Wednesday, January 30, 2002
I am sitting in the computer lab as I type this and a fire alarm has just gone off. It's sort of amazing the way everyone is pretending it isn't; no one gets up from their seat, no one closes their programs, no one even bats an eyelash.
And because no one else does, neither do I. God, do I hate myself for being stupid about following the lead of others in these types of situations. Not that I really want to get up, or that I think there's a threat, but because I do it to go along with everyone else.
(Well, that, and because I hate the awful cigarettey smell of the stairwells, where we are supposed to go and take shelter in the event of such a fire alarm. As if the stairwell will save us. It really won't, I'm sure, if we were so desperate as to need saving, but it's more convenient than tromping town 18 flights of stairs because someone burned their brownies. And if we need saving, I guess better to be closer to the stairs. Or something.)
In the hallway, I can hear someone excitedly yell 'Who did it? WHO did it?' There's a giggled reply from a girl: 'Me...' A response:'You?' And their conversation continues as doors close and they walk out of earshot. I will never know what caused it, I suppose, and I'm only assuming they are referring to the fire alarm, but maybe they are not.
I hate the sound of the fire alarm. I associate it with being woken from my sleep and the groggy stumble to the stairwell (or the rolling back over in bed, the piling of pillows over my head—there's supposedly a $500 fine if they catch you in your rooms during a drill, but really, some 800 people live in my building. They're going to start their spot checks on my corner of the 18th floor?) It's not a happy sound. I hate it. I curse it. Stupid, stupid, stupid, grating, awful fire alarm.
And then, as suddenly as it started, the bells stop. And finally someone in the room makes some sort of recognition of it in here. A happy sigh and a 'Thank God.'
I resume typing.
[01:00 AM EST] [1]
Wednesday, January 23, 2002
It started out innocently enough—a way to pass time in the first few minutes before my history class two weeks ago. I turned to the last page of the paper and began filling out the crossword puzzle.
It was a Monday (and for those who aren't aware, the New York Times crossword puzzles (and most crosswords, I think) get harder as the week progresses) and so I reasoned I had a good chance of doing well.
I got most of the words, but not all, and not without a few surrepticious glances over at my friend's crossword, which by the way, she started a good five minutes after me and finished a good, well, a long time before me seeing as how I never did quite finish.
I was a little bothered I'll admit, not that I think this girl is a little bit of an airhead or anything (no, no, never), or that I—the English major who has always been secretly proud (in a very dorky sort of way) of her big vocabulary—was not capable of finishing it (except I wasn't) but, well, just 'cause.
And so I went home, rifled through my older copies of the DP and started in on the Monday puzzle from the week before.
Again, I did not get so far.
And so I began desperately searching online. More puzzles. I must get at least one of these finished.
My searches led me to yahoo, to MSN, to the Boston Globe (then back, because MSN and the Globe feature the same puzzles online), and to the dreaded New York Times once again.
I can now say (with a touch of embarrassment mixed with shame) that it's become something of an obsession.
I feel this compulsion to actually finish one—in ink, without hints—some day. A day that isn't even a Monday (though I would be happy with that, I admit). As an Ivy League English major who certainly didn't get to college because of her math SAT scores, I feel like this is some sort of prerequisite, some sort of trial I have to pass to really be worthy of the title. Or something.
So far, I've gained an incredible wealth of useless knowledge. The Utes are the Beehive State team. Mellville wrote "Onoo" in 1848 (or something like that). And epees are used in fencing (whatever the hell they are.)
Many a morning I've sat down to breakfast with my mother and watched her open to the page with the comics and the crosswords. She's usually got it done before I've finished my Cheerios. In ink. Without crossing things out. On days other than Monday.
Watching her do it sort of mystifies me.
'A four letter word for Japanese Willow?' I ask, bewildered.
'Oh,' she says. 'I know that one,' as she fills the letters in.
'Oh,' I say. 'Right.'
[11:46 PM EST] [2]
Tuesday, January 22, 2002
I just saw Charlie in the hallway. Sad, sick, and near death, someone had left Charlie by the trash pile near the elevator.
He came to us sometime in the space between Thanksgiving and Christmas; my roommate brought a dried-out, wilted and very close to death palm tree (if "tree" is the correct word in this case; I'm not sure it is. Large potted palm plant?) into our room. She we should save him.
We gave him food and drink and decorated his tiny body with bits of garland for Christmas, and named his sickly but loveable frame after Charlie Brown's infamous tree. I thought my roommate was being overly ambitious (among other things) but she swore he'd flourish under her care.
Flourish he did—for a few weeks at least.
He joined his foster brother, Speakman II (the tiny sprout that lived in the shadow of, and ultimately out-lasted, an ill-fated Bonsai tree, named for our freshman hall) in a hallowed place of greenery in our living room (read: on top of a cardboard-box-turned-end-table) and grew strong, straight and many dark green leafy branches.
When we threw our Christmas party, we decorated him with candycanes (since now, he had grown strong enough to support their weight) and recieved many compliments on our fine, fine tree. I wrapped presents and put them underneath him when it came time for that. He was happy, he was loved. He was our Charlie.
But something happened between Christmas and now, and I am somewhat alarmed and embarassed to say I didn't see it coming. Oh, sure, I noticed when I got back from break he didn't look quite so sturdy, but that's to be expected of a plant who hasn't been watered for a few days(and it really was just a few days, I assume, since our break was really only two weeks long, and Michelle cut hers even shorter).
But somewhere along the line, apparently, my roommate—who once heroically saved the plant from certain doom and lovingly revived him—delivered a fatal overdose of water to the helpless guy.
He no longer stands quite upright, Nancy and I noted the other night. He'd seen greener days. But I guess things were worse than I had suspected because just now, I found him abandoned in the hallway—once again. Michelle said he's beyond hope, and being far too lazy and not very good with plants (I once had a spider plant named Phineas who lived in a tragic bipolar life consisting of drought for weeks followed by extreme over-watering; he ultimately died when my sister thought "feeding" him milk might strengthen him, but instead produced a really, really bad smell) suppose I'll have to accept this diagnosis.
I just hope that whoever left Charlie out there in the first place will see his garland-decorated body out there and pause and wonder what the fuck happened to their plant.
[02:27 AM EST] [1]
Thursday, January 17, 2002
Sometimes I wonder what my problem is exactly. Why do I happily engage in these stupid mental games of chicken (look him in the eye until one of us looks away, smile see if there's a response) but then retreat in fear the instant it seems like it could be more than just glances exchanged between strangers?To a degree, I like meeting new people, and I've often mused my time (and I have so much of it now—it's strange luxury to come home from class and have a whole afternoon streching out before me with no phone calls to make, no 18-to-20 inches to write, no deadlines to miss) would be better spent if there were more people in my life. I just don't know what to do with them once they're there.
And so I look away, I screen my calls, I put on an air of unavailability that I remember from high school and turn around and mope in my self-created loneliness, waiting for a phone call I don't even know if I want to get anymore (except of course, I know I do).
I'm sorry I do this. I want to believe it's just a phase, anyway. And I maintain it's not my fault.
[12:58 AM EST] [10]
Wednesday, January 16, 2002
(I told myself I'd write three paragraphs—just three (but something all the same)—tonight. Before I went to bed and put yet another thing off yet another day.)Twenty-one days to make or break a habit, they say. I'm not sure where this puts me (am I on the road to anything at this point?) but I can't help but think it seems like a lot longer than that until the decay that has piled up can be scraped out, or until the voids (cavities, if we're going to play with this partial dental metaphor, which I'm not sure I want to, 'cause really, dentists?) are filled.
Or maybe some things aren't habitual, really, they're more than that, and no 21 day period is going to erase or create them, depending on your take on it all. Those things. They're bigger than habits. I'm just not sure what they are at that point.
[01:27 AM EST] [reply?]
Monday, January 7, 2002
I don't think I'm alone when I say I was not unhappy, in the least, to see 2001 go. It was, on many, many levels, not a very good year. In fact, it was what I would deem a Pretty Bad Year.A lot of that was pretty well beyond my control. Bad things happened, things that werecompletely independent from me (it's a shock, I know, but amazingly, the world does not actually revolve around me). And I think I delt with them fairly well, but then again, some of the things that happened were probably not so independent of me, and well, it would be good to make some changes.
That said, here is what I propose in order to make 2002 at least a moderate improvement over 2001:
Whatever this might involve. I think part of that has (I guess?) taken care of itself, but the rest, the major, looming involvement with a male in my life (and by this, I mean my father) continues to bother me, and well, I think I need to at the very least, lay it all out on the table. I have a feeling it won't accomplish much, but then, I have a feeling at this point, nothing will. But at least I will have said my peice.
Sort of a weighty resolution (as the first is, I suppose) but by this I mean a number of fairly simple things, actually. Namely: declare my major (English, with a concentration in Journalism and Print Media Culture), fill out and turn in study-abroad applications (Kings College in London, next semester), fix up my resume and apply for internships and drop into Career Services for a nice talk about what exactly I ought to do with my life. Yay direction!
This is the only one I've made moderate headway in, having purchased the "Help! My Apartment has a Kitchen" cookbook. And um, I have firm intentions of buying food to cook up fairly soon. But I think, maybe, this is one that will actually (maybe) get accomplished this year.
Because it really wouldn't be New Year's without (soon-to-be-tossed-aside) aspirations of physical fitness, I have to include this. I really do mean it this time though. Well, sort of. I would also say "Sign up for a Yoga Class", but I'm attempting to be realistic.
As with above, this is sort of an obligatory resolution, but it would also be nice if I'd actually put effort into school for once. Having taken off some time from the DP, I may actually be able to accomplish this, although currently, my schedule is in shambles...
Anyway. I meant to write this a long time ago, but I've been procrastinating, a wonderful start to the new year. But yeah. I will write more, better, content-filled stuff soon. Add that one to the list too.
[11:27 PM EST] [3]