Ceasarea, I rule thee.

I finished a book this week and cried myself to sleep. but not bitterly.

At the end of the book, a little boy lies in the ground of a church yard and his pitiable family weeps for him and all his friends swear on the pagan stone, under which maybe he should have been buried, to always remember the sweetness and fierceness of this poor boy.

Certainly we shall rise, certainly we shall see and gladly, joyfully tell one another all that has been...

* * * * *

"You're such a romantic!" she exclaimed.

10 days I'd been awash in a Karamazov-hysteria. Coffee this morning (a monday) was supposed to be the return to prudent stability. Coffee and studies and silent prudence.

Tumbling from my mouth, instead of nothing, was all of tales of the attention I'd lavished on some and sloppily soaked up from others. A porch and chocolate chips and a trembling, timid and innocent risk, until the wee hours of the morning. A green dress and a cold glass on a dance floor, approaching slender arms around a stooped neck, for a fickle moment. Aviation disappointment and exchanged glances in a small, middle-america world. The generally too fucking youthful.

* * * * * *

My notes, now that I'm studying a little each day, are too much. I can't just take "notes." I have to take Notes, of the sort a REAL graduate student takes. I have to do it all. All or nothing.

Why does nothing always win over absolute, comprehensive effort?
Why even ask?

Instead, ask me about the first chapter of Girard's Deceit, Desire and the Novel. If there's something I can't recall, I'll just check my Notes.

* * * * * *

I think I might be ready now.

With a deep breath, I might be ready.