Things from All Parts of the Past.
I'm procrastinating. Really, really badly given the little amount of work I have to do. And I have somehow misplaced one of the twenty-five page stories I have to critique, which is poor form, methinks. But I really can't stand to see what the other two have waiting for me in my inbox. It just makes my skin crawl at the very thought. So I've been obsessively reorganizing my iTunes, adding new songs that I've been too lazy to take care of until I had a good excuse to deal with the fourteen plus hours of tagging that I was inclined to do. Although, if for nothing else that there is a Japanese song out there partially entitled, New Jersey United, it has been amusing.
I've been enjoying the strike, really. As bad as it sounds, I kinda hope it goes on at least one more week. That would be awesome. And convenient. Plus, I finally made it up to the Met. As pathetic as it sounds, I wore myself out.
Having a knee that was still a bit touchy and a body that was in more pain than meds could control, I still made the lovely little trek out there to go say hi to van Gogh. The exhibit was packed, poorly laid out, but still worth seeing. I'm waiting until December for the crowds to die down a little, which should help. I haven't seen an exhibit that packed since the Manet/Velásquez or the da Vinci notebooks one, which is really saying something. Even though the focus was on drawings, I still wish that they had had a few more paintings to compare them to, since that was of particular interest. I was fine for the most part, although I was continually drawn back to the Grieving Woman, the letter he wrote to Bernard about how he wished he was with Gaugin, his asylum sketches, and the last three blue toned ones. All of which, save for the letter, were a bit much for my mind to handle. I did alright, though until I left the exhibit and started thumbing through the complete letters of the boy and came across a few entries that made it a bit hard to breathe. So I wandered out of there in search of something to help ground me a little more, only to discover that the large majority of the European paintings were gone or wrapped in plastic, which was amusing as I wandered through empty room after empty room, marvelling at the novelty of that simple fact. But I found the complimentary exhibit to the van Gogh one where I got to see the Hiroshige and Hokusai, and a really disturbing picture of some freaky/kinky lesbians, but before that, one of the most incredible daguerrotypes that I've ever seen that I really wanted to just take off the wall and take home with me.
In person, it's highly reflective and it just looks almost alive in its silvery existence. Considering this is from 1845, a picture of the Hutchinson family (ten of the eleven members present), the fact that it isn't highly posed and that you can tell from the picture they all are very close-knit and there's an emotional output there which just isn't seen in images from this time. It just facsinated me, what can I say?
That aside, there was the anklebiters ambush in the Degas room and these two Westpoint guys that I kept running into who pissed me off for whatever reason. Plus, the Occult photography exhibit was a big disappointment and the one on Prague was surprisingly awesome. Very shiny, although the bones were starting to creep me out, to be honest. It's one thing when they're wrapped up like Mummies, but another when they're on view. Ew.
The weekend was great, although I feel as if I really haven't slept. My roomie brought over a friend who didn't leave until 7.30AM and last night I didn't get home until 8AM, so it's been one of those kinds. Although, I did get to sleep until 5.30PM today, because I finally said I couldn't sleep with her talking, although I still feel incredibly guilty for asking, especially now that I'm nowhere near sleep and she's still out in the common room. Of course, do I use this time to get my work and story done? No, I write this. Ha. I suck.
And speaking of sucking, I've been having one of those times where my mind gets onto a topic and won't leave it be. I know where it all started, too. And I hate it all. And I hate that I don't hate it at all. Because that's the kind of person it makes me into. It all started with the damn "intellectual autobiography" I had to write for Gallatin.
I saw my advisor over the matter two Thurdays back, asking her to clarify what exactly I needed to do and when it needed to be done by. As she put it, it was supposed to explain how I developed my academic interests, to which I questioned if that meant saying, "Oh, I took x-class and y-course and found myself wanting to pursue the subject further," kind of thing. She said that I could, and probably should very well say that, but she told me to start from the beginning. I, being a dumbass, asked if that meant high school, citing my art history course. And that's when she said the thing that I am certain caused the thought to get stuck in my head: "Yeah, but if there was someone who influenced you, talk about them. How was it and who was it that got you interested in writing and Japanese culture?"
...
Because the answer for both topics is the same man and thus he was mentioned in the damn thing, because honestly I can't discuss me without him, especially in regards to my mental development and advancement. There's been a lot of random memories that keep coming up in conversations, but they usually tend to be amusing, rather than bitter or sad. I'm not always tinged by the mood, but it just really hit me last night while I was out how much I keep finding myself coming back to him recently. It probably didn't help that my roomie started trying to watch Star Wars: Episode III since we all know how well that went over when I first saw it. I can't say I wasn't grateful that she stopped watching it before the first actor even appeared on camera.
I had a dream last night -- or rather, this morning would be more accurate -- and I woke up disturbed, confused at the reality of the situation. K had asked me what my plans were for the week and I said that I had nothing really going on because of the strike, and even if it stopped, it's not like I'm all broke out with work. And so days passed without too much notice, and as I exited my room and went downstairs out the back entrance, I just stopped, seeing him standing there and even though I could see those years that had passed between us, it was still so distinctively him that I was frozen, wide-eyed in disbelief, until I finally went over in a timid sort of fashion, knowing somehow that K had set the whole thing up somehow, that he would have found it easier to reach out to her first. His eyes softened a bit as I stared, I could still see his nervousness, and I threw myself at him, holding him tightly as I started weeping, so afraid what would happen if it was real, and even worse if it should be nothing more than a dream fantasy. He never said a single word, but I woke up still remembering the way his small smile against my forehead as he held me felt, that desperate sort of happy pain that came with being near him again after all this time.
Is it anyone I stormed out of my room, slamming the bedroom door and the bathroom door as I sat in the darkness, trying not to think about it? I looked in the mirror and it's becoming a bit frightening that I fail to recognize my own face as my own. Thus, I went back and slept until 5.30PM, much better for the extra hours. I'm fine now, but I'm still sort of miffed about the whole thing. It's one of those things I just wish I could let go, get over and at the same time, no. It's pointless, really, to go on yet another tirade about the extent he and I are intertwined within my being, but the point still stands. I just hate dreams like that; they always leave me feeling a bit ill. Unless they're about Gackt (sans words bleeding out of the walls, mind), in which case those are always quite enjoyable. But, it's just another reminder about why I really should stay on a more regular schedule, because when my hours go crazy, my dreams get crazier. Along with that, if the strike is still on tomorrow, I have no idea what I'm supposed to do abouy my monk class. I suppose I should really e-mail him or something, but before I do that, I guess I will go do some work. Or procrastinate further by reading manga since I'm a loser like that. Unless I try re-watching the twenty minute short silent film by Malice Mizer to figure out just what in the hell was really going on there. Although, I'm absurdly proud of my new and improved quality Illuminati video, which I suppose is dorky beyond a point. In all truth, I'll probably just keep coding, which isn't nearly as exciting, but a lot more rewarding, I suppose. How exciting. But it is all still okay, I think. I am still okay.