I have half an hour before my creative writing class and I don't want to review the reading.
Second semester has started strangely. I haven't been doing any physics; not even my thesis which is going to become a problem. My creative writing class has short reading and writing assignments that feel like writing here. That is to say, they don't feel like work. I only read a few pages each week for French, because it's a poetry class. I look up all the words, I think about it, but poetry is a new field for me and I am clumsy so I don't go far. Then I sit in on a class about ancient greek epigrams and a Hum class. I feel moist with art.
Time is flowing smoothly, too smoothly to notice. Two weeks in.
When I'm not in class I walk around with purposes. Meetings, errands, a pile of homework in my hands. The meetings happen and then I'm with my friends. I go eat cheesecake and end up watching Firefly. I talk about a project and then we fuck in the AV closet in the Hall of Power. I walk home and Liana is sitting on the stairs while A mops the kitchen. We laugh until it's too late to do much work. I read personal narratives and drip in bed while steam wafts from the shower to my messy room.
And this weekend is the Qual. I have very intense memories of Qual day. Everyone does, I suppose, even if that memory is just "extreme intoxication." Well, mine go back an extra year to my first 2C-E trip. I walked into the building and my heals were the only sound and my friend looked up at me and then I left. New memories are on their way.
Um. I'm sorry to have abandoned this place. I'm sorry to have abandoned physics too. But I assure you these places are very different. They're different in the extent to which they are "places." The way I regret them is different. I am relieved that physics is gone. I say to myself that I will come back to it but I'm honestly not sure I will. Don't tell anyone though, this is the last and only time I will say that before it is time for a reckoning. This place... I wish I was pulled to make my experiences permanent. They feel fleeting, they feel like moments and instants and it feels wrong to mold them into stories right now.
Stories are so powerful. Humans of New York is raising millions of dollars with a story. PR companies are making millions of dollars with stories. Capitalism is held up by stories. I am stories, this is stories, so why does my life not feel like a story right now? I keep having the urge to talk with people about things I did alone. I want to tell stories that tell someone who I am. A real story is immersive, and I'm just throwing things onto a surface, waiting for a pile.
So, like Le Pont Mirabeau, I'm full of nostalgia and rejection of sentimentality today. Good, let's go to class.
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