Monday, August 18, 2003

I am so exhausted and there is so much in my head that I have to empty out. I don't know where to start. Or where to end. Or even what comes in between. But then, in 'The Moveable Feast', Hemingway says something to the effect that all he had to do was write one pure sentence a day. Just one sentence of irrevocable, untaintable purity.

It's been a very nice weekend. Been out dancing and have corns on the soles of my feet to show for it. Been out drinking and the sweet, easy feeling remains.

Met this guy who could dance, like really really dance. Salsa, merengue, mambo, samba; he just twirled me round and round and round till the world came back into perspective again. Pity he's a freshman;), but thanks to him I had a really great time. Then went out for Tex-martinis, sans a damn bloody ID and ID right now translates into passport. So I had to go back home, but A was kind enough to take me there and back, so no harm done.

And my writing's sloping upwards, it never ever did, was always rock steady straight lines. Looks like I'm losing it.

This week should be really busy, with adviser meetings, library tours, health check-ups, etc. And it's slowly settling in. I can't run. Not now anyway.

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