I always feel as if my mind is reeling after I get out of African American Lit (and in it).
it races too fast in order to put together a coherent thought.
sometimes i can squeak out a tiny phrase.
I'm disappointed in myself for missing class on friday because of abdominal pains and a disfunctional brain and in result understanding to a lesser degree what Cultural Appropriation is.
I guess I'll keep searching.
Today in classes I recognized two unconscious assumptions I had made,
two that I would normally probably recognize in someone else (this is great and horrifying at the same time, but absolutely essential).
I also had my fiction critique. I have to digest this, because many people give
completely conflicting suggestions as to what they believe needs to be added or taken away
(are some people more compatible with my emotional state? with the way my mind forms ideas, so that confusion seen by other people, is not confusion seen by others? I guess this is one reason why we need all of these differing opinions/perceptions. I will undoubtedly talk about this later, because I'm always thinking about this, see: my professor for af. amer. lit, and different students in this class, Fun Home by Alison Bechdel, and "pivoting the center.")
.

I stayed up until 5 am last morning, drifting in and out of sleep.
it would be both embarrassing and incredibly interesting to have my thoughts recorded during this period of time
(as i think with anyone else's, although i highly doubt anyone would share their recordings with me) .

.

tonight I cleaned my dishes, a little bit of the yellow apartment, and am making soup.
normally i clean on friday nights so i was a little thrown out of whack.
but music and wine combine for the ultimate cleaning frenzy (which for me, consists of little more than shifting things around) and food making.

.
we had a show on saturday.
at first i was incredibly uncomfortable with bright lights and minor anxiety,
but it turned out ok, and dare i say fun?
until i was overwhelmed by my sweat and lack of nicotine.
but, over all, it was of course worth it, it always is.
and there were all different sorts of people there (young - old)
.

I just want to read all of the time,
in the summer heat.
this winter is breaking my bones and
filling me with an awkward solitude.

.
I've also been thinking about the boy that passed away this weekend here.
i tried to write it out.
but i don't know how to express it in words.