Random collection of scribbling that I managed to pin onto scraps of handy paper...

The other day I had a chance to talk with an old friend whom I have not really been able to speak to for a while. And as we spoke of ships and shoes and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings I was reminded that life is not lived out on the fringe of things. Lingering on dark rooftops almost entombed by the dark branches above, accompanied only by the dying light of one's cigarette, surrounded by the sounds of enjoyment drifting up from below is not living, as romantic and aloof and appealing as the setting might be. Not that the setting is of itself wrong, the context is just not right. It occurs to me that life is very much like music - what is good is very often determined by the context...

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Memory is such an odd thing. With little to no warning your are overwhelmed with image after image, layer upon layer of sights, sounds, emotions. I was sitting in the commons reviewing the day's assignments and at the sound of an apparently unrelated note I was hurled back to another warm midmorning, sitting with a newly dear friend in the near empty commons talking of life and its lessons. To chill evenings, watching the upperclassmen pouring in after seminar waiting for friends to filter out of the mix, anticipating the coming discussion of the evening's excitement or follies...