Disparate and Misinformed

I should sleep more; late nights spent trying to forcibly realign my Circadian rhythm always leave me blank the next day. Not having anything force me to wake up is getting to be challenging.

On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays it's difficult to keep in mind that I am still in college, since I have either only one or no class on these days. I just hack it in the lab all day, for whatever good that does. I should really start learning to spend time where it is needed and not spend it where it is not. You'd think I'd've learned that years ago, but it turns out that wasting time is essential to my health.

High Zero this past weekend, the annual Baltimorean orgy of experimental noise-music; went with Jessica and Victor, Esteban was with us for the ride there, but bailed with Sophie and Jeanette when it became evident they were sold out of seats at the Theater Project. I waited around and managed to score a ticket (= wristband) after Jaap Blonck's opening set. The rest was good noise; the closer with dueling vocals between Blonck and local beatboxer Shodekeh, accompanied by a saxophone and Dan Breen's drums, was particularly amazing.

We hit up the H&H afterparty after that, after farewells to Victor (he seems to stick to his own devices these days; wish there was something I could do about that, but he seems wary of me, at least the way I am in public, and I've never been good at busting people out of their shells) and a 20-minute trek with Dani walking his bike beside Jess and me. H&H parties are something of a nostalgia item for me: I first started going to them freshman year after the Animal Collective show that I somehow wound up in the front row at, when I was still hanging with Julia's crowd (including Liz, Emily, et al, many of whom were also at this party). I've been there a few times since then, despite a drought that lasted all sophomore year. H&H is kind of a symbol, for me, of my once-held belief in some sort of Baltimore "scene" solidarity, when I was still trying to "get in on it" as the municipality likes to say, and really believing I was connecting with those people I was spending my time with, instead of accepting my self-imposed exile while paradoxically living in that city and among those people. I have a photo of the skyline I took from the H&H fire escape freshman year, titled "my city"--so much for the city ever belonging to me, or anyone.

Come this time next year I will most likely be in: 1. Boston 2. Chicago 3. San Francisco Bay Area--and if such a time comes, don't cry for me, Baltimore, because Lord knows I could never really leave you--we all track pieces of ourselves like clinging rubble as we pass through this world, after all--and anyway you broke my fucking heart. Just kidding about the second part. But there are still times I feel like I've gotten all I could out of this city--am I wrong? would that ever happen? have I just lost my nerve and become anxious to cut my losses and start again clean-slate so I can take comfort in making the same mistakes for a second time? Probably, probably not, and most likely are the answers to those questions.

At the Ottobar show on Friday night, Two if by Sea sang something about "let's go back to the city...in the snow/Of Baltimore" over a triumphant flight of power chords, and I wondered if they were singing about some fantastical interpretation of Baltimore that I didn't know about, because it doesn't really snow that much here (at least for someone who was raised in MN and NJ), and who could seriously sing about Baltimore in that anthemic tone of voice, anyway?

But I digressed. Yeah, there was a dance party, in a warehouse, with one of the best DJs I've heard in this city. Kyp Malone from TV on the Radio was dancing in the corner, although he bailed before I could speak to him. I drank beer and drank some more because it kept bypassing my head and going straight to my gut, for some reason, and when someone pulled a chair into the middle of the floor I danced on that; luckily for me (and my semi-functional right ankle), I didn't fall, or break the chair (the guy who came after the guy after me did both of those things). I distractedly did pull-ups in the bathroom doorframe while waiting in line. I met a MICA girl named Sophia whom I greeted with a big hug for no reason than I can now think of (sometimes I'm so amiable I shock myself; too bad this only happens when I'm drunk). She said it was the first time she'd managed to find her way there without getting lost, and later asked me if I had any drugs, or knew anyone who had some--"What kind of drugs?" "Anything, really."--to which I had to say no, with a genuine feeling of apology.

But in other news. There is a new Radiohead album coming out in 9 days. There is a massacre in Burma. All in my life seems pretty trivial by comparison. Don't let me dwindle away. Help keep me here, man, at least until I have to leave, and we all have to let me go.