The thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts

Library and books

If all human existence could be condensed into a single building it is a library. Libraries are the store houses of all human passion. The good ones have a smell totally unique ... old tobacco smoke from the days when smoking was allowed, paper, and old leather. Is there a greater smell in all the world? I know I am not alone in my passion for libraries ... the obsessive love ... not just of books, but the buildings and rooms that house them is repeated, and often, in books, music, and film. For me libraries are total loneliness, the full embrace of all of humanity, and sex all in one convenient location ...assuming it is a GOOD library filled with books, not Cd's or DVDs and has been such for at least 100 years.
On books all I have to say is that I was reading Flaubert's Madam Bovary recently ... the forward is by Caroline Gordon, an accomplished Kentuckian author. She details Flaubert's struggle with each phrase, sentence, paragraph and his effort to make his novel perfect ... trim ... beautiful ... nothing superfulus, no awkward phrase. This does nothing for me but make me feel guilty for not reading it in the origional French, not that I could and have any greater understanding than reading it in English.

For amy d

Amy takes her lunch outside

Question

So I was taking a survey from BlogHer (in support of my FAVORITE blog Passive Aggressive Notes) and one question stopped me in my tracks.

Do you think the next President should write his or her own blog? If so why?

I have NO IDEA. On the one hand such a casual forum through which we, the American public, could feel like we have an ongoing dialog with our president would be nice. It makes think of FDR's "Fireside Chats" revamped for the computer age but even with such an evil association my gut reaction is that the president maintaining a blog his or her own self would be wonderful. The public would feel like they have a direct line to the president's ear!

Then my brain kicks in and says "That is the problem, it would be a FEELING." We can already write letters and send emails to our elected officials, why would blog comments be more personally read and attended to than the access already granted? Would we actually learn anything new? Doubtful. What would the President post in this blog that we can't already know from other sources? All interesting information is too heavily guarded to be posted and the rest is already so widely available that having the president post it to a blog is just a redundant waste of valuable time.

Least romantic person ever.

So, I decided to look back on my 'blog and find previous Valentine's Day posts. I only found ONE.

It was about Zoning Laws and Chain letters. Guess I am just not a starry eyed romantic.

a little creativity ... doesn't go far enough

For anglophile:

Dreaming strange

The past two nights I have had some strange dreams.

Night before last I was at college and dating an extremely short basketball player. While he was very sweet he was not very bright and whilst hanging out in dorm rooms my friends (all friends I actually had in college) were mocking me for dating so far below my intelligence level. The poor guy stopped by to see me but couldn't keep up with the conversation.

Last night I sat at a picnic table behind my old dorm with an ex-boyfriend from college. As we watched the ants carry off bits of our take-out lunch we talked about the people we miss from college but can not tell such. It ended with me saying, "Well, I will never see you again."

My first thought upon waking was "ohh dream, you are some bit of mustard or under digested beef." My second thought was, "When did I become Ebenezer Scrooge?" It was this point that I began to think in earnest about the second dream. Such an obvious kick in the rear from one's subconscious is hard to ignore.

A newly acquired Facebook game has resulted in me lurking about Facebook for extended periods of time. The lurking has resulted in me checking up on many of the people I knew in college but have not seen or spoken to since.

For years I have missed Hillsdale in the Spring. I have missed that strange time when the year is winding down and the weather is warm. I have missed wandering up onto porches to have a beer with friends and having friends wander up to my house. I have assumed for all of the years that I have missed Hillsdale in the Spring that what I was truly missing was the close proximity of my dearest friends. This latest dream leaves me doubting this.

I stay in contact with most of my closest friends from my time in college. We call, we visit, we celebrate births and marriages and we make a point to visit each other as a large group at least once a year. In a house somewhere we gather and pretend for 48 hours or so that we are still in college. We drink and do stupid things and tell old stories that we have all heard a thousand times before and we laugh all the harder for the retelling.

I think that what I truly miss in the spring are the people I don't see or talk to anymore. I miss the friendships and potential friendships lost to time. Spring in Hillsdale was my own Erev Yom Kippur. When the weather was warm and house space was no longer at a premium all were welcome and it was possible to connect or reconnect with those you had spent little or no time with during the stressful heights of Winter's course work. These are the people now in the long days since graduation you never think about, until forcefully reminded by an old picture, spotting their doppleganger on the street or seeing something that you know would bring a smile to their face. Suddenly you remember them and think, "I wonder how they are. I wonder where they are and if they are happy."

At one of my recent gatherings I had the opportunity to reconnect with one of those people who hang fitfully at the edge of my thoughts. In the middle of our gathering he stood; tall and gangling, foul and noble as I remembered him. He is fine, he is around and while he may not be happy per say he is unhappy in that general sort of working, living, figuring life out sort of way that most people are unhappy.

When I miss Hillsdale in the Spring I am not missing the place nor the people who regularly feel the brunt of my rather spiky love. What I miss is you. All of you. All of the faces I passed in the quad or sat one booth down from in the Snack Bar. You, who touched my life. We were close once, or we might have been. Now I will never see you again.

Are you lost to me? Am I lost to you? Do I sit at the edge of your thoughts waiting to spring out and make you wonder about me when you see us in old pictures, when you see my doppleganger on the street, when you see something you know would make me smile? Just so you know I am fine. I am as loud and generous, foul and loyal as you remember me. I am around and while I may not be happy, I am unhappy in that general sort of figuring life out sort of way most people are unhappy.