's not.

And I'm okay for the first two hours, but then I get ancy. I fidget. I put my head on the desk. I draw bubble numbers counting down the minutes. I make a fist and grind my pen into the notebook until the point cuts the page.

Today it got really bad. With about ten minutes left in class, I begin to imagine shooting myself in the forehead. Don't be alarmed; this is a normal, everyday occurence for me. I never shoot myself anywhere else-- not the foot or the neck or the gut or anywhere else. And taking a bullet in square in the forehead is really a romantic image for me, because my brain is so intense that I feel like sometimes it will just explode on its own.

I'm really graphic about it too. I see the blood and little bits of grey matter splattered on myself, my classmates, the dull walls, the teacher. And while I think of all of this, I'm also staring intensely at a teacher that I truly admire, taking in what he says, and enjoying the fact that he has no idea what I'm thinking about.

What's really interesting is that today I tried to point my mental revolver at the honorable doctor, but I couldn't do it. Despite all the many times I've blown my brains out in grocery store lines, waiting rooms, difficult conversations, I couldn't bring myself to turn on another. The idea of hurting someone else is so repulsive to me! So I put my gun away; just thought you'd like to know.

truth is, it's not all right

Listening to Rebecca Correia's Elizabeth and Death Cab for Cutie's Transatlanticism over and over.

Elizazbeth,
don't leave!
There's nothing down there for
you or for me.

I guess distance is the major theme in my life right now.
Distance between friends, geographical and mental.
(The latter is the more painful by far.)
Distance between moments of clarity.
Distance between myself and my desires.

I have so much work to do today, but last night I had a rude blast from the past, so today I'm a little depressed.

Big thought:

I can't get where I want to by myself. I always imagine myself impossibly climbing a vertical wall, clawing my own grips into the smooth rock and clay. But in life, if people won't cooperate, I'll remain at the bottom, despondent-- despite any amount of effort I put in.

My possible thesis advisor hasn't responded yet-- I'm absolutely on hold 'til she does.
And when I meet prospective bosses for the summer, if for any reason they don't like my face-- whoops, too bad for me.

Well, at least I have a pretty face, right?

up and running

Well, I've been doing the whole journal thing since I was pretty young. I always get myself a fresh book and start to pour onto the pages, but I've never followed through and written all the way to the end. My room is stuffed with half-full journals. Every time I start a new one, I know full well I'll never finish it, and it depresses the hell out of me. I figure a blog is not a book with a back cover, so here there are no expectations for me to meet. And maybe the possibility that someone might actually read the writing will encourage me to keep this at least moderately interesting.