Indecisive Peach

Today I went back to my old job at the Archives. I’m currently on a different grant than I was before and no longer on the same floor, but still pretty much have a wing of the library all to myself and even a window to look out of. And two desks! And a limitless supply of post-it notes!

I’m currently processing the papers of Dr. Frank Harary, AKA the (self-professed) “Mr. Graph Theory.” He was a mathematical genius supposedly, not something I can actual determine:

“A knot is a homeomorph of a circle in a 3-dimensional Euclidean space.”

Really? Because I thought a knot was… Never mind.

From the cursory look at some of the documents, he seems to be really interesting. He corrects the grammar and punctuation of letters he receives with the highly stereotypical red pen, bleeding and visually mumbling all over the document. I ran across a highly tongue-in-cheek letter he sent to the campus art gallery who had sent him a letter recruiting him as a monetary patron. He asked that they should first save the 28 cents they paid to mail him something that could be sent via inter-campus mail, and for their future reference, they should observe how they would receive his letter in the inter-campus mail.

Snarky, I like it.

I often find myself discussing my television tribulations whenever I go to visit my parents who have cable. This time is especially interesting with my Mom’s love of Home and Garden Television.

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I create a personalized gauntlet for all my friends. I try their intellect, observe their movements within the world, and make mental notches of what qualities align between us. I have been told that I do not have a lot of tolerance and that I should allow for them to judge me for my grievances as steeply as I do theirs. For the latter, I do wish to be held highly accountable for my actions and behavior and run into the same sort of weavings that I create. As for tolerance, I am unbendingly strict.

Almost.

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E, “What are you going to do with all that junk, all that junk inside your trunk? Now that’s a philosophical conundrum.”
Replied with, “Wha?”
“It’s a song lyric.”
“I know.”
“So? What are you going to do? “
“What am I going to do? I never know that.”
“Not even about all that junk in your trunk?”
“That would be a no. I suppose I could just work out though. But most of it was surgically enhanced.”
“Well, how about the junk in the trunk of your car?
“I don’t have a trunk…That sort of takes the wind out of your sails doesn’t it?”
“How about the theoretical place where there could be a trunk?”
“What exactly are we speculating upon here?”
“What you’d do with the junk in a theoretical trunk in your car.”
“…”
“Just speculation. Throwing out some theories.”
“I think you’re throwing out some crazy.”
“Oh no you didn’t!”
“Oh Snap!”
“I think we make horrible ghetto fabulous.”
“No, no. I think we’d make ghetto horribly fabulous.”
“Oh man…So tempting.”

I’ve spent all these years without any influence from Woody Allen. The first real exposure was in my short story class two semesters ago, where I got bored with the inane prattle and senseless argumentation in the class, and decided to read one of his short stories, “The Kugelmass Episode.” It was very good – surprisingly good even. It was a story about man that gets inserted into the novel Madame Bovary in order to have an affair on his real life wife and had a tick of metafiction in that classes reading the book around the country noticed this strange character addition. He had a great lithe approach to humor in writing. I appreciated it as a novice writer.

The other day at the library I stumbled on his Academy Award winning movie Annie Hall and decided to give it a whirl. I was in the mood for something light, something reputed to have helped propel a lot of the modern romantic comedies.
 
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