September 30th, 2003

beartato phd

(no subject)

Had a bunch of disjointed but more or less realistic dreams last night. Some involved making out with various parties, (it's official, theadana, you are in at least one sense the girl of my dreams ;) others playing the piano.

Mind you, I say "realistic" in the sense of "no giant mushrooms flying overhead" not "likely to happen".

Hmm, my laptop battery suddenly went from 29% to 0%. How irritating.
beartato phd

(no subject)

I ate an apple today. Well, part of one.

I don't eat apples that often. The one I had was completely empty of flavor. I had a few bites. There was no juice in it. I felt bad throwing it away, but I couldn't stand eating any more of it.

This was at the house of yannaboo. I had tagged along with a geagle trip which ended up there with steaks. Having already eaten at Kazansky's with adam and sal, none of the steaks was for me. I ate a little corn, though. It was tasty. It also was pleasant to socialize a little. There was some plan of an apple-based dessert (whence the extra apples one of which was the one I was eating) but I left before it got started. Got the japanese homework done for tomorrow once I got home. That was more or less the reason for heading back so early.

The walk home was interesting, though.

I didn't have much to think about. I knew I had to get home and do some work. I didn't find myself too preoccupied with any long-term issues, and the short-term had already been decided. So my mind sort of left the door open to my senses, and in rolled the sensations: the smoky smell of exhaust mingled with gas fumes; the waves of insect chirps and whines, coming from no direction in particular; the way a street-lit city looks at night, shadows flying over needled bushes as cars pass; the too-hot but sweating-cold feeling that comes from wearing one too many layers of clothing on a neutral day, caught in the yearly spat between summer dying and autumn risen. The cold and the smell of dead grass here, in Pittsburgh, all but my adopted hometown after five years, is still potent enough to take me across two thousand miles and back to my childhood. If only my eyes weren't open, I would swear with an honest heart that here is a small farm outside a small town in Montana, here is my grandfather's farm, and lord but the hay is ripe.

I am the image of peace, I am calm. I walk, but it is restful. A brief, light rain taps its fingers on plastic trash-bags. A bus passes. Its wheels screech rhythmically.

I am calm, but I am still tired and... half-empty. There is no juice left in me tonight.