the insanities of bunche 3123

three stories up and crunched into a desk made for preschoolers, i stare out the long sliver of a window next to me. three inches wide, this pane of glass runs from the floor to the ceiling and is the classroom's only source of natural light. one window. only one window. one window that has a metal shutter so all possible streams of light can be barred from entering the tiny white prison on the third floor of bunche hall. for some slightly psychotic reason, this enrages me. please, enlighten me, oh architects: what is the point of this arrowslit? do you fear that, between discussions of the irrationality of politics, some disturbed student would try and force herself out of the classroom by way of the sky and tumble to her demise? really, if that is their fear, should these topics be taught? after all, it is quite harrowing to think that this country's two mainstream parties are pro-death. one claims to support life (not abortion) but quickly sentences many to death row, and the other aims to abolish the death penalty while supporting the choice of mothers not to give birth to conceived children. sad, yes. disturbing, yes. suicide-provoking? well, not in my mind. the existence of this window, on the other hand, makes me want to prove its worthlessness and toss -not myself- but the snoring student in the back row through the gap.



kidding, of course.

somebody told me...

...that they had once wondered if their life lacked emotion simply because they had experienced everything. acts that had once brought joy had been dulled through repetition. "it's like when you see kids jumping in the water and laughing. you can see their happiness. you can SEE it. but when i get in the water, it's not like that anymore." i guess sometimes you just have to be thrown in.

teachings of time

he told us to call him Teo. contrary to the claims of the sexy and secular sticker on his chest, my professor proclaimed to the class that while he may not be the james dean of our time, he was definately not partisan when it came down to religion. "if you are a believer, that is your problem, not mine."

the atheist whose friends call him God had returned from his cross-continental journey and soon filled the 300 student class in on the medical miracle that was his son's surgery. few of us had ever spoken to this man personally, and the class had just started two weeks ago, but he poured himself out to us, binding us to him through this act of honesty.

at home, when lying on his back lawn, he is the man who spares the ants wandering across his open reader. every evening, before he goes to bed, he places his collected figurines on their sides "so they don't have to stand up all night," he told us. cuban music fills the hall before lecture, and he answers phones students have forgetten to turn off. "'ello? who ees thees? ...no, you cannot speak to pablo. pablo ees keednapped. he ees... meat!" pablo's friend is comforted by Teo's promise that pablo will call him back in 34 days.

lecture begins, a conversation between the collective voice of 300 and our guru. during a discussion of medieval romances, Teo puts the question to use: if you could ask for anything from the gods, what would it be? for true love. for universal knowledge. for understanding. one after the other, we sputtered out answers hurriedly. then a boy in the back raised his hand. "for this girl next to me."

such is the magic of a class whose professor hides nothing and bases his lectures on honest life.

snapshots of dc

mmm, inspiration for intellect

bundled up at great falls with the great one

mr. hose himself... and fdr

creepy: korean war memorial at midnight

a night view of the mall from the jefferson memorial

a morning in court

[Note to readers: Caps used!]

"In two weeks time, I'll be sworn in as a barrister of this Court," said the graying lawyer to his elder friend, who was thinking about pancakes. If only he had heard his alarm the first time it went off; then he wouldn't have had to skip breakfast. Legal jargon left him unmoved. He was here for a different matter entirely. He was here for the Court's architecture.

The room consisted only of imported resources, the clerk had told the girl in blue yesterday. Although friendly enough, a hint of that East Coast supremacy floated about him as he pointed out the figures of Moses, Napoleon, and Confucius, each a seven-foot tall engraving in the Supreme Court frieze. I'm sure Napoleon would have appreciated the exaggeration of height. She was sarcastic at heart.

"The marble for these columns-" he gestured to the monstrous pillars behind the Justices' seats- "came from Siena, Italy."

Siena! She'd seen those quarries summers earlier, knee-deep in thistle weeds near a bus stop in Piombino. The scent had reminded her of her Thinking Hill in California, where she'd watch fireworks and write in her journal, but, that summer, she was eight thousand miles away from that haven. Eight thousand seven-minute jogs. Ignoring the obstacle of the ocean, it would have taken her almost thirty-nine days to run home without stopping. It was cold that evening near the coast, that evening at the bus stop. Her heart had felt the chill. Giant quarries to the East exposed wounded mountainsides, parts of which had been carted thousands miles away.

To her left, the lawyer re-crossed his legs. "Been here before?"

She shook her head. Photographs in high school text books epitomized her prior exposure to the United States' highest Court. Although she was a newcomer, she knew each Justice by name, seated in descending order of seniority, starting in the center with Rehnquist and alternating from left to right, ending with Justice Breyer, who had already spent eleven years in the junior seat. Poor guy. Eleven years on the job and still the most inferior of the gang, Breyer's duties included defending the constitution of the United States and making Starbucks runs for his eight other colleagues.

The Court sat down as the Justices took their seats. And what a clan they were! Rehnquist, in the center, was hunched over notes constantly shuttled to him by his aide. Although the Courtroom had to strain to hear his withering voice and his aide had to help him out of his chair every time he needed to excuse himself, Justice Rehnquist exuded nothing but authority and honesty.

The case, concerning a Mexican national on death row in Texas (surprise, surprise), began as a clear monologue presented by [insert stereotypical lawyer here] but soon became a Q&A with the Supreme Court. The thirty minutes allotted to each side would not be enough for both the lawyers' speeches and a quiz session, and the Court preferred the latter. So it goes.

His hunger having overtaken him, the elderly man had fallen asleep in the third row. So had Justice Thomas, or so it seemed. His arms were crossed and his head rested on the smooth leather backing of his reclined swivel chair. Justice Scalia cornered the lawyer with a question while Justice O’Connor’s eagle eyes took in every detail.

The girl with memories of Tuscan travels smiled at a boy with olive skin behind the Justices' bench. They'd known each other for nine years. Although he was no longer an awkward freshman in high school, he hadn't changed one bit. She had gone to DC to make sure of it.

[Unfinished.]

normal?

i love my friends. they think that dressing up as transexuals every year for halloween, hosting pillowcase parties, and driving to texas and back in 3 days to purchase an arcade game are actions that should be readily accepted by society. and i tend to agree with them. hence the below photo.

three cheers for all of you amazing people i've met at university.

finals week: the quarterly ucla undie run

friday night lights

baseball season is starting again and i am thrilled. i am one of the weird few who adore watching the game on tv, live, or via webcam. it doesn't matter how i watch it as long as i am given the chance to catch those diving-backhanded-sling-from-third-to-first-base plays. but the majority of my friends find this odd, and though i understand this to an extent, i cannot comprehend disliking a live baseball game. "we don't know the players," "there's nothing to watch in between pitches," and "i don't understand the game" are their excuses. they seemed legitimate, so i hit up a bruin home game to see whether or not i could prove them wrong.

it was the bottom of the fifth and the bruins led by 4. it wouldn't last, but how were we to know? ben and i scanned the field from behind home plate, wallowing in the luxurious ignorance of our team's future loss and letting the evening deteriorate into a melange of strikes and outs. whenever we'd stop talking, i'd realize the goosebumps creeping up my calves. i found them odd. the transition from day to night had come and gone without my noticing it. the day had bragged beach weather, but now- well after sunset- the solid cold bleacher seats dented the skin beneath my jeans.

an events coordinator needed one more child for a promotional race. i almost volunteered.

"wanna rock-paper-scissors for it?" the mini bruin behind us nudged his friend and they held one of those 5 second competitions that result in a decision that becomes law as a child. the winner marched down to third base to kick some wildcat butt in a short dizzybat race against a little univ. of ariz. munchkin. the prize? a whole pizza twice the size of the tiny laps it later rested on one row behind us.

somewhere in the sixth, our starter showed some lag. our outfielding saved us, and some bruin parents to our left decided to celebrate, led by an overzealous middle aged man with countless empty beer cans under his seat.

"give me a b!" (b!) "give me an r!" (r!) "give me a u!" (u!) "give me a..." a wrinkle formed across the leader's forehead as he turned to his friend with a confused stare. the entire section erupted in laughter, including the drunk man himself. "i want whatever he had," another parent commented.

the game went downhill from there, featuring several straight walks in the seventh followed by a grand slam. those last two innings were a little depressing, but we kept the faith, and ben convnced me to buy him dinner if he could call our play-by-play comeback. we lost, but we stuck around until the end and laughed as raindrops keep fallin' on my head serenaded an unexpected sprinkler show that drenched the wildcats' outfielders in the eighth.

ben and i were familiar with the players and their records and we understood the game, but, ironically, the focus of the evening was not necessarily baseball. knowing the players, the plays, and the game sure helps when it comes to enjoying america's favo(u)rite past time, but the fans are often just as entertaining as the teams. if any of you still have an anti-baseball argument you want heard, come see me. i'll rock-paper-scissors you for who is right.

classic los angeles art deco at the wiltern