Utterly and irrevocably distracted.
I can't do homework. I can't focus on any one thing. I keep reverting to the Internet: to recipes, to blog entries. I turn my eyes to the Red Sox game on TV. I text A. I dance to MGMT's "Kids"; mind you, the music is only playing in my head.
Earlier, I had an entire blog entry about today written out in my head; a beautifully eloquent recollection of all the day's occurrences. A cornucopia, have you. Now, however, I barely remember any of the details I so thoroughly recognized today, such as my apple.
I don't know what type of apple I had; it wasn't Red Delicious, and it certainly wasn't Granny Smith. Rather, it was one of those yellow and red ones; the sweeter ones that leave "apple froth" on your lips.
Early this morning, I pranced down the front steps of my dorm, my velvet flats hitting the ground hard. My backpack was slung over my shoulder, and I repeatedly tossed the apple into the air as I boarded the bus. As I sat down, I noticed young man across from me. He watched my engagement with the apple intently; apparently my admiration of the apple's shininess was more entertaining than the drowsy Japanese men that flanked me.
After all had boarded, we departed the dorm and headed into the traffic that creeps ever so slowly downriver and into campus. Growing bored of playing with my apple, I peered over my shoulder and out the window. Hmm. Ducks. I watched them strenuously try to swim upriver, occasionally diving into the water. QUACK, I wanted to say.
It wasn't a bad morning; it was peaceful. In fact, to be exacter, I find most all mornings beautiful. The sun is just rising; the reds and yellows of the eastern sky were as blended as the skin on the apple, shiny and deliciously appealing, that I still held in my left hand. Ah, anticipation. That apple is going to be damn good.
I got off the bus a few stops early in order to enjoy walking the rest of the way to class. I reverted back to tossing my apple back and forth. Finally, as I walked past Calvin Hall, I bit into it; my teeth broke the skin, and juice dribbled down my chin.
It tasted okay.
Other random things from today that I remember:
The desks in the room where my British Literature and Culture class meets; they were graffiti-coated. The girl who sat next to me spent part of class drawing a lovely pattern of ivy on her desk. I satisfied myself by reading all of the 'posts' on mine. First, it was dotted with initials: "DNH + AEK," "AEM + JRL," and even just a simple "MPD." Personally, it kind of makes me want to know what these people's names are. For instance, does Desdemona Nellie Humphrey want to add herself to Aaronius Ethan Keymaster? Does Ace Elmor Millard love Jemima Rolena Luster? Who knows. Maybe even the last acronym stands for "Major Po-Dunk." However, the initials weren't the only fascinating things: there were snakes, snails (no puppy dog tails), advice about life and love, a drawing of a band-aid, one depiction of the male genitalia, and the sentences "Turn off your brain," and--my favorite--"I'm very aroused." (Though it did make me feel a bit dirty to sit in that chair after reading that...)
After class, I headed to the library, where computers are placed in clusters throughout the gigantic room. While searching for scholarly analysis concerning Toni Cade Bambara's "The Lesson," I took notice of the person across from me. They resembled this:
I'm mean; I know this. But when I looked at the person's face; I nearly bust out laughing. Eyes nearly closed, they leaned in towards the computer screen with their teeth barred.
Lunch, surprisingly, was acceptable. I had the pleasure of feasting on spinach salad, some semi-spicy Empress chicken, fruit cocktail, cottage cheese, and even a fortune cookie. (One that so boringly declared that I "will always have good luck in [my] person affairs."
Another simple beauty of the day: as I walking towards the north bridge on my way to the Theatre Building, a butterfly landed on my shoulder. Smiling, I stared at it for a few seconds before shrugging it off. It flew away for a moment, returning to land on my face.
I took pictures of ducks while I was crossing the bridge. They were still attempting to swim upstream, five hours later.
When class was over and I was making my way back to the bus stop, I joined in on a spontaneous game of Frisbee, grabbing my first catch with keys and camera in hand.
"Sweet!" the guys yelled in response. "That even involved some jumping!"
"What can I say?" I shouted back. "I'm skilled."
Yes, I'm skilled; but perhaps at only spontaneous plastic-disc catching, because I certainly am not talented in other areas, such as time-management, stress governance, and emotional breakdown.
So, to end abruptly and informally (and to avoid further contemplation as to how I can make this blog conclude to what I think is "proper") I will leave you with pictures of desks and ducks.