Dad's Birthday

I forgot it. My mother reminded me a few days ago, don't forget your dad's birthday! It's on Thursday. And I did. I forgot. I'm bad with that stuff. Really really bad. Unbelievably bad. The curious thing here is that, who cares? He doesn't care. He's 57...er 8 ish and when was the last time he did anything for his birthday? Or wanted anything. It doesn't logical that I should call. I guess it's a social obligation that I need to conform to. And it's not one I like.

I'm finding it very hard to write a decent blog post at jury duty. They all end up sounding preachy and slightly irritable. I'm wondering if this could possibly be the fact that it is nearly 2 and I have been in this room (which looks like a cross between a free clinic and an airport) since 8.

Why can't I be interesting right now? I don't know. Ask the Sacramento County Courthouse.

The Last Few Days

On Thursday, two days after Tuesday, which happens to be today, I will no longer be a freshman. Freshmen are a curious breed. They tend to giggle profusely and have a tendency to get in the way when there are important things to get done. This is not their fault, we were all freshmen, in High School, and some of us again, in college. They, as we did, will grow out of it.
What I marvel at now is the fact that I will never ever have to be a freshman again. I'll have to be new sometimes, a fresh person, but not a freshman, and being new isn't nearly so bad. It never lasts an entire year, certainly. Because you're a freshman until you're not any more, and you can't escape it until you're a sophomore.
It seems as though we've done it. Most of us, with few casualties.

Dear Lowly Student,

What is your source? What is it? Is it the Fire Sermon? The Elephant Jataka or some other more obscure Buddhist sutra? How do I know that the information that you are presenting is true?

Well, Professor, I don't actually know what my source is. I have been studying far eastern asian religion, and it's philosophy for several years now. I have been reading and watching and listening to information on Buddhism and India for as long as I have been able to. In fact, I feel as though I have a fairly comprehensive understanding of the teachings and, honestly, the religious experience of Buddhism. You are not my only source.
So, when I write an essay I am not going to justify everything with source materials, I will simply summarize, to the best of my understanding, the best answer to the question.

BOT HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW IF YOU ARE RIGHT?

Perhaps you might draw on the fact that you are a PROFESSOR OF THIS STUFF. I think that you might have a good idea of whether or not I am right. So, instead of asking me what my sources are or picking at the sentence structure that I use, why not simply TELL ME THAT I'M WRONG? Thanks.

Write something, then

A combination of fine forces set out to work on me yesterday. The first was my Humanistic Psych class, a class which rarely has actual work, but often results in odd, insubstantial projects. For instance, this weekend I was supposed to have sex for world peace. I did not. This might be a shame, I'm not sure. But, the real point is that today he suggested that we "create something." I, after storming out of my room in a mostly unwarranted grumpy fit, decided to do that. I was going to create. But what?
I wrote a book.
Fine, I didn't write a book, but I did start one. It's no Ulysses, but I like it. I have no aspirations to greatness with this piece of work, it's a metamyth. It's a hero's journey, but I am thoroughly enjoying the process. Yesterday I wrote 2500 words. Guess how many words I wrote today? My great plans as I fell asleep about finding out how Elodie was going to find the temple in the woods and how the mother was going to remove herself from the narrative? Zero. I did not write a damn thing. And now, in bed, as I should be discovering exactly what Charles is going to say when he wakes up in the morning, I am writing a pointless, long over-due blog entry.
I guess it's better to write something.

Many days

It has been many days since I have had the desire to write. Even now I am not interested in this. There was a reunion concert for my old youth chorus. It was held at the Mondavi Center in Davis, which is big and beautiful on the inside, and much to my surprise we mostly filled it. Perhaps not sold out, but there were no large patches with no people, and when we, the alumni choir, performed, there was a huge amount of applause. Not that I do it for the applause or really for he audience at all, I do it to hear the melding of the different tones and to get to be part of a fourth or a second and have my whole body tingle with the beauty of the chords.
I really do miss it. Next year I should audition for the other acapella group on campus, and not screw up the audition.

Human

Taking humanistic psychology, apparently I am supposed to ask myself "Who am I?" and then, after I answer myself, "Who am I really?" I, of course, have no idea who I am, at all let alone "really" but even before the class started I was writing in my red book of "Things that I have done" which is basically a list of reasons that I am an interesting person, in order to convince myself that I am, in fact, an interesting person some of the time. I started a new list this morning too, in the back of the book titled "Things I want to do." There are only two things on that list so far,
I want to have a jelly bean hunt on easter with my children.
I want to be able to guide a raft down the entire American.
The already finished stuff is much longer. My favorite one isn't really something I've done at all. Not really. When I was in first grade I accidentally walked in to the second grade classroom. They were so old, it seemed impossible that I would ever be that old. I am very excited and feel very accomplished to have lived through second grade.
I wonder if that is who I am. Someone who lived through the second grade. I imagine that that is definitely part of it.