Bob, this is why we're friends. What?

I dig this tune . . . and the Allen Ginsberg's cameo in the background.

It's autumn in Gothenburg, I'm walking home to my suburb. Rain falls hard on the city, on every homeless kitty.

Jens Lekman is my favorite person on Earth right now. He makes cleaning a breeze. And of course, he sounds great too.  But I think those two are associated. 

Woke up today, just called to say, your body's cold and you're going nowhere.

The weekend. It was rough. I had so much work that I needed to catch up on, that at some point I hit the limit of my stress level, changed into some suitable clothes, and went outside for a run. Exercise relieves stress right? It was nice (or as nice as it could be) running through the barren countryside into the town, through the bustling streets, parks, detouring to the market, meeting up with John who was already there, picking up berries imported from Mexico, grabbing brunch with him at the cafe, and parting ways for the run back home. The weather was warmed up so much that it felt so fresh, renewed, like the way air smells after spring rains. The early Spring flowers are even starting to bloom, spattering a landscape of brown with little specks of bright greens and yellows. 

After the run, I decided that this year I'm going to grow more than a window garden (because I can). I surveyed the back yard, measured out and marked where the beds and lots are going to be. Last year, I installed a greenhouse over the summer, but never used it extremely, since it was summertime and everything I planted didn't need to be in greenhouse. To put it and my over stressed mind to use, I started up all my seedlings on Sunday. I also went to quarry and purchased limestone flagstones to mark out the beds. I'm going to wait until further in the spring to install them, though.

Anyways, I also stopped listening to Bob Dylan today. I needed something to boost my spirit . . . a little Beulah, you know. They're too upbeat to get me down, hopefully. Since I was able to lie around in bed this morning (my water dynamics prof is still away), I slept in late, made a little bit of breakfast. John was actually here this morning, so I went a little overboard and had a little bit of everything: sunny side up eggs and prosciutto on toasted bread with sliced fields mushrooms, berries and sliced banana with vanilla yogurt, and a little bit of Gorgonzola and Brie. It was quite more than enough, and filling. 

Hmm, well it's time for me to get back to spreadsheets, data sets, and computer models . . . and after that I get to go into the laboratory to check up on equipment and trial runs. Joy.  

Oh, but you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears, bury the rag deep in your face for now's the time for your tears.

I didn't have class this morning. I'm sitting in on this course in water dynamics (yeah, it is just about as awesome as it sounds. Heh, that's sarcasm if you can't tell) and it was cancelled this morning for some reason or the other. I think the prof. was in San Diego or Algeria . . . something like that. So, I'm sitting around, twiddling my thumbs, waiting for my 3 o'clock. 

Oh, I decided that I want February to be over as soon as possible. Naturally, I can't will the calendar to skip ahead into March; instead, I'm going to rid myself of the feeling of February. If it feels like March to my subconscious, then my body and mind will act accordingly and think it's March. These titles of months are only arbitrary in the scale of time, but what we associate with them is what alters outward perception, creates different emotions, etc throughout the year. Of course, my reasoning could be completely faulty, but I have hope. 

To begin, I've switched over and posted my mix for March. Also, I've been playing Bob Dylan all morning, because the this is the month of my homage to Mr. Dylan. I've pulled out the entire discography, and I've start chronologically with Bob Dylan (1962). 

Well . . . au revoir pour maintenant.

Empty homes, plastic cones, stolen rims, are they alloy or chrome? Well, I've got style, miles and miles, so much style it's wasted.

If you could not tell, I'm listening to Pavement . . . I have been since this morning. The kind of nonsensical soothing rumble of Stephen Malkmus's voice/lyrics puts everything in perspective. What I've figured so far from this enlightenment is that I've fallen into some sort of karmic abyss where everything awful and horrible I've done in my existence is coming back, rearing it's ugly head, and chopping me up slowly into the tiny bits of a human. In the span of seven weeks, I've broken my nose and a pair of eyeglasses, violated more traffic laws than I had the entirety of my life prior, dented both bumpers on my vehicle after being rear-ended by another car forcing me to slide into a lamppost (I think I've forgone mentioning that incident until now), paid for the overestimated damage to the lamppost mentioned prior, got my vehicle towed twice, had my workload doubled, got screwed over for a pay increase, and now my father's dying and my brother keeps calling me every hour because I'd be just the worst daughter in the world if I didn't make it a priority to fly to Seattle and see him before, well, the whole death thing. 

Anyways, I'm probably going to give in an fly out there, but it won't be for a couple of weeks, until the second week in March to be exact. I won't be able to get off work and such until then. It'll be spring break. Though I had planned to go to Baja California to meet with old friends during the break, I suppose I can withstand making a short detour to the north, before I visit the bright blue beaches of the south. 

Well. This might be a little off topic now, but I think I should add to this post that Stephen Malkmus is a total cutie-pie (I might as well put it out there) and his voice reminds me off the soft whining whir of laboratory equipment (what?). I saw him and the Jicks live back in October. It was a great show. He played spectacularly, as usual. 

I was born by the river in a little tent, and just like the river I've been running ever since.

I received a surprising telephone call yesterday. It was from my brother, concerning my father. He's dying apparently. Tumor. Brain. A case of bad luck and genetics. He wants me to fly back to Seattle to see him. I haven't seen or communicated with my father in twelve years, since I was fourteen. I don't know whether I want to start again now. 

In other news, this evening I've put the Sam Cooke on loud, made grilled cheeses and the best chicken noodle soup I've tasted in a long while, downed a couple of glasses of wine, rolled a couple of cigarettes, and am on my way to finish reading through Diderot (finally). 

If silence means that much to you, then I promise to keep silent too.

It's a beautiful day.

I'm listening to Emma Pollock. 

Her voice kind of makes the day perfect. 

I'm sitting on wooden folding chair in the one of the spare rooms. There's a door (now open) leading to a balcony outside . . . except the balcony has since been removed from the house's exterior, so the door opens up and steps out into air. Naturally, of course, the door offers the best view of the countryside out of anywhere in the entire house. 

It's my favorite place to sit, roll and smoke a cigarette, drink a cup of tea, read some philosophy, and believe in the purpose of being there. 

I was chewin' gum for something to do. The blinds were being pulled down on the dew. Inside, out of love, what a laugh, I was looking for you.

All of my afternoon appointments cancelled. Apparently, they had better things to do on a cloudy, windy, slightly chilly, Friday afternoon. Apparently, they assume I have nothing better to do than wait around to be blown off by shifty students. Apparently. 

What to do now? 

I've put on the Wilco. 

Turned the volumed up loud. 

Naturally, Jeff Tweedy makes me forget my problems. 

Hmm. Let's go make a pie. 

I need a bowl of cereal.

Time? Who has much of it?

Oh, and it seems I've lost the spirit for music. 

Everything I listen to sounds like mush, which is odd since I distinctly remember enjoying The Mountains Goats . . . and etc. 

It keeps raining here. It hasn't let up since Sunday. Maybe that's the problem . . . the rain's discouraging the vibe.

In other news, I've been clearing out my hard drive of travel photos, so I'm going to post some of them (or at least the some that fit my mood). Enjoy:

Hmm. I feel like I travel much too often. Most of those are from Chicago . . . Montreal . . . Austria . . . Seattle . . . and all the places in between. Oh, I even think there are some from my research time in Baja California. Sheesh. 

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee. One clover, and a bee, and revery. The revery alone will do, if bees are few.

The weather has been great for the past week. It makes me kind of miss the feeling of winter . . . especially since it's still February . . . and it shouldn't feel like this until two more months from now. 

Of course, I kind of can't wait until my back yard looks like this again. I suppose pictures will do for now . . . they brighten up the air at least. 

We throw parties, you throw knives. It's all the same if the fizzy drinks are nice.

I arrived home only moments ago. Incidentally, the flight back wasn't as interesting as the flight there. Maybe it was due to exhaustion. Maybe it was due to the incessant noise that comes out of some people's mouths. Maybe it was because I'm just annoyed/bitter/perturbed. Maybe I'm sick. I feel sick. Of course, that could all be due to the exhaustion. 

After the exiting the flight on Friday, I checked into my hotel room, piddled around until everybody else "situated," went to the university, chatted it up with a bunch of people that I've met before but couldn't exactly recall names and such. After meeting, greeting, rolling my eyes across the room too many times to count, Sally thought it best if we "wined and dined" as she called it. I had two glasses of wine. I thought it would be more respectable if at least one of us was sober when we returned to the hotel later in the evening. 

There's nothing like the smell of cheap bar to keep someone awake, so I showered and prepared to pop in some earplugs, a sleeping pill, and go to sleep. There's also nothing like being in a strange hotel room at midnight wondering whether you were really unprepared enough to forget to pack the travel bag including both your earplugs and sleeping pills (and incidentally, my toothbrush and paste, as well). I could have made it without the pills. The plugs, however, not a chance . . . especially since the people in the room above seemed to think the time of night incompletely irrelevant to their level of noise. I spent entire night with my eyes shut . . . trying to sleep . . . but awake the entire time. I didn't even have the chance to miss my alarm. 

The next day. Boring. Well, not really. But, I was tired and everything seemed to drag on for forever. That night . . . and the next night after . . . I kind of gave up on sobriety. I figured that the only way for me to pass out like a rock . . . was to consume enough alcohol to completely alter my sensory perception. In theory (more like, in my head) it was plausible . . . in reality I ended up equally exhausted as I would have been, but with the added bonus of a headache. 

This is why I am now laying on my bed, swallowing painkillers, listening to Broken Social Scene and trying to forget the weekend. The next time I travel, I'm going to think before I pack my luggage . . . and I'm going to avoid business trips with colleagues (other than Sally) that refuse to shut their mouths (namely one said person who thinks I don't dress "professional" enough). I suppose you could say I have conflict in the workplace . . . just a little bit though. 

You said I must eat so many lemons, cause I am so bitter. I said I'd rather be with your friends mate, cause they are much fitter.

Friday. This was the day I caught my flight. The night before, I planned out the entire schedule of how my morning was going to run. Wake up. Go to the office. Converse with boss. Pick-up paperwork. Drive to airport. Simple, clean cut, and easy. I messed up at step one. I didn't wake up and ended up sleeping in late (something that seems to be happening a lot lately). Due to this complication, I ended up making it to the office later than usual and my boss was no longer in and I wasn't able to have that "important" chat (here's where I sarcastically add in a "too bad"). I got the to airport late (as expected), checked in, ran through security, and hustled to the terminal before realizing that the flight boarding wasn't my flight, instead it was going to Tuscan or something and the other like that. I pondered. I went over "the plan" in my head. I must have stood there puzzling over it in quite a state for quite a while because that this point an airport attendant neatly taps me on the shoulder to make sure I was "okay." At that I quietly retreated from the spotlight to puzzle more. 

Upon finding a place to sit and wonder . . . I finally think up the wonderful idea of looking at my flight schedule on my ticket (naturally this is the last thing I thought of, ha!). I cursed and rubbed my temples. My flight wasn't for another two hours. So, I got to sit in the airport way longer than any normal person would want to, for no real cause other than the fact that I wasn't "capable" enough apparently to actually read my flight information. 

I suppose, on the positive side, this did allow for me to "connect" to an array of people that I would have otherwise been oblivious of. The first was the elderly man going to see his son in Los Angles. He said I had pretty eyes and reminded him of his daughter. She was in Florida and we both liked to read French philosophy (yes, I finally pulled my Diderot off the shelf). The second was a mother of . . . three . . . sons. They were going haywire. We met when the youngest (I assume) crawled up in the seat next to me, started poking me, and told me I must be crazy because I was reading my book upside down (I'm guessing he assumed French was upside down English . . . sheesh, aren't kids . . . cute?). His mother apologized and struck up conversation about how kids are crazy and how I was smart to not have any . . . Hmm? I wonder if that is what my mother thought? 

At this point I had to take a break, go to the bathroom, splash a little water on my face, pick up on overpriced muffin (I neglected to grab a croissant in the rush of the morning, that now seemed pointless). By the time I arrived back at my seat, the mother was gone, replaced by a familiar face. I couldn't exactly remember where I had seen it before, but he remembered me so I played along. Asked how my job was, I said fine and asked the same. He replied the same. It was the most awkward 20 minute conversation of my life . . . because every second I spent it trying to place the face hoping I wouldn't say anything to give myself away. I wouldn't remember who it was until the next morning, when I would be hovering over the crossword, stop say "aha!" not because I found a word, but a name instead. I would repeat the name over and over. He was one of John's mates, helped with the move . . . nearly killed my dogfaced pufferfish. Well, it felt good knowing. 

Next, it was the middle-aged man who was trying to do the crossword (different newspaper) and, I, reading over his shoulder, helped him out. I think he thought I was a creeper (because let's be honest, it's kind of a creeper thing to do) but once he figured I wasn't going to chop him up, he warmed up and let me finish with him. After that an angsting teen struck up a conversation with me . . . she probably wasn't a teen anymore, more like 20 or 21 . . . it felt like I was talking to a student . . . but not about schoolwork. We chatted about school, dating, music, how much she hates her parents, you know, the generics of a teenage life. Then, I got a tap on the shoulder. I turned and became instantly grateful. It was one of my colleagues. 

After some chitchat, the plane arrived, I boarded. We were unable to seat next to each other, so I was situated next to a window and a business-type-looking-man while, Sally, my friend and colleague, was situated in the middle aisle stuck between two people. It looked uncomfortable . . . for her. My other colleagues were somewhere towards the front of the plane. Thankfully. Lift off. 

To ease into the flight I pull out my Diderot, put on my headphones (Kate Nash, "Made of Bricks") and began to read. The business man next to me taps me on the shoulder. I become irritated, only slightly though, take off my headphones, and put my book down. He asks what I'm reading. Diderot, Jacques le fataliste et son maitre, I responded. Then it all unfolds. He's some French teacher, professor, extraordinaire . . . not a businessman (which explains why his briefcase looked fake). So we run down the introductory list, move on to music, likes, dislikes, find out we're both going to Columbia. Wow, that's neat! Apparently. At this point I've been so distracted by conversation to not notice the obvious discomfort of Sally, across the aisle. The people to both side of her have fallen asleep . . . on her. The person closest to myself is using her breast as his own personal pillow, to which I lean over and say "just push him aside . . . he won't mind . . . he's asleep." 

She begins her attempt to wake the man, however, this effort is thwarted when the child sitting directly behind the man thinks it'll be hilarious to begin tickling the man's ankles. He doesn't wake up and instead begins to butt his head further into Sally breast and side. Hmm, he seems catatonic. However, the next series of events proves that he is not. The child behind him decides that tickling ankles was just not as fun as it should be. It decides that jabbing a green colored pencil into the ankle is a better alternative . . . so, it does just that. The sleeping man awakes! Shrieks in pain! Jumps up and forward! 

In any normal case, people would have stared a little bit, made conversation about the incident, and moved on. However, this wasn't a normal incident. It just so happened that when the man happened to jump up startled, Sally was leaning over him about to pop him in the nose (to wake him as well). His sudden jump reared his head back into her face causing instant trauma to her nose (this seems to be happening more than often, as well). It started bleeding, which of course, set the stewardess into a panic. While Sally was administered first aid, the man began to hastily scold the parents belonging to the child with a predilection for green colored pencils. Argument ensued. The stewardess had to break it up. 

When Sally returned to her seat, battered but not broken, the man seemed still in need to pick a fight . . . and with her apparently, because, while she had sustained a bloody nose, his head hurt just a tad bit more than it should have, again apparently. Let's just say the argument didn't end with a soft and nice resolution. Instead, it ended with Sally smothering his face in her chest (some tangent from the whole "he-was-using-it-as-a-pillow" thing) and questioning (rhetorically) if he'd like to go take another nap (as if you couldn't tell, she kind of has a short wire). Of course, this wasn't the natural ending, which probably would have been far worse. Instead it was cut short, due to the plane landing. 

Well, it's never a real flight unless injury is involved and someone gets half smothered in a lady's cleavage. Let's just say Sally spent the entire night trying to forget the entire incident ever happened (with alcohol, of course). Oh, and the French non businessman gave me his phone number . . . to get drinks after we landed . . . I guess?