the more i see you
Thank god for long problem sets due tomorrow for Intl. Politics.
...otherwise, my room wouldn't be this clean. And my bed wouldn't be made. And my closet wouldn't be organized.
Lately I've been lost deep in some primordial state of mind, in which vacant and incoherent memories just kind of float around, distracting me from what's really going on.
My Russian Lit class could be be better...but the reading itself is amazing. I dont know what it is about Russian writers, but we've got the "same wavelength" thing going on. So far we've read some Pushkin and Lermontov, both really terrific writers. Also, I never thought I'd actually enjoy required reading for a science class, but Brian Greene's "The Fabric of the Cosmos" is actually bearable, on the verge of being enjoyable. The concept of absolute spacetime, the relationship between space and time...good stuff. Although labs = warp back to 11th grade physics, ew real science/experiments.
Anyway this is a procrastination post, and I should really finish my work.
p.s - Fitzgerald's "The Crack Up" = epitome of "same wavelength." I don't understand why the great gatsby is his big thing, because everything else I've read just seems to have so much more depth and...I don't know what the word is, but something like a fresh breeze. Or maybe I'm just underestimating Gatsby...after all, I only read it once, in 10th grade. But I'm telling you, the Fitzgerald of Gatsby and the Fitzgerald of "The Crack Up," which is more of an autobiographical....thing, is completely different. In a really interesting way.
And...I'm done.
edit.
Distracted from my reading, I picked off a picture peeking out from behind the laptop in front of me. My brother and I are sitting in a sled, he must be a year old, because I couldn't have been older than 5 or 6 in that picture. We're being pulled along on the frozen lake by my dad, who's laughing while he runs. The mountains are in the back, the same as always; the mountains never change. I have on a yellow knitted hat with a little puff on top, and I'm sticking my hand over the side, letting it skim over the snow.
I look incredibly, simply, sublimely happy; I want to feel the way I look in that picture, because I don't remember what that feels like.
This is also a testament to why I will always favor photographs over digital images. You can't run your fingers along the edges of digital pictures, you can't get sucked into the pixels and be taken to another place. If my eyes are close enough to the actual photograph I feel like my childhood is just there, almost at my fingertips if I stretch my arm out as far as I can.
Back to the days when the politics of Bosnia, Serbia, or the Cold War didn't affect me. When all I knew and cared for at that moment was seeing how close my mittened hand could get to the surface of the snow without touching it. That and the infinite sky, the infinite lake, the infinite days.
...otherwise, my room wouldn't be this clean. And my bed wouldn't be made. And my closet wouldn't be organized.
Lately I've been lost deep in some primordial state of mind, in which vacant and incoherent memories just kind of float around, distracting me from what's really going on.
My Russian Lit class could be be better...but the reading itself is amazing. I dont know what it is about Russian writers, but we've got the "same wavelength" thing going on. So far we've read some Pushkin and Lermontov, both really terrific writers. Also, I never thought I'd actually enjoy required reading for a science class, but Brian Greene's "The Fabric of the Cosmos" is actually bearable, on the verge of being enjoyable. The concept of absolute spacetime, the relationship between space and time...good stuff. Although labs = warp back to 11th grade physics, ew real science/experiments.
Anyway this is a procrastination post, and I should really finish my work.
p.s - Fitzgerald's "The Crack Up" = epitome of "same wavelength." I don't understand why the great gatsby is his big thing, because everything else I've read just seems to have so much more depth and...I don't know what the word is, but something like a fresh breeze. Or maybe I'm just underestimating Gatsby...after all, I only read it once, in 10th grade. But I'm telling you, the Fitzgerald of Gatsby and the Fitzgerald of "The Crack Up," which is more of an autobiographical....thing, is completely different. In a really interesting way.
And...I'm done.
edit.
Distracted from my reading, I picked off a picture peeking out from behind the laptop in front of me. My brother and I are sitting in a sled, he must be a year old, because I couldn't have been older than 5 or 6 in that picture. We're being pulled along on the frozen lake by my dad, who's laughing while he runs. The mountains are in the back, the same as always; the mountains never change. I have on a yellow knitted hat with a little puff on top, and I'm sticking my hand over the side, letting it skim over the snow.
I look incredibly, simply, sublimely happy; I want to feel the way I look in that picture, because I don't remember what that feels like.
This is also a testament to why I will always favor photographs over digital images. You can't run your fingers along the edges of digital pictures, you can't get sucked into the pixels and be taken to another place. If my eyes are close enough to the actual photograph I feel like my childhood is just there, almost at my fingertips if I stretch my arm out as far as I can.
Back to the days when the politics of Bosnia, Serbia, or the Cold War didn't affect me. When all I knew and cared for at that moment was seeing how close my mittened hand could get to the surface of the snow without touching it. That and the infinite sky, the infinite lake, the infinite days.
posted by Deb Oh at 8:43 PM
1 Comments:
ah, that is so cool. wait, is it possible for me to add you to my friends list? i don't know if you can do that on this thing - i'm still new.
mmm, and cheesesticks. i had some today, they were delish
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