Psychosomatic, or merely psycho?

I've been doing well. I've been settling in to my life, enjoying my work, and feeling cheerful. Yet I have all these weird physical symptoms that seem to speak to reservoirs of tension just beneath the surface. Ever since I can remember I've picked at the skin on my fingers, and I've pretty much decided I always will. However, my fingers right now are a mess. I got blood all over my copy of Word and Object and all over the hooks I bought so we can hang our towels on our new bathroom door (yes! we finally got the beaver-gnawed door replaced! less than two months after they'd said it would arrive!). This happens sometimes and I'm not too worried about it, but much more distressing is this headache thing. I think I've been grinding my teeth or pressing my tongue against my front teeth or something. (Please don't tell me to get orthodontic headgear because I simply refuse. When I'm married I'll get headgear, or when the bloom's off the rose, whichever comes first. Not before. It's hard enough picking up boys as it is. (Maybe if I weren't wearing the exact same clothes I wore yesterday I'd be in a better position to complain about this.)) Whatever the cause, I've been having awful headaches. I never get headaches. What gives?

There must be some sort of meme floating around, because at the moment I am fixated on Everything Is Illuminated and so, apparently, is everyone else in my area, because all the copies of the book are checked out of the library (both the public library and the school one). The public library also has six copies of the movie, all of which were out this weekend, but last night I checked again and found one had been returned, so I went to the library as soon as it opened this morning and snapped it up; the librarian was nice enough to find it for me on the to-be-shelved cart. I watched it this afternoon and am currently resisting the temptation to watch it again. The book is due back tomorrow, so hopefully whoever has it will be a good citizen and return it so I can eat it read it. We'll see.

One strange thing about this book is that the author, Jonathan Safran Foer, is also one of the main characters. It's never been clear to me how much of the book is based on a true story - in particular, I wonder whether Alex, the Ukrainian translator, is real. (And if so, how real?) The movie is dedicated to "Alex" and it gives his dates, so someone named Alex is dead, but is it the Alex in the book? If so, that makes me really sad, so I am pretending it's just some other Alex. I actually have a complicated possible worlds account of this which I'll spare you. Possible worlds: is there anything they can't do?

I'm also listening to John Cale's "Paris 1919" on repeat - the song, not the album. I'm feeling a little autistic today, I guess - listening to one song again and again, and wanting to watch a movie over and over. A little autistic, but not as autistic as the ever-creepy Saul Kripke, whose talk I attended today. His voice makes my skin crawl. I am really glad I made the choice I did.