Things I really want right now,

in no particular order.

1) Close siblings. Siblings I could regard as friends.
2) More sleep.
3) A better idea of what I want to do after graduation.
4) Dinner.
5) A really good novel to look forward to.

Ponderings.

I left my journal downstairs and am too lazy to get it. Oh, summer, what have you done to me? Just like how I drove around the parking lot today to find a better spot at the gym: inefficient energy conservation tactics.

Have been thinking lately about:

Death: how it happens, that it happens. A close friend's cousin died over the summer. Another close friend's dog just died (not the same, I know, but). My mother keeps talking about a friend who has an inoperable brain tumor. I watched The Fountain last night, completely unprepared for the questions it asks. I keep thinking about how I'm not ready for anyone I know to die. I keep realizing that this makes me naive and -- in an important way -- completely immature. Somewhere buried and psychological, I'm living a delusion where no one is mortal. I'm ignoring the end of the story. It's a morbid preoccupation, I know, but I used to think about death so much as a kid (a habit that seems to be genetic? my third-grade brother keeps mentioning his "fear of death" -- what a weird sibling similarity). And now I'm puzzled by my attitude toward it, or rather . . . my non-attitude.

Kids: I used to hate it when my parents told me that I'd understand something when I got older. I never believed them, always thought that people could mature in different ways, so why would I necessarily mature their way? But now I keep wanting to use that line on my brother. "You'll understand when you get older." It's just giving up, really. A cop-out when words don't do justice to the wisdom you want to impart. I really want to explain what I mean to him, to somehow find a way to use his language to express exactly what I mean. It should be possible, right? I think it should, it should, but then I see his eyes glaze over, and I know the game's up.

Baggage: How I Met Your Mother did this great episode about emotional baggage, complete with real suitcases that appeared whenever a character revealed his hang-ups. I can't stop thinking about it. I don't know why. I think it's because I keep trying to diagnose everyone I know, and part of me realizes how blind and/or arrogant I am to assume that I could know what makes even my closest friends tick.

Other disjointed thoughts -- not yet developed into anything substantive. The dregs of my attention-deficient mind. I should turn my laptop off, curl up with Mrs. Dalloway, and call it a night, but I feel oddly pensive. And kind of anxious. Not sure why.

[Edit @ 2:15 a.m.

Understand the weird fluttery feeling now. It's actually because of Mrs. Dalloway. I picked the book up and instantly felt like I was about to collapse of self-doubt. Oh, Clarissa. Oh, Peter Walsh.]

Lists.

It was brought to my attention during my stay in China that I am an obsessive maker of lists. (Not to get all MBTI again, but this is probably the most J part of my otherwise extremely P propensities.) Not even just "To Do" lists either, though (to be fair) those litter my desktop, both in real life and on my computer. It's not enough for me to make lists of mundane tasks to finish, objects to buy, books to read, etc. No. I'm worse than that.

My lists extend into every aspect of my life. When I'm happy, I make lists of what's gone right, the songs I'm most into, the people I'm grateful for, etc. More often, when I'm a little put off, I make lists of exactly what characteristics of a person I can't stand, why my life is falling apart, what I need to improve, what I need to remember in the future.

In mid-June, while I was still mid-journal, I actually made a list of all the lists I'd compiled so far. I counted seventy-seven. That's seventy-seven in a little less than four months.

Oh wait. I was in the middle of making a Chicago list when I got . . . distracted . . . by . . . hm. Maybe making lists is actually P after all.

Autonomy.

Actively changing my lifestyle has been so good for me. Not that I've changed much, but I think I've changed the most important parts. And -- I just realized this -- maybe it hasn't even been perceptible to anyone else but myself?

But I think most of the time what I need most is to know that I have control of the situation, regardless of observable circumstances.

There are many vague sentiments that I often believe life can be boiled down to, if we could ever reduce existence:

• Control
• Power
• Love
• Empathy
• Beauty
• Truth
• Self-knowledge
• Security
• Fear

These theories are, of course, all mutually exclusive, but I think I believe one of them at all times. How to avoid reductive thought? Can't.

Criticism.

A comprehensive list of all my current flaws:

1. Academics: I still don't know how to handle these well. In high school, the stress defined my existence. I never feel as tethered to anything as I do to my grades. This is unhealthy, but how do I undo years of conditioning?
2. Fear: goes along with academics, but may be an even more deep-seated issue. I worry, doubt, existentialize -- have been this way since the age of seven (rough estimate). I overreact and very easily succumb to myopia. I become irritable and petulant, lose intellectual curiosity, constantly feel unworthy, hate the future, have the constant urge to read Nietzsche. A philosophical weakness?
3. Toxicity: starts unnoticed, grows. Must keep a look-out for these cancerous tendencies, avoid resentment. Too many friendships have soured as a result of negligence to underlying annoyances.
   
4. Caprice: I might actually have no real opinions about anything. 'Nuff said.
5. Emotionality: cripples me from time to time, to my chagrin.
6. Independence: obnoxious. I balk at expectations, idealize apathy. I'm not yet brave enough to risk anything substantial on anyone.
   
7. Morality: Mine is very fluid, hardly consistent, and might even be so flimsy as to be nonexistent.
8. Love: a habit developed during young impressionability and never broken, a maladaptive instinct fed by romantic ideals but which actually contradicts the rest of my impulses. In combination with my volatility, this is what I distrust the most about myself. May be aesthetically appealing, but only in the most perverse sense and at the expense of my autonomy.
9. Stubbornness: momentary conviction about everything, despite long-term fickleness. In conversation, I never give ground. Unpleasant and unproductive.
10. Honesty: layers that I will never figure out.
11. Self-interest: thinly veiled.
    
12. Family: I pay lip service to family, but I ran away as soon as I had the chance, and I never call. How stupidly typical.

Others pending. Could add so many more. But I guess it can't be helped.

Falling slowly.

I don't know,
but I want you
all the more for that.
Words fall through me,
always fool me,
and I can't react.
Games that never amount
to more than they're meant
will play themselves out.

Take this sinking boat,
and point it home.
We've still got time.

[ . . . ]
You've suffered enough
And warred with yourself.
It's time you won.

♫ "Falling Slowly" (The Swell Season, The Swell Season)

For me, when everything is beautiful, life is music -- especially sad, sad music, especially soulful lyrics. This is why I think that I might be destined for poetry, not prose. Lately I've been looping the same few songs on my iPod, and it's put me into a strangely calm, reflective mood (despite finals in less than a week):

1. "Falling Slowly" (The Swell Season, The Swell Season)
2. "Broken Horse" (Freelance Whales, Weathervanes)
3. "Cosmic Love" (Florence + The Machine, Lungs)
4. "Honeymoon" (Bombadil, Tarpits in Canyonlands)
5. "Generator ^1" (Freelance Whales, Weathervanes)
6. "Melectric" (Ramona Falls, Intuit)

The Lollapalooza line-up seems really promising this year, and I'm tempted to fly out -- have at least one really good friend going, and another good friend is staying in Chicago for the summer.

Various & sundry.

Back-burner thoughts:

1. My new claim to fame/shame is a random column (titled "Why I am not a neuroscience major") that I wrote for my college paper, which I thought would elicit just as much of a response as my other pseudophilosophical columns. Except I guess I actually managed to offend some people this time -- amazing what you can do when you decide to take a stance on a tangible issue. (Plus do I agree with myself? Plus what is this mutual animosity between the humanities and the sciences, and can anyone have any productive thoughts about the rift?)

2. Padgett Powell had so much more authenticity and grit to him than JSF. Still must understand this. Also: having drinks with a writer = most collegiate experience of my life.

3. Perspectives on dysfunctional friendships and barely functional people.

Starting.

A few scattered, initial thoughts:

1. The confinement of Victorian morality vs. the eeriness of Victorian depravity (Charlotte Bronte's madwoman in the attic, Browning's homicidal male protagonists, the Havishams in Dickens' Great Expectations).
2. Visual art and its blending with literature?
3. The meaningfulness or meaninglessness of vagueness.
4. Social dynamics and the inevitable crumbling of cordiality.