There's definitely no logic, To human behaviour.

So sayeth the Bjork, and so sayeth I, 'tis a wonder that we've any dignity at all. Stumbling around in the midst of others no more centered than ourselves. Writing poetry about eyes as windows and hands as books and faces the stories that we cannot ever know. Wistful thinking, all. Class, raise your hands ifyou have looked into the eyes of a stranger and seen so much as their retina. Tell me, please, if the way they held their pen had any meaning. I'd love to know the secret of knowing. Because I don't.
It is an innacurate science at best. Sifting the fragments of a person collected from the moments when their reality brushed with yours. The bow in her hair? Hers or her mother's? Sunglasses for the chic or as an opportune mask for the shy? Will tried, he did, to dispel the myth of illusory life. Those poets who pretended to see gold in her hair or a rose on her brow. But when the Bard tore down the screen, what had he left? A figure more real, more familar, but even he couldn't tell the person through the pieces.
There is no particular place that I am going with all this. I can't even be sure it makes sense because I am too dazed to pay attention and too distracted to re-read. Which isn't so extraordinary, since I rarely if ever edit anything I write anyhow. Chain of thought is not quite the appropriate term. But something very like.
Life has been excellent for the most part. Spanish class is an actual class this semester, which is frustrating to those of us who had the more whimsical education of the summer course. Anthony is being driven slightly mad, but I think that has something to do with the distribution of his course load in general as much as it does this class in particular. My science is nice and soft, of the Environmental persuasion. It appeals to the hippie in me. Computers is going well enough. Things I know mixed with things I won't ever need to know again. Or so I tell myself, arrogantly, as I look at the computer as my own domain. My birthright as a member of the modern collective.
So far, the best class has been Public Health. An intriguing mix of politics and observations of humanity. Light on science (not to call it unscientific, just no science that I have to get intimately acquainted with) and well mired in theory. And it will hopefully be my last semester (knocks wood madly) at this tiny college by the sea. For all intents and purposes, a cunning little place with a lovely location. But I don't belong here and I have no delusions to the contrary. Time to hie for other pastures. But where shall they be? I'd love to know.
Also, I still haven't bought any of my schoolbooks. Excepting Health because I like it. And the Spanish book is the same as the Spanish 1 book. So I suppose it is just Bio and CIS that are being neglected. But it will all work out. There are some lovely familiar faces in my classes who have been generous with books, as well as company. I shall soldier on.
Speaking of. I realize this is the anniversary. "Patriot's Day" rings a little false to me. It seems to softly mock the very real solidarity we saw that day and those days after. As though we have to commercialize the day. Why can't it stand alone? A reminder of the event and the people, instead of another springboard for bland speeches for and against whatever brand of nationalism is fashionable that day. As for the event itself, and what we are actually supposed to recall, I haven't any words.

-- G 'Bye, Sonya --

. ( 11.9.06 ) .