the female gaze

Look with your eyes, not with your hands.


Such a minute fraction of this life do we live: so much is sleep, tooth-brushing, waiting for mail, for metamorphosis, for those sudden moments of incandescence: unexpected, but once one knows them, one can live life in the light of their past and the hope of their future.



A grad student muses on her life, film, friends, politics, reality televizzle, and music.


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"The story of your life is not your life, it's your story" -- John Barth
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Saturday, October 19, 2002
 
Boot N'Rally

F. Scott Fitzgerald once said that the telltale signs of a good party include people getting drunk, feelings getting hurt, and women crying in the bathroom. Oh sweet homecoming and one night strong into the boot n'rally series 2002. Went to the awful, twangy Chinese Opera (not such a good idea, actually) ate my fair share of grille fare, came back and finished off 1/2 a very big bottle of bombay sapphire with so many old friends breezing back into town (Justin, Aaron and Kate, Jack, Michelle, and even Jason Dane). Everyone remarked that they feel like they never left and it feels like home all over again. So much fun and it's such a comforting sign that everyone can come back here, be enveloped and absorbed, maybe not forever, but for a weekend of make-believe and escape. So cheers to good friends, their jobs, and this place where we all come together and walk in tune with the same drum. Three bags of trash: wine bottles, bottle caps, and empty tonic shells - the evidence of last night's purely indulgent behaviors. Tonight should only up the ante once 40s of malt liquor and freshmen get involved, I'm mixing up a hefty batch of my world-famous gin punch (or punche) for my fifty official guests, and you all remember what the New York Times said about gin - it'll make you fight or cry. Therefore I submit to you that Fitzgerald was definitely a gin-junkie and I'll be sincerely disappointed if insults, punches, or words are not exchanged, and I'll sit back like a Gatsby and watch it all unfold like a sinful luxury in an era of good fortune.