It's never too late.

And I mean flushed in the non-bathroom sort of way

Weighing my pockets with stones of longing

Especially when those days are Saturday and Sunday.

They always come crawling back

It has been a really long time since I wrote in my actual book journal. In between the last pages are stuck a handful of near-illegible notes on the remaining days of the Mali trip, and I think the prospect of finishing that entry and getting wrapped up in memory keeps me from writing. I also haven't posted here in a long time. I feel like nobody reads it, anyway, except me, probably because I never update regularly. Hell, I don't read it because I never update regularly. This brings me to the eternal string of questions: why do I want other people to read my journal? do I want other people reading my journal? do I have self-centered issues? do I need more friends? do I want to be a professional writer?

Somehow, if someone is reading this every once in a while, I should post something interesting. I enjoy reading other people's journals because of a natural curiosity about everyday life. I think I like entries best when they're not tooo depressing, and the words are a little poetic, and there's some spirit in them... Something unique that either I identify with or find completely foreign. La litterature de l'Autre. Terra incognita.

So, what can I write about? The other day I saw an exorbitant amount of baby animals in one place, and it was a matter of coincidence, not a petting zoo. I suppose spring time tips the scales in favor of fuzzy babies a little, but still it's rare to see so many at once in the wild, I think. There were two families of ducks with little twittering hyper babies, a big family of geese with awkward but endearing babies, a tiny bunny hiding in a bush, and a plethera of little squirrels.

Ew. I just re-read that paragraph. Creepy.

I had dinner with the Mali folk today at Burton, and yet again was separated from Noah by a long expanse of crowded table. I e-mailed him to acknowledge that we hadn't had a chance to talk, and that maybe we ought to have a reunion in honor of that crazy night in Bamako at a West African Tex Mex restaurant where I drank a huge cuba libre and we all ate chili and watched football...

I'm worried about getting my work done. School here is hard. Fall term I was having doubts as to my compatibility with the liberal arts pressure experience, then I had a break in Mali, and now that I'm back it's a little better, but it's like getting back in the cage once you've been out for a while and the prospect of freedom is long distant. *sigh* I wish I didn't have things scheduled forever and ever in advance now. Is that what this is supposed to be about? I like spontaneity. I like not knowing. That's the thing about these collegiate types (raises hand), they forget the value in saying "I don't have the slightest idea." It shows room for improvement. And that is exciting.

Theo and I went for a nice walk today after I helped him carry film equipment to Nourse. We played on a storage cart, went in the arb, goofed around, sat on a bench to watch a gorgeous sunset behind the tattered brick of Evans. We had a long conversation in multiple languages that, though sometimes hard to follow, was still really great communication. It's been so long since we've had a lot of time together. It's rough having reluctant obligations. After that one night when we talked things out a bit, it's been better. It's really not bad, just depressing how much we want to see each other versus how much we can. This summer is going to be nice, assuming I can get a place to live. A few weeks where we can hang out and be fun and living on our own. I miss the week we had in Ely. I miss Ely in general, too.

The way things are going to work out this summer, I hope, are like this: I'll go home for a week after finals to organize stuff, buy fabric, snag the sewing machine, get books together, see some friends, and wind down. Then I'll come back to campus, with any luck I'll have a room, and I can keep my job translating and transcribing letters for the history department. Which should be fun and not take up too much time. The rest of it will be spent frolicking with Theo and watching movies and working on projects and then celebrating when Sierra arrives. I might even see Kate while I'm here. One weekend I'll go to the family reunion and survive my grandmother, who is apparently becoming quite mean. It'll be fun to see Caitlin for once after her flight into the vacuum that is Jared and Love and Wisconsin. She says she's moving to Chicago in August.

In July Mom will pick me up on the way to Ely for a couple of weeks. I am so excited about going back. All that fresh air and water and our beloved rotting cabin. I'm looking forward to seeing Brian, but I'm worried that it will be awkward vu the events of last year. I don't want it to be, but I can't speak for him. We'll see, I guess. I wish he weren't depressed. I can't help but worry that I have some part in that. Granted, our story torments me too, but he's the one left feeling guilty. After that failed attempt to kiss me and all. Good lord, how crazy is this? I still can't believe it. How long, how often, how much did I dream about this, wish for this, think of him, talk and worry and kick myself about this? It's a classic childhood romance gone persistant. Ugh. Am I supposed to grow out of this flutter sometime soon? I certainly have practical instincts and smart plans, i.e. not wanting to screw up this awesome thing I have with Theo because of an antiquated fantasy. But somebody has to give me a break here. It's like a fairy tale, but just one thing went wrong... What will I think of this in twenty years, I wonder? Even if I'm over thinking that it would work, that doesn't mean I'm over thinking about it more often than I'm willing to admit. Ely is such a bundle of spectacular and thrilling confusion, in almsot every respect. It's so separate from my perception of the "real" world, but it's so much a part of my "real" existence, as vague as that is...

One other interesting facet of Ely: Hudson. The boy who wrote me an e-mail, recalling that we had our first class together 2A Fall term freshman year and referring to me as "belle fille." I have two questions. One: does he have a crush on me? Two: What are the odds we will hang out in Ely? That would be hilariously weird. But potentially very funny.

*sigh* as thrilling as this is, I feel that I should retire. I miss journalling. I feel like I've drained a little bit of brain pressure, and now that I've written once, I'll probably be inclined to write again, particularly if I have homework to avoid, which is inevitable.

Cheerio, lecteurs silencieux. A plus tard.

Bintou/Allison Claire

P.S. Did I mention that Mom and I are becoming "friends"? During our last phone conversation she listed sex as one of those "creative, expressive activities" for which she can't overcome her self-conscious awkwardness. Sad. My Dad needs to shape up.

LONG catch up entry at 11:16 p.m.