My final project for my summer course is finished. It’s been attached to an email. It’s been fired, an electronic missive, scattering across the digi-webs towards my professor’s inbox. And as soon it is received, it shall begin crushing the university’s bandwidth, daring to be downloaded. Enormous. Blathering. Finished.
A week’s worth of work. Thousands of words, a couple dozen pages. Diet Mountain Dew cans consumed into the infinity-range. Spent veins, spent cells, smiles abound.
Hey, it’s like, summer or something?
I’ll be bored and ready for class in two weeks.
Monday Morning Commute. Every Monday I’m going to detail the various things I’m either currently or will be watching, reading, playing, and listening to in the next seven days. It’s Monday. You’ve got a long week of school, work, or compulsive masturbation to get through. Tell me the arts that you’re indulging in, to stave off suicide.
Watching / Inception
I saw Inception at midnight on Thursday. It has staunchly refused to leave my brain since that moment. Call it intellectual laziness, but I prefer to side-step the usual “Quantity X was Quality Y” comment. I don’t know how good Inception is, but I know that I fucking love it.
I told Pepsibones that I have begun trying to figure out how much I like something by how much it stays within the skullparts of my mushbox. I can’t get Inception out of there, and god dammit, I don’t really want to, either. It brings me happiness. Just when I think it has left me, it returns with cookies and lemonade, and says to me, “Beautiful day, innit?”
And I just smile.
The purpose of my project was to design a “dream” sequence of literature that I would teach. So I went right to my Love Nest. I began pilfering around for concepts of the American Dream, looking for the texts that I enjoyed that dissected capitalism, materialism, erroneous concepts of social status. The sort of stuff that has stuck, like a splinter in my mind. I came up with a class that taught The Great Gatsby and then segued into Fight Club by way of an episode of Mad Men. It seemed terribly fun.
The depressing part is that it exists only in a word document, and in my mind. After building such a dream sequence, I realized that the chances of me ever teaching it are relatively slim, and that night I ate a second cookie to mask my feelings.
Sometimes I cry through food.
Read the rest of this entry »