My spirit animal is Oscar Wilde. I was once a child, and like most children I would fantasize that I could time travel, making elaborate lists of what items I would bring with me to specific times and locations. Here is a typical list of things that I would barter: Hersey's bars, bottled water, flash lights, As many quarters as I could carry, Bic lighters. Anachronistic objects that would boggle the minds of the primitive people that I would encounter in my time-traveling adventures. I cannot recall when I first saw the movie Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, but it forever changed how I viewed time travel. What an ingenious concept. To bring figures from the past to the future, pulling them from the oblivion of death and the abyss of time. There is a recurring dream I have, wherein I have brought Oscar Wilde to the present. At first it is challenging, I have to explain the presence of the elegant British man to my friends and neighbors. Find him clothes that satisfy his flamboyant tastes, yet are less conspicuous. We decide on Ed Hardy. Oscar is in an alien world. This current America bears no resemblance to the place he toured in the late 1800's. He is appalled by all facets of our society, though he loves to watch "I Didn't Know I was Pregnant." Eventually he finds a boyfriend and they open an used cook-book store. I love these dreams.

I have this terrible disease where my headphones are always broken. Sometimes only one ear works. Sometimes I have to wrap the chord around and around my finger to hear anything. After a while I forget that they're are broken. I get used to hearing only half of a song. It's like having a long cold, and forgetting what it's like to breath through your nose. It can be frustrating at times. When I hear a new song, beautiful and complex like a swift moving river, I want to hear every note. I want to swim through it in my mind, or to lay on my back and float through it. But I can only hear the rhythm and the faint whispers of melody. You can't just listen listen to half of a Philip Glass song. It's painful.

Dead Week

Sitting alone. In my stale dorm cave. Eating tropical Starbursts and jalapeno chips, and drinking off brand ginger ale. Listening to surf guitar and sewing the crotches back into my jeans, there's little reason to watch the clock. I don't eat the purple Starbursts and I don't study political science. Last night, instead of practicing Conditional proofs, I made a magazine collage called "Signs of the Zeitgeist". If I were a boy I would no doubt have more salacious ways of spending my free time. The truth is that I never have to do laundry again if I choose not to. I know that it is Thursday because it is my mother's birthday. I know that I shouldn't touch my face with my jalapeno powered fingers, but it feels good to massage my temples. I go to class because it's easier than figureing out what to do instead of not going to class. It's sort of like what W.E.B. DuBoise said,"......". I didn't read the chapter assigned on W.E.B. DuBoise. Needless to say, I was not what he envisioned when he wrote about the "Talented Tenth". I don't need makeup when I get enough sleep, but I can never get enough sleep. I know it is Thursday because they served pancakes in the dining hall. I rise and fall from my bed, as punctual as the tide. There will be final exams someday, and someday there won't be. Presently, I am unwrapping Starbursts and that seems to be enough for now.