Amy's endless waltz

The Endless Waltz is the subtitle of one of the Gundam series, I think. Gundam makes my nerve endings tingle because it is so different, so big, so full that I can't think all that I want to think about it at once.
Thinking several things at a time is no problem. I remember the first time I did it--it was during the "Otis-Lenon Test" (at least, that's what it sounded like to my little flightly ears. It might have been Otis-Lemon, or OTIS-Lennon or any variation in between that makes phonemic sense) in third grade. It was something like (something like something like) an IQ test, with those fascinating shaded boxes and triangles and word problems and inversions of 3-D images that our brains had to do. Some kids cried. I finished early.
Daddy used to play those games with me for fun. They are fun.
The answers to fill in were obvious to me before I finished reading the question. Once (okay, probably more than once), I chanced a glance around the room--fobidden!--to ease my neck muscles. I remember how Eric Yoder (yes, Yoder) sat with his leftarm stretched across the desk, left ear on elbow crook, right hand five inches from his face, eyes just about closed. I remember standing up once or twice in excitement. Nerves? Or is it like when I'm typing a paper and it's not happening at the speed of my thoughts? Freshman year of college I used to walk up and down the hall bouncing one of those Super Bouncy Balls, talking to myself, focusing on the sound of the pounding and not the multiple noises of fragmented thoughts. Too many possible directions. Writing is linear.
Multiple choice is linear. They probably would have sent me to the principle's office if I hadn't been an otherwise good kid. I think that's when I took to tying strings around my finger, to remind myself to sit still, to give my hands something to do, to focus the noise. I probably am hyperactive, minus the active part.
We are probably all hyperactive. The new commercials for adult ADD have me convinced of this. The myth of the productive, diligent worker (the pervading Puritan ideologies that clash with post modernism) continues to control things it shouldn't control. Of course, my desire to control my own ideologies is also a product of that ideology. We waltz again, repeat the coda. One two three.
One two three.
That, of course, was not the point of this post. The point was to say something about how I am still scrolling through internet sites, here the 19th of May (yes, Star Wars), clicking and linking and making favorites and deleting and other Ing words. Getting nowhere but to the Stoodt's Market in Bellville, where people stared at me. Granted, my hair was unwashed from the Budokon of the night before, and I was wearing a sweater with an inquisitive beaver on it, but that is no reason to stare.
Damn, I miss Boston.
I was right, when I thought that a city would afford me the annonymity I desire. It felt good to get lost for a while. And being back here for two weeks, no longer lost (once was lost, now am found) has me antsy again. I'm done being found.
So I search online for apartments to appease mother's anxieties. I email Purdue daily to appease my own. I try to let myself enjoy movies without thought.
It all ends up looping back anyway, and I have the urge to write about Gundam, or how Barnes and Noble have rearranged their shelving to allow for twice the number of Manga and graphic novels. I think about Star Wars and the fandom it spawned and my own fandom and the multiplicity of fandoms--no one is just a Star Wars fan, or just a DBZ fan.
Can you overload a fan? Is this psychosis a real necessity? What happened before media? What about Homer?
I'm reading an InuYasha fanfic that has finally been updated. I plan on nominating it for next quarter. I'm a member. The emails tell me so.