this post ends here

The weather here has been perfect lately, but I’ve had so few moments here to appreciate it, and the moments I have had to appreciate it I end up squandering.  It is eighty degrees and sunny right now, and yet I’m inside my room surfing the Internet and drinking coffee. 

I am leaving Savannah and heading north with Brandi immediately after our last final on Tuesday, so I’ll be arriving back in Cleveland sometime on Wednesday.  Cold up there, according to The Weather Channel, but I won’t have to bike to class every day.

I still have yet to find a place to live when I return to Savannah in January, and this–more than anything else–has me in a relative panic.  As an undergrad I ended up living in a seedy motel for several weeks because I had nowhere to live, and although I don’t fear the same will happen in this case, I can’t help but to reflect on the incident in light of my current circumstance.  Despite my circumstance, I am glad to be moving out of this fucked-up house, for reasons that some of you know, and that I will (perhaps) write about in here once I am entirely out. 

I criticize other blogs for having too many words, and people praise mine for its pithiness, so this post ends here.

Italy

"We were into some pretty heavy shit.  We went all the way, and went all the way back, too.  We did doggy style, pony style, Style Council–that’s a good band, they’re hot right now.  Human League, they have some good stuff.  Uhm… the League of Nations.  That brings in the whole thing of the United Nations and then that brings in the whole category of countries.  I mean, where to start?  Well, you know the obvious one, the birthplace of spaghetti, pasta, all that oily stuff–Italy."

Wet Hot American Summer

massive head fuck

I am beginning to understand why so many people drop out of art school.  I don’t recall ever having been at this particular level of busyness and stress, and yet I know that this will probably be the easiest quarter I have here.

Yes, I’m sure people are busy and stressed out in other graduate programs, but I submit that the addition of forced creativity and subsequent judgment of said creativity turns the art school experience into the massive head fuck that it is (perhaps) intended to be.

(I’m not dropping out, I’m just losing my mind.)

a shipment of fake mustaches

Yesterday afternoon, I spent two and a half hours studying Art History in my friend Adam’s apartment while waiting for the UPS man to deliver a shipment of fake mustaches.

the questions

"…be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms and like books that are written in a very foreign tongue.  Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them.  And the point is, to live everything.  Live the questions now."

-Ranier Maria Rilke, 1903

except with breathing

I had a pseudo-breakdown yesterday afternoon during my Sound Design class.  It was inevitable, in a way, but then still wholly unexpected.  I’m usually a person who–while constantly over-analyzing and dissecting the minutiae of my existence–is usually able to keep my shit together, despite the overwhelming urge to scream.  I didn’t scream yesterday, I just left class early to sit alone and weep.  No, fuck that, I didn’t weep… I cried, I cried like a baby, albeit a baby who’s been given a glimpse of the infinite pointlessness of it all.  Stress + loneliness + confusion + etc. = existentialist misery, which really is the only true misery one can have.

Oh, life…. how can you be so goddamn happy and yet so goddamn sad?  I love you and I hate you, I drink to forget that you’ll be gone one day, I get up in the morning because I know that you will be gone one day.

So, I called some old friends and ran some errands, thereby distracting my brain back into the present moment.  I considered skipping Art History to go home and decompress, but I realized that skipping class would only add to my despair.  My parents called later that night, which helped more than they probably realize, after which I got some work done, which helped reduce the stress part of the equation.  Before bed I talked to Brandi for a while and then watched the first fifteen minutes of Amelie.  I slept like what death must be like, except with breathing.

smote

In one sense I am proud that my predictions of a couple weeks ago appear set to come true, another part of me really hopes that they don’t…

‘GAY COWBOY’ MOVIE BECOMES AN OSCAR FRONTRUNNER

…I think that this–along with the recent floods, tsunamis, and riots–is a sign that the end is nigh: "and, ere, a gay cowboy movie was given much praise, and Hollywood executives were smote, and the people of Wyoming praised God, and then they were smote."

surprised feelings living

"I believe that almost all our sadnesses are moments of tension that we find paralyzing because we no longer hear our surprised feelings living.  Because we are alone with the alien thing that has entered into our self; because everything intimate and and accustomed is for an instant taken away; because we stand in the middle of a transition where we cannot remain standing."

-Rainer Maria Rilke, 1904