Flicked into the Void

Should I change my location?

2010-02-11T21:19:00.002-06:00

So winter is now fully upon us, complete with record snowfall at O'Hare (as NPR instructs me). Mostly this is annoying in that the stairs to the laundry room are icy and parking is dicey (ooh a rhyme!) and makes me happy to own a 4-wheel drive vehicle. And I suppose in that I don't own any good snow shoes, despite having been here for 10 years now (a scary thought). Maybe I should title this post (okay, re-title) "parentheticals" or something instead.

So it's a new semester, a new year, and according to a lot of people, a new decade. And I have a new location. I am now mostly Chicago, nearly not Urbana. Yes indeed. In the fourth year of grad school (and marriage) and the fifth year of higher education during which time all I ever had regularly was the summer, I have finally switched things around and made Urbana my temporary home in practice in addition to name. And in a desperate attempt to relive my recent youth, I am in fact once again a registered student at Chicago, playing on an IM broomball team and wondering why the Classics building is so far in the corner of the main quad as I scurry almost late to class in the lovely dark-wood paneled room with too much heat. It is still a strange half-life of belonging nowhere but being everywhere. But it's a better version of it, finally.

Well, that was depressing

2009-10-26T22:41:00.002-05:00

I went to my first Unit on Critical Theory event and my first MillerCom lecture tonight (one and the same event) due to my sudden ability this semester to actually do things I feel like doing every now and then, instead of things I have to do all the time instead. It keeps you pretty busy still, and there are plenty of things that need doing, but overall it's nice. Anyway. I'm struck by the disconnect between the humanities and everyone else, or at least the one that gets expressed at these sorts of things: tonight a talk centered around the book "The Corporate University and the Fate of the Humanities" or something like that. The audience seemed, to my unaccustomed eye, to be full of sympathetic humanists, most in the English department, providing a true choir to preach to. The system is broken, they proclaim - we must fight it, we must rationalize our value within it, we must prove that the system is the wrong system and change it, we must stand up for what we believe! Except that the grad students are too lowly, the non-tenured too small for their powerlessness, the tenured to comfortable or too small even in their power. And there was only a tiny push to take things to the other fields in the university - to the sciences, the professional schools, the schools that I think of as professional but don't categorize themselves that way (engineering, I'm looking at you; also ACES...) As long as the other departments who right now are doing fine continue to be complacently happy (and really, who can blame them? they fit into the capitalist/corporate system just fine) the humanities are doomed to be a tiny voice that is too easily ignored. If we can't even convince other academics of our value or of the problems inherent in the tenure and promotion system (among other things) we will be even more screwed with the administration and the public. The advice of "wait 10 or 15 years" until there are enough adjuncts to really gunk up the works with a strike or something does nothing at all for the present situation. But I wonder about the wisdom of fighting a model that, however wrong, is apparently sticking because the people in charge think it is the only model that works, and are probably too afraid to branch out and try something different. There's a problem of price fixing or collusion or something, it seems, even if unintentional or subconscious between universities and each other, and universities and the private sector. The fear that we must compete monetarily with corporate America over hires or we'll only attract subpar talent seems wrong to me. Should we not want those qualified individuals who are concerned with the chance to teach and research and mentor and be happy to exclude those whose primary concern is playing at the country club for the next 40 years (at $15000 a year)? I know the humanities are in no shortage for applicants right now, and as far as I can tell there are plenty of eager and willing folks in other fields too. But who will be brave enough to challenge perceptions, and risk losing "all" the qualified candidates to higher paying institutions? Who determines what that quality consists of?

Things seem always the same

2009-10-19T20:57:00.002-05:00

Deleted beginnings are never a good way to start writing. Although I suppose that's a misleading statement, since they can't start writing at all once they've been deleted. At least not the part of it you read. Semantics II has made me very aware of these sorts of things, much more so than Semantics I which was kind of like a fun thought experiment about language using very basic things I learned a long time about in Algebra (I wonder where motorcycle riding, police calling Jeff Brock is these days... I wonder at all the things I have forgotten about rings and fields and sets). Semantics II is nothing like that: full of things from formal logic and philosophy. We interpret things like "John believes that Mary eats cheese" to be true in the set of all possible worlds that are compatible with John's beliefs in the actual world and in which Mary eats cheese in the possible world. Sets of worlds and individuals and all sorts of relations. Or something like that. An hour of class three days a week and I'm mentally done for the day. (This is not good for my other studies, I should mention, since class ends at 11am). But it is sort of fun to sort out the possible worlds where Sherlock Holmes has an even number of hairs on his head, from those in which the number is odd. Linguists at least manage to come up with nice example sentences, often funny. I would write one of them out here, but of course I can't think of any at the moment. Must be the lingering H1N1. In any case, I wish John and Mary well - and anyone else who wondered if I would ever write again in this space (aside from myself) - I think of it often, but laziness gets the best of me.

First day of March

2009-03-01T21:02:00.002-06:00

I am driving south as the cast of the sun sinks lower and the color intensifies - the one spot of warmth, of spectral glowing over the barren fields, bleak stands of trees, disheveled farm buildings, Chebanse at 304, the endless dashes of white paint. It is lovely as it falls, however much the windshield glares and my right eye waters, but then in an instant it is split by a cloud and falls below the horizon - into the nothingness of orbit - and the sky darkens, the land is obscured, and all I can do is follow the white dashes, leading onwards - inevitable and endless.

The face of our times

2009-01-14T09:15:00.002-06:00

Ethan is shaving again and I can't recognize him. It's like those moments in TV or the movies when the sound gets slightly off from the picture and you can't bear to look at the actor when things don't quite match up. It's too jarring for your impression of the world. This is what his face is like to me right now. I either stare in disturbed fascination or keep my gaze away, especially when he talks. It's not the right face for the voice. I realize how silly this is as a problem but despite that I can't just "get over it" (although I'm trying to stare more and get used to it). In the fall it was the presence of the beard which, having seen it before, I could manage even if it took a few days to get used to it and a couple of weeks to like it. And then one day it was gone, down to a very giant goatee for a day (which I have also seen before on a smaller scale). And then the next day it was a little mustache (which I've never seen before) that frightens me with its earnestness. I think it will be gone soon and if it isn't I'm sure I'll adapt. It changes his profile so much that the only time I see my Ethan under it is when there's some exaggerated expression afoot that shows me the same bone structure and muscle patterns and whatnot. Silliness, I know. But real.

whence the clouds

2008-11-16T07:14:00.003-06:00

The corn watches me as I pass it, early and late, whispering with the breezes that smell of cows or horses or nothing, depending on the direction. Some days I am singing and others are more grim, trying to set a record or at least keep all the time for myself I can. These days it is colder and more lonesome but I don't feel sick in the elements with my pedals the way I do snug on a bus. And yet every day I watch the color drain out of the world a little more. The sky is gray in the mornings, the roads pale under dim light, the trees dull without the sun to gild them, the dry empty stadiums gape from entrance tunnels, the parking lots around barren. The corn was green then brown then, one day, gone and all that is left are tiny stumps in the dry earth. It is all waiting, I suppose, for the breath of spring which is so far off and yet still surely coming. I do not know how long I can wait.

But where are the grandchildren?

2008-10-14T05:51:00.002-05:00

It's dark these days when I wake up. In the rhythm of the semester, I seem to have found my equilibrium - early to bed, early to rise. I don't get much done at night (never) have and I've tried to listen more and more to my internal clock, my internal warnings. I do that during exercise, for eating, for drinking, why should I fight it any more for sleeping? But I watch askance as the minutes drift slowly backward - will it stop? First it was 7:30, 7:15, 6:30 - the sun in the windows on clear days was too bright, too warm, too inviting. I seemed pretty set around 6:30 for a couple of months but suddenly, inexplicably now in the darkening morning gloom of autumn, I am waking up earlier and earlier. And, as a result, going to bed earlier too. Today wins because today, for the first time, I accepted it and didn't force myself to go back to sleep or wait until "a decent hour". Today was 5:27. I am officially an old person.

Moby understands

2008-10-02T07:19:00.003-05:00

I am having nightmares about my class. At first it was the back-to-school tradition, tied up with my own anxiety about taking classes. These anxieties might still be linked, but it's pretty firmly in the teaching category during these nocturnal visions. Two nights ago I was simply incompetent and things took forever - last night I had so many students and couldn't keep any kind of control. (Perhaps this has something to do with coming out of some weird attending-royal-weddings-trying-to-find-something-to-wear dream right before it. I really can't explain my brain. Oh wait - that sounds like a project runway dream. Got it.) The scary part is not that I have the dreams, but that in them I am attempting to teach the very thing that I intend to teach in my next real class period - and I'm doing it in just about the same words as I probably would in real life and it simply doesn't work. Am I failing at this? I doubt it - I have a lot of kids doing very well, but I have a few that I'm afraid of losing. One of whom might drop - but I feel so confident that if he would just come talk to me we could sort things out and get his grade higher. And (more importantly) get the material solidly learned. But I don't know how to communicate clearly the things that are so obvious to me by this point. I don't think about them - it's reflex knowledge. I suppose I ought to think of them all as very precocious kindergartners and keep it as simple as possible. And then go out for recess.

And we begin again

2008-08-25T07:32:00.002-05:00

It's the first day of school again and I feel like I'm supposed to pose on the front step in my new shirt, holding my lunchbox and wearing a backpack and a giant smile of excitement about all the brain-broadening that's about to happen in the coming months. (All this so my mother can take a picture). And yet despite that buried excitement that I still feel I'm also overcome with minor exhaustion, coming out of a week-long (or month-long) push to finish things, to be ready, and of course I'm not. But that's normal, as is me waking up early and leaving Ethan happily asleep; yogurt waiting in the fridge; putting off work to be online; ironing with a spraybottle and hoping no one notices. The courses are new, the computer is new, the house is new (and farther away), but everything else maintains its holding pattern, deep with inhaled breath waiting for the fall.

Nostalgia

2008-07-19T09:44:00.002-05:00

It breaks down into nost-algia, nost from "nostos" meaning "return home" and algia meaning "pain". The pain you feel when you think of returning home. That aching sensation. Mine got all fixed up last week (nosteuphoria?) and I managed to not get too hot or sunburned in the ninety degree weather that's really quite lovely compared to its Chicago analogue. Aside from the farmer's market, pounds of fresh fruit every day, laundry and meal service, people I like, there's the Rose Bowl. I've never been in, but it's surrounded by horse trails that stretch all the way from downtown LA to a waterfall up in the mountains. (The one time I made it all the way up there - my only run on the books over 8 miles - I was sorely disappointed to find out that the water comes out of a concrete slab and is terribly man-made. I think it's dammed. But the run up is lovely. Maybe I'll go on Christmas.) I know the trails and the distances and the elevation changes - want 3 miles with a hill? 3 miles without a hill? I can do that for you.

So I set out on Thursday to do my 8 intervals, trying to pick the right distance. I'm up to 4 for 7x so this would be farther. Why not go all the way around? It was farther, but it was also one of my favorite runs in high school, and the sort of thing that makes you feel good about yourself for doing it and good in general - you get to have the dry dusty parts, the little cliff with the cacti, the green hills by the rich houses and the golf course, the stream crossings by the dam, and occasionally you see rabbits (exciting wildlife for a city girl). So I went out for it. And after about 3 intervals I knew that it was too far for the day's run. I was feeling a bit sluggish (my legs stayed confused all week about the lack of utterly flat terrain) and I wasn't close to halfway around yet. But there was a fellow running a bit behind me, and I didn't want him to catch up. He had hopped onto the trail just after I started my first interval so I passed him shortly and put in some distance. But his speed was fast enough that about 2 minutes later he caught up again, and asked me if anything was wrong (quite a difference in speed). I told him I alternated for my workout and he nodded and kept going. So on the second interval I passed him again. And stayed ahead on the third. But on the fourth he caught up (due to my bad timing - I lost track of time looking at the trees and rested an extra minute) and then I couldn't catch up on the 5th (I cut a minute off that recovery to get back track) - the stream crossings take some deliberate stepping unless you just splat your way through and don't mind your shoes getting a bit wet. I do mind. But he was in sight. On the sixth I was so close to catching him again that I knew I would on the seventh for sure, but he turned off the trail and up a hill. So I went down again, crossed the roads, ran the base of the Washington hill and wondered if he'd be coming down the other side. Seventh and eighth finished up and I just had about 3/4 to cool down back to the car. And I was tired. The sun was getting warm and I was off the trails - around the front lawn of the Rose Bowl which is daunting in its expanse, especially when you're tired and the sprinklers are on. I could feel myself slowing down (but hey, we're in extra minutes here...) when I hear "I guess I found you again" over my shoulder and there he is, cruising past. I think I know where he parked - slightly forked off from me, but after at least half a mile of what I have left. So I let him pull me along. And we go - me in his footsteps, or at least trying, dodging sprinklers, the bits of asphalt and the drainage grates. At the fork he's 20 feet ahead. He turned around to peek (for me?) a few seconds earlier and there I was. But I saw a break in the traffic and dashed off to follow the storm drains down to the aquatic center and my car. If he turns around again, I wonder if he'll wonder what happened. And I'll wonder if he knew how much he helped me on my longest run of the last 7 years. 47 minutes, 5 miles.

Contact

2008-06-02T19:13:00.002-05:00

While napping on the couch this morning I wrote a poem. I woke as I finished it, feeling the lines slide from one into the next. A moment of joy and then it is incoherent and fades away. But -
it was beautiful.

And the pegs are slipping, or the strings are stretching

2008-06-01T07:12:00.002-05:00

We are in tune with ourselves and out of tune with each other. I wake up at 5:30, 6, 6:30 - delighted by the sun, the clean morning blue of the sky, slowly turning into the white of morning haze over the lake. Ethan rolls over as I slip out of bed, out to the computer, my book, some breakfast, Greek reading. Some mornings I still feel tired - then it's just a couple of chapters to restore that perk. Or a cup of tea. Or something. The only thing that stays constant is me waking up and tiptoeing around for a couple of hours until Ethan feels ready to embrace the morning. If we had better soundproofing, I'd watch Buffy every day (FX at 6!) to just keep that nostalgia going. I am young, on my own, I can plan my life for myself.
Ethan gets up, we have breakfast (again) together and set about the day. Work. Lunch. Library. Dinner. Work or play in the evening. But I am getting tired by 9, unless I've had a nap. And Ethan is wide awake and ready. We compromise without ever saying anything. He gets himself up a little earlier than he otherwise might, goes to bed with me earlier too, although sometimes he slips out again to read when he can't fall asleep. I try to be quiet, get some work done early on so later, before I fade, there is time for levity. But there is a sense the whole time that we have both set our schedules.
It is a hard thing, to be apart and together so permanently, for so long. You adapt, find your balance, remember how to be alone - otherwise you sink into a puddle of incoherence and nothing would ever get done - no dishes, no bills, no laundry, no work. I have days like that. Sick days, I suppose, where I end up eating mandarin oranges out of a can for dinner because nothing appeals and I don't have the energy to change that. And then you're back together and it's delightful - no need to schedule conversation, someone to go shopping with. Together, we just are. And I suppose after a few more weeks I'll value this time - already I start to. I have the train, instead of my planes and I listen instead of look. When we spend all day together, these moments of quiet and calm are soothing. And in the morning I have that quiet and calm, it seems, from the whole world. No shouting from the pepperland, no noise from the hall, no horns or gunned engines at the stop sign. The trains are fewer and then more and then fewer again as morning rush comes and goes. The freight trains are early, to keep out of the way. And I suppose I can finally see the 6am amtrak from champaign, if I look out my window at just the right time.

is it a poem?

2008-05-08T09:59:00.002-05:00

Rain comes down, silver lances through the holes of my umbrella. I walk under the quivering leaves, thinking of chocolate chip ice cream on Lake Avenue; of leis on Maui; of horseback riding in Colorado; of trash cans in Tulsa. Memories pool and flow in the thrumming of the earth.

Spring!

2008-04-08T08:57:00.003-05:00

I woke up singing and fell asleep that way. It is a wonderful feeling to be happy - delighting in an active sense, not the passive quiet joy or contentedness that suffices for much of life. A sunny morning (the third in a row) with cool breeze that hints at the absence of warmth before the sun-shining buildings. It hurts to look at the sky and the sidewalk without sunglasses. California fall and spring, sometimes even winter. My body is tired from football and disc throwing, my mind quiet after three nights of good sleep, my heart light after a weekend with Ethan, and my pocket heavy with a ticket to mail him for Saturday. I sing as I pedal to campus and watch the pedestrians turn their heads in wonder. Cheese for lunch, practice in the afternoon, Homer with the lamps in the darkness. Even the clouds with rain to come are bright this morning.

Where is the vernal sun?

2008-03-30T18:38:00.003-05:00

I am standing in the kitchen watching the water over my beans foam, waiting for the explosion of bubbles that signals boiling, counting off two minutes, waiting an hour. The three step soup - soak beans, cook vegetables, combine and cook more. I am standing in the kitchen taking the beans off the heat to soak and cool and I am alone, because Ethan has left. Three hours ago. And since then I have done nothing beneficial to anyone except perhaps Dick Cheney.

Spring break is over - for him tomorrow for me a week ago - and we have to pretend to go back to our normal lives and like them, apart, as we have for years. I don't mind, really, in the way that doing 30-hour famine in high school wasn't difficult. It's easy to not eat when you know there is food coming in sufficient supply - the first couple of hours might not be fun but after that you learn to deal with it. I feel like I do when I've been in California for Christmas - 35 degrees waiting for the bus seems like Antarctic winter - now I feel bereft. I wonder sometimes if being pregnant makes you stupid, what about being on the pill (seeing as how it's fake pregnancy)? I cry more than I used to - is it hormonal or just some new sensitivity and empathy that I've gained though maturity? Maybe the heartbreak of Belle is timeless and beautiful that there's nothing right or wrong with me at all.

We told ourselves we could do three years, three more years after the one at Penn. What's four years, with regular visits, compared to the lifetime ahead of us? I believed it. I do believe it.
Temporary pain for lasting pleasure, the principle of sprints. I've never liked them but I know they're good for me, especially if I have someone encouraging me on the sideline, or running alongside panting equally hard. It's good to know that my competitive nature is the sort that's "not annoying" at least according to my fellow climbers. But what about two more years beyond that? Beyond a new and cheap Southwest route, beyond last-minute amtrak and hours on the road. We will have to, if it comes down to it, or I will have to think very hard about what I want to do. And I think that is the hardest question to ask these days - do I want this degree enough to further prolong my unhappiness and furthermore the happiness of someone else?

The tragic backstory, which we all (involved) hope will fizzle into nothingness: my department which has been on and off the skids for a while may finally fall apart once and for all, with more than half the faculty leaving and (as a result) the only force of good in the senior faculty retiring. No one to write with, no one to take interesting classes with, to climb with, to drink with, to hear laughing infectiously in the hallway with. No one to trust with anything remotely confidential.

If this all comes to pass (please cross your fingers in hope - the more the better) there is likely no way to stay. Which means to transfer. To retake that awful time-sucker of a GRE, to repurpose my statement, to pull together my still pathetic reading list, find a decent writing sample, solicit recommendations, do research on faculty and schools, and hope that someone will want me and give me enough money to not need loans or teach 20 hours a week. And that I will be close or easy for Ethan to see. I think I am a little afraid every time he leaves that it will be the last time he leaves - like a dog or a small child who still is unsure of the relationship between present, past, and future; before understanding of pattern or intention; before trust in words or promises or emotion - and now I am afraid that these two years of easy weekends which still don't seem like enough will recede back into the snatched visits of Penn, one a month at most.

I am afraid. But he is calling, to tell me he's back at the apartment and fine and that he loves me and that life is normal and fine. I will try to listen.

Funny, I've just been reading James Herriot

2008-03-16T00:05:00.003-05:00

I was in the supermarket this afternoon, futilely looking for conditioner. Ever since I was showering totally on my own I've always used Finesse (more when you need it, less when you don't). It's creamy, it smells okay, and I think it makes my hair turn out okay. But in the last six months it's been very difficult to find. I think it must be going out of business or has vastly lost its popularity. So I was debating between Pantene and Dove and all the others (and ended up buying none - time to start trying the interesting versions at TJs) when suddenly Henna 'n' Placenta caught my eye. Conditioner to revitalize damaged hair with all natural henna and all natural placenta. I read the ingredients to make sure, and in fact there is extract of each. I have no idea what that consists of but I find it a bit disturbing. Also unsettling is that instead of being packaged in a nice plastic bottle, it comes in individual plastic/foil packets, like a giant pack of fruit snacks or something. Much larger than my normal "individual serving" of conditioner in any given shower. And so you can feel the gelatinous texture of the inside through the packaging like a slightly deflated jelly tube, and you can believe there's placenta in there and the thought is a little too much. I know that there are plenty of disgusting things that we ingest or smear on ourselves (unpronounceable chemicals, horse urine and hooves, insect spit, cow secretions) at least on an intellectual level which have never particularly bothered me, even when I knew the origin. But this was somehow different, and I know I'm not alone in my horrified curiosity - the package was askew in its rack when I walked by to start, probably one of the things that primarily drew my attention. Gingerly I put it back on its shelf, properly seated, and left the aisle. I may never go back.

Continuous and discrete

2008-02-15T08:59:00.004-06:00

I am seeing through a strobe. The sky has darkened and I am looking at the pattern of street lights trying to determine if I see the city grid, the subdivision curls, the city park regularity. I can feel that we are getting close to the moment I am supposed to lunge through Hyde Park and call Ethan for my ride home but I can see nothing through the black shapes of the southbound freight train, blocking everything of sight and sound. A flash - is that the Harper on the Midway? We flash - more brick buildings - another and another flash and then the Coop parking lot and I am sure. The tiny fractions of light as we jump from point to point, linearity gone. I feel discrete, and thereby alone.

We flash and I think of calling Cheryl to ask how things are, to ask if I can help. I am still wondering when, how she cries. Can she tamp it down in front of the children, the cousins, her mother still and forever? Or was I just absent on those days when the tears poured down, lamenting, with no accompanying laughter. We flash. Or should we have laughed, to see suffering defeated after so many months? I hadn't seen him since the summer, when my parents were in. I missed Thanksgiving to go home and see my nephew, pink and furrowed, staring at Christmas. And in July he was so thin, finally losing weight for all the wrong reasons. We flash and I see the furry stripes of brown and mud coming down to the orange-tan belly. Also not eating. I haven't held him, petted him properly in years, too afraid of allergies, of feeling sick for days after but I always crack at least once per visit, put on an old, long-sleeved shirt, and relive the past for a minute or two. We flash and my mother is calling in tears to tell me stories of old towels, the Humane Society, and collars. And I wonder how she can do this, three days after a different funeral. And I wonder how can my father bear to comfort her when his brother has just died.

We flash and am in Panera, with tea and a bagel, sitting next to someone I didn't realize I knew, keeping warm and reading Homer, trying to get ahead because I know that sometime, sometime soon it will be no time for homework and I will slowly creep behind in all my classes and will stay that way through the semester. So I work, I try to get ahead recognizing the futility. I can't concentrate well even with my tea and I can feel the still-healing cold trying to be difficult. I give up late afternoon, decide to see Juno, and let myself sink into the obscurity of that false night, let the darkness cover over me, veiling and separating. I come out with a message and I don't want to hear it but I hide behind the ticket counter and listen to my mother. Any moment now. Not more than a day or two. Thought you should know. I close the phone, try to close my face to the world and carry myself out the car. Sitting in the dark, not yet running, hands in my pockets to keep warm, looking at the falling snow and trying not to lose control, not yet, not before the end. But I lose the battle and wait, wait until I'm safe for driving again, sitting in that parking lot, in the darkness. I can't bear to tell anyone, not Professors, not friends, not Ethan. If I don't say the words it's not true. But I walk around telling myself over and over again. My uncle is dying my uncle is dying. On campus, at the store, driving, Dying. I keep my phone off Monday. I need the whole day to get through classes, meet the job candidate, have one last day of normal. At the 2pm I see the 4 voice mails and ignore them until 6 when it's all over and I'm done packing and about to get in the car to drive through the snow to Ethan and the family. Ethan calls, my parents are on a plane, I strap on the seatbelt and take deep breaths. He doesn't understand, ever, the purpose of popular music, but I look for the dance stations, the top 40, unfamiliar songs that I know will fail to touch any part of me the way that Radiohead can. I can't drive and cry at the same time.

We flash and my mother is trying to manage three spadefuls of earth and I can see her control and spirit crumble as mine has already crumbled. And neither of us can hide the wail that is within but we try, in turns, for the other. My father is impassive but we know he can't be, that's just how he acts. Laura forces an extra package of kleenex upon us: the cousins have rallied. The house is filled with desserts and food, as always, and children playing games and chatter, as always, but we don't go upstairs to see the empty hospital bed and by the front door is a collage of pictures. I can't say the ritual words of mourning but I read them and hold back all sound. I remember that mourning is a construct for the living but cynicism never really helps. We flash, another night, another chant. Ethan tells me this lasts for seven days, and then you have to put off your sorrow and rejoin society. I give myself six and I'm back in Urbana, hoping no one will ask.

We flash and I have gone through the week of school and Ethan is calling from the train station for a ride. We flash to the next week of school and I am almost not behind anymore, though scarcely ahead. No one talks about it to me. I tell myself that things are fine, that I've gotten through it that it's important to remember but move on. We flash and I wake up, again, from another dream. Gary Porton tonight, little kittens the night before, I can't remember the night before that. It strikes when I can't defend myself, when all I have is my own thoughts for comfort. I wake up after Ethan has left for class, fix some tea, try to write something. The flowers he bought yesterday try to pop joy into me from their bright, shining center nobs in the middle of petals, shields from sadness, proofs of affection. I sit and stare at them and behind me, I can hear the train.

Who needs an alarm?

2008-01-23T11:23:00.000-06:00

My infernal internal clock seems unabated no matter what actions I might take. Staying up late (on multiple occasions) seems to have little impact; bad (or good) dreams are similarly unimpeding. It's a strange feeling, to wake up at the normal time when hoping to sleep in, especially when on so many occasions my mind is reasonably alert but my limbs are still hoping to stay relaxed and undisturbed for an indefinite period. Perhaps that's an indication that yesterday I tired myself out what with driving and classes and running up stairs with lots of books and cleaning and pickup (hooray) on the turf, but didn't bother to think hard enough all day. The mind needs 6 hours, the legs need 8. But despite my initial alertness, by now I'm feeling fuzzy in class, my fingers are slow (and incorrect) on the keyboard, and I dread the afternoon lecture with dim lights, slides, and a quite soothing voice. It doesn't quite seem fair.

REM strikes again

2008-01-20T08:50:00.000-06:00

I've been dreaming of food, perhaps reflecting my anxiety that Ethan's going to starve without a close-by supermarket to cure his every want. Last night was tasty though. After some odd preliminaries about frisbee and baseball players (also I have been dreaming about ultimate with much greater frequency than I used to - I think I'm ready to leave the off-season) we then got into audio-visual equipment difficulties and bus problems which somehow ended up with me being in a park looking for a snack and discovering my only option was afternoon tea, set up on fancy card tables amongst a field of badminton nets. I kid you not. And somehow we couldn't seem to decide what to eat - the $40 full tea option seemed like too much but the other, cheaper versions ($10.50 and $5.20) of picking a few things out of many seemed difficult. Fortunately this park allowed sampling, like a good ice cream store, so I managed to try a cheese that tasted like sweet potatoes (excellent, I must say) and a stinky-foot cheddar. I also took a hack at corn pudding, bok choi, some sort of beef thing - the sampler plate was covered with at least 15 different things all mushed together a bit. I avoided the mushroom part. We never ended up ordering - being ignored while sampling and then whoever I was with (it kept changing) ordered but I was torn with indecision until I woke up. Naturally I wake up hungry, but that's normal for me. But after dreams like that who needs to eat? I could taste it all, and it was delightful.

Climbing

2008-01-16T21:23:00.000-06:00

Today on white, reaching and slipping over and over again. Try this, Chris says, Michael says. I try to follow what Angelo did, unconventional but it worked for everyone else and still no good. I just need half an inch. Then Robin with his elbow, stepping on his fingers makes it easy. I wonder sometimes, like then, how much I rely on height as an excuse for lack of talent or strength or guts. But Robin took that safety away and it was me and the heel hook, the quick pull, the desperate reach, and then the side pull, the foot-hand match, the surprisingly steady push from my heel with the right foot scrabbling to smear, reaching what was never reached before. And I have it. And one more. And I can see the next, close to reaching, but my arms are so tired, fighting the overhang so I drop off, plan for next week. I feel like I'm getting back into it, like last spring, but this time more experienced and getting stronger. One final traverse at the end of the day, shaking from the strain by the end, remembering when I could go back and forth and back and forth with such great ease. Soon.

What have you

2008-01-08T13:31:00.000-06:00

I am as fragmented as my attention, like the ADD babies my sister is concerned about these days. Apparently developing-brained babies get confused by the input from tv and end up being very ADD. Might explain the current explosion of diagnosis in our population, aside from overdiagnosis everywhere you look. But multitasking is confusing and I always leave something out (today, lunch) and get started on what matters later or never at all. I suppose my mood is influenced by the weather, throwing different shards at us day by day. The 70s of California, the 30s of Chicago, then the 50s and 60s and the summer-style thunderstorm and now I hardly know what to expect as I stay hidden, safe, inside, huddled and waiting for Ethan to come home. I suppose that's an exaggeration really (but they work so well!) although closer to the truth than I'm comfortable with. I do have these moments where the lovely modern ideal of a strong independent woman is a bit out of reach, and others where I can hardly believe I agreed to traditional marriage (commitment is fine, but really what's the point?). Although it's all moot when I sit around watching Jeopardy and eating cookies. I peek periodically at sitemeter and marvel how more and more this site is just for me, which I suppose should really be the point in the end. I suppose the RSS stuff doesn't show up quite the same way (and in some way I feel syndicated and important) although I do wonder how much I'd keep writing without the vague guilt of other people reading. See how scattered I am today? Like feathers on air currents, full of intention but awry with a whisper of air.

How I know I'm home

2007-12-20T09:34:00.000-06:00

Yesterday was typical in a way that I had forgotten it could be - a plan that was changed at the last minute (and still then hardly set) for a day in the city. And so I end up chasing buses, twice, and catching them both. I am particularly proud of hounding the 6 from the 57th street to the 56th street stop, considering that I couldn't cut through the park with the snow and the bus got a turning arrow by the museum and I was wearing the wrong shoes. I'm glad I thought to zip up my keys in a pocket first. And then State Street, with more shopping on it than I ever remember I want to do, and walking in circles until my feet got too tired. The Art Institute for presents, and Marshall Fields (why are they always out of what I want?) and lunch with Ben and German things, which somehow, every year, still cost more than I expect them to. And we didn't even get mulled wine, the very reason Ethan wanted to be there. But the weather was fine, with bright skies and little wind, and there was no waiting for buses (clearly) and we did catch the 10 on the way home for a startlingly quick journey - early enough to miss traffic, apparently. Crunching snow on the way home while Ethan laughs at me. This is Chicago life.

the funeral of what

2007-12-10T23:48:00.001-06:00

The earth lies shrouded tonight, perhaps indicating that this is the end, that we have suffered the worst and a reprieve or warmth or sun will soon come. I walk unable to see the corners and startle at a cracking, falling branch. The air is covered, the trees are covered, the sidewalks are slick. I felt like tidepooling, waiting for the bus this morning before footprints marred that amazing, clear, shrinkwrapped cover of ice on the world. I wonder who looks at me through the fog looking through the ice.

When this all began

2007-12-06T21:44:00.000-06:00

Swirling from east to north - no matter where I turn the flakes accumulate on my hair, my hat, my jacket, my backpack - I look out at a speckled world, see the shadows of the falling on the fallen by the lone streetlight. I am warmly cold, choosing the empty streets devoid of the profane mundane - gas stations, classrooms, streetlights - not many are out - are those few silent respectfully, as I? It's only been falling for an hour, a welcome surprise upon trudging up the stairs from the bright classroom, lugging tables, adjusting inputs, extra class that no one wanted yet everyone enjoyed - I come out and up last, lights off, pushing the heavy door, wondering at the ice on the steps, wishing for better shoes and then curious at the stillness, the calm. It fall and quells sound, sight, movement, the cars are slower the buses near silent and I feel as if it is all, momentarily, mine.

I forgot to mention

2007-11-19T07:43:00.000-06:00

The quality of light through the leaves when the sun is rising or setting and directly perpendicular to the hanging sheets - on maple or sycamore especially - where the leaves are backlit intensely and come to a full glow of life - green so vibrant it has turned to gold, red from fall merging with fire. The first time I noticed such a spectacle was several thousand feet up in the mountains, waking on a June morning in a sleeping bag outdoors in camp next to a friend after staying up late discussing life - the sun and chill air together compelled consciousness and I could watch the path of the photons creepingly traverse the ground until suddenly we were aligned and leaves came to life. It was stunning and mine alone and I still look for that moment, especially in fall, and revel in its presence.

A spot of brightness in a dull world

2007-11-05T15:12:00.000-06:00

I watch the light constantly - it lustrates me, I lustrate it (how I love Latin versatility) - I wonder at the everpresent gleam in the sky and the forms it takes, twisting itself into new variations through the seasons and tempests. I drive to Champaign in the early morning, marveling at the gray sky and greening stalks glowing by contrasts - they seem to effect their own light and proclaim their verdant, vital growth to the quiet gloom of the sky, softly shining with dew and diffusion. Another day, seeing the soft pinks and hard golds of the early sun striking the dulled leaves of dead corn, having to turn the visor so the rising sun doesn't strike me in the eyes when I change lanes; as cold sets in and the evening creeps earlier by the day, and the morning sun seems wan and tired through my apartment window, feebly striking Attila, now penned in a lowly yogurt container after the disastrous wind whipped him across our steps to lie ignobly broken in the ground-cover, all my fault for setting him on the mailbox on a delightful autumn afternoon (a tad breezy) to rejoice in that transient flame from the heavens.

Am I fired?

2007-10-08T13:12:00.000-05:00

Well, faithful reader (I can see I still have one based on my site tracker, or at least 1.5), at any normal job I'd've seen a pink slip by now (or even a magenta one, for emphasis) and certainly I deserve it. I offer as pitiful excuse the constant ultimate practice, the five classes, the teaching, the traveling, my stubborn refusal to not sleep, and our still fleetingly absent internet (we're waiting for a router - I think it's about time we called them and asked). I am too tired to think clearly at the moment (class this morning was exciting... I hope I can stay awake for the one this afternoon) and waxing poetic seems to have been lost with the start of this program a year ago for which I find myself frustrated which naturally only continues the cycle. Perhaps it's time to abandon my books and move back to the One Good Paragraph restriction (in case of emergency) that has served me so well. I fall asleep sometimes composing sentences for you (and me) - perhaps this retrieved goal will serve as a goad to transmit them again to the world.
I have 20 pages of Walden left - wish me luck!

Until Technology Triumphs (or at least is more available)

2007-08-20T07:40:00.000-05:00

It's been a busy few weeks - not much in the way of reading (or Powell's diving, much to my dismay) and lots in the way of traveling and fulfilling obligations, some more pleasant than others. Since April we've had 4 weddings, 1 graduation, 2 required trips to see people (with one more coming up), a visit from other people (only one of note), and then I've had a few tournaments as well. All of these things by themselves or even a few would have made for a pleasant summer with trips on and off to keep things interesting but the timing has turned out to make me just feel a bit overwhelmed and exhausted (just what I want when going to start school again!).

Walden is still languishing in the thick carpeting snow of winter and our city traveler is stuck in Jerusalem as it changes hands over and over again. I am torn as to what recreational reading to take down to Champaign with me - I don't want a huge pile but a small, satisfying one, and the risk of the Powell's unknowns is that it's hard to say what the quality will be. So we shall see, I suppose. I am tired enough at the moment (and typing without my glasses, a delightfully blurry experience) that I feel rather resigned about posting and ought to mention that while my new apartment does have internet, I don't know when we'll figure out how to hook up to it (it looks like there's a 10 year old corporate router in the utility room). As such, dear readers, I must regretfully say that I am thinking of you often but may write only seldom.

From bad to worse

2007-07-25T08:21:00.000-05:00

(for posting and book-time...)
So we've had a dry spell, apparently, brought on by more Ethan-studying (hence computer-monopolizing) and then my parents coming to visit for a few days which tends to suck out most of my recreational time aside from sleeping. It was a nice visit though, especially since I can't go home much any more with great ease, except of course for the timing - during Ethan's last exam and then the new Harry Potter. Of course I went to buy it from 57th Street Books because my mother believes in supporting the local, independent bookstore which is a good cause, certainly, but to think I could have bought it for $15 less at Barnes and Noble is slightly painful. But then again how often do I actually pay for books? So I suppose the average cost of my reading this summer is around $2 a books right now, less if you think about the things that Ethan reads also. Still more expensive than a free trip to the library, but there's a time-cost there and a small selection. Despite the other distractions this week I did pick up A Time to Kill (good airplane reading, perhaps) and something else which I naturally can't think of at the moment. And the Dorrie book which I was so terribly excited about has mysteriously disappeared. I suppose when I saw Call of the Wild I put it down to dig in the box and never picked it up again.

So. Walden still trucks along (it's finally winter - there's hope of a end!) and I've learned about the delights and the less-delightful of communist Moscow in the 60s (people apparently have really wonderful public athletic facilities that no one uses, and small not modernized apartments. Unsurprising - this happens in non-communist countries too, after all, although apparently crime is rare and somewhat odd - like stealing windshield wiper blades. I suppose it makes more sense than hubcaps?). I managed to sneak in Murder on the Orient Express, my first Agatha Christie ever in print after a childhood of seeing a bunch of Poirot on Mystery or maybe Masterpiece Theatre (probably Mystery though), and it was sadly disappointing. I prefer Rex Stout, as it turns out, with the massive Nero Wolfe to steer things along. I suppose Archie makes for a livelier narrator. I also spent a few minutes with Hoyle Up-To-Date checking out rules for Euchre (when with relatives, we play cards) and then momentarily fascinated by the complicated layout of the Oh Hell section which details a bidding strategy that I suppose I really ought to learn.

And of course Harry Potter. I really feel that I ought to be nominated for sainthood or something (which I'm sure precludes me from the office) for going out Saturday morning to get it for Ethan so I could leave with my parents and let him sit around and read all morning without us. I didn't get my first crack at it until Saturday night after my parents had left to go to sleep in their hotel (one chapter). Sunday was mildly better but not by much - I think I made it up to Chapter 4 while Ethan barreled ahead to somewhere in the middle. Monday (haha!) I managed to wake up much earlier and sneak it out of the bedroom for an hour of clandestine reading, and Monday night Ethan stayed up to 2 to finish which meant Tuesday it was all mine. And over quickly. But that's restraint! I mean granted I had parents to occupy my time (mostly) but in the dual-possibility-reading-time I (mostly) ceded to Ethan who, it's true, has had a pretty hard and stressful couple of weeks. I wonder what my holy day will be. :}

I found the writing style less disappointing than I had in The Half-Blood Prince which either is due to its improvement or that my expectations have been subconsciously lowered. And some of the plot points were unexpected although others were not and one particular thing that Ethan and I had really hoped would not happen did. So that's too bad. The very last chapter seemed more like a "I really don't want to keep writing this stuff, will this make you happy?" sort of chapter than a really necessary one although I tend alternate mindsets about how much I like things wrapped up at the end of books or movies. People sometimes complain about directors leaving the end open for a sequel but I wonder if you can't also chalk that up to room for imagination.

It's the week of updates. Next week upgrades?

2007-07-14T21:44:00.000-05:00

It's been hot, which means that the computer is supposed to stay off. And it's been a hard week of studying for Ethan which means when the computer's on, he's using it. Which is only fair, seeing as how mine spends its summer cozily wrapped up in a nice padded case out of the light. I am sad to report that Ethan picked up The Coffee Trader himself last week and came to essentially the same conclusions as I did - all we really cared about was knowing who exactly was out to get whom. Fortunately I had some delightful finds this week - Call of the Wild (without a cover) and one of the Dorrie books - an early chapter book (I think) about a child witch that's part of a series that I read all of in third grade - it was a class project and we wrote to the author (and she wrote back, naturally, I mean what kind of woman wouldn't respond to 44 adorable letters from 8-year-olds?) and it was fun. But I don't remember them at all. So I'm excited about that one. I think I'll save it for Thursday (Ethan gets a story the night before his exams). But I have started on one I picked up a few weeks ago which is a non-fiction profile of 12 major world cities (none in America) that was written in the early 70s, as a follow up to countries of the world series from the 30s which makes for some pretty amusing comparisons (I love hearing about how modern Paris is, with only 48% of houses having their own bathtubs). It definitely appeals to my sense of humor and my fondness for nonfiction writing and my amateurish interest in the world.

Make pedaling, not books

2007-07-05T22:36:00.000-05:00

I was riding south today on the path back from beach staring mostly at the ground just in front of my tire or even with eyes closed, holding on and trying to will the time to pass quickly so I could unlock the gate and the door and set my bike into the rack and climb the stairs and open the doors and collapse into a chair or couch or even the floor just after I feebly attempted to brush off the collected sand from my legs and arms and face and anywhere else I could without scandalizing the neighbors. Really I just need to strip naked and go nuts with a hose but there's no hose and I still have enough propriety to avoid total nudity in public. If I ever plan far enough ahead I suppose I could wear a bathing suit or something under my clothes. Once I got to McCormick place I realized the foolishness of my plan to ride all the way home - the ride up had been easy and I dislike having to take the bus home so I planned to leave early to make it back before full dark which has been the primary excuse of prevention thus far - but we had few people today and so no subs for a while and then one, sort of, for a bit longer, and then none again and I was tired. My quads were actually burning as I creaked up the non-hill around the convention center, just waiting for a jogger to whiz past me. But past the museums there's no giving up - I don't know how to get back on the bus that far south and I couldn't slow down because of the threat of darkness (already cutting it close). In some kind of attempt to give up (while still going) I finally looked up, all the way, and out at the lake and realized that in that moment with the even cotton clouds and the sun mostly down and the lake mostly placid and the strange sort of reflection from top to bottom and bottom to top that you could almost not tell where the horizon was. It was shocking for that instant before I focused and saw it, a slight variation between the greener lake and purpler sky but so so close together it was amazing - without glasses I wouldn't have been able to see it at all. The surprise held me in mental suspension momentarily, enough to conquer the not-hill and coast pathetically slowly down the other side, before the monotony and frustration of pedaling set back in. I looked up only once again, 15 minutes later and marveled at the darkened sky holding the same properties still as the water. And I saw ducklings. Maybe this ride was a good idea - I'll know tomorrow when I try to get out of bed.

the never ending Pond

2007-07-04T12:31:00.000-05:00

I am reading Walden. Still. It is a still sort of reading and still sort of book also - in the evenings on top of the sheets with the fan sucking in the cool air or the air conditioner buzzing away and hopefully not making my nose stuffy by morning. Even with the fan or the ac it's just barely cool and unhumid so that any extraneous movement is a poor decision. I lie curled loosely on a side or on my back (Walden is a wonderfully small paperback, perfect for supine reading or taking in a purse for the bus) only eyes moving and occasionally fingers. The moralizing of Economy drove me nuts but the promise of the american classic pulled me through - Visitors was better and I made peace with Thoreau by the time he extolled the virtue of beans as the green bean is, I have attested, my favorite food. It's unclear which sort of bean he's referring to but I hardly believe he would have grown so many bushels of black or pinto or lima - who would want them? I picked Walden up from Powells when it was still regularly cold and it has sat on my bookshelf (serving as a bed-side table) for months now, picked at slowly like corn stuck between my teeth. I've put it aside (back to the bookshelf) to cover it with something more tantalizing, more thrilling, but eventually I come back to it. It's a book that for no particular reason I'm determined to not like which begs the questions of why I keep reading it. I think at this point the intrinsic literary value (critically acclaimed!) has exhausted itself. I just want to know what he will arrogantly and lovingly discuss next.

This could have turned out better, I think

2007-07-02T12:09:00.001-05:00

So despite my best intentions or at least my mediocre intentions I didn't manage to get any work done yesterday until about nine in the evening due mostly to my delightful morning with Ethan (it's always so exciting when we actually go on a date) and lunch and then finishing a book and a too-long nap and then dinner and gun-building. Yes, I now have my pathetic 5-lb weights to haul around and keep the gun show running a bit longer. I really need something a bit heavier but the 20-lb ones Ethan has are too much. But the moral of the story is the finished book - finally I regress back to indulgent sloth (is there another kind?) and retreat to my bedroom with the last twenty pages of The Coffee Trader by David Liss, my most recently began Powell's exploit. The book was fine, generally, not the sort that really grabs you with its wit or language or even characters. Mostly I kept reading out my overwhelming desire to know how stories end (this unfortunately applies to really bad movies also) and curiosity about the level of intrigue. The story is set in 17th century Amsterdam (also interesting to me for familial reasons now) which was a remarkably free society for early Europe and follows a Jewish Portuguese refugee (from the Inquisition) who is a futures trader who has been recently ruined and tries to scheme his way back to wealth through the new commodity of coffee. I do have some passive economic and business interests and am a sucker for historical novels (although that phase mostly ended when I turned 12) but really it was the question of deception that tied the novel together. Miguel never knows whom he can trust or should trust and as the reader there isn't any additional information. That hook was enough, although it took about a week to read the whole thing which tells you the worm wasn't the freshest wriggling sort of animal. I'm glad it's done - I can't quite decide what to pick up next.

And then, naturally...

2007-06-30T11:44:00.000-05:00

So after my boldly stated ambitions I, naturally, have no new acquisitions from Powells nor have I bothered to do much reading and certainly little that I would consider inspiring or even fascinating (in either a delightful or pitiful way). Instead yesterday I actually did homework in the morning and studied for my next MA exam in the afternoon (greek) and finally went for a run in the evening and then made some slap-dash pesto with chicken for dinner and let Ethan seduce me from more homework with a proposition of a second go-round at Mint Juleps and an evening of bad movies and board games. Which was just fine with me. We popped in All Dogs Go to Heaven which I haven't seen in a very very long time and Ethan tried out his ice crushing skills with our rubber mallet, an obliging stool, and a soon-to-be-punctured ziplock bag. This method was much more successful than this weekend with the blender which granted makes less noise for our neighbors but is also a much more finicky process and therefore less fun (also no banging away with a mallet, one of the many delights I fill my life with). And this morning instead of curling up uncomfortably on our couch I actually had breakfast, listened to car talk, and made Weredog's lemon meringue pie that I've been craving since about four months ago and liked ever since she first made it. The trick is less sugar for the lemons so it ends up as a wonderfully tart and creamy experience. I'm sitting here slowly melting away all my will-power as it cools in the kitchen but I doubt a runny slice would be worth my impatience.
So. A weekend morning gone in the kitchen and work plans for the afternoon. Surely my sloth will return itself soon enough, otherwise I suppose I can always back-post and account for the first six weeks of my summer.

In Which I Attempt to Start Doing This More Often Again

2007-06-28T21:56:00.000-05:00

This all started I suppose back in first grade when I pretended to have read Little House in the Big Woods to impress, I suppose, my teacher or my fifth-grade reading partner or someone. Or maybe in kindergarten when I read my first book on my own (which my mother thinks I probably just had memorized, it was read to me so many times). My leisure time is reading time. Yes there's ultimate which I am also slavishly devoted to but that has a wearying tendency so that over the course of weeks or months or a long practice or even pickup I need to do something else for a while. Often, read. I am addicted to the flow of language on a page - just ask Ethan what it's like when I clean off a table or my desk. I spend more time reading though the pages that I'm about to throw away -just in case there's something worth keeping, some vital knowledge or delightful turn of phrase I'm going to miss- than I do actually organizing or throwing out what's left. My mother sent me to sports summer camp so I wouldn't sit around and read all day, every day, during the summer. A smarter, slimmer sort of couch potato. I would fall into some kind of raptured trance and enter whatever world the words fashioned sometimes losing all my connection with the real world - of hearing, sight, sound, except for the crawling black ink on the page. It's like a heroin addiction and unfortunately my dealer lives across the street and conveniently gives out lots of free samples. I'm not sure how many books we've plundered from Powell's this summer but there have been at least one or two days of infamy so far - June 15th always being profitable and finals in general a fairly good period. I pick up literature and non-fiction and textbooks and crap. And I read it all, eventually, and put most of it back when I'm done. The Hyde Park Lending Library, as it were.
I seem to have lost some focus what with no longer being miserable in Philadelphia all the time nor trapped in boring classes in school. Even with work (which I carefully shirk) and ultimate and my lovely kitchen this summer I still am haunted by the stack of books I pick up and feel compelled, constantly, to read. And I do. I finished two books yesterday instead of learning the perfect passive in German and picked up four more today. It only seems right to (temporarily, at least) couple my compulsion for reading with compulsory writing. So ensues the chronicle of Trophywife and the Printed Word.

Finally!

2007-06-20T09:25:00.000-05:00

I was out the other night, itching to be in, and as usual protesting to the masses that I couldn't stay longer, that I ought to go home, despite the pressure to let inertia flow and stay with the party. And then a funny thing happened - with a resigned smile the party says "well, you're married now" and suddenly I was free to go, obligation and guilt free. When did this happen? Granted I've heard this response more than once in the last ten months but I wonder how the simple fact that Ethan and I signed a paper and wore nice clothes in front of people suddenly justifies social isolation especially considering the fact that I've been using the same justification for years to no avail. I guess finally something about married life is different than before.

This post is only a stub.

2007-05-24T15:32:00.000-05:00

I am back to reading blogs and books and following the normal chain of events that may lead soon, perhaps, to posting! Don't count your chickens though. Summer is my indulgence time for ultimate and Ethan and my kitchen (it's just so fantastically amazing these days with all my toys) and the computer just gets associated with work and unnecessarily heating the apartment. There you have it. Let's see how long this excuse lasts.

Tired matter

2007-04-21T00:48:00.000-05:00

Steve claims he is not capable of love. We're never sure if he's serious given his half-crazy attitude and outlook on life (a cultured sense of difference that by now could be reflexive) but tonight as always he was at least adamant. And impervious to opinion and analysis outside himself. I am not sure why I delight so much in conversation with this gadfly although after two hours of intense back and forth nonsense I finally understood his essential argument and all of its delightful generalizations and flaws. I am not sure if he could ever say the same for me - we can know so little of what truly exists in anyone's head and his stubbornness of observation suggests that I, by comparison, plausibly hold some of the same characteristics. Maybe that's what I see in Steve - a more liberated (from social strictures and control) version of myself, for better or worse, spouting nonsense in a momentary attempt to gain some kind of grasp on a world that always seems to slip one step ahead, into the breech, twisting up craggy caves and through whispered silences looking for the comfort of an accepting voice.

Like a Jack-in-the-box

2007-04-10T23:26:00.000-05:00

I had a strange moment this afternoon talking my almost-a-citizen office mate who is apparently being pursued by two men, one of whom has only sent a lackey to check out the situation and one who is a student in her class. Neither, I believe, she finds worth the attention of even writing these few sentences but we got to talking (as we often do) over Mr. Goodbars and Krakels melting on our tongues and I was drawn back into the surreal moment of my last year in college which I remember so vividly and yet indistinctly - like a vibrant glimmering haze of image and emotion and speech that exists too intensely to be properly remembered. I have had few such experiences in my life that are simultaneously manifest and clouded but this is one where the murky recollection protects me and I am happier for it. I should have seen it coming - I thought it was just a game like it was for so many other residents, a casual comment, a flirtatious glance - I never stopped to wonder at the intent or the gleam in his eyes. I reached out like a good RA to the quiet, less social student in him and we would eat and talk and laugh and learn about each other and I felt good, doing my job. And apparently he liked it too. But I was not prepared for the evening he came in through my open door towards me at my desk and with the utmost sincerity confided his knowledge of our mutual entrapment in other relationships and the rightness of our connection. That we were somehow meant for each other but could never attain any union. I remember turning red, fumbling for words, stammering out some question of what or how or why. I don't remember what I ended up saying or how he left, though it was soon after, but I knew the turmoil in me for what it was - the flattery, the curiosity, the feeling of violation. I hadn't wanted the approach, I am still not sure what prompted it that day or, more frighteningly, what convinced him to speak so boldly without any knowing encouragement on my side. The intensity of his stare and speech frightened me in a way that I have almost never been emotionally overwhelmed and I wanted to apologize for the misunderstanding, beg his forgiveness although for what I am not sure. And some part of me, low and quiet, wondered if there was any truth in his words but that I cast aside quickly because my curiosity of relationships never seems to end. There are infinite possibilities in life and I sit here, silent, thinking of too many to write. But I was happy in my position and I clung to that with the surety of a lifeboat watching this unexpected and unwanted possibility sink into the depths to be forever lost. I haven't thought of this moment, or the weeks until the end of the year that followed, stilted and embarrassed on both our sides until today, with my almost-citizen, and I wonder what happened to him and I wonder if I shall ever be caught so off my guard with such a frenzy of panic again. I am not sure if the living of it has an exhilaration that I lack in my concrete block, silent room, staring at the dark night through the open blinds.

Feeling Foolish

2007-03-22T21:18:00.000-05:00

I had a dream last night that I could suddenly go to Fool's Fest (only a 6-hour drive from Urbana - I do love dream-reality) and so I hopped in the car and set off to see the Scrumptulescence folks and I suppose some Acapulco people too. Whoever was there last year. It occurs to me that I may actually know Drew from FF2006. This dream was largely disregarded by me, occurring in a vast sequence of school-related mini-nightmares: missing classes, skipping my MA exam - typical back-to-school sorts of affairs which makes me wonder how this dream fit in. Do I miss frisbee in the offseason? MK did head down for Terminus which I've always wanted to go to (but alas, the siren's call was in Michigan this week) but I've been caught up more in climbing recently than ultimate. I fear that in losing my frisbee friends when I left Chicago that I may lose ultimate as well. There are sources of hope though - my last name being adopted, some rough-housing on the line, Angelo asking to throw after work, Jason telling me he was glad I came to pickup (how could I not? It was 55 and sunny after sub-freezing temps two days earlier), small victories that I hold on to, hope that I will find a place with this team. We are changing names, perhaps we will change tenor as well and after a winter of turf-practices I will have gained some acceptance and shed some of the new-unknown player stigma. (This is generally more prevalent when small and female, although I suppose I'm prejudiced...) New captains, new recruits, maybe new cleats, new jerseys. I wonder about missing the summer since I'll be in Chicago - will I have time for tournaments? Will I miss regionals for a conference in October? I am still unsure of the balance of ultimate, school, Ethan. Now there is teaching and climbing. I remember my dreams, sometimes for years, if I bother to focus on them when I wake up. Sometimes I mistake them for reality. I wonder if I'm supposed to (in some cosmic ultimate sense [oh yes this is corny]) take off for the weekend, let go, and just float down a field, conscious only of the spinning plastic bright against a blue clear sky.

Alfred Brendel

2007-03-02T21:54:00.000-06:00

The ceiling is rippled, striated for better acoustics, the walls a warm knotted wood, dark pine, absorbing and muting at the edges. The armrests are covered and plush and the seats narrow but wide enough that I can lean to the side, resting gently on my extended fingertips as I find my window to the stage. His hands are reflected in the smooth front of the black paint, dancing and sighing over the keys, flourishing up after a chord to let the subtle tones ring out, holding the silence. No one claps between movements, the first concert I've ever been to without the cardinal mistake. I have a moment of indecision during the Impromptus - two in a row by the same composer - what does that count as? - but I hold my peace and am right to do so. The old woman behind me sucks her cough drops noisily but when I can relax and unfocus my eyes and slip into the repose that is far too often lacking in my life I am drawn out by the undertow of the chords, tickled by the trickling arpeggios, Mozart's swirls of chromatics. So long since I have been to any sort of concert, so long since I have been to any whole sort of concert. Ethan is bored after the first half and wants to leave at intermission so we run to catch the bus - but today, today I am alone (where is Nathan?) and happy to be so. The seat next to me is empty, the other filled solidly by a middle-aged professor discussing with his wife the goings-on of class. I am invited to meet Classicists afterwards in the lobby for some social occasion but I bow out ahead of time knowing I will savor the quiet walk past empty streets and forlorn buildings into a silent world of my own making. I do not communicate well after concerts, I abhor human interaction. I relish the moment of pure emotional solipsism, feeling and surrender, that is so precious and rare. Yet I am bursting in some kind of vulnerable efflusion and I think of calling Ethan, my mother, my sister, someone to unhinge my mind upon and to call me back into the momentary world. I sit, instead, feeling the emptiness that is full, or the fullness that is empty, flicking this: may it fill a void.

A snow jubilee

2007-02-27T22:47:00.000-06:00

I met a fellow cruncher today on the sidewalk. I was headed west, backpack full of impulse groceries (never shop when hungry) after a quick trip to get some flour. He was headed east. The sidewalk was clear in that section, surprisingly, and wide enough for two people to comfortably walk side-by-side without worrying about ice or snow. My toes were cold and my fingers too, high humidity probably, so I kept to the middle of the sidewalk, listening to my empty water bottle clink against the basil jar that I use to cart around sugar for tea. And then he came towards me, head down, hat and coat bundled securely, hands in his pockets. He walked unnecessarily close to the edge of the sidewalk, towards the still frozen bank of snow with its constant edge of melting ice. With every step his left toes came down at a little angle crunch before a right foot on the concrete before another toe-led step crunch chipping away tiny bits of ice crunch or smashing to smithereens the chunks already broken off crunch. He passed me in a heartbeat that fluttered with excitement. I've never met another cruncher, never seen one from afar. I thought I was alone in the slightly obsessive need to make the snow crumble as I walk, to hear my domination over the elements. I know now I am not alone. But does he?

Hope springs

2007-02-20T10:25:00.000-06:00

The chinook is blowing. Unlike Laura, I wasn't woken in the middle of the night be the soft dripping of water, icicles melting off the roof and forming streams to join rivers flooding in the night. Instead the street noise holds off the whisper of the water but I can see the spreading stain of wetness on the sidewalk, the imperceptible sagging of the snowbanks. I can walk with my head up, my nose warm, in running shoes and without gloves. I can't feel the air but it's coming through, unmistakably, a spring thaw in February. I don't know my downstate weather patterns well enough to hope for permanence, but perhaps I will be the fool anyway. Last night I dreamt of ultimate again.

Home at last

2007-02-17T09:46:00.000-06:00

I am slipping on the sidewalk under a dark sky coming home from the office mesmerized by the flakes falling softly with no breath of wind covering the ice beneath with a soft dusting sparkling with the street lights.

Winter Storms

2007-02-14T21:13:00.000-06:00

Quiet dominates my landscape. Snow crunching delicately under my feet, stepping over drifts to cross the street standing out of the way of silent and few cars. Urbana is shut down, Champaign beyond my plows - no school for two days, no company, no eager students or panicked review for class. I walk, head down against the wind and brightness, up to see the crystalline blue sky, to an office where I know I will be alone all day with my Aeschylus, my Rhesus, Ovid and Hesiod. Everything in its Right Place. I wake up in my chair after twenty minutes, not sucking on my thumb, and Loula asks if I want to build a snowman with her. "A big one". But it's too powdery and we end up stacking chunks left behind from the sidewalk plows. Iphigenia at the altar, mute and resigned. My finger are cold, waxy and white at the tips when we go back inside. It tingles when I check my email (nothing) and I wrap up my hands in my scarf while I try to read book reviews from jstor. There is no speech these days, just listening to the computer's whir, the empty chatter of bad television, the chords of Thom Yorke that suck at some part of my mind and lead me to a melancholy joy. Valentine's Day, and I have unfrozen vegetable soup and hard boiled eggs for dinner. Ethan and I talk to confirm my inability to visit this weekend, our fears about school. They haven't plowed the front drive of the building - it's cut off totally from the street. I wonder at the mailman who has to lug his white heavy-duty plastic boxes with the blue eagles on the side, corrugated like cardboard, to and from the front doors now leaping over the plow's crust at the edge of the sidewalk, trying not to slip and lose the letters fluttering over the icy path. They say fedex and ups and dsl won't deliver. One foot, up to sixteen inches in some places. I relish the quiet - I can leave my windows open all night and sleep soundly, no buses wailing as they turn corners or wind whipping the branches outside. Engines running are few and far between, and even those are muted by the packed white mass beneath their tires. Someone yells at a student to get out of the street but there's nowhere else to walk. Home again in the evening, two days now, cold when I finally get in. When will they invent a nose-muff? There's no new tribune or campus paper and I read everything on Slate yesterday at lunch.
I have left off talking to myself - I can't bear to break the calm with noise, to speak out anything impure into the chilled, crisp air. Like Ariel on land, I wander bemused and frightened through the halls waiting for the sunset when I know my prince will come.

A Lackluster Apology

2007-02-11T22:48:00.000-06:00

I wonder at my new self-sufficiency, coupled with an even greater exterior dependence. I've traded day-long and late-night email exchanges for a solid phone conversation once a day and a short note sometime in the afternoon. Somehow, I am still satisfied despite the less frequent and intense contact. Maybe the stolen weekends help more than I realized - the hourly update suddenly seeming less relevant, less vital (and yes, I exaggerate). But the flipside of this is that You suffer, You my reader for you see I have left my computer by the wayside in this technological upgrade. I'm fed up with slow page loading, finicky virus software, pained booting up and down - I have not yet plugged in my computer since the semester started. It sits nestled tightly in my computer bag with the power cord squeezed into a zippered pockets; other drives and discs and instructions crammed here and there into all sorts of compartments - zippered, mesh, velcro. The weight rests heavily against my trashcan (is there irony or symbolic truth here? or just convenience?) which, when empty, will tip over if the bag becomes unbalanced. I tell myself I like the extra desk space, the exercise of walking to the computer lab once or twice a day, freedom from the cell that my email often becomes these days, overflowing with departmental duties and plaintive students. Really, I don't want to crawl under my desk and engage in the frustrating task of passing a power cord and ethernet cable vertically through a small opening, fighting gravity, balancing them long enough to stand up and pull them up the rest of the way. No mean feat, I promise you, all for the sake of a cordless desk and the value of a surge protector. I am not sure when this sacrifice will become necessary - at some point there will be papers to write and powerpoint to manage and I will grow tired of the daily treks to keyboards that I fear will make me ill. Until then I fear this will be sporadic at best, the composition window a patient patio, waiting for a tea party in the spring.

New semesters..

2007-01-22T11:16:00.000-06:00

A new trial in a new year has me sitting in here, publicly typing. I haven't done this much before (once at Penn, in the computer lab on a quiet afternoon) out of some kind of self consciousness, fear, or perhaps the simple difficulty of formulating thought under the weight of subconscious observation. So in the office I sit, feeling oddly inspired, though about nothing in particular. John sits at his desk, studying (as I ought to be) and I hesitate for a moment, wondering if he will look up at the unaccustomed mass of struck keys or if he will stay, satisfied in his scholarly world. I am not sure which I hope for. I think about writing all the time although I seem to make it to this page more rarely than I would like, especially after my birthday promise. But the thinking itself is good (I think :}) since one of the goals of writing regularly is to help words flow more naturally of my tongue or fingertips - sentiments without embarrassment or conceit. More than anything I hope the writing here comes across as real, whatever that actually means, lacking artifice or careful composition. I can promise you this is hardly ever "composed" - usually I am simultaneously typing and thinking - often staring at my half-written words wondering where was I going with this? and sometimes deleting or continuing but rarely with long hesitation. Surrealismo, as I studied in Spanish 203, the kind of writing that you simply let flow is not terribly far from this although the fact that I bother with grammar and logical connection moves it more firmly into the physical. The art of rambling, perhaps, is all that I am trying to perfect, something safe and noncommittal which strikes me as sad now that I have written it. I do wish to commit, to hope, to trust. Maybe I should start by calling to John.

Unmechanical distractions

2007-01-16T08:50:00.000-06:00

I finally sat down last weekend to read my sister's master's thesis (the written component, since she didn't ship all the artwork to chicago for my benefit) which I believe is titled something like "Towards an Epistemological Art in an Age of Mechanical Distraction". I think this title might be why it took me so long to pick up the pages. It turns out the conceptual aspect of all those nice drawings she does is somewhat straightforward - she hopes to help people appreciate "slow art" (much like the resurgence of "slow food") and even, as a more underlying goal, to inspire people even to observe and see slowly. Features of our geography and context are often lost to us when we drive or take the bus, even walking is of little use if we are purely goal-oriented and don't bother with the immediate environment - we lose connection to what grounds us physically in this world.
I at least am very aware of my physical, grounding minutiae this morning as I contemplate the veil of snow resting lightly on the pavement and green tips of grass. Fallen snow reveals more plainly not only the landscape that lies underneath it, but even the subtlety of air currents and the paths of breezes that shape the delicate frosting into piles and ridges where one would expect flat, unremarkable ground. I love to watch the flakes fall, to see where they land, and then to dash out into the weather myself, watch my coat speckle, squeak the fresh snow under my shoes, compacting it, and crunch the older icy chunks (a delight that never fails me) back into a glinting, hard confetti. Glitter falling from a party invitation - Today is Special.

The Three King's Man

2007-01-12T23:01:00.000-06:00

I caught up on my reading over break partially out of the lost joy and partially out of desperation. It is a quiet life without midterms and compositions, even quieter with Ethan in Chicago and my sister in San Diego and my dad teaching again. I can't stay long in the house (cat allergies) so I make excuses of things to do outside - shopping, ultimate, lunch with my mom at work, sitting on the back step reading in the shade (it was 80 out). Also the trip to San Diego which I knew would be full of unbearable PDA (the non-electronic type) and the printed word was my way out. I revisit childhood favorites every time I go home - the bookshelves still two layers deep with the few favorites I bought - Elizabeth Enright, Laura Ingalls Wilder, Susan Cooper, Jane Yolen, Piers Anthony, Jean Craighead George - all my books from school, even the notebooks and my chem lab writeups from sophomore year. I lingered for a while, the only one up, listening to my father snore and the breeze lift the branches outside my window (ode to the mulberry) and sat in quiet indecision for the final book of the visit. Something a little longer and meatier, something that could envelop me in language. Robert Penn Warren. I hadn't opened the pages since I wrote my final English essay on it in January of 2000. My paperclips were still marking pages (I wouldn't highlight in the books), color coordinated to a long-forgotten system. I remembered the opening pages of driving on the road, mesmerizing and densely lucid, prose that lost me and lost itself as it carried on down the page, my eyes forming only the shapes of the words and losing the meaning, the semantics, but never the feeling of inevitability and purpose. I am left after this paragraph, the sort which repeats in every chapter, in a state of emotional connection to the text with a complete lack of actual memory of the words on the page. I simply absorb them without comprehension. When I slow to sort out the clauses and imagery and sequence I lose the urgency and feeling of the passages - they are meant to be felt more than read, I think, so I comply. I wonder if my writing here can ever achieve the same sort of hypnotic ebb and flow across a page, vocabulary of connotation and periphery, although I don't want to imitate Warren's style - I've already done that, seven years ago in an in-class exercise.

Stage One

2006-12-23T15:41:00.000-06:00

Florida. Land of the crossing jaguar, of the humid airport, of the golf course pond with "is that an alligator?" on the other side. Christmas in a new land, for me, followed by Christmas again in a new land, for Ethan. A fair trade-off, I suppose. Tonight we have the dog-races and handfuls of m&ms (the candy jar is never empty), tomorrow the last siblings come in and we make tracks to the Olive Garden (such good soup/salad/breadsticks!) for a delightful evening of food. It will be a different Christmas - no escaping that - but we're bound now by in-law inconvenience for the holidays and there's some level of suffering. At least the people are friendly, the beds clean, and the grapes cold and crisp from the fridge. If we just got some fresh squeezed orange juice and a few plump grapefruit, I'd feel right at home.

The madhouse is mostly over

2006-12-18T00:20:00.000-06:00

I have survived. First semester of graduate school, first semester of marriage, first semester of a new club team, a new habit (climbing), a new location, a new set of responsibilities. And I made it which is a good feeling. I suppose I shouldn't celebrate until my grades come in and my students leave me alone for good but it's hard not to. Today was a good change. Back in a real kitchen (it's been too long) with all kinds of kitchen-y toys begging to be played with - and we got to use the knives and the stand mixer and the food processor and the sifter and the scale and the cookie sheets and the silicon spatula and aside from all that we made ravioli for the first time (butternut squash, with a spinach-basil pesto) and pfeffernusse and then chili and cornbread for dinner. A good day of food, with lovely beer and sparkling pomegranate to top it all off. Ethan cringes at the domesticity of it sometimes but I really do love to spend a whole day surrounded by the making and eating of good food. To bring pfeffernusse to my Chicago life is a thrilling and terrifying step - one that says "I'm married" the way few other things have. Because in all truth, my life has changed very little. Ethan and I relate the same way - we do talk more, but we also are enabled to do so. Otherwise we concentrate on school and me on frisbee (nothing new there...) and we see each other when we can and go to Giordano's for some tasty pizza. So goes life. But pfeffernusse means Christmas to me more than anything else. It means a late night of grating nutmeg and then a long day or more in the kitchen with (at least) mom, rolling dough and flouring hands and washing them and starting over for countless hours. Thai food for dinner, since we can't bear to cook any more. Dad hides in the bedroom but will grate orange and lemon rinds as needed. My sister is, or isn't, around. We bake. Lots. Some years we count - I remember 1234 always since it was such a nice number. And then we go deliver, driving around the city to all corners, to old family friends and new family friends. This is Christmas, and this year I'm missing it. I'll be in Chicago and on an airplane during the backing, poolside in Florida during delivery. No fighting with my sister over gingerbread shapes or lemon press designs. No red yarn to tie into bows around the bags. I am losing Christmas in more ways than one so we took action today, drove halfway to Indiana for the citron, set the mixer on low and whirled a batch together. We used to talk about how the dough was perfect to make fake facial features for television - like the ridges on Bajoran noses - putty colored and stiff - but enticingly fragrant. I had the added challenge today of a strange oven temperature and no clear window to peek through without letting the heat out, but it seemed to work in the end. We got about 65 instead of the called-for 80 and I'm tempted to make another recipe of them later in the week, but Christmas arrived at 5704 today and I was quite pleased with the results. Maybe next year I'll tackle Ethan and we'll end up with some cedar or juniper even a tiny tree. Until then we still have the windowsill garden... maybe I could string up the asparagus fern with lights.

Not quite a wheel...

2006-12-12T22:56:00.000-06:00

The itch sneaks up on me here and there when I least expect it. Crossing the street, trying not to slip on the slick crosswalk-paint, crunching iced snow underfoot, fighting with hordes of student emails, falling asleep under blue sky and sun and waking to thick obscurity, shaking feverishly, typing frantically. I miss writing here but I can never seem to find the time, especially these last few weeks. But the itch has moved into physical expression today, popping up unexpectedly in the back of my throat during my Homer final. Very annoying. The urge to cough, that little tickle, with no seeming cause or impetus just appeared, forced its sensation upon me. I suppose it's probably the start of a post-cold-post-nasal-drip (why can't sickness ever end?) which can only be cured through lots of honey and will-power. Funny that when the physical itch presents itself, the mental one gets scratched.

Warning: Finals are causing great pain. Then lots of trips=sketchy internet. Can I go on winter break too?

Flicked into gravity?

2006-12-04T09:04:00.000-06:00

It pains me to confess that I've been experiencing stage fright's second cousin. For close to a year now I've seen this space really as some kind of void - the vacuum pulling the text from my screen and hiding it in some remote corner of the internet-universe - and to a certain extent that's true. Out of curiosity or boredom this week I googled oojamaflip and didn't find a result for myself on the first page (only three pages total) and even the second page, where I finally found something, was linked to a specific post from several months back. I did learn that there are several happy people out there on social networks with "my" name, although I'm more resentful of the blogger site spackle (my first choice) which was taken and seems to have one post on it only. See how I avoid the issue? My relationship to this editing window is a paradox - I sit in my room, alone, writing, staring out my window in the dark (generally) delighting in the constructs of my mind. There's a reason I don't write well or often with I'm back in Chicago - the simple presence of Ethan is so overwhelming that I lose my ability to feel alone as well as my inclination to sit and compose. Maybe if he read this, but that would likely also shoot us back to the beginning of this post. I revel in the anonymity of the page despite the fact that all my devoted readers know who I am, and now that suddenly I've opened that window to more people I wonder if I have lost my comforting obscurity and I hesitate. Will there be judgment or acceptance? Liking or contempt? For as much as I write for myself I always regain consciousness as some point and remember that I've failed for years to keep any sort of journal or diary or essay-book. I need the public audience as an affirmation for this writing, once it's been done. I anxiously check comments on previous posts to see if anyone's watching, listening, affected. Did you like my phraseology? The metaphor? Did you delight as I did? Feel the excitement? I think of myself as a character on a stage and always I'm terrified that my persona won't measure up.

2000 throws up pink-and-green

2006-11-28T21:53:00.000-06:00

It's been a good two days. Monday, waking up in Chicago, eating dinner for breakfast, hopping on the bus, the train, the bus back to my room, reading the paper over lunch, getting out of class early, finding books in the library, meeting outside to throw. The lights on the quad give just enough brightness that if we stay close together and don't throw too hard we can see. We get in a rhythm quickly, catch and release, catch and release, catch and release. There are rarely pauses for correction or missed discs. I am working on my backhand form, he's working on his I/Os. Nicely spaced, maybe 15 yards we toss. It's almost hypnotizing when we're not talking or people watching and we hear the campus carillon toll. 6:45 - one hour. He asks if I have time to stay, I do, so we do. Back and forth. 2 hours. My shoulder is starting to get tired and I resign myself to being the first to quit but once I get up the courage to mention it we just move closer, work on short backhands - popping them up, lots of spin, gentle touch, right into the midriff. We count - almost a throw a second - and keep going. Three hours. Three hours. We pause, aware that the sixty-degree weather is holding, the night can't get darker, our work no more pressing, and momentarily fear falling into the hole of inertia. Could we stay all night to throw? It feels possible, it feels like the right thing. But we hold still longer, decide it's time for dinner, pack up the disc and leave the dark field.

Tuesday, more hectic - three classes, overlapping, a quiz and then no lunch. Distraction, then work, then distraction. I leave the office, leave my room, bike to the gym. Lifelines. I feel like it's some kind of right-wing Christian group everytime I see the name - I keep waiting for someone to try to save me from hell. In the back corner, behind the gymnastics, the games, the boxing, the climbing gym awaits. I wish I had a partner to go with but I don't - always ending up a third wheel to my professor and the enigmatic grad student I've never seen elsewhere. I warm up, stretch, wander around the cave, hand and foot against the wall, trying to go the length without falling off. The wall is shorter than last week but the holds more challenging - my finger slip, grip, slip as I try to stay on. I am stronger this week - I knew I would be after last Wednesday's soreness - I can hold myself on now even with a foot sliding off, regain it and keep going. This is new. This is good. I go back to pink-and-green - two weeks ago I could stand up and reach one hold, nothing more. Frustrating. Half an hour of trying to reach and failing. This week I am eager, ready. We try again and I'm still stuck but with more options. We try different feet, different hands, one foot, one hand, staggered feet, together feet, pushing sideways, up and finally I reach the third hold, pull up my foot, match my hands and grip as hard as I can. Fall off. Get back on, fall off. Repeat. Finally I can reach up and then one more foot up and I'm over the overhang onto, amazingly, a nice reclining wall. Up and up, until I can't reach. The holds are too far apart. My professor looks, unsure - this isn't something I can get out of by matching an extra time or being creative with my toes - we add the wall - I can wrap my arm and push for balance. Get the hold, step up. Don't stop moving, my sister taught me, but I don't know where to go, fall off. Start again - to wrap the corner, match hands, try to reach for the end. Too short. An inch! I need just an inch! Creative feet finally come through. I don't know how long it took - maybe an hour. Probably an hour. One climb. The two guys of uncertain (to me) ethnicity have gone through practically every other wall. Five minutes off and I'm back to trying to reach the lemur. Still get stuck when I have to switch my grips - harder now, with tired fingers, knotted forearms, strangely popping shoulders (I worry about this) - I already made progress warming up and don't do better now but do manage to at least match my previous effort. A ladder at the end. Twice up, twice falling off because my forearms just can't hold - they would if I just kept moving but I still don't trust myself enough on the wall to step all the way up, let go and reach. But I am stronger this week, and more successful. Andy tells me to rest longer between routes, Scott says he'll see me next week. I wonder when it's time to buy my own shoes.

Why is indoor at 10:30pm?

2006-11-16T21:57:00.000-06:00

So life travels on non-stop and I am alternatively in the driver's seat or belted securely in the back, snoring happily. I haven't learned yet how to support my students but still prioritize myself - I don't work at home but I can't work in the office (they just show up!) because I'm terrible at spitting out the word "no". The funny thing is that because of this they apparently think I'm the "nice" TA but looking at our general paper-grade trends I think that while we're fairly equal graders I'm probably the most demanding of the three (ah... a Chicago education in action). At least it stopped raining finally: the dismal, relentless sky is still grey but not dripping at least. We are in the midst of a California winter and I am still waiting for the seventy-degree, sunny relief. But joy is in sight - a whole week (!) for thanksgiving, an office party lunch tomorrow, breakfast plans this weekend - I hate to bring it up but we'll (that's royal, by the way) probably be away from this reality for most of that time. It all depends on which way the wind keeps blowing.

A long day and I'm ready for bed

2006-11-10T22:43:00.000-06:00

Last night was grading-pain - up until 3 (yes, this is my fault because of Fallout...) and THEN somehow one of the papers gets lost when we hand them back. This is the problem with the free-for-all return. So I have to re-grade (I have the score, but not the comments) and, even more painfully, deflate the authorial ego of this student who, in our email conversation, proclaims that he doesn't need to worry about this paper since he got 100% on the last one. I'm pretty sure I gave him a C. So there's a bit of incongruity there... I haven't the energy to deal with this today - tomorrow on the train!
In better news I wasted time this afternoon, trying to avoid taking a nap so I could go to bed early tonight, and then suckered an office-mate into watching the Illini dominate at hockey tonight. Very fun. Only $5 and popcorn for a dollar and the most cheerfully negative fans I've seen at any sporting event. We show our support by heckling the opposing team at every opportunity. Goalies who are scored on are ruthlessly taunted with "It's all your fault! It's all your fault! It's all your fault!" And if the opposing team manages to score they're rebuffed with "You still suck!". I've never seen an audience so united in a codified heckling scheme. Really, it was impressive. I would have joined in, but a family with two cute girls under 10 were sitting right in front of me and somehow it didn't feel right.
Anyway. My wet socks from sloshing through the rain are off and my feet are finally warmed up enough to collapse into some long-overdue shuteye. Tomorrow morning is the train, and Chicago.

Brief Notes

2006-11-09T15:43:00.000-06:00

I am behind, in all aspects of life. Here's the rundown. (More merriment next week, I promise)
1) Presentation on Monday was not a failure. Hooray! Now I must simply churn out an interesting and significant paper based on the facts I discussed.
2) Skipped Gilmore Girls, Vernonica Mars, and House (and yes, 2 of those are on at the same time) to go climbing with my Homer prof. No, I don't think I'll get a better grade as a result, although I might get an advisor out of this deal. Did some things going up, did some things going over. Not very successful in either case (lots of falling off) and I've been sore ever since but damn it's a good time. I figure it'll be a nice complement to ultimate.. and I can pretend that now I don't have to lift weights AND I ride my bike round trip (maybe 5 miles?) so I can also pretend it counts for cardio. More and more reasons to love this.
3) 67 degrees yesterday and not raining or windy. I went nuts. Threw with an unsuspecting grad student for almost an hour after my morning class.. then met up with a co-ed woman (yes, that makes sense) for another 40 minutes of delight. Everything was topped off by lunch and a nap. Life is good. Except I'm now more behind on work.
4) Today - high of 70, perfect weather. And miserably I am stuck in my office trying to grade about 85 papers on Thucydides. I should be outside working on my backhand, stretching out my forearms, trying in vain one last time for a tan (ah, the beauty of skin cancer) but I am stuck with only a large window that's sealed shut and this patiently glowing screen. If I'm lucky Angelo will call and I'll have a nice 20 minute reprieve on the quad. If only I'd done more work already this week! (see #1-3)
5) Will hopefully find my whimsy (and grammatically complete sentences) this weekend in Chicago. Plan to return to full writing glory (note to self: find something glorious to write about) Monday after an epic weekend of Bears football and a morning drive to class. Why am I writing rather like Bridget Jones? Must stop craving doughnuts...

A stop-gap

2006-11-05T17:48:00.000-06:00

Things are busy. I have meant to post for 2 days and haven't managed to yet and my impending lecture (yes, I am panicking) tomorrow means that this will be short and insufficient. Just to put it out there - I've been thinking about the merits of linking taxation to cost-of-living (somehow) and the ways in which the US military is facing similar difficulties in manpower, strategy, and defence to the Roman military from about 250AD on. Basically the old-school system fell apart with the advent of mobile, irrational raiding. And other things. Just something to chew on.

Hope sizzles

2006-11-02T23:17:00.000-06:00

I refound invulnerability tonight. It's been a long time since I've braved cold successfully but after this weekend and this evening suddenly I feel less fragile and more willing to take a risk (we'll see where this ends up...). Dinner called from the store - after a long day at the office and nothing but butter and old eggs in the fridge I was in desperate need of something quick and tasty and good and cheap - rotisserie chicken fresh from the deli. My new favorite no-fuss dinner. One pecker good for two dinners - some potatoes or bread and green beans and your balanced meal is all ready. But to get there -from the office with my fleece and jacket and hat and helmet and blinky and I was ready to go except for gloves. The love-hate relationship between the weather and my fingers has been in force these days with below freezing temps when I leave in the morning and highs of 50 midday. I hardly know what to do. So today I just had my liners - blue as pale as their real cold-protection. So I rode with my thumbs wrapped around the handlebars and my fingers in a fist, braced on top in case of bumps, ready for a quick swerve from a car, coiled to spring out and brake if necessary, but mostly trying to not get cold. It's hard to pick out apples when you can't feel anything. And I made it. Granted, it's not far, but I made it in and even had my gloves off by the time I got to the apples. Coming home was harder - I suppose since the temperature dropped a few degrees while I sashayed up and down aisles - but I survived and even set my lock without fumbling (this is a milestone for me, even if you don't see it). So I'm ready. I managed a weekend of ultimate without handwarmers where the morning temps were in the 30s, I conquered the evening cycle to the store and became happily provisioned. I may not have eckhart to throw in front of all winter this year but I do have my own office, my own invitation to be bothered, my disc on the bookshelf as I look out the window at the open space ripe for throwing, right on my quad.

Vacations from reality

2006-11-01T22:35:00.000-06:00

I took my weekend today (I get a day a week, roughly) - couldn't concentrate on reading any more this afternoon after three days of solid book-learning broken by class and food and not much else. Funny thing, taking my weekend so shortly after my last one and knowing I won't get another for 10 days but so life goes. Back to normal next Tuesday. I can hardly wait. The worst thing was missing pickup tonight - indoor from now on, in the Armory - not quite full Henry Crown size I think, but it's hard to judge. We play in the middle of an indoor track that's more circular than what I think of as normal but with all eight cones and one white disc the location isn't so important. And I do find it fun to try to avoid the long-jump sand pits when we're warming up. Ultimate is going to be interesting from now on - I've never played so late before (10:30-12) consistently, especially after shifting to my earliest school-schedule ever (up by 7:30 every day) although I make a pact with Angelo to leave at 11:30. We'll see what happens on "practice" nights though... which brings me to point number two: a possible split of genders from the coed team for the college season - we're short on eligible women but the interest is there and with some recruiting they'd have a decent group at the least. Enough to go to regionals, certainly and probably do fairly well there even. But for me the most exciting thing isn't practicing with women again (which does certainly have its advantages) but having a coach for the first time ever. And from the first day he had advice for me, useful: work on touch. I find this piece rather amusing since the past year or more I've worked on adding more power to my throwing in spin to cut through wind better, travel farther, and fly more accurately. I don't feel like I'm there yet - wind still gives me trouble - but Zill says "softer" so I must obey. I do overthrow people more than I'd like, although I chalk it up to either laziness or tiredness on the part of the cutter I know if I just put on a little more float (while keeping control) that number would decrease if not disappear. Wishful thinking, but I'll try. There's precious little immune to practice. So I did, last weekend at Fallout with my beloved Supersnatch who, like a rebellious teenager, is growing up so quickly that even only a few years distant I feel utterly disconnected. Pickup more often in Chicago, I guess. But it was a fun weekend - playing in a leadership role again, touching the disc multiple times on every point, giving advice on the line, holding a cup together, watching girls improve dramatically over the course of a day or a game or even a point. I tried to lay out my throws gently, swing upwind for yards but also make everything easily catchable. Mostly I succeeded. A few short throws too floaty, a few breaks too excited but overall a good ratio. Ultimate becomes fun again, I become useful on the field. This sense of purpose, confidence, excitement - this is what I love about playing and something I lose when I don't feel like I can contribute well. So here's to the next 11 months before Regionals - time to work on touch, to get in shape, to dream of Sarasota.

6/[1-(5/7)]=21

2006-10-30T22:55:00.000-06:00

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?"

2006-10-27T22:48:00.000-05:00

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.

Older and wiser

2006-10-24T22:53:00.001-05:00

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.

A Day of Importance

2006-10-19T22:39:00.000-05:00

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.

A change in the wind

2006-10-18T22:24:00.002-05:00

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.

I'm not sure if I'm ready for this

2006-10-12T23:16:00.000-05:00

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.

Resolution: no resolution

2006-10-10T23:21:00.000-05:00

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"

2006-10-04T22:40:00.000-05:00

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.

Caloo Calay

2006-10-03T23:56:00.000-05:00

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.

October the first

2006-10-01T23:27:00.000-05:00

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?

I still have (at least) one reader!!!!

2006-09-27T23:16:00.000-05:00

It's the little things, often, especially today. Finding cumin cheese at the most sedate mall I've ever visited (masquerading as Leyden.. we'll see how it compares to my normal shrink-wrapped personal-air-delivery type), the ease and freedom of my bike, frying polenta to a delightful crispy outside with a solid but tender center (just like the perfect french fry), swiss chard with peanut sauce, roasted pork loin with the leftover orange juice to drink, inane conversation with Ethan, another forty papers graded. The way that you can whistle through a pen cap and it sounds like a kazoo - the same sort of reedy resonance and vibrating amplification. My favorite form of distraction when I'm working. Works best with cheap pens, I've discovered, Bics and Papermates especially. Tonight was a medium point blue pen, breaking the hearts of eager core-satisfying students (or maybe causing them to delight) capped over the back of the pen, trilling along with my Mozart or Radiohead or whatever snatched up bit of song I whistled forth. Lovely. I have renewed hope for greek yogurt, for the farmer's market, for Regionals, for my fate in Urbana, for friendship. Little things that stand out if you bother to look - maybe we're up to a knitting needle in the haystack.

I have reached a pallindromic fullness

2006-09-26T22:13:00.000-05:00

In other words, my last post was 101 and this will be 102. I suppose that the hundredth was more exciting in pure numerical terms but there's a lovely symmetry about 101 and a hint of futurity about 102 that I enjoy more, somehow. 100 is just so expected and uneventful, rather like my twenty-first birthday. It's been a numerical sort of weekend - I spent two hours in a car with a mathematics graduate student (ah, how things never change) driving to Chicago for a tournament although this one was a logician, really, and was teaching a course that tried to make math exciting or at least palatable to otherwise uninterested core-appeasing students. The result of this conversation is that I now know how to make a convincing fake ID in Illinois, or at least a convincing license number. The actual manufacture I'd have to leave to someone better equipped and with more experience. Essentially your identity is converted into your number - I hear social security numbers work in a similar fashion although I don't know the details there. And then there were the numbers on Saturday: 4-0. I've never done that before at a tournament and I have to say it felt Quite Good. Almost Spectacular, although the driving rain in our last game was rather disheartening (despite our very chilly offense that managed to not turn it over in the zone). Then Sunday, a less exciting 1-2. A win over Third Coast (hard but well fought on both sides) then an expected loss to Briefcase although we matched them in the second half which makes our first-half lackluster defense and three throwaways on the endzone line rather painful. Then a long break before a rematch with Third Coast - having lost the finals we were subjected to play in the second-place backdoor game. Which, as we concluded during our break, should really be a backdoor bracket for fifth (i.e. the last spot to Regionals). The difficulty with this attitude being that my team essentially decided they didn't want to play the game and therefore gave up before it began. Not fun. And Third Coast, having been beaten by us twice before was eager for revenge. So we lost, badly. I don't recall the numbers involved but it was fifteen to much less, perhaps even less than ten. So. We shall see what comes about at Regionals. The last good number to leave you with is Six. My jersey number (which finally arrived). Bonus points to anyone who can tell me why I picked it. Ethan figured it out straightaway, but then again he's a rather smart chap. Part of what I love about him.

let's just blame it on hormones

2006-09-20T22:50:00.000-05:00

For the first time we each have toothbrushes in each others' bathrooms. We've never really lived together, apart, like this. Last year there was an almost comforting distance that provided scope and time and regularity. This year there are hurried weekends and inane phone calls and dashed off emails. I feel like we see each other more but the time itself has been cheapened by the careless nature. I'm sure that somehow this is unfair to him or me or us. But I think about our weekends - full of work or ultimate with very little actual time to focus on each other in shared company. Not in the kitchen, the bathroom, on the couch, little things like racing each other up the stairs or hiding around corners or holding hands on the way to the car. Mundane things that I could screen out by enough space for denial at Penn that now are contrasted so sharply with weeks of extra space and weekends of too short comfort. I wonder if my much larger room this year helps or hinders. The unconfining space seems large enough for more than just me, the microwave and bathroom means I never have to leave once I unlock the door and step through (which, being fire-safe, closes right after me). It is a strange kind of melancholy, which makes me distrust myself all the more. Four weeks in. One hundred posts. Still the same themes. For how long can I keep this up?

The old graduate school try

2006-09-18T23:02:00.000-05:00

I still find it hard to begin again. Every day, right now, may be a stretch since I am trying to wean myself off my computer dependency (it helps to have television again) and am trying to get in the habit of not keeping it on all the time which unfortunately conflicts with writing right before I go to bed (which I don't turn my computer on to do). This blather is not why you read though (I hope) so I'll try to get to some sort of point. I must be tired to digress like this...

I have wondered why I find it harder to write than in the spring. It could be an exhaustion of ideas, but since I can apparently prattle on about nothing forever my mind should be rife with options. It could be that I'm worn down from classes and grading and ultimate and trying to balance my personal life but most of those factors existed in the spring also and yet I was not impeded. It could be that I have lost my sense of obligation to my unseen audience, my void, which I note in my less pressing moments of guilt when I lie in the dark or scramble to class and think to myself forgot again. It could be that the subtle fulfillment of married life and more time with Ethan has removed any need I have for vicarious connection with the outside world as I retreat slowly to inner comfort. I imagine that none of these and all of these are true - whatever the case may be I have always been proud of my promises however I may falter during the course. If my mother's fifty-odd year friend can join the cross-country team at her community college and shave off three minutes between her first and second 5k race (after not running competitively for at least ten years and having at least one foot surgery) surely I can sit back at my keyboard under the harsh fluorescent lights, look out my window at the leaves (no more planes!) and think of a few words, however light and slender, to drop onto the page.

I hope the farther down the hill this stone rolls, the harder it'll be to stop

2006-09-14T22:37:00.000-05:00

I don't really know where to re-start things or how. There seems to be a plethora of choices since my silence the past few months has opened up wide avenues for recent past history as well as ruminations that might otherwise have gone unthought. I suppose I ought to do some justice to my name here, though, and fill in those of you who weren't around a bit on the whole marriage thing. Briefly. I have an appointment with my pillow shortly that I intend to keep.

So. Where we left off is hard to say. What is easy to say is that planning a wedding requires a huge amount of energy and decision-making of a sort that I hope I never have to go through again. What color tablecloths, what color napkins, what colors for the head table, the family table, the guest tables, what kinds of flowers, invitation fonts, paper color, quality, size, envelopes, guest list, seating chart (or lack of one), favors, chairs, music, photography, cake, officiant, licensing, insurance, transportation, shoes. Not forgetting, of course, all important food and wine. I didn't count the number of hours I lost to this crap although I wish I could hang it up in my apartment like a marathon race number - something to inspire a feeling of greatness in myself and awe in others... But the end result worked out okay, as far as we can tell. People appeared to enjoy themselves, we had a good time, no one passed out or got belligerent so all in all I call that a success. The funny thing is that the ceremony wasn't legally binding at all, really. We signed our names to get the license two weeks earlier at the courthouse and then handed the form to our officiant who filled it out a few days after our wedding and sent it in. That's it. Nothing at the ceremony itself - nothing to sign, to seal, to avow. That part is just for the guests, really. People ask if things have changed for us and they simply haven't in any way we notice. Emotion doesn't depend on legal documents and since our living situation didn't alter (at least not under the traditional system) our daily lives with each other interact on the same plane. Maybe I am fooling myself and subconsciously there's something new that I'll only realize at some pivotal moment in my life. Maybe. Until then, I'm content to travel on in the same path with only a new appellation to designate my changed status. It's a little odd to hear people talk about me with the word "wife" and not mean that I should make an iso cut or look up for a disc or cover my girl better on defense. I suppose I'll get used to it at some point. The being a wife thing - that I've got under control.

July 7th is a long time ago

2006-09-12T23:04:00.000-05:00

So I am rather ashamed of myself - coming up with such grandiose plans of writing which I shirked rather vehemently this summer (can you shirk vehemently? I choose to believe so) - and I wish to apologize to you, my faithful (and probably only) reader and promise that there will be more to come. Not too much will present itself tonight as I am saddled with more badly written papers than I care to contemplate and a pressing need for a shower and bed, but it is a beginning again however pathetic it may present itself. The short story of the past month-odd gap is that I have been Wifed (although not trophied, to my knowledge) and embarked upon that great journey of life known as Graduate School. This entails absence from the now-husband for temporary perpetuity so never fear! depressing lamentation will never be far off from this page unless I spend a few lines extolling married bliss. Which is really just living-together bliss. We'll do the "nothing changes" post later. Yes. A whole new sphere of reflection opening like the great stone door into Moria. May I fare better on my dimly lit travels.

Bars of onion rings, a lock of ketchup

2006-07-07T23:12:00.000-05:00

I had the odd experience the other day of feeling trapped in a lunch that I couldn't wait to get out of. This may not surprise many people upfront, except that my lunch was with Ethan and Steve (they were fine), two Bates-Clark medalists (for the best economist under 40), one of whom also has won the McArthur genius grant, and a nobel prize winner in economics. Lunchtime conversation was definitely at a higher level than normal, with little to no contribution from the three of us in the peanut gallery. Fascinating, but all I could think of was how I was trying to make up two hours of missed time and that the computer labs all closed at five, meaning the only way was to take a short lunch or work on the weekend. I figured (as lunch ticked slowly past the hour mark) that I could probably, without offense, excuse myself since I was the only hourly-paid employee at the table and everyone there (to my knowledge) had had that experience and could sympathize. But I lacked the courage to speak up - the last lunch I voiced an opinion ended up with my pathetically limited knowledge on the topic being battered into the ground (once bitten, twice shy) - so there I sat, trying not to fidget or shred my napkin or roll my eyes or look at my watch. I got out after ninety minutes. The reason I was two hours behind already was from a lunch the week before. I wonder why I worry about these things - I could just write down two fewer hours on my timecard this week. Emily isn't holding me to a set schedule and at this point I am sure to finish the project before I leave, possibly even by next week if I keep up my full-time travails, so there is no real reason to worry, no real need to be present every hour of the workday. I still worry somehow that that's cheating, that I'm slacking, that my work ethic isn't enough. Like Sue said so fatefully, six years ago, that I have no drive. No ambition. That would be worse than being two hours behind.

It becomes official

2006-07-05T22:28:00.000-05:00

The first box came today. I think it may have come a few days ago but with the office closed for the holiday and my lack of reading skills prior I missed my opportunity and had to wait. But there it was, a surprise. Stacked on top of the box I was expecting - old christmas presents that never managed to fit in the suitcases: four glasses from mexico, a japanese teapot, a flour sifter, a cloth cooler, two blocks of blue ice. Crate and Barrel. We knew what was inside - only one person had bought anything - but we hadn't seen it yet, didn't know who it was from. I am still not sure about the teacups. The outside color is perfect, matches the plates from my grandmother, but the inside is a lovely winter white that, of course, looks fairly awful with the white plates and bright white bowls. I wasn't sure but I put them on the list - let Ethan decide, we can always exchange them for plain white. But tonight he wanted to wash them, put them away in the cabinet he had just cleaned out for the purpose. If we take the labels off we have to keep them. I know he says think of them as the first dishes we start our new life with. They're not perfect, just like us. Cliched, or he wouldn't have said it, but decided and true. We have shared so much together for the past five years that it seems silly to get a little choked up about two cups and saucers but suddenly getting married seems real again, seems different. I am still not sure what that difference is but it is there and, as it seems, growing.

She aches just like a woman

2006-07-03T17:33:00.000-05:00

I found out today that I've been pregnant for five years. Sounds odd, I know, but that explains why I haven't ovulated, maybe even the pounds I may, or may not, have gained (hard to tell without a scale around). I always knew the pill did something to the ovum, it had to or you couldn't be safe the whole time the way the packet promises but I never understood exactly what. Then last week I read that it suppressed ovulation. Fine and dandy, if a little odd. I had a momentary panic about if my body would remember how, when the time came, and then brushed it off as silly. Of course it does, just give it a few months. Then today I finally understood in full - the estrogen and progesterone mimics the hormones of a pregnancy, suppressing ovulation, building up the lining. I had to sit for a minute after I read that information, digest it. It is not stated so directly in any other literature I have read thus far, academic, medical, or even the fact sheet that comes with every prescription. I am not surprised, now that I know why - for some reason I am vaguely disturbed and almost saddened by the news which stands in contrast to my stated (and actual) very strong desire to not have a child in the present time. I think somehow to find out that the last five years of blood have been a sham is the worst blow, almost as if it makes me less of a woman. The feminist writing I have been reading, not only responsible for my current shameless/righteous writing, makes me feel ashamed of my discomfort - why should I be upset at the fact that I have been prevented from full fertility, when that in fact was my goal? Why should the method matter, so long as it is temporary and relatively harmless? But it takes me back to a dream I had a few years ago where the trauma was even more clear. I was a surrogate mother, really just a host - the fetus was implanted, like a ball of dough expanding, until suddenly it was cut out, returned to the rightful mother, snatched away in an instant and I felt more bereft, empty, alone than I had in a very long time. I woke up because of my tears, hands pressed against my stomach looking for the child that was there and then gone. I cannot explain the dream, the motivation for it, my heartfelt reaction (I mourned, literally mourned, for a day). I cannot explain my present uneasiness. I wonder at my own connection of womanhood to motherhood, which seems to be the only real link between these experiences, and I am frightened by the meaning and responsibility therein.

Two thoughts

2006-07-01T23:14:00.000-05:00

First, for yesterday.
I was thinking about Christmas yesterday, about going home, eating almond danish and turkey, teasing my sister and driving out to see the lights. I wasn't planning on changing anything this year - I would go home, Ethan to Florida, and we would meet up after the holiday. We've done it for years, so each of us can see our families, spend that time with tradition and history of it. We don't have our own tradition and so there is no real loss. But I am scared of that this year, frightened of being in my house again without him and it has nothing to do with our impending marriage but much more so with my sister's. It had always been the four of us (and then the others in the afternoon) - stockings, breakfast, presents, food, pie, a movie, bed. I didn't mind being away from him because I had my nucleus and the bonds were tight enough to hold together. But now that my sister has entered the land of the shmoopsies (it really is quite gag-worthy) time at home doesn't feel like home anymore. It has become full of my lack. A week at Christmas, another one at June - why I was so irritable, so ill-content, became clear in hindsight and the recognition does nothing to heal the problem.

Second, for today.
Ariel said it last night, as people often do - Well, you have a new family, now. I disagree. I think I will always disagree. If they mean the in-laws then there is no contest but what most often is referred to is the two of us, now and in the future. Depends on the speaker. Ethan as my family, me as his, us as ours - I don't buy it. Somehow in my upbringing became the entrenched idea that a family is something with children, with multiple generations or multiples of the same generation - and no, two people choosing to be with each other (of whatever generations) is not good enough. I feel strongly enough about this to bristle slightly when I hear the two of us referred to that way (yes, I realize how irrational and pointless that is) and I have an urge to call down my rhetorical lightning and teach the poor speaker a lesson but to no avail - in truth there is no point. I have never really thought about why the terminology bothers me so much, why the knee-jerk reaction is there but off the top of my head (likely influenced by all my recent journal reading) is the fact that most people do mean parents and children when they speak of families in the most general sense and I either resent or fear the implication that the two of us is not good enough or surely temporary - that our relationship, once legalized, is still not validated by society until there are little midget liebskis running around (certainly aren't many tall-genes in the ancestors). The past few weeks have done a lot to shove this topic in my face, mostly in the context of third-world/developing world women, and despite my societal differences I find it hard to keep myself distanced from their situation. I imagine myself worn out from childbirth, constrained in my whole adult life based on what culture and husband dictate to me. I listen for authoritarianism in Ethan's speech, I wonder at the way society has trained me to be a "proper" woman, grooming me subconsciously for a smooth domestic life. I fear the expectation of America once I am a happily married fertile woman instead of a free hoyden running amok with the other heathens cultural convention. Pressures from the older generations, expectations from the younger. Doubtless I am blowing the whole affair monstrously out of proportion but it is the first real thing to dampen my enthusiasm and make me wonder at the necessity of the legal process, the paper signing. I don't need that and the attendant expectations - but of course, it's what's expected.

If not here, where can I?

2006-06-28T17:38:00.000-05:00

We don't talk about it - none of us do. I'm sure the exception exists (it always does) but in conventional society that's few and far between. Even the sex and the city ladies left it alone, generally, based on my memory of a season's worth of shows. I have spent the last week working solely on it - finding citations and abstracts, now searching for books (and more bibliographies), starting to read articles. The curse. The blessing. And society has done its magic well enough that I can't look people in the eye when I tell them what it is I'm researching. A project about women in Nepal is what I tell them; it's not untrue, just not wholly true. I told my mother the whole truth, Ethan knows - he knew before I did - but not my father. I couldn't break that barrier. I see the articles about women in the US, how we are trained from our pre-pubescent years to keep it a secret and feel shame if anyone (especially male!) knows. Certainly things change as we age and time goes on and I am no longer held in stifling fear but I am (we all are) still secretive, within reason. Which is rather absurd. What does it really matter? On occasion when people find out I notice no real difference in their relationship to me. Ethan may tease now and again but we're like that all the time. And yet I have troubled memories: not letting the boys look through our backpacks, being mortified at sending my father to the store (why can't you go, mom?), waking up in the desert surrounded by classmates and trying not to panic. It's not that I feel like we ought to announce it, I have just recently been prodded to wonder about the 50mg elephant in the room.

In absentia

2006-06-27T09:28:00.000-05:00

I remembered on Sunday right before I went to bed, the computer off and the air conditioning purring. I woke up yesterday, determined to say something, anything, and in fact wrote a whole paragraph which is now lost. Deleted. I have never done that before - intentionally destroyed a whole piece that was essentially done. I am not sure if I should feel ashamed at my lack of courage or pleased that I could so rationally distance myself from something I had written. I find it harder and harder to let posts like that one exist, even this one is hard to be sure of. The writing is just not there - not the way I want it to be - purely busywork. My lack of enthusiasm ends up being demonstrated by my Candide-like attitude which I hate; coming from such a narcissistic writer you know that something really terrible was there. I am not sure what the solution is. Clearly I write better when I have something I very strongly wish to say, but to come up with something like that every day is a serious challenge. It is also harder than I expected, coming back into a life where my presence and attention matter to someone else at almost every moment. A life where I am needed and in companionship, not bored and lonely. I suppose that was the void I was writing for. Now that is has gone, where do I send these words?

Circle game

2006-06-24T22:37:00.000-05:00

The fan spins over my head, white tips of the blades catching and reflecting back the light from the standing-lamp that dimly illuminates the room. I can't tell by looking at it how many blades there are - strange the way our eyes, or memory, can fill in the gaps to form a continuous or sensical whole. If I blink quickly enough I can see flashes that are almost still - a human strobe light - and count five blurred blades whirling. Somehow I thought there are only four, but I suppose it's hard to know for sure with them running all the time; comparisons to restaurant fans aren't necessarily indicative of our own. I have two memories that I have had for a long, long time - twenty years or so - which in my childhood I could not and to this day I cannot discern if they are real memories or strange dreams, the closest approximators to life I have ever seen. I wonder sometimes if they are one filed mistakenly by a young brain into the other category and therefore creating the confusion. Or maybe it's just a phantom of each, like the ten fan blades I think I see right now, swirling air on the ceiling.

Carageian miles

2006-06-23T22:29:00.000-05:00

He used to hide around corners, sneak out into the road from behind a tree, drive along side clocking our speed. Faster, he'd say, easy doesn't mean you don't have to work. We had simple rules. Come if you didn't have a fever. Do an alternative workout if you had an injury. I spent two weeks once on stationary and mobile bike, strapped into an aqua-jogger like a fool nordic-tracking in the pool, something every day. Never walk. Ever. It takes about two weeks to really get a habit started - waking up at 545 and stretching while the sun slowly lit up our shadows on the pavement - showering in public for the first time - packing a backpack in two minutes, putting my shoes on in the car - and it takes a second to break it. I was undaunted until one workout, two years in, trying leap a chain over the road and catching my shin right where it meets the ankle. I gave up on the end of that workout, the first and only I ever stopped in until the day my lungs betrayed me and I stumbled off the track onto the grass panicked, wondering how I had turned into some sort of balloon. Consistency was key. Is key. I have wavered from this path for two weeks now, long enough to form a habit of not acting. It's a hard road to fight back on. I'd much rather go to bed, do the dishes, wake up a little later in the morning for work or go to sleep that five minutes earlier. I forget, remember when the light's off and I'm slipping into dreams. But this is my record, my waking dream; if I give it up what will I ever be able to fight for again?

Where the heart is

2006-06-21T00:04:00.000-05:00

The hiatus is over; apologies to anyone who will manage to finally read this. Time at home is always a whirlwind of boredom - I get nothing done and the minutes tick by until suddenly I'm packed into a car and shot out onto the airport curb. This is the first time I didn't cry at the airport (yeah, I'm a terrible softy) with sudden homesickness and remorse at my leaving home again, never quite sure when I return. That's really the hardest part - never sure when I'm coming back, always a little afraid the cat will be gone (he's not himself these days, mewling in doorways and sleeping more than ever) or something will happen to my parents. But this time Ethan was with my to haul luggage and hold my hand on the jetway and placing me in the odd paradox of leaving home to go home. Perpetually I am torn although legally my choice will soon be made and in my heart I know that here with him is right. That doesn't make it easier to walk away from twenty-three years of history though, with a mother who taught me the proper use of those sad, begging, puppy dog eyes. Don't leave, she says, Will you come back here to live? I hope so. But right now is it here that I am living - in Chicago, with my Ethan, on these pages. I won't disappear for so long again.

temporarily

2006-06-08T19:10:00.000-05:00

I am in my parents' house - have been for a week, will be for a week more. Time flows differently here, the pace of life is off somehow, my "good" hours of the day are rather reversed. Every day moves oddly in the morning as I somehow jolt myself awake and out of the claritin-induced fog that clouds my brain and then Trader Joe's with mom (every day!) and fussing with stores and paper cutters and wines. Small, mundane concerns. My life here is plain but nice - salad for dinner, popcorn and a Rumpole with daddy in the evening, several hours out shopping or cutting or walking every day with mom so I can stand the cat when I'm home. The agapanthis is blooming and the catnip spills all over the kitchen table, ignored in favor of the basil (even our cat has become gourmet in his old age). There are so many words that I can spill on this page about the past week and yet clearly I have been conspicuously absent from writing, for which I apologize to those of you who faithfully read and to myself who faithfully writes. My room gets very overheated with the computer running and in the recent ninety-plus degree weather I have been disinclined to add any amount of energy to the room since the poor three-speed fan is not quite up to the challenge of sufficiently cooling it for pleasant sleep. My silent, private time is spent instead with a book or the newspaper or looking at the greening stone tiles in the backyard, the shadows shifting gently over it as branches catch the breeze.

Relaxed haste

2006-06-01T17:56:00.000-05:00

I feel remarkably unrushed despite realizing that I will end up in a vague panic within a few hours when I admit to myself that I do, in fact, have too much to do in too little time. This is what plane flights do to me. I think part of my current relaxation is based on my satisfaction with what I have accomplished in the last few days - the wedding plans are more and more done and with luck after one more cake tasting and a florist's email I will have all deposits paid and vendors reserved. Nothing left but picking wine and tablecloths and at this point I hardly care. What is harder for me to believe (and does make me feel rushed) is that my big sister is finally grown up and getting married herself. I look at this phenomenon and still can hardly believe it. My sister who never dated much, has such high standards, always seemed so reserved and shy about relationships now ready to embark upon married life and snuggle unashamedly in the kitchen when we're all making dinner. I marvel at the ability of being in love to change us, not consciously, but rather like erosion and the Grand Canyon on a slightly shorter timeline. It makes me wistful for our younger youths and throws into stark relief what I am about to do myself. It looks wonderful.

Troy, I need my book back

2006-05-31T22:06:00.000-05:00

I am afraid of losing my parents. When I see movies where characters die and other grieve, when I read books about loss, when I dream terrible dreams. I was coming down the stairs the other day and had an image of my father staggering over, falling and felt tears prick in my eyes. I don't understand this morbidity, this fear that has come upon me in the past few years. I mourn the possibility of loss. I am sure we can point to some origin - when my father's best friend had a heart attack, when my uncle had his heart attack, when my father told me he felt old and meant it, when my parents sent me instructions about their trust, their will, my inheritance. That was an amazing day. Dear Alison, I hope you are well, we drew up our will today and made plans for our cremation, love Mom. (I hardly paraphrase). I think somehow I am going through empty nest syndrome, despite being the one who left. The problem is I never know when I'm going back or for how long. This is the choice I made, in the next few years my precious time away from school will be aimed squarely at Chicago and while I do not regret it I rue the necessity of it and the outcome - it is not ideal. Utopia would be school in the west where I can have both at once. I guess we're back to a cake equation and somehow we've run out of flour.

The backs of my LEGS

2006-05-30T22:01:00.000-05:00

I am sticking to the desk as I type, the top check carbon unpeels from my arm when I reach for the mouse. Outside today felt like wading through a large bowl of tepid, putrifying soup. I wonder when I wake up in the morning how little clothing I can wear and still be decent, if I need to worry about the blinds being open - we are so high up, and yet there are windows everywhere. Sitting here, in front of our portable heat-producer is the worst place in the entire apartment unless I am in the middle of foolishly baking brownies or making a roast. I realize the sadness of the fact that I am already melting at the first sign of summer humidity, with the temperature well below ninety today and the humidity as well. The coolness and dryness of California beckons me and I am ready to answer the call, winging west in a few days for a few weeks where these difficulties (humidity, laptop heat) and their solutions (air conditioning, ceiling fans) are absent. Where you don't start to sweat sitting at a bus stop in the shade. Where blogging will be painful again only for lack of words, not for the toll of heat impressed by the equipment. I almost wish the thunderstorms would knock the power out.

Twist Road

2006-05-29T21:38:00.000-05:00

Friday.
We chase after the sun. I can see out the hatchback and in my side mirror the deep indigo of the sky towards the city we have left behind. The tires grind softly against the road and the engine mutters quietly to us as we speed to pass, slow to remerge. Ahead is the trailing edge of the sun, the sunset, the oranges and reds long absent but an odd dull yellow fading into an intense washed out blue. The sky is huge. I had forgotten the space of the midwest, the immensity of the sky. The lights make patterns more brightly on the asphalt and with every passing minute I worry more about the directions, lost in some fold of my bag, buried under food and clothing. Still, we find Rochelle, turn right at the stop sign, go on until the next one (at least ten miles) turn again, turn again, creep along until we find the right road. The gate is just how I remember it and Joe, scrambling out to unhook the chains, looks much happier than last time when it was closer to zero degrees and the ground was icy with refrozen snow. But we pile into the house just as happily and stow our precious cargo of eggs and cheese and spinach. There's nothing for it but a bottle of wine between friends.

Saturday
Inside I am fooled by the air conditioning which runs so silently I hardly notice. We step out into the screened porch, look at the thermometer and are surprised to find the red arrow unwavering at seventy-one. Cool but humid. Shoes on, we embark on the dirt worn from tires, let ourselves out of the gate, trot confidently down the road. I remember the first turn, remember my feet freezing in my lined boots and aching with the cold, my only concern to be inside but looking up to see horses across a fence just as curious back at me. It was best to walk in the drifts near the edge or right in the tire track - the grit bit into the ice enough for the rubber soles. Today, instead, there is dust and green leaves line the passage. This is not California forest, not the dry, earthy, open woods of my youth with squat bushes and pinched trees, where the sound of water was thrilling and rare. The green astonishes me with its fullness and unconcerned growing - seemingly without effort. You can't see more than ten feet into the trees before the undergrowth is too tall (or I am too short) and my vision is stopped. Soon I am tired enough to stop looking anywhere but shortly in front of my feet. I hear the voice of my coach in my hand telling me to run the tangents, to run from tree to tree, to stay on my toes uphill, to lean strongly from the hips downhill - let gravity do the work. I bring to mind repetitions by the Rose Bowl - the Flintridge hill, Yocum, Sierra Vista, Inverness. This is nothing like that but I am out of practice and my shirt is beginning to dampen from my exertion in the humidity. I am relieved at the end when we can pause and look at pack of alpacas with their dark hooded eyes, long noses, thick scraggly wool. They turn and look at us, evaluating. We wonder back. The owner steps out, tells us the far white is about to drop (what, I wonder for a moment) and when she steps towards us we can see her thickness far outstrips the others. Later, when the thunderstorm is thickening and we can hardly see through the dashboard she inside or at least out of view. I wonder if this is the weather for birthing, or for holding in until sunnier skies.

Sunday.
I am alone in my wakefulness. After sixty pages Ethan rolls over and we settle on the porch in the shade, looking over the pond shining in the heat. One hundred more and we stop for hot chocolate, french toast, scrabble. The menfolk head into the water with fish traps and ambitions; I dangle my feet of the pier into the water grasses and lose myself in Sabine's grief. It is hard to read but I have only a few more hours before this books is lost to me and I can't leave until I know how she manages, how she finds her joy again after Parsifal is gone. On the porch I reach for Ethan's hand as he reads his mathematics, take it and rub my thumb against the hollow where his joins the back of his hand. Something rhythmic, quiet, close to remind me we are still here, together. On the pier the water swishing against my ankles holds that promise, the distant laughter of the fishermen slipping on algae-covered clay. Later I push off towards the depths but the cold drives me back and even past that we are suddenly, almost abruptly, packed and waiting for Joe to reset the alarm and come from the side door. The eggplant, the bread, the polenta is gone and the mill closed for the day. I jump out and fix the chains - open, closed. Ethan remembers the way home.

Professors Liebski

2006-05-24T23:10:00.000-05:00

He sits at the table upright and alert, unshaven for days and his glasses shining in the light, wearing my favorite shirt (go Aggies!), torn jeans, grey socks, right fingers pulsing over the remote keyboard as they have been for an hour. Data entry. For future research - his own project, finally, not one he's paid for but one he can choose and direct. I have spent my time curled awkwardly on our couch with Pharr in my hands chunking out another hundred lines, this time about Jupiter talking to Venus and promising glory and kingdoms for her poor Aeneas. We haven't sat like this and worked together, academically speaking, in years and I had been afraid it was something that had been lost to us immediately upon marching through the grass, hot and sweating in black, two years ago. Our fourth year we saw each other mostly in the library: he would be there, I would come after class, start to read, fall asleep, he would wake me up when he left. The few times I managed to keep myself conscious we would read quietly and I would try to take his hand again and again but we would lose contact for every page turn and eventually give up. This is better: in our own space, the comfort of speech allowed, snacks on demand, breaks to buy plane tickets and search for Bears' hats. I look at tonight and realize that what they say is true - the future is now. This life works.

I feel like peeling labels or kicking walls. Well, maybe not actually: I think my foot would hurt.

2006-05-23T23:08:00.000-05:00

For some people it's socks in the laundry. I lose things when I clean. This is something that my mother never really understood when I was younger - it may be messy, but it's an organized mess. I know where things lie in the chaos, but once things are "cleaned" suddenly my spatial memory is entirely thrown off and I end up flipping through folders and rifling through drawers for hours. I looked for my AAA membership card for at least an hour today, examining the contents of 2 desks, 2 tables, a large envelope-filled box, my bookshelf, my floor, even the freezer (you never know) and never saw it. I remember it not long ago, looking at it near the desks thinking about going to the website, but my memory fades immediately after. The problem was I picked it up from where it has sat for days and apparently didn't return it precisely. Always pay attention, as I have known for years - it works consistently and fulfillingly but is so difficult to master continuously. I forget and then I end up here, again, stilted in the afternoon and frustrated tomorrow morning. At least I found the car keys.

A pound of Flesch

2006-05-22T22:47:00.000-05:00

Clarity of tone is lacking, firm control and pressure but with a gentle glide. The timing is not right, the details. My pinky won't curve - it resists, pops in and out of locked position never quite supple enough. My thumb is static, the middle finger doesn't lead properly, the index won't lean. At least there aren't mites, and the seams all seem to be glued. The full tones wriggle out of half- and quarter-mistakes; I try not to grimace and hope the neighbors can't hear. Precision lacks. I start off with scales, arpeggios, sixths, finger exercises to work on the bow which has always been my weakness and to find the right pitches again. The metronome blinks and clocks at me unrelentingly - I had forgotten the way the numbers don't quite line up with the dial around 132 - and even still I have lost my counting. I switch over to Mazas to have the excuse of difficulty, but I know I flee the harshness in the easy places where there is no excuse. I need the cats and Ruth on the sofa and my mother reading at the table, the windchimes on the porch and the dogs barking between the houses. I forgot the way my back hurts when I'm done, how I can't play with shoes on anymore, even the shoulder rest feels wrong, but I know visually that's how I've worn it for years. I did remember that I have to play alone and that I have to not think too much to start or I'll get so frustrated I won't keep going. The intonation will come most quickly; the fingers start to remember; by the end I can shift without thinking (almost the right pitches) despite my fatigue. The bow will take work, as I know and have always known, but I have my book from Ruth with exercises and pictures from my last lesson, five and a half years ago. I could do this once, passably, with the best examples surrounding me. The stand is down but open, feet splayed around my running shoes, waiting.

Lions and tigers and hairs, oh my

2006-05-20T22:44:00.000-05:00

My father tells me it can all go away if I just get a series of shots. He's right, I know, but it's not covered by my insurance and I don't particularly like the idea of going week after week or month after month to have sharp metal objects stuck into my arm and then strange liquids injected. A not very pleasant sort of experience, although the one I'm stuck in now is hardly fun either. Enclosed in a self-induced fog I am fascinated by repetition and shape, by light, color, sound, lulled easily by the whir of the wheels on the pavement or the freezer cycling in the next room. I hardly pay attention to what I type here, my finger moving slothfully across the keyboard and my brain for once moving as slowly as I type. It will wear off by tomorrow morning but I know that it awaits me every time I go back for a visit and carefully avoid the silky tails and rasping tongues that I miss so much. A warm, vibrating body nestled against your feet or in the crook of your arm or comfortingly weighing upon your stomach, velvety paw-pads tucked under or splayed out or rhythmically pulsing. It bothers me to push them away (without even my flesh touching them!), to inconvenience hosts, to deprive myself presumably forever. But the drugs don't even work that well with this odd zonking effect and I can't quite imagine paying hundreds (thousands?) of dollars to avoid an inconvenience despite the potential quality-of-life benefit. Maybe someday I'll just get a snake.

I need about tree-fitty. Tree-fitty? What's that? It's three dollars and fifty cents, son.

2006-05-19T22:33:00.000-05:00

We have our own language which I often forget in the company of others. Words, phrases, a look - we have our own customs and habits, our own practical jokes. We are like our own species. It infiltrates every part of my life outside - I have to delete phrases from emails to other people that I type automatically because they would be entirely misunderstood, look like gibberish, seriously offend. I have to watch my language in public so I don't throw out the same to the wrong person, and when I do make some obscure (but obvious to us) reference I always get the same look of incomprehensible acceptance. I have picked up some of his ways of speaking and I presume he has some of mine, although I suppose it's easy enough to pick up certain things from other people and make them your own - we do adapt to imitate and therefore please our conversation partners. We have adapted into a middle ground to the point where Ann Marie laughs at us and proclaims we have our own very distinct and odd sense of humor. I don't see it that way, but we'll humor her as long as she'll marry us in the end. It makes a space ours, lets us take possession of any moment. Something we alone share and has worked its way into idiom so that it can't even be explained properly to anyone else. Maybe we have built our relationship through this joined language more than anything else - the Liebski dialect, if you will - because it encapsulates our entire shared experience together. Like the rings on a tree. I just hope no one else ever manages to count them.

Needing a compass

2006-05-18T22:45:00.000-05:00

I waver between respect and contempt for professional athletes. In my cynical moments, my economic socialist moments, I despise them and the sort of living they make, although an honest soul might (correctly) name that jealousy. I proclaim to people that I want to be a professional ultimate player (if I had any choice) and yet these past weeks when I have had the opportunity I haven't used it. Evident it was today, panting up the field, pivoting weakly, throwing behind my cutters, half-heartedly falling towards a rapidly descending disc. Which I didn't catch. I felt it coming up the stairs tonight, the dull ache of no energy and the protest of muscle that has been ill-used. I read about football players in the offseason, working three or more hours every day to get into playing-level shape and hotly protest that I see no great effort or martyrdom in that - they are paid to do it, they have personal trainers and teammates: motivation. And yet I cannot seem to muster the enthusiasm for a two mile run, crunches in the morning, throwing (with effort) in the park. It is so hard to pull yourself back into the game when you have been out of it for so long. I remember the days when I could run every day without being exhausted, the miles slipping by in peaceful thought. I looked for rabbits, crossed streams, counted golf balls and jumped over horse manure. Somehow I have lost my way. Tomorrow, I say, tomorrow I will. But eventually I have to say "today".

Apron strings

2006-05-17T22:09:00.000-05:00

The kitchen adventures continued tonight for better or for worse. I'm glad that Ethan is so patient with me, since things come and go. I overdid the mustard, gave the sauce a serious kick in the end (it's for your sinuses, I tell him, I'm just trying to clear them out for you, get your cold better). A less than perfect attempt tonight, following a mediocre stab at two Yan recipes last week and an excellent first try at lamb. I wonder sometimes at how satisfying I find mixing and chopping and stirring and watching. I spend as much time (or more) picking something new and then worrying about it as I do actually making preparations and assembling the final product. I suppose food is a way I define myself, and I am afraid when I try something new (or err in an old favorite) that somehow I may be defamed. Negative face, they say in politeness studies; that's not quite appropriate here but it is what comes to mind. I am not sure if it is always more about gaining positive face or avoiding negative - one would hope the former but surely it must depend on my state of mind, the expectations, the excitement. Tomorrow I hope to redeem myself fully with some time-honored classic - a burger and fries and a pitcher of cider, shuffleboard and pool. You can always pay someone else for satisfaction.

See: Porcelain, Moby

2006-05-16T08:14:00.000-05:00

[DSL was out last night]

Last night I was abandoned at sea by my mother, my father, my sister, Ethan. None of them heinously, just a quiet dismissal of my presence and worth, leaving me alone to plunge myself off the freighter into the waves and strike out for land. I did catch up with the group eventually (apparently I have a fantastic sidestroke) and led it into shore where I found a friend waiting for me. A friend who greeted me with talk of going to dinner (Amy's, for crab), who slid over on the white marble step and put a welcoming arm out, took my hand. And I wondered to myself if this was allowed. We stood to go, and that was the end of it. It is not always the same person, it is not always the same situation but my unconscious finds ways to explore all the aspects of my life - sometimes in the context of present circumstances and sometimes not. In the bright grey light of the morning these concerns may seem trivial to most but I have a long history with these night-time adventures. There was a summer in high school I remember where every night my parents tried to kill me, or I had to kill them. Variations on a theme. The recurring mummy dream of my childhood - every time I had a fever. When I met death, when Ethan was assassinated, when I was pregnant, when I miscarried, the secret agent series. If I wake up with no new memories I feel as if something is missing. Sometimes I wake up truly terrified or exhilarated. When Ethan was assassinated, killed as we slept by a sniper, what woke me up were my tears, just as real in life, and it took several minutes of serious reasoning (it was just a dream, it's all fine) to calm myself down. They are more real to me than I should allow them to be. So I worry about this hand-holding, dinner dates, of people I know and of strangers; if it makes me a liar, a betrayer, less or more in real life. It is possible to exert some control, with practice, although my only real contribution is being able to fly when chased and I can never fly quite high enough to get my ankles out of reach. Imperfect skill. If I practiced more, perhaps I would be able to turn away in all the dreams, to say no to say what would Ethan say? and yet part of me wonders if this vicarious exploration - the "what if" I will never have - keeps me happy in the status quo. I suppose a girl can dream.

Why bother? (When it dries up)

2006-05-14T22:01:00.000-05:00

That's your job; you're supposed to think of something to say, right? And I can't deny it. I asked for a first sentence, and in the spirit of taking what I am given here you have it. It is my job, true, but I find inspiration lacking often these evenings when I sit to write. It is not even easier during the day, when Ethan is gone, as I had expected it would be. Instead I find my spare moments not filled with ideas for this space but thoughts of what to make for dinner, meditations on our relationship, luxurious moments curled up on the couch buried in a piece of good, or at least decent, fiction. Too much television, perhaps, rotting my brain. I forgot the siren-like call of weekend evenings on FX, TBS, TNT, Comedy Central. Tonight I have the choice of basketball, SWAT, The Fugitive, Bad Santa. It never ends. It is always so easy to lose your consciousness in that bright, shining oblivion right up to the moment where your brain explodes and you hit the cliffs, drown on the unforeseen rocks. It is harder, day by day, to have a first sentence that I can springboard from into the depths I hope to reach, slicing through the calm surface and bringing some sort of light or motion into murky places. Does my writing improve with practice? Have I found (can I identify) my own narrative voice? These are my hopes, and as easy as it would be to simply abandon this space in my current mood and distraction I would feel somehow traitorous. Maybe it's just the count I see every time I log in: this is 75; 100 is not so far off; 1000 only 3 years away. Maybe it's some sense of loyalty to the few of you who come and visit. Maybe it truly is the hope of a small slice of my childhood dreams coming true.

My fourth-grade talent

2006-05-13T18:25:00.000-05:00

The world breathes. I heard it today in the swell of the swings with the air rushing past my ears as I hung. Back and forth, in and out, a cosmic pendulum. The gentle heaving of a sleeping body - my vision changing as I moved closer to, farther from the ground. It was silent except for the wind and the small creaking of the chains in my hands. Cold out, cloudy, we were alone in the park, Ethan straining on the jungle gym with his pullups. Silent. Concentrating. Not looking at me when he rested. I swung, watching, hearing the wind breathe in my ears. A small sensation of flight - I lean forward at the crest, pull on the chains to jerk myself higher, pump with the legs, lean as horizontal as I can to help my momentum. I haven't been in that world for a long time, but the body remembers. The mind won't forget again.