Experiment

It closes at 4. I feel like I'm forgetting something. I only need this my ID card and my apartment key-card. Okay. Go. Linger. Why is it so hard to leave? Just go. Won't take 20 minutes. My door wails so loudly and doesn't shut properly. Nothing to really steal in there--my computer's not even that great. Trombone. Stealable for sure. I need to play it. Like starting over. The worst part is lips hurting. No--random zits on your lip. Much worse. Embarrassing. At least at Central they all know you're a brass player. Here I'm just going to look like I have herpes or something. These stairs are disgusting. Sticky brown smear on the floor. Don't fall. Empty bottle at the top. They really are a bunch of drinkers. Downpour. Pour down. Hood, zipper, pockets. Ready. Door number one. This little middle chamber is weird. Push the button to get out. What is this for? Must be to let people in. That's stupid too though--you could just open the door like normal instead of the button. Maybe they don't like doors to be locked on one side. The don't do a lot of efficient and logical things here. Like email mail notices dammit. Just have to walk around and check every post every day. I sound lazy. Leather is grand. Boots grand. Have to thank Mom. They are loose now though. I'm glad. Maybe I don't have monster feet. Or hobbit feet. Not attractive. Always worried cause Whit's so nice. Her feet aren't tiny or anything either though. None of ours are. Whatever. Feet are the least of the worries. Cross street. Hate this street. Lights are pointless. Everything is the same color today--gray. Grass looks gray. Tree looks gray. No leaves. Not on the ground. They always take them away. Leave nature alone. Concrete benches would be a good picture. She looks scared. Pink scarf over her head, clutching...plates? That's weird. Please don't run into me man. And wipe your glasses off. That's why you can't walk straight. Maybe you're drunk already. You could use a pink scarf on your head. Maybe I was on the wrong side of the walkway. Drive on the other side here, maybe they walk on the other side too. Doesn't seem like it. I'm a meanderer. Mean der-er. Anderer. To ander...rubish. Rubish much cooler than garbage. All these doors automatic. Floor's wet. Don't fall. I don't trust you. That guy smells like smoke. What?! You smoke too? I thought you were a music guy. I guess they all smoke. Please don't smoke. Deal breaker that is. Doesn't matter. Didn't bring money. Good thing. Close at four. Twenty minutes. There's no one in here. I don't want to ring the bell--rather just wait. "Hello" "Hi, I'm supposed to have a package and it's not at the apartment post room so I wanted to see if it were here" Everyone has dark hair. "okay, where do you live?" You have a nice voice. "River" "Alright" It's probably not here. You're going to look anyway though. Oh no now that woman is coming in here. They talk quietly here too--can't even hear what he's telling her. "Is it registered?" I don't know what that means. "Registered?" "Yeah" You're helpful. "I don't think so..." "I'll check the red list." "Okay" What the hell is the red list? This guy is still looking around the room. "I don't think so...you checked with the apartment postroom already?" "Yeah a little bit ago" My voice sounds different to me in my head than when I hear it recorded or something. Less mannish...less flat at least in my head. Maybe that's why I can't sing--have a different timbre in my ear. "Hm" Stalling. It's not here. Get back here woman and tell me it's not here so I can just leave and stop being awkward. Occupy myself with all this postage stuff taped to the window. I don't know what the point of any of it is. A piece of him..beetles o'er his base into the sea. Random line to put in Ulysses. Something something deprive your sovereignty of reason. Should that be overtly worried? Hands in the air what the hell are you thinking man?! Or more like something creepy. Like I could say it in his ear or whisper it and be more intense. Yelling it would be easier. Going to be terrible. I can't act. I can pretend. Fake laugh is my best performance. Got that one down. "What's your name?" "Lyndsay Wulf" Don't spell it. Hate spelling it for nothing. They can read. She's gone again. He's still here. He hasn't been here before. Usually just 3 or 4 woman scuttling around. Well, I'm sure he's been here before. We haven't been here at the same time before how's that? Do not assume. Shouldn't assume they can read. Maybe I should have spelled it. "No, you're not on the list Lyndsay" "Okay I'll just check tomorrow" You look like you're going to say more. Let me go. "Sorry about that Lyndsay" why do you keep saying my name? "Thanks for looking" smile, leave. Very antisocial. That wasn't even social. That was business. Whatever. Can't talk. Don't make me talk. Well, I have one tortilla in the fridge. Quesadilla for dinner still and option. And leftovers. All's not lost. Lotus eaters. Tunisia. 9 days. Black ships. Poor Odysseus. I'm going to think Homer was a real guy. Doesn't matter if he was blind and doesn't matter if he could write. It's more interesting if it's one guy coming up with the story than if it's some sort of centuries old compilation. Doesn't matter. No harm believing either way. What is the line...if you ever loved me...but in Shakespeare. If thou didst ever love me? No! If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart blah blah blah don't poison yourself Horatio. That's it. Why does Horatio love Hamlet? Don't fall. Very crisp fall. Not fall. It's autumn here. No. The other way around. I don't remember anymore. Guinness is the Irish man's lotus. But I haven't met a single Irish person that likes Guinness. It'd be like my hating starbucks just cause I'm from Seattle. Not so. Anyway. Horatio...why is he so patient and calm all the time? Why does he love Hamlet? Hamlet loving Horatio not so much a mystery. These puddles are huge. Leather. Love that sound. Horatio is like the drop box garbage can journal blog composition therapist...receptical of Hamlet's thoughts and Horatio never says anything. It's always yes my lord aye my lord you're right my lord of course. One time he says no is when he's afraid he's going to be led off the dreadful summit of the cliff. There's no one else walking here and you just have to brush by me. Sorry for being in your way jerk. That's when he's most animated. Don't die my lord that would be tragic and I'd have to kill myself too. And then at the end it's just now cracks a noble heart. I always read it angrily. Carnal bloody unnatural acts rawr anger you guys suck. My sweet prince is dead and you come marching up like what the heck happened man? Why does he love him? Seriously. Hamlet doesn't listen to him anyway. I guess people love the person who will listen to them. I don't trust you. Not going to work out. Ron Weasly is in that window. Should look for that online. Don't come here. Can't trust you. Wish I had the Fellowship. Been more than ten years. I'm older. Older than you. Explains a lot. Impermeable. Jeans aren't. Pretty soaked. No more hood. Did people really get deathly ill from walking in rain? Seems rather pathetic. Weak woman stereotype. Maybe it's true. Don't assume. God, Mason is such an idiot. Igit. Maybe he's just high all the time. Don't talk to me. It's raining you see. Don't feel like singing. Singing! Have to sing on Thursday. Wow really? I thought I'd never have to say that again. At least it's Irish and the whole class. Everyone can sing here. How does that happen? can't be innate. Thesis material that is. Hate writing essays. Never going to grad school--save money, less work, fewer years for school to be priority. I haven't seen a single ant here. Even with the crumbs. Card. Why do I always have a minor heart attack when I get to the door? Stupid. Calm the fuck down. Card's right here. Don't really like my hair sticking to my face. Time to cut it—getting out of hand. What am I going to do? You can't leave me alone. It'd all be easier if you would. Don't know if I'll ever trust you. Read. Have two more of Joyce and two more of Homer tonight. Plan: tea, quesadilla smothered in tapatio. Tapa. Tio. Midday-lunchish-sanwhich-like-variety-uncle. Can you have one tapa? Or are they always plural. Ask Julian. More tea, read forever, email, laundries, read some more, sleep when it comes. My door didn't shut.

Stream of Consciousness. Mine is less random than Joyce's. I'll work on that.

My poetry teacher is pissing me off. I've taken all of 5 lines of notes in the last three classes. He's STILL talking about what literature is. It's a poetry class. Talk about poetry man. The next few classes are going to be history of English as a discipline in schools...what the hell.

Film is turning into a class I'm more used to--rapid note taking the whole time. This Friday is Psycho. I think Silence of the Lambs is the last one. I'm not going to be here though. I'm not sad about that.

I'm pretty sure my male Irish roommate is drunk and so are his friends. They were here and then when they left the first time one of them walked down the hall banging on the walls and yelling shit. Then they came back and were here for a little bit and then they left again and more hitting the walls and this time yelling bitch and cunt and fuck randomly. I can't imagine that being aimed at me. I've seen that guy four times so far. I locked my door anyway.

I fell asleep reading for about an hour today. It was nice though. My accidental naps are usually far longer than an hour.

This is dinner tomorrow. Wish me luck.
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