abigailnicole: (Default)
How Nicole Hit Her Head, or, a Very Tumultous Weekend, or, The Saga of our Birthdays, or Looking Nice with Open Wounds, or How Hard it is to Write an Honors Thesis Sometimes on a Friday Morning



On Monday, typing travel reimbursement memos, my hip still throbbed, though the bruise didn't appear until Wednesday, ugly purple, bigger than my fist. With the dictation headphones in and my hair still matted with blood I felt silly and Fight Club, like typing haikus on company time and abusing my copier privileges.

on Sunday the weather was nice so I wore red, white, and blue.
At the Holi festival behind the cafeteria revellers splashed pink dye all over me, so I had to go hoe and change.
In the sun it was seventy five so I wore a sundresses with white flowers embroidered across the chest, and we biked to the Bayou St. John. Going down the hill on Jeff Davis in the sunshine I let the freewheel spin and raised my arms in the sun, watched the trees against the blue sky and felt that one moment of perfection you only get going downhill on a bike on a sunny day.
At the bayou, even in the sun, the breeze coming off the water made goosebumps raise on our arms, and we huddled around the pot where crawfish were boiled alive, warming ourselves on the steam. When we gave up and went home I stepped in the shower, getting my hair wet but not washing it, feeling the steam around my own skin. I've never left a party only to shower and return but we did return, in jeans and sweatshirts. It was dark on the bayou and we clustered around the table greedily fumbling with carapaces and tails that we couldn't see. The boys became giddy, setting off bottle rockets, agitating the dogs.
I got into a boat with my boyfriend when the water was still. Our oars made silk-fabric ripples in the water and we rowed under the footbridge, ducking low, hearing it creak over our heads. The bridge, strung in Christmas lights, mirrored perfectly in the water. "I'm going to remember this for a long time," he said. I want to. I watched the cars go by on Esplanade from a boat, dipped my fingers into the water. It was warm.

on Thursday I didn't go to see the Two Gentlemen of Verona like I said I would. I age meager pasta provided with the best intentions in a student lounge at the Tulane School of Medicine, talked to a friend about my job, his former job. They showed us the robot dummies where the medical students practiced delivering robot babies, putting in a central line, injecting intravenously. Everyone said they loved the school.
I told another student that I was writing a thesis on time travel and he looked at me, awed, and said "You're a keeper."
I drove home listening to Johnny Flynn along Claiborne, so close to the Superdome you could see the individual lights around the edge as they change color.

on Friday I went to Thesis Fridays alone, mixed jasmine and peppermint tea, made sure the protaganist knew she was her own mother. Time travel problems.
I left at eleven thirty to attend a lecture on the role of neonatal testosterone in prepubertal impulsivity. I wore a red halter dress, my shoulders feeling very exposed, my hair down. Through the lecture I was nervous, butterflies and goosebumps.
After the lecture I went to Cafe Freret to have lunch with my ex-boyfriend's new girlfriend. We talked about theatre, television, and time travel. Going home I tried not to think certain things. I kept thinking of how nice she was, how easy it is to be taken advantage of when hyou are nice. All week before I'd been dreading the meeting, what we would say. "When I knew him, he was a depressed, alcoholic, suicidal, manipulative, mean person," I'd practiced saying, in my head. "I hope he's changed." I didn't say any of those things. We sat at the table long after we ate, our conversation punctuated by silence.
Friday afternoon I went to bike help desk, put on a new bike saddle, rode around campus in the sunshine. While Grimes played I put my brass bell on my stem, watched from the back of the stage her hood fill out in the wind. That night at the levee there were four bonfires. In the woods was a large canvas washed up by the river, covering something the same size as a man, with his head leaned forward as if in sleep. My search for firewood turned up only trash, everything turned gray by the moon. I walked near it only slowly, at first thinking it was a hobo in a sleeping bag, then—when it did not move—a body. I didn’t touch the canvas to find out.
Around the campfire I went with the only people I knew, only to find them high on acid. Smoke blew into my face, making me cough.
A hobo, drinking Artem’s mezcal, approached us. “I wanna sit by the chicks,” he said. “I ain’t tryin to look cool,” he said. “I’m 36, and a hobo, hoppin freight trains and stuff.” His other friend, also a hobo, said goddamn in an accent that reminded me of home.
Those drunken boys who tried to climb the bridges fell into the Mississippi. ”You aren’t an alcoholic until you graduate,” the girl sitting next to me said.
At the liquor store I sepnt twenty seven dollars and seventy three cents on alcohol, and drank none. I only wanted the cork to plug the ends of the handlebars on my bicycle.
In the woods I found no firewood.
Sitting around the campfire I thought of Kelsey’s front porch, about being miserable in fancy clothes, about doing what other people want, about the very isolating feeling of drinking only water and watching those around you become intoxicated.
The clouds were orange from reflected sodium streetlights and the moon was half full, half empty.
We climbed atop an abandoned yellow platform that shook with our movements, by a ladder set at a 30 degree angle, tilted away from the body.
I went to the woods alone. I did not go home. I did not pull aside that canvas to reveal whether underneath was rotting flesh or just logs.

on Saturday night I went to an Everything is Terrible movie with Bailey, called Doggie Woggiez! Poochie Woochiez! I ordered and drank a Goya Ginger beer that burned my nose and throat. Three men dressed as dogs did exaggerated comedy. The movie was an hour and a half of found footage of dogs, each clip less than twenty seconds. I didn't understand the humor. I fell asleep to dog jobs and woke to ghost dogs, unaware of how much time had passed.
Leaving the threater two of the dog-men said "Goodbye!" to us for a good two minutes as we walked back to the car.
Saturday afternoon, at Plan B, we fixed a bent crankset, discoveerd a bent frame, bent it back using a vice. A man with a cigarette in his mouth said: "This is way hillbilly," holding the frame while we clamped down the vice. That night Braden put together his new bike before we left.
At midnight, the brand new Sunday, I went to Snake and Jake's with Bailey. "Are you happy? How is your relationship?" she asked me. I am.
We walked the three blocks home at 2am, after ditching the bar because a man with a coffeepot kept talking to use. Five blocks away, at Pine and Maple, two students were mugged at gunpoint, shoved to the ground and hit. We didn't know. We drove to the store for cigarettes, came home in ignorance. I took Nyquil to stop the coughing at three and fell asleep in my underwear.

on Sunday night Braden was excited about his new bike. "He was biking like an asshole," I told Bailey later, holding a gauze pad to my head in the front seat, shaking. His new bike is faster than mine and he, giddy with fireworks, crawfish, and beer, wanted to bike fast, take sharp corners, beat cars at stoplights, not wait for me. I caught up to him on Jeff Davis as he was fumbling with a light, not paying attention to me. While reaching around for the light he swerved in front of me, knocking my bike towards some cars. I backpedaled, used to a fixed gear, unable to find the brake, and landed with my left hip and the left side of my head on the road. "Are you okay? Are you okay?" he kept asking, over and over. "My head," I was screaming, clutching it. "My head, my head--"
Two med students in the car behind us stopped and ran over to help. I kept thinking how important it was to be lucid, to not cry, to be sane. "Where do you go to school?" I asked and upon learning it was LSU joked: "Oh, I work there. Let's just meet in the cafeteria next time," with blood still running into my hair. I sat down on the curb to avoid throwing up. Braden put his jacket against my head to try to stop the bleeding.
Jake and Sarah's house was only two blocks away so they drove to come get us. In their kitchen Sarah washed my head with the sprayer on the sink, running warm water over my scalp. "Do you want me to stop being nice to you?" she asked. "I know if I'm hurt an people are nice to me I just start crying." In the kitchen, after everyone had left, I just started crying, holding a brown towel to my face.
At home my rooommates fussed over me and washed my hair, Chelsea pouring hot water over the right side of my scalp, Bailey applying peroxide, neosporin, and bandages to the skinned patch on my left elbow and palm.
In bed, shaking, I piled blankets around myself, sobbing intermittently. My eyes remained undialated, my head pain local. I remain unconcussed.

on Monday I woke with blood matted on my hair, on the right side, and afraid to touch my scalp I washed the ends, the water running brown against the white porcelain sink, and then drove to work. My boss noticed my limp. "But you were wearing your helmet and gloves," he said. "Yes," I said, my left hand bandaged, blood still dry against my scalp. My helmet was in a gift-wrapped box on the bookshelf, waiting for my Wednesday birthday.
At home I put on a dress I'd never worn before, from my wife, in liquor-gray-brown satin that had a large bow over my chest and fell to my ankles. I biked to work that afternoon very slowly, unable to put a helmet on over the knot on my left side. 
At work we prepared for a reading by Jonathan Franzen. I walked around the quad in the sunshine in sandals and that long dress, holding yard signs to direct people to the event, walking slowly. At the reception I told the two people sitting next to me, Zach and Evian, about the accident, but didn't mention it to my boss. No one noticed the matted blood in my hair.
The reading was funny, and Franzen signed my book "To Nicole: Happy Birthday."

on Tuesday it was Braden's birthday. We ate biscuits cut out in the shape of men for breakfast, spread them with raspberry jam. That night I bought bread and made sandwiches on twelve-grain bread with raspberry jam and nutella. We tried to bar crawl but tuesday night defeated our compatriots. At Parasol's, eating the orange slice out of my old fashioned, sitting next to me, he repeated: "No one came to my birthday party." Outside the bar, sitting on the sidewalk, we fixed a flat tire and our friend met us. At the next bar they were doing Pub Trivia, the Princess category, and I knew all the answers. I ordered To Die For Fries, with bechemel sauce and green onions, and it felt like eating french fried pasta. At Cassidy's house, at midnight on the new Wednesday, March the 7th, he gave me a Tree of Life tarot reading for my birthday while Braden slept on the couch. My significator was the Page of Cups, and the first card he laid down, the top of my spiritual triangle, was the Star. My intellectual triangle was entirely inverted, everything holding me back. Inverted in my emotional triangle was the World. I thought over and over of Pynchon, of Blicero:
His future card, the card of what will come, is The World.


on Wednesday it was my birthday. I ate Life cereal with strawberries and half a grapefruit, went to work late, skipped work all afternoon to go to the zoo with Braden and Carrie. Wearing my purple dress, I smiled at the flamingoes, the elphants, the tigers, the lions, the orangutans. It was sunny, and I wore my favorite shoes.
In the sunshine, watching the animals, everything was wonderful.
abigailnicole: (Default)

 +dancing to the Talking Heads at midnight

+playing
 Grim Fandango all afternoon


-getting stomach cramps on a bike ride and rushing into the new Rouses in the CBD to be ill their bathroom

+it’s a really nice Rouses

+seeing ‘Tit Rex (pronounced T-rex, short for ‘Petite Rex’, a Mardi Gras joke), which is these tiny little floats the size of small wagons or large shoeboxes. the parade was one block long. instead of standing in one spot, waiting for floats to pass us by, we walked up the parade and admired each float individually

-losing circulation in my fingers and toes, standing in the cold (it’s 37 degrees yall)

-blowing a flat on my front tire on my way to the afterparty, walking my bike into the bywater

+at the afterparty (through a friend of a friend), the first thing I saw when I came into the house was a knitting book on the coffee table. further inspection revealed a bowl full of knititng needles, circulars, double-pointeds, metal, bamboo. There were two typewriters on either side of the fireplace, two guitars next to an old-fashioned desk, an antique toy keyboard on top of the mantleplace. The bookshelf contained Terry Pratchett, Ian M Banks, and lots of Palahinuk. It was arranged by color

-I never met the people who lived there

+sitting in the perfect front living room of people I had never met, alone, I took my tube out and replaced it with a new one. Everyone else was in the kitchen. Someone passing through to smoke gave me their floor pump, and sitting on an old green chair, with vintage copies of Playboy on the table next to me, warmth and circulation returned to my fingers and toes

+in the kitchen there were pieces of white cake with brown sugar frosting, thin pieces each individually wrapped in wax paper and sealed with a gold embossed sticker with a hummingbird on it

+after I fixed my tire and wandered back to the kitchen the party announced that they were dispersing to an afterpartyafterparty (as they had done the one-block ‘tit rex walk hours earlier). I sat on the couch in the kitchen and wrote a hurried thank-you note to the people who lived at that house, signed it “with gratitude, Nicole” and left it next to their nightstand. I am sorry they won’t know me. someday I’ll leave a pie at 3146 burgundy and they’ll never know who or why

+biking back from the Marigny we zigzagged through parade routes blocked off on Canal, and took St. Charles back, watched some unnamed parade (Oshun?) as it looped from Lee Circle all the way back to Napoleon. We waved at the parades and rode in the left lane. All the cars were going at our speed; no one honked, people waved.

+At Seventh street, where we had to cross St. Charles to get to my friend’s birthday party, we had to wait for a marching band to cross before we could sneak in front of a float. “You’re doing a great job! Keep it up!” I shouted at the marching band, the dancers.

+At the birthday party my friend had a bunny named Sadie, named for the Joanna Newsom song. We drank wine from mugs and ate sparkly, metallic king cake from Sucre and delicious vegetarian jambalaya 

+in the 37 degree temperature biking is the only way to keep warm. I wore my hat and goggles

+I abandoned the idea of the bonfire rumpus, my face aching from the cold. Biking home I saw a man walking down the sidewalk, carrying a partially deflated kiddy pool. “Good weather for swimming,” I said as I biked past, giving him the thumbs up. 

+the cake was good. when I got home the heat was on. 

+11:11, and all is well. 

abigailnicole: (Default)
 

biiiiiiiiicycles. Here is the History Official between me & my bicycle---

I had a bike. it was a sad chain-superstore-bike my grandparents got me and I rode it around occassionally the first two years of college. when I moved off campus I had to ride it more often and unsurprisingly it got stolen (as it had a terrible lock). I was not super sad about this because I was never very attached to this bicycle. It was red. 

I did not buy a new bicycle right away. I had a bunch of friends in the Tulane Benevolent Societyfor the Propagation of Assorted Tomfoolery and Other Sorts of Peculiar and Otherwise Absurd and Baffling Nonsense (really guys? is that your only website? that and a facebook group? And Phil Schapker is still listed as your contact?), also known as the Juggling Club, who are also in charge of bicycles at Tulane. I don't know why either. They just decided. There is an official Tulane Cycling Club, for people with carbon-fiber bikes and racing uniforms and sporty racing things, and we make fun of them and joke about chasing them around and beating them with our U-locks. I say we. I have staunchly denied being a member of the Juggling Club at every meeting I attend and I still say we. Sigh. 

Anyway, for some reason the Juggling Club runs the bike help desk. TUPD confiscates all bikes left on campus over summer, and they gave them to juggling club, who rented them out. So for $30 I rented a bike for the semester from my friend Phill (now the Tallest Man in Cambodia) and rode around a cruiser, a High Flyer, spray painted this awful shade of green with white stripes (thanks Juggling Club), until I got hit by a car at Thanksgiving. I was thus bicycleless for the rest of the semester. 
 
At this point in my life I knew three things:
a.) I wanted another bicycle
b.) I wanted it to be sparkly gold. 
 
To be clear. In March, just after Mardi Gras, I bought another bicycle--the lovely, lovely Torker U-District, from Gerken's Bike Shop on St. Claude. It is a lovely bicycle and I love riding it but it is not gold and sparkly. SOMEDAY, when this one wears out, or I buy an older cruiser with a bad paint job off Craigslist, I will sand it down and take some outdoor vinyl from my mother's graphic design shop and I WILL HAVE A SPARKLY GOLD BIKE. I just need to get this off my chest now. 
 
the Torker is a great bike but it is not perfect. It has several perfect features, liiiiike--
a flip flop hub. I did not know what this was when I bought the bike. In fact when I bought this bicycle I knew nothing about bicycles! Almost nothing!  I have three friends who are very knowledgeable about bicycles (aforementioned Phil & two others) and a significant other who is slightly more knowledgeable than I. By our powers combined....
 
New Orleans is a city full of bicycle commuters, and in the parts of it I bicycle through there's a really strong DIY attitude about bikes. I had a weekly standing date at Plan B, for example, the free bicycle clinic that I highly recommend you go to all the time ever just in case your bicycle might ever need anything. (I may write them up later more extensively). This means you learn a lot about bicycles and how to fix them when they are broken pretty quickly. If you can't change your own tube when you get a flat you cannot really survive in this city, much less bike over Jeff Davis. 
 
So I learned about my flip-flop hub quickly. In short, a flip-flop hub has room for gears on both sides. In my case, I have a 16-tooth single-speed freewheel on one side, which is the typical pedal-and-coast thing, and a 16-tooth fixed gear on the other. 
 
I am not nearly cool enough to ride fixie and I do anyway. My trackstands are abysmally short-lived. I am working on it. By the end of summer I'll try to get them down. (breaking my ankle kind of stopped all the practicing I was gonna do in june & july.)  My bicycling long-term goal is to ride to the beach, camp overnight, and ride back. 

I love this bicycle but I  am doing some things to it, which I'll tell you more about once I do them. With my first real paycheck of the summer I got myself a back rack and am soon ordering some straps for my pedals (please ride strapped/clipped in on fixies, it is much safer. Do not do what I did and ride around for three months without them), and eventually going from straight to drop bars. Sometime in August. 
 
and someday. Someday. Someday, I will have a gold bicycle. 
 
 
 
abigailnicole: (Default)


April 9th. My first real bike ride to the french quarter with my new bike and we went all the way across the bridge to sit on the levee in the ninth ward. I rode with Braden and Erik and we passed graffiti that said

I LOVE YOU
YOU ARE EVERYTHING GOOD
IN THE WORLD

spray-painted on the side of an old brick building. They ride faster than me and I yelled it at them, reaching my hands forward over my handlebars. At the levee Erik read poetry from The Hour Between Dog and Wolf. On Esplanade we sat outside a convenience store and ate a Hubig's, drank beer and coconut juice, orange soda.
At the river there was one of the wide, lit-up boats with a red paddlewheel, and the music was jazz projected all the way across the Mississippi river water to where we sat on the rocks. I stepped from rock to rock, the wind blowing back my skirt and hair. The wind was warm, like an embrace.
Outside the convenience store two people were riding a tandem bicycle built to look like a banana and an old woman muttered "BYWATER KIDS" as she passed. When the pie was through we walked down to Washington Square. I made Erik hold my beer so I could go play on the swing set. Eventually he drank it. A little girl came to me and told me she was three. "Do you want my swing?" I asked her and she said yes so I gave it to her, hoisted her into that lopsided duct-taped piece of plastic held together with rusty chain, and pushed her. On Frenchman they were filming a movie.
Riding down St. Claude through the eighth ward everything smelled like fried food and that scent of summer. When my tires went over the fine metal mesh of the St. Claude bridge, I could see the water below. The lights began to blink and after we had passed they rose the bridge so a boat could pass through the space where only moments earlier our bicycles were, our bodies were. When I bought whiskey the woman at the counter asked me how I was feeling, smiled, told me to have a nice night. I did. The wind at the levee alternated warm and cold, leaving ripples of goosebumps across my damp, sticky skin. The lights of the business district on the water were beautiful and the riverboat passed slowly by, a blur of light in my camera across all that dark water.
At the bike help desk we'd made a run for free food on the LBC quad, spooning the thick chocolate-chip-flavored-ice-cream into our mouths. I recognized the woman who fed me.
At the levee Erik offered me sips of whiskey, a pint of Jim Beam from a glass bottle. He held still while I photographed him.
I do not know about bicycles but I held parts while Phill worked, wiped bike grease on my green skirt.
In the humidity my hair escaped in small, curly tendrils that cling everfine to the curved skin on my neck.
On the way back down St. Claude we stopped at Hank's, got four pieces of fried catfish, a peach pie, and an orange for four dollars and forty four cents, and ate on the stoop outside. I screamed when a cockroach crawled across my lap and Erik laughed at me. I ate the fish standing up, and it was warm and peppery on the inside of my mouth.
The light slipped behind the horizon.
On the back streets we rode fast, delighting in the feeling of wind across our shoulders.
When we stopped for coffee it was Erik's turn to recognize the woman who fed us. She gave us a cappuccino at a corner cafe in the Marigny and I ate the foam off the top with a spoon. The last time I was at this cafe was with JR, in his blue button-down and mirrored aviators, in the very miserable days when I was still in love. I did not recognize it until I was sitting at the same table, the same chair I was in one year ago. I am not her now.
In the French Quarter at night the sky is never dark, only the deep shade of navy they call "cerulean" in clothing magazines.
At Hank's on St. Claude a man came over to tell us stories about the country club, "bathing suits optional", and asked for a hook of Jim Beam. We gave it to him.
On the walls of the coffee shop the palm fronds looked like the legs of millipedes creeping across the gray siding.
At the levee when I took photographs only the sky is visible, all the rocks a line of blackness spreading diagonally through the frame. "This is the Ninth Ward," Erik said. "These are the levees that failed." Two young boys passed me, both on bicycles.
At the coffee shop we took the table without the umbrella and someone had left four brown cigarettes lying on the mesh-metal table. I put one in my purse, for luck, and Erik smoked one. There were fleur-de-lis spray painted on the trashcans. I skipped lunch and went to work instead.
This morning an anonymous person sent me flowers, to my work, and I engaged all my friends trying to figure out who it could be. I couldn't bike them home and left them, in water, in the bike shed. They were purple and white and wonderful. "Why? Because you're like a parfait: beautiful on many levels and everyone loves you," the typed card said. It was signed "Love," but the name was cut off.
At the river I could see stars, the old moon lying in the new moon's arms. "Everything is beautiful and nothing hurts," I said, eating catfish on the stoop of an abandoned house.
Outside the R-Bar, a man named Josh told me: "My sister's getting married tomorrow."
Women were drunkenly singing on Royal Street: "YOU LOVE US," they shouted. I do.
Three of the boys who have been pursuing me examined the card and the flowers, but none confessed. I received no phone calls or text messages until all the light had gone away.
Biking home the air was cool and Baronne was dark and soft. The wind pulled me back on my bicycle, warm and insistent, as if it were saying SLOW DOWN, SLOW DOWN. "It's okay, I know, I understand," I shouted to it. We took the cigarettes home, stuffed leftover bread into our mouths. Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt. I am grateful for this day.
abigailnicole: (Default)


oh look I am packed. ahhhhhh!!! It's been a crazy week this week. I start work next week, too, but I'm excited about that! I have to decide what day to start. Maybe I'll give myself a day to unpack, eh?

My parents are on their way here: they arrive late tonight, and then tomorrow we pack up and Saturday morning move out. I have signed up to check out at 9am. It's offical. Oh dear. But not before we go to breakfast at either Cafe Freret or Camilla Grill and dinner at Jacques-Imos. I was going to do Juan's Flyng burrito tonght but they were delayed ths morning by hot-water-heater and so won't arrive n time. NEW ORELANS RESTAURANTS, all of the good ones.

This morning I ate Camilla Grll, the deli roast beef and an orange freeze, in a denim miniskrt and tank top and flip flops and sunny, 80 degree weather. New Orleans in the spring...I'm going to miss you. Someone sad today that we have two seasons, Heaven and Hell. Right now it's all fluffy clouds and sun beams. Soon it wll be hot and humd 100% of the time, but 'll be home for that, rght!? Also both of my roommates are staying here. Of course they are.

I am moving in more ways than one: I also have a new dreamwidth account, abigailnicole. My i key still sn't really working so I was orignally abgailnicole and it was awful and they were nice enough to change my name, they're so fantastc! encourage the switch just because of the very nce moderators over there. [livejournal.com profile] copperbadge convinced me to swtch. But I'm tired of gong through and correctng my i's so a bunch of them mght be missng from ths post. Sigh. I'll still be crossposting to LJ and if you're lke most of my friends and read ths on facebook it applies to you 0%. But LJ people! if you have dreamwidth tell me so we can be friends over there.

(also typing in my current location? THE LAST TME WLL POST FROM HERE. and typng my current musc--the Rachel/Jesse Hello--I WANT THEM BACK TOGETHER SO MUCH. /gleek)
abigailnicole: (Default)


my thoughts are all focused on summer. It's hard to study for Genetics when I'm debating what CDs I'm going to put in my car for the drive to work, quilts I want to make (I have this planned out), all the things I'm going to get for my room next year, places I want to go with my mother. Mumford & Sons! The new New Pornographer's CD! Laura Marling's latest and older one, the new Kate Nash, some mix CD with bits of Joanna Newsom and Bob Dylan.

It got to the point where I was updating my twitter every thirty seconds with some new thought and decided to just go ahed and blog it. I've been listening to Little Lion Man since someone at [livejournal.com profile] audiography was kind enough to upload it for me after I posted Laura Marling. I know, this is turning into a little music blog. whatever. he's her ex- or regular-boyfriend or something and it's fantastic, he's like a version of her with a little more bluegrass, except he sings well and not like bluegrass. I mean, I like bluegrass. But not when they sing. He sings like someone I would lie but uses all fun bluegrass instruments, banjo and guitar and upright bass and etc. So do that, if you want.

we finally signed a lease. we have a house! faine offered to sell me all her furniture for one lump sum, I have accepted. Right now Sam and Bailey are in the other room watching Deadwood and Chris and Carrie are on the other bed watching The Pacific. I'm here by me onesie writing a paper. If we had a house tonight's the kind of night when I'd be in the kitchen table by myself, playing this lovely lovely new Mumford & Sons CD with a solitary light, watching light reflect off the water and hunching over too much, straightening up and cracking out my hips. I hope for that, someday, to write until 2 in the morning, not realizing what happens until Bailey comes out for a glass of water and reminds me I'm being silly.

I can't wait for summer. all these silly fantasies. boxer-shorts and tank-top pyjama short stories at 2am. fridge raids an dipping your feet in the lake in the moonlight because it's too hot to sleep. that silent darkness at my grandparent's house, where my room is scary because of the full-length mirror I can see from my bed, the stifling fuzzy darkness at my house in my room, fluffy and humid always. watching Torchwood at all hours of the morning, knitting unseasonable sweaters because that's when I can...I'm going to read books, so many books. Knitting and sewing, staying up late to keep yourself entertained, sleeping a little, waking up to drive across town. Park that car, drop that phone, sleep on the floor, dream about me.

it's almost summer! summer! my head is filled with visions. tell me how you are, loves.
abigailnicole: (happy)


New!Doctor, Doctor11, is restoring my faith in Doctor Who. It gives me that feeling, now, when I watch it, that I had when I first started watching it--that something fantastic is happening, that things will be clever and good. New monsters, new dangers and horrors and puzzles to be solved in clever ways; the universe is a large and fascinating place and we have a benevolent and clever guide. Except the new episode. Don't get me started on the awful science in it. RTD did Daleks much better. But I'll forgive them if the Weeping Angels go well.

Names! The Weeping Angles. The Nightmare Child, the Shadow Proclamation, the Medusa Cascade. WAY TO GO NAMING THINGS AWESOMELY. The noun + unusual modifier in the form of a title? But I love titles not names, thus the Arsonist, "see the Anarchist, all in black. In the dark you can only see his eyes" - Thomas Pynchon. When I read it I stopped cold and texted it to Amanda. The Arsonist and Delilah, they're living inside of me and they want to get out.

The Crying of Lot 49--I should be writing my research paper right now but ahhhhh it's 1am. I watched Doctor Who instead. But I read it and I loved it, it's all the busy-crazy-funny-referential postmodernism I can get swept away in and laugh at, delight in and enjoy. End some sentences with prepositions about. It's a bit like The Da Vinci Code except literary and with a schizophrenic narrator; ie much more interesting.

I'm being demanding this week; grouchy, hungry, irritable, menstrual. I'm being rude to my friends and demanding understanding and forgiveness. I'm not really going to apologize for this--I want and feel I deserve some understanding and forgiveness. Give me a little leeway. I want it more. I'm not asking for all the things I want--Audubon Zoo, Voodoo BBQ, new underwear, neutral-colored flats, some peppermint Dr. Bronner's, a new water bottle, my bike fixed--so just give me some understanding and forgiveness instead, okay? And then I'll gradually cheer up.
abigailnicole: (happy)


last night I had a very vivid dream about a post-apocalyptic world where humans are all living in a submarine, salvaging earth's now-underwater cities. All human memory and brain functions are kept in a computer, and humans are kept in statis and activated as needed to run the ship. I had just been activated and was working with five other people to run this huge submarine by ourselves, going in and out of underwater-diving suits and trying to remember how to do things. The problem was that the ship's computer kept taking damage, and thus it became harder and harder to remember the things you needed to do. I only recognized the feeling of jealousy I had when I saw the biochemical pathways stored in the computer, and when I was playing the piano I realized all the chords were codons that coded for different amino acids.

In my next dream I was a Doctor's companion. My phone rang, and it said the Arrow Sisters were calling--trying to get to the Doctor through my phone. They told him that the police had finally caught up with him and they were sending the Bees and the Terrible Jack. The Bees were flying robotic parasites, and the Terrible Jack (not harkness) was some sort of skeleton jack monster--the Doctor made some joke about "The bees will be gone by the time Jack arrives" which didn't make me feel better. I, like any companion, was determined to go with him and arguing vehemently about him running off by himself--but I think he knocked me out, because when I woke up (in the dream) he was gone and Evian told me I had been asleep for days.

I take it as a sign all the tall, dark, skinny, clever males in my life are disappearing.


I woke up to listen to Kate Nash. She's got a new CD out, and at first I was hesitant but it's growing on me. A bit more punk than I'm used to and prefer from her--Doo-Wah was so much That Time crossed with the 50s, but it's starting to grow on me. Ditto with the pseudo-spoken word Don't You Want To Share The Guilt? but the opening track Paris remains my favorite, so have it. It's all summer, sunshine and things going fast and a little bit of early 50s rock-n-roll vibe? That's the CD as a whole, though, not Paris necessarily, so take it and have a listen.

I've begun eating my roommate's Luna bars, too. Only the Blueberry Bliss ones, though; the ones with chocolate in them make my teeth hurt. Sorry, Starfish. But they're delicious. I have an orgo test tonight, lots of carbonyl condensation and alpha substitution and the Hell-Volhard-Zelinskii reaction, carboxylic acids, amides, acid chlorides, acid anhydrides.....

but how long until all the people in my life start disappearing? I'll wake up and they'll be gone, Arrow Sisters and Bees not withstanding. My time is limited anyway; two more years at max and then we'll all go our separate ways. I'm ready to have my own room and decorate the walls but I'm not ready to give up my soon-to-be housemates.
abigailnicole: (Default)
Spring Break is officially over, but I have no classes today, so it's mostly still on. This week I have only two days of classes, actually. But also two tests, so I'm spending a lot of time making Genetics notes and texting people about physics. Probably less useful than actually doing my physics, but you know, texting people about it is much more entertaining.

Have some media!



new orleans in the spring )
I've always been interested in photographing things, collections of things, inanimate objects. Usually temporary collections of inanimate objects: little mini-shrines, in a way, and what they say about people. What's in your purse, what's in your pockets, on your nightstand, in your backpack, decorating the wall facing your bed. What do all these collections of objects say about you?

Beyond that I only have a few weeks of school left. We're house-hunting, when we find one I'll tell you: we've got a few good prospects so far, all with gas stoves.

I picked out all the songs I like in my iTunes, which is about 250 of them. Oh dear. If you would like one, pick a number between one and two hundred and fifty and I'll upload one for you, with a small written description. I promise it will be fantastic!

Spring break has brought on the GSA fever. I call it GSA fever because it is the feeling I had at GSA. you know if I get this creative scholars program, I'm going to be an english major with a creative writing focus? That means that for my Honor's thesis senior year I want to write a novel. The Delilah novel. I have this all worked out in my head, pictures of the porch and the characters and the way the house and the Agency work. This brings me back to GSA I suppose for a good reason...

and that is the way I want to record my entire life all the time. I want to tell you how it feels to sit here and listen to smooth Rockland County, "the swimming-pool noises" and try and read about snRNPs and splicing and how nice it feels to wear a tank top again, feel my hair growing: it's long enough to brush the top of my shoulders when I walk, fine and feathery on my skin. We're looking at houses, and when you're looking at houses everything is exciting because it's about potential. This space has the potential to be perfect! it's not now, it won't be, but it could be. We looked at a basement house with empty tile floors, in blue and green and purple, with a porch swing and windows. I could make curtains and live in a purple room. I could drink tea on the back porch and write my honors' thesis novel.

But this is how it is, I want to describe to you the way everything feels right now. Lazy and heavy and warm. Fountain pens that constantly spill ink on your fingers and pages; it manages me, I do not really manage it....some cartridges are more well-behaved than others. When you have a fountain pen, beware! They are temperamental creatures whose moods change with the color and consistency of their cartridge. My blue lasted forever and was perfect, but my pink was so contrary it all wrote watery and finally just broke down after two half-ink half-water pages. This red cartridge has lovely ink but likes to cover my fingers with red-ink bloodstains. I apologize Amanda.

It's time for summertime music. Put away the winter clothes! Bring out lemonade and iced tea. I want light, sunny songs and green grass and the loveliness of new orleans in the spring.

time for more DNA and magnetic-electric forces. oh, my concentration is terrible.
abigailnicole: (not envy)

so news

Mar. 5th, 2010 11:48 pm
abigailnicole: (lonely adenosine)
good things:
  1. O MAN THEY'RE MAKING A GOING POSTAL MOVIE LOOK AT MOIST VON LIPWIG:



    excitement.
  2. listening to Sterogum's Independent's Day Mix which I never get tired of. However I have it arranged alphabetically by artist, which is how iTunes decided to do it, but I think I rather like that order, I like having Psychic City Last
  3. I'm finally drinking a coke, I've wanted one for hours.
  4. I'm having a birthday tomorrow, 1pm, audubon park, picnic. I gave you invitations and you're cordially invited, bring your own cup. PB&J and lemonade will be served.
  5. brunch in the Quarter at my birthday!



bad things/to do list:
  1. carbonyl reactions, memorize them --test tuesday. Finish chapter 20 carboxylic acid homework. Work some synthesis problems on the whiteboard/legal paper.
  2. electric current homework due saturday
  3. creative scholars application, set up date to meet and go over it next week, also write creative scholars personal statement
  4. start reading Freud's Dora for English monday
  5. send out mail for my wives/michael winn that has been sitting round on my desk for a bit
  6. orgo lab, physics lab over the weekend

  7. this orgo test is gonna be the worst. so many reactions, so much synthesis and it's all so awful much. Synthesis has been compared to organic chemistry chess--start with this reactant and end up with a product. Write a series of steps that will give you the correct one. Just thinking retrosynthetically requires such a knowledge of how reactions fit together, not only the chemistry but all the reagents, acid-catalyzed epoxide hydrolysis vs base-catalyzed epoxide hydrolysis, if you use an isotopally labeled oxygen where does it end up. Reducing and oxidizing alcohols, carboxylic acids, ketones, aldehydes. Wittig rxn, Grignard reactions, protecting the grignard reagent with acetals and removing the acetals in aqueous acid wash. RAR RAR RAR ahhhhhhhhhh


IF I GET THROUGH THIS NEXT WEEK MAYBE I'LL ENJOY BEING 20
abigailnicole: (happy)

this week:

sunday
2pm: firstmeal. Write a NaBH4 reduction experiment and read Heart of Darkness

monday
Today, get through nonstop 9-4 class on a bagel and 4 hours of sleep. Pros: sunshine. Cons: physics lab.
Wear grey and tend to head wounds

tuesday
Wake unable to breathe; crawl to class to pick up your grades
Receive unexpected help.

wednesday
Wake at 5am. Do not go back to sleep; listen to the wind
Go through half a box of kleenex, electrostatic potential, carbonyl reactions. 5pm secondmeal: chocolate cheesecake
Fend off advances with tact
pull your tired mind together and come up with something to say

thursday
Take drixoral, sudafed, vitamins, midol, ibproufen, nyquil and codene over 2 days. Sleep 14 hours, wake up hungry and hoarse to study physics

friday
take a physics exam
2am: 3rd meal, blue lagoon crepe. watch Cabaret without contacts, fall asleep in the dark


saturday
finish your carbonyl reactions, read about carboxylic acids, electric current, molecular structure of dna. organize your birthday party, do not let things creep up on you. time has tried to trick you before


soon:
condense your life, history, and motivations to one page to impress a committee



this started as a little twitter mini-series I was doing. I would like to do it more extensively; as a writing exercise, it forces you to use active verbs and commands. Personally, it also makes me realize how much of my life is schoolwork....though it worked well because I was sick, I think if I had a normal week with fun things happening it wouldn't work nearly so well. you can't command someone to 'wake at 8am feeling cherry and optimistic, check your email, put off emailing your teacher, go to class' and expect it to have a real impact.

I am feeling better. I think my thursday of drugs and sleeping helped lots.
abigailnicole: (bad day)


in bed feeling sick, listening to Organic chemistry--the Kamikaze hearts, I mean--and doing organic chemistry. ethers shouldn't be giving me this much trouble. but about 3pm my head started filling up and by 5 my ears were pressurized at what feels like 3atm. I've been going slowly, I stumbled a bit about Kekule and how he invented line-bond structure before they discovered the electron, how clever! necessity is the mother of invention. He dreamed up the benzene structure in his sleep and came up with the idea of resonance, the single-double bond alternating but of course they didn't know about electrons much less orbital or the electron cloud, for 1850 he was damn important. how clever he must have been. Of the first five Nobel Prizes ever awarded his students won three. (van't Hoff was one. Gen chem 2 is coming back to haunt me) I still think A Short History of Nearly Everything may be the most wondrous book I've read

It's Lundi Gras, I'm in bed with homework and headache. I might do parades tomorrow, but oh that's a lot of parades on a stuffy head, I did a few already and it makes one's feet ache. Next year I turn 21 on Lundi Gras, can you imagine the joviality? Turning 21 in New Orleans the day before Mardi Gras! how droll, how jovial. drovial.

I am hungry but all I have to eat is oatmeal and my roommate's giant stash of luna bars. there is, however, a vending machine around the corner. I think I'll go do one of those things and hope my sudafed kicks in soon. Poor pseudoephedrine, you've been used as a natural decongestant for 3000 years and now I have to be over 18 to buy you and sign a form in Walgreens saying I won't make methamphetamine with you, what did you do to get such a bad rap...at least they're making Drixoral again.
abigailnicole: (happy)


"We may have all come on different ships, but we're in the same boat now."
-Martin Luther King Jr.

I just solved a physics problem I've been working on all day and got a wave of happy. Forget the other five problems I have to solve before Friday that I can't do yet. One victory enheartens the soldiers!

It's 70 degrees in New Orleans. The sun is shining, the sky is blue and the wind is warm on my legs. I'm still in long sleeves, but the sunshine is heartening. When the sun shines and I can wear dresses it's Regina Weather. Half the reason I came to the city in the first place was "and all the streetcars say hallelujah" all up and down the tracks my first visit here, and the promise of reading in the sunshine in Audubon Park.

I keep getting ideas to sew on, now that I'm at school without a sewing machine and, in short order, will be too busy to do even if I had one. The big shirt I'm wearing right now needs sleeves made smaller, I want to start a new quilt in mardi gras colors, I found the greatest pattern to make sweater-boots from Goodwill sweaters and ugly flat shoes, and as of watching Mary Poppins last night I want to make a navy blue tailcoat (probably from another coat). The workload is fairly light right now and it makes my fingers itch to make things.

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Nicole

March 2013

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