Bleah.
Why does everything seem to be so loud?
The light is nice though, perfect even. Late afternoon, the sun is beginning to contemplate setting down, but this isn't a gray period, like two-o'clock in the wintertime, that time Nancy and I so dread. How ever are we going to survive the sunlessness of next year?
Many many happy lights.
I read Toby's friend Michael's journal, which, as I discovered, definitely needs to be read when one is in a state of awakeness. Goodness me. He really is amazing. He seems to be so much more intelligent than I am. So many people are; I forget that. I tend to get so very introspective and think I am coming up with new truths. Who was it that said she only wrote inferior copies of existing knowledge? I think it was Medeleine. I ought to read more Madeleine L'Engle. That usually keeps me humble, because she is so far above me, yet knows just how far below she herself is, to others, to God.
But I was talking about Michael. I began reading with this predisposition to dislike, if not him, then his writing. I wanted to see it as pompous, unneccessarily descriptive drivel (a la Annie Dillard). But of course it isn't, and I should have known that. Toby would have seen through it. A writer of that kind is a person of that kind, and Toby would certainly avoid that person. Shocking, isn't it, that I could liken the best friend of Toby's to the Maureen O'Conners of the world? How malicious I am.
Of course, there is a lot of it that is over my head, for I am not of that caliber of person who goes to Yale. I do not believe I wish to be. No, I should not escape academia if I were. And surely, I would have no regrets if I were to leave school, to finish this brain-learning forever, in favor of a life of hard service to the world. Oh to be useful!
Never have I been happier than those days of waitressing. School always causes such distress for me, it is like something I wish I could do, something for which I have a certain amount of talent, and yet something I am not terribly disposed toward. I think that perhaps it is simply because learning in this acedemic way is something I have not ben called toward, but is only the path of least resistance. What else would the child of a literature major and a physicist with a doctoral degree do?
Heavens though, I do miss Latin.
Michael does not write. He paints. His words are colored, they form shapes. You can almost see brush strokes on canvas. Of course it is one of those paintings which are put up in museums because everyone thinks it is beautiful, but no one really knows what they mean, though would-be intelligentsia walk by and discuss possibilities in deeper voices than normal.
Hmm.
Poor Lisa, she keeps calling me and asking if I would like to hang out with her, because she cares about me and is chipper because there is a lovely boy interested in her. I think that is fabulous and wonderful, but I can't rejoice with her effectively today. I thought she knew me better than that. i thought she knew how self-destructive I got when I skip classes. When I hate myself, I can't love anyone else.
I don't want to be like Rebecca, either. She seems to love herself so much there is no love left for anyone else. I hate not being able to care. But I can't right now. Tomorrow, tomorrow will be a better day. It must be.
The light is nice though, perfect even. Late afternoon, the sun is beginning to contemplate setting down, but this isn't a gray period, like two-o'clock in the wintertime, that time Nancy and I so dread. How ever are we going to survive the sunlessness of next year?
Many many happy lights.
I read Toby's friend Michael's journal, which, as I discovered, definitely needs to be read when one is in a state of awakeness. Goodness me. He really is amazing. He seems to be so much more intelligent than I am. So many people are; I forget that. I tend to get so very introspective and think I am coming up with new truths. Who was it that said she only wrote inferior copies of existing knowledge? I think it was Medeleine. I ought to read more Madeleine L'Engle. That usually keeps me humble, because she is so far above me, yet knows just how far below she herself is, to others, to God.
But I was talking about Michael. I began reading with this predisposition to dislike, if not him, then his writing. I wanted to see it as pompous, unneccessarily descriptive drivel (a la Annie Dillard). But of course it isn't, and I should have known that. Toby would have seen through it. A writer of that kind is a person of that kind, and Toby would certainly avoid that person. Shocking, isn't it, that I could liken the best friend of Toby's to the Maureen O'Conners of the world? How malicious I am.
Of course, there is a lot of it that is over my head, for I am not of that caliber of person who goes to Yale. I do not believe I wish to be. No, I should not escape academia if I were. And surely, I would have no regrets if I were to leave school, to finish this brain-learning forever, in favor of a life of hard service to the world. Oh to be useful!
Never have I been happier than those days of waitressing. School always causes such distress for me, it is like something I wish I could do, something for which I have a certain amount of talent, and yet something I am not terribly disposed toward. I think that perhaps it is simply because learning in this acedemic way is something I have not ben called toward, but is only the path of least resistance. What else would the child of a literature major and a physicist with a doctoral degree do?
Heavens though, I do miss Latin.
Michael does not write. He paints. His words are colored, they form shapes. You can almost see brush strokes on canvas. Of course it is one of those paintings which are put up in museums because everyone thinks it is beautiful, but no one really knows what they mean, though would-be intelligentsia walk by and discuss possibilities in deeper voices than normal.
Hmm.
Poor Lisa, she keeps calling me and asking if I would like to hang out with her, because she cares about me and is chipper because there is a lovely boy interested in her. I think that is fabulous and wonderful, but I can't rejoice with her effectively today. I thought she knew me better than that. i thought she knew how self-destructive I got when I skip classes. When I hate myself, I can't love anyone else.
I don't want to be like Rebecca, either. She seems to love herself so much there is no love left for anyone else. I hate not being able to care. But I can't right now. Tomorrow, tomorrow will be a better day. It must be.