* "Whan that Aprill with his shoures sote / The droghte of Marche hath perced to the rote"
* i recently received an application for admission to nothwestern university in evanston illinois. this is where i have planned to go ever since i decided on a major.
* what a gay thing to do.
* anyway, there is a short answer question that asks what title of an existing work best suggests who i am.
* i chuckled at the various titles i could insert there.
* nabokov's "lolita"
* burroughs's "queer"
* i eventually decided that i was either woolf's "orlando" or goethe's "faust."
* perhaps i am "waiting for godot."
* at any rate, theatre may not work out for me after all. after all, i need to eat.
* by the time anyone else reads this it will be october. many days away. it is strange to think about just how much can happen in that many days, and the only one who knows about it is you.
* could you ever imagine such t e rr o r ?
* i went to iowa city and saw ross and scott. it was the weekend of the big iowa/iowa state football game. iowa state hadn't won in fifteen years, but they won this past saturday. i was amused.
* i cried a lot in iowa city. i didn't mean to. it just happened. scott suggested that i might look into seeking some form of professional help. he thinks it may be clinical depression.
* or maybe it's situational depression, mixed in with severely low self-esteem and a dash of codependancy and shake well for that oh-so-perfect cocktail that is i.
* "waitin' for my dearie an' happy am i to hold my heart 'till he comes strollin' by"
* no steel strikes here
* and wouldn't it be neat if i were the reincarnation of medea?
* there was a duck swimming on the iowa river outside scott's dorm room in which i slept. it was eleven a.m. and i had just finished looking at my very large book of mapplethorpe prints. scott was still asleep.
* "quack quack" said the duck.
* "hello," i replied, "and how are you this morning? well, i hope for, as is made plain by the tears on my face and my bleeding ankles, i am not well at all. it seems to an outsider that i am not at all content, that is to say, an outsider who knows me well, for those who do not are oblivious to any emotion i might secretly divulge. this is very true; i am not at all content. i have not yet found what should make me content, and yet i know inherently what this item would be. though this fact sounds to some to be reminiscent of the philosophy of plato, i assure you, my feathered friend, the idea is mine and mine alone. you seem to be very content, my fellow; why is this so? one would naturally assume that with my superior brain (in terms of yours only, of course, for i should not attempt to compare myself with other humans, no no), i should be capable of much more happiness than your feeble mind would allow. and yet, strangely, you are the happy one and i the sad. how very odd. can you explain to me, my fowl, why this would be so? why progression of the mind so often leads to regression of the soul? why is this so? why are you happy and i am not? why am i not happy?
* "quack quack" said the duck.
joshua do not be afraid to mail me