So, um... I'm alive. One hundred percent not dead, although there were a couple of moments where... well, that's not really important. The important thing is that I've left this thing alone for quite some time. I note that my last post begins with a complaint about how busy I am, so perhaps you've been under the impression that I've been swamped with work since November or so.

This is not so much the case. The short version of the past six months is that I'm now a semester behind the people I started school with, but these days my serotonin reception is being selectively inhibited and school starts again in the fall. Also, I've been updating another weblog--I've been unfaithful, Xanga--which can be found here.

Busy, busy, busy past couple of days, and it's not about to let up. Thursday was busy because they're always busy, and also because Mirrormask was having its very last showing, Sarcasmo & Peccable were going to be there, and I really needed to walk around more. Incidentally, Mirrormask is the first English language movie to gain a coveted spot on my projected 2005 top ten list. (So I'm a pretentious movie snob, is the main bullet point you should take away from this presentation.)

Today was Taxation, and then a study session dedicated to that very class, then dealing with the weirdly belligerent attitude of the guy--friend of the study partner--who decided to tag along to said study session who insisted that he give me a ride and then proceeded to criticize my basic outlook on life ("That's the biggest pot-smoking answer I've ever heard" was his most notable contribution to that particular conversation), then walking from Center City to West Philly. By the time I got to the UPenn area, I had a couple of hours to kill, which kind of blew; at the same time, walking home, resting for maybe half an hour, and _then_ walking to U-City for the party was not exactly plausible. In any case, I only ending up walking like thirty blocks today, which sounds downright indolent if you ask me.

Oddly enough, my feet are fine, and physically I'm not worn out. (Other people are complaining about that, which makes me happy; I didn't think I was in better shape than anybody, but it would appear that years of restless pacing has finally paid off in a big way.) I'm not even impatient walking. It's just so damned inconvenient, is all. If they added six hours to the day, then I wouldn't mind.

* I was interested to read this account of a talk Samuel R. Delaney gave at Dartmouth, which includes some (implied) advice for those participating in NaNoWriMo:

The woman who introduced Delany, Susan Ackerman (of the Department of Religion), had said that he wrote 9 novels by the age of 25. Delany laid out an average day in his life at that time, saying that in between making breakfast and dinner for his wife (Marilyn Hacker) and writing his books, he would have sex with about 20 people on a normal day, and that he could never have been as productive a writer if he hadn't had that outlet. (At this point, someone near me whispered, "He's a superman!")

Just something to think about, is all.

* And as long as we're discussing literary things, Salon dedicated one of their Audiofile features to Lolita, and it's got loads of stuff--former students talking about Lolita, Jeremy Irons reading from it, and Nabokov himself in older interviews being generally cantankerous.

* And this is just really cute.

So I'm moving.

Not as we speak, admittedly. I mean, I am moving--if you were here, you'd notice my fingers moving against the keyboard, my obsessive-compulsive neck-cracking, and so forth--but not, you know, moving moving. But I'm spending a lot of time on craig's list, and I just looked at an apartment today. And I had a revelation, right after I got an e-mail informing me that my number one choice had just fallen through: that's right... I don't enjoy this.

And yet I do it. Why? There are so many reasons I could give, but my particular favorite, the crucial piece of information that explains so much, is this: my landlord apparently told the crazy cat lady that he wanted to avoid a paper trail because he doesn't really own the building. The crazy cat lady could be lying, but like I said, this explains too much weaselly behavior over the past fifteen months.

Now, as a purely rational matter I'm not sure how much this really affects me. Should the real owner appear on the scene, he couldn't throw all the tenants out on the streets without any notice of eviction. And I don't know what the chances are of the real owner actually showing up in the first place; this building has been rented out for the past few years, so whoever it is isn't exactly exercising due diligence on the disposition of their property. Given adverse possession laws, my landlord might even be able to claim title to the property by now. It's more symbolic than that: I can't tell this story to my friends so long as the ending is, ...and yet I continue to live there. (1) I can't provide any reason for staying besides, "deep down, I don't feel that I deserve ordinary creature comforts and so I don't expect them." And while that's true enough, I'd never want to admit it.

So yeah, I'm looking at apartment listings, and some of them are upsetting. There's the one for a house in West Chester, with a title that goes something like, "House for share in white neighborhood." I'd love to get Yagathai to go look at the place; theoretically it should be fine if he only spends half the year there, right? (2) Another one, under the guise of seeking for a roommate, asks for a "Live-In Home Mgr/Friend/Pet Sitter." Turns out the guy is "just-getting-divorced," is looking for somebody to hang out with, keep the apartment tidy, and go out on the town with. Female roommates preferred. The ad comes with a picture of the guy, rather than the apartment. Would you replace my wife? is the subtext I'm perceiving here.

Also--not to stereotype, but I think this is a West Philly thing primarily--I've noticed a number of ads that all basically say that you'll be judged on the degree to which you can be determined truly progressive, and only the pure of heart will be allowed to move in. (My favorite ad in this regard had a note to the effect of, marijuana smokers welcomed; cigarette smokers not wanted.)  I'm fairly certain that in such an environment I would soon resort to Cynthia's store of rape and domestic violence humor, and that would be a bad scene.

(1) Of course, I could refuse to admit it to my friends, and pretend as if I had the most normal of living situations. But that's just sick.
(2) Similarly, I want Neil's friend Ed to respond to the ads looking for a "Christian roommate." If it turns out that they _weren't_ looking for a gay Catholic with inflatable horse trousers, then it's their fault for not specifying that in the advertisement.