:::sigh:::
Again I realize that it is Saturday, (around 4 pm, if you're curious) and I've been spending my day trying to do homework. Where are my roomates? Off having fun in the city. BJ? At a physics convention...thing. (One day I will understand, I will!) Me? Here.
Ever feel like your life is turning into a book...a book that you have the misfortune NOT to be the author of? Maybe I'll turn into Nabokov one day (a man who, in his memoirs, says things like "and now the theme of eyeglasses comes in." And well, he's said some other stuff too, I suppose...) In all honestly, I think I can pick out a theme or two myself:
-Reading The Master and Maragarita, little known to the Western World (us dirty commies!) it's a novel about Satan coming to Moscow with a retinue of oddballs, including a large cat that behaves like a man- walks upright, drinks vodka, plays chess, you know...man stuff. Satirizes the Stalinist terror of 1930's Russia.
then, in the cafe the other day:
- Girl starts handing out copies of her "manifesto," (one word-processed sheet covered with something that I can only assume was dribble, one of my favorite quotes from which was something similar to, "okay, so maybe I'm a bit of a drama queen, okay a HUGE drama queen, but...") and sheets of blank paper. She's trying to start a revolution in L.A. and needs to raise consciousness (naturally.) The blank paper is for us to think for ourselves. (On the off chance that her rebellion does catch on I can only imagine the deification to which white pieces of paper will be subjected in history texts for the next few hundred years.) Later, she ends up crying into the arms of her boyfriend after a little scuffle with one of the unwashed masses. You see, after realizing that not many people were listening to her talk, the revolutionary, alias "Cloverfeild Somethingorother," according to her manifesto, looked for better ways to grab people's attention. Balling up a copy of her manifesto, she launched one from her seat to a table a few feet in front of her, where the oragami bomb landed on the plate of another patron. Thouroughly incensed, she picked up the manifesto, stormed over to Cloverfeild's table, and threw it, along with some verbal abuse, back in her face. As the girl was Indian, Cloverfeild naturally assumed that the "brown" did not want to accept help from the "white," but that she was "only trying to get her to think for herself" and the "brown" girl had no right responding "to a message of nonviolent resistance with violence."
And I sat there, reading my little Soviet book, regarding all of the raised consciousness around me, thinking "Honey, it's been done."
Again I realize that it is Saturday, (around 4 pm, if you're curious) and I've been spending my day trying to do homework. Where are my roomates? Off having fun in the city. BJ? At a physics convention...thing. (One day I will understand, I will!) Me? Here.
Ever feel like your life is turning into a book...a book that you have the misfortune NOT to be the author of? Maybe I'll turn into Nabokov one day (a man who, in his memoirs, says things like "and now the theme of eyeglasses comes in." And well, he's said some other stuff too, I suppose...) In all honestly, I think I can pick out a theme or two myself:
-Reading The Master and Maragarita, little known to the Western World (us dirty commies!) it's a novel about Satan coming to Moscow with a retinue of oddballs, including a large cat that behaves like a man- walks upright, drinks vodka, plays chess, you know...man stuff. Satirizes the Stalinist terror of 1930's Russia.
then, in the cafe the other day:
- Girl starts handing out copies of her "manifesto," (one word-processed sheet covered with something that I can only assume was dribble, one of my favorite quotes from which was something similar to, "okay, so maybe I'm a bit of a drama queen, okay a HUGE drama queen, but...") and sheets of blank paper. She's trying to start a revolution in L.A. and needs to raise consciousness (naturally.) The blank paper is for us to think for ourselves. (On the off chance that her rebellion does catch on I can only imagine the deification to which white pieces of paper will be subjected in history texts for the next few hundred years.) Later, she ends up crying into the arms of her boyfriend after a little scuffle with one of the unwashed masses. You see, after realizing that not many people were listening to her talk, the revolutionary, alias "Cloverfeild Somethingorother," according to her manifesto, looked for better ways to grab people's attention. Balling up a copy of her manifesto, she launched one from her seat to a table a few feet in front of her, where the oragami bomb landed on the plate of another patron. Thouroughly incensed, she picked up the manifesto, stormed over to Cloverfeild's table, and threw it, along with some verbal abuse, back in her face. As the girl was Indian, Cloverfeild naturally assumed that the "brown" did not want to accept help from the "white," but that she was "only trying to get her to think for herself" and the "brown" girl had no right responding "to a message of nonviolent resistance with violence."
And I sat there, reading my little Soviet book, regarding all of the raised consciousness around me, thinking "Honey, it's been done."
