Wednesday, 30 April 2008
Watched a news segment tonight, an interview with Robert Hass, former Poet Laureate, who's won the Pulitzer Prize. He read one of his poems and reflected on the art of poetry, saying that poetry should say, "this is what it's like to be alive." He talked about the limitations of language to describe the processes of nature, about the way he composes poetry to get in touch with himself.
One thought of his that grabbed me so strongly that I had to write it down before it escaped: "If art doesn't preserve, somehow, the gift of our life on earth..." That's all I had time to remember and write, but it says a lot about the purpose and nature of art. Life is a gift, and poets have this rare gift with which they can capture a moment or an essence or a fleeting glimpse of something transient and rare, yet also enduring and true.
It's all interpretation, and as Hass says, we cannot speak the language of nature. But we can try to articulate something of what it says to us. Art makes sense of that which has no clear explanation; it makes us think and feel and brings dormant pieces of our soul to the surface, if only for a fleeting moment.
I caught a brief glimpse today of a documentary on PBS titled "A Brief History of Disbelief," where the writer claimed that we could not philosophize without the written word, that the spoken word cannot be examined as well as the written word. I teach writing as a process of learning, and writing has taught me much about myself, about life.
The beauty of writing and reading and thinking is that it is an endless process which begins as we learn to read and pick up a pencil and move it in such a way that we identify ourselves, claim our place on this earth. That which is written can be preserved or erased, it can be read or ignored.
I choose writing. Or has it chosen me?
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Wednesday, 30 April 2008
I delete about ten times the stuff I write. I try to funnel the crap in my head into free verse or reshape it into clever metaphors or insightful analogies, or redirect it towards something socially redeeming, but what it really comes down to is a major case of ongoing depression. So I pick myself up, delete or compose something fluffy, and get on with my day.
I don't feel particularly fluffy today.
It's 7:30 a.m., and I've already accomplished so much. I woke up with chest pain, picked a fight before finishing my first cup of coffee, and feel a massive headache coming on. I've stacks of work before me, nearly obscuring this monitor, and my to-do list lies on the floor in wads of crumpled post-it notes.
In other words, it's just another day. I hope you weren't expecting to see anything else here.
Tuesday, 29 April 2008
slipping in and out of streams of consciousness is neither cleansing nor refreshing
please stop pushing my mood swing. i'd like to try the monkey bars now.
insomnia: to dream that perchance i'll sleep
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Monday, 28 April 2008
I'm psyched. Climbing out of my pit of despair. Getting past the slump. Slowly moving forward; too slowly for my tastes, but surely moving forward in about a million ways at the moment.
I've got plans. Small plans, but plans. I can't wait to get going. I sent a small prayer out to the universe, and it was answered in mysterious ways. I just love the way nothing ever works out the way I think it will. That's one of my favorite things about life. The way I try to control, lose all control, and am given unexpected gifts.
I can't wait!
In the meantime, however, I must grade and grade and grade and grade....
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Friday, 25 April 2008
I want a knight in shining armor, one that doesn't exist, to swoop me up and take me away from all this. Okay, they did exist, I've read their tales of valor, but they served their liege lords, not their women. Most tales from old or middle English end with the woman choosing to end her life cloistered in a convent contemplating spiritual matters or swooning to death by her man's grave, her life apparently having no value outside of serving her lord or her Lord. Shakespeare was fond of the marriage plot, and Victorian writers, even the liberated female ones, typically had their "bad" protagonists suffer while their "angel" heroines were married off as some sort of reward.
Fast forward to the past fifty years, where women have actually progressed enough to do twice the work for about 3/4 of the salary and half the glory, to "bring home the bacon, fry it up in the pan, and never, ever, let him forget he's a man." At the same time, we have florists, jewelers, chocolatiers, and card companies promising love, kisses, and studly lovers waiting to swoop us off our feet in some modern version of Eleanor of Aquitaine's Court of Love.
The mixed messages make me swoon. Reality does not. Clearly, I need to return to fiction. I want to rewrite Beowulf from Wealhtheow's perspective. I'm sure she saw the chinks in Hrothgar's armor much more clearly than Beowulf ever did. She was a minor character, the wife of the king who bestowed rings and poured mead, elegant and gracious. Forget about Shakespeare's sister, I think we needed women writers long before that. I'd just love to sit and chat with a medieval woman for, oh, about a month or so. Just to compare notes, so to speak.
I'm tired of being the strong woman. Really tired of it. And I don't feel particularly elegant or gracious at the moment. I'm certainly no Victorian Angel of the House, and everyone will not live happily ever after. However, I'll settle for someone to hold me while I cry, hand me kleenex, and promise that he'll take care of me for a while until I feel strong enough to take care of myself again.
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Friday, 25 April 2008
Yesterday was my last day of teaching this term. All that remains is grading and meeting with a couple dozen students next week, the ones who worry about the grade. They've all grown in their writing and learning. I wish I did not have to assign a numerical value to that; the teaching experience would be radically different. But everything seems to be quantifiable today. As if.
Although I did not plan this, my course this semester seemed to shape itself around the war, and I found myself challenging my students on a regular basis to not opt out and disengage, as they so often do with unpleasant and controversial topics, but to seek solutions to all the problems that come with a war, especially in terms of human suffering. Their last project, where they drafted proposals to end social injustice, is where my teaching objectives culminate in ways that always astound me. My students are amazing.
Then the workday ended, and I headed to Blockbuster for some video therapy. I struck gold and brought home three films. I watched the first one right away. Lions for Lambs. Although this film is uneven, Redford always inspires me, and I like what he's done with this one. Once again, I was reminded of my purpose in teaching, the only reason any of us with scruples goes into this line of work: we really do want to change the world.
I studied generational history a few years ago, and, even though it is a gross generalization, certain trends can be found and repeated across generations. I like to think the hypothesis about the "boomer" generation is true: we will redeem ourselves in old age as teachers, enabling the present generation of young people to fulfill their purpose.
Some things are constants in life. Suffering and evil inflict damage, but they also strengthen those they do not destroy, enabling us to create new and better ways, bringing beauty and a certain truth which sustains.
Teaching feels "right" to me. I'm not a great artist or writer; I tend to shy away from the political activism I try to ignite in my students. I'm not going to change the world, but perhaps I can gently nudge and empower those who will. That thought sustains me.
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Thursday, 24 April 2008
I try very hard to be a "big girl," and Fergie tells me they don't cry. I try very hard to not whine because, frankly, I don't even want to listen to myself when I'm like that.
But I'm down. Seriously down. More than I've been in a very, very long time. I know that all things change, so I know this, like happy times, is not permanent. And somewhere between doctor's visits, physical therapy (still ongoing) and work, I need to pay a visit to my therapist, but first I have to be well enough to drive an hour to see her.
I seriously need a hug, and no huggers are around. Anyone have any kindness to spare?
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Wednesday, 23 April 2008
Said goodbye to another friend today; she's giving up on the Florida universities and moving back up north. This makes three of them, the other two to the midwest. My office mate is leaving for California, and the woman from the next office over is leaving for Wisconsin.
The silence speaks.
What next? Hurricanes? An electronic version of hanging chads? Perhaps the legislature will promote universal home-schooling and homeopathic medicine?
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Wednesday, 23 April 2008
I want to live where I am, in the moment. The challenge lies in the fact that I just haven't enjoyed many of those moments for a long time now.
I've really enjoyed my time in the classroom this spring, but that's only two days a week. The rest of my work time has been spent pretty much dragging myself through tasks with little joy.
I enjoy my time with my husband, but I've spent two days with him in the past three weeks, and he's been gone more than he's been here for so long that most of our time together this year has been spent catching up.
And then there's all the time I spend healing and waiting to resume normal activities. I pretty much hate every minute of that.
Although I know better, I've felt that my life has been on "hold" for a very long time, and I now find myself on the threshold of change. The ankle and eye, though I have setbacks, are on the road to health. My husband is coming home and won't go away again without me all summer (try and leave me behind, mister!) Soon I will have all the time I need to catch up on all the things that need doing and all the things I want to do.
I am returning. Or am I beginning again? Either way, it's all moving too slowly for my tastes.
I'm really dangerous at this point. This is where I can ruin everything by throwing off the restraints that have held me together for so long. I want everything, and I want it NOW.
This is the deep irony of age. My desires have not diminished one iota, but I know better now, and that knowledge kills me. My Can't List is much longer than my Can List. I cannot skydive when I cannot walk more than a hundred yards without pain.
However, as I sip on a small glass of red wine and listen to good music and watch the sun set on another beautiful day, I can feel a stronger sense of connection to myself. That will have to do for now.
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Tuesday, 22 April 2008
When I answered the phone late last night, I heard a big exhale, and he said, "Now my real life begins," and I knew exactly what he meant. We go through our days, separated by time zones and workloads and hundreds of people, each getting a small piece of us. Home is where the heart is, and my heart is in Minneapolis this week, Atlanta last week.
So he continues the sweet talk: "You know, I'm the only guy I know that talks about his wife everywhere I go."
Several thoughts flit through my mind, machine-gun fashion: Liar....You want a medal for that?...So you put people to sleep nationwide? But I say, "Aww, how sweet."
He goes on: "People even ask me about you when we meet; people you've never even met come up to me and say, 'How's your wife?'"
You need to find a more interesting topic of conversation. OMG please tell me you're not talking about anything embarrassing....Please tell me it's not after you've had three drinks at the open bar....What the HELL are you telling them? "You're such a romantic."
"I can't understand why none of these guys ever talks about their wives at these things. It's like they don't miss them, like they're not a part of their real lives, of who they are."
There was a time he was one of those guys. He can talk as much as he wants to, as long as he catches the return flight on Fridays. Actions speak louder than words.
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Monday, 21 April 2008
Slowly, the hunger creeps across the face on cat feet, lightly, softly, almost invisibly, narrowing the eyes to green slits, tightening the muscles, stretching the skin taut to reveal the single thought that makes the hair stand out on the back of the neck. The killer instinct fills the body, turning it to a finely tuned machine of death that creeps forward slowly, imperceptibly, inch by torturous inch, the focus unwavering, until the POUNCE!
Twenty minutes later, a purr curls contentedly on its face, the eyes wide and innocent, the meow kitten-like in its inquiry, the tail twitching ever so slightly. A slight movement of the sweet little paw reveals the twitching, mauled mess that once was a lizard, trying desperately, by instinct, to crawl away. The creature deftly bats at it and bites it once more for good measure.
The lizard sweetly, sadly helpless, the kitten sphinx-like, powerful, reptilian.
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Monday, 21 April 2008
I've actually caught up on my work. I have absolutely no grading left to do until the final avalanche that arrives on Thursday. I have lots of other things to catch up on, one critical chore that will take most of the day tomorrow, two days of teaching and student conferences, physical therapy, doctor's visits, but no grading? How can this be? Have I just died or slipped into some parallel universe? Or is this merely a surreal dream, and I'll soon awaken and remember a stack of grading I've forgotten somewhere?
There's some principle of motion at work here, about the sudden cessation of repetitive motion, like when you debark off a boat and haven't found your land legs. I haven't found my mind and hands this free for quite a long time, and there's a strange combination of motion sickness and deeply buried exhilaration that's about to resurface.
Pardon me while I puke.
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Friday, 18 April 2008
I have one more week of physical therapy. I see my doctor a week from today, and I hope to shed this walking cast then. That's when the real work begins, yes? More opportunities to learn patience.
I have one more week of teaching. In six days, I pick up a motherload of grading and say goodbye to another batch of students. As always, I will miss them, but am so happy that we've all come through it. They've really grown as writers, researchers, and thinkers. Today I will attend an awards ceremony for two of my students from last year. I'm so proud of them all.
My husband is coming home today for the weekend, but in one week he comes home for a while. It's been a tough time for us; he's been gone four of five weeks. Since I can't walk much, I'll be the one circling the pickup area like a vulture, will scoop him up and take him home. I tell you, it'll take a lot of persuasion on his part to get me to take him back to that airport Sunday.
There was an earthquake this morning not far from where my favorite aunt lives. The Florida Legislature is doing so much damage to our state right now that we will feel our own "quake" for years to come. I won't be taking any road trips this summer. Times are tough.
But one week from now, I will get a new lease on life. Starting to feel that old energy rise. I died back considerably from the frosts in my life this year, but the air is warm and breezy, the sap rises, and I feel new growth beginning to bud.
Finally, spring.
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Wednesday, 16 April 2008
I've always lingered over the sunset, but over time it has become my favorite time of day, a time when I pause, reflect, and relax. Typically I sit and watch the sun go down with a glass of wine. When my better half is here, I share the experience with him; I seem to have finally weaned him from his two-hour news junkie fix. When he is away, as he is so often lately, sometimes I call him and we still share the sunset. Other times, such as tonight, when he's out with his Atlanta buddies, I share the sunset with music. Tonight it's Bob Dylan.
At this point in time, it looks highly unlikely that I will be at my current job next fall. The whole unraveling process has been very depressing, and I have had a hard time dealing with it. There are many factors at work: the recession has meant budget cuts and tuition hikes. This, along with the end of the baby boomlet, has contributed to lower freshman enrollment. Then there's the prevailing attitude that our university must become a top-notch institution, and adjuncts have no place in this plan.
I've had a headache for over a week, a bad one that I can't seem to shake, and the whole thing: end of term workload, my eye surgery, the physical therapy, family shtuff, has really been getting to me. I went to my physical therapy appointment this morning in pretty bad shape. I spilled all my misery out on the therapist, who is an alumn from my university and a one-time philosophy major at that, and he listened to me patiently before speaking. This is his reply:
It is the nature of research institutions to value research and publication over teaching. I have other teaching options. I need to continue to take my work seriously, but I should never take it personally.
I called a former mentor and potential employer today. I won't be out of work unless I choose to be. I can be flexible. I can enjoy my work and do a good job anywhere. But my work does not define me, nor does it complete me. As long as I remember that, I'll be okay.
The sunset is stunning this evening. And yes, Bob, the times, they are a'changin'. But that's not necessarily a bad thing.
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Wednesday, 16 April 2008
You know what it's like when you wake up feeling like shit, looking worse, have absolutely no memory of the night before, and wonder if it was really worth it?
It sucks to get that from working, not partying. The winds of change, they do blow me down.
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Monday, 14 April 2008
Apologies for this post (oh, hell, apologies for the posts of the past several weeks), but I have to whine here or I will go utterly mad. I am completely (albeit temporarily), miserable and can no longer put on a brave face or a cheerful attitude and there's no way out other than to keep plodding on, and here I am, all out of plodding. Anybody have some plod to spare? I've oh, about 9 hours of steady plodding ahead of me, that is, 9 hours if I keep my nose to the grindstone, but my poor nose has been ground down to a bloody stump. I would rather change the diapers of a thousand flea-infested camels than to grade one more paper.
It's ironic that the one thing I really hate about my job is the thing I spend 90 percent of my working hours doing and 90 percent of my personal time avoiding.
In order to stave this avalanche of self-pitying, lazy-assed, job-loathing, I have a request. Please write, either here or on your own blog (but tell me, please) your absolute worst day at work ever. Seriously. I need something to help me finish out this year, to keep from tanking this job because, unbelievably, this work suits me more than any I've ever done.
Although I've never tried the camel diapering gig.
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Sunday, 13 April 2008
As the semester draws to an end, I'm so excited that I can hardly stand it. There's this aspect to teaching: you cannot imagine a life without classrooms in the fall, the anticipation of learning and growth; nor can you imagine the lack of its counterpart, summers, the anticipation of relaxation, an absence of the very things that drive you so relentlessly during the academic year. We're all exhausted, ready for the change. Many have to work, but I think summers are better spent occupied in different work so as to recharge for teaching and avoid burnout.
My two great loves: reading/writing (which are synonymous for me) and traveling/walking. And here I am, left standing at the altar of postponed fulfillment. Even if the retina stabilizes and does not tear further, my cataract surgery, which I had anticipated as a sort of liberation, is delayed for the time being. So reading will be problematic this summer; although I can do it, my eyes will tire more readily. Gas prices, the economy and uncertain job market limit my travel, and my ankle is healing much more slowly than I wished, limiting my walking. Hiking is altogether banned for now, which makes me feel like a racehorse locked in its stall.
When you want to run and cannot walk more than a few steps at a time, it's as frustrating as having a stack of novels that you have to attack one chapter at a time.
Every human trait has both positive and negative aspects. What I term as spirit, my PT/philosopher calls resistance. What I see as resilience and determination in myself, my husband knows as stubbornness. What I feel is impatience at life's limitations, my friend sees as a deep-seated anger and delayed adolescent rebellion towards God.
My desire for independence sometimes hovers near a reckless bolt. This period of time reminds me of the first years of my marriage, where I was chained to home and office while my husband called and wrote of faraway places. I conversely want him to enjoy himself and want to wring his neck for doing what I cannot do.
My mind is screaming down the highway to the tune of Radar Love, while physically I plod through one more series of exercise on my ankle, read one more student paper. My only recourse is to try to find a new perspective. I'm sure there is something different waiting just around the bend for me, if only I have feet to take me there and the eyes to see it. Oh, and the patience to wait.
And I know better than to ask for patience because that request never fails to bring me opportunities to learn it. Am I a slow learner, or am I resistant to learning?
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Saturday, 12 April 2008
I just had the most restorative 24-hour period; it was just what I needed. Before I roll up my sleeves and begin my grading marathon, I must write about it, prolong the best day I've had in months.
It began this time yesterday, when I went for physical therapy. My therapist is a former philosophy major, and our conversations during my sessions make the hour fly by. Yesterday we discussed warfare as depicted in literature and film, from the ancients to the modern. I grin as I remember it. I told him I missed being a student, and he told me he misses argument. What a delightful intersection. I'm going to miss him when I "graduate."
Then a good friend came over. I haven't had time for friendship for way too long, so it was a really nice thing for her to do. We talked, went out for steaks (since this is the one thing we don't cook at home) and then watched chick flicks until late at night. The films were all based on family dynamics.
The first (Margot at the Wedding) we agreed was devoid of any redeeming qualities. The characters were as screwed up as it gets, and the film did not provide any sense of understanding as to how they became this way or any hope for their futures. Just one long chain of damage. Ugh.
We lightened up for the second film (Dan in Real Life), which we agreed was a light film about healthy family dynamics. Yes, the family was a powerful force of nature with its own dysfunctions, but it was ultimately healthy, and the film , while not substantially "deep," was ultimately affirming and enjoyable.
The third film (Georgia Rule) dealt with some serious issues in dysfunctional family that was redeemed by love. This family created a lot of damage, but the filmmakers didn't pull any punches, it was clear how they became that way, and in the end, they rose above their flaws and their circumstances and pulled together as healthy families do.
This morning, over a delicious breakfast of toast and fruit and coffee, we discussed families and spirituality and personal growth. As I sit here, paused in front of a computer full of a workload that has grown because of my health issues, I realize anew the value of friendship. It is when we feel least "human," when we cannot cope, when we are not our best selves, that we absolutely need to reach out and make contact with someone who will forgive us our shortcomings and affirm us in our never-ending quests to do better next time.
In all of life's blessings, good friends are at the top of the list. I am thankful for each one of my good friends. You keep me going.
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Thursday, 10 April 2008
I've been so down lately, it's not a pretty sight. I've worked really hard for a month now at keeping my cool, and it was wearing thin, and I've been quite grim with determination and perseverance all all those other long words that are not very fun, and this morning, I see, in a word, what's been missing.
Fun! I like fun, tend to be fun, always want to have fun, at work, at home, in cyberspace, but life's been grim and difficult and BORING, and my fun quotient went down so far, it all but disappeared. When I turned to jokes (thanks, American Girl!) you all pitched in, but the fun was gone from my funny.
Actually, to be precise, Mr. Bluesky has been gone a lot this spring due to his job, and, what with all my minor medical issues and the workload, and all that time spent alone, life has become one long coping exercise, and I've been getting failing grades lately. Ask Mr. Bluesky about it; he's the one who has to listen to my weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth on the phone.
Oh, and did I mention I discontinued the hormones? Heh. What a nightmare.
Roma, I'm not likely to take a year off, but I will take the summer off differently this year. I'm forming images of what I want to do, and I refuse to write them on a list. I'm throwing the freaking list out the window. I've felt so STIFLED, and I've got to burst out. So, while I obey my doctors' orders and move way too slowly outta this awful place I've been, I feel something starting, something almost exciting, different...dare I say it?...fun.
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Wednesday, 09 April 2008
I've got to talk with somebody. I've already had about a half dozen phone conversations today, and they weren't enough. If it were not for blogging, I'd become a cat lady.
I read a blog post about painting a room. I've been dying to paint a room, for a very long time, but I'm afraid that I'll go into some Jackson Pollock mode and end up with a bizarre room that I have to explain to people.
I have to explain too much as it is.
I've not signed up for any of the volunteer gigs this summer, and I feel like a fraud, teaching public service and not doing it. However, I've never been more drained than I am at this point in time, and I think I may just need to not do anything or else to do something completely different.
I've no idea what that might be.
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Wednesday, 09 April 2008
The headache is back, and it makes me a bit sick to my stomach, so I can't grade, and I can't read because of all the floaty thingys in my eye, and there's nothing on tv. Man, do I ever want to get out and take a hike, but I can't, so I revert to my natural state: worry.
I begin by obsessing over my job, which is still in limbo, by the way. No word on fall classes for any of us yet, and it's April already. The thought of possibly being without work leads me to my continual worry: my grandkids. It always goes back to this: I feel I should babysit my grandkids because it's the right thing to do, right for everyone but me. Just thinking about regular babysitting brings back the old trapped feeling; my chest gets tight, my head pounds more fiercely. So it's not right, is it, but that doesn't let me off the hook as to their welfare. No, they're not my kids. But we are all responsible for children, aren't we?
Today I was upset enough over a current predicament regarding the kids that I researched grandparents who babysit. There are apparently four types of grandparents, and they range from people who dote on the tykes and are involved in their lives on a daily basis to those who are more removed, usually don't get along too well with the daughter- (or son-) in-law, are fully involved in their own lives and see the kids and grandkids infrequently on an as-needed basis. I think we're closest to the third category. We love them, love to take them places and have them over, but only at our request.
It seems selfish. It IS selfish.
And then I go back to square one: we raised our kids, these are not our kids, it's not our job, not our business.
But isn't the welfare of children everyone's business?
I got into my son's business today, told him what for, said he'd made a bad parenting choice. He was respectful, dignified, and completely intractable. I think he's made a terrible mistake in judgment that may or may not have awful consequences. Probably he's going to give me a formal dressing-down for overstepping my boundaries again. Definitely there will be an uncomfortable distance between us for a while. They are, after all, his kids, and I truly had no right. And it's his birthday this weekend, and he's tired and feeling old and depressed, and he's not as healthy as he pretends to be.
So I feel simply awful, and I will apologize. But I won't sleep. And I'll wonder, once again, if I will be responsible for something awful happening to these kids down the road because I wasn't a big enough person to sacrifice my own happiness for the welfare of children.
I've heard all the arguments that justify my decision. And I'm no martyr. I know I have the right to choose. But what rights do the children have?
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Wednesday, 09 April 2008
I like the mathematical, logical approach to problem solving. Hence:
1 healing ankle -1 wheelchair +physical therapy = healing with more pain, swelling, inflammation
+ allergy to anti-inflammatories + methylprednisolone = more sleep at night
...but...
1 tear to the retina + bleeding and leakage of fluids + emergency laser surgery = eyesight saved this time + massive headache that won't go away + allergy to aspirin + weird eye pain and pressure (oh, and throw in a new round of vermin moving into our walls) = inability to sleep or work
+ end of term workload + husband out of town (and no one else around) + not allowed to lift over 5 pounds + headache really taking over = feelings of helplessness, depression, frustration
Solution: imagine you're in a plane and know it's going to crash straight into a mountain. There's nothing you can do, so you sit back, eat a good meal, drink, and if you somehow manage to land intact instead of crashing into the mountain, then you're ahead of the game.
Solution provided by Eddie Izzard on this morning's The View as a possible means of coping with fear of flying, but I think it may actually apply to a lot of things, and certainly it makes my equation look better every minute.
All small, manageable problems, when lumped together, seem insurmountable, so the trick is to deal with one thing at a time, let go of all your previous plans and conceptions, and rediscover the soothing sounds of The Carpenters at this moment in time.
When I think I can, I think I can becomes whoops, no, I can't it's time to adopt Eddie Izzard philosophy. Sit back, adjust your seat cushion, close your eyes, and enjoy the ride as much as possible. It could end in disaster, but then again, you just might find you've landed and are ahead of the game. The main thing is to try to enjoy the flight.
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Tuesday, 08 April 2008
....but then I'd have to clean up the massive explosion that I'm holding in, just barely. Really, everything is perspective, or perspective is everything. Depending on how you look at it, I may be one of the least lucky or the most fortunate people around this week. Every day I tell myself, okay, good one, you did it. Just don't let one more thing happen. Please. Not one. I can't take one more thing. And then the next day, like clockwork, one more thing arrives, and I go deeper into emergency mode, and I somehow survive and don't implode and things somehow turn out bad, but could have been so much worse, so I pause again and take a breath and say, okay, good one, you made it. But please, not one more thing. I'm serious.
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Sunday, 06 April 2008
In the Work Zone. See you all next Friday, if there's anything left of me then.
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Friday, 04 April 2008
You know what they say about all work and no play. I'm considering taking a year off. Really, I may have to anyway, according to the grapevine, and due to the fact that I never took the time to get my stuff together and apply anywhere else. But this is different. I'm actually thinking of giving myself permission.
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Wednesday, 02 April 2008
If possible, I am even more bored by my ongoing medical issues than you, my dear readers, so, in an effort to take my mind off all that, I will tell you the sad saga of Sammy Squirrel.
My next-door mother has two regular cats who live outside and a handful of cat (and occasionally coon and possum) visitors who mooch out of their food dish. Last night, two raccoons kept me awake from one to two. If I were more agile and knew how to handle a gun, I'd be wearing a coonskin cap as I write this, but, alas, I only have a murderous heart.
I digress. I promised you a squirrelly story, and a squirrelly story you shall have.
As I worked at my desk last Sunday, I observed the tabby playing with yet another "toy," but her movements were quite rapid, and she was partially concealed by the blooms on my mother's trellis, so I couldn't get a positive ID. She's a big lizard lover, torturing them slowly, but this seemed much larger.
At that point I thought it might be a snake because of the intricately choreographed dance routine. The cat leapt acrobatically into the air, batting the creature around simultaneously with her front paws, something like a macabre Swan Lake. I could visualize a pink tutu on her slender hips.
In a sudden pirouette, she moved away from the trellis, and I saw the plumed tail of her victim. Ordinarily, when I see the cat in the midst of her torture ritual, I run out to either save or dispose of the victim, but lately I've been a captive audience, so to speak, so I called out to my knight in rusty armor.
He wearily trudged in to the office. "What is it this time?" my Romeo muttered, irritated by the constant demands of a cranky, hormonal woman who is even worse than usual precisely because she hates asking anyone for help and has to do so frequently of late.
"It's the cat's latest love object, sweetie. I think he's mostly dead. Can you take care of the situation? I'd do it myself, but it's a bit tricky to wield a shovel from a wheelchair."
My handy hubby did not waste breath pointing out that nature was just being nature and that we probably should let it take its course. Instead, he trudged out and did the dirty work as I watched from the window. The cat looked distinctly annoyed. Sammy Squirrel's mate continued her harangue of the cat from her safe perch on a nearby tree branch. But there would be no more necrotic Fantasia movements that afternoon.
Later, my studly squire did mention that the squirrel had been, indeed, at least a few hours dead. I thanked him profusely for putting me out of my misery, even if he was too late for poor Sammy Squirrel.
He drew a long breath and exhaled the deep sigh that only long-suffering husbands can make. But Samantha Squirrel and I can rest a lot more easily now, at least when the raccoons aren't on the prowl making all that racket.
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Tuesday, 01 April 2008
Alfred E. Neuman is my hero, and, when I was growing up, Mad Magazine was my favorite. It became something like the first season of Saturday Night Live, genius that tapered off into something recycled, but you never quite get over a first love, do you?
Last night, while grading papers, I half-watched a documentary on people with degenerative neurological diseases who were confined to wheelchairs. I hate this damned chair so much, and watching a show like that really puts my little pity party into perspective. Tomorrow I go back to the doctor's. I'm hoping for a seal of approval to begin physical therapy and only use the chair when I'm out away from home.
Keep your fingers crossed. In honor of those who have real problems, and with a sense of thankfulness for all I've been given, I'm gonna hang out with Alfred for a while and chuck the worries in the garbage dumpster, where they belong.
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