Sometimes words escape me. My thoughts do not always line themselves up into recognizable sentences. And lately, my emotions seem… shallow, as if slightly numbed. The house hunt was stressful, with its many high hopes and dashed hopes, such that I felt strung along and unsettled for weeks. Finally, Thomas and I were able to secure an apartment in the Wimbledons with Justin, while Jessica, Jacob, and Nick got a Birchwood. Over the summer I am staying in an RCA apartment with Molly King. This isn’t perfectly ideal, but it is highly functional… only, I think the stress from the whole ordeal got to me in minor ways — admittedly it was stress I created myself by failing to remain emotionally distant from choosing a living space.

Part of the problem may be that no one else is interested in simple or sustainable living or design. ‘Nutrition’ and ‘health’ have become dirty words: every time I mention the subjects people roll their eyes. Other people can make their own choices, it’s true, but I don’t even have anyone to talk to as excited as I am by ridding the world of cars, making things from scratch, living in small and beautiful spaces, choosing natural foods and toiletries, and reducing possessions to the bare essentials. So it goes.

In truth, life is good. Renn Fayre was a sunny, exciting blast, the perfect way to cap off another year of classes. This year we celebrated Ben’s graduation, the completion of his Senior year and his Psychology thesis. Amy, Thomas’s older sister, also finished as a History Major, a year after her partner Tom.

The theme this year was Doctor Seuss, which meant plenty of wacky and colorful decorations. There was a lot of running about and lazing about in the sunny grass: playing chicken, taking the fort from small children in the bouncy castle, listening to music in the shade, having boffer duels, watching human chess and Iron Chef (Jacob’s team lost, but barely — to my surprise their mushroom dessert when over well, just not well enough), and enjoying fireworks and fire dancing (except for the horrible rap music, which was just half-a-dozen words in the most offensive combinations).

Sunday morning, I woke up at 5:30 to do my Karma Patrol shift with Ana. Two hours of walking around, checking for people passed out in bushes (which they weren’t) and giving others bagels and water if they wanted them (which they didn’t). The result was my being sleepy the rest of the day, but at least I got a free t-shirt.

Now that Renn Fayre is over, however, I miss having Karma Patrol around. The infrastructure of Whitebird, Karma Patrol, and Border Patrol — making sure people have food, water, and medical care, making sure people are safe — seems like a wonderful way to run a community. With that organization gone, anonymous care (that is, support from outside your circle of friends) is administered in a much more formal way. Outside Reed, getting care can be downright arduous and even illegal. Several weeks ago I went to a talk given by the retired Seattle Chief of Police. He was came as a representative of LEAP (Law Enforcement Against Prohibition), and discussed the many reasons why the War on Drugs is a stupid and harmful way to fight drug addiction. And really, it is: the best way to help people is certainly not to hurt them. The world would be a far better place if organizations were as non-judgemental and supportive as they are at Renn Fayre (and it’s not pot or acid that makes them so chill — volunteers have to be sober).

Real life isn’t perfect, and as much as I want it to be different, I get the feeling that no difference would actually be better in the long run. So instead there are fantasies. In the absence of Heroes, we have started watching Deadwood. It’s a western filled with swearing, brutality, and whores, not my usual cup of tea, but man is it good — intense, but good. With all the bad things that people do to each other, there is still a slant towards justice. I get my light entertainment in the form of Harry Dresdon, wizard P.I., as read in a wonderfully pulp style by Thomas.

… and also I cut my hair. Short. Don’t scream! I’ve gotten a million and one compliments, each one forwarded to Jessica — she’s positively brilliant. I wavered for months, but it was definitely worth getting over my fear of looking horrible (or triangular). Minimalist tendencies attack again? Who knows.