Welcome To My Bed

Public projects and secret dreams.


College is drawing to a close more rapidly than I was prepared for, so much so that I now have in my hands the rough draft of my novel with marginalia (read: my wonderful advisor's sometimes-illegible scribblings to push everything a little closer to literary greatness). I purposely took a picture where you could see none of the writing, not even the title, because the only person in the world besides myself who's read the thing in its entirety is the aforementioned advisor. If I am a public poet (which I am, let's be honest), then I am the most private of novelists. Since the story was re-imagined into its current incarnation, Nell has been the only one to read it. Before, I'd read bits and pieces to Cassandra, post others to the tumblr I made for the project as they moved out of my head and through their drafts. But the past month or so, this shit's been on absolute lockdown. It feels like I'm trying to harness nuclear power or take over the free world, which is silly, considering how small and generally quiet the story is. That pink binder is the last four years of my life. That blows my mind every time I think about it. I've been practically living in my Ouija board t-shirt because I like to put myself in the divination state of mind for all this jazz of writing about hungry ghosts and psychic energy. (I'll post an excerpt once things have moved through two or so more drafts when, perhaps, this will will all make more sense.)

ANYWAY. During our meeting yesterday afternoon, Nell made me cold coffee with cream and Lebanese sugar cubes and asked me about my plans post-December. There is obviously the tour to look forward to, but beyond that I've been nursing a bit of ambivalence about a very quiet, secret dream of mine. Lately, I've been telling it to a few just to test the waters, and the response has been puzzled, but generally positive. So I just came right out and told her. When I'm done with college, I want to go to cosmetology school. It may seem backwards to get a bachelor's in literature and creative writing and then jump ship from the academy to attend trade school, but as I told my advisor, I think that any more study of books and the like at this point in time might kill me. And, contrary to the response I imagined, she was overjoyed for me, even launched into a story about how she'd always wanted to be a plumber and often wondered what her life would be like if she was the caretaker of a house's innards. It is beyond comforting when your mentor not only validates your odd needs, but admits to a crop of the same feelings herself.

So it's settled. Finish the book, tour the coast, open the door for the next chapter of my life. One made of the cotton candy hair and silver rollers and diner songs of every middle school sleepover I ever had. I'm beginning to think that Grease has had a lot more to do with my development as a human being than anyone could have anticipated. But then, that's another post entirely.


In defense of saying "no means no" to monogamy.


And because I am sick and getting so much done, I feel I have license to sidetrack myself for just a moment to rant about something that's been grating on me quite a lot in the past month or so.

Let me start by saying that I have not read The Ethical Slut, do not abhor romantic comedies as a general rule, nor do I believe that the institution of marriage is a sham. That being said, I am happily single and casually dating various individuals who I will not incriminate in this essay rant out of respect for their (and our) privacy. I have absolutely no intention of getting any more deeply involved with any one of them. This is not because I am afraid; it is not because I am embittered by any past relationship; it is not "because" of anything. It is what it is. I am dating. Each relationship is good and right and functional and gives me joy in its own way. End of story.

It has come to my attention (mostly via "concerned friends" who claim they only have my "best interests" at heart) that the life I lead is viewed as dangerous, unsettling, and in several cases, downright abhorrent. This is shocking to me. If I am happy, as long as I'm not hurting myself or anyone else, I thought my friends would be happy for me. Not so, says the universe. Remember, you must derive your happiness from sources that the people around you find acceptable. "When in Rome" and all that jazz. You've transgressed the cardinal rule of sharing joy: do not present the masses with a form of happiness derived from a practice which they do not understand. It is like trying to make religious ecstasy tangible to an atheist, trying to translate the triumph of a flawless triple pirouette to someone who hates to dance. Do not tell those who do not live like you how happy you are, because the moment you try to explain, their lack of vocabulary on the subject will leave everyone involved in a very frustrated state.

Thanks for the heads up, universe. But I am going to say it anyway. I do not believe that monogamy is a healthy practice for me. I am of the mind that I have too much love in me to focus it all on one person at once. I believe that love is both a choice and a responsibility, not a mystical and uncontrollable state that one falls into and out of willy-nilly. Attraction is only the first step on a long road of decision-making that leads to and should strengthen the connection between partners. Love comes from these decisions to be responsible, caring, and present. Thusly, the validation that many of my friends derive from possessing their partners, I am able to derive from all of my less-than-tacked-down relationships, both those that involve sex and those that do not. Down to my most incidental friendships, I am a fiercely loyal person. There are plenty of people in this world I love so intensely that I would not only die, but kill for them. There is room in my heart for all of them. But this loyalty does not ultimately result in surrender. And to me, to have any one person call me "theirs", to possess me in a way that thereby means no one else has the opportunity to, would be an unnecessary surrender of myself. When it comes to love, I also have a responsibility to love myself. I am best able to do that alone, unattached, uncoupled, single, whatever you want to call it.

That being said, a troubling thing has been cropping up in conversation lately. I'll call it, for lack of a better way to characterize it, an unwillingness to believe my lifestyle is healthy, or, at worst, an unwillingness to believe that it exists at all. People assume that I have either numbed myself to what I am doing, or that I have buried my desire for commitment for fear of being hurt. Dear, dear friends belittle my decision to remain non-monogamous as a choice that will be my un-doing--as if I am King Lear teetering on the precipice of certain insanity.

And to those friends, I address myself now: I would like to tell you my love life is none of your business, but that would be a lie. It is your business, because you are a part of it. I love you. Even though you do not understand they way that I live, nor are you willing to believe that it could work for me without causing some damage, either on a daily basis, or at some point down the road. My love for you is just as important as the love I have for my blood family, my chosen families, my partners in business, pleasure, art, and intellect. And that is what I want you to see. I can love you and all of them, and where that gets me is only to a place of greater and more serious happiness.

There is no measure of love that is unimportant or repulsive. There is no specific place or space where love "belongs". There is no chant or name to invoke or ceremony to carry out that makes one kind of love more holy than any other. Love is only love, and can only be love. Romantic, platonic, what have you--these are just boxes we are given for sorting. I refuse to sort any of it. Let it be a mess. So what if you don't understand how I sleep at night without some specific face to greet me on my pillow. I get to sleep either way.

Forgive me nothing. Deny me everything. I will continue to love you anyway.

"Teach me how to run hard and far from who I used to be."


"Do you hear that Grössby? That's the sound of summer ending."

1. I haven't been here, really been present, in awhile. All of my avenues of self-reflection have been silent, and I feel that silence in a way that is terrifying. My journals go unwritten in, poems (until very recently) get brainstormed and lost to some dark corner of the forgetful half of my brain. And this poor, poor blog looks like a ghost town. For all the internet knows, I am bored and have nothing to say. The truth is, I am overwhelmed and have absolutely everything to talk about. There is just too much of it to wade through. But I'm going to try.

2. Regret seems to be the buzzword of the summer. Which sucks, considering I am that asshat who says things like, "Pssh, who regrets anything? I am always proud of everything I do." Which is not an outright lie. In the case of the past few months, I know that my doubts come from how I've spent my time. Too much whiskey (if that's possible), not enough writing. Bottom line, I'm feeling the pressure when it come to turning in a "completed" novel come December. I am well known for taking on projects bigger than the moon and pulling them off at the last possible moment, but this one seems bigger, Jupiter sized. I speak in lines from other people's poems lately, work at least six days a week, and have not sat down and finished a book since early July. I am worried about getting lost in all different kinds of shuffles. On bad days, it feels as though I already have. People are rearranging as friends leave for school again, while other return for the same reason. I know I am not standing still, but there is stasis in my bones now, where before there was entropy. I need to feel like I am moving forward. Some days I wish I was a runner, a real one, so that I could at least move myself physically out of this space.

3. I am moving out of this apartment in about a week, which is a loss of both the treehouse and my roommate. I'll be moving downtown to be closer to work, and in that way it is both exciting and practical. In another, it is completely disorienting. I cannot imagine how to make it less so, because as soon asI get settled again, I will be uprooting myself. At work today, I spent the majority of my time doing mindless organizational tasks and thinking hard about all of the things that are wrapped up in moving back to New York. Yes, I said it. I am moving back to New York. Or Jersey. City-side living. I kept having visions of goldfish and cooking dinner for my father and late night painting sessions with Maggie. I know it will be good, as well as necessary. I need to give myself permission to be excited about this. Everyone is talking about relocating to Boston post graduation, and it feels like last summer all over again, a party I am vaguely invited to but have too many reasons not to attend. I know they are all good reasons, but it's still awful to know that all of my friends will be living somewhere I am not. I suppose there are always the Chinatown buses.

4. In spite of all the gray weather and beige headspace, there is silver lining to this day. I gave a few of my chapbooks to a coworker, something I have never done before, and she came in today raving about my writing, telling me she had passed the books on to her friends. I wanted to hug her, but it seemed a somewhat inappropriate act, considering that we were standing in the middle of racks of American Apparel and she and I have never so much as gotten coffee outside of work. But still, the hug bubbled up, and stifling it almost hurt me physically.

5. Also, there was that thing that happened a few weeks ago in St. Paul. Lots of poems. Lots of crazy times. I am still trying to process all of it. The poetic essay is helping a bit, but mostly I just feel lost when looking for meaning in a hotel full of stranger who all seemed to know my name, and if not that, at least my face.

For the love of Friday (plus a little magic).

Today is my day off. From everything. I have work I should be doing, but I'm pretty sure I'm not going to do it. I have things to mail, but I probably will not mail them. Etcetera.


Also, Grössby says I should show you my new hair. I think we can officially diagnose this as an addiction to hair dye. We could also call it my first successful double process in the comfort of my own bathroom. I am strongly inclined to write about it in the area labeled "special skills" on job applications. But then, I am strongly inclined to write a lot of irrelevant things there, like "high pain tolerance", or "lead foot", or "exceptional spatial reasoning".

I am pretty sure that the only thing I am interested in doing (besides video blogging with Cass) is watching my favorite movie of all time, The Fall. No one knew it existed when it was released, probably because it was only playing in New York and LA and then disappeared from the planet, and I try to recommend it to as many people as possible always. Lee Pace is magic in everything. Any film with swimming elephants and silly melodrama that knows it is silly melodrama and frame stories and experimental interludes with string and clay and dioramas and colors to drown in is A-okay in my book. A brief sample:

Le sigh. I am clearly delirious when I have this much time on my hands.

Spoils for the new treehouse.

I am overwhelmed with excitement for my new place. My FIRST new place. No more couches and futons in my sister's living room, no more campus housing, no more long-winded free writes about the pros and cons of living in my car. In celebration of our impending move (a month from tomorrow!), I went shopping on my break between shifts yesterday. In light of working two back-to-back doubles this weekend, I thought it only fair to provide myself with a little TLC. Or, in this case, to acquire some preliminary kitsch for the new abode.


I am a huge proponent of walls covered in all sorts of magic--it shows up in nearly all of the pictures I post here that my room is decorated mostly via thumbtacks, masking tape, photos, postcards, and various collections of objects--but I have surprisingly little framed anything. While browsing yesterday, I came across this photo on the cheap and immediately squealed with delight (internally). The NoHo pride parade was on Saturday, so maybe that had some influence on my decision, but truly, I was thinking more of my uncle's magnet collection on his refrigerator and his framed saying over the kitchen doorway, something about the queen being in today. Speaking of which, Mother's Day with the uncles is coming up mighty fast. Can't wait for mimosas and bagels and omelets and lots of laughter. Because of this holiday, my concept of a satisfying party is one that encompasses all three meals and all varieties of sunlight (as well as all kinds of alcohol), and lots of old stories.


I have a quiet wish to tell fortunes at carnivals for a living. Add it to the list between hair dresser and flight attendant. So this is more for studying that anything else. I have a feeling I'm going to have a difficult time remembering all of the different meanings of broken life or heart lines, but that's what the picture's for, right? Also recently added to my arsenal of fortune teller necessities is a tarot deck that I haven't had the time to sit down and memorize. Oh summer, hurry up and get here so that I can teach myself to predict the future. Not pictured, but equally important to all of this silliness is a Ouija board Cass found at the swap shop when she was in high school. Note that this list doubles as the list of things to hide if our parents visit, just so they don't jump to conclusions about us joining a cult.


Needless to say, Grössby's favorite is the Jacques Cousteau shower curtain.

I was going to include a caution message about disregarding the foil in my hair, but it didn't make its way into any of the pictures. So. Beyond the edge of the frame in each of the preceding pictures, a portion of my hair is wrapped up in foil marinating in bleach. We'll see what happens once we kick the mohawk up a notch. Derek was giving me a hard time the other night about my wimpy efforts at badassery, which galvanized me in the decision for a little craziness. When one of my co-workers made a comment about how frequently my hair changes, I was reminded that it was time for another little drastic switch. No Elmer's just yet, but there has been tell of Manic Panic. I mean, it has been over a month. And in the words of the irritatingly catchy Sheryl Crow, "a change would do you good". Although, I much prefer her in "All I Wanna Do", simply because singing "I like a good beer buzz early in the morning" always manages to freak somebody out.

I always said, Chicken Little goes big or goes home.

+ Finished Jenna Jameson's autobiography laying in the Friday lawn sun. It was my first day off in two weeks, so I thought it would be best to spend it with a 600 page book called How to Make Love Like a Porn Star. I was not disappointed. In fact, it was probably one of the most enjoyable things I've read all semester.

+ Daddy's having surgery tomorrow. I wonder what a ribcage looks like completely cracked open. So many poems talk about ribcage this and that, but for me, it's a very hard part of the body to picture as separate from the body itself, even if I did paint it probably hundreds of times for my high school AP studio art concentration (anatomy, in case you were curious). In fact, here's an example right now of seventeen-year-old me as melodrama queen with a silkscreen:


Yes, that is a t-shirt. And yes, I do still have the screen. I've been strongly considering resurrecting it from my grandma's basement and mass-producing the shirts to just hand out at slams. But anyway. My dad's cracked chest. I am avoiding thinking about the risks, because this is his last hope. I filed out his living will with him on Tuesday instead of my usual weekly dose of poetry. There was all this language that made me really uncomfortable, like "in case of __________ circumstances, please allow me to die". I spent a lot of the time laughing to keep from getting overwhelmed and bursting into tears. My father wants his body to go to the hospital as research material after he dies, and when it's released back to us, he wants us to take a ferry across the Hudson and clandestinely dump his ashes over the side of the boat. Even though that's completely illegal, I am sure lots of people do it.

But that's a bridge we'll cross after all others have burned sufficiently. My daddy is not going to die from a little ol' crack in his chest, nor a swollen, blocked heart. He's already died seven times, and he doesn't like it, which is why he keeps coming back. Also, he clearly has unfinished business. Like being the first legless champion of Dancing With the Stars. Or finally finishing that book he claims he's been writing since last year.

+ The job search has started up again. But not to worry--I am still very much in love with table-waiting. I'm just trying to explore my options (and make more money). Yesterday afternoon, while Cass and I gave each other pep talks about our marketability on our now-decrepit living room couch, I applied for two new jobs. The first is a part time gig as a spa receptionist, which I am sure I'll at least get an interview for because I have so many years of experience in customer service. And the other is a second waiting job. However, this one is at a swankier restaurant, one where they train you to bartend! If I get this gig, I will finally have the skills I have desired for so long, and will be hurtling on into adulthood with the chops to support myself for the rest of my life. Not that waiting isn't a job that supports me. I just feel I'd like bartending even more. Fingers crossed. Then there is always the vague possibility of the night shift at a laundromat. A shift from 2-8 AM four times a week sounds almost heavenly. No one will bother me; I can read on the job; I can write on the job; I get to guard people's laundry. Sounds ideal for someone who can never sleep in the first place. Maybe I should email about that ad too...

+ Speaking of jobs, I have been tinkering with my five year plan. Though I have been doing what I said I wouldn't (looking at graduate programs), my real dream has remained consistent. Ever since I was a little girl, I have always wanted to be a flight attendant. Back then, it probably had a lot to do with the fact that I'd never been on a plane. In fact, I did not fly anywhere until the summer before my senior year of high school. Making that trip to California, and the subsequent one several years later, planted a seed in my head about being an air hostess. I was reading all of the requirements for flight attendants on some website the other day, and most of it comes back to extensive experience in customer service and a drive to make people absolutely comfortable. Me, and also, me! When rewriting my resume for my most recent round of job applications, I realized that I have over five years of experience in customer service. People my age cannot often say that. I need to translate those skills into a semi-lucrative and enjoyable job--flying for a living seems the way to go. Especially cos you can do it PART TIME and still get free flights to anywhere your airline travels. Perfect job for a touring poet? I think yes. New possibility for the five year plan: move to a city with a flight training center (most of them are apparently in California), become a part time flight attendant, bartend for the rest of that time, make enough to live on, write poems, visit all of my far-flung friends with vouchers and a big fat smile on my well-traveled face. Yes. I can picture it in perfect focus.

+ I received communion for the first time since Christmas in the hospital on Tuesday. I'm not sure how I felt about it. Lately, I've felt compelled to pray, then stopped myself because I know that's not really what I believe. God brings such comfort to so many people I love, but for me, the comfort troubles more than it assures me. My own way of praying is to write, and that seems to helping more than anything else. A nun I trust (a comical image, to be sure, the mohawked rabble rouser conversing with a trusted nun) once told me that singing is twice praying. Is that why I've been singing so loud since all of this happened? Is that the only praying I am equipped to do? In that case, here is something I've been belting alone in the car recently.

Lollipop rock is comfort food.

+ Okay, back to hiding in my cave and waiting for the world to end (or work to start, whichever comes first).


Look up, the sky is falling.

Magic morsel #4, and the bulleted play-by-play.

start your day off the hippie way

I love you Internet. With all of my swollen lonelygirl waitress heart. You are who I came home to on Sunday after over eight hours on my feet and an extra table in my section, my pocket fat with other people's money. Cass mixed me up a triple-strong bourbon sour and we sat with you, Internet, and enjoyed the view out our treehouse window. It seems you end up being our companion on every-post work outing. I want you to know how much I appreciate the matching lengths of our attention spans. Granted, I have more of an excuse at that point in the day.

We've been absentee blog parents, and Grössby and I have kisses in atonement for that.

Alright, now that I've done that bit, I can give you the rundown of how my time gets eaten by the world. In the past week I have:

+ dyed my hair again (maybe? I am losing track of days)
+ dined in Worcester with my sister on a pre-V-day reunion (post to follow later)
+ officially passed Div II (yay for starting my thesis!!)
+ found out that the other Emily at work and I are TOO SIMILAR
+ got an oil change, which ended up in my being informed of an "excessive oil leak"
+ epically failed at making the CUPSI team in spite of winning nearly every slam at Hampshire this year
+ made massive amounts of cash on Valentine's Day and have since renamed it "the best night of the year to be a single lady waiting tables"
+ got sad and lonely
+ got happy and rowdy with the poets
+ went on a V-day roommate date to the Holyoke mall for some single lady lingerie shopping
+ made a video blog that is now lost to time cos youtube deemed it "too long"
+ sat in my window staring at the snow that I don't want to clean off my car
+ bought new slippers for the end of all these long days; they looks like this--


Cos if you're going to revert to childhood as soon as you get in the door from you taxable-income-and-adult-language-only restaurant job, you might as well cause a wild rumpus in the process. Am I right? Also, when things like this (novelties that I'm not really sure I need expressly) are on double and triple discount in the sale bin, I have a difficult time saying no.

Tonight is the erotic open mic, and I only have a short time before work to acquire a few supplies, if you will, so I need to venture out in the snow storm ASAP. False eyelashes and fishnets, for the win! And don't worry, I'll get Cass to finally bring her camera out this time.

The briefest of briefs, Monday morning edition.

Good morning world and welcome to the under-2-inches-of-slush edition of my life. Today will consist of Grössby desperately attempting to tear me away from deciphering my own scribblings (read: assembling a properly documented portfolio and reflexive essay--two years worth of scribbling, to be exact), and then there will be me attempting to resist. It will look something like this:

menaced by a non-descript shark appendage

Grössby would rather it go more along these lines:

Photobucketfully in love, bathed in angelic light

Meanwhile, I have long since realized I am not about to escape college completely unscathed. At last count, I have acquired three cigarette burns, a heaping helping of flannel, and somewhat acceptable writing skills in this bargain, among other ailments. In all honesty, none of these things are going to get me very far. But I am okay with that, beyond mentally prepared for what will come next. I spent the better part of a three hour drive yesterday thinking about all the ways in which I could backpack across America. Also, I thought a lot about screech owls.


I am still looking for the through-line. I'll call you when I find it.

This day is shark bait.

Lots to buzz about. A one Jack McCarthy is storming the Northeast, and I had the exquisite pleasure of seeing him perform on two consecutive evenings, once in my own Hampshire backyard (for an hour! for free!!!) and then for the second time on my weekly excursion to Cambridge. I also gave Sam a pretty decent haircut. On the way back from Boston, I sang at the top of my lungs almost the entire way, and it was amazing. I even made the weird Alanis noises that Alanis makes in her songs. My throat felt very 90s afterwards. Katie and I laughed at my need to make such ludicrous noises, but we also decided that one of the main factors predisposing us to feminism was our childhood love/unhealthy obsession with Alanis. Yay Canada!

In "real life", one of my poetry professors told me that I am too "emotionally hard" on myself after reading selections from the manuscript of my 365 project. This impromptu meeting about the manuscript cut into the first twenty minutes of a class where I was meant to be discussing the poetry of Emily Brontë, but beyond that, it probably made me be even more hard on myself for being hard on myself in the first place.

And I got semi-lost driving to North Station, which is stupid, because North Station has signs for it everywhere. Google Maps, you are thoroughly inadequate when it comes to navigating Boston. I propose that someone create some sort of exhaustive GPS designed only for navigating Boston, one that actually recognizes what road you are on, and tells you to turn down streets that aren't one ways headed in the opposite direction. Yeah! Hop to it, Somebody!

I am using exclamation points a lot more frequently than I normally would. This can probably be attributed to the fact that I am over-tired in a way that is generally unacceptable for the level at which I must function on a given Thursday. I just want to curl up in bed with my shark and take a long long nap while someone else does my laundry, fixes me a hot dinner that isn't leftover pizza rewarmed in the toaster oven, and then maybe crawls in bed next to me. We all know how likely that is to happen.

Workshop in my an hour, with two of my poems on the chopping block. I will reiterate here for effect, I just want to crawl into bed with Grössby.


Attempting homework; the ensuing distractions.

What's that Grössby? You think the bourbon is hindering the writing process?!

I have to write a microfiction for workshop tomorrow afternoon and I'm trying to compose a piece of pseudoscience that I'll footnote with philosophy and poetry, but it's not coming as easily as I'd hoped. It's about sharks, which should make it come easily. But I got to Ampullae of Lorenzini and choked on the beauty of that name for an animal's organs and then got lost for a little too long to write anything coherent. Grössby keeps frowning disapprovingly. I want to do his cousins justice; this poem has been mentally in the works for awhile. I keep thinking about House of Leaves and how effective footnotes can be to telling alternative or, if you'll excuse the blatant (but somehow necessary) pun, marginal stories. The way that sharks are made, there must be some rhyme or reason to it. See that! It,s odd - I've been awfully reflective about otherwise trivial things lately. And then there's the fact that I cannot get a decent amount of sleep. I'm not really helping myself at the moment. This week has been so long, and I had a weekend that technically lasted until this morning.

Highlights of today: Sean on speakerphone while Sophia and I coached him on killing New York City cockroaches, the heat coming on for the first time, suddenly recognizing "Claire de Lune" and thinking about pineapple upside-down cake and the upright piano and Tabby stretched out in the sun, reading Wikipedia for a very long time, telling stories that made people laugh loudly in the crowded elevator.

Apparently there is a Lady Gaga party somewhere in the five colleges this weekend. I want one of those.

Getting comfortable.


Back at Hampshire for the final year of scrambling to be literary, and though my room is a mess and there are so many things left to accomplish before I'd even dream of calling myself settled in, I needed a breather. I thought I deserved one, simply for the fact that I've already accomplished half of my to do list for the day and it's barely mid-afternoon yet. I can already tell that this is going to be a very productive semester.

But fun is not lost on me either. Last night I went out, even though my room is nowhere near being set up, and had martinis with Peter. The whole day was jam=packed with hugs and hellos, and by the time I got home, Cass and I just lay around listening to music until we both passed out. A welcome collapse at the end of an exhausting day. This is going to be a week of exhausting days. I have so much to write about concerning the last bits of my summer, but for the time being it's probably more imperative for me to get organized and ready to face the glaring face of academia first thing tomorrow morning. Speaking of which,


the book buying has begun. That beauty is for my class entitled "Woman and Poet", which all four of us living in the apartment are taking. One of the other core texts is A Room of One's Own, on of the few extraneous books I brought from home on a whim - I guess I just can't go anywhere without Virginia. Also, as an aside, it's very frustrating to me that most of John Fante's work is currently out of print or in the process of being printed because someone recommended him to me and I really want to read some NOW. I'm going to have to go dive into the stacks at work and see what I come up with. Which reminds me - I now have a carrel at the library. I feel like I really have a thesis project now. It's unnerving me.



"Home" (whatever that word means anymore, I can't even be sure) for the past few days has been nothing but full of surprises. I spent the bulk of yesterday in Brooklyn for a partial reunion of Mod 30 (more on that later), and today I got my car fixed in under and hour and have begun sorting through all of the boxes and bags that may or may not need to go back to Amherst with me. Rediscovery is the word of the day. I found my favorite hat in a cardboard box in the basement full of other hats and the contents of last year's desk. I am reveling in feeling slightly Russian, watching soap operas with my mom and eagerly reorganizing my things in preparation for the impending departure.

In extra special, super awesome, LIFE magazine cover news, I have acquired a picnic basket the likes of which the world has yet to truly appreciate, and pie plate that is sure to get at least weekly use this fall, what with our farm share and my constant need to enlist Peter's baking skills after class. I am very excited for pies and turkey chili and lots of writing under fall leaves. September is by far my favorite month, and not only because people have already started in with birthday gifts (nearly a month early, but I wouldn't dream of complaining). Grössby and I have big plans for the coming year, very big, even megalodon-sized plans.