As I was walking away from Mesoamerican art class this morning (pre-classical era today, clay figures from Tlatilco and Chupicuaro,) Brother Franson walking the other way recognized me and told me that they were handing out free cups of hot chocolate on a certain corner. Sweet. (It was a cold morning.) It didn't strike me until a few hours later that he was heading into the Spori to do the morning-after-seminar art demonstration (paper folding techniques,) which I totally spaced on and missed. But at least I still got that cup of hot chocolate from him, sort of. (Along with the cups of hot chocolate they were handing out coupons for haircuts if you wanted one. Brother Franson, it should be noted, is taller than his hair, so I wonder how that went.)
I later used the styrofoam cup and plastic spoon to eat cereal from/with, mostly of utility but also a little of a sense of continuity between the present and the past, something that continued to tie me to the demonstration this morning and the seminar and the open house of the art exhibit, yesterday evening. The way I sort of, refrained from eating, after Adam dired. It was both easy and convenient, and an act of scarification, commemorating the wound, honoring it by refusing to let it heal. Not that the past is always a wound, but it is always a sort of a cut in a tree, with the present being continually grafted onto it, melding into it as it takes strength therefrom. Real life, as Cailin would say, procedurally generates history. This semester's had me scrambling and falling behind, but I think I'm catching up a bit. I hope I'm catching up a bit.
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