Chaos

I went to school today to take care of some business, and I went by my room for few minutes while I was there. I really shouldn't have. It's so depressing to open the door and see the chaos of all my stuff everywhere. The walls are bare, all the little personal touches that I've put up over the last four years are down, and there's nothing anywhere but boxes, crates, and mass confusion. It's horrible. I had planned to box up a few more things or pull down an old bulletin board, but all the drive I had was completely sapped, and I wound up simply sitting behind my desk staring at the piles and piles of boxes.

Adding to the mess are the boxes and furniture of the teacher who is supposed to be moving into my room. He's gone ahead and moved his stuff in so his room would be open for the person shifting into his old space. I feel really bad for him, too. He can't set up anything or finalize his move until I get out. He's stuck in the same limbo as I am. I had told him to go ahead and bring his things in because there was no reason for everybody to be stuck waiting on me, but I know just bringing his things in and dumping them in the middle of the room probably wasn't his ideal solution. Fortunately, he's a very easy-going person who doesn't seem to have a lot of personal doodads the way I do, so there's room for both of us in the space, just barely, but we've managed it.

I still don't know exactly when I'm going to be able to get in my new classroom, maybe some time next week. I know it's going to take me several days just to get everything back out of boxes and on shelves again once I get it from the old room to the new room, but maybe I won't feel so sad and frustrated once that process begins. Right now, I can't even think about anything related to school without a feeling of deep futility. I'm trying to focus on good things about the move, like the decorating (getting new shower curtains to cover the tall shelves) and finally being able to have space enough to have a student computer station instead of having that set up on a corner of my own teacher's desk, but whenever I go in my current classroom, all the things that are to come fade in the face of horrid mess of what is. I guess I'll just keep telling myself the old cliche, "Patience is a virtue."

The Dragon Painter

I just saw a 1919 silent film on TCM called The Dragon Painter. It was from Japan and only an hour long. It was altogether lovely. The story reminded me of many of the folktales I've read from Japan, and it might in fact be an adaptation of one of them. I'll have to go back and look. I wish they'd do a later showing of it so I could go back and watch it again.

Of course it made me wish for Japan again. It never takes much, but the gardens, the houses the characters lived in, and the Meiji costuming really pushed all the buttons. It's summer to boot, and I always feel the need to take a plane then a train in this weather loaded only with a Nikon and a guidebook.

I won't dwell on it. I won't dwell on incense-filled temples, leaf-shaded fox statues, bright cotton yukata, and summer fireworks. I won't dwell on oppressive summer heat, the smell of bus exhaust, or crowds in the train station. I won't dwell on any of the thousand little details that I miss, the thousand little shards of daily living that make the whole. Instead, I'll just dust my pottery cats, have a bowl of instant miso, and pretend the discovery of this beautiful film didn't just rouse up my sleeping need to see Japan like a careless kick to an anthill.

Nothing Days

It's amazing how much nothing one can cram into a summer day. I forced myself to get up about 9:00 this morning because I'm expecting a delivery just any day now, and I hate for the UPS driver to find me in my pajamas. I know they neither notice nor care, but there's just something about going to the door in my robe that bothers me. It makes me feel decadent and scuzzy at the same time. Whenever I know UPS is supposed to be coming by, I always want to be up, dressed, and doing something productive. It's an OCD thing. I try not to examine it too closely.

Today, however, after I got dressed, I just ran out of go juice. I wound up here in my office cruising eBay looking at old tablecloths. After that, I started reading a new book. I talked to a couple of my friends on the phone about various things. A little brown and white dog strayed into my yard and was a distraction for a couple of hours. Midday melted into afternoon. I had chicken salad with my parents. Afternoon dissolved into evening. I paid my bills online and almost had a heart attack at what my new BlackBerry and its first month activation fee had done to my mobile bill. Evening disappeared into night. I find myself here, and none of the grand plans I had for today have been done. I've checked nothing off the master list of indoor or outdoor "To Do." Hmm.

Oh well. As Scarlett says, "Tomorrow is another day." Maybe I'll get more done tomorrow. Then again....

The Collectors

I had a moment of epiphany recently thinking about some guys I have known. There is a certain type of guy who lives to collect women. Not in the icky, "girls I've made out with" chart-on-the-wall way two guys I knew and studiously avoided in high school did, mind you. Not in the "Women of the World I've Wooed into Bed" way that my devious ex, T., did, either. What I mean is that there are certain guys who seem to need an entire fleet of women around them all the time to survive, so they studiously collect different types in different places to make sure they have the complete set.

I'm still not sure about the exact driving force behind this particular type of guy. I'm pretty sure it's not a libido-driven thing. Maybe for some of them it comes from growing up with lots of sisters. Or does it come from not having any? I feel like I need to do field research and find out. I've only known two confirmed Collectors in my time, and I don't think that's a broad enough research base to make any firm conclusions with.

All I know is that I keep winding up as a collectible for this type of guy. I guess I'm enough of an oddity that I'm like a limited-edition trading card or something that has a flaw in it and became collectible for that reason. I'd love to know what label I allow them to check off the big mental list, maybe it's something like Traveling Teacher Geek or Chick Who Likes Science Fiction, Old Movies, and Reading. Maybe it's She Who Might Edit My Writing.

I think that coming to this current working thesis about Collectors is going to be a good thing. I think that knowing they're out there, gathering up huge numbers of women to surround themselves with is useful. It doesn't really mean that you're not a friend to them; it just means that you are only a certain type of friend to them in a certain type of situation. As long as you remember that you are only one of the "village that it takes to take care of a Collector", then you should be okay. The trouble I got into before with D. was that I didn't know this about him, didn't understand that I was only one of the shiny objects in his showcase rather than someone he felt that he could love. I knew he didn't love me, knew I couldn't ever make him love me, but I never could figure out why he was around me. I think the Collector theory might just cover it.

Of course, this might all just be a lot of crap...

Lightning Storm

Tonight after church I had the craving for fast food, so I took the drive down the two-lane highway to the only place with a burger joint some eight miles away. As I drove, I saw the storm that had passed through Podunk earlier in the distance. It was one of the most amazing things I've ever seen. The lightning was in constant motion, dancing from cloud to cloud in flashes of hot pink and pale orange against the flat dull blue of the darkening evening sky. Jagged little spears of it would flicker in and out of the clouds like needles trying to sew the tears back together again. I wanted to just pull the car over to the side of the road and watch it gather and roil. It was the kind of weather and night that made me feel like something surreal was going to walk out of the deep gloaming of the wet green-black Mississippi woods and onto the cracked and pitted blacktop. Eventually, I accomplished my fast food mission and drove home drinking the milkshake I decided to splurge on while watching the sky simmer and explode. It was wonderful.

My Fair Lady

I'm watching My Fair Lady on TCM, and the scene where Eliza sweeps down the stairs in that unbelievably wonderful white ballgown has just come on. Every time I see it, some innately female part of my heart just sighs with envy. God, I wish I could look like that once in my life. I guess probably every woman who's ever seen this movie has had that thought. Audrey Hepburn is always so lovely and chic, but to me, that moment, that dress, is the ultimate princess fantasy. Of course, what follows not long after isn't very princessy....

I have very mixed feelings about MFL. I always have. I love old movies, and I really enjoy some of the older musicals, even though they are full of cheese, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers being a prime example of this. In MFL, though, I have to say that I absolutely loathe Higgins. I know you're supposed to dislike him or at least find his exterior gruff, but I find the ending, Eliza's return to him, totally unwarranted. After all, she's the one who has changed herself. She's the one who has been declared worthy of being a Hungarian princess. Why does the woman who is capable of walking down those stairs in such radiant loveliness that generations of little girls and grown women wish to be her wind up shackled to a man who makes his own mother shudder in public situations?

I know love is blind, but the story has always been so one-sided to me. It ends with Rex Harrison sitting in the big leather armchair asking for his slippers and Hepburn standing in the doorway staring in adoringly. Yes, he's been caught listening to her voice on the cylinder, for him an admission of emotion, but honestly, after everything else, is that really enough? After his repeated verbal cruelty, has anything he's done balanced that out? I've never thought the movie adequately showed that he redeemed himself enough to deserve her or even make her feelings for him credible. When was he ever kind to her except for actually taking her in off the streets?

I know, I know, it's only a movie. Let it go. Focus on the lovely dress and the songs that get stuck in the mind for days. (Even now, I am mentally humming "I could have daaanced all niiight....") But I have to say that as I'm adding DVDs to my collection, I pass up MFL again and again and will continue to do so. Something about my twenty-first century sensibilities can't quite let the dress and sparklies blind me to the jackass in the tweed standing in the wings.

Husqvarna Resurrection

Today was Yard Day. My Husqvarna zero-turn has been broken down for about two weeks and the bahaia has been about to take things over. The part and enough time for my dad to come and repair it finally got together, so the first part of this morning was spent hoisting the big orange mower up off the ground and balancing it while Dad put the new idler pulley in.

One of the crappy things, in my opinion anyway, about being a single woman, is that when there's a repair to be done, you pretty much are always involved. I would love to have a husband to send out in the yard to either do these things or help my dad do these things, but that's not to be. Most of the time I don't mind, but sometimes it does get old. A perfect example of this was when I had to go get this idler pulley from the local Husqvarna dealership/repair place.

It's the sort of place that fairly reeks of testosterone, and not in any way that could be construed as good. They have this really obnoxious sign they printed off a computer posted on the front door, on the main checkout, taped to the central support posts, everywhere, really, that says, "Your wife called. She said it was OKAY!!!" I know somebody thought that was the cleverest thing ever, and I'm sure that most of their clientele who comes in there to pick up a four-wheeler, a dirt bike, a big zero turn, or one of those little hopped-up offroad four-wheel-drive golf carty boy-toy things probably hikes up their bass fishing belt buckles and laughs, too.

It's the sort of place, too, that they don't even bother to greet you when you walk through the door. I went after the last day of school, and after all the nonsense that's been going on at school lately, my patience probably wasn't at its highest point. That being said, I stood there for at least ten minutes while two different men walked back and forth behind the big counter, glanced at me, and kept on walking without so much as nodding to acknowledge that I was more than a figment of their imagination. In the meantime, a big shiny Mercedes load of rich, young, bratty males pinned my poor little PT Cruiser in the tiny gravel lot as they poured into the showroom to stroll through the dirtbikes and trail their ennui-filled fingers over them. One guy behind the desk just sat in his chair talking on the phone with his feet up on a desk, ostensibly on business, but he never even so much as waved at me or did anything other than stare at me like I was something from a different planet.

My blood pressure was steadily climbing. By the time one of the men finally asked me if he could help me, I was straining for polite and praying that everything would just go fast so I could figure out some way to get my PT Cruiser out of the lot and as far away from there as humanly possible. Not being a terribly mechanically minded person, I had brought the operator's manual in which I'd had my father show me the part I needed. He'd told me the number and pointed it out specifically, so I laid the manual on the counter and told the guy which part I wanted.

He took the book from me, looked at it, looked at me, and asked the question that still rings in my ears, "Are you sure this is the part you want? Are you sure this is the right one? There are several pulleys? This is the one that bolts to the frame. Is that the one you want?" He spoke very slowly, as if he were speaking to a child who'd just asked for a live rattlesnake instead of a stuffed toy. The other old guy there to pick up his mower and the one other employee who was periodically passing back and forth behind the counter ignoring everyone paused to hear the answer. The anger, oh, OH, the anger.....

What response to give? Drag him across the counter and wallop him senseless with the bright orange manual? Tell him, "Well, chump, since I only had to help jack the damn thing up last week when it tore up and take it apart, duh...let me think...."? Ask to see his manager (despite the fact that I pretty much figure he WAS the manager)? Diatribe about how women are capable of ordering parts for lawnmowers? All these things raced across my mind light heat lightning across an August sky.

Finally, I did something that confuses me still. I fell back on Old South Girlism. I don't know why I did it. It's not really like me at all. I simply said something about that being the part that my father had sent me in to buy and that being all I knew about it. The moment I brought my father into it, the rotten skunk behind the counter was all smirks and approval. After all, as long as there was a Y chromosome involved, how could the part selection be wrong? Why did I play along with that Old South tradition? I knew that's what they were waiting for, what they were expecting.

I still don't know. All I know is that once he passed the part, mercifully cheap, across the counter, I paid for it and made good my escape. I didn't know until today that he'd forgotten or been so smug in his manliness that he'd not told me that I'd need an insert to go in the middle of the assembly to complete it. Fortunately, Dad and I cannibalized the old one and the Husqvarna lives again. I am grateful for that on many levels, but primarily so that I don't have to go back there again and deal with those idiots and my own bizarre response to them.

Very Old Country Music

I'm listening to a radio station that was the pop hits station when I was in high school. During the period of time when I was in Japan, there was apparently some sort of hostile takeover/shakeup of the local radio stations here in the Podunk metropolitan area, and now this station is a "Classic Country" station playing "Country Legends of the 60's, 70's, and 80's."

This music always evokes very particular memories for me. I always think back to getting my hair cut when I was very young. The lady who used to cut my hair had a shop in the back of her house, and this type of music was always on the little radio in the window of that shop. I can still smell the Aqua Net and hear the hot gossip.

It also makes me feel the sensation of the nubby plastic seat covers in my grandfather's white Chevy pickup. I still don't know why any company ever make seat covers with the texture of really hard bubble wrap, but I was always fascinated by them. I remember spending summer days bouncing down red dirt roads with this type of music on the radio trying not to burn my legs on those seats when we got back in the truck.

Being here in my grandmother's house, I keep feeling as if I should be in my Strawberry Shortcake shirt and as if I should be able to walk out into the kitchen, take the ever-present gallon jug of sweet tea out of the yellow refrigerator, and get a boiled egg out of the plastic container to go with it, maybe. I keep feeling as though my cousins should be here and that we should be headed out into the yard on some adventure.

I keep waiting to hear my Granny somewhere in the house, too, because this is very much her music. That's probably the most poignant memory being conjured by these songs. Of course, that's pretty much a constant thing living here in this house that has so much of her still in it, but with songs like "One Day at a Time, Sweet Jesus" mixed in to the playlist, it's hard not to hear her soft footsteps, hard not to miss her more than usual.

I think since I'm feeling better today, I'll go work in the kitchen some. I wanted to mix up some sourdough starter anyway, and I have a sudden craving for boiled eggs.

Trying to Recover

Now that I don't have to go to school every day, my body decided it was safe to fall apart. I had a major attack of something Sunday night, and the past three days have been spent limping around the house taking care of survival matters. I suppose I wasn't as fine as I thought I was and everything just caught up with me. Tonight is the first time I've felt lucid at all. I'm hoping that I can avoid going to the doctor. I'm taking Nyquil and Dayquil along with a handful of other stuff. I really don't want to start the summer off with a round of antibiotics.

I had forgotten how stupid daytime TV is. In between naps, I've had it on some in the vain hope that a good old movie would come on, but to no avail. I will break out the vintage movies tomorrow, and Netflix will be my summer salvation, I suppose.

I spent some time on eBay today. I was looking for things with owls on them since they're supposed to be the mascot for our new small learning community at school. It's amazing how many things you can come up with on eBay if you type in "owl" in the search bar. I found one or two things I might bid on, but I can't decide just how deeply into that I want to get. I have enough crap in my room to catch dust, after all, and I still have to move all the stuff that's in the old room into the new room before I can set up anything new.

Well, even though it seems like I should have rested enough for six weeks' worth, I'm still tired. I guess I'll go to bed. Maybe I'll be more interesting soon. At least I'm writing....

School's Out

It seems I blog more from my BlackBerry than any other place these days. I don't exactly know what to think of that. I guess it's not a bad thing. It certianly means that I have a freedom to record my thoughts that I never had before. The BB makes it possible to blog from anywhere there's a phone signal, so this is much more like taking out my pen and putting it to paper to clear my head.

And there's so much to think about. Another year has come to a close at Podunk High. I watched all my little birds fly out of the nest. They're headed out to test their wings in the bigger skies now. This class has been such a sweet one. I will really miss them.

This year was full of the unexpected. I certainly never expected to find some of the good things it brought my way. Quite out of the blue, I've found some new friends this year who are very dear to me and rediscovered some old ones.

It wasn't stress-free, and not all the stress is done as my school redesigns itself physically and structurally, but I have to say that I'm filled with a reckless kind of hope for next year. As happy as I am that summer finally got here, I'm also looking forward to seeing if we can fulfill the promise of what we've dreamed so far. It's exciting. It's also exciting to have friends who feel the same way instead of the same-old negative cloud of "no-we-can't.". We may not get everything right, but at least we're in there trying. I think it's wonderful. If that makes me naiive, so be it.

Well, there should be a more regular blog now that school's out. There's much more to tell, but one's thumbs do get tired!

Live from the BB

Weariness

I have a lot of my classroom packed into large storage boxes and stacked all over the place. It's too depressing for words. As yet, there's no place to move the boxes to since the actual move hasn't begun, so I'm stuck staring at those boxes and brooding. I wish the move were done. I hate this displacement, this time between the ending of one thing and the beginning of another. I hate for my "nest" to be disturbed. I know that soon enough, the big day will come and I'll have to get everything out of the old room for the last time and be a little sad about it, but right now, I am so unbelievably tired that all I want to do is get everything somewhere for good and sleep for about a week.

I'm past the point of just worn out. The end of school rush to get all the summer reading assignments prepared, typed up, and distributed, to get all my grades finished, entered, and proofed, to get the bookroom cleaned out and prepared for storage, and the hundred other little things that are cropping up are killing me. That's why I haven't been writing here much, either.

I don't have anything left for the little stupidities of life, either. A perfect example was when I came home this afternoon to find water pouring from my meter box. An absolute river was cutting through my yard to my house. I was too tired to even feel panic. I just went in, found this month's water bill, called them, and told them to come fix it. I could barely summon up enough concern about the whole thing to even wonder when it broke. I don't think it was like that this morning, but it was raining so hard that it might have been. Who knows?

Well, I'm going to bed. At least I managed to get something like a blog posted. It's not good, but it's something. Maybe that's progress.

New Toys

I just got a new micro SD card for the BlackBerry, and it may be some of the best money I've ever spent. Before, the poor little beast was so low on memory (its brain came from my old Moto RAZR) that just calling up the address book sent it into seizures. Now, though, with 4G under the hood it's a sleek racehorse. Were 4G necessary? No. Do I come from the school of more memory is good memory? Oh yeah....

Live from the BB.

live from the BlackBerry

I bought a.BlackBerry yesterday. I have wanted one for a long time, and my old phone was starting to show signs of wear, so I decided to go by and see how much it would cost to upgrade my equipment. Amazingly, it was not nearly as costly as I'd thought, so now I have a BlackBerry Curve. I've been tweaking it ever since the sales rep put it into my hands, and I think I just about have it where I want it.
The thing that's most wonderful about this is that I can get to email all the time now, blogs, too. I won't have to haul my laptop around with me everywhere. Plus there's the simple joy of a new gadget to love....

Well, it's time to stop playing with it for awhile and get something done. I just can't seem to stop toying with it!

Truly Honored

Tonight, I stood on the big stage in our auditorium and received an award for being named this year's STAR teacher. I still can't believe it. I am completely humbled by this. It's so very hard for me to believe that anything I do from day to day is award worthy, actually, because I have such a good time (most days) doing it. Every day, I get to take people on tours through some of the best literature there is and watch them discover how wonderful it is for themselves. That can't be worthy of an award. In fact, I keep secretly wondering when people are going to catch on and take this job away from me. Who wouldn't want to do this if they truly understood what it is when it's done right?

The student who selected me said something that (no surprise if you know me very well) made me tear up. He said that one of the reasons he'd picked me was that I'd helped him enjoy literature again. The tears were for two reasons, first that that love had ever for a moment been allowed to fade, but second, and most importantly, because that was probably one of the greatest compliments anybody anywhere has ever paid me.

I may never turn out an English scholar. None of my students may ever go on to produce the next great American novel or doctoral dissertation. However, if they can leave my classroom knowing how to do well the kinds of writing they need to survive and succeed in college and with that love of literature they used to have when they were little and wanted to be read to rekindled then maybe all these five-a.m. mornings are worth it, after all.

I'm going to treasure tonight. I'm going to keep that certificate on my wall alongside my diplomas and the certificate from kindergarten that shows where I learned to tie my shoes. It's another sort of milestone for me. I may never, ever have another student who thinks highly enough of me to honor me in this way again, but I will always strive to live up to the honor of having been chosen by this one.

The Reason I Teach

And I believe this down to the very core of my weary, weary little soul......

Only the educated are free.
Epictetus

Final Papers, Willie Nelson, and Disaster Films (Yeah, NOW You're Curious....)

I can almost see it. I can almost reach it. I feel like those people in disaster movies who are almost out of the cave in/crash site. The cold, pale light of dawn is starting to filter through the gloom, and I begin to think I might survive.....

Of course, isn't this usually about the point in the film that things get really stupid?

No, no, I won't be a pessimist. Really....

You'll have to excuse the more-than-normal giddiness. I've just put the almost-final touches on the last of the big papers. I have a final left and a final refining of this paper and then, ladies and gentlemen, I'M FREAKIN' DONE!!!

(Willie Nelson just came on the radio...."On the Road Again". How appropriate. Everybody sing along.)

I've been up way past midnight for about three weeks in a row, and I have no reserves left. I almost had at least two wrecks on the way to work in the past two weeks, and I'm grateful that God was looking out for me even when I wasn't. I'm past grouchy, past incoherent, past simply burning the candle at both ends; I'm up to having nothing left to give.

It's okay now, though. I feel as though someone should come wrap me in one of those emergency blankets, hand me a cup of hot beverage, and start asking me questions about how it all started....

Yeah, it's clearly time to go to bed now.

More blogs later. Aren't you looking forward to more of THIS crap? Why do you read me again? (Insane laughter fades as she limps off toward a shower as hot as the pitiful little water heater can provide...)

Update

It seems I'm back to the once-a-week posting schedule. It's a shame. There are lots of things I want to write about, but I'm never near a computer when the thoughts are floating through my random mind....

Life has hit critical mass, and I'm flailing madly. Papers are due, both the ones I have to write and the ones I have to grade, so I can only steal moments I ought to be sleeping to do anything that I want to do. I hate this time of the year. Even when I sit down to eat, I feel guilty about it. That's not right.

Oh well, only a few more weary days and then.....

For now, it's time to go to BED, at least for a few hours.

New Pen

For months now, every time a new Levenger catalog has come, I've leafed through the pages and drooled as usual over the lovely tools I can't afford. One thing in particular caught my eyes more than all the others, though, the Plumpster pen. The swirls of blue and caramel remind me of pictures taken of the Earth from high altitude, all seas and desert sands swirling and mingling. Time after time, I've looked at it, longed for it, and sighed. After winning third place in our local poetry contest and being named STAR teacher, I decided to treat myself to something nifty, so I added to my debt and got one.

It's gorgeous. Sometimes I just take it out of my purse and hold it in my hand just to look at it. The pictures really don't do the resin of the barrel justice. Even though the nib is a little wider than I like (it's marked fine, but it's really not), it's beautifully responsive. I got ink called Skies of Blue to run in it to match the colors, and I love the total effect. Sometimes, happiness is a new pen, I guess.

Pierced Ears

So stress is making me do spur of the moment things again. I went shopping Saturday, and since I was in the mall getting some cards for upcoming birthdays/Mother's Day, etc., I swung by the accessories shop and had the second set of piercings in my ears redone. Just like that. Bam, snap, bottom on the chair, studs in the ears, no flinching. This lack of inhibition and forethought does not bode well for what's to come in the next few weeks of my life. When I get like this, all things become possible....

I've had this set of holes since my sophomore summer of college. I got them in Costa Rica, where it seemed every woman I saw had at least three sets of piercings per ear. I actually felt gauche with only one set of holes. I had a lot of little pairs of studs I like to wear, I was in a foreign country, I was stressed about the loss of somebody back home who was close to me, I was in the mall with a friend, and bam, snap, bottom on the chair, studs in the ears, no flinching, I had new piercings when I came back from Costa Rica that summer. I liked them then, and I still do.

There's no need to worry that I am about to launch into a manic body art phase in which I suddenly become one who will set off metal detectors. Two sets of studs in the ears is enough. It's bothered me for some time that the second set had closed up; one side had been pierced just a little too high, and it never did heal up properly. The girl at the store fixed that when she did this set, so I'm even now.

I almost feel like I got something back by having these put back in. That may be the most absurd sentence of all the absurd sentences I've ever typed. Pierced ears are hardly daring. Somehow though, I feel a little bit of that tico summer return, and right now, with all the stress that's crushing me on every side, I need a little of that confidence. I only wish I could actually get on a plane and lose myself in the multicolored shadows of San Jose or La Fortuna's cloud forest. Maybe the earrings can pierce the veil of memory enough so I can get by on that alone.

I Miss My Friends

I never see my friends any more. It's like our lives ate us. As I'm typing this, I am actually stealing time that should be devoted to sleep to do it. I'm so completely exhausted that I can literally sleep standing up given enough stillness and relative silence. Sitting at my desk to try to get grading done is a nightmare; rarely am I let alone long enough to have that problem though....

I feel as though I've barely left my classroom during the past month, and although the light of school's end is beginning to glow dimly on the horizon, I can't tell if it's really bringing relief or if it's just deceptive faerie fire yet.

Even the friends I used to be able to talk to at school I hardly see anymore. It's hard to imagine that we can be in such close proximity and have so little contact, but everybody is just trying to survive research papers and test preparations with as much grace and sanity as can be salvaged.

I'm going to try to go to bed now. I'm sick again, and the medicines (bronchitis battalion, standard edition) are keeping me awake despite the general fatigue. If tomorrow weren't Friday, I think I'd have to cry.