hey blogfans. a few fillips-

every now and then I get these mysterious texts from a number I don't know that that say "blog" and leave it at that. Clear enough what that's about. There's a faceless uprising at my virtual door heralding pestilence and anarchy if I don't give them what they want: my prophecy. Sister, testify!

unfortunately, i'm not really in a seeing mood right now. I've just gotten back from london three days ago and i'm still jetlagged, it must be. Also, I have a job interview to contemplate preparing for. As well as motions to write. Instead, I'm just going to include some quotes from a lecture I went to yesterday, which I thought was entitled "Is Justice a Juridical Concept" until the speaker, a French philosopher qui s'appelle Alain Badiou, said that he had to decide the name of his lecture democratically and ex post facto through an audience vote by email throughout the coming week. And so on:

"The present moment is like a permanent apology."

"Drugs are different from a dependency on pleasure. They're a metaphysics of rupture."

"Sexual enjoyment is not theatre, not representation, but presentation and exposition." OR "Sexual enjoyment is a present that no presence can absolve."

"The new law will be neither romantic fusion or cynical nihilism (the contract between two parties). It will be politics without fetish, even democratic fetish, beyond the formal despotism of numbers."

"The universal language of poetry is the keeper of the possible."

I think the biggest coup is getting my law school to pay through the nose for people to come to our school and say stuff like this. For a moment, I forgot that I was in law school. Then I looked down at my corporations book and remembered all over again.

official end of summer

That's it. The long distance runners, those harbingers of the season's change, have again dashed by us, leaving us with naught but the crushed poland spring water cups from beneath their Sauconys, and now I know that winter looms. Somehow I cling to the hope that it's not really that cold through most of the fall. But reality dawned this morning as I walked up bedford avenue and observed that all the marathon spectators had their hands stuck in the pockets of their puffy parkas and were protected by woolen hats and gloves. After two hours of clapping (gloveless, alas) and screaming, "keep it up, keep it up!"/"Vive la France!"/"MAY-hee-co! MAY-hee-co!" I was frozen through.

I love the marathon. This is the second year I've seen it, and each time I do I move a millimeter closer to actually maybe thinking of doing it myself. But I think that being a spectator is better: screaming your support to the Jennas, or Jans, or Ricardos, or Anthonys who label themselves, telling them that they are doing GREAT, YEAH! It's exciting to observe and clap for the strained exertions of thousands.

The women frontrunners were fierce. Not Tyra Banks fierce, but pride of lions in the throes of the kill fierce. The woman winner ran the race in two hours and forty minutes, give or take. That's what, a six minute mile for twenty six miles? Superhuman. You might as well say a 10 second mile for ten thousand miles, for the bearing that it has on any reality in my own life.