in the spirit of brevity, inbibed from rereading Jean Webber's Daddy Long Legs; and also because of sleep deprivation:
I. watch Finding Nemo if you haven't already; i think we laughed and screamed and shrieked more at the screen than the rows of kids seated on either side of us -- a word to the wise though: buy your tickets well in advance, or wind up seated in the second row, staring almost straight up at cartoon shark's teeth in a most terrifying manner;
II. had supper with fengyuan, who arrived home from oxford yesterday, and now trots out his nice snotty oxford accent over ice cream and water at the Cafe Cartel. we could make quite a terrifying combination -- the one at the table tonight: londoner, oxfordian, chicagoan. i'm glad he's back; feng makes life more exciting when he is around;
III. lunch with the gang tomorrow at holland v. i hear things about how holland v has changed; i guess now i get to see first hand...
Under the Bell Jar
(For Sylvia Plath)
Did even poetry fail you?
I understand it well.
For we who have let the unutterable
etch crazy lesions on our hearts
think of redemption in terms
of the saving word:
that the word could make things new,
or gather up our griefs so
to hang them on a nail outside us
for dispassionate review.
But the word is itself
living, a tortured thing;
both death and life we crucify again
--Lee Tzu Peng.