on friendship.

"A friend is not somebody one trusts to behave in a certain manner, who has certain useful qualities, who holds acceptable opinions; he is somebody who evokes interest, delight, unreasoning loyalty, and who (almost) engages contemplative imagination. The relationship of friends is dramatic, not utilitarian." > Michael Oakeshott, The Voice of Poetry in the Conversation of Mankind

three times, not the charm.

I've just finished reading The Republic, for the third time. You'd think that after three complete read throughs I'd have it down cold, but every time I open it up again, I feel as though I've never really read it at all. And I don't mean that I discover something new each time I read it, I mean that I really feel like I'm reading it for the first time. Again.

This is not a good thing. There is no joy, at least for me, in never quite getting a grip on something. You know all that romantic comedy bullshit about every time you kiss someone, it feels like the first time? I never thought that was a particularly compelling idea either. Familiarity is nice. Especially after the third reading.

Plato, you are clearly brilliant, but you give me a headache. So there.

women and weed.

I am reading Herodotus, which, I am happy to report, has been quite fun. So far, I have learned two very important lessons: 1. Oracles are tricky tricksters and misinterpreting them often leads directly to death and destruction, and 2. Women are very, very dangerous, and their mere presence often leads directly to death and destruction. It helps that oracles were often women, so basically you can just apply the second lesson and be done with it.

Suddenly, I am suspicious of myself.

Also, I have learned from Herodotus that potheads are as old as time: Scythians used to take hemp and cast it on to hot stones, which, Herodotus tells us, "gives off smoke and a vapor...the Scythians in their delight at the steam bath howl loudly." Did they also suddenly crave olives and pita bread? Because if so, they sound exactly like boys I knew in high school.

hobnobbery.

A couple nights ago, my parents took me to a party. I really enjoy "adult" parties my parents take me to, because "adults" are, in my experience, much friendlier than people my own age. Friends of my parents friends also tend to be much more interesting than people my own age. Not only that, but the alcohol and food at "adult" parties is way, way better than anything you can find at a party thrown by anyone in their late twenties.

The party I went to a couple nights ago was nothing special, as far as these things go, but it ended up being quite memorable. Somehow, I found myself having a very interesting discussion with a woman who writes for Slate. That was cool enough in and of itself, until she then introduced us to her equally interesting husband, who, I later discovered, had won a Nobel Prize. Then, to top it all off, she asked me for my email address. Why? Because her son lives in DC, and she thinks he and I should really meet for drinks.

Conversations like this do not happen to me. Ever. And unfortunately, this one occurred when I was already on my fourth glass of wine, which means that it is somewhat tainted in my memory by an alcoholic haze. However, I woke up the next morning and my mother, who was present for the whole exchange, confirmed that it had, in fact, taken place. Otherwise, I'm pretty sure I would have thought I dreamt it all up.

intellectual endurance training, update.

Finals are here, yet again. As much as I miss being on the quarter system, I have to say that I'm quite happy to only have two sets of finals a year now, instead of three. Maybe doing this three times a year would make it all seem more manageable, but somehow, I doubt that. It would probably just increase my whining accordingly.

Anyyyway, as I said, finals. Like last semester, I have a pretty grueling writing schedule planned out, I'm once again eating too many fried egg sandwiches, and I am currently listening to cracked out technopop on repeat. Strangely enough, though, my brain stamina seems to have increased slightly. Either that, or my work standards have sunk somewhat, which is probably the more accurate explanation, now that I think about. Despite the increase in brain stamina (or the lowering of standards) finals this semester are still going to kick my ass, because, unlike last semester, I now have 50 papers and 50 exams to grade, in addition to all of my own work.

I am kind of curious to see if all of it actually gets done. At some point, I expect that there will just not be enough hours in the day and days in the week, but so far I haven't ever reached that point. I'm curious to see if I ever reach it. Honestly, though, if I make it through this semester without taking any incompletes, I think I deserve a fucking medal. Or at least a free coffee, or something. Too bad there is really no glory in grad school.

distractions, unwelcome.

1. The entire seven seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer are now available for instant viewing on Netflix. Why have you DONE this to me, Neflix? WHY? Don't you know that I have FINALS to write?

2. My students have a paper due soon, and they seem to assume that if they talk to/e-mail me enough about it, I will agree to write it FOR them. Sorry, kids. (It turns out, though, that some of them really ARE listening when I speak, contrary to my previous assumption. This discovery is so immensely gratifying that I may begin to actually enjoy teaching because of it.)

3. I am obsessed with a particular song by Yeasayer. How could a song be distracting, you ask? Mostly it's because I want to listen to it ALL the time, but when I listen to it and try to do my reading, my brain fails to absorb things. My mind is weak and easily thwarted, it seems. Also: the video is quite possible the strangest I have ever seen. Why are hipsters from Brooklyn so entirely strange?

planets and orifices.

Please, bear with me, and read this passage:

"Upright between the surfaces of the universe, he [man] stands in relation to the firmament (his face is to his body what the face of heaven is to the ether; his pulse beats in his veins as the stars circle the sky according to their own fixed paths; the seven orifices in his head are to his face what the seven planets are to the sky); but he is also the fulcrum up on which all these relations turn, so that we find them again, their similarity unimpaired, in the analogy of the human animal to the earth it inhabits: his flesh is a glebe, his bones are rocks, his veins great rivers, his bladder is the sea, and his seven principle organs are the metals hidden in the shafts of mines."

And now, you are probably wondering: 1. Who the hell wrote this, and whether they are insane; 2. If the word "glebe" is a typo; 3. How the hell anyone gets away with this kind of egregious sentence construction. The answers to those questions are: 1. Michel Foucault, and yes, probably; 2. No (look it up!); 3. Beats me.

What I am really concerned about, though, has nothing to do with any of this; it has to do with the fact that there are not, in fact, seven planets in the sky OR seven orifices in my face. Back when Foucault was writing, Pluto was still a planet, so there should be NINE planets in the sky, and as far as I can tell, there are only SIX holes in my face, since two nostrils really only equal one orifice.

Now, have I simply uncovered a couple silly mistakes here, or have I uncovered Foucault's super secret esoteric message?!?!!!!!!

Sub-question: WHY ISN'T IT SUMMER YET??