Sequence of tenses, order of operations, rules of conjugation - our world fits so nicely into order and organization and pattern (except for the few tricky exceptions). I've learned the October weather pattern for Urbana - every week apparently must have at least 4 overcast days of which not fewer than 2 shall precipitate. Yet this week is apparently an exception - it is supposed to rain tonight but it was sunny all weekend and supposedly will be for most of the rest of the week also, with temperatures dropping back to 50 after a tantalizing high today around 70. Lovely weather. Silly me, writing about weather. Next we'll be on to barometric pressure and cold fronts and how my freshman science teacher in high school used to make a barometer for every section she taught every semester (and she wasn't too young) during which process she scooped some mercury out of a nice puddle and stuck it in a tube. With her bare skin. Hmm. Explains a lot, really. I probably have some mercury hiding somewhere in my system since I broke a thermometer first-year and never found the silver ball. I always assumed I just stepped on it at some point and absorbed the delightful poison, although such a small amount as I choose to believe could hardly cause any sort of lasting damage. It'll make a nice excuse some day though when I do something a bit nuts. See me write, see me wander. The trouble with tiredness. I should get back to my one good paragraph theory (or two, for special occasions) although somehow that takes more depth of thought than this mindless rambling. Perhaps next week I can get back to focus, after this 2 hour lecture is done being planned (still, I quake in fear) and then only the paper writing awaits. If only I could do homework but never have to go to class. I suppose that's the life of a post-doc without teaching responsibilities, really, as someone I know might be able to support. So in that sense, I guess it's a good thing I feel that sort of frustration - shows I'm in the right field after all.
"what would life be like without wishful thinking?"
Happiness comes in the form of a broken-spring seat and chords suffusing the air. I am boosted on my Vegetius which gives me an extra inch of height and hundred pages of knowledge - the seats next to me are empty so I move over to where there is an open spot in front and a short head in front of that. I am centered, 15 rows back right in front of the soundboard. I'm not sure if I'm quick or others are reluctant but I seem to recognize the songs from the first few chords and am alternatively delighted and surprised. Some new things, some old favorites (I'm the man who loves you :} ), a bit of sing-along in which we were complemented as singing like a "fragile mob". The true tale of "Tweedy attacks fan" is revealed, we help remind lyrics a moment later and wait on pins and needles when he steps offstage. His voice is harsh - clearly tired - but he sings on, apologizing at one point and jokingly telling us to demand our money back. But the chording is there, the cascading harmonies and rich assonance. The self-effacing attitude and the patient stands of guitars - six in a semicircle, whisked away periodically by a stage hand I presume for tuning - he seems large looming over the mic on stage but hidden behind the daedalon wood. W aide, h toi theoi audhn eoikas! Ou men eruke phrenas moi trepemen, kataballei de moi hsuxiov upnon. Kalliston.
Well it turns out there are many things to learn still in the world. My understanding of string theory is a little shaky and I'm beginning to forget all my lovely digits of pi (oh mournful day!). I also discovered that I have sent approximately 2.5 emails per day since I was given a gmail account - that's 2.5 emails a day worth saving (and I go through some pretty ruthless trashing at times) which is also momentous considering that for the first year of that time I was sans-internet at home. Additionally, I discovered a possible influence Thucydides may have had on Aristotle when he wrote the poetics and managed to ask a "good question" during office hours today. My constant aspiration and one I rarely manage. This one merited an "I don't know, ask this other professor" which makes me even happier - I'm thinking outside the class! (Although said other prof wasn't in so we'll see when my thirst for knowledge will be sated.) I have also learned that my pessimistic optimism (is that a paradox or oxymoron?) extends to grading in that I am perversely looking forward to a new batch of papers - oh how I hope the munchkins have learned how to write by now! Surely they can't be worse! (And of course I can't be delusional..) I also discovered that I personally know more people posting on RSD these days and I relearned what a fantastic waste of time that website is, especially if you only visit a few times per year. And now an Ode:
From your dearest Trophy Wife As she travels on in life: May my writing show a way Into light this cloudy day; When I write of soy and corn Henceforth shall I never mourn - Longing for the cities far Does the clean enjoyment mar; For Ultimate and a climbing gym Suffice to foster vigor and vim; What enlightenment in Latin and Greek (If my mind may deeply peek) I shall obtain if I try And swiftly pass along to my Readers - do not grow faint of heart For here we approach the greatest part: These months with your patience have I toyed - Henceforth, more often will I fill the void.
It's not an easy thing, being a trophy wife and a daddy's girl at the same time but how could I pick one to get rid of? Tonight I felt almost giddy talking to him on the phone, an odd, uncharacteristic feeling for me at almost any time (I can't think of the last time I was really hyper, which is actually a bit strange itself) and unfortunately not reciprocated since my father has come down with a case of a Bad Cold. His arch-nemesis: one that usually pops up in the fall at some point and lingers for a short while as a stuffy nose and then for a long, long while as a tickling little cough that never quite seems to leave. And on his birthday, a momentous day in many respects (his birthday, two other friends' birthdays, my due-date (I've never been on time)), but today this is the one that really mattered. I've dug myself quite a daughter-hole the past few years by sending lackluster presents (not that he cares) and appeasing my guilt by writing cute little rhyming poem cards, often terribly illustrated, in addition. I think he likes the cards more than the presents, and it's getting harder and harder to write them. Try finding a different rhyme for "Day" twice a year (here and Father's Day) and then fill in at least 4 other stanzas of intelligent cuteness. This year was particularly bad, in my opinion, with a whole line about cornfields in Urbana. My, how my eloquence sinks to a new low. But they are still fun to write once the words come easily and I do enjoy the outrageous contortions of English that I happily scribe on a clean sheet of notebook paper or (my favorite) on delicately folded napkins from Pierce. Which, before you turn your nose up, is even cuter since he used to live there. Gotcha with that one. (Apparently I'm still feeling a bit giddy even now....)
I had a point that was more serious to make which I suppose I'll only really mention in passing, just because I really want it said. We were talking about the poems tonight and my mom mentioned that I get it from my grandfather - apparently he used to write little poems to my grandma (my mom's parents) back in the day which she loved. This may not seem like a big deal at all (and I do realize this is just about rhyming poems) but my grandfathers both died before I was born. No one ever talked about them much and there were a few pictures around so I've always felt a certain gap in that way. It probably doesn't help that my grandmothers didn't live much longer themselves - the price of having the youngest-children as parents, I guess. I do know some things about my grandfathers (one made false teeth in the Loop, one was a community-college Spanish teacher) but nothing on the small intimate scale of real familial memory. Now I have one little connection - trivial yet comforting. I can think of this phantom next year when I'm struggling to alliterate - now I'm inspired to keep trying.
Fall stopped by today for a visit. The sun peeked out for a few hours, breezes tossed wispy clouds across the sky, the tree glowed orange through the slats in my office blinds. Seventy degrees in mid-afternoon. Delight doesn't pop out so unexpectedly often these days so we seized it. A trip out to lunch, walking back basking in the light and lack of rain, pleasantly full and in good company. A slap-dashed group throwing in the quad, my first disc-anything since Sunday of Regionals (good news: I can still throw and catch!) - trying to teach one a flick, trying to teach myself better touch. A meeting of grad students in classics and philosophy, pulled together by one professor, at a local bar for pitchers of Bass and convesation about Canadian hockey players. Suddenly the pieces in my transient Urbana life felt conjoined and fluid. I wore sandals on my feet and didn't need my fleece. By now I am relaxed enough to sit and write which I haven't felt in days (as you are all aware) - even to the point of gentle distraction. If my planes were here, I'd be watching.
The chill of winter settled into the wind last night, and arctic blast that swirled its way to lowly Illinois. I heard it snowed in Chicago, heard rumors of flurries on the quad around noon but I was in class and missed it. What I didn't miss was the characteristic taunting so-blue sky and fluffy clouds, seeming to promise a day of delightful outdoor recreation stymied by cold hands and toes and a cutting wind that gusted around corners. Fall weather in the midwest. I am tempted to make pumpkin bread, steep spices in warm cider, bake a pie, crunch leaves on the sidewalks. I wonder when the fall rains will turn to early winter snows (for real, not just dancing flakes) and I'll skid carefully down sidewalks on my way to classes. I can never decide if I like the cold weather or not - the delight of snow never seems to leave me (see post #2) - and yet I miss the easy freedom of a tshirt and skirt, the comfort of sandals, fresh apricots at the farmer's market. I suppose I'll have a while longer to think while the fronts clash in the atmosphere and battle for the highs and lows of the day. The good thing about winter, as I explained to my newest ex-California colleague, is that you can always put on more clothes.
I have determined that the greatest problem grading brings to my life (aside from an unceasing flow of monotonous mediocrity) is that it inhibits any and all decision making I might attempt in the rest of my life. I'm so tired of determining if this middling paper is a C or a B or something in between (and trying not to be influenced by the crap or brilliance that came before it) that in the rest of my life the concept of choosing an option and sticking with it is shockingly brutal. Indecision caused by too much decision. I'm sure there's a real-world more compelling analogy (Iraq, anyone?) to elevate my humble crisis to something worthy of your time and this space but at the moment I'm too worn down to come up with one. I'll count my resolution to write here in the first place as a victory for my addled grey matter - almost lost this one to a D+ and a wearied need for sleep.
"Distance has no way/Of making love/understandable"
What sort of distance, what sort of love? What kind of understanding? Ethan and I have physical distance which, as they claim, will make our hearts grow fonder and perhaps that's true. We never seemed to fight last year so far apart - there simply wasn't time for it - time to chafe at any quirks, to experience contentious difficulty, to build up a need for time apart. Discord was a luxury we didn't have. This year will be interesting to compare - we are separated now less by physical space and more by continuous time demands. No more scheduled working hours, no more audited classes, no more free weekends. I am not sure what kind of understanding this may or may not bring. I don't think I'll ever find flowing expression to truly explicate what our connection is. I can't explain it coherently, can't describe why it exists. Something with pheremones, probably, or young delusion... I hate the way I cheapen this with trivial words but to dredge up a lyric voice and serenely whisper what has grown to be the meaning in my life is too personal too emotional too demanding to flick casually into the void. I am not yet possessed of self will enough to try.
But then there are temporal and emotional distances also, of which I have my own fair share and the loves of which I still don't comprehend, despite years of trying. To be left, to leave intentionally from someone you care about is easy for no party without some kind of rage or hatred which in the best of relationships is absent and impossible to call up at a moment's notice. But the depth of feeling that was there may become less present, may be boxed up prettily in the recesses of memory but it never fully departs. Those that I have loved, on any level, I cannot leave behind in my mind - I still think about them, still wonder about their lives. My little brad, my mr. x, my chindy' begay, my dingbat. Even writing this I am overcome by a sense of loss at what could have been. I don't believe that I could lead a happy and perfect life with these men, I don't regret the choices I made or that were made for me - I regret the loss of a closeness with someone who I connected with in some small, real way if only fleetingly. That is the understanding that distance has given me. Not of what love is or was or could be, not even of what our relationships were, just of what it is that I miss and why.
I need to find my whimsy again - an excellent adjective applied to this medium by both Crazy Nomad and Frisbee Juggler - I am a humble third to use it but it suits very well. I sit in the evenings when the computer is on and stare. Sometimes, like tonight, I manage to find some words to put down but other nights, like last night, I simply shut down and walk away, climb into bed, try to put aside any thoughts of guilt. I'm getting better at that. I'm not pleased by the situation. I can't quite say what it is that has me mentally stopped up on this level. I find it hard to believe that the same general conditions that spawned creativity in the spring are so barren for me now. The alternative, however, that it's all just internal, that I've run out of things to say, that I am failing at this project, is on the side of the coin that I am loath to flip over and view. I don't want to call tails but the statistics work against my run of heads.
Oddly enough I feel speechless yet again. Perhaps I can account for my reticence tonight by considering the terrible music selection of my next-door-neighbor and his friend's most obnoxious laughter, my awe at the glory that is the Chicago Bears, my satisfaction at a well-fought scrimmage this afternoon (in which I threw the game-winning score - perfectly placed backhand for at least 50 yards. So pretty. Yes I'm being narcissistic, but I think that's allowed once in a while), my constant concern for proper bicycle maintenance seeing my bolts slowly rust away on the frame, my jubilation at discovering the green sour apple slurpee at the gas station mini mart down the street. A dangerous and budding addiction. Odd also that I find it easy to write out the very things that mill about in my brain and prevent me from further thought. I feel like I fight an uphill battle every evening - me vs. blogger and unfortunately we're both losing. I'm still settling in to an unpredictable schedule (with shifting ultimate, visits to and from Chicago, tournaments every fortnight, necessary grocery and laundry hours postponed to the point of no clean socks and nothing for lunch) that often sets me up for a busy evening that rushes itself right into sleep with no thought of writing here, much less my former addiction of email checking which I am proud to say I think I'm starting to kick my habit of. On the edge of the wagon, as it were, where I will probably remain indefinitely unless they start chugging out a vaccine for that. After all, what else is next after cocaine, cigarettes, and obesity?
