Return of the Writer

I can't believe how long it's been since I've written.  It's been . . . wow -- it was May when last I posted!  Who knew?!  So much has changed since then, and funnily enough, so much is the same.  I still live in the same place, and am still in limbo -- no grad school yet.  But, well, I'm 30 now, which was tough for me.  (I cried the morning of my birthday -- I didn't think I would cry over something so silly, but I really did, and I cried for reasons that have more to do with the fact that my life is now NOTHING like I thought it would be than the fact that I've hit another decade.)  My 30th birthday was incredibly fun, though.  I celebrated with a few friends and family by going to Little Tokyo in LA and hitting a few bars/sushi restaurants/karaoke places.  It was great fun -- we started off at the famous Daikokuya for some kick-ass ramen, then wandered down to a little crack-in-the-wall (literally, this bar is in an alley) called Far Bar, got happily drunk, then stumbled to ZenCu for some rockin' sushi, and finally, drunk and very full, ended up at Max Karaoke Studio for some totally blitzed karaoke.  All in all, an excellent way to start a new year.  And so far, my 30th year hasn't been entirely awful.

For the last month, I've spent the greater part of my time studying for the GREs.  Plural, you say?  Yes!  I'm taking TWO Graduate Record Examinations this year!  One is the standard, General GRE that ALL grad schools require, and the other (the one I'm currently avoiding study-time for) is the Subject GRE, and in particular, the GRE Literature in English Subject Test.  Now, I'm not usually a person who has a terror of tests, but I will admit that this particular test is DAUNTING.  I spent the first part of September studying for the General, and did fairly well on that (top 2% overall, thank you!), and have spent my time since then studying for the Subject.  I'm taking it Saturday, and still feel nowhere NEAR like I will ace this test.  It's a behemoth!  It is -- I kid you not -- a test which will potentially cover all English, American, and world literature from approximately 400 AD to the present.  Of course, with only 230 questions (YES, 230 questions in 170 minutes!!! (Do the math, that's less than a minute per question!)), they can only cover a finite amount of material, and since, as the wonderful people at the Princeton Review assure me, there is no such thing as a "standard English curriculum", their choices are limited as to what they can realistically expect people to know.  Still, there's much more material on this test than that with which I have an intimate and comfortable relationship, and so I am spending my time becoming intimate and familiar -- at least, in a cocktail-party sense -- with some of it.  It is, as I said, daunting.  And I'm terrified. 

Which is why good sense is suddenly prevailing, and I'm going to leave this post half-finished, and return to the studies. . . .

If I Won the Lottery

I've passed the last hour or so thinking about what I would do if I won the lottery. California's MegaMillions is estimated to be about $64 million right now, and, even though I didn't buy a ticket, and even though I don't really play the lottery, I still thought about what I would do if I won. It's funny how specific my plans are, even though I don't play it. I wonder if I should start? A dollar a week or something? It's unlikely that I'd win, but then, maybe I would.

The funny thing is that the greatest pleasure in winning for me would not come from finally being released from financial woes (because I know that lots of money has its own problems), but from being able to fix the things in the lives of the people I care about which are related to money. I mean, for example, let's say I take the pay-out -- $41 million. Starting with my parents, I'd pay off their house, and give them a few million, so they could retire in comfort. Nothing fancy or frivolous, just comfortable retirement, so they can travel and my dad can bird, and my mom can finally get to all those projects she's been planning for years. I think I'd probably ask them to keep working, though, just a little bit longer, just because I think they're too young to retire yet. Then my soon-to-be-ex-husband. I'd give him a few million, so that he could be free of his parents, and other expectations of failure. Then he could go on with school or graduate school, or invest it, or write, or do whatever he wanted. I mean, theoretically, if he were intelligent, he would invest it, and live off the interest. $3 million dollars, spent at $50,000 a year, would last for 60 years. That's something to think about. So, say I've spent about $6 million -- I still have $35 million left.

I'd pay off my friend's house for him, and give another friend enough money to go and open a brewery in Japan -- his life-long dream. Then I'd probably pay off my sister and her husband's house, so that my sister wouldn't have to work, and could just stay home and be with her baby (who will be born soon!!! I'm going to be an aunt!!!). As for my brother . . . well, I'd probably give him enough money to go travel, or go back to school, or do something different with his life than what he's doing now.  He's young -- he deserves freedom from so much.  But I'd have provisions in there.  It wouldn't be free money.  I'd also probably give a million or so to my aunt, so that she could stop trying to find work at 60+, and just enjoy the years she won back from cancer.

So, let's say I've given away another $5 million. That leaves me $30 million. What else would I do? I'd do a few selfish things: pay off my school loans, buy a house or two, invest the bulk of it. I'd still apply to grad school, and seriously hope that I'd be accepted, because I think I'd really like it . . . and I can't imagine not working, doing something useful and productive, for the rest of my life. I mean, I'm only 29 (soon to be 30, but not talking about that right now). I'd travel -- see all the places I've wanted to see, but not been able to, because of time and, more importantly, money: England, Europe, New Zealand, Australia, Canada, Russia. . . . I'd set up a home-base somewhere, with lots of acreage and animals -- horses, sheep, chickens, dogs, cats, geese, ducks, that sort of thing. I'd buy a Steinway, and build a library for myself -- a two-story library, with lots of comfortable armchairs for reading, and then I'd fill the library with thousands and thousands of books. The tempting thing would just be to put work on hold forever, and do nothing but read and read and read and read. But that's too self-indulgent. I would probably do it for a year or two, though. Do nothing but read, and play with my animals, and cross-stitch, and swim. . . .

Speaking of animals, I'd definitely put a few million dollars into building a rescue for domestic pets -- a no-kill shelter, and probably give another few million to Big Cat Rescue, which is my charity-of-choice. They rescue big cats -- lions, tigers, leopards -- from all over, and are always desperately in need of money.

So that's what I'd do if I won the lottery. I'm sure there are other things I'd do that I haven't thought of, but I'm pretty happy with what I've got now. The things that winning the lottery would do for me -- help me make the people I love happier and more comfortable, allow me to help the people and animals that I want to help -- would give me peace of mind and contentment, I think. I know that money can't solve all my problems, and I know that it can bring with it its own issues, but I would try not to let it dominate me. That's not to say that I wouldn't have a wonderful time building and furnishing my houses, and shopping for books and "feathers" and things. It would be nice to finally have enough money to buy, for example, a black Coach purse, or a set of happy yellow dishes from Crate and Barrel, and it would be lovely to just see something and be able to buy it. But I think that I'd rather forget it was there, and just enjoy the contentment it affords, if that's at all possible.

Of course, not buying lottery tickets puts all of this beyond the bounds of the practically reachable. But it's fun to dream.

A Very Dull Post

I just finished watching Wall-E, one of the last movies Pixar has done (second-to-last, I think, just before Up). It is such a darling movie, and it never fails to make me cry -- just when Ev-a thinks she's saved Wall-E, and then he doesn't know her . . . oh, it's just so sweet and sad. I've only seen it a handful of times, probably because of the fact that it makes me cry, but I think it's even better than Up. Up was darling. But it was predictable. You knew what was going to happen. There were no surprises. And the premise, while clever, wasn't that surprising, either. Wall-E was clever, and surprising, and not entirely predictable, and also had that bittersweet edge to it that I think marks some of Pixar's better movies, like The Incredibles and Finding Nemo. You weren't as invested in what was at stake in Up, but in Wall-E -- well, who doesn't want to go home? And one of the really amazing things with Wall-E, one of the things that gets overlooked about it, is the fact that there is almost no dialogue. And the main character, Wall-E, communicates his sweetness and vulnerability and dedication almost completely through gestures and his oft-repeated "Ev-a". It's an amazing testament to the talents of Pixar.

So now I have Spinal Tap on in the background, principally because I've seen it a million times, and I don't have to pay too much attention to it. Talk about a movie with a bittersweet edge. It's like all Christopher Guest's movies. They're just hilarious and painfully bitter at the same time. There isn't one of his movies that isn't both insanely funny and painfully bittersweet -- This Is Spinal Tap, Waiting for Guffman, Best in Show, A Mighty Wind. . . . The only Christopher Guest movie I wasn't crazy about was the last one, For Your Consideration. I wonder if he'll do anymore, but the fact that he hasn't written/directed another one since (and this was in 2006), and the fact of its rather crappy reception, probably means he won't -- or at least, not for awhile. Which is really too bad, because he had an incredible cast by the end there. The first four, though, they're really exceptionally good movies. I love each and every one of them.

This post doesn't really have a purpose. It's just an attempt to avoid some homework. I've made some lists of things I need to do, and I know that I should really be doing them, but I don't want to do them. It's all part of the malaise I've been dealing with lately, where all I really want to do is piss about, and not actually do anything productive, unless it's creative productivity (writing, cross-stitching, reading, etc.). Anything that I'm "supposed" to do is for some reason anathema to me. I think it might just be that I'm totally burnt out. I need a break. A break from life, really, but a break of any kind would be good. I suppose the best that I can hope for is a break from school, but I'm crossing my fingers for my unemployment insurance. I'm just hoping that comes through. If it does, then I don't need to worry about work or anything for a few months at least, which I desperately need. I'm still trying to figure out where my life is going, and what I'm doing, and what I want, and I haven't had any spare moments to think about it. So I'm hoping that over the summer I get a chance to get some perspective on things.

This is an abominably dull post. I think I'll end it now before I send everyone into terminal boredom. Good night, all.

Freedom!!! (Must be said in an elongated, Braveheart fashion.)

So, today was the last day of my job as a "Web Accessibility Consultant". Thank the great heavens above, no more stupid, boring, pointless, useless work! Of course, it wasn't pleasant, because my boss cried a lot, and said she felt like she "failed" me, and all I could think was, "Freedom!!!" I felt badly, obviously, because I don't like people to cry, and I don't like people to feel that they failed me, and, of course, it doesn't do good things for my finances (I mean, I was working two jobs for a reason), but . . . but . . . I'm free, I'm free, I'm free! I'll worry about money later; right now, the only thing I can think about is the fact that I'm no longer in the straight-jacket of 9-5-like work. I discovered long ago that I am fundamentally unsuited to that type of work, and that I simply cannot make myself do it for very long. I think one of the most important things to realize about yourself is what you can do, and do well, and what will make you happy and comfortable. I have realized that I cannot do 9-5 work, and do it well. It becomes suffocating, and I inevitably find myself rebelling in small ways -- without even realizing it. To have to be in the same place, day after day after day after day, at the same time every day, and getting in trouble if I'm not -- because I do get in trouble, because I'm not good at getting there on time. . . . It's just more than I can handle.

The funny thing is, I'm NEVER late to class. Why? I recognize that class will begin, with or without me, and that there is a specific period of time where the discussion will occur, and then it will be over. I was never late for meetings, I was never late when I ran trainings -- but work? For God's sake, what does it matter if I'm ten or twenty minutes late? The work will get done, and no one needs me the moment I walk into work. Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you, no more, no more, no more! The fact that I have to, until I get my Ph.D., and become a professor, depend on this kind of work is suffocating. In fact, I don't even like being locked into a schedule for tutoring. I prefer to log on when I can, do some tutoring, and log off when I'm done. I prefer freelancing. I'll get it done, and it'll be done beautifully, don't worry, and I can even work to deadlines (papers, yes, many papers written to deadlines for classes), but don't stand over me, and demand that I work these particular hours!

I am not, in any way, trying to disparage people who can work in the typical work environment. I admire those people, to be honest. But I simply cannot tolerate it, and I think that recognizing it is extremely important for both my sanity, and the sanity of my employers. I would hate to employ me in this kind of job; my inability to be "on time" all the time would probably make me insane, too. In fact, when I had to supervise people, I hated having to make sure they were there on time. I felt the way about them that I feel about me: I don't care if you're 20 minutes late or so, as long as the work gets done. I think I am just totally incapable of working in any kind of a structured fashion.

And now that I've got that down, I can't help but wonder if this was an answer to a quiet prayer I put up last night? I was sitting there, looking at the pile of work I have to do, and the paper-of-torment, and all the research that I'm still trying to condense into 20-25 pages (which seems like so much, but when you've already written, in some form or another, close to 50 damn pages, isn't at all), and thought about how much I have to work-in-order-to-make-money on top of all the work-in-order-to-make-my-life-worth-living, I had a mild panic attack. I mean, I'm taking three classes this quarter (four if one counts the paper-of-torment, and believe me, I do), and I'm working 30-ish hours a week, which leaves me time for . . . nothing! Yes, nothing! Not an ounce of spare time, which is overwhelming and is creating a desire for self-destruction within me. So, last night, I calmly sat down, and tried to organize what I needed to do to be successful, had my mild panic attack when I realized there were literally not enough hours in the day to do it all, and went to bed, terrified and, at the same time, strangely at peace. There wasn't time enough to do it all, so clearly, something would have to go. And today? It did.

It was obviously not planned, this last day of work. But it seems that I argued myself out of a job on Monday, by refusing to do something I knew was wrong. Not unethical, technically, but conforming to standards and ideals with which I do not -- emphatically do not -- agree. So, when asked to do so by my boss, I said no, at great length, giving my reasons and justifications, and apparently, that was that. (I bet this strikes a blow for those who say I'm argumentative. So maybe I am.) I wish I weren't so relieved over the whole situation. But I am. I am saying good-bye to a great deal of stupidity (I once compared my boss and her student assistant to two misfiring synapses), a great deal of miscommunication arising from said stupidity, a great deal of boredom, and a great deal of guilt for not giving a shit about the job I'm doing, but knowing that I should be grateful to the people who gave me the job, and that they deserve better/more out of me than they're getting. I have had several suggestions since I learned I was out of a job for making more money, and I will probably explore some of them. Currently, the most important thing for me is to make sure that I finish this quarter well. I MUST. That takes precedence over everything else. What I do now affects the rest of my life profoundly. If I have to starve for a month or so, well, it's not like I can't handle that. But to let school fail? Never! So I'll keep on tutoring, will up my hours, most likely, will take on freelance work as a writer, and will deal with a "real" job at the end of the quarter.

If only my boss hadn't cried. That's what's making me feel so badly. If only she hadn't cried.

A Little Apartment in Ohio

Outside, gray skies. A matte, smooth gray. Gray skies that last far beyond the reach of winter, into the new greening of spring, the wet warmth of summer, breaking only for the woodsmoke-filled breezes of fall. No sunbeams break through the non-existent clouds; the light is diffuse and muted. The rest of the landscape is secondary to the gray skies; the eye is drawn upward and captured by the dullness. The bare black branches of sleeping trees stabbing the skies in winter or fluffy green fingers and tendrils creeping across telephone poles in spring or flashes of lightning and a ground-meets-sky harmony of sheeting rain in summer are merely background noise.

Inside, color. A lemon-peel yellow spread across the walls in the living room, the kind of white that children imagine clouds to be in the kitchen, baby-boy blue in the bedrooms, and violent tangerine in the bathrooms. An old, worn couch, with pillows pounded and shaped by the sleepers of a thousand naps, sits against a wall in the living room, draped in a faded denim-blue slipcover printed with fat white flowers. A mirror in a wide, chunky, square silver frame embossed with the same fat flowers hangs over the couch. Unfinished-oak bookcases everywhere – at least seven fill the apartment. They’re filled with thousands of paperbacks and hardbacks – 3,546 at last count – many missing covers and held together with Scotch, duct, or electrical tape. Scattered across the tops of the bookcases are candles, blue-glass vases filled with many-colored silk flowers, pictures in beaded frames, and more books – dictionaries and an atlas and a series of Time Life books on photography. Pictures on the walls – Dali, Magritte, Matisse, Escher, and two abstracts: one in blues, yellows, whites, and oranges, the other swirls of charcoal black-and-white. A big scratched oak table is set in a nook called the “dining room”, and around it are solid oak chairs with fraying navy-blue cushions. Soft, silent curtains in a warm navy-blue hang at the sliding-glass door, replacing the clacking and clattering of the plastic verticals installed by the apartment managers. A shabby wool rug, in strips of blue, orange, white, and yellow, leads to the front door, to the gray skies.

Cynicism Explained

I find that I am becoming much more cynical about some things than I ever was before. I don't know how much cynicism really entered my life prior to this past year, but -- and lately, especially -- it has seemed very difficult for me not to view life through jade-tinted glasses. And I'm not talking the Emerald City here. I'm not entirely sure when the cynicism really started to creep into my life, or when I began to notice it, but lately, especially when I think about love or relationships or anything having to do with "happily ever after", I cannot help but get a green-tinted soul. It's endemic, I think, to people who have gone through divorces or other serious, life-upheaving ordeals. And for me, this is even harder to deal with, because I've always thought of myself as a glass-half-full kind of person.

Optimism, though, and ennui do not a yummy cocktail make. There's too much bitterness in ennui, and it doesn't contrast well with optimism's sunny sweetness. So, too often, as in the rest of life, the bitterness wins out. Which is odd. Because even in my dark days, I always thought of tomorrow as being a savior. In fact, "tomorrow" is what propelled me through much of my marriage. The thought -- the wish, the sometimes fleeting, ephemeral hope -- that tomorrow would be better. Today is tolerable, but only if tomorrow comes, and tomorrow is better. And then, when tomorrow came, and wasn't better, I didn't let my spirits flag or fail, but looked towards the new tomorrow.

If you're curious as to what has sparked this particular rant, it was my own stupidity. I was scrolling down the front page of the New York Times online (it's my home page, because I'm too lazy to actually go buy and read a newspaper, so just look at the Times every so often during the day to keep up with things), and saw their little marriage section highlighted in their "Inside NYTimes.com" bar at the bottom of the page. (This was after reading, and being mildly disgusted by, one of the front page articles, "A Yoga Manifesto".) How stupid of me! To read of the glowing joy of all these newly married couples, to see their ecstatically happy faces -- ugh! Perhaps if I had ever had those feelings of glowing joy and ecstasy myself during marriage, I might be more forgiving, and then just slightly sad and nostalgic, but, alas, no. No, I found myself reading with growing vitriol of these happy marriages, and thinking, "Yes, but how long will it last?"

I don't know that I was miserable during the entirety of my marriage. I'm sure there were lots of happy moments, or if not happy moments, at least content moments. I was reminded, in fact, of one of them the other day. When my husband and I graduated with our Bachelor of Arts degrees, in English, from THE Ohio State University (never forget the "The", it's very important), we walked down the ramp together, one hand each holding a diploma, the other holding "our chothers". It was a magical moment; and I only recall a few moments as happy as that. (One of them was reading my acceptance letter to OSU.) Ironically, my wedding day was not one of those moments. In fact, I will forever burn with shame over one of my most vivid memories of that day: snapping at my mother as she asked me if I really did want to cut my veil off the crown of pearls and things I was wearing in my hair. Isn't that lovely? Not the dancing or the food or the speeches or the pictures, but me snapping at my mother. Oh, whoever said that to marry young is a mistake is so RIGHT.

I do remember good things about being married, and on some days, I convince myself that the bad things were over-exaggerated, perhaps, or didn't happen quite as I remembered them, but then the rosiness fades, and I remember the bad things, and hurt all over again. It's a funny thing, but my husband and I have been separated (we're not divorced yet, for reasons neither of us can really elucidate) for almost a full nine months, and it still hurts every day. And for those quick to point out that it was my decision, yes, thank you, I hadn't forgotten. But just because it was the right decision (I'm still, unfortunately, certain about that), doesn't mean it wasn't a painful decision, and it doesn't mean that I don't still love him, and that it doesn't still hurt every bloody day.

Part of me aches, sometimes, to go back to things the way they were, even if things the way they were was slowing killing both of us. I miss my bodies (I don't know that I've written of them, but I will someday; they're a pain too intense for me to talk about much, my little fuzzy, soft, furry kitten bodies that I literally delivered with my own hands, and have watched grow from that moment of birth), and I miss all my books, not just the ones I got to take, and I miss my couch, and my vases of flowers and . . . I miss having a home. I miss coming home to a place that was mine, that knew me, that waited for me and loved me. . . . In Ohio, I had a home like that; a tiny little apartment, and even in California, I had a home. I remember and ache for my home in Ohio. So much so that I wrote a sketch of it for a class of mine last quarter. I'll post it, so you can see what my home was. Maybe that's what I miss most about being married. Home, with my husband, who was as much a part of my home and soul as anything else.

Sometimes I really do hate life, and can't wait to move on and see what lies beyond it. Oh, cynicism, you bloody awful thing, go away, go away! Let me live in peace, at least for awhile!

"O wad some Power the giftie gie us . . ."

There are many days -- many -- where I get a blue funk in my soul, and can't seem to shake it. It pervades my very existence, so that everything is colored with a delicate blue tinge -- say periwinkle -- and the shine has been rubbed off life, and everything is dim and dingy and slightly unreal. That's the way I've been feeling the last few days, and I don't know why. I mean, nothing in my life has really changed significantly -- things are just as much in stasis as they have been -- but every now and again the blue funk takes me, and I guess this is one of those "now" times.

Do you ever have a startlingly lucid realization of how others must see you? There is one person with whom I interact on a regular basis who always gives me the uncomfortable power to "see ourselfs as ithers see us", and I have to say, I can't think that Burns was really telling the truth when he begged for that power. Unless you have a shining soul, and are completely comfortable with yourself, you cannot possibly want to know what you look like through other people's eyes. I certainly don't, yet always get the opportunity to get a hint of what I must look like, especially when I talk with this person for any length of time (say, longer than 10 minutes). I always come off feeling like a right little bastard, too, I must admit. I mean, all the things I like about myself disappear into a mist of embarrassment and shame whenever this person says things which are totally justified and accurate and entirely too honest and . . . well, dammit, I guess that's the point, isn't it? I mean, I know he doesn't dislike me -- at least, I'm fairly certain he doesn't dislike me, and God help me if he does dislike me, because I'm relying on him to write me a fairly good recommendation for grad school. . . . I digress. Anyway, I'm reasonably sure (see how the blue funk takes its toll?) that he likes me, and I know his advice is well-meant, and is honest, and is certainly accurate in many ways (oh, the stings of accurate arrows!), but why is it that, whenever I talk to him, I feel like crawling deep inside myself, and not coming out?

I mean, the things we discussed today -- let me be honest with myself. I will be perfectly honest, and say that, yes, I think I'm fairly intelligent. God help me, I hope I am, because there are days when I feel like that is the only thing I have going for me. Do I think I'm smarter than everyone in the world? No. I know there are so many people who are so much more intelligent than I am, and I respect their intelligence. I do. I respect real intelligence when it manifests itself. I don't respect intelligence when someone says, "Oh, he's smart." I am paraphrasing and condensing both Holmes/Watson and Einstein (is this an unpardonable sin?) when I say that mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself, so really, how can someone who has mediocre intelligence be expected to recognize real intelligence? But I think that people think I'm a snob, because stupidity is one of the things that I have so little patience with, and when confronted with elements of it, I become frustrated and restless and impatient. I used to have more patience for it, I think. But lately it seems like I'm surrounded by it, and drowning in it -- and why should that bother me so much? Do I hate stupid people? No. I don't. But am I as kind and patient as I can be when confronted with them? Here's the thing, and no one who has seen me in "real life" will believe it: if I am confronted with someone who has a question about something, and who is genuinely struggling to understand a concept, I am as patient and kind as I would be with anyone or anything. I really, truly am (and I feel almost compelled to post a recent transcript of me in a tutoring session with someone to prove it). I know that the impatience that I sort of exude when confronted with stupidity might make it almost impossible for many people who know me to actually believe this, but it's the truth. But stupidity posturing as intelligence -- that is something I cannot abide.

So, what's my point? Well, I know that person-referenced-above thinks that I have too high an opinion of my own intelligence. I don't! That's the point! I'm firmly convinced that, while I might be intelligent, I don't have as much as I might wish, so I have to grasp firmly what I do have, and fight what I cannot help but feel is the sea of ignorance trying to swamp me. If it does, then the only thing I really respect about myself will be washed away, and what will I have left?

Something else that this person makes me realize is that other people must see me as utterly argumentative. Am I? I don't know. Perhaps that goes along with being insecure about my hold on my intelligence. So often I feel misunderstood, like what I'm thinking/saying isn't getting across, so, yes, I suppose I push a little bit harder than I should to make what I'm trying to say clear. Why should it matter if people misinterpret me? I don't know. I haven't thought much about that one. Does it matter if people attribute to me motives and thoughts and things that don't actually exist? I don't know that, either. I do know that I passionately feel certain things, and that there are times when it is almost impossible for me to bite my tongue, and not say them. I know that my excess of passion often makes things uncomfortable for other people, and sets me at odds with almost everyone I know (how can I forget Christmas? When I was the only one holding firmly to a particular point, feeling the social leper every second I spoke, but unable to back away from the discussion with grace, because I felt so strongly about the topic), and I know that it has a tendency to flare up at the worst possible moments . . . but there are so many times I bite my tongue! There are so many times I wonder at my own, what, cowardice? I admire people who can say what they feel without inhibition. I certainly can't. That's the ironic thing. Most people would say I'm argumentative, and that I don't hesitate at all to say what I feel, and yet, if they knew! I suppose they'd run far, far away if they knew just how often I'd like to say precisely what I'm feeling or thinking about a particular topic. Especially injustice in some way. That is almost unbearable for me to ignore, yet I find that I often have to. . . . If those who call me confrontational knew how often I didn't say something, or backed off, simply because I didn't want to fight, or argue, or was afraid of conflict, I think they'd be rather surprised. I wonder if I only argue with those people with whom I feel comfortable enough to argue? I hadn't thought of that. Something to explore.

One last thought on being argumentative (yes, I've been called this all my life). I remember once that my sister and I were arguing over something, and because I felt passionately about it, I got rather heated, while my sister stayed calm and cucumber-like through the entire argument. And at the end of it, my dad, who had listened to the entire thing, commended my sister on her ability to stay calm and cucumber-like, and told me that I would do much better in my arguments if I were to copy my sister, and remain calm and cucumber-like. But I can't! That completely contravenes my entire personality! I suppose I should just accept an excess of passion and move on.

What else did that person say? Well, one thing he said made me feel tangentially completely ashamed of myself, and has called into question something which continually torments me: am I selfish? That is something with which I struggle so often, and can never come to a quite-conclusive conclusion. I think I am -- horribly selfish. Yet other people -- most people -- disagree with me. But today, for example, this person pointed out a particular behavior of mine that was distracting. It hadn't occurred to me that said behavior was distracting, and I felt utterly ashamed of myself for not recognizing that my little fits of impatience and frustration over stupidity might be distracting to someone who shouldn't be distracted by them. "You don't do a very good job of hiding it," he said, and I know he's right, because I thought I needn't hide it -- the only person who could see my facial expressions was him. But then he said, and somehow this had just not occurred to me at all, "It's very distracting for me, because I feel like I'm supposed to do something." How completely selfish of me! I know I have a tendency to not think about how my behavior will affect someone, and what else can that be called but selfishness? Oh, my soul is on fire with shame over that one. I've tried, I think, to be aware of how my behavior affects other people. Apparently I do a damn poor job of it.

Oh, Burns, you were full of crap. I don't like knowing what other people think of me. It makes me even more dissatisfied with myself than I already am.

Middle English

So I've just spent about half an hour listening to and practicing reading Middle English. What poetry! What music! It's so beautiful, so lilting and rhythmic. I came across this site, the Norton Anthology of English Literature companion site, while looking for some audio files of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, and found, aside from the Canterbury Tales (which don't seem to be too difficult to find; EVERYONE reads those aloud), some awesome Old English readings by this guy named Rob Fulk, who has put out the definitive edition of Beowulf, and who is currently professing at one of the universities to which I'm applying -- Indiana University. A veritable treasure trove of readings. (How was that for alliteration?)

How do I know all this? It's because I'm a student -- albeit a new student -- of medieval literature. I've always loved it, but it's really been over the last few years that it's grabbed and held my attention. There's something so mysterious, so ethereal about it, that I cannot help but be drawn to it. So one of the classes I'm taking this quarter is -- yay! -- a medieval lit class. We're studying Chaucer (of course), but we're also studying Chretien de Troyes, and William Langland, and my favorite, the Pearl-poet, the man who wrote Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.

I have, I have to admit, a fascination with Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. So much so that I've thought and brooded over this book and its place in the pantheon of medieval literature probably far too much. I plan on writing at least my master's thesis on it, and very possibly, if it furnishes enough material, my dissertation (all this is, of course, assuming I will be accepted to graduate school. God help me if I'm not). Let me elaborate a little bit. It sounds as though I've just come across SGGK. I haven't. It's been firmly entrenched in my mind since last spring quarter, when I was first introduced to the concept of "community" and medieval literature (that was a class I took on medieval communities, which was also fascinating). I began to have this idea, which I won't explicate here, because it still needs working out, and the idea has grown and developed and become its own little person, and is now begging to be written out.

There's this paper that I've been writing for -- literally -- a year now. It was born during that class I mentioned, and also coincided with the beginning of the end of my marriage and my last job. That is to say, it did not "get born" at an auspicious time. Since then, however, it has been written -- and rewritten -- and rewritten -- and rewritten -- so many times that I'm not even sure I could tell you what the original idea was. (Yes, I could! I compulsively keep every scrap of digital paper that marks the trajectory of one idea to the next, simply because I can't always tell when an idea I discarded in the past might become valuable in the future. Hey, it's digital. It's not like I have scraps of paper lying around my house (although I do). So I'm sure I could fairly easily lay my hands on that first sketch I drew of the burgeoning idea.) At any rate, I have to submit this paper by the end of this spring quarter (so, by June), and to be honest, I'm terrified. I know what the professor expects of it -- what else would YOU expect of a paper that's been in the writing for a year? -- and I'm not sure my paper will deliver. There's so much to say! I'm terrible at trying to narrow down what it is I'm going to say, too. But finish the paper I will, come hell or high water, and I'll just cross my fingers that it isn't too jumbled from its millions of rewritings that it makes sense -- and more than that, that it's a good paper.

Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh, yes, the Middle English audio files. Why was I searching for them? Because the professor of this class I'm taking this quarter (who is, incidentally, the professor with whom I took the class last spring quarter, and who is waiting -- ever so patiently and kindly -- for my paper) has asked us to read to him 15 lines of Middle English. I've chosen SGGK, because it's more interesting dialectically (I think) than Chaucer, and so I was searching for some samples. I came across a few, the first one I mentioned at the Norton site, and then this one here, at a site from Arizona State University (another school to which I'm applying). I've decided to go with the passage read in the first (which is the first 19 lines of the poem), for two reasons: firstly, because I think the first 19 lines are among the coolest in the entirety of the poem; and secondly, because they were read by Marie Borroff, who's a sort of hero of mine, and listening to her voice was absolutely thrilling (yes, second reason might be sort of lame, but see first reason). Following are the first 19 lines, the original Middle English in parenthesis:

Since the siege and assault was ceased at Troy, (Siþen þe sege and þe assaut watz sesed at Troye,)
The walls breached and burnt down to brands and ashes, (Þe borȝ brittened and brent to brondez and askez,)
The knight that had knotted the nets of deceit (Þe tulk þat þe trammes of tresoun þer wroȝt)
Was impeached for his perfidy, proven most true, (Watz tried for his tricherie,þe trewest on erthe)
It was high-born Aeneas and his haughty race (Hit watz Ennias þe athel, and his highe kynde,)
That since prevailed over provinces, and proudly reigned (Þat siþen depreced prouinces, and patrounes bicome)
Over well-nigh all the wealth of the West Isles. (Welneȝe of al þe wele in þe west iles.)
Great Romulus to Rome repairs in haste; (Fro riche Romulus to Rome ricchis hym swyþe,)
With boast and with bravery builds he that city (With gret bobbaunce þat burȝe he biges vpon fyrst,)
And names it with his own name, that it now bears. (And neuenes hit his aune nome, as hit now hat;)
Ticius to Tuscany, and towers raises. (Tirius to Tuskan and teldes bigynnes,)
Langobard in Lombardy lays out homes, (Langaberde in Lumbardie lyftes vp homes,)
And far over the French Sea, Felix Brutus (And fer ouer þe French flod Felix Brutus)
On many broad hills and high Britain he sets, (On mony bonkkes ful brode he)
most fair,(wyth wynne,)
Where war and wrack and wonder (Where werre and and wonder)
By shifts have sojourned there, (Bi syþez wont þerinne,)
And bliss by turns with blunder, (And oft boþe blysse and blunder)
In that land's lot had share. (Ful skete hatz skyfted synne.)

Isn't that gorgeous? It's the founding of Britain, from Aeneas to Brutus . . . I love the last four lines, and I especially love them in Middle English. (As a note, by the way, the Middle English is from the Gordon edition, and the translation is from the Norton critical edition, translated by Marie Borroff.)

There's magic in those lines, in those words, and that can't be denied. It's why I'm so infatuated with medieval literature. I'm sure that Keats, when he wrote of his "fairylands forlorn", was thinking of the magic in all the words that had come before him. What a heritage of gorgeousness there is in the English language! As a writer, I can only despair of ever doing it even the smallest bit of justice. As a reader, I love it unconstrainedly.

A Very Bad Thing

Okay, it is an appallingly bad thing when you start a blog, promise to write every day, and then . . . let almost two months (seriously -- February 22nd is two days shy of being two months ago) go by without even remembering that you have a blog. Very, very bad. Not evil or wicked or stupid, just bad.

So, anyway, here I am, contrite as ever, willing to put some more thought into words, even though it is 2:30 in the morning, and I should really be in bed, asleep, because I have school tomorrow, and, um, I'm not quite finished with my homework. But honestly, can you blame me? Rhetorics vs. own brain. Is there even a contest? Not that Plato isn't fascinating -- in the proper time and place. But right now . . . well, I can't justify reading any more of Yvain right now, even though the rest of it is due on Thursday, because I find that when I read ahead, I always end up frustrating the professor, other students, and myself (mostly because I forget where we were supposed to stop, so introduce into the conversation things that don't properly belong there, and upset the professor's plans for the class, which inevitably earns me a disgruntled grimace), and the thought of writing an essay on the Sophists just . . . isn't . . . doing it for me. But I'm not ready for bed. I've been re-reading the Emily books (L.M. Montgomery, more properly famous for the Anne books (you know, Anne of Green Gables, Anne of the Island, Anne of Ad Infinitum)), and it makes me feel both frustrated and guilty when I read about how much Emily writes. It always makes me question my own desire to write: if I don't write obsessively (because I really don't), does that mean I don't have the burning desire? And if I don't have the burning desire, should I really write? Should I bother people with my views on things, with stories that come out of my head? If I don't have the urge to commit words to paper (or digital paper) every day, does that mean that I shouldn't really call myself a writer? Who knows? I certainly don't. That's why I'm throwing this question into the digital atmosphere, although I hardly expect a response.

Anyway. I got completely off the beaten path. Of course, I was never on the beaten path, and I sometimes wish that I could have walked it once or twice in my lifetime. But honestly, every time it seemed my path -- my own delightful, off-beat, twisty, windy, rough and unpredictable road -- crossed the beaten path, well, I have to admit that I veered away from it as quickly as my legs could take me. I don't know why, but there is something about the beaten path that terrifies me with its predictability. Even now, thinking of becoming a professor -- well, if I have to be like some of the professors I've known . . . let's just say that, charming as they are, they are so dull and full of predictability that I wouldn't be surprised if their personal routine varies not a jot. And then there are other professors -- the professor I had last quarter (yes, I was stupid enough to take two classes with an entirely untried professor, something I shall never do again), for example, was so full of himself that he assigned himself as an author on which we -- his class -- could write a report AND PRESENT IT TO THE CLASS!!! AND he called Chaucer "cheesy". I shall never forgive him for either. Both were unpardonable offenses, as far as I'm concerned. What was I saying? Oh, yes, well, they weren't necessarily dull and predictable, but neither did they wander far from the beaten path. So wandering far from the madding crowd does have its compensations, even if they are few and far between. (Of course, if I wander too far, I might end up like a professor I had at Ohio State, who was such a fascinating specimen of unkempt professor-dom that I cannot recall him without both a cringe and a laugh. I should tell that story one day. . . .)

A brief digression: There is a gray cat asleep on my bed right now. He has decided that he should occupy the entirety of the bed, so has stretched his little catness across it as far as he can -- which is astonishingly far for such a little beast. I will have to move him when I get into bed, but for right now I'll let him lie there, looking so ridiculously, abominably adorable that it is really taking all my self-control not to go over there, bury my face in his soft, gray, velvety stomach and kiss him into bad humor (for what cat likes being wakened from a sound sleep by having its belly attacked?). Oh, cats! How do people ever get along without you?

I just re-read this post, and it occurs to me I have said nothing coherent. Ah, well, it's almost three o'clock in the morning. I should be allowed moments -- or half-hours -- of incoherency. I should probably also wander along to bed, having satisfied some kind of soul-ache by putting a few words down on paper-ish. I wonder if that's the whole thing about writing? One doesn't ache to do it, but one feels so much better after they do? Who knows.

Tutoring

Since I quit my "real" job last September (well, officially, last July, but my last day of work was the end of September), I've been doing two things to make money-ish (I say "-ish" because I don't make more than $10/hour at either job, which hardly brings my "work" into the realm of making money). I work for the campus webmasters as an "accessibility consultant" (more about that excruciatingly boring job later), and I also tutor. Online. For people that I've never met before, know virtually nothing about -- not even their names -- for no longer than 40 minutes. I tutor in three areas -- English, essay writing, and career help.

It's an interesting job in many respects, although like most jobs, it has its share of pure, unmitigated frustration and moments of really quite exceptional anger, which sometimes even borders on rage. For the most part, however, it's fairly enjoyable, and certainly always a learning experience. It gives me an invaluable chance to peep into people's lives and psyches, if only for a minute, and reminds me of what it was like to be a teacher. (Yes, a long time ago, back in the dark days (okay, um, three-and-a-half years ago), I was a teacher for a brief-lived period of truly terrible time. I taught sophomore English. Never again.) When I was a teacher, it was shocking to me how intimately you become involved in your students' lives, even when you never meant to, and they never meant you to. The simplest English essay reveals scads about a person's character, things you'd never think would be revealed that way.

And it's the same with this job. Even though I never know the person's name with whom I'm working (and really, what's in a name?), only have the vaguest notion of their age (we're given the grade level of the student, so we can address them appropriately -- obviously you can't talk to a third-grader the way you would a college student, and that is definitely the age spectrum I encounter on a daily basis), and am given their state, so I have a general idea of their location, I find that by the end of the session -- even if the session only involves me reading their essay -- I know far more about them than they'd be comfortable with me knowing. I mean, who knew that spelling, punctuation, and diction could be so revealing? It's not just the topics on which they write, or the opinions they express, or the creative energy they put (or don't put) into their essays -- it's little things, like using one preposition for another, which gives their location identity far more successfully than the little "MA" or "CA" or "WA" that appears on their avatar. Their income, class, race -- yes! -- and other characteristics are often very easy to determine, too. It is truly much, much more interesting than I had thought possible.

When I began tutoring, I did it because I'm damn good at my subject (no, really, I am -- no false modesty here), and because I knew it would be pretty easy. I also thought it would probably be good practice for my future plans (which involve a Ph.D. and therefore teaching at some level). What I didn't realize was that it would challenge me, that I would find it fascinating, and that I would be deeply satisfied at the end of a tutoring session. That, more than anything, is what keeps me going back to it, and that is what makes me wish I could do that full-time, and bugger my "consultant" job. I've always, always, always felt that in order for any job that I do to be a worthwhile job, and a fulfilling job, it has to be a job that helps someone. It can't be a job that doesn't matter -- and this consultant job really doesn't matter, in the grand scheme of things. It's what kept me at my previous job for so long, and that truly was a situation from HELL. It was because I was doing something that mattered, that wasn't just pen-pushing. Of course, I have to like what I'm doing, but I've discovered that a not insignificant fraction of liking what I do is doing something that really helps someone.

The other fascinating part of it all is the fact that it really does challenge me. It makes me question -- almost minute-by-minute -- what it is I know about my subject, which is not something I had expected in the slightest. But when you have people coming to you with questions about things half-forgotten, and you have to be able to competently guide them through all the intricacies of language or essay-writing or grammar usage, you remember very, very quickly (and sometimes with the help of teh interweb). For example, I had a student come to me with questions about diagramming sentences. Now, I haven't diagrammed sentences since high school (which was over ten years ago . . . oh, GOD, I'm old), but I remember that I loved it then -- I seem to remember it being like a great puzzle. But this student put the questions up on the "board", and it immediately came flooding back. Of course, what came flooding back were the basic principles, not the more complex twists and turns, and naturally, that's what the student had questions about. So, can I just recommend, for anyone who wants a crash course in diagramming sentences, the web site http://grammar.ccc.commnet.edu/grammar/diagrams/diagrams.htm? It kinda saved my butt there.

And you know, it isn't enough to just know what you know. It's a whole different can of tomatoes (?) when you have to explain -- coherently and logically -- what you know to someone who doesn't give a toss or is totally confused and lost or wasn't paying attention in class and now has homework due and is panicking because they don't know what the hell they're supposed to be doing. And it's not just doing the work for them. It's explaining the concepts to them so they can do the work -- successfully -- and it's explaining the concepts to them in a way that even a toe-rag could understand (yeah, isn't that a great epithet?). It's breaking down your knowledge molecule by molecule, atom by atom, until you've found something they can understand, and then building it all back up again until they're in possession of some compound that they can use. It's almost intoxicating when it works.

Anyone, enough of the high-horse discourse. What I meant to say is that when I'm tutoring, I'm really discovering so much about people, and it never ceases to amaze me how people in a group infuriate me to degrees that it is difficult to express, but that individually they have the ability to touch me so deeply it brings tears to my eyes (yes, I've cried once or twice during a session). People are funny creatures, aren't they? Bloody buggers. . . .

The Beginning at the End

As my life has changed substantially in the last seven months or so, it seems appropriate to abandon all prior attempts to rationalize my old life, and begin trying to understand my new one. Of course, despite the beginning of the new life, much of it is still in limbo at present, which accounts for the title of the blog. I haven't yet determined in which direction I wish to, er, direct my life, and I'm hoping that in this blog I can begin to figure these things out.

Furthermore, as the title also indicates, I've decided that it is time to finally take my writing seriously. I have four chapters of a book just sitting there, waiting for me to finish it, and I've had this book just sitting there for almost five years now (God, is it really five years?). So, I have a goal: to write at least 500 words a day, whether it is for the book, or for this blog. I have no idea what form these words will take, but I imagine it will be personal exploration, external observations, and bits and pieces of creativeness that float through my mind. It'll be interesting to see how it all develops, but the point is, at least I'll be writing again.

So, now what? I don't know. . . . I suppose I should say something about what has changed in my life. Where to start? I guess with the biggest change: divorce. I'm getting divorced. After eight years of marriage, and ten years of a relationship, I'm getting divorced. I have to say that, one year ago, this was really the last thing on my mind. I had wanted so much to make things work with my husband, and had even started a blog to track my resolutions . . . and one of those resolutions was to be a better wife. And then . . . what happened? What ever happens? Why does one decide that life would really be better without a particular person, when all you'd ever thought about was how life would be -- the rest of life -- with that particular person?

Of all the decisions I've made in my life, this is one that I know is right, yet wish so, so much that it weren't. I wish more than anything that this decision weren't the right one, yet every time I think about what led to the decision, I am entirely convinced that it was the right thing to do. But the pain that has attended that decision is enough at times -- many times -- to make me call into question the rightness of the decision. That I have severed a bond that was so many years in the forging, and that was so central to the shaping of my character and personality and self as it was -- in so many ways it's like I've severed part of myself. Like I looked at my right leg one day and said, "Yes, you're useful, and I'm not sure how I'm going to get along without you, but I don't think we should be together anymore, because we just aren't working."

I know the question -- why did I make the decision? For reasons that I could not possibly go into here, no matter who never reads this blog, it was clear to me that neither of us were good for each other, and that neither of us were making the other one happy. And isn't that what it's all about? Happiness? I mean, I'm not sure, when I look at the future, what I'm going to do without him -- I really don't know, and it terrifies me beyond belief to think of it -- but when we were together, we weren't happy. Because of a strange historic accident, as John Cleese would say, we met, and we found each other, and found immense joy and happiness in each other for a time, and helped each other, and helped each other become the people we are today, but also hurt each other irreparably, so that we are where we are now.

I sometimes think of the movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. The movie might seem ridiculous to some, but I understand it, because I feel that if we were to have our minds erased, we'd keep finding each other, again and again and again. Would we be doomed to be continually unhappy? That I don't know. But I also don't know how my life will work without him. It has to, though, because if it doesn't, then I'll have made the worst decision of my life, and I can't believe that it was the worst decision of my life, but I'm almost 100% certain (call it 99.99%) that it was the right decision.

Bugger all this. I'm about 300 words over my goal, and all I've done now is depress myself.