Time On My Hands

The newspaper is done publishing for the semester . . . and I'm finding myself wondering more and more what normal people do to fill their time. What did I do before the paper? I read books, dissected computers for art projects, watched foreign films, made big plans and slowly worked in chipping away at what it would take to achieve them.

Now I'm just filling minutes before class. It sounds bad to just fill minutes, doesn't it? This minute will never come back, it is gone, there it goes, watch it slipping away and all you did was stare out the window at the people running across the street in the rain. But filling minutes isn't wasting minutes, I don't think.

By the way, this is the most astounding restaurant idea ever. I wonder if they have franchise opportunities, cos I'd like to get in on it. A place that centers on cereal . . . hot damn.

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/6630816/

That rocks my face off. You know it does yours, too. Admit it. You love cereal.

And other foods to love . . . clementines are in season now. If you're wondering what the heck they are, they're perfect little tart oranges, easy to peel by hand, no seeds if they're good, and the ones at Central Market are expensive but well worth it.

If there's anyone out there who lives in Fort Worth and can play blues, please let me know. Winter always puts me more in a blues mood (summer is loud rock n roll, although they're often one and the same). I have a stack of lyrics and a swarm of things in my head I want to do. I just can't play any instruments because I'm a moron.

I sat down and did some writing Saturday night. It was the first time in a while, and what came out sort of scared me. I didn't see it going this direction. It's not bad, it's just I didn't expect to see it come out of me. Do you ever wonder where stuff comes from in your mind? Where does the sudden urge to smack someone come from, or the craving for tuna salad or the words which drop out without warning? I honestly have no idea where most of the stuff I write comes from. But then . . . it's probably for the best. I read a book about neuropsychology over Thanksgiving, Into the Silent Land, and it was talking about the author Robert Louis Stevenson, who wrote Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. His ideas just appeared, from someplace unknown, and he felt like just a vehicle for the story. At this point, I feel the same way.

Also, much thanks to everyone who attended Friday night's Skiff party, and even more thanks to everyone who brought alcohol and a good sense of fun. I thought it was a riot. I also think most people heard "The Accent" come out at some point, unless they left early. Is who you are when you're drinking who you are at the core? Am I still an accented philosopher more than anything else? You tell me. I don't know. But ignorance is bliss.