comment rêvez-vous?

so i've been dreaming (a bit) in French, and yet, i do not (yet) speak French. it is a mystery, and the situation has me asking questions about the (exact) nature and proportion of my brain. i have two possible (explanatory) interrogatives:

is it possible that i'm already dreaming in my minuscule vocabulary?

or

has the French part of my brain subsumed my dream self?

my left eyelid is twitching

my left eyelid is twitching and i blame it on intellectual overload coupled with academic insecurity. this is the third time i've tried to write this sentence, failing each time to convey the exact nature of the strain i'm under.

i am:

facing the consumption of tens of thousands of words each weeks and the production of tens of thousands more, papers to be written, classes to be taught, articles to be read, a book proposal, the presentation, legal documentation, synopses, sample chapters, contracts, a chap book, the prose, and poem frag-ments scattered amidst peaces of mantra.

study break/feeding time

i spent most of last night with a dead, imprisoned Italian Marxist (like you do) - but a man has to eat. so i went to a Vietnamese restaurant for a bowl of soup...

the server saw the beads on my wrist and told me back in Vietnam they are made of tamarind seeds. he elaborated that the wood from the tamarind is used to make cutting boards because it is "very, very strong."

i listened intently and then asked him how vegetarian was their vegetarian soup. he told me that vegetarian meant vegetarian to him: no beef, no chicken, no fish. i placed my order, and as he walked away saying that he had never seen anyone wear their beads like that before...

he returned with a specially-made soup, "not on the menu," with basil leaves still on the stem and fresh limes. he told me this was for "extra flavor" and i thanked him for his generosity.

it was Pho-nomenal.

trinity / beautiful places

i have two trinties in my window sill:

three obscure (living) women, two famous (dead) men,
one immortal whose words and presence permeate them all.

i reside somewhere in the middle of forces i do not understand;

it is a beautiful place to be.

up to the minute (minute) coverage

i just watched Slumdog Millionaire and am still in the process of regaining the breath taken from me. but this is beside the point.

the point is that my birthday spanned two days, two counties, and two exceptional movies, but now it is time to do some work, journal, and tend to my studies. c'est la vie.

"like sand through the hour glass..."

i was born 32 years ago today during Days of Our Lives (really), and i have spent a goodly number of the days since then immersed and enmeshed in one form of drama or the other.

but

today is (largely) drama-free, and i'm going to look at vulva-esque art with Jache this afternoon. we spoke last night, and i mentioned that it was a little more than two years ago since we first visited the same museum, the days of being new in town, when our friendship was forged under the fateful gaze of Weimaraners...

i can still feel the still, but...

i have a friendly acquaintance, perhaps even a friend, who once told me he required a certain amount of stress (i believe it was a 7-7.5) to function. he said that a level or 1 or 2 was inadequate, whereas an 8 or 9 was too much. i remember thinking at the time what an odd way to order one's life.

[lapse]

it seems i have spent the past three weeks at an 8, making escalatory decisions masquerading as obligation. i can still feel the still, but it's been taking me longer to get there. luckily, fate interceded and my foolhardy vocational assent was rescinded.

i'm taking this empty weekend for some reflection, some pizza, and some Madness - reminding myself exactly what it is i'm doing here.