I went to DC this past weekend to attend the March for Women's Lives. It was rather chaotic and a bit lacking in humor (although I will give big props to the chicks who constructed a gigantic red plush uterus with Fallopian tubes and ovaries, which they held above their heads with sticks), but inspiring all the same. I dragged a college friend along, and we ended up missing most of the speeches, although we did march the entire way. It was really nice to see a lot of young womyn passionate about feminist issues and reproductive freedom, although I felt just a little bit like an imposter. I self-identified as pro-life as recently as three years ago, and although I'm now technically pro-choice, it still makes me shudder to read a sign like "I love abortion." I did not join in the chants. When the pro-choicers on the march encountered the pro-lifers along the sidelines with their photos of mutilated fetuses and religious symbols, there was an exchange of angry shouts and hurled insults, with neither side emerging as the victor, really. I wish that people could acknowledge the complexity of the issue and have rational discussions about the topic in an open public forum like this one, but instead we seem to be driven to extremes of thought. If pro-lifers want to prevent abortions, they should be active in promoting the availability of contraception and sex education, so that unwanted pregnancies could be avoided. But then, of course, most of pro-lifers are driven by religious ideology which looks down upon those things anyway. *sigh*

I realized while talking to my college friend that most of my current stories are about lost potential, and regret when thinking back on one's life. Hmmm.

Weirdly enough, he also explained to me that he has never yelled at anyone in his entire life. He has never even raised his voice. Or gotten angry. When someone hurts him, he only gets sad, and then quietly withdraws. I was flabbergasted that such a thing could be possible, but apparently this was normal for him, considering his upbringing. He explained that he would not know what to do, or how to react, if someone yelled at him. And that he is turned off by "volatility" when considering a romance with someone. I'm quite a controlled person too, and usually reign in overt displays of emotion...but I like being with someone who sparks the emotion contained within me, who pushes me to lose control. I think this is probably associated with my idealization of the Romantics. I just love crazy indulgent swoony melodrama. I love when voices are raised and tears are spilled and hands are thrown about in the air. It's life, you know? We're not automatons, we're freaky childish destructive creatures who barely know what to do with the feelings that kick us from the inside, ready to be born, to see light, to make themselves known to the world. Stoicism, and maturity, are overrated. But then, that's the adolescent in me talking.

Damn insomnia.

Bush was just dreadful tonight. So confused and incompetent and sad. How does this guy function day to day when he can barely string together a sentence? I don't know how the Republican talking heads can claim that his performance was strong while keeping a straight face.

I'm not usually one with a strong lust for material goods...I tend to be much more interested in experiences (travel, music, art, conversation) than in pretty shiny things. Hence my lack of familiarity with all sorts of electronics (I didn't get a DVD player until this year, and had no idea what an iPod was until Aroop very patiently explained it to me), and my general indifference to jewelry. (Well, except for my high school graduation gift, which is one of the coolest pieces I've ever seen, a Native American work of art. It's a ring with a moon maiden head made of bone and a silver mask which clips over the face. I never wear it, because I'm too terrified I'll fuck it up, but I lurve it). In any case, I have been bitten by the fashion bug, and while roaming through quirky online boutiques I found these ballet slippers. Not just any ballet slippers, but ballet slippers with quotes from songs by The Smiths and David Bowie and others. I can't think of anything more impractical than $90 ballet slippers with suede soles and hand-painted song lyrics (surely if I were more crafty I could come up with a much cheaper version myself), but I desperately want these stupid things with an all-consuming passion not experienced since my nine-year-old self saw a commercial for the Danse doll from Jem and the Holograms. Turquoise ballet slippers emblazoned with an awkwardly painted bird and "Sweetness I was only joking." Could there be anything more grand? *sigh* Must...return...to...liberation...from...desire...for...material...things...

I have just spent the past hour telling a man dressed as a chicken to riverdance, macarena, skip, moon me, model, kiss the pillow, do the worm, sing, cry, and sleep. I never realized how appealing it is to have someone obey your every command, especially someone resembling a chicken. Must figure out and purge this formerly unperceived dangerous part of my personality. Well, maybe after I get him to masturbate...and do a backflip...and shadowbox...

I've been spying on people again, which suggests a resensitization to my environment...perhaps because spring is here, and I've been escaping my head occasionally to notice the warm sunlight and brightly colored pansies and aggressively cheerful birds. I've been compulsively writing in my little notebook (a birthday gift from my friend Martin) about other people in cafe's, in stores, and so on. There was a strange wommon in a cafe yesterday who was very demanding about her ice cream sundaes. She rather bitchily insisted on more and more whipped cream until she was finally satistfied (while I impatiently waited in line behind her). She seemed to be in her mid-30's, but her hair (a pageboy with bangs) or her outfit (white sneakers, high-waisted baggy jeans, red turtleneck, and long leather jacket) may have prematurely aged her. I imagined that she had ordered the sundaes for her whiny spoiled monsters of children, but to my surprise she was joined by an absolutely beautiful young man who looked like Jared Leto playing Jordan Catalano of the TV show My So-Called Life, but with dark brown hair which dripped down the nape of his neck to brush his shoulders. He appeared to be in his early 20's. They sat down and dug into their sundaes. Instead of reading papers about cardiac enzymes, I tried to decipher snippets of their conversation to figure out their relationship. They spoke as equals, although they didn't appear to know each other extremely well. They knew many people in common, and kept mentioning what Nicole or Brad or James did the other day. The wommon used "like" frequently, which made her seem much younger than her appearance suggested. I'm not sure if it was a date, or a friendly meeting at a cafe. I eventually lost interest in their excruciating boring conversation (there's only so much I can take of "Well, Nicole got really wasted the other night, and she called Brad, and then they...") and moved on to spy on a scruffy cute guy, then proceeded to miserably fail at an attempt to hit on him. Heh.

I look back at my writing during my anatomy class, when I was overwhelmed by the sight and smell and feel of cadavers and their innards, and am struck by its almost hallucinatory (is that a word?) quality, the visceral punch of the images. When I was reading Jesus' Son by Denis Johnson, his images reminded me of the images in my writing during that time...I wish I could get that quality back. My writing has been too cerebral as of late. Not enough poetry there.

As I've been trying to figure out what the hell to do with my life and how to find myself and all that jazz, I remembered Conan O'Brien's commencement speech to the Harvard Class of 2000. It's amazing. As good a job as Hillary Clinton did with her speech at my Yale commencement, Conan's kicks the ass of hers. I remember being so profoundly moved when I first read it. While my interest in his talk show has waned in the last few years (especially since he now makes a shitty gay joke almost every time I happen to catch him, although he is very friendly and sweet to his gay guests), I still think he's a wonderful person. I still remember him at a Master's Tea at Yale, when he spoke for two hours and had all of us laughing hysterically, tears streaming down our cheeks, the entire time. He was so incredibly nice. He offered to stay longer "because [he] had nothing better to do" but the Master ultimately had to interrupt him and end the tea.

Dave Eggers at another Master's Tea, on the other hand? Complete asshole. Although perhaps he can be forgiven since he had gotten almost no sleep the night before (or so he claimed). I was all trembling with excitement about meeting him and sharing how much I loved reading his book A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius during my semester abroad in Paris (its quintessential early 90's American-ness helped me with homesickness), but he blew me off and had no interest in hearing what I had to say. He did draw a little picture of a hammer in my journal, though, with the phrase "This hammer has seen it all." Which I kind of liked. Although I preferred the little baby chick he drew in another girl's book. I don't recall what phrase he included with that drawing.