this blog is not about you

I have a friend, and a good one. We've been friends for two years now. We met in weird circumstances, and he's one of the few people with whom I've ever bonded instantly. Our friendship has survived just about everything that usually kill these types of friendships: dating, dating other people, not talking for four months, different religions, not seeing each other for almost two years, completely different outlooks on life, etc. You name it, and we probably disagree on it completely. Yet we still call each other just to talk, and we always talk for at least two hours if we can manage it. He's still one the people with whom I feel the most comfortable, even though I know he doesn't agree with my entire lifestyle. Why are we like this? I have no clue. In fact, this blog isn't even about him.

This blog is about the fact that I have four hours worth of grading to do, but I don't want to do it. This blog is about the fact that I'm struggling to keep my eyes open, so it's not really fair to my students to grade their presentations right now, but I really don't have any other time I can do it. It's about the fact that I procrastinated grading their presentations yesterday so it's all my fault. This blog is about the cd that I'm listening to: Falling Into Infinity by Dream Theater. It's a cd that a friend gave to me in high school that I didn't like. I really like it now. This blog is about grammar (aren't they always). It's about how much I respect the students I TA. It's about the crazy stream of thoughts that is always going through my head. This blog is about leftover chocolate fondue on grahm crackers. This blog is about my friend, this blog is about someone else.

You know something? I don't think this is really a blog. It's not even a rant. It doesn't qualify as "blowing off steam," because I'm not actually writing about anything that's bothering me. It's not a tirade; it's not a sketch; it's not really worth reading. I think it's a sigh. This whole blog is a sigh. It's everything that goes into the sigh that you heave as you try and shut down the fire-hose of thoughts blasting through your mind and de-slump your shoulders and clear your mind as you turn to what you ought to be doing. It's that sigh.

*sigh*

the giddy grammarian

I sat next to him; it was very romantic. He had my complete and total attention. I was studying every nuance of his words, carefully weighing and assessing them. His first sentence had snatched my attention from reality like a hero snatches a damsel in distress from the jaws of death. In that moment, all I cared about was helping him achieve his dream. Unaware of myself, I leaned in closer to the source of the words. Instinctively, I reached out my hand and traced a smooth line beneath

a part of his sentence that sounded awkward. My face was only inches from the paper, and my pencil absentmindedly underlined the puzzling, fascinating words again. "Hmmm....this part doesn't sound quite right," I told him. "Yeah," he said. As I studied the sentence, flipping words around in my mind and trying possible variants, I realized I didn't remember what the author of the paper I was reading looked like. I glanced up quickly to remind myself. Oh, right. Blondish hair, nearly colorless eyes, nice smile. check. Back to the paper. Maybe if you changed the compound verb into a participle? beautiful. When the author of a paper is leaning over the paper, too, honestly evaluating my suggestion, and excitedly running his creative hands through the pile of words on the page. And when something I've said makes a rough path of a well-begun phrase smooth and the author laughs to find the blockage out of his way...I love it when I connect with a paper like that.

Let's be honest and girly for a moment (what else can I be in a pink blog?). By the end of the tutorial, I wanted him to ask me out. Not because he was stellarly good looking. I don't remember his name, although I asked him. And I don't remember that much about our conversation (although I remember clearly that he didn't put "spawned" in the passive voice, and that we eventually settled on the word "hatched" after checking two different thesauruses). And I didn't want him to take me in his arms, or to buy me a million roses. I wanted him to write to me. Because he had written the most interesting and compelling personal statement for his dental school application I had ever read.

I've noticed this about myself. Good writing is attractive to me. Incredibly. It's like a magnet, or maybe a black hole. I read a good point or well-expressed idea and I get all gooey inside. Machiavelli nearly spoiled me for other men after I read The Prince for the first time.

One of my favorite things about my last relationship was that sometimes he would read bits from his journal to me, or stories that he had written, and he was a good writer. Everytime I just wanted to curl up on his knee and purr while he read (like a cat, not a pole dancer).

Because let's face it, proclaim it, and celebrate it: good writing is captivating; it's seductive; it's sexy.

Things I Love:

writing in my journal

watching the sunrise

brushing my teeth

high quality chocolates

boxed chocolates

staying up past two a.m.

falling asleep on someone's shoulder

heartbeats

saltine crackers

pigs-in-blankets

alliteration

miso soup

hanging my favorite mirror

burning incense

burning candles

laughing

making people laugh

eyes

soft chairs

hard beds

people who can read chords and make up a piano part

jazz

old musicals

old memories

letting go of old grudges and feeling that part of you that's been clenched relax

learning new songs

clouds

stars

wind

rain

snow

shade

pine trees

gooey brownies

being able to cry when I want to

picking my nose when no one's around

keeping friends

looking at pictures of myself

thrift stores

discount appliances

beans

pizza

speaking quickly

going on walks

good poetry

people

planets

leaves

secrets

doing something right

a day well spent

a day well and gloriously misspent

intentional misspellings

hugs

original star trek episodes

feeling valuable

coming home