the pace, the distance, the terrible velocity

Life’s a little breakneck. I am constructing breathing room like a man in an avalanche; I work for an hour here and an hour there on my marathon CS assignments, but interrupt them with the festering busyness of a social life and facebooking the blackout-drunk girls I met on the train home from the Giants game. I cannot complain of boredom; I cannot complain at all, in fact. I go for beautiful sails on the bay, stay up much too late working on things that utterly fascinate (and occasionally frustrate me), spend my weekends trying to find ways to fit in all the things I can and want to do (a refreshing change for the uniformity of fall quarter and it’s bitterness). I am feeding the neurosis, which isn’t curing it but at least it’s leaving me alone. At least I can say I did. This is the creed. Last Thursday we had a small party, as we have fallen into the habit of doing. Friday was Lag formal, of all things. Went out for Chinese with Hollis; went to the dance. Slept interrupted-ly, wandering into the courtyard at 10am wondering, wondering, about quite a few things. Saturday had another party, after a brief event at Columbae. Was up, as usual, far too late, but to much effect: it was one of those “oh no they’re on the roof nights,” along with Club Uj (of all things?), walks into the exceedingly warm late-April air, and a power hour (pour hour? language, language) which neither Jordan or I actually participated in. Sunday woke to general disaster, but feeling quite fit; fit enough to go play IM soccer and lose to Larkin. I’ve become quite good at not getting too invested in sporting events I do not, exactly, see the purpose of, which is why losing is no calamity and I am simply happy I’m not too sore. I have all of the right problems and none of the wrong ones, except perhaps the beginnings of a cold. But then, one can’t have everything.

background noise: various counting crows and sufjan stevens

On an unrelated note, last night’s revision of a poem hastily drafted one day in class (likely pending further revision, if I ever find some actual distance from the thing. It’s all regrettably true):

the april fire

I used to be afraid that
my house would burn down, killing
my family, destroying
my possessions, my materiality, enforcing
the great sensation of loss
that terrified me
until the night my mother ran around the house banging
on the doors screaming “fire”
and I jumped out of bed
more ready than I have ever been
for anything.
There is something about the reality of an event
that makes it easier to cope with;
I thought, “it must be in the kitchen, someone
must have left a pan on”
I did not think about loss, or endings, I
just looked for the flame, ran
down the stairs to find the
orange glow of the window shades
lit from the outside:
the blossoming of realization,
the most awful realigning of perspectives
as I realized it was not our house my
mother meant, but the neighbors’; the
flush of relief and confusion diluting
the clarifying terror of
disaster is intoxicating.
There is a certain sickness
in the slow shift, the creep
up the spine and into the
conscious, the aftermath-blooming
of a doubt-seed planted in the chaos of calamity
that begs the question I couldn’t shake
for months: standing on the lawn watching
a house so quickly turned from home to
ashen wreck not 25 feet from my own,
wondering at God and his wisdom, wondering
at that wisdom’s precision, and if He, out of
wisdom, or carelessness, or ambivalence,

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