I otter be reading some of the 300+ pages of tiny-type trial transcripts that I have left for history (I've already read a good 200 or so), but here I am instead. After a tour of Professeur Moskos' rinôçérôse-studded office during French class and a few stumblings steps forward on our grammar in Syntax, (and turning in my wsrn ap [shins, fairways, avalanches, jim white, tortoise, camper van, bis, infesticons, heatmiser, merrick], stopping to suggest that a girl not name her emo show "cheer up emo kid"), (and meeting, in mccabe, Susanna, in pink and pink candy stripes, slouches alluringly and complains about reading Nancy Drew for art history; she and Justin from french class and Joel and Marc and Rachel and most of the rest of campus seem to be taking the same ARTH1 syllabus as I did last year) (and considering Sharples but taking Annie's instead) I've been reading all day. Mostly Moby, which as Christine noted was extremely materialistic this week, but also some of those infernal transcripts. It's not that they're uninteresting (except when the witnesses start to repeat themselves), but it's so long and pretty much impossible to skim, since the language is stripped down to its bare bones, sentences becoming even more extended and carrying more information than mine. Nice to have Tuesday afternoon free to read, though, and, I realized this afternoon, what better way to spend an afternoon than to read Melville, or Pynchon for that matter. Becca made Indianish for dinner, which the two of us shared alone (the real jews having gone home for the holiday.)

I dreamed this morning (people usually say they dreamed last night, but really you only remember what you had just dreamed) of Alyssa; the setting was houses on my street, she was coming to visit me, so I walked from my house to one a few doors down (the airport) to pick her up. Except that that was actually her house, and I ended up taking her and her parents to dinner with me and a cast of several, including Bobby and perhaps Ruth Peck, at a version of the restaurant Pod that emerged out of a Sheeler-ship-scape turned street scape of white surfaces and vanishing points. Bob and I had an appetizer of whale-meat, prepared with gunsmoke. Jeanne Gardner also made an appearance of sorts.

I'm quite proud of an accomplishment I made yesterday: ending a sickness. I slept too few hours after being dragged into a menáge à trois conversation with the flatmates (one for, three against) and woke up somewhat worse for wear. I sniffled through Murder, teared in French, and sneezed through the first two hours of Victorian (discussing selections from selections from In Memoriam; Nat said "I'm trying not to make phallic motions with my arm. but it seems to be doing it of its own accord") at which point Joel prescribed a Dingmanstyle "Desperately Seeking C" juice from the Kohlberg coffee bar, and I lay down under the laughing cherry (thankfully now freed from its pen) rather than returning to discuss Idylls. I didn't sleep then, but I went home and slept soon after (in the meantime drafting a "hello and okay" proposal with Galynker-san), in my lovely big green futon flatbed, now returned to its rightful place in the corner. I drank a lot of brittawata, popped some pills and galumphed to African, my face ruddy and runny. That class is I think as b.b.king once called the blues a cure for what ails you. Something about working up a good intense sweat when you're sick either makes you more achy or more usually i think helps to clear you out. Lots of drummers, lots of leg stretching and a "big burly man's, wrestler's dance." My dinner was four hefty slices of cheese pizza, which I haven't had in a while, at the meeting for {the brink}, a new magazine spearheaded by Suzanne and a cohort of exHall1sties (And, Mic, Jav). A good turnout, and some good ideas, although the format hasn't quite crystallized yet. Alison confessed that she thinks herself to write about, with which I sympathize. I don't know what aspect of my life people would really be interested in reading about at two to three thousand words. But the point is, I think, it's not interesting to me because I live it. So I haven't come up with a good idea yet (thoughts? throwing parties; nudity traditions; this. i dunno, what do you think?) Next to swing, where I danced with some friendly freshman. Everyone's friendly at dance classes, even if they're painfully shy. I asked Mary, who I saw getting down at my party, she tall and low-voiced and awkward on her feet but with the right feeling. And Olga, a lindying senior whose face I know from the alumni mag, asked me. There were fewer at tango tonight, and few of those who had been there two weeks ago; demure Julie of a warmly striped sweater, and the more natural Liza, quips "this is such a proper dance." Blair kvetches about history reading too, but she's 100pp more into it than I, so we four (with Becca and Joanne) knee-tango and contact a little and then vamoose.

I'm going to do it now.

your father made fetuses with flesh-licking ladies while you and your mother were asleep in the trailer park, thunderous sparks from the dark of the stadiums, the music and medicine you needed for comforting, so make all your fat, fleshy fingers to moving and pluck all your silly strings and bend all your notes for me, soft silly music is meaningful, magical, the movements were beautiful all in your ovaries