Today was an unexpectedly reflective sort of day.

Looking for something to keep myself occupied, I set out for the post office on Mill, conveniently forgetting that post offices generally close at noon on Saturdays and it was a quarter to one. I cut through campus to reach Mill, passing the law library again. It is a prime example of postmodern architecture. I have yet to go in, but I find myself utterly enchanted and attracted in ways I cant quite identify to its unpredictable clash of graceful curves and sharp angles. Its chaos in patterns reminds me of smoke in a slight draft. Warring inside me now are the conflicting desires of exploring it and leaving it a mystery. Half of its intrigue right now is that I have no idea what to expect when I walk through its doors. Having left it unexamined so long has built it an almost sanctified mystique in my mind, and I'm not sure whether satisfying my curiosity will be worth destroying its secrecy.

The rest of campus felt for all the world like a ghost town. Utterly devoid of its normal noise and bustle, the cady mall still seemed to echo with the voices and steps of the countless numbers of students who had crowded its walkways just days before. Feeling somewhat oppressed by the absent thousands, I stepped through there somewhat more quickly than was comfortable in the stifling heat of the midday sun.

Mill is uniformly charming in the afternoon. It has a wholly different character now that scantily clad co-eds no longer congest its intersections. It is more relaxed, lazy even, with elderly women walking easily in pairs, talking fondly of their friends and pastimes, and families stopping for icecreams at the little shops. It was so casually friendly that for a whole three hours I completely forgot that it was 104 degrees outside, that I had woken up lonely, that I had ever been anything but quietly content to enjoy the isolated camaraderie of walking along Mill avenue on a beautiful Saturday afternoon.

I briefly ducked into Border's, unable to resist the call of the thousands and thousand of books I could see calling to me through the glass doors. "I'll just look," I thought to myself, before buying Angles and Demons less then ten minutes later and booking it out of that den of temptation. I ambled along somewhat aimlessly after that, peaking into Urban, but with no real purpose other than to continue spending my time in such a pleasant manner. I passed the art cinema, which is playing Forest Gump tonight and briefly toyed with the idea of giving my rum swigging friend a call to see if he and his girl would want to go tonight, but decided not to interrupt the happy solitude of my wandering. I reached the end of Mill and headed back up the opposite side of the street. I entered the poster shop on a whim, and immediately saw something that had to be purchased for my sister. They were having a buy-one-get-another-half-off sale, so I felt the time had come to acquire the Dali I'd been eying for the past couple of months.

However, when I started pouring through the art prints, I came across a Renoir and was suddenly struck by a most poignant memory. My father went through a Renoir kick when I was about ten years old. It seems the filles of Renoir, with their quiet, self contained assurance, one younger, one older, invariably brought his two daughters to mind. My father is such a mix of hard work, idealism, humor, intensity, practicality, and occasional unexpected sentimentality; I tend to view him as a modern man de la Mancha. A few moments later I found myself in ownership of the Renoir print, moved inexplicably by the recollection.

I continued my walk, and stumbled next upon the greatest treasure in Tempe: Old Town Books. I pushed the door open tentatively and was welcomed by the warm wonderful musky smell of old books. Somehow I contained myself from skipping about as I flitted from shelf to shelf, nodding to old favorites and positively salivating over long desired classics. At last I contented myself with purchasing The Dubliners and Old Pussum's Book of Practical Cats, and promised the others that I would return soon and often. Its a very very good thing for both my checking account and my already bursting bookshelves that Old Town Books has very limited hours of operations.

Now I am back in my lonely apartment though, missing him and cursing Barbie's bad rap and Britney Spears. I think I'll escape into Melville for awhile.