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02 September 2007 @ 09:14 pm
Sept = 7  
Well, the rest of the week went a little better. I still feel lonely, but it's not the depressive kind. I recognize that this will be only for a small while and that I can just enjoy the unfolding process. So much to say again, so everything gets their own little paragraph. Aww.

Classes: Things did open up a little the rest of the week, though unlike NWC I feel like I have no real direction in the way the classes will actually go. The syllabus in each gives little in detail, save for homework assignments, but I see no real objectives. Strange. In my "3D Fundies" course (as I call it) we went kindergarten and made sculptures out of wire. I mean, real bendy-twisty wire, no soldering or cool copper. Just bending boring industrial wire into shapes. I wanted to ask for Play-Doh instead. 

Food: Surprisingly good. They had masa ball dumplings in black bean sauce in the veggie counter. I am impressed. I also have had the insane craving for coffee lately, which I usually hardly ever drink, as I'm more of a tea nut. But no, I crave nonstop black coffee with one and a half sugars, as I like it. I've had three decaff cups today.

Farmer's Market: Held on Saturdays in downtown Mo-Town, they close off a brick-cobbled street and let people sell carrots, huckleberries (this being Montana...), potatoes, apples, green beans, and sunflowers. One street over is the crafters' fair, where there are your usual hippies selling knit caps and scarves, people selling jewelry, hand-made wallets, magnets, and all sorts of whatsisms. It's like Apple Hill back home only without the hills and the yuppies from Ohio. I got a pair of tooled leather sandals (as you do) to appear more hippieish, as everyone around here is a registered but down-to-earth greenie.

Kids These Days: Okay, girls of the world-- I have some advice. Don't wear sweats with words like "pink" (unless you are THE Pink,) and "juicy" and "tail" written in jock-block lettering across your ass. It's obscene. Also, don't wear plebian t-shirts with messages like: "I make boys cry," and "You're Never Gonna Get It," because your arse-words are telling a different story. Also also, for the love of God, Mithra, and Sweet Baby Jesus, please pull up your trousers, stop slapping your flip flops and snapping your gum, because nothing says Term Paper Prostitute like a plumber's bum wiggling its way across the oval. R-E-S-P-E-C-T, ladies. Let 'em know it ain't easy and that lovin' doesn't come for free. (Thank you, Madame Alicia Moore.)

Poet's Corner: I found an awesome little room in the library that is filled with donated private libraries of poetry, many of the volumes first editions and/or inscribed by the author. Some are even hand-set, hand-printed copies. I have a literary orgasm and blacked out, waking up surrounded by Neruda. It was a good day.
 
 
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