david taus

Patience, Grasshopper

music: Sound Tribe Sector 9- Seasons 01

I bought a bonsai tree about a month ago and pruned it for the first time tonight. It was getting bushy, a little too unkempt. This small tree that I bought, of course, was sold to me as a bonsai. Which is stupid. It’s just a small tree now, and won’t really be bonsai for some time. Perhaps years. But now that I’m actually treating it like a bonsai and less like a decoration, it’s on its way.

The road to bonsai, I’m told, is not one clearly defined or exact. All I know is that one starts with a small growing tree, pots it, and maintains it. With time, skill, care, and patience, the tree takes on the essence of bonsai. It’s a long process. It’s something that runs counter to our American habits of thought and action-bigger, better, faster, more-this is a discipline more than anything else. It’s a lot like watching the minute hand move on a clock. If you stare at it continually you don’t actually see the thing move, but if you glance at it and then glance at it again some time later, you see that it has moved a great deal. This is the way of nature. I’m dealing with a living thing, after all.

The pruning process was a little awkward, it being my first time. With so much foliage, cutting away was a bit like shaving the uncarved block. I suppose all practices lead to the same lesson in Zen; it doesn’t matter whether you are pruning trees, drinking tea, arranging flowers, shooting an arrow, or fixing a motorcycle revealed a branch structure that looks fairly unnatural. It seems that the farmers who grew this little Juniper tree contorted the branches for market value and visual appeal, then let the leaves grow over the strange branch contortions so you couldn’t see it. Plus, the branches are drooping more than I thought they were originally. This little tree was abused as a kid, and I just lifted up a pants leg to find bruises and scars. Now that it’s in my care, I’ll do my part to remedy things, bend branches back to a more natural position, keep it watered and in the light.

It’s a good lesson to care for bonsai, especially as i live a life that requires me ot be everywhere at once. It’s nice to put my hands on a living thing and work with it, apply light yet steady pressure over long periods of time to change its form (sort of like teaching, no?). Tonight was a big first step down the path towards this tree becoming a bonsai. It’s looking barren and unnatural and almost sickly now, like when the dog gets completely shaved at the beginning of summer, so I’ll be sure to keep an eye on it for the next couple of days. But the pruning is necessary. It’s part of the process; it’s the teacher of this particular lesson. In cutting some of the branches away the tree is beginning to uncover its essence, its tree-ness. Right now, though, it’s looking pretty beat. But patience. There is no immediate gratification. These things take some time.

Lockdown

music: Mozart- Jupiter Symphony

I’ve been lucky duing my time in Boston: I haven’t had many problems with theft despite minimal security precautions. We rarely locked the door at Chowdahaus, or the Refugee Camp for that matter. I’ve gotten away with a bike lock and a car door lock and I’ve never had problems with either mode of transportation. I’ve even left my bike helmet hanging on the handlebars during shopping trips and it’s till been there. I’ve (perhaps naively) strayed from my stuff in parks, stashed my bag under a chair at concerts. It’s rarely been a problem. The only times I can remember things being stolen from me were when I got mugged and had my wallet taken, and when I came back from christmas break last year and found that my guitar case and Tim’s bike were missing from the Refugee Camp basement. Other than that, it’s been smooth sailing. Unitl this week.

My apartment has gone lock crazy. All the locks in the building were changed last week. This was due to a break-in that happened the week before. The funny part is that whomever broke in didn’t give a damn about locks; the door was kicked in hard. wood splinters were everywhere. the lock was broken. Clearly this had nothing to do with keys in the wrong person’s hands. Yet, for some reason, the landlord felt the need to change the locks on everyone’s doors. Now my roommates have gone paranoid. They’ve insisted on locking the doors even while they are home and awake before. Now I’m getting yelled at for not locking the apartment door when I go down to the basement to do laundry. Never mind not bothering to lock the door when I am home, sitting at my desk, and in plain view of the apartment door.

If that weren’t bad enough, one of my roommates has taken things to the next level. I found today one metal screw eye screwed into her door frame, the other screwed into the door itself perpindicularly, holes congruent, and a three dollar luggage lock stuck through the whole setup. This is the same roommate with a deadbolt that engages from the inside. This is the same roommate who comes home and disappears into her room until the next morning, who only comes out of her room to use the bathroom, and doesn’t seem to do that all too often at that. My other roommate is whining about how he can’t lock his sliding doors. I’m insulted by this pattern of thought. My door is wide open.

It’s not about care of stuff. I care about my stuff, basically because I don’t really have that much stuff anymore, so the stuff I do have is precious. It’s about trust, faith in the next guy, taking stock in one’s neighbors. I think that instead of isntalling locks that could be broken with one swipe of a hammer, my roommates should be knocking on our neighbor’s doors and introducing themselves.

We had a Freshman Class Town Meeting today at high school. Someone has stolen some science equipment, and the staff is forced to consider locking things up in order for them to be able to provide these same things to the kids who may or may not have stolen the materials. Yes, yes…the logic red flag is raised here too. Quinn says that the entirety of human civilization’s woes began when someone decided to lock up the food. I am seeing the results of the example set by our enterprising ancestors this week.

I’m not a fan of this locking business. I spent summers in cabins with no locks, been through communities that do not have the need to lock the front doors of their homes, spent time in tent cities 100,000 strong where nobody worried about leaving things in tents with only a zipper and some fabric separating their stuff from total strangers. Yes, the system was not perfect, yes some things did get stolen, but for the most part, people got along together, respected each others’ space and property. The mentality of my roomates is insulting and embarrassing. They are afraid of something. I am disgusted with them.

It is said that in every prison there are two captives. Yes, by installing locks we may be succeeding in keeping people out. First of all, given the facts, it seems that we really aren’t succeeding that well. Secondly, is this really something we want to be doing? Shouldn’t we rather be hosting potlucks and making friends with the people with whom we share living space? Shouldn’t we, on a larger scale, be redistributing the resources of our society so nobody has the need to steal in the first place? But it’s more than that. When we lock our doors we are also locking ourselves in, making captives out of ourselves. And as someone who believes in and is working towards human liberation (as Freire would posit), I couldn’t detest anything more than this brand of xenophobia, agoraphobia, spinelessness. Call it what you will. This, I supopse is the inverse relationship between liberty and property. My inclination is to do the opposite as my roommates, seemingly scared shitless by society. My inclination is to open the cage and let the animals hiding inside in the dark experience the light of freedom.

Settling In, Falling Back

music: Ben Harper- Live from Mars d.2

Tonight is quite possibly my least favorite night of the year, and I have Ben Franklin to thank for it. The man was a genius, yes: I am grateful for things like bifocals, electricity, and the Declaration of Independence. But Ben, really, why mess around with such a terrible concept as daylight savings time?

The truth of the matter is that daylight savings time happens between April and October, and now we are on “normal” time. It really doesn’t make a difference; all it boils down to is that it now gets dark much earlier than it should. And at this lattitude, it’s quite possible for a body to go to work and come from work in darkness. Today is, for all intents and purposes, the beginning of the winter months in Boston. It’s a dastardly environmental cue that sets off the human hibernation instinct if ever there was one. And the funny part is that it’s a human invention. As are all our measurements of time, I suppose. It frustrates me that legal precendent dictates when i rise and sleep as opposed to the movements of celestial bodies and the amount of light. It’s a little disconcerting that congress has jurisdiction over time, and that tonight they decided to deprive us of an hour of daylight at the end of the day. Daylight is short enough as it is in the winter.

The difference, really, is trivial, considering how isolated we are from the fluctuations of natural phenomena such as daylight in our big, industrialized cities. It’s only when we get out of the glow of the streetlight that we realize the full impact of daylight savings. To celebrate the last long (long? 6:15 is long??) night of the year, I biked with new friend M. out to the Arboretum to enjoy the last moments of daylight before standard time once again takes over. We had an excellent time of it, both being outdoors-minded; we managed to linger on top of the big hill and watch the landscape darken to night. I was happy to be out of the city’s buzz as the earth grew quiet and dark (and cold), and felt lucky to share such a moment with M., whose affinity for such activities is most excellent and appreciated. Light or dark early or late, our time was quality this evening and made me happy.

Nevertheless, the sun now rises and sets “earlier.” There’s not much I can do about the situation, unfortunately. Keeping my watch one hour ahead of Eastern Standard Time wouldn’t really be that great of an idea. So I acquiesce. More than that, though, I enter “winter mode.” This time of year is one of burrowing deep into one’s home and surroundings, of less geographic exploration and more inner contemplation, of spending time insulated from the frigid outside, of big blankets and mugs of hot tea. Considering what is asked of me as far as grad school goes, this isn’t really a bad idea. The wanderlust is squelched for the time being, and I’m working on the final touches of a metaphorical nest that I’ll be in for the next 5 or 6 months. Somehow, due to this strange marker of time, I can give myself that much more permission to stay in and wander less. And in doing so, I lose a sense of possibility that only accompanies the summer months. For now, for the sake of grad school, that might be a good thing. And seeing as though I’ll have the rest of my summers off from here on out, I’ll bite the bullet now and hold out for those warm, lingering twilight hours that will inevitably come after this time issue springs ahead in April.

1ey In The Mix

What’s this? The 1ey has a blog? This is special. I’m gonna make a link to it. I’m gonna check it daily (made headlines twice already…go team). I’m gonna see pretty, pretty pictures of stuff we’ve done. I’m gonna see pretty, pretty pictures of South America soon enough. But it’s good to have him around still. The Anize.org gang grows evermore…

Ya-Hey!

music: Modereko- Solar Igniter

A bunch of us went apple picking last Saturday, which was positive, but then everyone thought it would be funny to take pictures of the guy from the midwest in his natural habitat.

Yes, those are my overalls. Yes, that’s straw in my mouth. No, that’s not my tractor. It was a pretty sweet tractor though. As tractors go.

Fronting The Essentials

music: Andy’s Friends- Manitou

I read Thoreau’s _Walden_ for a class last week. It’s the third time I read the thing through, and I think that it’s one of those desert-island texts that not only would be most appropriate content-wise for someone stranded on a desert island but would also provide one with a certain peace of mind and reinforce the choice to simplify. Or at the very least, there’s enough in there to occupy one’s thoughts for a great long while.

It’s funny reading Thoreau here and now, while I’m attending his alma mater, the place he looked at with no small amount of disdain, and so close to where he conducted his grand experiement in self-reliance. He was rife with contradictions, granted: he visited his hometown several times a week. He was eccentric, true, a bit of a crackpot. And even in the attainment of his most high and noble goals, he lacked certain life experiences that are themselves as valuable as any lesson that his book has to teach. Still, his philosophy is one of great inspiration to me and his story is alluring. The themes found in Walden have been haunting my consciousness this week and have really distracted me from schoolwork. I visited Walden briefly last month, but I’m thinking another visit is appropriate before it gets too cold. Good place to get some thinking done.

My responsibilities at this point are scattered across several domains and none have a direct bearing on the basics of survival. Such is the way of things in an urban society that embraces division and specialization of labor. I’m not sure I’m a fan of the system. One of the effects is that I’m very much isolated from my environment; the closest I come to feeling the seasons change are my bike rides from place to place. A bunch of people from my program went apple-picking this morning in Stow, MA, and as I was eating apples straight off the tree I was reminded of this alienation from the environment in that the food that I eat, for the most part, is bought from display stands under neon lights, is wrapped in plastic, boxed in airtight containers.

But dare I pull a Thoreau, move out to a pond somewhere and build a one-room shack, farm what I can? (Is there a pond suitable for this sort of a project anymore??) Dare I turn my back on the city, on all those kids I’m being trained to teach, say goodbye to my city-dwelling friends, take myself out of society for a season or two? Considering the personal investment in society I’m making right now, the idea seems ass-backwards. But It’s something I’ve pondered half-seriously for some time and will not be able to shake probably for the rest of my days.

Thoreau was definitely in my blood this week. I find myself currently craving a different sort of experience. It is not one that is necessarily bound by solitude; I think that I have spent enough time with myself over the years to know that including others in my activities is usually much better than going at it alone (which I’ve done a great deal of and still value). And I suppose it doesn’t have to be as drastic as uprooting from a community I’ve worked hard to contribute to. No, there’s no need to take the extreme path, even if such a thing were possible, even if I allowed myself such a selfish act. There are things I can do to work towards that Walden-state that is so appealing, even in the big city. But it’s tough.

This evening I was at a house party hosted by fellow TAC‘ers, which was fun. They are a good group, but about 3 hours into it, I realized that I just didn’t want to be there, that it wasn’t the kind of socializing I was seeking. So I left. And for the time being, I’m much happier to be here, now, writing, playing my guitar, sipping sleepytime tea, getting ready for bed. Tomorrow will be full of schoolwork, but right now is nice. Right now feels good. Are there people out there excited about spending a quiet night in, cooking and reading and sipping tea, walking slow loops around Walden Pond, slowing down, celebrating people instead of stuff, living simply? Are there people out there that would choose this sort of life over that of the big city, with all its sensory overload? That breed seems scarce out here. My hunch is that all these people had the sense to get out of the big city in the first place. Duh. Thoreau could have told me that.

On Underdogs, Revivals, And The Curse

music: Keith Jarrett- Live at the Blue Note d.5

This has been a long week for me as far as school goes: 3 papers, the regular internship, and more reading than could be finished. So it goes. But the hard work during the weekend and the front end of the week allowed me a free Thursday evening. I was to spend it in bar-style revelry with the townies as the Red Sox and Yankees were playing for the pennant, but I had bigger plans. Spearhead was in town, and I had tickets.

Timing couldn’t have been better for Spearhead to roll through. Work was getting that much harder, my internship was beginning to grind on me, and the anonymity and unfriendliness of the city was rubbing off on me in very bad ways. I was beginning to settle into the social and mental hibernation of Boston in the colder months: don’t smile at anyone, don’t talk to anyone, act as if you don’t care and have more important things to do. I get lost in my own thoughts enough as it is as I’m moving around this city. But Spearhead, as they do time and time again, renewed my faith in other people, in society, in myself and the work I’m doing. It’s more a spiritual revival posing as a concert than anything else. It’s as close to a non-demoninatinal place of worship and celebration of life and the sanctity of humanity as one can get in our postmodern urban experience. Truly a beacon of light.

Michael Franti himself said it at Berkfest 2002: “Be a light. Live as you think others should.” Truth. It’s hard to do. It’s hard to maintain that sort of existence in this day and age. It’s hard to hold to your noblest of ideals and live them out, because often it feels like you are operating solo in a sea of adversity. That a concert can reinforce all which is good in everyone in attendance is a powerful thing and nothing to be laughed at or taken for granted.

The Spearhead show went late, finally emptying out around 12:15. It was just about this time that the Yankees pulled off an 11th inning victory over the Red Sox in the ALCS. This year’s pennant run in Boston was as close as they’ve come to reversing The Curse of the Bambino since Buckner did his imitation of a croquet wicket back in the fall of 1986. Angry drunk Sox fans were emptying out of the bars at pretty much the same moment that Spearhead fans were floating out of the theater. We, of course, all aglow from a very affirming experience. Everyone else: drunk, pissed off, almost violent. It was some contrast.

Things never got really ugly, although I heard sirens blaring all night. I managed to bike home without incident (although I took my “GO SOX!” flag off my bike) and enjoy the denoument of the evening. This morning, things were pretty much back to normal. The citywide buzz that came from having the Sox in the playoffs was immediately gone; people were back to their grumbly old selves. Really amazing how something like baseball can make a difference in the morale of a city. I can’t help but think that things woudl have been worse if it weren’t for the overpowering force of positivity in Spearhead last night. In some cosmic algebra, the angry, violent Sox fans and the all-too idealistic Spearhead fans cancelled each other out last night and the net result was an indignant Boston population tending towards slightly unfriendly, preparing for the winter. Pretty much as things are normally.

I grew up rooting for the Red Sox, I think because my parents lived in Boston for a while and rooted for them. I remember watching the ‘86 series with Dad and being very close to tears at the end of game 6. I really do share the familiar pain that the city felt last night, but after Spearhead, it just didn’t get to me. Such is the way of things when you side with the underdog. The entity with whom we affiliate is the team that can’t seem to beat the Yankees, the band that flies in the face of the corporate-controlled music industry, he who has everything to prove, everything to gain, and nothing to lose.

But I think that there is something that the two experiences have in common, something that I find in myself more often than not. In each case, the underdog is celebrated. To follow the thread, it’s a lot like teaching urban minority youth, working with mentally retarded and autistic adults, volunteering at a community radio station. The Sox let us down, sure, but Spearhead reminds us all that there is joy in the struggle. And that, to me, does more than reverses the curse; it negates curses entirely.

Burning the Midnight Oil (pt. 3)

music: Sound Tribe Sector 9- 9/6/03, Red Rocks

Two papers due tomorrow. Two papers finished tonight. Just because they were short doesn’t mean they weren’t tough. Sometimes it’s worse trying to cram a book’s worth of thoughts into a few pages. At this point, though, it doesn’t matter. They are done, and I can finally go to sleep.

One more to write tomorrow. Gettin’ there…

Walk Slower, Read Closer

music: Martin Sexton- Black Sheep

Whomever said that the ends justify the means has never been hiking. Anyone who has strapped on a backpack and set foot to trail could tell you that it’s very, very rarely about getting anywhere. Instead, it’s about how you get there. I had the good fortune to spend my Monday on the trail in New Hampshire with 1ey, Duncan, Amy, OGD, and friend C., hauling ass at a reasonable speed for the top of Mt. Monadonock. Now that I’m back down, out of the woods, and back in the big city, I realize the whole process was rushed for the sake of reaching the top, then reaching the car. The situation was framed by extraordinary time constraints. Yes, I walked the trail and could be given credit for doing so, but while doing so there was not a lot of good time spent enjoying and learning from that particular experience.

Hiking is not about getting anywhere. It’s about process, how the getting is handled. Because, of course, the only thing waiting at the end of a hike is no more hiking. A strange paradox, but one that we learn over and over in many avenues of our lives. We work on something, work towards something, only in the end to have it not be something that requires our attention anymore. It’s a model based on negative reinforcement.

I’ve had a hand-wrenching time writing papers due this week. They are turning out to be concise little exercises in distilling vast amounts of information. I am pretty certain that I do not have nearly enough information to adequately address some of these topics I’ve been asked to tackle, and yet I am faced with the prospect of handing in some of my supposedly well-developed thoughts to the foremost authorities in the field. I am not allowed to remain agnostic here. And so, like my hike today, I am much to preoccupied with getting it done and really not enjoying or learning from the process of doing it. Hardly something exclusive to written assignments; I have been more worried about getting all the reading assignments done than concerned with actually getting something out of the readings since this whole graduate school ordeal began in June. This is the way it always has been with schools in my experience. I can’t help but wonder if this is an absolutely horrible way to go about things.

The hike today was actually a great time. It was only meant to be a day’s worth of walking in the woods with some friends, and in that, it fulfilled all my expectations. But taken in a larger sense, it made me realize how quickly we move from one thing to the next, how great a priority is placed on getting things done. As I forge through school assignments, I fight the urge to simply get things done as much as possible. I think that if I had it my way, I’d tend to linger more, walk slower, read closer, relish a little more in the process of becoming instead of moving as quickly as I can towards completed.

No Longer Holding Water

music: U2- The Joshua Tree

There is a theory that life on earth’s main purpose is to facilitate the transport of water from place to place. I, over the years, have done my part. When I stop to think about all the things I have that are designed around water, it’s a little staggering. Of course, I never do think about things in these terms unless something drastic effects my water-drinking habits. And this week, lightning struck twice.

I came home to find a note of alarm on the house whiteboard in the front hall. (that’s how we communicate in the apartement: a whiteboard. My roommates are chronic door-closers and would much prefer the non-confrontational and the non-interactionist approaches to group living. whatever) Someone had left the kettle on and then left the apartment. The entire outside of my tea kettle is burnt black, and the bottom has chipped through the outer coating. It’s still splintering. It’s pretty much done. To top that feat of general neglect, I found my tea kettle in the trash this morning. Apparently one of the people I have to share living space with took it upon themselves to throw out my stuff. How nice.

More importantly, though, my nalgene is gone. This was a special piece of plastic (and p-cord and duct tape); it had been, quite literally, all around the world with me. 5 years and going. But now it’s gone. I can’t for the life of me figure out where it went. I retraced my steps three times today, but the thing didn’t turn up. So I’ve enlisted the backup nalgene, which could very well become the primary nalgene. Then I’d have to get a second one, all squeaky clean with the logo and calibrations still on it. There’s something really wierd about that.

It’s just stuff, yes, but it’s stuff I interacted with on a daily basis many times. It’s stuff that facilitated my water consumption, a vital life process. And somehow, this makes a difference. Were my roommates to ruin, say, a frying pan of mine I don’t think I would have reacted as strongly. Had I lost a hat I wouldn’t have felt such a loss. But it was my tea kettle and my nalgene. Lost and ruined. All I can do is drink a toast of water to them. Toasts of tea will have to wait.

Jamming At 600 kbps

music: Steve Kimock Electric Band- 10/31/02

Three ingredients have just made thousands of hours of quality live music very, very accessible. One: this here computer. Two: archive.org. Three: Harvard’s superfast network. I have been in the library for the past 5 or so hours reading, and all the while setting up my FTP client to download, download, download. Talk about immediate gratification; it used to take weeks to send blanks through the mail and wait for someone to find time to spin copies out and mail them back. Plus the recording quality is much, much better. Computers are neat.

Average downloading speed here is something to the tune of 600 kbps. That averages out to a complete show in shorten format in about half an hour. This afternoon, I’ve pulled down two Kimock, shows, a Motet show, a fine evening from d’Elf at the Lizard Lounge from last March, Tea Leaf Green from High Sierra this past summer, and Keller Williams from Chicago last fall. I also pulled down Sector 9’s set from Bonnaroo ‘03 but the recording quality wasn’t all that great so I trashed it.

Not bad, considering I concurrently knocked off a good chunk of reading. Still more to go, of course, but I’m going to unplug for a minute. The stomach’s growling and my concentration is waning, which means it’s dinnertime.

Lessons in Physiology

music: Fugees- The Score

At the most basic level of survival lies two very important energy-producing and energy-conserving physiological mechanims: eating and sleeping. These two simple acts are necessary for survival. Duh. Funny, then, that educated folks seem to forget about these two very basic biological prerequisites. Being a grad student can be quite unhealthy.

I do eat, and I do sleep. I eat enough so that I have enough energy to make it through the day. I sleep about 6 hours a night on average during the week; just enough to stay awake and generally alert through my daily obligations. however, as the day wears on (especially towards the end of the week), I am increasingly hungry and tired. Thursday nights have become studies in headache as of late, most likely due to not eating and not sleeping enough. And inevitably, about once every three weeks, my body finally lets me know that I’ve been a bad biological entity and I eat a lot of decent, nourishing food and sleep a good 10-12 hours.

It’s not that I don’t want to eat and sleep more regularly. I would really like nothing more. My schedule generally prevents it from happening. In between class work, intern hours, and studying, there is little-to-no time to cook. On top of that, my oh-so-glorious housemates don’t want to share food (but apparently have no qualms about eating my avocados and onions…) so there is little incentive for me to put into making a good meal because it’s just me who will be eating it. Plus, then, late nights and early mornings translate into less sleep than I would want otherwise. And despite my best intentions and hopes, I’ve yet to settle into a decent and suitable routine. It’s a glorious setup.

I’m trying hard not to piss and moan about it. I’m trying hard to get quality sleep, to eat decent food, to generally take care of myself. But time is short, and grad school is hard on the nerves, and I generally say to myself that there are more important things to worry about than the amount of sleep I get and what I’m eating or not eating. There’s books to read, papers to write, things to think about, great teaching to do. Strange, then, that basic physiological needs would be pushed down the list. Maslow would be disappointed in my decision making.

I was reading this afternoon, and once again had trouble concentrating on the book. Whcih was strange, because I was reading Thoreau’s Walden, a book I find wholly relevant and inspiring to my personal philosophy. Yet, I couldn’t concentrate on it. Yes, part of it was the fact that Ol’ Man Henry rambles worse than a schizophrenic, but I came to realize it was also that I hadn’t eaten enough breakfast and needed more food. Lord knows why I didn’t make the connection earlier in the school year…priorities were shifted and I set off in search for food. As I snacked upon a less-than-savory apple, I realized that the problem also is that generally speaking, I’m always hungry. There really is no way to solve the problem of hunger, as Auster so adeptly outlined it in the first story of The New York Trilogy.

But I am human. I have physiology that demands food and sleep. Even at the expense of schoolwork, it might be time to start taking care of myself a little bit more.

Books < People

music: Ladysmith Black Mambazo- Best Of

Once again, it’s 2am. But this time, I just woke up from a “nap” that started at 6pm. much needed. This has been one incredible week in terms of waking and working. Not that it is exceptional in any way, except that my decision-making has favored having some quality converstations with people instead of reading books. The books, I finally accepted, will be there waiting for whenever I have time to read them. The people won’t. And yes, the books all got read for this week (sort of). More importantly, though, I finally began to take some time for people instead of squirreling myself away in the corners of the library and losing all ties to social reality for the sake of highbrow theorizing about this and that.

The dinner at El Charro this past Sunday set the tone for the week. Instead of rushing home to delve into books I probably didn’t have the attention span to get into properly, I ate mexican, danced the mariachi chicken dance with Johanna, and enjoyed the company of many fine people, including the 5 alums of Chowdahaus. Good phone conversations with mom and Rich this week while sitting outside the library. Even talked with college roommates long lost briefly this week, which was great. Met a really great bunch of people via Live Live this week, once again validating why I bother to keep that project going. I decided, as a result, to hit up murphy’s instead of going right home afterwards and spent some good time with said people. Got home around 3 am, but all well worth it. Even last night, when I gave myself time to study in the library, I ended up chatting for about an hour with N., a fellow TAC‘er who’s spent some good time living in and travelling in the Far East and talking with some pretty mind-boggling people. Alas, books didn’t get read but my education was indeed expanded.

I’m in a History of Science course this semester. It’s fulfilling a science requirement, but it’s really a history of environmental politics and philosophy. The professor is great; he has a lot of great things to say and is very adept at saying them. I really, really like going to class to listen. I’m not too bothered that he called me out on not doing all the readings for the week. He understands what sort of workload I’m operating under, he knows I’m there to get as much as I can, and as a historian, he’s a big fan of story. That’s essentially what I’ve been doing this week: collecting story from people in my life as opposed to synthesizing story from crusty academic books. I sometimes feel like there’s not really time allotted to me to do that this year, but it’s important stuff to do. Living in the study carrells 24/7 is a good way to drive myself crazy. Seems to be a theme this week as I go about framing my world and budgeting time accordingly. It means much less sleep and a little less getting read, but the inclusion of people in my week this week has made getting through the days that much better.