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sublingua | |||||
| The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.) | The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.) | The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.) | |||
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We sometimes speak Chinese...
I'm waiting for that moment when the semester clicks and becomes real. The first round of tests, the first due homework assignment, the first time I have to wrestle with the people at payroll for my money. What will that moment be and will I feel it when it happens? Will I be standing in line at the cashier's and think, "Shit. This is it." Or will it be as I'm starting to run a gel at eight at night when I know I should be studying? Will it be as I stand in the middle of the lab and look out the sliver of window at the treetops darkening at five in the afternoon because it'll be winter and the middle of the semester and I'll have woken up into it finally. I haven't set foot in the library yet, and my books are still remarkably pristine for four days into the semester. My notes haven't divided themselves out into their own notebooks. There is no organization because there is nothing to organize. I'm still trying to get my writing hand up to its fighting weight. I'm sitting in these uncomfortable chairs, trying to think myself out of lecture, but trying to pay attention with all my mind. The z makes me a little bit spacey, but also very calm. Lab notes: Bodicon G sleeping at her desk twice in the afternoon. Later, standing, staring out the window with a dazed expression on her face. The moment I broke through with Zaphod may have been when I asked him if he ever thought about drinking the media broth we grow E.coli in. My lunch (sandwich, chips, yogurt, Oreos) being the cause of much interest. "Do you get up in morning and make sandwich?" "Is like lunch on airplane!" (Meaning so many little packages of things.) "American food is so easy to cook, isn't it? Hamburgers." "What do you eat for breakfast?" And not wanting to admit to an all-American breakfast of a Coke and string cheese and a double latte, iced, on the way into work. Talking to Zaphod's wife, whom I've never met, on the phone. The slight bit of vertigo when she asked, "Is this sublingua?" "Yes, it is." "Well, thank you, sublingua." The rush of Chinese when I answer the phone, "Hello." A quick change to English when I say, "I'm sorry, who was it that you wanted to speak to?" Zaphod telling me, "We sometimes speak Chinese to each other." And then not hearing a word of English (except when spoken to) for four days. Not knowing how the social structure works, not caring, not having to be the sarcastic, on-top-of-everything smarty pants. This is my life.
More lies:
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