there's more to life than books, you know

Submission sealed up in a 6.5 inch sandwich bag:
fluids no more than 3.3 oz, on a scale not even our own but
metric,
a purification of this magnitude better start anew
if already degrees are seeping out.
The toiletries I deemed essential enough to slide pornographically into plastic,
stretched tight at the corners and bulging across the curves and indents of lids?
Faggotry for those who shower over sinks:
45 gram pot of honey-based moisturizer, Odeur 71
seaweed facewash and a packet of silicone lube
Neutrogena hand cream.

otherwise, Specters of Marx fibrous enough to form the spine of my knapsack,
its stomach soft with sweaters that look tiny off my body, t-shirts I'll sweat through and my hot pink sweater,
my boyfriend's hands too solid too.

1. What does it cost to tell the truth?

2. I'm finally starting to work on my thesis, which feels good. It's been dreary and rainy all day which also feels kind of good. I went to the gym for an hour and a half and only realized that I was sort of procrastinating once I'd finished my last set of sit-ups and felt my whole body tightened pleasantly.

3. So much for waking up early, but I did have enjoyably epic dreams about stealing and editing books and receiving strange packages from far-flung boys, spinning the locale from vaguely Philly-like cities to my old nextdoor neighbor's backyard.

Rob took his tongs to the grill and remarked about as sentimentally as I'd ever expect, "I'm losing Oli, man. I'm so disappointed." Flip the ribs. It feels good to be missed.

Things take practice.

A big scab from a kitchen burn fell off my arm (okay, I helped it) and is sitting atop the book I'm reading. I'm so gross.

My spine likes cracking.

Summer is cresting. It only breaks for good once I'm back in school, and then once everything starts to smell like leaves it's fall.

Things take practice, like learning to breathe and release, breathe and take and let go. All the nodes and knots and clenching places, I need to learn to release.

The theme, evidently, is movement.

I'm at an impasse, not with the material but with my will to go on. My body/mind/eyes feel kind of dead so I'm hoping there's more to the diet Coke magic than this.

That said, several unrelated things:

1. ( dream )

2. ( Is it blasphemy or worship to make love to the Gods? )

3. Giovanna Borradori thinks my sketch of a thesis idea is not only feasible but very exciting.

4. Forget what else.

Oh my God I miss Rory so much right now.
In that I-feel-like-I-could-cry kinda way.
Balls, as she'd say.

Good things:
-one more day of work before 2 days' break
-Sinem on Monday?
-so much working out lately- arm muscles what now?
-Cristina and I being lovey and chill
-huge inflatable exercise ball on my windowsill
-so much reading to do when I'm not doing soo much working
-vegetables for dinner, and not just any vegetables but vegetables I normally think are gross namely zucchini. But I cooked them up real nice with thyme and salt and pepper and they were simple and warm and delicious.

Bad things:
-45 pages into anti-oedipus doesn't bode well for having finished it over break
-no idea what to get C. for her birthday which is Monday other than a really nice edition of Ovid's Metamorphoses which I have yet to find
-Also whatever I find will be late because there's no mail over 'the holiday' and plus I haven't found anything yet, as I've already mentioned
-growing out my hair. I really have a problem with clippers-as-stress-management, but I'm trying to resist
-I suck at planning things
-will I have a place to stay in Philly?
etc

But the funny thing is, none of the bad things are all that bad, and I had to rack my brain a bit to get them---whereas the good things are all very good.

I just talked to Matt Hackett who has returned to the states after a sojourn in Thailand and I will sign off the same way he did me:

lovelovesleepbye.

-according to SoJo, I am black and shiny. (i win!)
-shit between Cristina and me is weird. (maybe i don't win?)
-i don't like writing one page essays. about anything. except maybe feminism. it seems, however, that wmst is such that i don't have to write fucken one page essays.
-the sparkle-shit snow is back. spit spit.
-still exhausted. been in the library for an hour and a half and have oh a paragraph about how sweatshops are linked to neoliberal capitalist exploitation and have yet to make the argument that the notion that they are justified in that they provide cheap commodities for consumers is bullshit. it's almost too obvious. reach reach.
-i want to go into my warm bed but the walk back is cold and treacherous. i want to read eileen myles but instead i get to read "the twilight of the idols."