kloiterra

time flies like an arrow, fruit flies like a banana.
it seems i've tucked myself into a routine that in black and white amounts to little, and yet i find myself completely busy, if not at least occupied, at all times.
the new semester got off to a rough start. there was some stupidity involved--i'm not going to claim that it wasn't completely my fault--the worry was money, of course, but the verge-of-full-blown-freak-out was the fact that the money wasn't there when classes started. there was no air in my sails and every day became a battle to avoid utter (self)defeat. two weeks in, i'd already used up all my allowable absences in a couple of my classes and received the accompanying attendance policy speech from the instructors.
sometimes i need to manufacture a derivative of motivation by painting myself into a corner.
now in the fifth week, all is once again on track from using last semester's mantra: "just show up."
work is constantly sporadic, usually fun, but somewhat annoying all in one.
i cook the food for all the banquets, meetings and parties that use the hotel and were booked before the hotel restaurant was leased out to an Italian outfit. i'm essentially the only cook working for one of the two restaurants that operate out of one kitchen with limited supplies and a significant language barrier. being that i'm the only one who knows how to cook things not on the Italian restaurant menu, it makes my job as secure as it is stressful.
the weekend plans are volatile, conceptual schedules that are made of spiderweb strands and papier-mache and remain in that state until they are actually in motion and definitely happening. lupita said she misses seeing me every day. i miss knowing she's a few minutes away, but i like the alone time. i need my personal place where i can keep my personal space. i've often thought my ideal cohabitation setup would be a his-and-hers duplex... to love, to be loved, to be left alone is the dream, after all. our school-year routines and schedules don't allow for much variety in our daily activities, nor do they present much material for conversation-worthy analysis--i get antsy and search for a graceful way to end the nightly conversation when the phone grows silent. sometimes, they're more like reports than conversations.
thinking about that and looking at my level of written expression, i'm fearing for my brain. i've convinced myself that i've not been thinking about things in general like i used to...of course, i only have flimsy evidence, not proof, that this is occurring, or that anything has changed at all--it's the lack of writing that has confounded me and sparked concern. the cessation of significant thoughts stemming from significant events seems like a significant, albeit underwhelming event in itself, adorned with big red flags and check engine lights. feels like i used to find or sense some kind of significance in tiny occurrences throughout the mundane routine of passing days; like looking at a movie reel, cell by cell, and i was able to pick out and concentrate on all the cues and marks that a lot of viewers don't notice. now i'm the actor watching the film in which he stars while the cameras are still rolling. i think this probably happens every year, fitting in with the cyclical nature of all things in general, but it never fails to frighten me when the ferris wheel stops for a minute.

one thing i can say for sure: fucking crackheads.
someone got in my car last night and stole all my silver change, which probably amounted to less than $2, a bic lighter, a pack of gum and a Crown Royal bag that had nothing in it except half of a broken whetstone. at least they checked the handle instead of just breaking a window.