I don't think I've played fuck with the grad school process yet. I think I'm on the right track. inherent problem: my thoughts, my limitations. but! when I've spoken to brooke, to dr. gruber, to dan and even to the anderson, they seem to think my thoughts are on the right track. far apart from having letters of recommendation (which'll be nice, don't read me incorrectly), what's warm now is the simply fact that they thought well enough of me that they'll help me out and recommend me for such. they believe in me. that's a powerful feeling.

then there's the friend factor. this term would be unbearable were it not for such. without riding too long on the "my friends are TEH BEST EVAR!!1!" (which they are), let me just say that were it not for the things we do, the discussions we have, our seriousness, our fun, I wouldn't really have a reason to try for such. the grad class is great, but even compared to what I talk to carter, ben, kat about, it's simplistic, skimmy, topoffed only.

wow. I abandon this thing for a while, and then what? positivity, naysayers.

in less happy news, apparently US troops are being deployed domestically. 'course, it's done without pomp, circumstance, or trumpets, so I doubt anyone will hear or care. I'm disconcerted. reinforced: nobody answers to the electorate.

roller bladers outside my window. I'd like roller bladers. also, an attractive man lives across the street, which leads me to:

two weeks ago (three, perhaps), I went to a gay party which turned into another gay party which turned into spin the bottle, which turned into an STD waiting to happen. and lo, strep throat is an STD. I was out for a week, as far as purpose and intent go. the inner conclusion is that it was a dumb, dumb thing to participate in, and the libido needs to be shot in its kneecaps. an entry of several weeks ago says libido is dead, which (I think) was a lie then and certainly is now. there are more important things, that's all. not that I don't continue to look/hope/smile ingratiatingly (another lie?), but gay men? the depths they express, at least in this place, is analogous to a dried-up puddle. the sad thing is that I know now that they're capable of more, but they've created what's more-or-less a self-fulfilling prophecy. carter says that they don't what to do about me, and I'm glad: if they did, I wouldn't be doing my job. they need to understand that there are worlds outside of their bubble, worlds they can't control or assimilate and, more than that, operate on a dimensionally-shifted ideological place. not to pedestal myself (heh, though 'twouldn't be the first time), but I don't give a flying donut fuck about what they wear, or how much it costs, or how much time they spend in the gym. the ironic thing is that I'm reaching the ripening point in which I am attractive for the writing, and it's a dangerous step. heady. it falls under the same category of attraction based on pure physicality: this is what I do, what I am. put it all together, but if you like me based on my writings or my esoteric physicality, you might as well like me for how many green thumbtacks I own. in fact, that might be a better reason, since I chose to buy the thumbtacks.

that was longer than I intened. the summary is as follows: caution and risk are inherent in all things. and everyone's afraid of something.

I'm enjoying the tunes of coheed and cambria, and symphonic rock. queens of the stone age, supertramp, the killers, lostprophets. way to introduce, rockband.

I'm to a barbeque in several minutes. another tomorrow, with some kind of group of reactionary gays. as I told ryan, it's going to end up creating the exact thing that exists already, except on a smaller scale. then again, maybe not? either way, it should be minorly amusing.

the problem with jumping is that then you want to fly

went and spoke to brooke this afternoon. she's brooke, so she's positive, but she's done this whole applying to mfa business and she has the inside, rejected-by-all scoop. it was a kick in the complacency, sure, and I'm moving along now. still, I think I have the skills to beat them all. that's strange, because I'm usually trying to measure myself up and make like I could be the best. here, I feel like the best. I can't explain it, and I can't get rid of it either, but I'm ready to win. I know it'll be a long term in terms of working for it, but I have it. I can't shake that feeling.

I want to kill alex. if I do, someone please bail me out. fo sho: this kid has yet to change, except for the semi-annual "I'm too mainstream and now I need to be jewish/mexican/filipino/transgendered." I told melyssa over the summer that if I never saw alex again, I wouldn't necessarily regret that. I'm smarter than I give myself credit for.

I swear this term will be made up of more than bitching about alex and working on the novel / grad stuff.

I wonder where the anderson is, and if she'd write me a letter of recommendation. brooke says I need the best titles I can get, and she pretty much runs the poetry classes at nau, so I could do worse. she seemed to have some faith in me, anyway. I'd have to have backups, though, 'cause I'm not sure I'd ever hear from her again.

it's amusing: when I get writing and spinning (re-spinning) scenes, I feel like I've done a lot. "hey, yeah, I went to the hospital and broke up with my boyfriend today. no, wait...."

one more bitch-at-alex: he accused me this afternoon of not doing anything, ever, of just sitting in the room and ... whatever. I don't know. jerking off. fuck if I couldn't have punched his chubby fucktarded face. I try to let few things get to me, but the implication that I'm not doing anything when I'm writing gets to me. I mean, the root of the problem is that I know it's true - it's oscar wilde who said that, deep down, no one needs writing or books or any of it. but I chose this, I'm good at it, and if you want to fight me over it, put your fucking fists up if you're going to say I don't do anything.

my heart's been fast. I feel like I'm closed to something. proofs:

negative libido. now that I can, I don't want to. derivation, I believe, of "boyfriend DNE label." if I'm opining that gay is reprehensible as a label, who am I to want a significant (or unsignificant, as preceding cases suggest) just because?

I hate nau. it's safe. two years is the longest commitment I've made to anyone or anything, ever, except for my writing, and that hasn't reached the point where I'm able to separate it from me and send it out on its own. I'll have to. that'll be hard a day. two years, huh? it's time to move on. maybe I like being seen as cavalier. maybe I knew that once I could choose, I'd fly.

how much of me is intellectual snobbery? I dropped a literature class because I didn't agree with the way he taught or presented it. how much of my problem was him, and how much was the education system? do I just want to be a teacher to ride cowboy over the fuck-ups and the non-cares? do I just want to yell at them because, really, no one else cares.

aly and I spoke of the brodawgs and the sorostitutes yesterday, and I couldn't verbalize my point. I have it now: there's nothing wrong with a perception if its the world. these idiots have never been anywhere but here. the vapids in the lit class never got raked by isabella winkler. how many would choose what I've chosen? who even remembers the power to say that things are bad and that they should be better?

driving to the house last night, I thought of a hundred of me and wondered, if all 100 had shipped off to uni ari in august 2005, where we'd all be now, three years later. uni ari? antioch? prescott? here? somewhere else? the scariest thought is that this was the only course, and we all ended up here. I don't regret the choices (isn't that a refrain). what scares me is that I'm afraid that inside me somewhere, if we'd all ended up here, it would mean that the foresight ability and future-planning is too far buried, and that doesn't say much for this grad school plan.

the graduations circumstances of kyle and sunny-kristin frighten me.

I found the four of diamonds on an empty shelf four days ago. sometimes I wish the world were a dream and I could figure things out with books and portents.

I'm scared a lot of the time. but, more than that, I'm angry.

You don't change the course of history by turning the faces of portraits to the wall.
Jawaharlal Nehru

one of the all-around girls is doing her floor routine to the theme from "pirates of the caribbean."

I think it may be one of the chinese girls?

I can be as cynical and trendily deconstructionist as I want, but hearing the national anthem at the olympics still gives me the shivers.