move over, allen ginsberg...

..we are bringing the 60's back, in a few in a series of texts trying to convince me to rent a cabin in the woods for a weekend:

"i think..philip, you, [insert a bunch of names here] and i should all put in like 20 bucks each and go spend a weekend in like a cabin together in the mountains..And use it for taking pictures, playing music, sledding and doing artistic stuff! Before winter is over!"

"I just want to do something cool before we all get to grow up, somethin artsy, and we've all been best friends for a long time! we wouldn't have to follow youth group plans or what parents say..we could just have fun and do cool stuff."

"pshhhhhh..Everyone always gets to go on a college graduation trips..not us! It'd be baller..Man..We could bring home some awesome stuff."

(and after i mentioned that some of us did occasionally have jobs or college)

"Man you are a downer!! You have all life for school and work and blah blah blah blah! But this will be an amazing week with best friends! Memories! Artistic inspiration."

So all of those things leave me wondering when I became best friends with a hippy, because I thought it would always be the other way around. I would be the hippy, walking around barefoot, and he would be the one who looked at everything I did skeptically. Instead, I nervously chew all foods and try to write about my life. My new vice is clementines, because they are so tiny that you can't even see them over a book, but they are a good way to stay occupied.

My life is a happy thing, despite going into a week of living alone. It is pretty hellish, until you realize that you can listen to music real loud, and that the mess in the kitchen is at least your very own. Plus, I've never had much of a better parking spot. Things work okay.

Another thought: If I had more money, I think that I would like to be a chef. How fun a lifestyle, always being in a warm kitchen, always tasting and seeing and smelling new things. My kitchen would be welcoming but not big enough. People would sit at my table and watch me chop things up, slowly from whole to tiny, tiny pieces, and we would talk about all things. I would serve people and watch their expressions change as they tasted my newest creation. That is the thing that I would love about it. What a terrifying moment--to not be sure if they would love it or hate it. What a thrill. What an adventure. Sheer anticipation. Anticipation like what I feel about next semester, reading all kinds of books and learning all kinds of Spanish again. Maybe I am not ready for this, or maybe I just don't want to be yet. Last night I started reading White Noise by Don DeLillo for some literature class. Hopefully it is enjoyable.

(i work with a lady that i vicariously smoke cigarettes through. so that should probably be rephrased as she smokes the cigarettes, and then comes around me after they are all over her. the funny thing is that she doesn't smell like smoke, but the actual tobacco part, like the cigarette is ingrained in her body and blood. i oddly also love that smell, but it is a bit shocking because of the rule that i don't smoke cigarettes. i think it is almost too much for me to handle on the day-to-day)