Almost

I was on my way to bed when I literally stopped in my tracks, changed my mind, turned around, and sat back down on this couch to write an entry for today. In the same vein that I almost mustered up the energy to go to my first class this morning at 11 AM (MAT 201, which is basically multivariable calculus), I almost didn't write today. A curious comparison of almost did and almost didn't, but dichotomies seem to be my new thing.

As it was, I did still manage to swing by 3 out of my 4 scheduled classes today, and in a bout of guilt/determination, I also attended a lecture entitled "Managing Sino-U.S. Relations: the Chinese Way" given by a visiting professor from China Foreign Affairs University, a Prof. Qin. This may have in some obscure way made up for missing my morning math class with Prof. Chen, but more likely it was just the first time that I can remember actually going to one of the many, many special lectures/talks/conferences/seminars that happen on campus and which for brief moments capture my attention. Wednesday, there will be a discussion with Chinua Achebe, author of Things Fall Apart of IB English fame, at Nassau Presbyterian Church I believe. The jury is still out on whether I will be there or not, as my current interests don't really run much into issues facing the pan-African diaspora, but then again, why the hell not?

Because really, there's only so much dilly-dallying one can do before even that becomes boring. How about a little structure? Upholding one's promises, both the ones made to oneself, and the ones implicit in one's functioning in society, should be a nice change of pace. And maybe eventually I shall find the good sense to drop this English butler act. Mr. Stevens, really, I must protest.

I even wore a collared shirt today, put on a belt (damn you non-beer-belly), and moussed my atrocious haircut. For those of you who have yet to have the distinct horror of viewing it, imagine if you will, wetting your hair so that it sticks straight down flat across your forehead, then cutting it with a laser beam that runs precisely along the horizontal axis of your forehead. I have not the means to describe the precision, the skill, nay, the very art which it must have required from my barber to manage such a straight horizontal line. In any case, I look ridiculous, and even with the generous application of mousse, the best I could achieve was apparently quite a comical effect, as the entire classroom burst into cheerfully good-natured (I hope) laughter, when the first question of my Chinese literature class was directed towards me. Not being one who is unused to being laughed at and with simultaneously, I responded with gusto, but unfortunately the professor seemed quite confused by my ramblings and shrugged off my wayward comments, leaving my colleagues in stitches yet again. One teacher whom I'm quite fond of described my appearance as that of a local county official in China, dressed up and on a tour of the province. My roommate called me quite "studious," as if I had the look of one who had spent many hours buried in the labyrinthine corridors of Firestone library.

Regardless, the manner of dress which I chose this morning was dictated not by comedic concerns, but by a desire to look decently presentable at the special lecture that afternoon. Not that there was any particular dress code, but one does feel the need to fit in, with the 90 year-old professors and the cheery, preppy grad students. Anyways, the talk itself was rather long and laborious, and I got the distinct impression that our speaker Prof. Qin was not really saying anything at all. Rather, the amused half-smile he maintained on his face all the way from Prof. White's awkward introduction to the last question posed by an ancient husk of a gentleman who went on and on about how China should not forget the charitable support of the U.S. during World War Two which turned out not to be a question at all but a tired admonishment, Prof. Qin seemed to be spending his time trying to explain very simple (in his mind, simple at least) concepts to the audience of stupid, lazy, American pig capitalists and Western bourgeoisie intellectuals, as it were. His attitude was appeasing but disdainful, however only subtly so, so that it was only really identifiable by one who knows these Chinese mannerisms, especially the signs of false hospitality presented under duress or because of the necessities of etiquette and politeness. I should have very much liked to know what he might have said at dinner, in Chinese especially, in less formal settings, but I did not have the fortune of such an opportunity.

Instead, I watched TV for the rest of the evening, pondering Hustle and melting my brains. I watched most of an episode of Intervention on A&E, this time about a meth addict and a heroin/cocaine addict. The meth addict I thought was pretty special, as he had managed in his senior year of high school to impregnate both his girlfriend at the time, and her best friend. What a virile guy... and now both young mothers, who are no longer best friends, live together under one roof in their baby's daddy's parents' house, each taking turns berating him for his addiction and his consequent failures at fatherhood, each with a young son.

Interventions are for people with problems. Serious problems, I might guess, since they are not so common. At least only the serious ones make for good TV. But for one who has never faced such problems, what can Dr. Phil offer? If there is nothing wrong with your life, is everything alright by default? Even if we are kind enough to allow for an answer of "no," then how hard could it be to make things right? Whatever we may think otherwise, we know that someone for whom nothing has gone wrong can't possibly have all that much on his plate. That inference may not be correct at all; for I ask you, who has the easier choice to make: a man picking out a suit out of the 5 good ones which he owns, or a man choosing between rehab and likely death.

But certainly, we don't need to devote too much energy to the guy with too many suits; at least, not until he becomes a meth addict anyways.

-------------

One day at a time is the only way time happens. Like you have a choice. Or maybe what you do with that day that is given to you makes a difference in how quickly or how slowly it passes. We'll find out, tomorrow.