tavie.com

Because of the heavy traffic while driving us home last night, Tante Joan took a shortcut through the Bronx. We drove very close to my old school, Bronx Science, and I didn't feel anything whatsoever about that. I do recall laughing earlier this week at a letter I read in the New York Times Sunday Magazine last week, commenting on Margaret Talbot's February article about teenage girls and cliques. The letter was something along the lines of, "Well, at my school we're all above that and no one is affected by cliques, and I go to Bronx Science." I laughed and laughed, because if I didn't, I might have cried. (That was Hedwig's, I believe. No original thoughts.)

The only way to cure myself of regret is to move forward into some fabulous new reality. Oh, is that all. I'll get right on that. Tomorrow. Or the next day.

Repeat after myself: I do not regret, because I had no other choice. I can not blame myself because it couldn't have gone differently. I am not having much luck finding what I am meant to do. Today I had a lox and onions omelette for lunch and it was quite salty. Last night I took a Benadryl and 5 am to fall asleep and I haven't quite woken up since. About those I may feel regret. Not about high school. Fuck high school.

I need to type up a bunch of boring linguistics things now to study from. Things I already know. So I can feel like I'm doing something. Is this the point of school?

I almost fell asleep tonight in poetry. We're doing T.S. Eliot. I didn't know that; I lost my syllabus weeks ago and missed the previous class. I haven't read any of The Wastelands. Apparently few of my classmates got to it, either. I didn't even have the book with me. I spent the class in a state of near-sleep, perking up near the end to explain to the class something really obvious about symbolism that they didn't seem to be grasping, as if somehow I know more about these things than they do. I didn't even read the fucking poem and I think I can explain to them that one doesn't have to try and superimpose the images of an etherized patient and an evening sky on one another, just to accept the sensations they provoke. Poop.

Steve is 26, I think. Early-late-twenties. You, Kant, Always Get What You Want.

I need to expand my repertoire.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 8:28 PM | shower me with attention