It's like in Siddhartha—I've moved through my "eating a lot" phase, my "drinking a lot" phase, and now my "spending a lot" phase. Don't know what's left.

There's a certain feeling of peace you get when you're taking medicine for an ailment, as you can (in many cases) sort of sit back and let the medicine work its magic. It's no longer your responsibility to grimace and frown at the ailment, as though you can beat it by sheer force of will—just letting go and letting the medicine percolate through you is soothing.

The scent of someone else's cooking, meat sizzling in oil on the stove, definitely reminds me of home. I'm sitting here, doing my own work, absorbed in MetaFilter and link-following, and that scent brings me back to some May evening at home back in '96, listening to this mix tape I just recorded. It's a Saturday, and I'd be out if sickness hadn't slowed me down.

Perhaps it's a change in my consciousness, or the Parkway view out my window, but it continually feels like May around here, rather than the September it is.

I don't like the light today. It looks too much like fall.

It was terrible. In this dream I had last night, there was a firestorm or something of the sort, so houses were burning.

The worst part? There were horses on fire. They were panicked, and screaming, and in flames. I wept when I realized that there wasn't anything I could do to save them.

I cried and cried...and then I woke up and realized that I hadn't actually been crying at all.

The chill of fall is upon us tonight. It brings with it the specter of cold rain, matted leaves, and overcast days...

It was strange this weekend. Somewhere in the delirium accompanying spending 21 hours straight in the office, I remembered myself. I recognized in myself these latent powers that I've pushed aside in favor of drinks and camaraderie.

That analytical version of myself needs to be revived, and fast.

I just realized something startling today: I think living/working in a big city might actually be something I'd enjoy. I've still never been to a big city, but walking through downtown St. Louis today between classy tall buildings, surrounded by well-dressed professionals, gave me this feeling of cool that I'd never noticed before. It's kind of akin to the feeling I get from holding a cold bottle of beer—I just felt subtly sharper in some intangible way.

It's odd to realize that there are all these associations that I wasn't even aware of permeating my consciousness. I guess this is what happens when one finally experiences these images that for years only seemed to exist in movies and television commercials. All of a sudden, I can visualize myself pursuing dozens of avenues I'd never seriously considered before. The thought is, "Say, there's nothing that's off-limits to me anymore, is there?"

And along much the same lines, these little subtle things I've started doing when I see attractive people, namely making eye contact, smiling, and sometimes even winking, if the mood strikes, seem to be paying off. (Stories available on request.) Who knew it was so easy to meet people?

I've been an Ail U. student for three years now—and only recently have I seriously begun to consider living [more] like one. Sure, there are still Ail U. student traits that I don't want to pick up. I don't want to abandon my integrity, nor do I want to don some kind of über-sophisticated persona. I still value sincerity, and I'm still myself. I retain my judgment. It's just occurred to me that I really can lead a life of adventure if I feel like it.

"It's an unbelievable thing. Wearing this suit actually makes me feel like a better person."

When did meeting people get this easy? Seriously. Stuff like this hasn't happened since the early days of freshman year, as I recall. I guess this is, yet again, indicative of what a change I've undergone. It's like the freshman year I never had...

Here's to a return to better times!

"At this late date in his romantic career, he is just canny enough to come up with a new theory: She's being careful because she likes him. She likes him in spite of herself. He is exactly the kind of tempting but utterly wrong romantic choice that a smart girl like Juanita must learn to avoid."

Augh! Next op-ed topic: why the hell does the university insist upon installing decorative terra-cotta stairs that provide absolutely no traction when wet? They're everywhere on the South 40, and I always fear that I'm going to fall while traversing them.

(I just fell down the stairs to the music building two times in the space of 30 seconds in the middle of a rain shower. I can't tell you how thrilled I am to have had this experience. Thank you, Ail. U.!)

Some of the most exciting events in my life have been going unchronicled. The plant. The DCI show in Columbia. My week of debauchery. My freelance writing prospects. When I think about all of that, it makes me want to start blogging everything that happens to me.

But I'm still not going to. If you want to read up-to-date snippets about what I'm doing, check my away messages. This space is still reserved for hashing out the minutiae of my existence.

(Is our hero weakening? Will she give in to the compulsion to post everyday events? Tune in next time...)

So there's this girl in my freelance writing class, right?

Well, check out this string of coincidences:
(1) She's an MSA '98 alum—and she married a scholar, no less.
(2) She went to Luth. North and knew dirk_person_man.
(3) To add to the serendipity of finding Snow Crash, it turns out that she's the one who found it before me.
(4) She's got feistyblossom's userpic.
(5) She's already written about me.

How cool is that?

Who knew that such tensions roiled beneath the placid surface of these relationships?

I'm just gonna summon the spirits of darkness and ooze for a while...

"I stood looking out the window at nothing, noise roaring in my head.
She's wrong. Of course she's wrong. The woman doesn't understand who I am or how I think.
Too bad, I thought.
Then I crumpled the letter and threw it away."

It's the procrastination that does it. I'm not feeling so laidback anymore. I'm even developing a headache, of all things.

It's July now, and time is fleeting. I think we're gonna have to put a few things on hold until I get my act together. I've got a lot to take care of before the month ends. I've got a lot on my mind.

And of course the old impulse to create drama has returned with a vengeance, even in the absence of a real relationship to push against. I'm feeling incredibly off-balance and out-of-sorts right now.

I feel so strange that I almost wonder if this might be a physical thing, rather than an emotional thing. Maybe I have SARS or something. Or toxoplasma.

It's amazing how keenly one can feel emotions in dreams, especially considering that most of what happens in them is fiction.

Lust, humiliation, and anger—all pertaining to fictional events—figured heavily in this one.

To articulate where I'm at right now:

It's been a great week. And gosh I'm feeling enthusiastic. Hormones + caffeine + the warm glowing glow that comes of being around good friends +/- sharing space with thousands of novel people + the good feeling I get the day after drinking = enthusiasm.

And for all that, friends, I'm a little apprehensive. I feel adrift. This whole summer thing is great, but I mustn't forget myself entirely, neh? I fear teh vapid—while on the other hand, I also fear the loss of this wild good mood I'm in.

To do: maintain equilibrium.

"PS: IM IN UR BASE!! IM KILLING UR MANS!!!" —Mac Hall

Even though I didn't have the best time down in Columbia last weekend, I still miss it already. A lot.

I like the way the sun shines there. They've got an abundance of people my age there. And in particular, I always notice lots of tall guys there with this casual, well-mannered aesthetic. Tevas, khaki shorts, and polo shirts. It's just a Columbia thing, I've concluded.

I have such fond memories of the place. It's a shame that my emotions were so tangled up that weekend, and that the humidity and sequence of events left me irritable and unable to appreciate my time there.

It's 86 degrees outside, with 20 mph winds from the northwest and 50 percent humidity.

This is what heaven oughta feel like.

"I feel like I would like to be somewhere else doing something that matters, and I'll admit here while I sit here my mind wastes away and my doubts start to gather..."

It's terrible to realize that I'll probably never see any of those people again.

Natalie. Jason. Craig. Ben. Tony. Leeanne. Caroline. Paul. The other 110 people I knew on sight. Some were acquaintances. Some were instant friends. But regardless of what they once were to me, they're all pretty much gone now.

I mean, I still talk to a handful of them. And it's not like I'm hurting for friends—I have a lot of good ones. A multitude here at the university, some at home, and a few around the country. I've also got the younger set. But that still doesn't replace the people I spent three hot, humid weeks with in Columbia.

It's a little melodramatic, I realize, to continue caring. The unceasing torrent of life washes us onward, and there's not much I can do about that. These things happen.

Still, we connected once, and I'm afraid we never will again. And for that, friends, I am sad.

"It won't hurt her, pal, because she ain't a loser. She will feel sad and she will cry for a little while because she's not afraid to cry when something that might have been beautiful dies, but she'll get over it, she'll lift right on above it."

You know what they need to have?

A site that lets you see the sunset in any major city in the world.

I bet people would pay for something like that.

I might even pay for something like that.

Know what's cool? I constructed coherent Spanish phrases in my dream last night while telling off some woman who was trying to rob me on the front steps of my own house.

Of course, the only phrase I remember now is, "Ayudame! Ayudame!" But I know I said something significantly more complex than that.

I feel tough. I consort with the dregs of society and come out on top.

[[makes a muscle]]

Huah.

I'm frustrated, I think. I'm frustrated by the limits I've put on what I can and can't write in this chronicle. That's not because the limits themselves are a problem—they're very much necessary. The problem is that I want to write, because I need something to keep myself occupied—but because I'm unoccupied, I haven't had a train of thought worthy of recording. Such threads emerge and come clear after a long time away from the computer, time spent doing real things and thinking complicated thoughts, because then, when I sit down to write, it's a clarification of the thought processes I had going in the background the entire time. I pour it all out there after a long time spent away.

The way things are currently, I have far too much time on my hands, so I sit here and waste time until I think of something to write about, which isn't ideal. I end up writing things that are stylistically sound but lacking in content, e.g. posts about what I did that day. I'd write about my thoughts and feelings, but I haven't had any, apart from ripples across the surface of my mind.

I greatly preferred the way things were during the school year, where I was almost always doing one of three things: working at Student Life, spending time with friends, or chasing that guy around. There was none of this bothersome downtime I'm experiencing right now; on the contrary, every moment was charged and electric and exciting.

What I should do is stop blogging entirely. What I'm going to do instead is go try to keep myself occupied and away from the computer for a while.

How serendipitous is this?

A girl in my Calc. II class recommended that book to me two years ago this week.

I wrote the following near the end of my freshman September, when my lucidity and general sense of well-being were about on par with where they are now:
"Somehow it feels like I haven't yet 'taken ownership' of my place here. I can't even speak of there being 'my' place yet, because no one place, social or locational, truly belongs to me yet. Perhaps it's because I don't 'own' anyone, per se, on campus yet. (Always with the 'yet'—what am I waiting for? But perhaps it's not so simple, even, as waiting for something—although I get the feeling that something, anything, some undefined event must happen before I can open myself up to this place, give myself to a location again like I did before.) There is no one's time that I can tug upon, no one's will that I can bend, however so slightly, to pull that person to my dimension, and that seems to bespeak a lack of importance here."

You notice how I suddenly got comfortable this year? That's important. I think I've finally found that niche I spoke of freshman year, and it's done wonders for my confidence. I held this place in abeyance for so long...

But yeah. I have the paper now. I have good friends.

I have a place here.

It feels good.

Oh, the power of "Let's have a drink." This exhortation reminds the 21+ crowd of the burgeoning new avenue of social interaction that lies before them.

Mundane stints at "hanging out" have been supplanted by the prospect of intoxicated relaxation. This provides an exciting new take on the [formerly] ordinary act of consuming liquids.

As far as we know, this is what constitutes adult interaction. This phrase will open doors for the rest of your life, because even adults want to be cool.

Use the advertisers' tricks to your own advantage, friends—take the allure of alcohol and make it all yours.

(That was a snippet I wrote a while back after an old friend agreed to hang out upon my saying, "Hey, let's have a drink sometime." It's that little status reminder—"Hey, we're adults!"—that does it, I think. I've really been impressed by the power of that phrase in recent months.)

Oo—there's a girl named "Ann Ng" moving in downstairs.

That's cool.

(I know, right? I post about this but I don't post about what I've been doing. But eh—this isn't a chronicle of events. It's a chronicle of ideas and emotions. "Ana Ng" is still well within the realm of ideas, even if she's turned out to be a flesh-and-blood person.)

"Make a hole with a gun perpendicular to the name of this town in a desktop globe...exit wound in a foreign nation, showing the home of the one this was written for. My apartment looks upside down from there, water spirals the wrong way out the sink. And her voice is a backwards record—it's like a whirlpool and it never ends.

Ana Ng and I are getting old, but we still haven't walked in the glow of each other's majestic presence. Listen, Ana, hear my words—they're the ones you would think I would say if there was a me for you..."

I have voice!

I always forget that that's what distinguishes my writing.

I may not know much, but I sure do write pretty.

(A professor's comment on today's editorial: "This really does read well.")

Drunk: a version of me about 25 percent ditzier and 15 percent more outgoing than usual. I try harder, but I'm definitely dumber.

This plays out interestingly in conversation. It means I miss a lot of openings and connections, 'cause I'm already a bit slow on the uptake, and the alcohol doesn't help. I remember the conversation the next day and think, Oh, so that's what s/he was talking about. My enthusiasm carries me right past a lot of subtlety.

Talk comes more easily, as my self-censoring undercurrents of thought shut up for once—but the quality of thought may be somewhat diminished. I say a little more than usual, and understand a little less.

I write this not because I think you'll be interested, but because I'm working to tease apart the intricacies of my interest in alcohol.

It occurs to me that I'd rather have one drink with good friends than 10 with random strangers.

You could say that's just simple math. In the battle of one drink vs. 10 drinks, a lot of people around here would choose one, 'cause they can't handle 10—and they certainly don't want to try to handle 10 around strangers. But let's stop deconstructing this particular cliché. Assuming that you're like me, and assuming that drunkenness is your goal on the night in question, the state you're in after 10 drinks may be preferable to the state you're in after one drink.

The numbers are just a side issue, anyway.

I'm thinking, you know, drinking with strangers probably sharpens one's social skills—as would any activity one undertakes with strangers. And hey, if you continue to drink with a particular set of strangers, they may well become friends, or at least drinking buddies. Having a few of those around is good. But continual drinking with strangers still seems a little shallow to me.

The upshot: I enjoy having a few drinks either way, but rejoice, 'cause I enjoy drinking with you all much more than I enjoy drinking with random people I don't know.

Zamyatin on self-awareness:
"I was walking, keeping step with the others yet separated from them. I was still trembling from the emotion just felt, like a bridge over which a thundering ancient steel train has passed a moment before. I felt myself. To feel one's self, to be conscious of one's personality, is the lot of an eye inflamed by a cinder, or an infected finger, or a bad tooth. A healthy eye, or finger, or tooth is not felt; it is nonexistent, as it were. Is it not clear, then, that consciousness of oneself is a sickness?"

Dostoevsky on the denial of self-awareness:

"And try letting yourself be carried away by your feelings, blindly, without reflection, without a primary cause, repelling consciousness at least for a time; hate or love, if only not to sit and twiddle your thumbs. The day after tomorrow, at the latest, you will begin despising yourself for having knowingly deceived yourself. The result—a soap-bubble and inertia."

Sickness or necessity? Anomaly or norm? Self-consciousness could well be any of those things. It's everything and nothing. It's a blessing and a curse. It's—in a word—inevitable.

Oh, you tricky Russian boys...

I think I was better off when I wasn't blogging. My perceptions of things are almost always clearer the first time around—put them through the mill of the writing process and they're subtly altered to reflect the direction of the narrative, rather than real life.

That's dangerous. It puts distance between me and my life, blunting the sharp, direct experience of things as they happen. It leads me to put stock in a post-hoc version of events. It leads to these situations where someone asks how I'm doing and I refer them to the blog, as it has the most up-to-date rationale I've come up with. I begin to assume that everyone who matters reads the blog, so I stop telling people about my life. I mine conversations for kernels of thought that I can blog about. My blogging m.o. becomes "putting things down for the record" rather than "writing only because I must," and as such, I begin to shed the caution and skepticism that initially accompanied the endeavor.

The prospect of losing this canon of thought begins to make me panic, and the prospect of closing up shop begins to seem ridiculous.

Has anyone else experienced this?

So this blog...we're going to keep it casual and spontaneous. I'll post when an irresistable urge comes upon me. I'll post to clarify my thoughts. And I may post little enigmatic snippets of thought that most of you will be utterly lost reading. It'll be fun that way. Any other way and it becomes routine and obligation, which I don't relish. I've got enough of that to keep me busy.

Why the change of approach? Well, a lot of things have changed. I realized just how much had changed when I was back-posting entries from my original blog. I got to November 2003 and had to go back and delete everything, 'cause those posts made me ill-at-ease and sick at heart. I'm not ready to revisit all of that.

So I'm shaking off the dust of the road. Forget the past. This is a fresh start.