this damn crush

I had a few days where I thought I was completely free from it.

Day -2: we kiss for a half an hour, my shirt comes off and he asks to touch my breast and we keep kissing with a crowd of people bumping into us, saying silly things around us and I wonder if maybe we should stop but there's no reason to stop and I want it and there's a distinct possibility that we won't kiss again for five months.

Later that night we cross paths a few times, but we never stick.

Day -1: We are avoiding eye contact. Or at least he is. The weird vibes turn me off and I avoid him.

Day 0: He asks if I want to talk about it via facebook because he hasn't found me in my office. We talk. He wanted to make sure I felt good about consent. I wanted to know what page I should be on, to put us on the same page, to know what flirting all the time means for us. He explains that he has a girlfriend, that he's tied down. I ask him if the flirting is okay. He says yes, that they've talked about it once.

Day 1: It's fading. I feel freer. We're still avoiding contact but not in a bad way.

Day 2: I even think about other people. He does something stupid and I don't even register it as endearing.

Day 3: We're both at the scrounge, and I involve him in my conversation so that maybe we can move towards being friends.

Day 4: Awkwardness mostly gone. Barely look at the back of his head in class.

Fastforward ~1 week. We are in the imaginary numbers.

Monday night of finals week a bunch of us are studying together in the basement and its just hitting me in waves. I put on the songs I've been listening to for weeks and he stands up and turns around and tells me how he listened to Overgrown this summer at his internship. We joke about smoking a cigarette together and when I bum one off someone four of us go to the psych roof but they make me smoke it by myself. He walks close to me. He jokes that I'll have to bury him after tonight. I offer various options, and we decide to send his ashes to the stratosphere so he'll get spread everywhere. At 3:30 in the morning I leave and go home, kicking myself because it's back full force.

I used to be annoyed that my friends didn't think it was cute that I had a crush on him. Now one of my buddies is convinced we would be great and it's making it way worse. And he stopped being so hot and cold. I can't deal with him this warm.

I'm a fucking child but I'm so high off this but I feel so guilty because he's off limits and not even mine to borrow. But apparently flirting is okay.

The only part that hurts is that I feel like I can see exactly how happy I would be if we could actually date and it looks amazing. I know it's all in my head but I feel like this year would be golden with a little more sex and a few more kisses and it's just so close and so far.

I should go meet someone new. This boy though.

Snap game 2 strong for the ephemeral medium which is its defining characteristic

A Constant Puzzle

I think an interesting type of writing would be one where there is no promise of a final conclusion, but only a series of small ones which constantly undermine each other. In fact, I want the reader to be having an idea at every moment, not necessarily because they are easy to have, but because they come unbidden. Maybe the start as blobs and get sharper with reading and rereading, but then they cut each other to shreds! And just at the moment when there is a huge pile of ideas, each struggling to stand, the reader is left alone.

Or maybe I'm just projecting how I feel writing to how I hope my reader would feel. This is expected, because I always argue that a good work transforms the reader into the subject. Then again, I am notorious for having to choose the media I consume based on who it turns me into. I might be too easy a reader to mold.

I need to finish If on a winter's night a traveler before I really know anything about reading, right?

I'm ashamed that...

I don't like to think anymore, it stresses me out

sometimes I'm so afraid of letting my mind off its leash that I bring my phone to the bathroom

all of my heroes are white men

I don't have enough cognitive power to remember all of my thought processes from start to finish

I don't try to fix every broken thing

my reaction to these failings is shame and not acceptance or motivation to change

I am impatient to be less lonely

I haven't figured out how to be an ally to the Ferguson movement

my room is a mess

I procrastinate

I'm not fully convinced of my own argument in this paper

I'm afraid for my friend, who may be in trouble with the law, and there's nothing I can do

I read my OkCupid profile to remind myself of who I am


... for some reason confessing all of this to a void makes me feel better about it.

herbert blau was a huge nerd

“It is the hauntedness of being-perceived in the beginning which is in Artaud--whom Derrida has studied as a mirror of thought--the reason for madness. It is also the ontological basis of what for Artaud is Original Sin, the idea of an audience, the specular entity whose name suggests the Word, the thing heard. The audience--the ones who look--is the look of the Law. It is the audited reflection of originary division and primal separation. [...] It is a sign of the original bloody show in the ritual drama, the loss of precious parts of ourselves that are only re-membered in dreams. It is the preying eye of the specular ego which depreciates us and soils us in the name of a lethal power which steals both word and flesh. It is the insinuating difference in a structure of theft, or rather the double that inserts itself between ourselves and birth, [...], the nothing that posits itself between us and origins, what comes to be the history whose name is death.” (17)

blau u have a newborn child put down the bong.

jk this just blew my mind 2 smithereens.

i love finals but i hate finals but i kinda wanna always be this amazed and if finals are how that happens then i guess i love finals

picky picky

all I want is a cheap trashy fountain pen or 10 (since I lose things) why are there no options on this fucking continent

why was the black pelikano limited edition

whywhywhy

ok I'll go to bed and stop whining

trying to write a final

Is time fragmented? Is my body? Is my memory? Is my narrative?

Yes, but not really in the way that I have to write about for my paper.

Do I experience a combination of self-rejection and self-perception? Yes. Is it torture? Sometimes.

Does it trap me in my immediate experiences, outside of the possibility for reflection or progress, in a liminal space between interiority and exteriority?

Why are you interrogating me?

Answer my question.

thinking about violence

I hate quantum mechanics for the way it makes me feel while I’m doing it. I hate that the math seems to obscure the concepts for me, not illuminate them. I also hate a feeling that happened just once. I hate that after two hours of thinking and scribbling I looked at the work I had done for my final exam and had a strong desire to stab myself in the eye with my mechanical pencil.

Not just a mechanical pencil, but specifically a drafting pencil. Before the .7 lead peaks out there is a slender metal tube that extends from the taper after the grip.  The inside of my left eye ached for that little hollow cylinder, and my right eye could almost feel it already. My hand trembled, not because I was about to do it, but because I wanted it so badly.

I’ve engaged in the dark art of  “self-harm” as they call it. I don’t feel like it really deserves the umbrella term. I have cut my hand to watch it heal. I have cut my stomach to distract myself from other pain. And thanks to quantum mechanics, I have almost maimed myself because I wanted to.

I hope that the distinction is clear.

Violence to eyes, from writing implements. So key to each other, suddenly opposed. It’s disgusting. They don’t deserve each other, not in that way.

tummy troubled by mindgames

god this boy and I made out for like half of thesis parade and we're acting like nothing happened and this is just ridiculous I'm seriously considering talking to him but that seems pretty drastic so we will just see.

post script

"What is theatricality? It is theatre-minus-text, it is a density of signs and sensations which is constructed on stage starting from the written argument."

"What is theatricality? It is theatre-minus-text, it is a density of signs and sensations which is constructed on stage starting from the written argument."

"What is theatricality? It is theatre-minus-text, it is a density of signs and sensations which is constructed on stage starting from the written argument."

"What is theatricality? It is theatre-minus-text, it is a density of signs and sensations which is constructed on stage starting from the written argument."

-barthes

far escape

Farscape plays behind my Mini-Orals presentation tonight. It's not done, my French reading is not done, I have 1 hour tomorrow to finish both of them if I give myself 8 hours of sleep.

Endless.

Until December 15th.

This Friday is Spring-Fall thesis parade. Kisses will help, dancing and champagne will help.

Well, today I give myself 7.5 hours of sleep. I choose that invariably now, unlike two years ago when I would shoot for an integer multiple of 1.5 regardless of the n I ended up with (though I generally wanted at least a 2.) Well times have changed now and that is how it is. This is how it is.

Nothing is particularly special tonight, which is why I can't work. Work is about special things. I want to work on mysteries and questions.

BEDTIME