"It's like Tolstoy said. Happiness is an allegory, unhappiness a story."

-Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

the drudgery of the take home final

I have music to keep me going...


And a copy of the Daft Punk Alive album - workouts or neurobio, it's motivating.


And not a half-bad book to work from...


There's even some Futura font in here....


But all I really want...

...is to get another fur hat.



Unfortunately it's on backorder. It feels like my life is on backorder.

I'll be up for air and a return to the real world on Thursday.

I sent off my Father's Day package Priority Mail, with plenty of time to get to its destination.

It contained:

One card, carefully selected. It's hard to find ones that have just the right sentiment - respectful without the 'you're the best dad ever!' fawning - because he wasn't. Fifties-style fathering - grades, chores, done.

And two pairs of SmartWool socks (Standard Hiking variety, muted gray color preferred), because I know he likes them. And he doesn't like too many things. Especially if they're things I'm interested in. We don't seem to have too much to talk about. The overlapping bits of our particular Venn diagram contain very little right now, save high quality socks.

This is what I can tell you.

My father has blue-gray eyes. Summers growing up were spent with his grandmother, who had a vegetable garden that was the stuff of legend. He had a pet raven and a pet rat. The rat's name was Squeaky. He was very handsome when he was younger - a Harrison Ford lookalike. He signed up to fight in a war. He bought his parents a house, even though he was a mere construction engineer to everyone else's loftier careers. He won a lot of sharpshooting contests. He sold his motorcycle when my mom got pregnant. He saved every one of the handmade cards I made him as a kid. He has cried only a few times: when his father died, when his brother died, and when our German Shepherds died. When he worked on the Big Dig, he saved all the old bottles from Bostons past, instead of just letting them get crushed beneath the heavy equipment. He enjoys building things. So far there is a complex irrigation system to keep the basement from flooding, a brick-floored sunroom, an inground pool, and now a giant garage to house all of his many toys. He is more outgoing to and forgiving of strangers than his family. We haven't spoken in months.

Who is my father, and how can I not really know much more than this, after 26 years?

Well, there's one more thing...

he likes good socks.

retail therapy.

peridot earrings, courtesy of d.

More shopping to come this week. Really, it's the only way to get through getting older.

politics and pipettes

Indeed.

As Noel put it, it's like the bitch-ifying slime running under New York City in Ghostbusters. Things have just been uncomfortably off. And I can only hope the worst has passed.

do you remember what the music meant?

One of my very favorite bands is Pretty Girls Make Graves.

And.... they're breaking up. Le sigh.

Good thing there's one more tour. Here's hoping El Jefe commemorates the occasion one last time.

House

Today marks two years in this house.

Two years, and so much history.

I'd write more, but I have to finish cleaning.

The realtor is taking pictures tomorrow.

We were pummeled by rain yesterday in Baltimore. The house was dark and cold, even with the window shades open - that dim, ineffectual light that has a primal resonance to hibernation. I had to stay home from work, because with the combination of driving rains, a very old roof, and a disappointingly lax landlord, there were leaks. After each particularly scary moonsoon blitz, I ran from room to room, listening intently for the drip-drip-drip of damage. Worrying that the roof would simply give up and cave in upon my poor housemate upstairs.

All the while trying not to connect the dots in my head, trying to ignore the fact that my creaky, leaky, potentially-falling-apart place of residence is, at times, a very apt metaphor for my life.

(n.b. - Everyone on my block seemed to stay at home yesterday. Either rowhouse renovations aren't what they're cracked up to be, or my personal hiberation urges struck a chord with the Fells Point crowd.)

All I know is....


...I should be in Atlanta right now.

Bad week.

How I've been perceived.












Note the ruffled feathers.

latest acquistion

A better way to work out aggression.

evo devo

In keeping with the post title, I'm currently reading this, and it is very, very good. This is what good science writing is all about - taking a topic that is intrisically boring, and adding clarity and passion.

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The recent developments have been indeed been drastic.

I'm overwhelmed at (many) times. But this gritty little godforsaken city hasn't bested me yet.

My best friend recently moved close by. We walked on the cobblestones and I told her, now you live only ten minutes from all this. This view will bring you contentment. This walk will do you good. Only afterward did I realize I was speaking for myself.

My expensive, stressful trip is over. Now I can look forward to a long, hot summer.

At least the location's good.

ps - I never want to be a (long distance) bridesmaid again.