It's 7:57 PM, in the U-M's vast, northern waste. (I've just noticed my cellular phone's lack of service in this place; though it can be explained by this building's composition of steel, glass, and cement, this lack of signal is a compelling representation of our relative isolation.) During a discussion of the merits of forks relative to those of spoons, I found myself compelled to write a defense of spoons. I was not two sentences in, however, when I realized that, truly, the fork is the poetically superior utensil. From my notebook:
"The reverse of the spoon is convex, mountainous, Braille-like, an instrument of meaning and of its expression. However, it remains blunted; it lacks the inherent danger of the fork's sharpened tines. It is tame , and thus only able to contain platitudes, flat-itudes, in ironic contrast to its otherwise varied topography. The fork may contain those truths that, though unpleasant, remain true."
Also, I must remember to ask about the Mardi Gras beads.
