Planning

I am trying to design a tattoo.  I don't know how you, gentle reader, feel about tattoos.  I have wanted one for a very, very long time, and I think I am going to get one before the end of the summer.  I have the design narrowed down to three things, but I need help choosing.  I wish you could come sit down and talk with me about this.  I would be so great to have your input.  I could offer you something to drink (as long as you like coffee, Diet Mt. Dew, Raspberry Lemonade, or Diet A&W Root Beer, that is), and you could help me figure this out.  I like all three.  They're going to need to be cleaned up professionally before anything can be done with them, and all three have symbolism to me.  That is what makes it so hard.

Maybe I can describe them to you...

The first is basically my inkan from Japan, the circular name seal designed for me by my friend T.  (Keep score.  This is not my Evil Ex, T.  That's another Japanese T.)  It's a circle that is cut by an S to look like the yinyang sign.  In the upper part, it has the kanji for "god" since my first name means "God's gracious gift" (I'm not making that up, I promise...) and the bottom half it has a kanji symbol that is a direct translation for my last name.  I really like this option because T. designed it for me, so it is a totally unique design.  I also like it because it ties me back to my beloved Japan.  It is also, well, me.

The second option would be a very stylized raven.  Ravens have a special symbolism for me.  In mythology they range from keepers of the sum total of all knowledge to the messengers between the world of the living and the world of the dead to the actual creators of the world.  They also represent the Celtic triple goddess Morrigan.  In real life, they're among the smartest birds, able to use tools, communicate information to each other, remember things and even, apparently plan "revenge" on those who do them injury.

The third option would be one detailed feather.  This is to remind me that I always have wings, even when I don't feel like it.  It would be my permanent, uncrushable "wing feather."  One of my favorite songs is an old, old hymn, "Ecstasy," and in part it says, "Oh, had I wings, I would fly away and be at rest...."  When things are terrible, when the world is weighing down on me, then I can remember that I DO have wings to get myself out of the situation.

Okay.  That's the three.  Thoughts?  Feedback would be so lovely...

Silent Muse

I'm not writing.  Not anything.  Not even bad things.  The stories I have begun are all waiting for work.  The few fragments of ideas I have for poetry waste away like fruit that came too early to the vine, received too little rain to grow.  I feel hollowed out.

I keep telling myself that it's a season, that it's just the remnants of an incredibly stressful school year lingering, but what if it's not?  What if there is nothing left to say?  What if my little vein of talent, never great at the best of times, is tapped out and gone for good?  What if the Muse has folded her wings over her face and turned away?

Last year was so MUCH.  There was so much turmoil, so much pain, so many days where I came home and quite literally fell down on my couch unable to do more than take in some form of food before I became unconscious.  There were so many tears, angry ones, frustrated ones, desperate ones, futile ones....  Maybe I burned something vital inside me out, blew a fuse of some kind that I need now.

I'm so afraid that I know what part of the problem is.  I only write really well when I'm in love.  It doesn't have to be love with a person; I can be in love with the place I'm travelling through, in love with the thing I'm doing, in love with the new thing I'm seeing or experiencing.  I write best, I think, when there is also that great engine of love for somebody driving me, but right now, that is so frustratingly not possible.  Instead, there are only the things that I do not want under any circumstances, the things that I know I cannot have, and the things that mock me from the past.  Instead, there is only this vast unbroken winter that continues to expand inside me, everything still, everything cold and waiting.

And I hate it.  I was not made for cold.  I was not made for winter.  I was not made for this emptiness.  I was made to pour my love and wonder through a pen, though the keys before me, to try to share what the glory of the world looks like to me, even if I don't do it very well, just as a way of offering gratitude for the gift of the vision.  This perverse dullness, this sense of beauty that hovers at the edge of my vision but disappears when I go searching for it, makes me feel like I've been exiled because of an offense.  I have my fingers wrapped around the gate, peering in, but I somehow lost the key for the lock....

If running out and jumping into some stupid fling was the cure, I guess I would try it, but I know myself well enough to know that shallow does not work for me.  I am not one who "flings" although, I suppose, I have been "flung" once unintentionally on my own part....  I lack the temperament to run out and just "fall in love" for the hell of it.  I can't set up some unsuspecting guy to be my own personal "Laura" and sonnet him to death.  Either I really have to feel it, or it can't be forced or forged.  I wish I could lie to myself, comfort myself by putting a clever mask on something that I knew was lacking, temporary, and flawed, and dancing it around for awhile just for the sake of having some relief, a little Spring, but I've never been able to pull that particular Fool's Dance off.

Maybe if I can just get out on some trips, some of the ice inside me will start to break up.  Maybe I'll see things through the lens that will inspire the nib.  I'm starting to be afraid, so very, very afraid, that it is permanent.  I don't know what to do with myself if I become that frozen ice floe version of myself.  I don't think I can stand that.  And I know there won't be any help forthcoming from outside sources to help me attack the encroaching ice, so this is yet another problem that I'll have to deal with myself.

A Dark Turn of Mind

Take me and love me if you want me
But don't ever treat me unkind
Cause I had trouble already
And it left me with a dark turn of mind
~ "A Dark Turn of Mind"  - Gillian Welch

I often hear songs that make me feel a bit wistful, that are full of lyrics I wish somebody would sing to me.  Josh Ritter's "Long Shadows" springs instantly to my mind.  There's a man in that song who knows that life is full of darkness, of things that come howling after you.  He knows, too, that some of the night lives inside, that those shadows fall "across the heart."  He doesn't promise to make it all sweetness and light. I don't want somebody who does that.  Those would be very pretty words, I guess, but in all honesty, words that would be exceedingly difficult to live up to.  Instead of empty vows, the speaker in the song makes a promise he can keep; he simply swears not to run away, to be there when he's reached for, not to be afraid of that dark in whatever form it comes.  I think that is all a person can really ask for, somebody who is strong enough to take it.  They're fewer and farther between than can possibly be imagined.

Then there are the songs that I sort of think that one day I might hesitantly offer to somebody I love.  Chris Thile's "I Am Yours If You Want Me" is the ultimate example, full of the mix of doubt and desire, of worship and fear that always accompany any serious affection for me.  The song says that "I'm scared of your body/ I'm scared of your soul/ but I'd rather be a letdown/ than let being with you go."  Since I tend to be a pedestal builder even though it always seems the feet of my beloved wind up being made of materials baser even than clay, I know exactly what he means.  I've talked about Thile's song before, so I won't belabor this point, but when he says, "I don't care about my future/ I don't care about your past/ those things come from and lead to right now/ so they can get the hell out fast," he is also summing up a philosophy that I have.  What went before doesn't matter.  What comes next, well, I'll figure that out.  I think this actually goes back to an Emerson quote about living in the moment.  Or maybe it was Doctor Seuss...

Today, though, I heard Gillian Welch's "A Dark Turn of Mind" for the first time, and I had the oddest feeling of hearing myself defined in song.  Somebody might have been looking over my past when they wrote it.  Every word was perfect.  It's as though whoever wrote it simply traced a pen over all the scars in my past and took the shape of song from that.   "Leave me if I'm feeling too lonely/ full as the fruit on the vine/ You know some girls are bright as the morning/ And some have a dark turn of mind."  That's me.  I am all too often in need of being left alone because I am too lonely, unbearable and bad company.

And I've never been one of those "bright as the morning" girls, although I have several good friends who are.  Their lives have always seemed so much easier to me as they sort of glide in that golden fall of light like some sort of Renaissance Madonna.  It has followed them their whole lives....to summer camp where every boy fought for the right to fall in love with them....across the floor of the high school dance...down the aisle of the church on their fathers' arm to their waiting husbands...into sedate maternity cradling multiple children close...  I know that some of that is an illusion and every life has its issues and struggles, and I don't mean to say that they have no problems, but I've been the one walking with my face to the storm, a little offbeat, a little mistrustful, and always somehow alone.  I don't sparkle or shine like they do with that golden light.  I've never really defined that difference between us, but this song manages to do that.  It's not that one is better or worse; we were just shaped by different events.

The last line says, "...And some girls are blessed with a dark turn of mind."  I had to roll that around in my head for a few minutes.  It's not always comfortable to be this way if you want to know the truth.  Sometimes I wish I was one of those bright as the morning girls.  If I were, I would probably already be married.  I would probably already have children.  In all likelihood, I will probably never have either of those things in my life.  That's the price of having this darkness inside.  And yet, I cannot say there is nothing good that comes from it.  It has given me a certain freedom.  I've been able to go places and do things that would not have been possible otherwise.  There is also a certain insight to be gained from anything that hurts, so I guess that is a part of the "blessedness" of it, too.

The more I hear the song, the more it fits me.  Maybe the most comforting part of it is that there is somebody else who knows what it's like to be this way, too, who knows that curious mixture of pleasure and pain that comes from standing in the shadows.  "But oh, ain't the nighttime so lovely to see/ Don't all the night birds sing sweetly/ You'll never know how happy I'll be/ when the sun's goin' down..."

Small Victories

When I went to pick up my car at the body shop from its being wrecked at the repair shop, it was running.  They said the battery had been pulled down while they were working on it and just needed to charge some, and so that was why they had the engine going.  I accepted that explanation, transferred the money from the other driver's insurance company to the body shop, and pulled around to the repair shop to take care of the bill for the original repair it had gone in for so long ago before some lovely person tried to drive over with his truck and trailer, and when I got back in to crank it and go, it did not want to start.  I finally got it to crank and was pulling away, but I thought better of leaving with a problem still present, changed gears, drove back into the parking space and went back inside.

This is the part that would ultimately make me lose the gentle patience I usually use with most people.  (Don't you laugh.  Don't you dare laugh.  It's my story.  I will craft it as I see fit.)

I asked the guys behind the service counter to check the battery.  That had, after all, been a part of the original problem since the fog lights had been coming on by themselves and pulling the system down.  The whole battery had been stone dead at least four times, and I don't know how long it had been sitting in the dealership lot waiting on adjusters and so forth with the drain pulling on it.  I told them I was perfectly willing to get a new battery if it needed it.  One of the guys came out, got it to crank, basically verbally patted me on the head and told me it would be fine if I just drove it some, told me "to have my husband" put it on the charger, and that was the end of it.  It was the classic Southern male thing that always makes my blood boil and makes me feel like I am about fifteen years old again.

The car proceeded to die in the Lowe's parking lot.  And then in my parent's yard.  And then at my house.  Multiple times.  And then at the AutoZone I took it to in Newton to get a new battery where I was told that basically nobody BUT the dealership can change it in my car because of the silly placement of that part in my make and model.  And then at the gas station on the way back to the dealership Monday morning....  The Cuchulain red haze of frothing battle madness was descending.

Add to this that I found in the parking lot of Lowe's, my first stop after the dealership, that my driver's side door no longer locked and unlocked with anything except direct application of key in lock and I think you can understand why I was on my way back to them at 7:15 yesterday.  After I jumped it off at the gas station (and folks, if you don't own a jump box, I can wholeheartedly endorse your purchasing one), I was ready to destroy any living creature who got patronizing with me.  I had spent a great deal of the drive in telling myself to be firm but not rude, because, of course, there is no situation that really warrants rudeness.

And so I just told the guy when he asked, innocently, what he could do for me that bright morning.  I wasn't hateful, but I laid it out.  I guess I probably sounded like I would have with a student who had crossed that last line with me.  And when he told me that the battery was no problem but that he'd have to schedule an appointment for me to see about the door, I felt my head do that sideways tilt thing that any student of mine could have told you meant "serious ish" was about to go down.  I told him that I needed my car as soon as possible since the problems that I had come to address were NOT problems that it had rolled onto that lot with, not problems that it had had BEFORE it was wrecked sitting there minding its own business and that I wanted it dealt with.  And then, then, I went and sat down in the waiting area, called Mom on the phone and told her to come get me out of there NOW.

I was so mad.  SO MAD.  I had to vent off some of it by just jiggling my foot for about ten minutes.  I guess I need to pack a squeezy ball or something on trips like that.  I felt a migraine try to start up, but that double dosage of Topamax choked that off nicely, and it abated.  About fifteen minutes after I left the back, I saw a mechanic go out, try to open the door (he had to use the key.  HA.), try to crank it (and it wouldn't start.  Double HA.), go back and get their jump box and pull it into the shop.  I was a little surprised to see them already working on it but pleased.  Mom arrived not long after that, and we left.  We ran some errands and got home about forty minutes later.

I had just enough time to let the dogs out, put my iPod on charge, and get my laptop open when my phone rang.  They had the car done.  Did I want to pick it up?  I almost fell off the couch.  Mom came back down, and I loaded back up and went back to town.

When I walked into the service center, the little guy was talking to somebody else, so I stood patiently for a few minutes waiting.  I was dreading hassling with the bill.  I did not want to pay for the door thing.  I didn't think it was fair for me to have to pay for something that had been working when I came in and was magically NOT working when I left, but I was afraid it was going to be a mess to convince them of that.  When he finished with the other customer, he saw me and greeted me.  He picked up my bill and looked at it and said, "Ah yes.  That's going to be eight hundred dollars."  And then I guess he saw my face.  "Kidding.  I'm kidding.  Please don't hit me.  I'm a bleeder.  Oompa Loompas like me are bleeders...." (He only came up to my shoulder.)

He handed me the bill.  It took me a minute to make sense of what I was seeing.  The total was $212.00, but then it was zeroed out.  I asked him about the bit with the door wiring.  "I don't have to pay for this?"

He said, "You don't have to pay for any of it.  It's taken care of."  And he grinned.

They'd done the whole thing gratis.  Suddenly all the numbers managed to resolve themselves into something that made sense.  Suddenly I managed to be able to smile, too, for the first time since I had heard my vehicle had been hit.  I thanked them and went out to where Mom was parked near my car.  I got in and Mom rolled her windows down.  "Check EVERYTHING before we leave," she said.

She needn't have worried.  That was already in my plans.  I did, and it was all working.  I can't tell you how good it felt to roll off that lot in my little car and know that it was sound again.  I can't tell you how nice it was to have them not stick me, to have them take care of it in the right way.  So few places do what is right anymore, and I appreciate more than I can say that they bothered to do it.  It saved them a customer.  I can absolutely tell you that.

I also felt good that I had stuck up for myself.  I made it known that I wasn't happy.  I didn't tuck that feeling inside and sit on it, didn't pretend it didn't matter, didn't meekly accept whatever was handed to me, didn't wait for the "appointment to fix my door" when that would have been a type of injustice.  I wasn't rude, didn't rage, wasn't unChristian or one of those people who you have to be embarrassed to be near in a public location because they're sort of off their rocker.  I had a situation in which I had a genuine right to be displeased with something, and I had handled it appropriately.  I had gotten results that were better than I actually had even bothered to hope for.  That was a victory to me.

When it was all done, I went to run a necessary errand (cat food.  Yoda would have smacked me around had I not gone), and when I switched the car off in the Wal-Mart parking lot, I waited a moment and then recranked it.  There was not one moment's hesitation or pause.  It was a flawless and instant ignition.  Funny how you come to take that for granted....until it stops happening.  Funny how when it stops happening for long enough it can become a small victory all of its own when you get it back again.

The Pace of Life

I just saw a commercial whose tagline says, "Tired Sucks."  It's for some energy shot drink.  Its premise is that so many of us are running out of energy in the middle of the day that we need some sort of megaboost from the outside to crank us up to get through our days.  I know I am basically a massive accumulation of caffeine molecules holding hands and dancing to the music of the celestial spheres during the school year.  If I don't have my Diet Mt. Dew, bad, bad things happen in my own personal universe.

Even with that midafternoon boost, though, a pervasive sense of fatigue is something I think I have just sort of come to accept in my day-to-day life.  In fact, I think most people I know have.  Why?  Why are we living in such a way that we have to be slightly miserable at all times?  What are we all doing all the time that is so vital that we can't take the time to take care of one of the body's most basic needs?  I constantly see studies released suggesting that not only is sleep a key factor in our basic health, but that we actually need much more of it that researchers used to believe we did.

It makes sense to me.  Sleep is the body's time to take care of all maintenance tasks without interruption, whether that is heavy physical replacement or simple mental filing.  When we constantly short it on time to get those things done, why are we shocked when the end product is somewhat lacking?

I wish we could re-evaluate what we're doing that is taking the place of all that lost rest time.  And yes, I do know that at least part of mine disappears here into the magic box.  However, I'm thinking more of demands placed on us by a society that is constantly telling us that we must "do more."  It reminds me of this little wooden toy my Granny got somewhere in one of her trips with my grandfather.  You turn the handle and the wooden pieces inside move furiously around and around....but that's all that happens.  She said it was called a "Do Nothing."  That's what I feel like so many of the activities we cram into our lives are, furious motion with no real meaning, just something to fill up the time, something to keep our hands busy, and fritter time away.  In the end, all we've done is burn up moments that might better be spent more productively on something else, moments that perhaps we should have spent on nothing at all.

I'm not endorsing laziness.  I'm just saying that as the pace of life picks up, I am not sure the quality of life is increasing with it.  That's something I think we all as individuals need to think about for ourselves.  If we're not getting something truly wonderful out of all that pain and we feel like crap all the time, maybe it's time to have fewer five-hour energy shots and more power naps.

A Thing That Makes Me Happy

I am looking at the most beautiful picture on the almighty FaceBook.  One of the sweetest guys I knew in high school is holding his new baby daughter in his arms grinning.  It is just making me grin right back at the screen, and I have tears in my eyes.  I haven't seen him...well...God...not since we graduated.  He was extraordinary, gifted in so many ways.  He was so smart, could draw fantastically well, and he played the guitar with passion, true talent, and skill.  It is the music that finally called to him, that he now both teaches and performs, and that makes me happy to know, too, because for years, I didn't know where he was or what was going on with him.  It is somehow a deeply satisfying and hopeful thing to see somebody as good as he is holding that little girl.  I can't think of better hands for her to be in.  I love it when sometimes, just sometimes, there are happy endings.

Family History

I finally had a chance to talk with my Dad about my family's history some tonight.  I told him I had read The Grapes of Wrath, and that led to a conversation about Steinbeck and then into about Dad's father and his family.   PeePaw, Dad's dad, grew up during the Great Depression in Oklahoma, and actually lived through the Dust Bowl there.  My great-grandmother raised eight children in Delhi.  Some of my questions got answered.  My family did not leave.  They found a way to survive.  I can't even imagine it.  Dad said PeePaw told stories about going out to get the sand off the cotton.  He said that PeePaw often talked about the difficulty of the work they did when he was growing up but that he never talked about his family going hungry.  I wish I knew more.  I wish I had been paying attention enough to have asked him about it myself before that opportunity was gone forever.

I also learned that my great-grandmother rode into the opening of Oklahoma in the back of a Conestoga wagon.  Dad said she was somewhere between 12 and 14 when the Oklahoma Land Rush happened.  Their first home was a sod house.  How did I not know these things?  There is so much history that I don't have.  It's amazing, like a lap full of jewels somebody has unexpectedly poured out for me.  I hope I can keep finding out more.  I also want to go and see these places more urgently than ever before to see where my family comes from and what forged them.

Good Show (Gaiman and Ritter on WTIS)

I started today on the couch catching up on the world through the internet as I usually do.  I was pleasantly surprised to find that Neil Gaiman had put up a link to his WTIS appearance on Wits.  I had been grumbling to myself that I was never, ever going to be able to see him on tour since he but rarely comes near me (he was in Tuscaloosa, but I didn't know it until long after all the tickets were gone and he was done), and on this tour, none of the dates are even remotely within driving distance since this is "the big one" for American Gods' 10th Anniversary.

I watched the entire two hour-ish taping of the show courtesy of streaming video.  The internet is a gorgeous thing.  It was the first time I've ever seen Gaiman live.  He's just as delightful as I thought he would probably be.  He read one of my (well, okay, and everybody's) favorite passages from AG, the "I Believe" passage.  He played games with the hosts and the other guests including "What Type of Monster Was ___?" where ___ was either a famous historical figure or a person from a song (Emily Dickinson, it seems, was really Cthulu).  He sang about why Joan of Arc might not be as much fun to hang out with as you would think.  He answered questions.  He made Doctor Who references and explained why a couch will protect you from a Dalek.

As wonderful as as Neil Gaiman was, he was only half the goodness.  The musical guest was Josh Ritter (somebody else who will never, ever, ever come here).  I have come to like his music recently, so I was interested to see what he would do live(ish).  He was really sweet and good.  The first song he did, "The Curse," had me going to Amazon to download an album.  I didn't have that one by him, and it was an instant favorite.  It had it all, Egypt, mummies coming to life, love(ish), sly, wicked little phrases.  Very good stuff, indeed.   I'm listening to it right now, in fact.  As much as I liked it live, I think I prefer the album version for the little bit of old-fashioned organ tinge to it.  It feels like an old black-and-white movie.  I swear I can see Boris Karloff....

Josh played the games, too.  He seemed like he was a little freaked out to be sitting next to Neil Gaiman sometimes.  For all I know, he was.  He did well, though.  I loved his answer about what sort of creature Thomas Jefferson was. And the thing with Kelsey Grammar.....   I also loved that after all the radio taping was done, he was asked to sing one more song and he chose to do "Galahad."  He was capoed to play something else, started something else, and then he changed his mind, adjusted his guitar. He grinned like the devil himself when he got about halfway through, paused, and he said something like, "They can't play this song on the radio,"  he gave himself a nice long go around, and he sang it anyway.  He made me laugh.  He has a book coming out later this month, and it's already on my Kindle Wish List for payday.  The premise looks pretty interesting. We'll see if he can make the transition from songs to novels.

In addition to the two main acts, the phone guests were also unexpected bonuses.  Wil Wheaton is always clever.  His Twitter feed is a good one.  He was on briefly, and of course, he and Neil Gaiman are two of the great gods of the Twitterverse.  They had Adam Savage from MythBusters on, too, and he sang "I Will Survive" in a Gollum voice, and I almost fell off the couch I was laughing so hard.  I wish I could have seen him while he was doing it, because I am certain there were some interesting faces and body movements that accompanied it.

The show was just a delight.  I would have loved to have actually been there, but at least with the gift of technology, I was able to share in it somehow.  I'm grateful for that.  Even if I live in this place where so little of what I love comes to me, I can drag it to me through the phone lines.  That is a miracle I hope I never stop appreciating.

If you'd like to watch the show for yourself, here's the link to Neil Gaiman's page.  You can get to it from there.  There are a few notes about what begins where and so forth.

Things I Can Do

As I was driving home from jumping off my car....yet again....after picking it up from the repair shop only an hour earlier....I started composing this list in my head.  Granted, I had been sitting in 100-degree-plus heat for quite some time, but it seemed the sort of thing that would make a good blog entry.  It also felt good to remember that there are some things that I am capable of completing, on occasion, without too many problems. Without further ado, I give you a list (non-comprehensive) of Things I Can Do:

• Jump  a Dead Vehicle Off
• Change a Flat Tire
• Check Levels for and Put in Engine Oil, Brake Fluid, Windshield Wiper Solution. Etc.
• Design and Build a Stained Glass Window
• Design and Free-hand a Calligraphic Work
• Play the Piano and Organ
• Bake a Damn Good Carrot Cake, Granny's Corn Bread, and a Sour Cream Pound Cake That Will Make You Sell Your Soul for More
• Fry Chicken/Tomatoes (what the hell...anything) in a Cast Iron Skillet
• Cross Stitch/Embroider/Machine Sew Simple Things
• Make Pottery Things (Handbuilt)
• Give a Dog a Pill
• Write Poetry
• Assemble Things with Power Tools
• Take Adequate Pictures with the Nikon If Not Rushed
• Analyze Literature
• Travel Well Alone
• Hook up Electronics
• Do Basic Troubleshooting
• Make Sourdough Bread from Scratch
• Fold Origami Cranes

Well, Okay Then....FML

(Not A Happy Post So Run Away Now)

Why does it so often seem that my best efforts aren't enough?  Why does it seem like I can get in the trenches, push until I have nothing left, lay down the blood sacrifice to the last drop of heartsblood, and still something more is required?  What do I do when all I have is not going to fill the gap or make it right?  What is the answer when all that I am, when it is all laid out, is just so pitifully inadequate to the task at hand?

In my mind I know I can't fix everything, but when I commit to something, say, "This is mine, this I will do," and it goes down under my feet with my hands on the wheel, it makes something inside me die.  And maybe for a time, I can keep rekindling that thing that is injured, resuscitate it, get up off the floor and go back into the battle, wipe the blood out of my eyes with the back of my hand and pick up my sword again.  But if it gets hit again and again, well....

That's the place I am right now. My wings are crushed and there is no flying away from this. I'm sitting here in this mire of mud and failure, of blood and shit and brokenness.  I want to get up.  I am telling myself to pick up my sword and get back into the fight, but I feel every cut, every wound right now.   And I don't feel like I am doing one damn bit of good in this struggle, anyway.  Maybe I never knew what I was doing in the first place. Maybe I need to just quit altogether.

This and That

All-day meeting today and the obligatory migraine that seems to accompany those.  The sudden and violent rainstorm that blew in might have helped to trigger it, too, but it knocked me for a loop.  The migraine was one of the mostly painless ones, taking me instead to that horrible disconnected separate place behind the thick glass wall from which I can only watch but not participate fully.  I lost some words, spoke with a delay, and hated lights.  Even the neon-colored copy paper, the "brights" shades of yellow, pink, and orange, hurt my eyes and made me feel a little nauseous.  I took the cool pastels for myself instead. 

I could sort of somehow feel my eyes reacting. They almost felt like they do after I have been crying for a long time, that same kind of sensitive tingly tightness. I wonder if they changed color.  My eyes are hazel, and they do shift from green to a light brown depending on what's going on, and I would be curious to know if they had.  They're still greenish right now, or were when I passed by a mirror earlier in the evening.  It caught my attention.  The things these damn headaches do to me are so strange.  I wish I understood what was going on in my own body.  I feel like a house that wasn't wired right. 

I managed to get home and sort of accidentally fell asleep on the couch while I was waiting for my rice to cook.  When I woke up, though, I felt much better, so it worked out.  Tuna and good white rice and tomatoes for supper helped, too.  I am still extremely tired, but I managed to get through the episode without taking a Maxalt, so victory to me.  Maybe a good long night's rest will clear away the last of the cobwebs, and tomorrow, the world will make as much sense as it ever does.

In other news, during the day, I also talked to the repair shop.  The car was being painted today, but they're waiting on a part.  The bottom line is that it might possibly be ready tomorrow afternoon but more realistically we're looking at Friday morning.  Yeah.  How ever did I know it?  And you know what?  I'm just beyond even being surprised.  But I do so want my little car back.  So very, very much.  I miss it.  It's silly and so ridiculously American, but I don't feel like me not driving it.  I am really lucky that I have anything to drive at all with my car in the shop, but I hate driving the truck.  I miss the familiarity, the personality, the feel of my vehicle.  I'm so very spoiled.  

Tomorrow, I'll finally be able to get this fuzzy mess on top of my head cut.  I was supposed to do that today, but the meeting caused me to have to reschedule.  I'm long overdue because of Louisville, and so I'm very ready to get it cut.  I think I'll go by the school afterwards and take care of a few things, too, get stuff in my room, check on a few things with the office.  Maybe it will be a different kind of day tomorrow, one that won't make my head pound.  

Tornadoes in KY

There are tornadoes in Louisville.  I'm watching the news reports roll through my Twitter feed.  There's been a touchdown near U of Louisville, debris near Churchill Downs.  It's strange to me because I was there less than a week ago walking through that very place with a distracted tour guide dodging the Porsches of incoming jockeys arriving for night racing.

Now although it looks as though the Downs themselves have escaped damage, the area around them is getting pounded.  Roofs are being ripped off, power lines are down.  The storms that were boiling at the end of my time there apparently stuck around.  I'm sure those skies are green.  I remember that color all too well from my time in Bloomington.

I hope everything will be okay and that nobody will be hurt.  This is an incredible reminder of how fast things change, of how quickly something can disappear.  Sometimes it can change in less than seven days.

The Grapes of Wrath

I'm stubborn about some things.  It's genetic.  I come by it honestly, get it from both sides of my family, or so I've always been told.  If people tell me and tell me that I must do a thing, I generally won't do it just for that reason.  Silly, isn't it?  Not everything people tell you to do is bad....

I am not quite sure how or why The Grapes of Wrath wound up in this category.  Somewhere along the way, it did, though.  Oh, there were people who told me that I should read it.  It's been on every "Books to Read" list I've ever been given since middle school.  My father loves Steinbeck.  Part of his growing up across various places in the west was in California, so you can understand that, sort of like Mississippi kids and reading and studying Faulkner, I guess.  My mother used it in her classes, so she obviously thinks it is good.  I've found copies of Steinbeck are here and there in my grandfather's books, so I guess he liked him, too.  Most recently, another friend of mine read it, although I sort of think it might have frustrated him at bit here and there (oh, and btw, Faustus, if you should ever happen to read this, we should talk about the book sometime).

Maybe at some point I misunderstood what it was about or I heard too many people tell me that it was a book "everybody had to read."  I don't know.  All I do know is that I never had any real interest in it until I started reading essays on it during the AP Reading this past week.  The more essays I read on it, the more intrigued I became. I realized that my natural hardheadedness and my misunderstanding were apparently keeping me from something that I might enjoy given my love of history and the bits of the plot I was picking up from the writing I was evaluating.

I finished the book I was working on, Gaiman's Anansi Boys, Tuesday afternoon, and I downloaded The Grapes of Wrath.  It pulled me in almost immediately.  I read it every chance I got.  I had my Kindle out, cramming bits of the novel in spurts during breakfasts, lunches, and dinner breaks, over hamburgers at the Hard Rock, in the few hours before I went to bed at night, in the ten minute breaks we took during the reading, and I finished it Saturday afternoon.  I think it is one of the best books I've ever read.

Every part of it compelled me.  The characters were a fantastic blend of nobility and reality.  None of them were perfect.  Steinbeck did such an exquisite job of creating people who were flawed but striving for the best they could be in situations that were unimaginable, of people who maintained their humanity when every single thing around them conspired to rip it away from them, even other people.  Not all of them were perfect.  There were times when I wanted to reach out and beat Ruthie, but that was understandable and appropriate for her age.  Same thing with Uncle John.

Best of all, though, was the way the family dynamic worked together.  There was never any sense of saccharine sweetness to it.  Even though they didn't always agree and even though things frequently fell apart, at the core of the family there was strength.  I kept comparing Steinbeck's family core with Faulkner's in As I Lay Dying.  I couldn't stop drawing parallels between the two traveling families.

And I saw so much of my grandparents, especially my Granddaddy, in that book.  The feel of it, the hardness of that life, reminded me of things that happened to him in his life.  I think I loved it even more for that.  I also know that I have relatives all over Texas and Oklahoma, but I don't know that much about that side of my family.  Were some of them at some point "tractored" off their land?  Did they have to head west?  What choices did they have to make?

Steinbeck's style of writing was also beautiful to me.  I enjoyed the way he would interrupt the narrative to give chapters that were almost cinematic to me in their description.  The chapters that described the sellers of cars, the turtle crossing the road, the life in the government camp, were lovely in the way that they sort of panned across the entire range of a topic before settling on little vignettes of it with monologues, skipping around the way a film camera might if someone were doing a documentary about it.

This book yields so much for analysis.  There are so many levels to it, the allusions, the characterizations, the themes, the symbolism....  It is rich in ways to which many other books can only hope to aspire.  I know I'm going to read more Steinbeck.  I'm taking a short break to reread Lord of the Flies, but then I'll probably do Cannery Row.  I hope I will continue to enjoy him as much with this other work as well.

Dogs, Etc.

Woke up this morning and took Roux to the vet.  When I came home Saturday, her skin allergy had flared up, and the poor darling was miserable.  I had to drive the white truck, so I was a little...off...in it.  It always feels strange to me.  Roux is sleeping now with two shots and some antibiotics in her.  Later, I'll give her a bath with some skin-soothing shampoo.  That will undoubtedly be fun for all of us....

I'm still tired today.  I'm having a physically-weak day.  It will pass.  Tomorrow I should be right as rain.  I'm just slacking on the couch until it passes.  At least it didn't hit me until I was home.  I can be thankful for that, I guess.  I had a headache early this morning, but I went back to sleep for a little while, and it is mostly gone.  I haven't had to take anything for it, anyway.

I have to go to a workshop Wednesday, and I want to take some of the four hundred and eighty-seven things that have accumulated for school to my room, so I think I'm going to try to go to my classroom after if I can.  I hope the building will be open.  I have to get Bubo settled in to his new home, after all.

I'm trying to figure out what to read next.  I am trying to decide among the Edwidge Danticat I have waiting, a Christopher Moore excursion in humor, Kafka on the Shore by Murakami, and Cannery Row.  I have sort of fallen in love with Steinbeck, so I'm leaning heavily toward Cannery Row, but today, I don't know if I'm going to read anything.  Sleep might be more appropriate and less likely to produce a migraine.

Eventually, I want to write about what I thought about The Grapes of Wrath, but I'm not up to it right now.  What an incredible book.  Maybe I will be able to get enough energy together to do that post later.  I think I'm going to see if I can scratch up something for lunch right now.  Ugh.  Tomorrow really needs to be a better day.

The Table

I'm home now.  All the laundry is done, and I've bought some groceries.  I'm still tired from the drive; my schedule is still off.  I'll catch up.  The animals are happy to see me.  Yoda is shadowing me.  She slept in the curve of my arm last night, something she only does when she's very cold.  I think she's glad I'm back.

There are several things I need to blog, but I may or may not get through all of them tonight.  I'm going to start here and see how many I get through.  As I said, I'm tired.

My table this year at the reading was great.  Everybody got along so well.  Last year, everyone was nice, but by and large everyone kept to themselves.  This year, I felt like I was a part of a group, not an isolated individual.  It was nice.  We were a good balance of gentlemen and ladies, of college and high school, of new and veteran, of various regions of the US. The last day, as we were finishing up and were all a little giddy with weariness, we played word games with book titles.

I liked hearing the opinions of people from other places.  I liked hearing their experiences, seeing the pictures of the guy next to me's little girl, who was just learning to walk.  I liked the discussions about books that sprang up whenever a title any one of us was unfamiliar with came up.  I liked seeing how we were having the same experiences in the classrooms.   I liked learning what it was like where we were not.

I may never see any of those people again.  It would be nice to hear from them again or see them if I get to go  back next year, but even if that doesn't happen, I am glad I had them as a part of this year's experience.  It made it rich and good.

Contemplation -- Roads Diverging

This week has gone by in a blur of pink packets and yellow folders.  Today is the last day of the Reading.  It's hard to believe that.  It seems like I was loading the car only yesterday, and tomorrow I'll be driving that horrible drive again.

The people at my table have been wonderful this year.  It's been so nice to have them to share the little snippets of joy dropped unexpectedly into my lap either deliberately or unintentionally by the student writers.  It's also been nice to be able to make literary references, no matter how obscure, and have people get them.  I never feel like a weirdo here.  These are "my people."

And such profoundly intelligent and motivated people.  Most of them, about half of the readers, are college professors or graduate students on their way to being PhDs.  I'm sitting between someone who came out of the classroom and into a doctoral program and someone who went straight through.  I can't say that they don't make me start thinking about it again, especially the guy who taught for a while and went back.  They make it seem so natural, like it is the progression of things, as if it what all "creatures like me" should do.

I'd be lying if I said there is some part of me that doesn't want it, too, hasn't wanted to be Dr. Me since I was very young, just for the pure satisfaction of the knowledge, just for the satisfaction of knowing that I had taken myself to the end of what is possible in my field.  As I've gotten older, though, I've learned that I will class myself right out of a job in my chosen profession that way, will enter a whole new realm of petty politicking and the "publish or perish" mentality that I'm not so sure I'm comfortable with, will, in all likelihood, have to leave behind my sweet students.

Add to that the fact that to do a PhD I truly believe you need a burning interest in one area, one essential question, and I do not have that.  I have a few pieces of literature that I love, a few that I wouldn't mind knowing more about, but it's not like it was with linguistics.  There were things with linguistics that I could have disappeared into for a lifetime and never been seen or heard from again, pure research questions of acquisition that would have been fun to sink my teeth into.  I still believe my advisor was right when she told me at that time that I was too young to go straight through for my PhD, though.  I did need classroom experience. That has never been a wrong choice.  Look where it's led.  I can't regret that.

Ultimately, I might pursue it still if it were available to me more easily.  The simple truth is, there is no way for me to get the classes I need without moving.  Our local branch of a major school offers some courses at the 8000 level, but not enough for me to do a whole degree.  I have school loans now that I can barely pay.  What kind of hell would I be in for if I were to move and start into another degree and heap another loan on top of that?

No, I'm on the road I chose so long ago.  I must walk it.  I won't have any regrets about it at this point.  Sometimes, I guess, I just wonder what it would have been like in the other lane.

Another Day, Another 150 Essays...

You know, I'm not entirely sure what day it is anymore.  I get up, I get dressed.  I eat powdered eggs, yogurt, a piece of fruit.  I sit in a purple tweedy chair that isn't totally terrible.  I pull my hair up.  I stick a yellow #2 pencil in it like a feather, like a grading adornment.  I listen to the beautiful voice of the gentleman from South Carolina through my headphones.  I open a yellow folder.  Time abruptly ceases to have any sort of meaning.

I didn't read as fast today.  Fatigue is setting in.  It always does around this time.  Based on the statistics I'm hearing, though, we're still doing remarkably well, so I feel alright.  I wasn't off by much.  I may not break my goal, but I should get close to it.  I will definitely outperform last year.

And I'm getting ready to see home again.  I'm ready for my own bed, my own little space, even as claustrophobic as that space gets.  I miss the various and assorted creatures, and I know they are missing me.  I talked to Mom on the phone last night, and she said they're all getting needy, even Yoda, Queen of the Slasher Claws.  Ultimately, too, no matter how nice my roommate is, I am too used to living alone to like having a roommate for any length of time, especially sleeping in the same room with one.  I don't sleep well in those conditions, always sensitive to every little sound.

Situations like this always make me wonder about what it would be like to be married.  Would I ever get used to having that other person not only in the same room, but in the very same bed, or would i always be in that state of hyperwakefulness (not a word, but if the kids can make them up, damn it, so can I...) Presumably, that would be a whole different ball of wax, or so I'm told, involving love, trust, affection, blah, blah, and blah.  I just keep having this image of me rolling over and either shoving my "true love" clean out of the bed forcefully one night because I've not been sleeping well and I finally lose it or of me picking up a pillow totally soundlessly and leaning down....

Yeah.  Anyway.  That's not where I started going with this.

I'm going to read some Joads now.  Joads.  That would be an awesome name for a band.  Joads.

I.  Need.  Sleep.

A Goodish Sort of Tired

I could sleep for a hundred years.  I am so tired.  I didn't sleep well last night.  I had weird dreams.  I dreamed I was having problems with a student who started out as just an average kid but who slowly morphed into the devil.  He had horns of a sort and everything.  I woke up actually saying, "Get out.  No.  Stop. You will stop. NO."  I woke myself up with it because I was talking funny in the dream, not able to articulate the words, and the kid was sitting there with the most horrible leer as though he was making it happen.  Then I realized that I was asleep and that was the cause.  Just like that I was able to pull myself out of it.  Horrible, though.

I don't know what they're putting in the water up here in Louisville, but my roomie's had one night of talking dreams, and now I have, so I guess we're even...

The day was productive, grading-wise.  We're getting the job done.  It feels, as it did last year, good.  I did seven full folders today and a piece of another one.  I want to break 1000 essays this year, but I don't know that I will make that.  That's an awful lot.  I'm not fast, actually, but I am steady.  There are people that whip them through MUCH faster than I do.  I don't worry about it.  As long as I get at least my six a day, I'm doing okay.

After the reading, we had our "Night Out" in which the museums and whatnot stay open late for the Readers.  I went to the Kentucky Arts and Crafts Museum's gift shop and found something that is a cross between a clay rattle and a face jug before walking down to the Frazier Museum of International History.

I love that place.  They have the coolest stuff in their gift shop, for one thing.  I got a Bubo the Owl bobblehead there.  I can't believe it!  Mom and Dad and I just sat around one day last week watching it on BBC America talking about how every person my age wanted to have a Bubo growing up, and lo and behold, there he was, just like he was waiting on me, the only one in the store.  Since I collect owls, bobbleheads, and kitch, he is sort of the perfect cross collectible for me.  I could not grab him fast enough.

The reason I went to the Frazier, though, was to see their Da Vinci exhibition.   I am just a little obsessed with Da Vinci.  He fascinates me.  I went to the museum in Rome, and ever since then, I have been looking up his art and so forth.  He was so far ahead of his time, I am not quite sure we've caught up yet.  The exhibition had only reproductions of his works which was a little disappointing, but since it was a travelling show, and since everything of his is fragile, worth more than the entire city of Louisville, and highly contested by the various nations that own it and Italy, I understand.

There was a fascinating section about the infrared explorations done on the Mona Lisa.  I had no idea they'd been able to discover so much about how the colors of paint had changed over time and how much Da Vinci himself had dabbled and altered the painting before he died.  I think I liked the original color scheme better. I like his color palette in general, and the brighter colors are....I don't know....happier.

There was also a room where they had a film about The Last Supper fresco.  It was wonderful because they showed it projected as large as the whole wall so you could really get a sense of the detail of the work.  Then animation came in (tastefully) and pointed out points of interest and told the story of the creation of the work.  There was no noise.  It only took about five minutes and it was on a loop.  You came into the dark room, sat on a bench, watched as long as you wanted, and left.  That was very nice, too.

The only other part that really made an impression on me was one of his inventions they'd recreated.  It was an eight-paneled mirrored room, called an infinity room.  The idea was that by going in and standing one could see every angle of one's body at once and all angles reflected over and over to infinity.  At first, I didn't want to go in, because let 's face it, who the hell wants to see their (you fill in whatever you hate about your body here) repeated over and over and over and over..... However, as I was eyeing it sideways, a woman, one of the other readers stepped out and was a little unsteady and she saw me looking at it, and she said, "No.  You should.  Really."  So I did.

I stepped in and I pulled the door shut.  And it was weird.  There I was.  Everywhere.  Millions of me. And it wasn't bad.  Even in a dressing room's trifold mirror, you can only see part of yourself; to see all of yourself is a very rare thing.  I took a long look.  It wasn't nearly as bad as I had in my mind that it was.  No, I won't be entering or winning any pageants, but at the same time, what I saw shouldn't scare small children in the streets, either.  I looked rather scruffy at the end of a long day of grading 175 essays and schlepping a backpack, a camera case, and myself up and down the streets of Louisville, but other than that, it wasn't the monster I carry around in my head.

I staggered out of the room a little like the woman before me had done and wandered across to an exhibition of diving suits and double-hulled boat bottoms, moved on through the rest of the exhibition and out to the street.  Maybe the most unexpected thing I learned at the Da Vinci traveling exhibition today is not what the Mona Lisa might really look like but a truer mental image of my self.  That's worth a ten-dollar admission ticket any day.

Live from the Elevator Lobby

I'm in sort of lovely little alcove right now.  Well, actually, it might be too grand a space to call it an alcove.  Maybe foyer?  Except foyer implies there's an entrance somewhere....  I'm at an architectural loss here.  It's just off the second-floor elevator lobby, anyway.  There is a sleek fourteen-foot long console table and two spiffy chairs, one of which I have comandeered, a large hatbox-shaped light fixture hanging from the ceiling, and lots of conference rooms off to my left.  This is the only space on the whole second floor meeting rooms suite that seems to have the magic spot for wireless for my laptop.  Go figure.

Anyhoo.

Today was good.  I think I did solid work today.  I exceeded my personal goal of five folders, completing six instead.  That means I read a total of 150 essays today.  If I do that every day from this point forward, I will leave this place having processed 900 essays.  I'd like to bump it, though, and do an even 1000.  That means I need to speed up tomorrow and get seven folders somehow.  If I can fight my afternoon lag, I might be able to do it.  I will have to push, but if I have a goal, maybe my competitive streak will kick in and I will have the motivation.

It's been tough going.  I will hit streaks of essays that are LONG but not terribly fantastic, or several essays in a row about exactly the same work.  It is a little like a pebble in the shoe, I suppose.  At first, you notice it, but it's okay.  After several miles with that SAME PEBBLE, you really feel it and want it OUT.  The same works are turning up over and over, over and over.  If I never see another Joad again, it will be too soon.  Even my beloved Danish Prince is getting on my nerves.

Perversely, though, I'm putting together a mental reading list, and some of the very works I might flinch at seeing the fiftieth time are going on it.  Sometimes it is because I realize how long it has been since I've seen that work; sometimes it is because I am discovering new things altogether.  In one case, something by Hardy, an essay reminded me that I had hated something, and that knee-jerk reaction made me put it on the list because time and maturity change our reactions to literature, and even gloomy old Thomas probably deserves another look since so much time has passed.

After the close of the the day's reading, I came upstairs and grabbed my camera.  I walked out on the 2nd street bridge over the Ohio and took some pictures of the I-65 bridge and the railroad bridge together.  I think I got the shot I was trying for.  It was a nice walk, regardless.  The weather here today was fantastic.  Coming back toward the hotel, I found several old signs that I shot, and then I went down to 4th Street Live for a burger at Hard Rock.  I am slightly addicted to the Red, White, and Blue burger.  It has blue cheese on it and some kind of spicy sauce and probably should be illegal.  It is fine in every way.

When I got back, my roomie was already in bed.  I don't know what's up with that, but she woke me up in the middle of last night yelling.  I think it was a nightmare, but I'm not sure.  I'm letting her get some rest right now.  That's why I've self-exiled down here to the foyer.  I mean lobby.  Whatever.  I've got my iPod with some Black Keys and my Kindle with some (dare I say it) Grapes of Wrath (or not) on it, so I'm good until my tired kicks in.  Maybe we'll both be so tired tonight that there will be no incidents of night terror for anybody.  I have seven folders to power through tomorrow.  I need everything to be calm.

Awesome Sauce

Today has rocked.  I did not pretend to be Elly Higginbottom (inside joke) but I did the next best thing; I forced myself out of my shell a little. I talked to people instead of hiding behind a book.  I was...outgoing.  This is not easy for me, and I didn't do the total opposite of everything I would normally do or anything cheesy movie like that.  But I did have a good day.  It's a start.

I have a fantastic table.  Everybody is friendly and we all get along wonderfully well.  There are no crushing experts or people who Know All, so we're working together like a well-oiled machine, and we're only at the end of the first day.  I love our table leader; she's very composed and knowledgeable.  Since I haven't done this question before, I appreciate that.

The question itself is a dream.  I love reading for this one.  I've already had a couple of memorable lines.  I won't talk about them here, of course, but I won't be likely to forget them.  I had to put my head in my hands and laugh once today.  I love doing this.  I know that makes me an UberEnglishGeek, but I don't even remotely care.  I guess somebody has to be.  I take the job gladly.

We started live grading after lunch.  I graded slowly today, which was to be expected.  I only did two and a half folders.  I hope that I will pick up tomorrow.  I seem to be well-calibrated, so that is a good feeling.  I feel more confident in my grading this year.  Having used the rubric in my classes all year really helps with that.

The Gatsby shirt was an unexpected hit today.  I had people ask me where I got it (I told them), quote lines at me ("I love to see you at my table" -- I was eating lunch), and tell me about the Seelbach Hotel, a historic freaking goldmine that I should have known was here but didn't.  I cannot WAIT to go see the Seelbach.  It has been restored, and the little tiny pictures on the website have my camera "trigger finger" a-itching.  Apparently, some of the Readers go do a thing at the Seelbach where they pick their favorite passages from Gatsby and read aloud at the Seelbach or they have in the past on Thursday nights of the Reading.  While I don't think I have enough "presence" here as a second-year to read with them, I surely want to see that.  Right up my alley, darlin'.

I also swam tonight for the first time in...  I don't even know. I broke in the new suit.  I didn't stay in long, maybe only thirty or forty-five minutes.  I had to dodge shrieking children (of course), but it was still divine.  There was no pain at all in any of the strokes, even the side strokes I prefer.  It was glorious, and it undid all the knots that had built up in my back from sitting in that chair all day.  That pool can expect me on a regular basis, screaming infants or not.

I've been talking to my roomie, Sue, almost all night.  She's from Georgia, and she's pretty awesome.  She's a college professor, and we've been swapping views on education from across the two different sides of our field.  It's SO much better than last year and the person who DID NOT TALK.  I ordered some loaded nachos (maybe a mistake, but who cares...and, really, when are nachos ever a mistake?), we ate, and chatted.  I need to end this day, though.  Tomorrow will start a full day of the real thing, and I want to be sharp.  My goal is to do at least five folders tomorrow.  If I can do that, I will be hell on wheels with a number two pencil.  

Shiny.*


*obligatory Firefly reference

Ready as Anybody Can Be

I met my roommate as I was going to sleep last night.  She's either a table leader or a night owl or both, so I don't know if I'll see much of her.  She seems nice, though.  This bit of living with someone for a week that you don't know is always uncertain, but it's not like college dorm assignments where they may assign you to a party girl.  That doesn't really happen here.  I was wiped out last night, and it's an hour later here, anyway, so I tried to go to bed at what would be an appropriate time for them.  I raised my head and said hello, made polite introductions when she came in, but I don't remember much after that.  She might have stayed up a long time after that.  I really couldn't tell you.

I'm anxious to see how the day goes, anxious to grade for this question.  I'm working on a different question this year, the one I've always wanted to grade, and that excites me.   I've got on my Great Gatsby shirt (it just felt appropriate to start the week with Gatsby, somehow).  In just a few minutes, I'll go downstairs, try to eat something for breakfast, and get this day going.  There is a Starbucks in the lobby, so a green tea latte is possible for me this morning, but to be honest, I slept hot last night, and I'm just not feeling it this morning.  Delightfully, just down the hall, there is a coke machine with Diet Mt. Dew in it.  I think that shall be my first stop of the morning.  Yeah.  I think this is going to be a good day.

A Little More Conversation, A Little Less Action -- Observation from Jane Eyre

(With the deepest of apologies to Elvis)

I'm watching the movie version of Jane Eyre.  Of course I'm supposed to be laundering, packing, and generally getting ready for a long trip, but you know how this goes.  I will still be laundering, packing, and throwing crap at suitcases in a confused manner at two-thirty this morning...

The two main characters, Rochester and Jane, really love each other.  They want to talk to each other more than anybody else in the world, but they just won't do it.  Part of it is pride.  Part of it is fear.  Part of it, at least on one side, is the idea that there is social impropriety; she's not good enough for him, and he's already got somebody else.  They constantly misunderstand each other because they only ever speak to each other in these short intense spates, like little thunderstorms of words.  They stubbornly deny themselves the thing that would bring them joy.

Case in point:  Jane was just gone for about a month taking care of some family business, and when she returns, Rochester is waiting for her by the gate.  He wants to see her so badly that he's put aside some of his "I don't need anybody" arrogance.  He makes some of his usual snide comments, but eventually he gets to the point that bothers him saying something along the lines of  "I had to find out from EVERYBODY ELSE that you were coming home.  You wrote to Adele (the little girl) and Mrs. Fairfax (the housekeeper) and even Pilot (the dog), but not a word to me...."  The whole time she was gone, of course, she was wondering off and on what was going on with him but refused to ask.

It's heartbreaking.

Every time I read this book or see this movie, I keep saying to them, "Talk to each other!  Oh for the love of God and all that is holy, just talk to each other!"  (And no, I do not think they can hear me. No worries...)  They are matched.  Nobody is ever going to make them as happy as they make each other.  He's not particularly kind; she's not traditional in her way, either.  They're both sharp as blades, but together they work.  So much pain would have been avoided with a little more conversation.

I do suppose, however, that this is not how great Gothic novels get written.  It's just an observation early this morning that struck me.

Rainy Night

World-famous "Sad-Ten" gif

Okay.  So I'm a bit down tonight.  I'm frustrated with something, need another eye to look at something I've produced, probably still more than one, and am still thinking that it is not going to be enough to get what I want.

I need to get away from it.  I cannot stand the thought of another night of reruns.   I wish one of my friends would call me up and say, "Hey, let's go..."

• See a movie at a real theater
• Drive somewhere else for no good purpose but seeing something absurd and talking to each other
• Go out to eat at a place where the food is good and nobody knows us
• Watch all the movies in a geek series (Star Wars, Indiana Jones, A bunch of episodes of some series like Doctor Who, Firefly, LOST, the Prisoner) in a ridiculous marathon involving many people and much distraction
• Anything at all, really, other than what I'm doing....

At this point, even a Wal-Mart run might be amusing.  Yes.  It has reached that point....  

Conversations I Should Stop Trying to Have

I tried to bring up the topic of the program I'm applying for today with my parents.  I've pretty much avoided that whole issue because every time I've talked about going overseas again, such as with the DOD or by applying for a Fulbright my mother starts saying things like, "I don't want to talk about this right now," or "Who's going to take care of the dogs?"

This program, though, is not a semester-long thing.  It's not two years again or even a month even though I'd go for those lengths of time.  It's only two weeks if I should happen to be lucky enough to get chosen, and I think it will be fantastic.  I waited until I was almost done with the app before I said anything so I wouldn't get discouraged and not complete it.

So....tonight while I was at their house for dinner, I mentioned it.  My mom looked at me, asked half a question about what the program was and then my dad, who was going through their mail, looked up and said something about them needing to send a check somewhere, and she got up and walked away talking to him.  That's it.  That's all.

You think by now I would just be smart enough to stop trying, wouldn't you?

Tuesdays

I was working on the application for a program I'm trying to get in, hacking my way through the required essays when the phone rang.  My mom was freaking out on the other end.  The car dealership had called her home phone for some reason, an old number that hadn't been updated or a cross-listing, and they'd told her that my car had been hit in their parking lot.

She passed my number on to the insurance agent on the other end, let me know what was going on.  I soothed her and waited for the agent to call.  Today has been pretty much crap from that point forward.  The insurance agent told me that her client, a car courier with a large truck and trailer, had clipped my car after he failed to turn properly in the dealership lot.  Of course, his insurance will have to take care of it.

That's not the issue.  The issue is that I need my car for Friday.   And for a bright, happy while this morning, it actually looked as though I was going to have it.  The service center had called me early this morning to tell me they'd found the issue causing the battery drain.  It was a bizarre thing involving the fog lights coming on by themselves.  They'd almost not caught it, in fact.  They'd cleaned some corrosion inside from the battery cables, they'd been getting ready to call me with it, and someone had walked out and seen the fog lights on.  Apparently, they'd had another car like mine with a similar problem, a faulty switch, and so they had ordered the part and told me they'd have it for me Thursday before trailer guy showed up....

I went to see it late this evening.  I had just enough time to get out, see the damage, take three or four pictures, and the rain came.  I hunkered over my Nikon and got soaked as I walked back to Dad's vehicle.  I didn't even run.  My poor little car is battered.  The left rear fender is dented in, the tail light bashed.  The bumper is going to have to be replaced altogether.  There is no way they will have it repaired by the time I need to go to Louisville.

I suppose there will be a rental car in my future.  I hope everything will be straightforward with this process.  It's not the first time I've had to have bodywork through no fault of my own, but it really could not have come at a worse time.  Tuesday really got its money's worth today.

Not Much of a Day

I got up early and took the car to the shop.  The hyperactive, screaming child and shrieking care-giver required by state law to be in all public waiting rooms were already there when I arrived, and the care-giver (a grandmother, I think) was telling anybody who would listen about how she was trying to get custody from the child's mother, a person no better than she ought to be, a real drunk tramp who wouldn't sign the adoption papers.  There was one other woman in the room who was listening with that sort of polite, pained smile on her face, arms crossed over her chest, nodding and staring at the door like at any moment her salvation was going to walk through it and get her out of there.  As soon as I sat down, I took out my iPod, popped in my earphones, and let music carry me away from the combination of early morning drama and too loud TV.  I think the care-giver was offended that I didn't want to hear her rant.  Oopsie.

I didn't have long to wait before the manager of the Quick Lube came in to tell me that they'd finished their check of the charging system and that he had both good and bad news.  The good news is that there was a problem; the bad is that it might be the alternator.  (If you don't understand why the fact that they found a problem is good news, then you've never had a vehicle that goes dead randomly or does weird crap and the dealership can't find it with their diagnostic equipment.  Just wait.  Your day will come.  I've had loads of experience with that particular load of joy courtesy of the Evil Jeep.)  He told me to drive across the lot over to the Service Center, and so away I went.

I don't know how long it's going to take to get it fixed.  I sat in the Service Center waiting area for about an hour and a half waiting on somebody to pick me up since the car will probably need parts and/or take several days to repair, especially if it's the alternator, and I got some reading done.  I don't know what this means for me getting to Louisville Friday.  Clearly I'm still going, but in what vehicle remains to be seen.  I did so try to take care of this last month so there wouldn't be this nailbiting "will it/won't it" issue hovering, but to take one of my favorite lines of poetry, "the best laid plans of mice and men"....

I did get to see the cute mechanic today.  That was sort of the highlight of a day without them.  He's cut his hair short, but other than that, he was still awesome.  Still blue-eyed (which I must admit I sort of tend to have a thing for), still same good sense of humor, still same cute tats.  It's not that there was any lasting or meaningful conversation, mind you, it was just nice to have the general cruddiness of the day broken up by somebody cute and clever.

As far as temporary transportation goes, I do have a vehicle, one of the trucks, to drive, but I guess I won't really be going anywhere big until I get my car back.  The trucks aren't exactly what you'd call fuel-efficient or road-worthy for long hauls anymore, so I'm sort of trapped at home.  That might be okay, though.  Maybe I need to rest up and clean house.  It's just...frustrating.

Out of the Mouth of Babes

Mixed Post -- Because there are two things I want to tell you and I am too lazy to do separate posts tonight....

1)  First, I foresee a LONG, stupid day ahead of me tomorrow full of people not listening to me at the car dealership.  My car was stone dead when I went out to get in it to go to Mom and Dad's for lunch this afternoon.  I could not even get it to unlock with the keyless entry.  That's always the first delicate sign that everything has gone to crap.  The battery issue I had three weeks or so reappeared, I guess because I haven't driven anywhere in it since Wednesday and whatever is pulling the battery down has had ample time to drain it.  I really don't want to be trapped in the "customer lounge" with daytime TV, the inevitable badly behaved children, and uncomfortable chairs tomorrow, but I guess I'll charge my iPod, Kindle, and take the charger for my iPhone and make the day.  Maybe I'll have them take me over to the bookstore this time, maybe somebody will come and rescue me, or even better than any of those options, maybe they will be able to FIND THE PROBLEM THIS TIME quickly. Maybe the cute mechanic will be working tomorrow.  He's fun to talk to, and I love looking at the intricate body art he has.  

2)  One of my best friends has two little girls who are approximately 4 and 6.  They dangle off me like I am a piece of playground equipment whenever I see them, and I absolutely adore them.  The youngest actually shares my birthday.  Tonight, we had an odd church service because the power was out due to a sudden summer thunderstorm, and since the organ is currently out anyway awaiting a major repair, I sat on the pew during the service and they climbed all over me, sat on my lap, brought me toys, told me important things. 

I had seen both girls at my cousin's little girl's birthday party yesterday where everybody there had a child (except me, of course), so maybe that is where this question came from.  They'd been asking me various questions about random things from the minute I walked in, but suddenly the oldest one turned around and whispered to me in the middle of the service, "Do you have babies?"  I looked at her and said, "No, I don't."  I fought back the urge to say, "I'm sorry...."  If you'd seen her expression, you'd understand.  She just looked at me in confusion a minute, and she said, "Are you going to have babies?"   All I could come up with was, "Um...not right now..."  She looked so, so disappointed.  I felt the need to produce an infant and present it to her so as not to have failed her so profoundly as a person at that moment.  

I wanted to look over my shoulder at the older ladies of the church and see if somehow, magically, they'd put her up to it.  I wanted to bang my head very softly on the pew in front of me and laugh.   I wanted my own biological clock to stop siding with the child.  I mean how do you even answer that question?  "Yes.  Right away.  I will go out right now and get on that...."  I mean, how well does that kind of plan go over in the House of the Lord?  Sigh...

American Gods

It occurs to me as I'm looking at the front page of my blog with "Popular Posts" and seeing the post about Good Omens listed there that I have never blogged this.  I don't know why.  Oversight, I suppose.  Time to fix that as I've finished a reread recently and we stand on the cusp of its 10th anniversary re-release on the 21st.

American Gods by Neil Gaiman is one of my all-time favorite books.  I come back to it again and again.  The concept of it, the idea that the gods of myth and legend are very much alive and walking among humanity, intrigued me from the minute I picked up the book and looked at the blurb on the back.  An interesting idea, though, is the least of what AG is.

A friend of mine read AG for the first time recently and commented on it after he was done that he felt like it was about three different books in one.  That's not a bad way to think about it.  Most obviously, of course, there is an absolute feast for anybody who loves myth and legend.  Some of it is overt; some of it is like playing "Twenty Questions" with little hints and clues about the identity of the characters being given to you over the space of chapters or longer to see if you know which pantheon or deity they fit. Some of them are very obvious and some of them are obscure.  They run wide range, especially as the novel progresses, and that for me was delightful.  Too many novels that dabble in the gods confine themselves to one pantheon, one nation.  Gaiman took them all, embraced them, invited them all to play, made some new ones.  It's fantastic. There is also a mystery novel hidden inside the larger storyline, at least one.  And then there is a hero's journey in the classic sense, something straight out of the Odyssey with a man on a quest.  Intermingled with it is that epic quest of self-discovery that every man must take.  Here it happens to involve the gods, but they are not the most important pieces of it.  The focus comes to rest on the choices of the main character and so it really has almost nothing to do with the deities in the end.  Present also are snippets of America's history, vignettes beautifully told, and I'm sure I'm leaving something out.  It is a book that does not stop giving.

This is why I can keep coming back to it.  Every time I reread it, I see more, understand more of it.  And I never stop feeling that "hammer stroke" when I'm done.  It's rare that I feel that even the first time through, but the beauty of the prose and the storyline takes me every single time.  Its ending is poignant and beautiful.  Its characters feel and suffer and rejoice and grow.  Gaiman, through the gift of his storytelling, helps us to grow, too, as we travel with them.

I cannot wait to see the 10th anniversary edition.  I have a paperback edition, much abused, loaned, tattered, and loved of the original.  I have it on my Kindle, too, and I mostly reread from there.  I'm sure my friends online all start rolling their eyes when they see the first of the quotes pop up in annotation from the Kindle (I do so love that I can share from my highlights with the Kindle).  I want to see what has been added, even if it's just Gaiman's thoughts about the book 10 years later.  It will add even more enjoyment to something that is already a source of great pleasure to me.

If Wishes Were Changes....

My last post, the one about the big, good thing, was post 1,111.  That is somehow auspicious.  When the clock lines up at 11:11 (or any time when all the numbers are the same),  we used to say that you can make a wish when we were children.  I still catch myself making quick wishes in those 60 brief seconds of time when I look up and it's 4:44 or 2:22 or whatever.  

Silly what chances we take to call out for the things our hearts yearn for, isn't it?  We see a sudden streak of light in a night-dark summer sky, and we throw our desires after it.  We blow out candles on a cake, and mingle our wishes in the streamers of smoke.  We catch an eyelash on the tip of a finger, breathe out a  little prayer with the puff of air it takes to send the tiny lash away.  A thanksgiving wishbone, a turned necklace clasp, a thousand folded origami cranes, three "pop-eyed" cars as we drive home on lonely roads in the night, we look for divine messengers everywhere.

I know what I'm wishing for, know what I want.  I don't know that any shooting star or brightfolded paper crane is going to facilitate those things coming to me, actually.  I have to reach for them myself.  Some of them I know how to reach for, know how to be bold in achieving.  And it feels good that I finally have come to a point where I feel like reaching for something again.  For so long I've been down, really, really down or sick, and I haven't felt like reaching for anything.  I've been in some places that I can't even talk about, some places I don't ever want to go back to this past year, a combination of stress, sick, and, I think, wrong medication dose.

But then are are the things that I don't know how to reach for, too.  I try to be totally honest with myself, at least as much as anybody is capable of doing with him/herself, because let's face it, we all lie to ourselves without meaning to do so.  It's...something of a survival mechanism, I suppose.  Growth comes when we are able to cut through those lies, confront them, look at the ugly truth, and move on.  I'm trying to figure out how to stop standing in my own way to get something, somebody that I need in my life.  If it were just an intellectual thing, I could whip it.  Games of the mind, unless they involve math, are things that I can handle.  Unfortunately, this particular issue is not and never has been for me.  It's something that involves allowing myself to trust another person, that they are sincere, that they can be sincere, and stepping out of so many comfort zones that I'm not sure I can do it.

To open myself up enough to start to show the real me instead of one of the slick masks I usually show to the world is hard, hard, especially after the last couple of messes. Very, very few people see the me that exists under the masks. Some just don't take the time to look; some I don't care to show for some reason; some I run like hell away from because they get too close. (And right now, if you know me as something more than a set of blog entries, you might be asking yourself into which of those four categories you fall....)  I have so many evasions.  Some of them are exceptionally competent and off-putting, some are quite quiet and unnoticeable, some rather humorous and bumbling, and I suppose at least a couple might be even a little bit charming. Put me in a public place, and I can fade into the background at a moment's notice.  Put a book in my hand, and I can put up a wall of silence and separation at any time.  Put me in any situation, be it online or in the physical word where I suddenly do not know what to do, and I always have the option simply to run.   But why?  Why do I keep doing that?  It has to stop.  This behavior, these masks are not truth.  It doesn't make me happy.   In fact, it just makes me feel lonely, like crap.  God, how I wish this were a problem I could solve with logic and intellect alone.....

I guess if I were wishing for anything now, could get anything from shooting stars or paper cranes or birthday candles, I would use the magic for this, then.  It's the thing I understand least about myself and the thing I need to change the most.  It's the thing I feel most helpless with, fight the hardest, lose the most often against.  I will have to try to make a conscious effort not to be so...I don't even know what the right word for it is....   I suppose as I continue working on it, though, it can't hurt to catch the clock as 11:11 rolls around and ask for a little help....

Learning to Fly

I've got something big and good, and I'm not going to talk about it a whole lot in case I jinx it.  I found something that I'm applying for, and if I can manage to claw my way through the competition  get it after the rigorous selection process, I might get to travel abroad some this upcoming school year in a very meaningful way.  I think I should be competitive for this program; I've been a couple of places and done some stuff.  I don't have my National Boards (damn it...there never seems to be TIME or MONEY for this), but I have degrees and awards and trips and service and leadership and all that stuff my students probably think they don't need anymore once they graduate....  Funny how it keeps turning up as long as you keep being associated with academia.  I don't know.   I'm going to take the chance because I've decided that...well...it's worth trying for.  Just trying for it, just THINKING ABOUT trying for it makes me happy.  It's about not wishing for wings anymore; it's about realizing that I've had wings the whole time.  It's about learning how to use them, learning how to fly....

Bits and Pieces

I'm taking a break from cleaning out the office.  It has piled up hugely since I didn't really get a chance to clean it out properly last summer.  So far, I've just about uncovered the long work surface counter.  I probably have about an hour's more to go before it can be used again, and I need another several hours of putting up shelves and hanging things before it is like I want it.  I need to make a trip to Lowe's to buy some supplies before I can complete the project.

As I sorted through the endless mounds of paper that had accumulated over the last two school years, I stopped to look at some of the stuff that I laid hands on.  I found a graduation program from the class of 2008.  I found a stack of timed essays from an AP class from 2009 written on Their Eyes Were Watching God.  I found a collection of poetry I wrote for a class at MSU my junior year, and the last paper I wrote at MSU Meridian for a Shakespeare course just a couple of years ago.

It's amazing how all that stuff gets mixed together, stacks up along with the inevitable (for me, anyway) books and other bits and pieces of life.  I've smiled over cards and things I bought on trips I've taken, made folders of paper mementos from Italy, Kentucky, tried to file all the things that I kept because I thought I'd want them some day.  Many things that I had put into stacks, though, I am now simply throwing away, wondering why I ever thought them so crucial in the first place.  It feels good to take a whole stack of something and toss it.  It feels cleansing.

So I'm filing and sorting, throwing and away and holding in reserve, trying to bring useful order to the chaos.  I need that room to be a place I can actually get stuff done and find stuff in as opposed to a place I run in and try not to look at too closely before running out of again.  I already have a huge garbage bag of stuff I'm tossing, so I think that's probably a good start.  Of course, by the end of next school year, it may all be piled back up to the ceiling again, but at least I'll know that I tried....

That Awkward Moment When....

...you realize you're crying over somebody who's been dead for more than 400 years.  And the representation of their life you're watching is almost totally fictional.  I just watched Anne Boleyn die on The Tudors (don't judge me.  Don't you dare judge me.), and even though historians are greatly divided on her and the series paints her as a mostly unstable schemer, the episodes leading to her death are heartbreaking.  When she looks up and sees the birds flying, it breaks my heart.  (I cried for Catherine, too.  I cry for all of them.  I have a problem.  You can say it.  That's fine.)

...the lady at the junktique not only knows you but knows what you like to buy.  Maybe I spend too much time junkin'.  Is there any such thing, though?  Hmm....  Some of the vendors also know me by sight, too.

...you're singing in your classroom (or any other empty location) because you think you are alone...and suddenly you're not.  Um.  Yeah.  Hey.  Thought everybody was....gone.... And now I'm going to pretend you did NOT just walk around that doorfacing and find me belting out Nanci Griffith.  I'd like you to do the same.  Thank you.

...your sophomore students are talking about somebody being "really OLD" and you ask them what age that happens to be and they reply, "Oh, I think she's got to be THIRTY."  O.o

Water

I did a little yardwork this evening, and even as late as it was, it was still too hot for me.  I hate hot.

When I was done, I was watering plants, and I took a sip of the cold water out of the hose.  Of course, there is no neat way to do that, and it splashed all over me, soaked my already damp shirtfront.  It felt delightful.  I bathed my face and my arms, turned it on my feet and legs and felt cooler instantly, stood there wiggling my toes in the cold clear flow until a sudden pang of financial guilt for the amount of water I was using hit me.

As I was cutting off the faucet and cranking the hose reel, I thought again about how much I'd love to have a pool.  I have always been a swimmer, not for speed or competition because I am not fast, but for the simple pleasure of being in the water, blanking my mind completely, and feeling the water hold me and moving through it.  Swimming, like fencing, is an exercise in which I can turn my mind off totally, one of those rare escapes from myself.

I've been swimming since I was six or seven.  I took swim lessons every summer, right up to the lifeguard stage, and it's such a peaceful exercise when I can find a pool that's not full of the screaming masses.  I loved it when I lived in the Cotton District and I could go to the pool in the afternoons and swim.  Only my neighbor and I ever seemed to go, and we never bothered each other except for casual conversation.  He was the sweetest guy.  I was swimming laps, and he was mostly going to unwind and cool down after football practice.   Perhaps it's time for me to find a place to do that again. Now that my knee is repaired, it shouldn't hurt to swim again.  Before, every kick, every flutter, with that torn ACL was agony.

In reality, I won't be able to have a pool here, and I know it.  Too much money, too many eager water moccasins.  I laughed as I thought about it, at the "budget friendly" option my mind immediately came up with.  Maybe I can get a good sprinkler and set it up in the back yard where nobody can see.  I suppose that might be fun, too.....

More Fun with Topamax

My appetite is gone.  As in....did I eat today?  Should I eat today?  Oh yeah...that's why I have no energy.  (Drags self to the fridge, stares apathetically in, eats a piece of cheese, goes away again.)

The only thing that usually sounds good is a type of Thai food I love, and it doesn't always sound good.  Sometimes literally nothing does.  I don't buy many groceries because I'm not eating much food.  Things that I buy fresh go bad, so I've stopped bringing it home.  It's a bit late in the game after this doubled dose for this, but I guess as capricious as Topamax is, who knows?

Yogurt, especially this stuff by Yoplait that's sort of desserty and creamy, has been my salvation.  There's a berry flavor and a lemon pie flavor, and I suppose that's keeping me going.  As long as I eat one good meal a day, I think I'm going to be okay.  Monday, I had something forgettable for lunch, the blackberries I told you about and some popcorn for dinner.  Probably, this does not count as a "wholesome meal."

I'll keep an eye on the situation.  The weight is continuing to come off, and I can't say I'm sorry about that.  It's just weird to be going to bed and realize that I forgot to eat anything for dinner.....