Indwelling In My Dwelling

OB is giving the same lecture he gave last Wednesday. I have such a hard time following his staggering lectures anyways, going over the same material just excuses me from paying any attention at all. So, here I am writing, instead of notes, this silliness.

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I’ve spent two delightful days indwelling in my dwelling. A part of my apartment, if you will. After sleeping in a bit on Saturday morning, I brewed a full French Press worth of Trader Joe’s Sumatra, cracked open Maurice Blondel’s “L’Action (1893)” and sat on my Ikea love-seat. With the shades open, the sun beaming warmly onto my person and Passenger playing in the background, I engaged in my chosen leisure: that of an academic tinge. How much more Bourgeois could I be, eh?

Eventually, my eye-lids took to dipping towards my cheeks. With Passenger’s atmospherisms ringing around the room, I slipped into an afternoon nap the likes of which for which afternoons were made. Peculiar dreams, none of which I remember, lurked about in the sea of sound, like inky, loping Kracken of the cold, pressured depths. It’s when we straddle the border of consciousness that we encounter our wills at the emergent. I wake, not having chosen to wake, but then must decide whether to ratify this waking and rise from my under-sized resting place or rather close my eyes in pursuit of further sleep. Sometimes one can pursue the latter. Other times, there is no pursuing to be done. Only fruitless waiting.

And when fruitlessly waiting, I tend to incline towards DVDs. The HBO mini-series “John Adams,” in this case. (Thanks John B).

Thanks John B for dinner-buritto.

Thanks TT the Bears for that new Depeche Mode song. It’s sick.

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My favorite Chocolate Chip cookie recipe involves bread flour, two egg yolks, and two whole sticks of melted butter. They are called (by Alton Brown) “The Chewy.” If you’re friends w/ me in Boston, you’ve likely had some.

I made my first Saturday-Bread in Boston. Except I made it on a Sunday. And I didn’t read a damn thing besides the recipe all day. So, I deviated from the Saturday-Bread plan (mix and read and rise and read and knead and read and proof and read and bake and read), but it was totally worth it. And John B and EJ showed up to enjoy, with added Milchianism. Milchianity, as it were. And Karl later for Nachos and Kierkegaard talk.

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Café Fixe was full of babies today. I tend to prefer toddlers to infants, but today I had eyes for babies. I was at once delighted by their intelligence and startled by it. I interact so rarely with children of that age. I think I had remembered them as rather inert, passive balls of need. I watched the eyes of one very brand-new baby search the room, object to object. I watched intently as its face registered with responsibility. Again, startling are these tiny people, so new to the world.

A slightly older baby, sitting on his father’s lap was playing with a set of interlocking rings. At one moment gripping them, one ring in each hand. The next, banging them on the table and against his chest. Then taking up a further, different grip. All the while trying to accomplish some task. Not only being insufficient to that task in terms of dexterity, I also suspect that the baby’s own mental dexterity was insufficient to determining the task itself. He wanted to do something, but I suspect that something was rather inchoate in the child’s mental intention.

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Okay, repetitive lecture is almost done. Time to pack it up and go listen to Fred Lawrence be delightful and brilliant. Wish I had brought myself a snack tho….hrm…