i put a spell on you: june 25, 1999.

June 25, 1999.

Strange day, following a very strange night. Yesterday I grew weary of the seemingly unending research & decided to go to bed at 9:30 - super mondo early for me, especially when I don't have a morning commitment the next day. So I did all my going to bed stuff, put in earplugs and tried to sleep. About 15 minutes into this, my mom called, and in taking out my earplugs to hear her, I realize the truly obnoxious volume of the Irish party down the hall.

Wait. I've never spoken of the Irish, have I?

Ok. In res, there is a group of Irish who are here to work. Consequently, they do not feel shy about making noise at all hours, at playing soccer in the hall at midnight and at holding loud ceilidhs on weeknights. I've been dealing with it by res methods, in which you assume they're reasonable people who'll understand your pleas for quiet. This has worked on two of the other occasions I've been moved enough to go out there. There have been lots of times when they've made moderate - although disturbing - amounts of noise and I haven't confronted them. All of this punk rock obnoxiousness is a pose; I'm quite the chicken at heart. And I cringe knowing that strangers don't like me. Which is pretty inconsistent considering my general comportment. But anyway, back to last night.

So I sally down the hall in my bathrobe with my heart in my mouth, yet ready to confront/reason with the noisy Irish. And I got shouted at. It's not quiet hours, they yelled, and that was to be the end of the matter as far as they were concerned.

Well, I went to pieces. Bad enough to risk it, but to get an outcome like that? Called the Boy with vague notions of revenge and a strong need for sympathy; he suggested I take refuge at Froghopper Nook. Eventually all I had to deal with were a noisy cat and a teddy bear-less bed. (Those who've visited my various grottos know that I sleep with an enormous bear named Lilith. She's been my bedmate for 3 1/2 years and I miss her when she's gone.)

This morning I formally complained to the porter's desk, despite some reservations on their efficacy. (I once complained of sexual harassment to my highschool administration and although he never bothered me again, I never got over the idea that official power hadn't done a thing for me and never would.) Surprise surprise...the porter's desk was utterly sympathetic and helpful, telling me that I was under no obligation to take excessive noise at any hour, and that I wasn't obliged to confront fellow tenants myself, either. I learned that if the Irish get one more warning, they'll be booted out of the building.

It almost makes me want to go back, just for the satisfaction of squealing on them again. I feel you drawing back from your monitors in horror. Could she really be so evil?

Of course I can, dear reader.

Of course I can.

Ironically I spent some time this morning meditating and praying in the Trinity Chapel. It was just so lovely when I wandered by: empty rows, organist practicing, gothic architecture. I asked for blessings to the women of last weekend's conference for bearing my hostility and to Audrey for showing me my massive arrogance. And I left feeling better about the whole thing.

Pixie Stix will be the death of me. She's encouraging my little secret fantasy, which is not fair in the least. In the hot tub tonight, we spoke of the relative advantages of Eastern schooling and now I'm wretchedly hopeful.

Bah. I want to go back to not expecting anything to turn out. Much easier on the nerves.

Found out that the Boy owns the next Davies book I want to read. I'm halfway through it already...and despite imprisoned masturbating pinheads, English spies and inept transvestites, it's not half as good as the Rebel Angels. Sooo disappointing. Damn you, Mr. Davies! If you were still alive, I'd march over to your building (five minutes away from where I'm sitting, actually) and have a word.