It's 7:16 in the morning, and I am sitting on the dusty, dirty floor of DAAP's third floor, waiting to be taught how to weld. Vanessa said they were meeting for an orientation this morning at 7, but as time creeps closer to 7:30 I grow progressively more convinced that I misheard her. Underneath the door of the shop, however, a light creeps out and dances on the finish of the concrete floor; either a light is always left on in the shop, regardless of whether or not it is open, or my comrades will emerge from the room in several moments as master welders, leaving me to return for orientation yet another time.

*sigh*

Well, I suppose I should explain how I found myself at this particular moment. The last time you heard from me was in mid August, during a particularly amusing fight with Bryan. This morning I'm bundled up in a coat, scarf, and moderately practical shoes. Two months have passed, I've been to Paris and back, started school and am half way done with the quarter. My, how time flies.

Paris was spectacular and unlike anything I have ever seen. Like many others I know, I've been bitten by the illusion that I will learn French, snag a fabulous Parisian job, and be living in the Marais in a matter of years. Will this happen? Perhaps not. I will, however, certainly return to the city of light many times in the next couple of years. The city and the way of life is beautiful. I have many pictures to post.

School has also been going well. I spend 60 hours in the studio a week, but I've done well in most of my work. I have yet to find motivation for some classes- drawing, for instance- but I've felt inspired in most other areas. I've developed a solid routine that involves taking the bus, packing a lunch, working my ass off during the week so that I can spend time with Bryan on the weekends; basically I'm finally doing all the stuff I should have been doing last year.

I look up from my laptop to find the shopkeeper, Jim, rushing towards me with profuse apologies and mutterings about sleeping in, a sick cat, and some distorted comment about "that damn dishwasher repair man". He unlocks the door of the shop, waves me in, and asks me to throw my bag in a corner and grab a welding mask. A glance at a torn piece of loose lief taped to the office door informs me that I'm a day early for the orientation. I keep this bit of information to myself in hopes that I can get certified today and sleep in tomorrow. Jim is bustling about the office, clearly still half-asleep, ironically droning on about the importance of alertness and awareness while welding.

Within half and hour I am savvy to the processes of the spot-welder, plasma cutter, and welding machine. A mark is punched on my shop ID to indicate my ability. Tootsie Rolls are thrust in my hand with further apologies for the tardiness. Another comment about "that degenerate" the repairman can be heard among his ramblings. I saunter off towards the cafe for a bagel and coffee.

I am, once again, where I so often find myself to be: in studio. I have drawing to do and a bit of research to conduct. I look out the window and see students walking towards their first classes of the day, and I think of the friends I haven't seen in ages and the normal college diversions I don't have time for. I allow myself to look up for a moment more before grabbing a sheet of 11x17 copy paper and beginning to draw.