i have opened some of the gifts which i received from my mother and sister, and am now listening to the Blessed Sufjan Stevens May He Live Forever, thanks to Emily. i am also perusing Italian vocabulary and admiring the publishing brilliance of Chronicle Books in their design and binding of Barbara Hodgson's Italy Out of Hand: A Capricious Tour. it may be one of the most beautifully made books i've ever seen. this, and Langenscheidt's pocket Italian dictionary are thanks to my mother. as are the Smartest Socks in the World, which i will wear all over Rome without any podiatric fears. i would like to suggest Smartwool socks to anyone who cares about foot pampering. discovered to my mother and i by the attractive young gentleman in REI who tried to unsell me my Keens ('with these seams, you really don't want to be wearing them in all that rain. oh no.') even though he was off-duty.
and i have spoiled myself today with mulled wine and a banana crepe at the German market, followed by jonathan safran foer at the bookstore on princes street. all this while discovering my flatmate angela, her musical interests, her literary interests, and much more. it is good to be on vacation.
Now I can get down to the business of paper number two, alongside the final preparations for a Roman Christmas. Oh yes, and there is a Christmas party tonight, to which I am bringing bread. Of course, I made the dough just now with Liesl, and... it's not doing what it's supposed to do. At all. Like, not by a long shot. It is both too dense and too crumbly. What is together lets nothing else in. What is not together refuses to connect. And will it rise? I am having serious doubts. 10:30 will tell.
I do not want to be valued for what I do and do not know or what I have and have not done any more than I want to be valued for what I do or do not look like, sound like, walk like, or any number of impressions which are, essentially, superficial to myself. What I have done is not always in my own power—I did not choose to live in the suburbs any more than I chose to live in the jungle. And though I chose
two weeks of writing papers,
one, on narrative ending
the other on subject and subjection... or subjectivity
also, reserving accomodations
browsing in the German market
fighting wind and rain
burrowing in the library with literary criticism and Marxist theory
I could not get this song imbedded in my blog, and so I am going to post the link below and let you listen to it on your own. It has been in my head for days, and I think it strangely expresses all that i ever want to say...
, at least, for now. (also reminds me of driving with foggy windows 'round wheaton, windshield wipers keeping time, jacket to the chin.)