i worry sometimes

This is just definitely the biggest banana I've ever seen and I don't know what to do but eat it anyways.

To me the mind is a museum. I think that the way that we think of anything is a result of our desperate need to live and feel okay while doing it. I sometimes analyze my methods of thinking too much- it's self inflicted karma for being critical about most oither things in the world, incidentally, rarely of other people as an exception. But to me, the mind has to be a museum. Because if it isn't then what is it? if I think about looking at a museum, and really seeing it, and then having someone tell me, "no, that ain't no museum," then I'm confused. Because then what is a museum at all? One thing that I seduce myself to do way too often is to deconstruct every single thing thayt I believe in or love until it doesn't make sense to me. it's my own form of masochism, but it's also earnest, which I guess is okay I guess. Anyways, my mind, I am sure, is a museum. A museum is full of things that other people put there. The museum arranges it accordingly to its own view of each piece's ultimate place in the collection, whether it be in an ascending spiral ramp, or in a mass of interconnecting boxed spaces, or whether it be in an enormous palatial relic, embracing a postmodern glass pyramid. And it's also up to the museum what art goes where, which piece is juxtaposed to another, what message or feeling to coerce by ordering and mingling different portraits and installations with eachother, the sequencing, the trefoil of emotion that torrents in each room. A museum with wonderful art can't really go wrong- the art is all there; but the museum can severly subvert the potential posed by all of that coincident beauty in one place. If you hang a Picasso upside-down or put a waterfountain and faux-leather bench on a Rothko, it's still there, but I think that Rothko got his carpets at Bed, Bath and Beyond.
The mind can be a museum with wondeful management. Simple appreciation for the donated, purchased and acquired art; simple organization and logical design, consequentially; and a reasonable entrance fee, for those genuinely interested- without billboards around the city, exhibitionist offering of sacred creativity. There can even be a cafe in the basement with dino nuggets, a soda fountain, and frozen yogurt, or a tasteful gift shop.
But this is all up to the museum. And what is paradoxical about the analogy is that, the way I see it, we are unique to our own museums, because while we pay our entrance fees to foreign museums in our own ways, we manage to both appropriate or own museums, and visit them perpetually. That's the bone we have to pick as humans. Being critics of our own museums that we are also curators for. Even worse, most of the time, we are objective critics, and overly-conscious curators.
It's really simple, because I could write so much more- the critic need be a visitor that loves art, unconcerned with details. The museum needs to progress with its vision, its concept, its inspiration as times change, always paying homage to its rich history oto draw a vision from.
Sometimes, passing through the stark halls and keeping distance is beauty enough. Sometimes, staring into the thread count of the canvas is deadly.

It's just a museum. We can always go to Burger King on the way home.

By the way, things besides my stream of consciousness have been doing so well here! Most weeks aren't really exciting, they're more pregnant with quiet beauty. Gradual fulfillment throughout the day. Sometimes, a day can be so quiet, that I'll be searching and waiting for the beauty everywhere I walk: through the rose garden behind the Notre Dame (which I've visited seven times now, the SacreCoeur only twice, and no other tourist attractions yet), through the gayboyhoods, the Jewborhoods, the hoodberhoods, and finally always over the Seine, or next to it somehow, on the way back to the Metro. By the way, my main Metros, so that some of you more travelled-to-Paris-folk have an idea, are Metro Sevres-Babylone (for school, ETA per morning-750), Metro Odéon (for general rabble-rousing, ETA pour lunch in the afternoon- 145, ETA pour alcoholLunch and a leg of my tour at my favorite bar, which I have aptly named "Smelly Bar," due to its smelly nature, and more figuratively for its alacrity to serving underaged -keep in mind, this is below 18 in France- Italians that like to dance on tables that once in a while belt under their strapping masses), Metro Cluny-La Sorbonne (for Latin Quarter shannanigans, or a different route to Smelly Bar), and Gare L'est, for the majority of my concerts, including Atlas Sound a week from Monday!
Anyways, last night I kicked it off at Metro Odéon, where I met Izzy Kittenberg. We hopped straight to la Boite de la Smelly to renew our subscriptions to Jaegerbombs Illustrated, Jaegerbombs Teen People and Jaegerbombs Soap Digest. After our quick stint, we caught Allie, who suggested that we alter our bankrolls in the spirit of thrift-- I never say no to cheap fun. So, we swiped our Carte Bleus at a really weird convenience store with any type of liquor that possibly exists in the world, but only one bottle of each. I naturally threw down on some Desperado, which, if I can refresh the minds of any of you who are unfamiliar, is a potion of the DevilGods: tequila, beer, and what my Spideysenses have identified as Lime Fructose Syrup #5, a close relative of the glue they make out of horse hooves. This Cartel score was whisked down to the drizzly, crime-ridden left bank of the Seine, and some serious research was done on its contents. Especially on it's drinkable contents. You see, when you drink Desperado, the world becomes your friend. Not only do you feel like your stomach is a cheap jacuzzi, not only do you feel like you're getting felt up by optimism, but shit literally happens in the real world to confirm your weird nouveau-Absenthe induced high. It's like a Zip-a-dee-doo-da Mad Dog. Two French 20-somethings came up to us with a bag of either mouse food or gerbil food, and wished us "Good Health," and this was so nice! However, should we have been worried about this if they were most likely sex-offenders. The interaction deteriorated into me becoming very irregularly close with one of the men in a short period of time. His name was Tiebout, and I now know about his 50 second sex in the Red Light District that he swore he wouldn't have, but hey! When in Rome! Or I guess Amsterdam! Maybe! I also accompanied him in mooning a boat of tourists, which I did because he convinced me really well in a short period of time that it's a French tradition, so. It started to rain, but after a lot of lies about having a stirdy knowledge of what "Monster Garage" is and who Jesse G. James is, we left. That wasn't before my less familiar new friend asked for a kiss. So a handshake it was, and then we left. The rest of the night was crepes and good times with a regular old dream team of Chaps. Tonight I think I'm gonna head to the Cinematheque, which I love to do here. This morning was beautiful also. I walked for an hour, around the area, to Starbucks, and then had a really delicious brunch with my family (it was lunch for them). College is getting closer and closer: it's three months away at this point, which is the same span of time that existed between the end of High School and College for most people. I have to choose a First-Year Seminar sometime soon, which is a course that is intensive on writing and analytical thought; I'll be in it with 10-14 other Febs, and it will be the most instrumental experience on my reimmersion into academia. It also, by some secret order, determines which dorm I live in, which I don't find out until the week before I go to college.
Check them out, let me know your opinions, via comment, e-mail, carrier pigeon. http://www.middlebury.edu/academics/ump/fys/sp_course_desc.htm

Autumn here is more of the same than I had expected, and that gives me a lot of love. Safe!