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Whose train of thought?

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Old subway lines

January 2007
February 2007
March 2007
April 2007
May 2007
June 2007

Favorite terminals

Aliza, the hodgepodge
Brian, the happy obituarist
Carljoe, bayaw sa klase at kanto
Daryll, the free migrant
Den, the travelling feline
Egay's friendster kundiman
Egay's lj kundiman
Em, the punch-drunk daisy
Gabby, girl with ribbons undone
Gloria, going places in her jeans
Ian, sandwichspy eating the sun
Jeline, with her random shrapnel
Joel, the rambling soul
Kit, with an eternal itch
Kuya Zivan, high on acid42
Larry's highest hiding place
Maita, going beyond the sunrise
Margie, in a dirty shirt
Mika, the dog woman
Mikael, may abo sa dila
Mitzie, between moons and eggs
Nikko, with his pebbles and sex
Ning, in her little tugboat
Peachy, with patolas and doughnuts
Rabbi, posing on the proskenion
Tintin, detoxing on the couch
Twinkle, traveling light
Vlad, the dirty pop machine
Wanda, warcar at pansitan
Waps, on the old road
Yol, nababaog na nga ba?
Zia, wandering without subtitles

Monday, January 29, 2007
8:45 PM

I Get a Shiver in My Bones Just Thinking about...

Ok, so the weather's been on my mind a lot. I check the online weather site every day to see how cold it'll be and how many layers I have to wear (for this entire week, it'll be between -4 to -15 degrees Celsius, which means: 3 layers on top + hat + scarf + gloves + tights + thick socks + jeans + sneakers = waddling like a penguin in the snow). So don't snap at me if you happen to catch me online and I go on about slipping on icy sidewalks or how this is almost 40 degrees colder than what I've been used to my entire life. Yesterday, Elmo reminded me, "kamusta means how are you?, not what's the weather like?" Oo nga naman... Well by the force of will my lungs are filled and so I breathe...

* * *

Funny how winter's affected my in-class persona. I've been a lot less hesitant to speak my mind, reciting 2-4 times in a 2-hour session. I think, tangina, I walked for fifteen minutes in the fucking snow, and will walk back home again, I'd better make this worth my while. I've gotten the hang of this grad school discussion thingy (where I don't let words like "thingy" slip), of asking open-ended questions, of not colliding with someone else's voice at the last minute.

As for my appetite... let's just say that today I baked some sole fillets (with lemon pepper and olives) roasted some potatoes (with butter and parsley and rosemary), tossed a salad (with roasted red pepper and parmesan vinaigrette), and snacked on turones de kasoy. In the fridge, I have leftover chicken tikka masala, basmati rice spiced with cumin and turmeric, a bowl of mixed berries, and copious amounts of orange juice. I'm eating better
(look, Ma, a well-balanced meal! and Irish oatmeal and fruit for breakfast!) than I was months ago, when I kept having meat cravings and never had fruit, but I think I'm also eating a lot more. I'm such a fan of my own cooking, haha. My new specialty, thanks to cousin Summer, is creamy orange chicken (with cremini mushrooms, peas, carrots, and white wine). Hala. Well, as Maita always says, It's winter. Time to get fat.

* * *

V. S. Naipaul's A Way in the World has been a joy to read. Compared to the previous novels (Achebe's Arrow of God and Soyinka's Isara) I've had to read for my Postcolonial Lit class, this one held my attention from the very first paragraph -- probably because the narrator, a wannabe novelist who always feels like a stranger/tourist even in a place he used to call home, seems very familiar to me. Every few pages, I have to stop and let an idea sink in (which is probably why I'm still only halfway done), or underline a passage that resonates with stuff I'm beginning to think more about. Like the question of race and identity in this city with its surface multiculturalism. Sometimes I feel this internalized pressure to not forget where I've come from, to not give the impression when I'm interacting with people that I'm at home in this city... because I'm not, and I'm aware of being a racialized/ exoticized/ sexualized other even in the classroom... But at the same time it's been pointed out to me I may be insisting on this difference, even when I don't have to. This is murky stuff I have to deal with in my mind, in my own time. I wonder though how this experience is changing me, has changed me, and what it'll be like when I do go home to Manila, whenever that'll be. Naipaul's narrator says:
"To go back home was to play with impressions in this way, the way I played with the first pair of glasses I had, looking at a world now sharp and small and not quite real, now standard size and real but blurred; the way I played with my first pair of dark glasses, moving between the dazzle and the coolness; or the way, on this first return, when I was introduced to air-conditioning, I liked to move from the coolness of an air-conditioned room to the warmth outside, and back again. I was in time, over the years, and over many returns, to get used to what was new; but that shifting about of reality never really stopped. I could call it up whenever I wished. Up to about twenty years ago whenever I went back I could persuade myself from time to time that I was in a half-dream, knowing and not knowing."
But despite this half-knowing, he also says, at the end of the first chapter:
"With learning now I can tell you more or less how we all came to be where we were.... I can give you that historical bird's eye view. But I cannot explain the mystery of Leonard Side's inheritance. Most of us know the parents or grandparents we come from. But we go back and back, forever; we all of us go back to the very beginning; in our blood and bone and brain we carry the memories of thousands of beings. I might say that an ancestor of Leonard Side's came from the dancing groups of Lucknow, the lewd men who painted their faces and tried to live like women. But that would only be a fragment of his inheritance, a fragment of the truth. We cannot understand all the traits we have inherited. Sometimes we can be strangers to ourselves."

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Sunday, January 28, 2007
11:28 PM

Snow
by Margaret Avison

Nobody stuffs the world in at your eyes.
The optic heart must venture: a jail-break
And re-creation. Sedges and wild rice
Chase rivery pewter. The astonished cinders quake
With rhizomes. All ways through the electric air
Trundle candy-bright disks; they are desolate
Toys if the soul's gates seal, and cannot bear,
Must shudder under, creation's unseen freight.
But soft, there is snow's legend: colour of mourning
Along the yellow Yangtze where the wheel
Spins an indifferent stasis that's death's warning.
Asters of tumbled quietness reveal
Their petals. Suffering this starry blur
The rest may ring your change, sad listener.

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Tuesday, January 23, 2007
3:04 PM

goodbyes and other pound-ings

Last Sunday, the housemates decided to go up on the roof at midnight and eat the chocolate cake Nathalie had baked. It was Nathalie's second to the last night with us, and we wanted to do something special. We stepped out of the 3rd floor window, climbed the sloping part of the roof to the flat surface covered in ice and snow, and looked up at a clear sky and a great view of downtown Toronto (no pictures, as most of the cameras wouldn't work in -8 degrees Celsius weather). Nathalie said she didn't like saying goodbye, so I didn't, and just hugged her, and we danced a little on the roof. Later, while sipping hot tom yam goong and bandaging my right thumb (which I'd cut against the metal roof ledge while sliding down), I thought about how Nathalie came to live with us, and how temporary our living arrangements are...(Fresh from Paris, she had just started work at a coat store along Queen St., where Ben happened to be shopping. He struck up a conversation, found out she was looking for a place, he said we had an extra room in the house, and days later she moved in and had dinner with us.) It all seems so random and ephemeral and wonderful nevertheless, the friendships and connections I've made in this city...

* * *

I've been tackling Pound's Pisan Cantos (LXXIV - LXXXIV), and can't help but be informed by the context in which they were produced... Pound wrote them in 1945 during the 7 months he was detained in a disciplinary camp for military/war criminals near Pisa, Italy --- where, for the first 3 weeks he was kept isolated in an open-air, barbed wire cage, until he broke down physically and emotionally, and was transferred to the building, where he recuperated and wrote. What I find impressive is all the allusions he supplies from memory, aided by the 2 books he had with him: a volume of works by Confucius, and a Chinese dictionary. But what I LIKE is the quality of tenderness in these cantos, the snippets of dialogue and details from his life in the camp... There are definite chinks in his intellectual armor here, probably since he didn't know whether he'd be executed or not, whether he'd see his wife and mistress and daughter again. Though the verse is peppered with dry jibes such as:
"the army vocabulary contains almost 48 words
one verb and participle one substantive
one adjective and one phrase sexless that is
used as a sort of pronoun
from a watchman's club to a vamp or fair lady"
there are also lyrical passages that show us a glimpse of his tender side, like when he says "beauty is difficult" and is
"measured by the to whom it happens
and to what, and if to a work of art
then to all who have seen and who will not" (LXXVI)
and when he says:
"your eyes are like tigers,
with no word written in them
You also have I carried to nowhere
to an ill house and there is
no end to the journey.
The chess board too lucid
the squares are too even...theatre of war...
"theatre" is good. There are those who did not want
it to come to an end" (LXXVIII)
and when he ends with:
"nothing matters but the quality
of the affection ---
in the end --- that has carved the trace in the mind" (LXXVI)

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Sunday, January 21, 2007
2:56 PM

on mozarello and other artists

So at 3 a.m. the other day, as I was being lulled to sleep by Pound's Cantos (we had to read cantos I-LI for one class, roughly 207 pages of dense, fragmented, highly allusive stuff), one fragment jumped out at me -- about the inelegant death of Mozarello, a 16th century Mantuan poet who was murdered by villagers:
"...Mozarello
Takes the Calabrian roadway, and for ending

Is smothered beneath a mule, a poet's ending,

Down a stale well-hole, oh a poet's ending."
If only there were more moments of levity in the Cantos, between the sections of heavy-handed preaching and historicizing that sometimes feels like an extended exercise in alienating the reader. We had a good discussion in our Limits of Attention class, though -- about why many political poets are accused of being anti-lyrical; about our era's obsession with internal moods as opposed to passions that have a stronger capacity to effect ethical change; about the quality of difficulty in poetry; about how Pound compels attention by accumulating details and trusting the reader to make connections between stories and Cantos. Ah ewan. Basta I'm not a fan of Pound; and can now say I've actually read him. On to the Pisan Cantos next week...

* * *

Despite the antisocial tendencies, I'm starting to enjoy talking to strangers who turn out to be interesting, creative people. Last night, at Laura's birthday party, I met Hamutal, who's taking her Ph.D in Philosophy and has the saddest eyes I've ever seen on a woman, and her childhood friend Arieh, a photographer and blogger. Here's his shot of a typical Toronto subway car with red seats, empty as Morpheus' dream train.

* * *

The other night, I watched Lars von Trier's Five Obstructions with Richard, and was both amused and blown away. The premise is simple, if a bit sadistic (yes, coming from the director who made Breaking the Waves, Dancer in the Dark, and Dogville -- probably the most disturbing and "thoughtfully disgusting" film I've ever seen): von Trier asks his film idol and teacher, Jorgen Leth, to remake a short film, Perfect Human, Leth made in 1967. The catch is that he has to remake it five times using restrictions von Trier formulates (ex. remake it as a cartoon, or using just 12 frames per edit, or set in "the most wretched place on Earth" -- which, to Leth, is the red light district in Bombay, shown here in the picture behind a transparent screen). It's a wonderful film about creativity blossoming under restrictions, about amorphous mentor-student relations, about an artist's need to risk failure. The fifth "remake," written by von Trier from Leth's point of view and spoken by Leth but making fun of von Trier, is a deliciously layered exercise in perspective, and a moving reflection on art. At the end, I found myself wishing someone would push and impose those sort of restrictions on me, to jolt me out of this complacency.

* * *

Great late night music: Yo La Tengo's The Sounds of the Sounds of Science, -- eight tracks the band composed to accompany underwater documentaries by Jean Painleve. Dreamy, textured, ambient layers of music with such titles as "How Some Jellyfish are Born" and "The Love Life of the Octopus" make me want to dive under the duvet and sink deeper into the calm ocean of sleep.

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Saturday, January 13, 2007
5:06 PM

back to school

(The grey building with the red tower is the English department, in winter)

So the first week of winter term classes just ended, and I'm excited about getting into the rhythm of work again, after being lazy and winter-mopey for weeks. Last Tuesday, I had my first (free!) beer of the term with three Creative Writing buddies after class -- and Helen told us funny stories about a couple of writers she knows who spent 3-4 months in the wilds of Alberta to be forest fire-watchers while working on their respective novels. Daniel and I contemplated this career option, and he promised me Bloody Caesars during his launch/reading on Thursday for sending copies of his poetry book, Predicting the Next Big Advertising Breakthrough Using a Potentially Dangerous Method, to the Philippines. At the launch, I got to talk to poet Don McKay, who graciously allowed me to join the poetry writing seminar he's conducting as part of his Writer-in-Residence job.

(This is the same view of the English Department, in summer)

For my Limits of Attention class, we're going to read from Pound's Cantos, Ginsberg's Collected Poems, Ashbery's Flow Chart, and Stein's Making of Americans to...umm...test the limits of our attention, and pay attention to the encyclopedic impulse of these poets. And for my Postcolonial Lit and the World on Paper class, we're going to read at least 9 interesting novels by Achebe, Soyinka, Naipul, Brodber, Danticat, Ondaatje, Marechera, Vladislavic, and Kincaid. Looks like the next 12 weeks of the term are going to be reading-heavy. Here we go!

==> And this is Robarts Library, where I borrow most of my books. Looking at this picture cheers me up -- how can you not admire the talent and humor of an architect who designs a major library in the shape of a turkey/peacock?

* * *

On another note, I've been thinking about how amazed I am when encountering generosity in others. How generosity has less to do with class and resources, and more to do with spirit -- and how the experience of it inspires the recipient to be generous in turn. Generosity has gifted me with Calvino's Hermit in Paris and Auster's The Red Notebook. Generosity has allowed me to borrow and to share Wong Kar Wai's Chungking Express. Generosity has baked me fish and made me salads and left me milk in the fridge. Generosity had me running around different shops in search of the perfect journal. Generosity shakes the cobwebs from childhood stories, reawakens the fingers' talent for backrubs, and lets you sleep in just a few minutes longer on a lazy Saturday morning.

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Wednesday, January 10, 2007
5:57 PM

you were vast unto others
by Jen Bervin

date the paper -- it's your early work --
date the spaces -- it's late --
write -- be late with you --

write to get lost in the day -- get the time from
friends -- make them a memorable meal --
and forget what you made --

write you waste nothing -- write -- nothing is
wasted on you -- write it on your hand --
write + you are not too old to write on your
hand -- write there is still space there -- and
you have been in it --

write the precise points -- that touch -- the
rivers of energy in the body -- enter them and
tell me -- if they are still wet -- tell me where
they've been -- tell me -- who touched you all
winter -- tell me -- who you'll remember in
spring --

tell me where you've been necessary --
the mercury in the snow -- the river in light --

(Read the rest of the poem here...)

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Monday, January 08, 2007
9:56 PM

Christmas Eve Couch Potatoes




I'm pretty sure the space beside my mom on the couch was (unconsciously?) reserved for me. Thirteen hours later...












... on the other side of the world, I was sitting on another couch, eating strawberries and ice cream with lovely housemates before our DVD fest.

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Sunday, January 07, 2007
10:23 PM

Where Do I Begin

For the first time in a long time, I'm quietly happy. Despite the bandaged thumb, the sniffles, the dwindling resources, the homesickness, the fact that winter term classes start this Tuesday, and the frustrating knowledge that the fact I'm not Canadian closes me off to scholarships and literary contests and other opportunities available to my peers. Today I received so much: Sunday morning backrubs, freshly brewed coffee and the New York Times and the thought of waffles, more hugs than I'd gotten in a month, the return of a friend who's more like a sister now, turones de kasoy, books I'd requested from my shelves back home, notes and little gifts from dear friends I miss, and this reemerging capacity for tenderness. Despite everything, I'm still pretty lucky. I just need to get through this year and this grad school ordeal I've gotten myself into with more resolve and groundedness.


* * *

Museum
by Robert Hass


On the morning of the Kathe Kollwitz exhibit, a young man and woman come into the museum restaurant. She is carrying a baby; he carries the air-freight edition of the Sunday New York Times. She sits in a high-backed wicker chair, cradling the infant in her arms. He fills a tray with fresh fruit, rolls, and coffee in white cups and brings it to the table. His hair is tousled, her eyes are puffy. They look like they were thrown down into sleep and then yanked out if it like divers coming up for air. He holds the baby. She drinks coffee, scans the front page, butters a roll and eats it in their little corner in the sun. After a while, she holds the baby. He reads the Book Review and eats some fruit. Then he holds the baby while she finds the section of the paper she wants and eats fruit and smokes. They’ve hardly exchanged a look. Meanwhile, I have fallen in love with this equitable arrangement, and with the baby who cooperates by sleeping. All around then are faces Kathe Kollwitz carved in wood of people with no talent or capacity for suffering who are suffering the numbest kinds of pain: hunger, helpless terror. But this young couple is reading the Sunday paper in the sun, the baby is sleeping, the green has begun to emerge from the rind of the cantaloupe, and everything seems possible.

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Saturday, January 06, 2007
2:01 AM

Slice of Life

I just had a mini scare. I'd slept way earlier than usual (10pm, haha) but woke up past midnight hearing housemates chatting in the kitchen. Feeling hungry, I decided to join them and to toast some bread and cheese. So I got out the Spanish Manchego and had a little trouble slicing its fresh-from-the-fridge hardness. And then the cheese slicer slipped, and I saw part of my left thumbnail (maybe half of
the top 1/3, from left to right) sliced. At first I was like, Oh, no big deal, I just cut my nail. Carina told me to wash it under cold water -- so I did, and it started to hurt like hell and bleed a little. Nilo handed me tissue and told me to apply a little pressure -- so I did, and started to feel frantic. Tangina, ang sakit! If this is a dream, I want to wake up! What do I do? Cold shivers ran down my back, and I felt my lips and cheeks tingling, like I was losing color. "I need to sit down," I said, and found a kitchen stool.

Next thing I knew, something cold was being wiped on my lips and forehead and cheeks. I opened my eyes and felt like I was hurtling upwards out of a ravine, and stared straight into Nilo's eyes. I was sitting down, leaning against Ben. And I got really scared, realizing I had fainted. They kept reassuring me I was ok, that I was only out for around 7 seconds. Nilo said she had clipped the nail to the point where it was safe, and she just had to apply antibacterial ointment (from Ben's huge first aid kit, which was one of his mother's Hannukah presents) and bandage it. So at my request, Carina sang to distract me (she can barely keep a tune) and I refused to look at my thumb until it was finished. So now they've exempted me from washing dishes (yehey!) and I just need to replace the band-aids daily until the nail starts growing back. Hmm, at least now I have a good (if unglamorous) conversation starter for a third date.

Two things: 1) I'm really glad I have my housemates around, I don't know what I would've done if I were alone. 2) Now I know what it feels like to faint. It's scary, that upward rush toward consciousness after the body shuts down. What was my body doing during those 7 seconds? Ben said they thought I was joking at first because my eyes were still open and I'd tilted my head back and made a snoring sound. Then they realized I was out and had trouble breathing, so they panicked too while supporting my head, and fanned me until I came to. Wow. So that's my little bit of excitement on a Friday night. All for a piece of toast with cheese.

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Thursday, January 04, 2007
4:53 PM

How I Became Impossible
Mary Ruefle

I was born shy, congenitally unable to do anything
profitable, to see anything in color, to love plums,
with a marked aversion to traveling around the room,
which is perfectly normal in infants.
Who wrote this? were my first words.
I did not like to be torched.
More snow fell than was able to melt,
I became green-eyed and in due time traveled
to other countries where I formed opinions
on hard, cold, shiny objects and soft, warm,
nappy things. Late in life I began to develop
a passion for persimmons and was absolutely delighted
when a postcard arrived for the recently departed.
I became recalcitrant, spending more and more time
with my rowboat. All my life I thought polar bears
and penguins grew up together playing side by side
on the ice, sharing the same vista, bits of blubber
and innocent lore. One day I read a scientific journal:
there are no penguins at one pole, no bears
on the other. These two, who were so long intimates
in my mind, began to drift apart, each on his own floe,
far out into the glacial seas. I realized I was becoming
impossible, more and more impossible,
and that one day it really would be true.

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Tuesday, January 02, 2007
11:39 PM

"this city was tailor-made for love"

On Christmas afternoon, with all the shops and malls closed, I stayed at home and watched a DVD of Alan Resnais' Hiroshima Mon Amour that Elmo had mailed me, disguised as a GRE reviewer. The screenplay was written by Marguerite Duras, and as I watched it I remembered why/how I fell in love with her writing upon reading the semi-autobiographical The Lover (still one of the most intelligent erotic books on my list). The film tiptoes around the lovers' infidelity to their respective spouses, and doesn't tackle the interracial love head-on; the focus is on the tension between memory and forgetting, between the construction and fragmentation of a self, between personal and communal history (as the story's set years after World War II) --- and the tensions are so ambiguous and intertwined, and edgy. I was surprised the film was made in 1959 --- its fractured stream of consciousness technique, montage of war scenes, parallel shots, and self-consciousness as a narrative, make it feel so contemporary. And while parts of it reminded me of a poem by Dunn, there's always a sense of worlds and stories and unspeakable things hovering above and beyond the lovers themselves. Hiroshima Mon Amour gets away with a bordering-on-trite statement like "You give me a tremendous desire to love," and finishes with the most poignant act of naming I've ever seen in a film.

* * *
"Tell me more. Tell me. In a few years, when I have forgotten you, and other adventures like this one will happen to me from sheer force of habit, I'll remember you as the symbol of love's forgetfulness. I'll think of this story as the horror of forgetting. I already know it."
* * *

Yesterday, I found myself shopping at LCBO for the perfect wine to go with a fish dish someone's cooking for me. But aside from the "red wine for red meat, white wine for light" adage to guide me, I had no idea what I was doing. My family almost always drinks full-bodied red cabernet sauvignons or merlots, so names of whites are foreign to me. Lost among chardonnays and pinot grigios and rieslings, I grabbed a Chilean sauvignon blanc and hoped its promise of "crisp, dry flavor and lingering finish" would hold true. With so many wines available in this country, I should make it a project to at least taste one of the different varieties and form my own opinion. My next task is to get a good pinot noir, which I've always wanted to taste after watching Paul Giamatti's character rave about it in Sideways.

* * *

On to other luxuries... I'm so happy with the Christmas gifts I bought for myself:
1. a really warm brown twill jacket with fur around the neckline and cuffs, which I bought at 50% off at Urban Behavior during Boxing Day (basically this holiday the day after Christmas when ALL shops EVERYWHERE in Canada go on sale...it was crazy seeing people lining up at computer stores and fashion boutiques at 8:30 am)
2. a boxed set of Italo Calvino's Invisible Cities, If on a Winter's Night a Traveler, and Baron in the Trees for $14 (roughly PhP570!)
3. my first "gourmet scent" (after years of using Green Tea): Laurence Dumont's Vanilla Orientale, with hints of vanilla, white musk, coconut, caramel, and aniseed --- sooo yummy! Now let's see if it'll boost the pheromones...

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Monday, January 01, 2007
5:27 PM

So this is the new year...

My New Year's Eve was straight out of a Beckett play, like a scene from Waiting for Godot. Due to unforeseen circumstances, all the other housemates were out partying or out of town, so the only people left were me, my favorite German housemate Carina, and her boyfriend Robert who'd just arrived from Munich the day before. (We don't count the couple in the basement, who have their own little world.) We'd intended to greet the New Year drinking on the roof (perhaps not the brightest of ideas), but since it had been raining all day and the roof was slippery, that plan was shot. So we finished a bottle of wine, moved the couch in front of the huge window in Ben's room, and stared at skeletons of trees against a pinkish-grey sky. With cans of beer in hand, we waited for midnight to roll around. Five minutes before the stroke, the city was still quiet. One of us opened the window and listened.

"Why is nothing happening?"
"No firecrackers or fireworks?"
"Do Canadians celebrate New Year?"
"Maybe they'd rather stay in bars than light fireworks?"
"I have no idea; we're not from around here, remember?"
"Maybe everyone's staying inside because of the rain."
"Maybe our clocks are wrong and we're actually an hour early."
"Maybe our calendars are warped and we're actually a day early."
"Maybe we should call someone."

Carina called Nilo who assured us Canadians did indeed celebrate New Year. But that she had leftover sparklers in her room we could help ourselves to just in case we didn't see any fireworks. So five minutes after midnight, after concluding that our window-watching idea was useless, we opened our beers, lit our sparklers, and did little jigs of joy. Three foreigners in a quiet city, ushering in 2007 with whirling lights and much floor-creaking.
* * *

I've loved my previous New Year's Eves too. I remember drinking passionfruit vodka at the Marikina Riverpark with Kael, EJ, and Mitzie to greet 2004. And having champagne and focaccia with Elmo and his mom for 2005. And spending a cold night watching fireworks from the funeral chapel with my family and the Soncuyas for 2006. This time last year I was sitting in limbo, in an eclipse, all my plans up in the air. Now I'm where I want to be, still slightly homesick, but drinking in every last drop of this experience.
* * *

Pictures and mini-stories:

The Smee Casualty Board! We use the kitchen whiteboard for chore reminders, school and job updates, basic info (we realized after 2 months that we had no idea what each other's last names were), and a tally board for mice. We thought we only had one -- who'd eat only whole wheat bread and sunflower seeds -- and affectionately named it Smee, in a pirate-y mood. Then we discovered we had a family. One mouse entered through the space under my door (one disadvantage to living next to the kitchen) and found its way to my bed (no, I'm not that desperate...yet). Carina and Nilo caught it with an upside down trash can, stuffed it along with my blanket in a garbage bag, and we trekked to the park a block away to "set Smee free!" Except the tame little rodent kept snuggling in my blanket. We had to shake it off...and I had to wash my sheets. Twice. We waged war on Smee's relatives, though, who were only assigned numbers, not names. We caught SIX on sticky paper a month ago, and fervently hope we caught them all. I still have dreams about mice, which I assure you aren't as delightful as the rats dancing in the Nutcracker ballet.

The Gingerbread House! One December night before the term ended, Ben wanted Christmas cookies, and Nilo decided she wanted to make a gingerbread house. So we all chipped in -- my contribution was gladly setting aside my unfinished 20-page paper (on notions of privacy and the female outider in Tennessee Williams' A Streetcar Named Desire and Lillian Hellman's The Autumn Garden) and making a literal midnight RUN (with running shoes and jogging pants) to the supermarket to buy...food coloring. The baking took two hours, and the house smelled exquisitely sugary at 2am. Notice how the gingerbread roof rests precariously on the walls and uncooked spaghetti supports. With the leftover dough, we made a tree, a cat, a bike, the number 62, a heart, a woman, and a man -- which they let me eat, head last.

Ok, no real story here. Just a cute picture by the front door, of me and Carina supposedly saying goodbye to Adam. Me in pigtails, days before I cut my hair short again and dyed it "chocolate cherry -- just a fancy name for burgundy brown (and yes, I share Kate Winslet's character's fascination for haircolor names in Eternal Sunshine, among other quirks). I love how you can see the stark trees as well as the hallway light above our heads. We're there, smiling, with the liquid glass blurring what's inside and what's outside, just within reach.

(More photos coming soon!)

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