i must read an extrememly dull book by thursday or tuesday or something. i don't know how this man does it, he manages to make his entire life story dull. i thought you were only allowed to write memoirs if you could tell a good story, i mean, christ, it HAD to be at least SOMEWHAT intense and interesting being a Palestinian-born christian boy living in jerusalem in the late forties, good lord. there was some crazy stuff going down then, right? all this dude can talk about is his emotional distance from his father and being doted on by his mother, i mean these things are the fascinating details that make the crazy quilts of our lives, and perhaps his young person's perspective involved mainly obsessing over cheese sandwiches in the middle of being kicked out of his life and stuff, maybe i am not getting it and this is just what happens in real life and i assume that people shoot for overarching themes or goals when they write memoirs taking place in

anyway this ####'s driving me crazy, it's the type of book where unless you're in a cryptlike silent library setting, it just ain't gonna penetrate your skull.

i wanted to go to the parkway tonight with the ladies, but it's looking rough up there, cloudy, drizzling. this is not ideal for stargazing. i spent most of yesterday sleeping or incapacitated mentally, so i have done nothing for the revolution.

i keep trying to find books on the inca trail and stuff, and how the hell i am going to get from santiago to cuzco to macchu pichu to lima to back home....so far no results. has anyone ever hiked the inca trail? is that a disgustingly petty bourgeois question to ask? i meant it as an earth-seeking student, not a yuppie. more later.