TuesdayNightDinner

Graduate school has led me to believe that I am from another planet. (They teach you that your first semester there.) Okay -- not you, me. I was being specific, or very, very general -- you have no idea who I mean when I say "you."

That's part of the punchline. [insert laughter]

Man, I just started, and it isn't even funny yet. It does strange things to my mind, stirring it all around, curling and modifying it, then giving it no time to stop and unpack itself.

Total written in the first month of grad school: 65 pages.

SIXTY-FIVE!!!!!! That is pathetic!!!!!! I haven't written sixty-five pages since…. geez, since before I started keeping track of how much I write. I've NEVER written 65 pages before. Sad. Very, very sad. And this month? It' ain't over, but it ain't looking good, neither (says I). (Postscript: 71 total. Nearly as sad. This month I am off to a much more normal start, thank heavens. If I felt like doing the math I'd be more specific.)

I have no extra time. No extra time to commit. Sundays slide by in an ecstasy of poststructuralist glory, but alas….. my brain was used to the intensity, but whines in the absence of its former oxytocin (insert noun here) well, it just ain't like it use'd't'b.

I know this writer, see, and she gets kind of twitchy, see, if you don't let her write, see, see? she gets a little…. caged….. if you will and starts to …..

K-rist! I turn French! If I spend too much time in WesternPhilosophicalLand, I begin to start (is that necessary?) suffering the sufferings of the French: Oinwe. Existentialism. Malaaaaaiiiiiiis. But then I realized -- hey -- that's just the pent up writer talkin'.

"You must have a lot of fun on Sundays," the comment said. (postdance postorgasmic postdiscursive) Um, yeah. You could say that. (Disco, disco, sundayafternoondisco….) But I took me away from all that, and now I work for me. My name is….

And that's where it gets a lil'iffy, folks -- what's in a name? A name by any other would still smell just like this computer screen. Rose. Capulet. Juliabrot. (sniffsniff) Nope -- smell exactly the same. Hey…. you ever really look at one of these things up close? Tiny, tiny bits, all arranged symmetrically. Can you tell what color any individual molecule is? Imagine you can see them; shift your focal length and you can, or at least a more accurate representation of what they would look like from here, with these eyes. (adapted on the plains. scans for danger. finds some. repeats.) Now watch'emspin. Hi!

Or at least I did. I must guard against spending too much time in the minds of French Intellectuals. I must guard against spending too much time in the minds of French Intellectuals. I must guard against spending too much time in the minds of French Intellectuals. I must guard against spending too much time in the minds of French Intellectuals. I must guard against spending too much time in the minds of French Intellectuals. (100x. blackboard.)

My slippers have been toooooo tight, IF you know what I mean. (cat - bag = )

I don't have much time; this will have to be quick. (No extra time to commit.) If I don't stop and smell the writing, then those French men will take over my brain and give me malaaaaaaiiiiiiiise or something else that makes me a bastard to live with. (They seem to have a lot of words for that.) I keep putting my head philosophically down these tunnels where there are two, and neither of them will be okay, so I'll just SUFFER!!!! (Have I read anyone German lately without realizing? Should I have guarded better against angst? It is existential….)

I need my hat, my Philosopher's Hat -- the one hung with a dozen monkeys to keep The Thoughts of Western Philosophers out of my head. There I was, recently graduated, hot on Lit Crit and then totally argued under the table by some hot intellectual with a ponytail who wore leather and was the lead singer in a band. What was I to do? He was the model of perfection in my subculture (he even had a job -- a cushy glass office doing some kind of international reverse regression…. oh hell, I have no idea what he did -- I couldn't remember it from one minute to the next, even though statistics was my Only Favorite Arithmetic. (It is NOT math -- don't let the bastards fool ya'.) Or, in other words, he "used abstract mathematical principles to predict the behavior of Italians toward toothpaste," and other such things that have nothing whatsoever to do with reality. He had pierced ears, too. And a nice ass.

He made me a burrito (just now) that looked like it could have been served in one of those cozy little restaurants with deep yellow sponge painted walls. (As in the walls were yellow, not the sponge what painted them; the yellow was deep, not the walls.) A burrito so delicious it created its own context within which it culturally demanded to be situated. It was the broccoli slaw as copious upper garnish that did it visually for me -- the slaw created the context, or at least the slaw in that context created the rest of the context. (Triangulation -- two elements created the third, or at least pointed to exactly where that third would arise if it so did) Does that need a period? Oh, screw it.

Hi. My name is f----. It has been more than two months since last I discoed. In the meantime, I have suffered malaaaaiiiiiise, though it is getting shorter.

He says that his feet are on too tight, while he shakes them in thyme to the music. Sex. Then write about it. That was what Idid one day out of nearly every week. And then: gradschool. Not another word. My poor brain! No wonder it's been acting up -- I haven't taken it out for its walk -- it's been cooped up in here for weeks. I'd be cranky, too. (oh.right.)

He was so articulate, so polite -- he pronounced diphthongs of double duplicate vowels without a glitch, and could say "sveldt" in a tongue that made my ears (insert indescribable sensation here). I still shudder to think about it. Sometimes uncontrollably.

It was even more delicious with the cock sauce. Sure, it was nice before -- the deep red tablecloth displaying the perfectly wrapped burrito, slawdressed, wholewheat encased, ready. It was good, but it wasn't quite hot enough. That's when I asked for the cock sauce. Yikes! I said. I almost accidentally put that in my mouth afterward. That might have burned.

And now, it is delicious. It ain't Sunday, but I can still disco.