adrenaline

maybe because I was teaching a text I actually know well and admire profoundly and that is, admittedly extremely rich, I had a kind of amazing class today. My students were still awfully lumpy and non-responsive, but I felt like I was able to make connections and set up the text and put together the various details of individual characters into historical perspective and eliciting the organization/ideological schema of the text. It was exciting--but also felt a great deal like that run-on sentence I just wrote: giddy and additive. It felt strange to be so animated. I'm sure it was talking about Hannibal and his moving the war elephants from Tunisia through Spain, over the Pyrennées and the Alps and laying siege to Italy that instigated this jittery drive throughout class.

I managed to scoot in both the complex construction of the nation-state and a conversation about the failures of language and the attempts to expand the boundaries of literature by incorporating references to the plastic arts (ekphrasis). And I did so with gusto.

Miracle of the day: teaching was actually enjoyable. In the moment, exhilarating.

THE LISTS

to do class: Write JM recommendation. Grade midterms. Write Vergil lecture. Copy notes from King's Vergil 4AW. Prep Class. Grade papers.
done! Copied Vergil notes. Wrote Vergil lecture. Prepped class. Graded two papers.

to do work: Write Pépin performatic writing section. Read Roach.
done! Read Roach. Planned revision of performatic writing section.

to do life: Pay down debt (currently $3,430). Procure dog. Redo taxes. Call Jessie Delgado. Figure out Amazon.com problem. Repot ginko tree.
done! Cooked orzo.

to do blitz: sarah, marilyn, giulia, irmary, mariana, dar, nv, robin, fl, ek.

Netflixed: El espinazo del diablo. Very hard to watch. But the bad orphan character, there was really no reason for him to be so bad--other than the fact that some people are just evil without reason. Perhaps he was representative of the Franquistas, those who evil with no reason, who enjoy violence and the power that gives them over others.

arrogant

is that how I strike you?

I have a colleague with whom I have never really had any kind of contact except for last summer when we fought over a room that we shared. We had been scheduled in a truly unfortunate fashion with my class ending exactly at 3:00 and hers starting exactly at 3:00, so that there was no time for shuffling in or shuffling out. I thought she was graceless and I resented her for exacerbating an already unpleasant situation. Now, whenever I run into her, if we make eye contact, I nod and move on.

However, today we were alone in the office and she told me that she has always found me arrogant--she repeated this a number of times--and that she hates all the tension between us. We then rehashed the old argument about whose feelings were injured first, and how I responded so aggressively to her when she approached me about the time conflict that she thought "whoops!" Yes, she thought "whoops" a number of times about the way we interacted, my responses were so erratic as to deserve repeated "whoops." I reminded her of the fact that at one point in our protracted standoff last summer, she told me I was immature, not nice, and impolite. I then suggested that she shouldn't expect to have people she has insulted to fall all over themselves to say hi to her. Then, she busts out with the recollection that, years ago at a reception, we were both at the food table and she said hello to me and I didn't respond. And that she felt that I treated her like she was not worth talking to, further! a piece of dirt. "Who do you think you are?" she asked. I have no idea what she's talking about and thus must plead the fifth or waxy buildup as I'm generally grateful when people engage me in conversation at receptions.

But seriously: if you want someone to say hello to you and you want to put an end to tension, is calling that person arrogant really the right move?


THE LISTS

to do class: Write JM recommendation. Grade midterms. Write Catullus lecture. Get Catullus study questions. Copy notes from King's Vergil 4AW.
done! Graded 5 q1s off the midterm. Wrote Catullus lecture. Organized Catullus class.

to do work: Write Pépin performatic writing section. Read Roach.
done! Wrote two solid Pépin paragraphs...almost done with the performatic writing section for Pépin!

to do life: Pay down debt (currently $3,430). Procure dog. Redo taxes. Call Jessie Delgado; at your service. Take back step up to library before school. Copy portions of Caribeños and take it back to library at school. Copy Roach. Bring two Horace quizzes. Figure out Amazon.com problem. Repot ginko tree.
done! Set up At your service. Copied Roach. Brought in Horace quizes. Did dishes. Returned all items to both libraries.

to do blitz: sarah, marilyn, giulia, irmary, mariana, dar, nv, robin, fl, ek.

the long weekend

pretty much kicked off with barely making into the global butoh show at highways: the circumstances weren't ideal as I was really tired and kind of anxious and perturbed for non-butoh-related reasons when the show began. Moreover, I wasn't remotely prepared for how tense and intense a form it would be. The first piece was at moments very beautiful. In particular, in the opening sequence, because it was almost fully in the dark--the only lights were the glowing computer screens, lights shining through the apple on the front cover of the laptops--I found myself straining, gaze leaping to whatever small bits of light glinted, then, finally, letting go of the strain and becoming comfortable with vague figures, whose outlines were thick and unclear, but evidently present. I love it when performances ask me to retrain my way of understanding the world around me; it's a hard exchange, but a worthwhile one. But after that, it was overly narrative and evident. And I like me some narrative, so that's saying something. And after that, there was no narrative to hang on to whatsoever: only distress and white chalk foofing into the air after a violent collision of bodies on stage.

I felt somewhat shy and out of my league in having few analytical responses to the show, especially unsure of how I would respond to queries from colleagues who were also in attendance without sounding stupid. So I was much relieved when a person in the row in front of us turned to Harmony and commented with a shrug, "what can you say? That is some crazy shit." Fiouf! Glad I'm not the only one to have astonishment crowding out any other possible thought.

Sunday was intensely lazy, with the exception of some flurrying around Michael's room, cleaning and dirtying, cleaning and dirtying. I love the laze.

And today was reggaefest. Which I will not attend again. There is a lot of hanging out, a lot of not much going on, no dancing, less than excellent music and heat. Little to report on that, really.

While I was there, my dad called and left a message on my cell asking me to call him back, that he had some not so good news. I knew it was about my grandma--his mom. My mom's mom passed away three months ago. And it turns out that the prognosis for my grandma's liver cancer is that she has about a year, at best.

I don't know how to handle this exactly. Everyone is flying from around the country to come see her. I guess I am too. It feels so wierd though, as if I'm going to see the Godfather to pay my respects. And what are we going to say? Hey! I'm sorry you're dying. I wish you wouldn't. But you are. I'm sorry.

THE LISTS

to do class: Write JM recommendation. Grade midterms. Write Catullus lecture.

to do work: Write Pépin performatic writing section.
done! Wrote a solid paragraph

to do life: Pay down debt (currently $3,430). Procure dog. Redo taxes. Pilates. Call Jessie Delgado; at your service.

to do blitz: sarah, marilyn, giulia, irmary, mariana, dar, nv
blitzed cindy, ksw

Netflixed: Step Up. The plot is ridiculous, cloying and predictable. What makes it worth watching are the dance scenes, which are funky fresh.

hard throw

A couple of years ago, a beloved mentor gave me the I Ching and three cowrie shells that she had picked up off a beach in the Dominican Republican. I throw when I'm really at a loss and write the results in a little book. The ritualistic nature of the endeavor provides a distance from my worries by allowing me to create an interpretive narrative about them. More importantly, it gives troubles a future. I have never encountered stagnancy. There is always an outcome and change, as well as a strategy for how to get to that moment of transition or how to prepare yourself to receive it.

Because the winter was so productive and fast-moving, I haven't thrown since I had a bout of amnesia in the fall and feng shui'ed my studio.

Now that I am adrift, it seemed a good time to consult with the I Ching.

Knowing what question to ask is the most important thing you can do to figure out what kind of directives are appropriate. I think my question might have been broad: "How can I motivate myself to get my dissertation done and a position for after grad school is done." Maybe a little bit broad, yes.

[Kên]
— •
- -
- -
[K'un]
- - •
- -
- - •

After looking at the chart at the back of the book to see what judgment and image the Kên upper K'un lower combines into, number 23, flip flip flip the pages, scan down to 23 which is Po: Splitting Apart.

The I Ching is deceptive though with its language: its translation from Chinese to German to a cheery contemporary American idiom can result in some counter-intuitive phrases. So I breathe deep and read on, only to find that no, in this case, the bad feeling brought about by "splitting apart" is quite warranted: "Gradual undermining. It does not further one to go anywhere. Submit, and avoid action."

So, does this call for an immediate email to advisors letting them that I'll be hiding out until the I Ching says it's alright to stop submitting? And what exactly am I submitting to? Or perhaps "action" is something I'm misunderstanding. After all, writing isn't too physically active, if you wanted to think of it as that. Does this line of interpretation sound absurd to you? Because it does to me.

I can't, however, discount the description's eerie prescience: "The inferior, dark forces overcome what is superior and strong, not by direct means, but by undermining it gradually and imperceptibly, so that it finally collapses."

That is possibly the most compact, poetic image for how depression feels: the precariousness of each day, the sense of being worn down, inexplicably, invisibly. That one slim line of stability without any support.

The image that so simply and powerfully delineates fragility also provides the appropriate action to take during this adverse time, which as the I Ching states without sympathetic adornment is due to circumstances and not a personal failure on my part. Indeed, it is impossible to counteract the alternations of increase and decrease, fullness and emptiness. The only response is to remain quiet. The notion of submission is not one that is commonly promoted in my society. I still don't know how to submit, or rather, what submission looks like in this circumstance.

Trusting the explanation to start to correlate with what I see as my only options (that is, to continue writing, working, and breathing), I read the explanations for the moving lines, the yin lines that are moving into yang and the last line, the only stable yang line moving into a yin lang.

"Six in the beginning means:
The leg of the bed is split.
Those who persevere are destroyed.
Misfortune."

Well then. That's clear enough. No more breathing, working, or writing, since those seem like perseverances.
"The situation bodes disaster, yet there is nothing to do but wait."

"Six in the third place means:
He splits with them. No blame."

This at least allows for an action: I am to split from an evil environment to which I am committed by external lines. Not to be too prescriptive about this, but I really didn't think my department was in such bad shape, in fact I am very close and have much affection for many people in it. Inscrutable. Moving on.

"Nine at the top means:
There is a large fruit still uneaten.
The superior man receives a carriage.
The house of the inferior man is split apart."

And, my ribcage opens up and I inhale, deeply: "When misfortune has spent itself, better times return."

THE LISTS (covering a few days now)

to do class: Write JM recommendation. Grade midterms.
done! Prepped Horace lecture. Minimally. Wrote Horace quiz. Wrote Horace lecture. Read Catullus and Vergil secondary sources.

to do work: Write Pépin performatic writing section.
done! Wrote small abstract of c4. Outlined the section. Wrote 2 paragraphs out of 6.

to do life: Pay down debt (currently $3,430). Procure dog. Redo taxes. Pilates. Call Jessie Delgado; at your service.
done! Dishes. Cooked potato prosciutto thing. Went to the bank. Took out the trash.

to do blitz: sarah, marilyn, giulia, irmary, mariana, dar, nv

Netflixed: The 40-Year-Old Virgin. Did I see the director's cut? It was unbelievably long, at least it felt unbelievably long and only marginally funny. Yup, waxing is no good. Got it.

Reading for fun: The Subtle Knife. I miss reading fantasy kiddie lit. Must consult with Marinn for more good books in this vein and thank Cindy for turning me onto it in the first place.

guardian angel of the number 2

He's a large man, stocky build with an amazing, buoyant tire around his waist, face reddened from too much time in the sun or too much time with a bottle, and wearing teal sweatpants, a t-shirt and big black poofy jacket. In the morning, you can usually account for where everyone on the bus is going: the younger people with logos on their polos getting out to start work at the restaurants at sunset plaza, the middle-aged women who trail out anywhere between the beverly hills hotel and beverly glen to make their way into the homes where they work, the kids with papers in front of them who will get off at ucla. This guy could not be accounted for. So, when a taller man got on the bus and after some words with the driver, started making his way down the aisle--this one draped with gold necklaces and dressed in black with a less buoyant, but equally astounding tire around his waist--and the unaccountable man jumped up and started after him, I worried. I worried that unaccountable would turn out to be aggressive, demented, and start an altercation on the bus. I worried that maybe I should give up my seat on the bus and move closer to the driver. I worried that of all the times I've been scared of fellow-bus-riders, this might be a time when an actual fight would break.

Then I noticed that the bus driver was putting in her cell phone ear piece and getting off the bus as she shouted back at the man in black that she wouldn't be driving the bus with him on it. And the unaccountable man was yelling, in a strained, wheezing, high-pitched whisper of a yell: "You will not talk to the bus driver in that way. The bus driver will not be talked to in that way" as he punched fist into open palm. Shifting from foot to foot, his amazing gut bounced, not in a predictable pillsbury doughboy sort of way, but in a threatening, challenging "do you want to fight" way. The man in black looked away and swore at him dismissively. But the mesmerizing gut would not be denied. The unaccountable man kept inching down th aisle and wheezing threats until the man in black came to the conclusion that between an encroaching gut and a recalcitrant driver, whatever he had said to her had effectively barred him from being a patron on this particular bus. He strode off the bus, brushing past the unaccountable man, then waited until the bus driver was back on and we were pulling away before making a ruckus of swears and gestures of frustration from the sidewalk.

For the rest of his ride, the unaccountable man positively beamed at the rest of us, hands folded contentedly, resting on his gut, pleased that he had reestablished order on the bus. He made room for a young woman with her baby in a bjorn next to him, somehow fighting his spillover effect to wedge himself into a single seat, and peered in at the baby, smiling. He had protected our ride and the bus, his gut seemed to say. And when he got off at La Cienega and shouted goodbye to the driver, she waved at him, emanating tenderness and gratitude from every smiling dimple.

That's when I accounted for the unaccountable man: he was an unlikely guardian angel of the number two.

THE LISTS

to do class: Write JM recommendation. Write Horace quiz. Grade midterms.
done! Select Catullus poems.

to do work: Write mini-intro/abstract of C4.
done! Finished Pépín secondary stuff.

to do life: Clean the oil stain on my garage space. Pay down debt (currently $3,430). Procure dog. Redo taxes
done! Cleaned the oil stain on my garage space. At the end of this process, the whole thing looks like it was made out of sludge, but at least it does not look like an oil stain.

to do blitz: sarah, marilyn, giulia, irmary, mariana, dar, nv

Last night, I read Pullman's The Golden Compass. It was given to me for my birthday this past year and I just never got around to it. It's a good read: the dialogue is good, the pace at which he parcels out new information at different rates for reader and protagonist works really well, all in all, entertaining enough that I couldn't put it down even though I was technically supposed to be sleeping.

over under

Payment, that is.

I received my tax refund today--which was a blessed windfall, but significantly less than I had figured it should be. After a long, but helpful and entirely cordial discussion with the IRS representative, we realized that I essentially had to redo my taxes. Not only that, but I have to redo them in two different ways and then decide which is more advantageous to me and send that in. So, I have to work out the figures redoing the hope and lifetime credit thing, and work out the figures for the tuition remission on the 1040x, which is limited to four thou. Quite the pain and a sad result of my having done my taxes myself for the first time at the ripe age of 29. That's what the little bird gets for deciding to fly on her own. Next year, little bird shuffles back into the nest and screams open-mouthed until mama bird accepts to deal with the whole kit and caboodle again.

While I sheepishly acknowledge full responsibility for that work (although I'm happy to spend a few hours puzzling through it if it will net me a few hundoes), I am quite irked at having been overpaid this month. I checked on my bank account today and found a deposit had been made from my fine institution for $1564.25. Whooeee!! Did I get a fellowship that no one told me about that happens to have a very odd amount of money associated with it? Did I, somehow unbeknownst to myself, work an extra ninety hours at the writing center last week? Hmm...Now I'm starting to think this is probably a mistake, as opposed to an unqualified source of celebration. And should I just keep it and hope nobody ever ever notices, or try to unravel the mystery so as to give it back?

And quite the mystery it turns out to be. If, after consulting with the administrators in your department who instruct you to call payroll, you call payroll as to inquire as to how money got direct deposited into your account, they will proceed to yell at you telling you that payroll is not responsible for details about how you get paid, then tell you that you need to get that situation figured out or else there are major problems in store for you--like you have to pay them for the taxes that they've taken out of money that you have to return because you didn't earn it, so they shouldn't have to pay taxes on it. Nevermind that you shouldn't have to pay taxes on income you didn't receive either. But back to the present, as opposed to future possible, kafkaesquianisms. So, you may try to explain, that yes, you are aware that it is a problem and that calling payroll should be evidence you are, in fact, trying to take care of said problem. Key word: "try." Explanations on your part are just playthings to payroll. For, as much as you may insist that you have already spoken with the administrators in your department, they will make a three-way call between yourself, payroll, and the administrator across the hall. And when you again insist that this administrator has no information and indeed indicated that you should call payroll, payroll will stop you short with a condescension usually only heard when badly-behaving kindergardeners are the addressees: "[insert mangled pronunciation of your name here], *I'm* talking to the administrator now."

Alrighty then.

THE LISTS

to do class: Write JM recommendation. Select Catullus poems. Write Horace quiz.
done! Read Horace and selected poems.

to do work: Read Pépin secondary lit.
done! Read half of secondary lit.

to do life: Clean the oil stain on my garage space. Pay down debt (currently $3,430). Procure dog. Redo taxes: Hope and lifetime learning OR tuition and fee remission? Hm...
done! Had lovely guiltless Sunday. Pilates. Got tix to reggaefest

to do blitz: sarah, marilyn, giulia, irmary, mariana, dar, nv

ambient buzz

For about a month, six weeks maybe, I've been incredibly sensitive to ambient noise. This is a new phenomenon, as I'm usually a little too good at blocking out the world around me and focusing on what's happening in my own interior world. Now I'm hyper-aware of a whole medley of high-pitched whirrings and buzzings but am most disrupted by two particulars: the buzz of my computer trying to cool itself off, and the whirring of the fan next door. You see, my studio is next to a laundry room in the building. The washers and dryers have never bothered me and still don't, but the fan started making a bizarre two-tone whirring sound from 7am to 11pm about a month ago and all I could hear was its percussive throbbing. Both high pitched, the two sounds alternated between the interval of a minor third--not only was the fan unredeemably loud, but it just had to have a melancholy tone to it as well.

For about a month, I called the building manager on a bi-weekly basis to ask him to look into it, even stomping over to his office and dragging him out to look at the fan and hear its jackhammer-like effects. I would ask people who came over to my house to listen for the whining and would not let the conversation continue until they admitted to how very annoying the sound truly was. I was a woman obsessed. The fan has been replaced, but I swear to god, I'm still hearing the buzz.

Ringing in my ears this morning instead, is the sound of Michael's wheezy laughter next to me and both of us surrounded by huge, engulfing laughter of the house at Kristina (née Sheryl) Wong's show last night. Her show, Wong Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. It's wonderful, discomfiting, sad, and she organizes and guides the audience's understanding and emotional reaction beautifully.

Two forms of ambient buzz, but only one is making me crazy.

THE LISTS

done class! Finalized the midterm.

done work! Updated résumés. Tidied up c2 and sent it off to advisor!

done! Scuffed the oil stain off of the garage floor with kitty litter. I had openly mocked a video I'd googled of an older lady demonstrating how to grind the kitty litter into the concrete and when I went down to try to make some progress, I'd poke at the pile of kitty litter with a pushbroom. And earlier, I just poked at it with my flip-flopped foot and it's like magic! So I'll be doing little twisty dance down there for the next few days to scuff the oil stain right out of my floor.

done blitz! marinn: we talked forever because she made the long-distance call. so no need to blitz, but a responsibility to give this skyping another go.

Netflixed: The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. Nice movie. The Tibby character--the rough-edged rebel, as telegraphed by the nose ring and blue-streaked hair, whose encounter with an annoying 12-year-old dying of leukemia softens her hard edge--was certainly the weakest link in the daisy chain. Moreover, America Ferrer carried that shit.

switch

This morning was rough--I indulged in the very kind of thinking prohibited to me, fast-forwarding to possible moments of future pain. Interesting sidebar, I always identify these interludes with the cliché "working myself into a frenzy." But I just realized as a I was about to type the phrase out, I don't work myself into a frenzy in the least. Rather, what characterizes these moments is a slow-down of body and breath until I'm supine, leaning into the crack of the futon, tears tracing odd patterns along my face, collecting uncomfortably around my nostrils because I won't wipe them away.

Once in that state where the body seems to hibernate so as to focalize all attention on the present experience of suffocating and inexplicable grief, it is hard to imagine being upright again.

But. I did manage to implement some of therapist's suggestions: I decided to start working purely on the diss again and table the article for a while. The article is very hard to write in itself, all the more so because there are no guarantees that this work will have any tangible results. It is so uncertain, whereas even writing a paragraph feels like cause for unadulterated celebration in the diss page-accumulation project. So I returned to tweak a last section of c2 earlier today, and it was somewhat amazing to read this polished, exciting writing that, not so long ago, I produced. My new goal is to finish c4 by the time one of my writing partners decamps in late june. The difficulty with this project is that I have 35 pages on a single text that work well together and I need to integrate a second text into that writing that is of one fluid piece. Somehow, writing seems to congeal and the task of fragmenting it in order to rework it into something new is like breaking a femur that has healed improperly in order to reset it--arduous and frightening.

Why does "git 'er done" seem the only appropriate conclusion to such a prospect?

THE LISTS

to do class: Write JM recommendation. Read Horace and select poems. Finalize the midterm
done! nothing at all. Finally a day that is not claimed by teacherly duties.

to do work: Rewrite the last section of Carpentier in C2. Read Pépin secondary lit.
done! I started the revision of the Carpentier.

to do life: Clean the oil stain on my garage space. Pay down debt (currently $3,430). Procure dog. Get tix to reggaefest.
done! Did dishes. Put away clothes. Pilates.

to do blitz: sarah, marilyn, giulia, irmary, mariana, marinn, nv

thud thud

Usually that annoying freeway billboard, "If you lived here, you'd be home by now," doesn't pop into my mind until Doheny on the bus ride home (even the fantasizing segment of my brain doesn't bother with notions so lacking in verisimilitude as the possibility of calling any part of beverly hills "home"). But today, while trudging out of work down the hallway of my office, I considered: "Hey! If I lived *here,* I would be *home* by now! How excellent would that be?" Perhaps curling up in a corner of a hallway on a regular basis would be excellent. Or perhaps I was just that exhausted.

Today was an alright day, but it just refused to end, stretching out further and further until heartbeats started turning into heart-thuds. I got through Aristotle and actually really really knew my shit in class which was a great feeling, given how much I've been dreading it. But truly draining was therapy in the middle of the morning, during which I moved from whimper to full out bawl and back. The amount of eye-daubing and mascara-blackened kleenex folding seems somewhat absurd, given that I was reporting to be doing much better than last Tuesday when I dragged into the Student Psych's drop-in clinic because I felt so distraught and helplessly imbalanced. The rando therapist I talked to then suggested that if I was having "negative thoughts," I should simply stop thinking so much. I've been going with this no thinking thing, and I have to say, it's working for me. Imagining all the different scenarios of how I could or would deal with possible future difficulties, it turns out, is not proactive strategic planning. No, it's a) a waste of time b) self-destructive. So, while I have an appointment in a few weeks with a psych to discuss the possibility of meds (only temporary, if at all), my regular therapist has recommended that I keep on keeping on with the no (over-)thinking things. "Could you just hang out without having discussions--and no internal debates either?" Whaaat? I must explore this strange and intriguing realm of non-analysis further.

THE LISTS

to do class: Write JM recommendation. Read Horace and select poems. Finalize the midterm
done! Read Poetics! Wrote Aristotle lecture!

to do work: Write intro section of article. Rewrite the last section of Carpentier in C2.

to do life: Clean the oil stain on my garage space. Pay down debt (currently $3,430). Procure dog. Get tix to reggaefest. Do dishes. Put away clothes.
done! Are you joking? I had Aristotle to attend to! Will do tomorrow night.

to do blitz: sarah, marilyn, giulia, irmary, mariana, marinn
done! katie (but only very very briefly)

resistant

All day today, I've been freaking out in that paralyzed way that makes me unable to start working on whatever is freaking me out and instead makes me want to take a really long nap. The kind of nap from which, by the time I would awake, all the deadlines or troubles facing me would have dissipated--that's my favorite fantasy of all time. Cause for freak-out: the prospect of having to read and prep to teach Aristotle's Poetics. Tomorrow. I think I may have read excerpts of it in college which, unsurprisingly, does not make me feel too prepared for this task. However, although it took me 2 hours to read 15 out of the 30 pages (meaning, I still have half of it left to go through), he's so methodical and lays things out so clearly, with an occasional spot of humor--as when he sums up the plot of the Odyssey in two sentences, then remarks, "there you have it,"--that reading it calmed me right up. After a day of dread and exhaustion and wanting to quit my career and join the circus, Aristotle has made everything seem more reasonable and doable.

As I was skittering home from Café Om, in between making mental notes to walk on streets that are better lit than DeLongpre, I turned my thoughts from the Poetics and to the thorny issue of care-giving and care-accepting. In general, when beloved friends note my fragility and try to protect me from my own mechanisms of self-damage, I brush aside their encouraging gestures with a snort of disinterest. And so it goes, now that it is my instict to want to take good care of Michael, whose work has been ravaging him of late. External circumstances, of course, make it impossible for anyone to "make it better," but an intellectual acknowledgement of helplessness doesn't eradicate the desire to pet his shoulders until the tension hardening them dissipates (or he yells at me to stop, you know, whichever comes first), and make soothing cooing sounds and ... generally make a nuisance of myself. Other things that happen when I try to console others is that I'll start making a speech that is supposed to end in an uplifting platitude, but it takes a wrong turn somewhere and ends up in a rumination on our generalized sisyphusian fates. So what to do with the linkage emerging here between my resistance to accepting proffered comfort and my awkwardness in giving it? Might the tactic be to try to accept care with grace first in the hopes that this will train my sympathies to be more sympathetic, or the other way around? I'm inclined to suggest, simply, that what is shitty, ultimately can't really be de-shittified and we all just need to live with that and stop pretending otherwise.

Therapy tomorrow. And not a minute too soon, evidently.

THE LISTS

to do class: Read Poetics. Write JM recommendation. Write Aristotle lecture.
done! halfway--so tomorrow is going to be looong and hectic. oof!

to do work: Write intro section of article.
done! Wrote two incredibly crappy paragraphs in the intro.

to do life: Clean the oil stain on my garage space. Pay down debt (currently $3,430). Procure dog. Get tix to reggaefest. Photocopy and return recalled library book.
done! That urban mythology that cola cuts through oil on garage floors: a complete lie! Unless you're supposed to clean it up right away. The cola was a disaster, so i poured more kitty litter over the morass of dirty water, cola, and oil. Layered in that order. I did, however, take care of the recalled book problem and my library account is back in business.

to do blitz: sarah, marilyn, giulia, irmary, mariana, marinn, katie

resurrected resentment

Disclaimer: Most of my best friends are women; indeed during various periods of my life, I have harbored a deep suspicion of men and boys.

So, discerning audience, you should be able to guess what comes next.

On my bus ride home today, I realized that I now harbor much more antipathy towards pre-teen/teen girls than I do towards boys their same age. The trigger, two pretty girls, in trendy-punky clothes, harassing a boy sitting next to them. Like two little twin hyenas, they poked him and chanted his name over and over again, punctuating their chorus with variations on the theme of, "I'm touching you, aren't you afraid to get a disease," and "I touched you! I'm going to get a disease" all concluding resoundingly with "get off the bus, why don't you just get off the bus!" Elijah (or "Lie-jah!" as I heard it over and over again) never responded to their taunting. Palm cradling cheek, he turned his face away from them. There seemed to be nothing particularly wrong with Elijah, no outward sign of why he would be the object of ridicule. It seemed as simple as his tormentors needed entertainment and this game was suitable for the time it took us to get all the way through Beverly Hills.

Indeed, taunting him seemed just a form of interaction between them--a triangulation not dissimilar to the one Sedgwick identified for how men converse and bond with one another over the body of a hypersexualized woman.

Talking about it later with Michael, he suggested what we were both thinking: I should have put them on blast if only to prevent Elijah from blowing up the bus we were all on. School shootings are never so simple, so easily traceable to a particular event, but it seemed a sort of encapsulation of the kind of petty, isolating tactics that girls employ with such ease and apparent delight: their capacity to create norms by transforming their vulnerable classmates into outliers and their vicious enforcement of the norms they have created in order to solidify their own social positions.

I remember feeling vaguely this way towards the conventionally pretty girls my own age who I saw setting norms that I couldn't or wouldn't meet. I was reminded of it when speaking to a friend of a friend's daughter the other day--fashionably dressed, long silky blonde hair, and verbally distinguishing herself from her "bookish" classmates--but was surprised to find that I didn't condescend to her the way I would have in middle school, when I routinely torqued deep envy into a sense of being better than those whose lives I craved. Since high school, I've had a critical mass of people corroborating my having fit in somehow. Being accepted, even cherished, by just a few smoothes out old resentments.

But I reserve the right to be wary of tween girls.

THE LISTS

to do class: Read Poetics. Plan midterm. Write JM recommendation. Write Aristotle lecture.
done! Planned midterm.

to do work: Write intro section of article. Revise c1--give to ps advisor.
done! Wrote outline of intro section. Revised c1.

to do life: Clean the oil stain on my garage space. Pay down debt (currently $3,430). Procure dog.
done! not a thing. In fact, does the oil stain get worse if I don't clean up the cola and let it set for another day? Aiiieee, this oil stain is some kind of trouble!

to do blitz: sarah, marilyn, giulia, irmary, mariana, marinn, katie
done! journal editor man, claudia

Currently listening compulsively to Peaches (triple bypass at the double a triple x) and "this is why I'm hot."
Watched Axis of Evil Comedy Tour dvd. Main complaint: they played the best jokes on fresh air already. Final rating: meh.

a small thing

My dad was in town this past weekend and mentioned that he and my mom hadn't had time to shop for a pair of loafers because they had had such a busy week. Now. You don't know my dad, but he exults in being able to wear black sneakers to work--not the fashionista. So I smirked and asked him if he wanted loafers with little tassels on them or if he preferred the kind with little slits so he could sport some lucky pennies in his footwear.

This was the first smirk in a long time. I haven't really felt much of anything for a little while, other than sadness for the state of not feeling much of anything. Of course, a smirk doesn't signal an emotional recovery. It certainly does not indicate the presence of a sense of desire that seems to have drained out of me and whose absense has left me totally bewildered as to how I'm supposed to get through the day. Every day. But it's something.

THE LISTS

to do class: Read poetics. Plan midterm.
done! Read aristotle summaries and intros.

to do work: Write intro section of article. Revise c1--give to ps advisor.
done! Wrote cover letter for s ta job.

to do life: Clean the oil stain on my garage space. Pay down debt (currently $3,430). Procure dog.
done! Laundry. Ground kitty litter into garage oil stain and swept it up, also entered phase 2 of oil spill clean-up by pouring shasta cola all over the stain and left it to soak.
Took out recycling, which, after accidentally dropping my recycling-ferrying tote into the dumpster, required me to shimmy precariously halfway into the dumpster to rescue it--a squirmy and smotheringly smelly experience.
Spent $70 at forever 21 on very cute dresses (one empire racerback green and red dotted baby doll, one brown and creme empire dress, and one black and white wrap dress that i'm pretty sure can't be worn with a bra)--this is more a confession of poor money-managing skills than an accomplishment...
Did pilates and walked to om cafe, whose environment I really like but whose drinks are truly foul. But like all drinks foul, I'm sure I'll develop an appreciation for them.

to do blitz: sarah, marilyn, giulia, irmary, mariana, journal editor man, marinn, katie
done! robin

on bodies

I vacillate endlessly on whether I love human bodies and find them extraordinary, or whether I hate them--stupid, frustrating things bursting with varicose veins and further grotesque-ness. I just got back from Harmony's performance, where I was reminded of the range of expression of bodies: the choreography harmony was part of, Monster, was intense intense, to the point of having to look away at moments. It differed from the other pieces in that it featured tensed, contracted bodies held in suspense, interacting through pain and suspicion, whereas, much of the others had costumed their dancers in flowy shirts and had a lot of contact improv influence a lot of running in large circles building up momentum and beautiful turns and spins. Really beautiful--even if not so interesting--and reminding me of what bodies can do. But just earlier today, Lauryn mentioned that within 9 days of not using your body, 35% of your muscle mass atrophies. 35% in 9 days! Ridiculous. Or ree-dee-culous, à la Malandrino.

My own bodily foible: I have poor circulation and, as a result, my extremeties always feel a little cold. Normal. Just put on sockies. however, my nose--which really does not stick out so much from the rest of my face--is generally one thousand degrees colder than the rest of my head. It's absurd. More absurd is the way it forces me to cup my hand around my nose and give it occasional little squeezes. I have thought that a possible solution might be to get a little mitten for my nose. It would be strange, I grant you, but I think I could rock that.

THE LISTS

to do class: Read aristotle summaries. Read poetics. Plan midterm.

to do work: Write intro section of article. Revise c1--give to ps advisor.

to do life: Laundry. Grind kitty litter into the oil stain on my garage space.

to do blitz: sarah, marilyn, giulia, irmary, mariana, robin, journal editor man, marinn, katie.