chasing after the wind

and this is how i know we are no longer the friends we were

;alksdfj;akdsfj

So I had this fantastic rant titled "eternal september" under way about how I've been thinking about the lack of true genius lately. I digressed by musing over why things become famous, at least in the case of restaurants. Which was followed by some nose-wrinkling over food writers, and people who write about empirical knowledge [I am probably misusing that term] in general. This would have been brought back to the original topic by wondering whether such writings encourage passivity by having allowed readers to experience things but not really. Perhaps I would have concluded with stating that I am a hypocrite because all I've done all day is read, la la la.

In case you were curious,

1. The Complete Manual of Typography, James Felici
   
2. The Watchmen, Alan Moore
3. A Kierkegaard Anthology. I'm not trying to be pretentious, I promise. It's a recommendation.

See, I was wandering through the stacks one day in an attempt to avoid doing anything vaguely productive and I stumbled upon the all-type-related-things section. I probably giggled a lot in guilty excitement. Among the tomes I carried away that day in secret triumph was A Constructed Roman Alphabet, David Lance Goines. You know those constructions you did in geometry wielding only straightedge and compass? Apparently, it is possible to manipulate them to get a variety of letterforms and numerals. Goines did exactly that, and the product was a beautiful letterpressed [!!] book detailing how. I've only started to "Find a Distance One-Ninth of a Given Line," and all I can think of is those freaking Romans. They were smart. I'm pretty certain I would've never been able to figure anything like this out. There's no practical use for it, right? We reserve a lot of problem-solving energy for practical matters which, while sensible, tends to leave out some of the more lovely things to be discovered.

I've had this out since at least October. I feel no guilt, considering that it's probably not missed. After all, people don't go to Duke to study typography. Nah, they come here so they can get into medical school or join frats to have good business connections or something. You can tell by the general lack of compositional sense when it comes to web pages, flyers, and shirts. Copperplate Gothic Bold? Comic Sans? Obnoxious flaming borders? Clip art courtesy of Microsoft Word?

I'm not bitter. Nope. Not at all.

I wake up some mornings and wonder whether I made the right decision when I copped out and decided to EA Duke. Don't get me wrong; I've found friends [maybe], I love the architecture, I love being in a place with seasons, I love the gardens, I'm happy more often than not. I think it's cool that they let you major in dance or make your own major. But lately, I've been feeling the pressure to constantly be productive and focused. And admittedly, I guess that's part of our job while we're in college. It's a time when you have so much available to you, which is wonderful and terrifying. Because if you mess up, it's your future. And I've got the whole my-parents-are-paying-lots-of-money thing over my head. I just get the feeling that people are pursuing resumés instead of interests. And I'm confused, because on one hand, I feel guilty for not having anything valid to say about what I've been doing with my life, but on the other...dammit, get a personality. Have some color. Live.

Not that people don't have interests. It's just that I generally don't see much of them. Every time I inquire in some way about somebody's current condition, I typically get a response involving school. UGH. I mean, if it's pressing on your mind, go ahead and vent about it, but your test averages do not define your value as a human being. I refuse to spend my years here fretting over my GPA. Will I suffer academically for this? Certainly. But I think I'll enjoy life more. So I'll make peace with that.

I realize that I write a lot of this in an attempt to convince myself of its truth.

So. The New Year is almost upon us, that time when we can raise glasses of bubbly to each other and sing Auld Lang Syne in various pitches. And make resolutions that we will inevitably break, mostly during the first couple of weeks or so. But I'm unfortunately accustomed to eating my own words all the time, so I resolve to

1. stop chewing ice. Really. Not unlike last year. And the year before that. And...
   
2. stop hating pre-meds. This is a problem.
   
3. do a better job staying in touch with people. I hate feeling forgotten. It's worse than being hated.

I don't have a third list. You tell me.

I was thinking on my bike ride
I always do
my dad says I think too much
which is apparently a bad thing
otherwise it wouldn't be too much
too much implies bad, you see
but
sometimes, I think I like trees more than I like people
trees are just there
trees are just silent
trees are just beautiful
trees are just beauty
trees are there for you to sit under or lean upon
and in north carolina
they dress seasonally
in red and gold and the colors in between
I've seen that in paintings and postcards and movies
but not in real life
it's so different
people, on the other hand, are risky
sometimes they are just what you need
a hug
a kind word
a prayer
creators of lovely things
encouragement towards the better
but lately
lately people are disappointing
and I am slowly but surely awakening to the fact that
in the end, you are always alone
except for maybe the ever-present second person
if you talk to yourself
and God,
maybe.
I feel disenchanted with myself
who I am
who I am not
I miss the eagerness
the self-discipline
the idealism
the standards
I wonder if any of it were true
I wonder why I got baptized
because I doubt my faith,
sometimes
whether I have any
I think I have more doctrine than faith
which is meaningless
a chasing after the wind
I am not sure what I want in life
I think I want fulfillment
and happiness
whatever they are
I have been telling myself that there is something at the end of the rainbow
it's one of those things you have to trust
as Lucy Stark had to trust that that baby was her son's
I am running out of energy and don't know what to do with my life
and nobody can really help me
they can speak encouraging things
a few of them, anyway
but nobody can really tell me
sometimes I kind of want to be told what to do
brainless
wimping out
yes, I know
I am a hypocrite
aren't we all?
which doesn't justify anything
it just builds solidarity
and makes me feel only a little less worse
which leads to apathy
and inaction
and disenchantment
I turn eighteen in a couple hours
I don't know where the excitement is
I will not buy cigarettes
I will not get a tattoo
I will not buy porn
I will not enlist in the army
I am just a day older, really
maybe that's why I don't really celebrate my birthday
I don't want people to make a fuss over me
because they normally don't
and them doing that
well,
it seems fake
in a few hours
people are going to start writing variations of
happy birthday!
on my wall
on fucking facebook
I probably have not talked to many of these people
and they are saying so
out of some measure of guilt
for having forgotten
or ignored me
nobody can think of what to get me for my birthday
partly because they don't really know me
and partly because I want the things they cannot give
I just want things I have lost along the way
if I ever had them
(I'll assume I did)
love
joy
peace
patience
kindness
goodness
gentleness
faith
and self-control
this is not a cry for tea and sympathy
this is not a reminder
this is not anything for you, really
these are my thoughts
right now
at
ten twenty-four
which is thirty-two squared

The summer is passing pleasantly and idly enough. In a sociable sort of manner, which is probably the reason why this summer seems particularly strange - I think it is the first that I have spent with people rather than simply with, say, books.This of course excludes YSP. Which I probably have to thank for my recent social inclinations. Life has been so lovely ever since. Not constantly, but I have discovered that I [sometimes] enjoy the company of other people.



Well, sometimes.