mais naturellement-- le grand retour!

Currently listening to: my breath


Being back at Reed has this feel to it, not every time.

This time right here, it has this feeling of total pregrancy-- so much to be rendered back to everyone, and to the everything that we exist upon.

I am mildly losing my head-- I am linguistically confused in about every sense you can yank out of it: a Russian class and my first time with another alphabet, a third-year-French class, a German song, a frightful linguistics course (and major?), and, certainly importantly, c'est l'autre chose, that language of love?

It's a whole long story how God and I hit the love thing last year, but this year there's organizational stuff that promises to eat up my time to infinity and beyond but guarantees to make everything all right. It forces Love to be in my life, so I exist.

And then we question-- what is Language? Is Love a Language?

And! there's the difference between Lan-guage and aaaaaaaaaa language.




I think I can't think but I think I will be able to think about thinking soon, as long as I keep thinking what I think I think, which is that thinking will be natural and flowing as it was when I was two, as soon as things think they're settled. Only for some time, of course, since time evanesces.

sissenor, como no?

ma claro que si! claro que no comprendo nada!

first zings first

Currently listening to: Ben Lee - "Cigarettes Will Kill You"


The year has presented a fair number of first things.

I feel like the most noteworthy included climbing a fence taller than me for the first time and picking my first lock.

The fence story essentially revolved around the necessity to do something mildly forbidden for no apparent reason.



The lock-pickin' happened today. My very clever sister lost her keys to an olden locker of supplies at her olden school. After a series of curses to the universe for her mis(placing)fortune (I maintain they're under her bed somewhere), she decides to call her boyfriend and his sculpture tools for help. She abandons me there, to keep the locker company. I try the gentlest of ways first, of course-- conversation with the lock. "Dear lock, how would you feel about prying yourself open? No? Well, what if I told you a nice, long fairy tale? Would you reconsider then?"

A meeting of southern African American jazz baptist people has just adjourned.
In my sister's absence, I extract a much-needed bobby pin from my hair to pick the lock-- a task I have never successfully accomplished. I reshape the small piece of metal in futile hope. Ale creeps behind me, "Where IS he?" "Do I look psychic? I don't KNOW!"
I suggest we ask those kind people over there whether they know how to pick a lock.
"What are you, crazy? They'll get offended. Plus, this is the South. You know what happens when you do crap like that in the South."


Again, alone with the locker. I worry that those nice southern African American jazz baptist people over there will think I'm trying to break into a stranger's locker to steal. I am not that kind of person, I guarantee. I throw such looks at passer-bys-- I promise, I'm NOT that kind of person! See these pigtails? They're sincerely innocent!

One of them stops to analyze my situation. "It's my sister's locker-- she's either lost the key to the lock or locked it inside, and we're trying to get some art supplies she has stored in here! I have no idea how to pick a lock! Do you happen to know how to do it?"
"I haven't done this in YEARS. Let me give it a shot."
"Yeah, I remember trying it as a kid a few times, but either I would always get caught or simply fail... infallibly!"
"Sorry, man. No can do. I can't get it to work. Good luck, though!" Many thanks for trying.

Another one comes by: "Excuse me [insert nervous I-promise-I'm-not-that-kind-of-person laughter], but would you, by any chance, happen to know how to pick a lock?"
Explanation ensues.
A small attempt. "Sorry, I can't open it. It's a MasterLock, too-- a tough one. Best of luck!"
A girl who has halted along with my friend the pick-lock-attempter intervenes, "You might want to try the thicker part of the pin-- the round part!" Many thanks.

Two minutes later, I am alone, and TACK! it opens.
I opened the lock.
I immediately call her to let her know what has happened. "Well, call Ty." "Do I look like I have your boyfriend's number? Why would I have Ty's number?!"

So maybe I was the only one super excited about the locker opening, but I proudly saved the hour. I picked the lock.
Without even being that kind of person. Go, me, go.




The fact that those nice southern African American jazz baptist people helped me with such a ridiculous request was really nice. It reminded me that the universe lends a hand when you need one.