Jet lag.

I learned early on to stop asking questions. It seems so irrelevant, the "why" behind the "is". Maybe this mentality is just another form of escapism, of taking the easy way out. Maybe it's a form of survival, of self-preservation, self-defense. Personally, I find actions to be more informative that thoughts, which explains my aversion to psychology, though not so much my love of philosophy. But I can reconcile this. The former pertains to the mind, the latter, the soul. Perhaps philosophy is what lead me to detest questions, for of all the times I asked them, I almost never found an answer. In one way I lament this; in another, I'm relieved. Sometimes there's no answer better than no answer. When digging, it's admittedly frightening to plunge the shovel into the dark mess and immediately clank upon something solid. Oh the irony of insecurity. She craves affection, but once she recieves it, she feels empty, hollow, void. And yet when she provides it to another, which in her case, often requires her to drain herself of energy and emotion, she feels fulfilled.

As I write this, I don't believe in the soul. Or maybe I do, I just don't trust its infallibility. To believe that any part of oneself exists after one perishes requires a great leap of faith. Frankly, I am not ready to make that jump, without the knowledge that a spiritual net exists. So I write these words to protect against my potential transience, fleetingness, nothingness; an insurance policy, if you will, that guarantees at least a trace of permanance, if not immortality.

Tumbleweeds.

Since April, I've been writing for a Jordanian magazine (hence the absence of blog posts since then). Unfortunately, the magazine doesn't yet have a website. When it does, I'll link to it from here.


That's all for now- just an explanation of why I've been e-MIA.

Rust.

It's been too long since I've blogged. It may take a few short posts to get back in the swing of things. I'll have start by describing what I see. I see a computer screen. That won't do- I see a bookshelf above me, filled with only books that I've actually read, all the way through. I have many bookshelves in my room, but the one above my desk is only allowed to hold books that I've read. This stipulation is meant to encourage me to read more, so that when I finish a book, I can place it on this shelf, display it for all to see. I feel like a cheater- or a fraud- when I display books that I haven't actually read. They say you should judge someone by the books on their shelves. I agree. But not when they haven't actually read them. Sometimes I think I like everything about books except for actually having to read them. The finish of the cover, the way they smell, their weight, the sound the pages make when I flip through. I like having finished a book. I hate forwards, prologues, and introductions. This right here is only a beginning.

Full Moon

Last Friday, I went over to a friend's place in the South End for drinks and several rounds of Apples to Apples (an incredible game- play it at once if you haven’t already). We eventually headed out for the evening, and as we were walking toward the car, a dog- it appeared to be some breed of Pointer- came trotting towards us. The dog was clad in a beige cashmere sweater and leather collar, but sported no tags, leash, or owner. As I’d had my fill of exchanges with unfamiliar creatures in the South End, I was content to just keep moving. But my friend Anna felt concern for the homeless-albeit handsomely dressed- hound. She adoringly removed the scarf from her neck and wrapped it around the dog’s. Just as she did so, he began inching away, and then took off down the block. Once he’d reached a safe distance, he stopped to peer back at us. I half expected him to pull out a roll of Mentos and for an overhead voice to declare it the freshmaker, but he simply wagged his tail and continued on. I imagine he’d pulled a similar stunt earlier that day, hence the cashmere. I only hope that whoever it was that had offered up their sweater to the manipulative mutt wasn’t the same person whose coat we unintentionally stole later that evening. After giving up hope on the dog ever returning, we ventured over to Cambridge. One of the perks of living in a college town is the house parties; the downside is that cops always arrive to break them up. I’d almost forgotten this when three of them showed up and started barking orders at everyone. After a series of not-so-pleasant police encounters (one involving a dumpster, two involving taxi drivers, and yet another, an impromptu beach party), I’ve basically been conditioned to run whenever I see anyone in uniform. And that’s exactly what I did. I had enough sense to grab my coat first; not enough, however, to let anyone I was with know that I was bolting. I ran all the way home and passed out on impact. The next morning, I woke up to a slew of missed calls and texts inquiring about where the hell I’d gone. And in the mix was one painfully sweet message from Anna that read, "don't worry, we have your coat." As I stared guiltily at my actual coat, slumped over the side of my desk, I remembered that it had started snowing while I was running home. So thanks to my drink-n-ditch behavior, some poor girl will likely end up with strep throat. At least I can rest at ease knowing that somewhere on the other side of town, a clever canine won't.

Rebellion.

I got a gym membership last Monday. And after reaching my threshold of sloth this past weekend, I decided to use it. HealthWorks came highly recommended to me- it's a women’s only gym, which is supposed to take away the pressure. Uh huh, and being surrounded by perfectly toned twentysomethings really helps to do that. I would have been better of joining Gold’s or some other pumphouse- at least there’s no point of comparision. Too late to back out, I hopped on a treadmill. Just as I started to get into it I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“I was in line for this machine.”

I looked around and saw at least 7 eligible treadmills. “Ok. What’s wrong with that one?” I pointed at the one directly to my right. I mean, come on. “I’m signed up for THAT one.” She pointed right back at mine. I now understand why people resort to violence. If I’d had a weapon in my possession at that moment, there’s no telling what I might have done to this bitch. I stopped the machine and stormed over to the trainer’s office. I grudgingly asked how I could sign up for a treadmill, and she started to go through her spiel of the various machines that the club had to offer.

“I don’t care, I just want to get back on a treadmill. Someone kicked me off of the one I was using.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. Yea, you usually need to sign up.”

“Uh huh.” I had to stare up at the ceiling to keep tears from rolling down my cheeks. “Why couldn’t she have just used any other treadmill?”

“She could’ve.”

As I was visibly distraught, she went ahead and signed me up for 30 minutes, the maximum time allowed on the weekends. I got on the machine, and as it started moving faster and faster, the tears came flowing down. By the time the machine reached full speed I was sobbing. I cried for 11 minutes, and ran for 65. Because screw it. By the time I got off I couldn’t feel my legs, but I’d least I’d showed them. Though I sincerely doubt anyone was watching.

Ketchup.

I said farewell to the Jerry and the South End just over two weeks ago, and moved across the river into Cambridge. I now have a roommate, Patti, who happens to be 57. So far, we get along swimmingly. I live in between Harvard and Porter Squares, and since I've discovered Harvard Sq. to be a whopping disappointment (only two coffeeshops, neither of which serves food), I've spent most my time in Davis Square, notorious for its hipsters. There I found Diesel cafe. Equipped with cozy booths, pool tables, and a undoubtedly intimidating staff, the cafe has become my new Francesca's. The following Monday, I said goodbye to the Atlantic, and spent the rest of the week shopping, a pastime normally reserved for the employed or independently wealthy. But after four months of trudging through the cold in my summer esperadrills, I figured I deserved to indulge. The Ray Ban purchase may have been a bit excessive, but I could think of no better way to achieve coolness. That Friday I went to get a haircut, and just as the hairdresser went to make the first cut, I panicked and decided my hair looked great long. I wonder if I'll ever stop having the "I love my life, I don't want to jump" experience every time I visit the salon. I left there with my hair a quarter inch shorter. Next stop was the nail salon for a pedicure, during which I got a phone call and neglected to pay attention to the stylist's color choice. I left there with bubble gum pick toes, fun for tan summer toes, not so much for pale dead-of-winter ones. I went to dinner that night at a friend's place, came home and proceeded to eat any desserts that Patti had left in the fridge, a habit I formed on my first night, when she fed me a bottle of wine to break the ice and sent me to bed. Starving, I snuck into the kitchen and took a few bites of her Mint Chip ice cream. This habit continued every night that week until the carton was empty. I felt obliged to replace it, and thus begins the cycle. I spent the weekend in New York, and the following Tuesday, I met yet another Midwestern Arab Enthusiast, this time at Simon's, my neighborhood watering hole. So far, the Enthusiast has basically been the highlight of my Simons-Diesel daily regiment, interspersed with too many naps and bouts of unwarranted stress. My mother arrives in town tomorrow for a conference, and when I asked Patti if it was alright for her to stay with us, she told me she'd have to charge $90. I thought she was kidding. Turns out she wasn't. I have the flu right now; the Enthusiast wants to take me for dinner, but I also got an offer for karaoke in Harvard Sq. I'll let you know what option I choose, which, given my aversion to decisions, might turn out to be neither.

60th Anniversary of the Suez Crisis.

Here's a link to my latest piece for The Atlantic Monthly, "Suez in Retrospect", a look back at the 1956 Suez Canal crisis:

http://www.theatlantic.com/doc/200611u/suez

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