New Year Letter (1)

We cannot, then, will Heaven where
Is perfect freedom; our wills there
Must lose the will to operate.
But will is free not to negate
Itself in Hell; we're free to will
Ourselves up Purgatory still,
Consenting parties to our lives,
To love them like attractive wives
Whom we adore but do not trust;
We cannot love without their lust,
And need their stratagems to win
Truth out of Time. In Time we sin.
But time is sin and can forgive;
Time is the life with which we live
At least three quarters of our time,
The purgatorial hill we climb,
Where any skyline we attain
Reveals a higher ridge again.
Yet since, however much we grumble,
However painfully we stumble,
Such mountaineering all the same
Is, it would seem, the only game
At which we show a natural skill,
The hardest exercises still
Just those our muscles are the best
Adapted to, its grimmest test
Precisely what our fear suspected,
We have no cause to look dejected
When, wakened from a dream of glory,
We find ourselves in Purgatory,
Back on the same old mountain side
With only guessing for a guide.

(from Auden, New Year Letter, 1940)

"Good Enough"

A little bit over a week ago, I made a comment to a friend that I was "learning that there's a difference between the good and the perfect." She provided a thought-provoking response:

You forgot that there's also "Good Enough." I can tell you that it's a fine place to be.

I've been turning that one over & over in my mind ever since then, and I'm still not sure what I think. I will admit that I've often been one to focus (in my own endeavors) on the things that need improvement, the flaws--the whole 'you'll have to do it better next time' impulse. It's possible that I've been living under the mistaken presumption that if I'm not living an ideal life, that I'm doing something terribly wrong. And frankly, in a year when the wheels just about came completely off, that mindset has not helped. Because it's been anything but ideal.

Yes, I know: I should be thankful for what I have. I work very hard at that, thank you very much. Something else to be perfect at, bytheway: gratefulness.

There's something very attractive about the notion . . . she sounds at peace with both the sunlight and the shade in her life. Yet it also eludes my grasp. Instead, in every situation, I strain and strain, desperate to make the perfect, the ideal, a reality. The more important the person or endeavor involved, the harder I work, the more I fret, the greater the angst.

The schools I went to didn't help with this tendency, by the way.

Ugh. Incoherent, undeveloped, not nearly what I wanted to do. It'll have to be good enough, though.

if you're reading, just know that I'm still working on it.

(artwork by Luke Best)

Take it up again.

Returned home today.

I can pinpoint the moment my vacation ended this year. I was asked a couple of days ago, "when is your next visit with Dr. _____ ?" I answered, "January 13, the day after classes start."

I've been told that my demeanor visibly changed right at that moment.

Twelve

crumbs

Among the more irritating trends: sporting activities as markers of personal identity. One sees it particularly in college towns and upper-class suburbs: cars with "Lax" on the back, or conspicuously displaying Appalachian Trail decals, or "26.2" decals. Related to these: bike racks, kayak racks, ski racks, etc. I'm guilty of the bike rack thing, since I often need to be rescued if/when a tire goes down, and I'll admit that cycling is one of the most cultlike of all. Still, I hope I don't go around trying to present myself as a "cyclist" rather than a "guy who likes to ride his bike." I guess that means no decals on the back of the car. The same goes for the names of my children, or my chosen brand of firearm or camouflage or guitar or computer.

**
I did the unthinkable and went to the mall on the day after Christmas. I had a few important transactions to make. It was an absolute zoo. There were payoffs for the effort, though.

**
We have spent a week at the grandparents' house. Thankfully, it's a big house with lots of space for two (three, what with Cousin D) little boys. Also, a remarkably patient pair of grandparents.

**
I'm anxious for the new year, for all kinds of reasons.

**
Other notes from this past week:

• The Little Boy made a gingerbread train with Honey . . . I doubt it will be eaten.
• We are hoping we avoided a repeat of last year's Thomas the Tank Engine debacle, wherein we bought a ton of Thomas stuff for The Little Boy, only to have him lose interest almost immediately after Christmas.
• Straaannge weather. Started out cold and stormy, but today it's damp and 75.
  
• The Little Boy's favorite present may be the $1.50 Batman mask, followed by the Legos.
• I've not been able to eat nearly enough.
  

**
I've actually been kind of sad this season, and I can't really explain why. There are no material reasons I can determine why I should be sad--hence the ending lines from a post a few days ago. Still, there it is. For once, though, I've not tried to guilt myself into feeling any other way. It has been a fine holiday; so what if it wasn't The Best Christmas Ever? Giving up on that pressure has been an enormous relief. Plus, I think that for the Little Boy, it may have indeed been the Best Christmas Ever.

**
Now thinking about the return home (which I'm looking forward to, honestly), cracking open a new book, sitting in my horrendously ugly chair with one of the cats draped across the back of it. We'll be busy--preparing for more guests--but I'll be okay. heh

For the Time Being, Part 2

A couple of days ago, I posted the opening poem of Auden's 
For the Time Being, A Christmas Oratorio.

Now, the ending portion:

To those who have seen 
The Child, however dimly, however incredulously,
The Time Being is, in a sense, the most trying time of all. 
For the innocent children who whispered so excitedly
Outside the locked door where they knew the presents to be 
Grew up when it opened.  Now, recollecting that moment 
We can repress the joy, but the guilt remains conscious;
Remembering the stable where for once in our lives
Everything became a You and nothing was an It. 
And craving the sensation but ignoring the cause, 
We look round for something, no matter what, to inhibit 
Our self-reflection, and the obvious thing for that purpose 
Would be some great suffering.  So, once we have met the Son,
We are tempted ever after to pray to the Father;
"Lead us into temptation and evil for our sake."
They will come, all right, don't worry; probably in a form
That we do not expect, and certainly with a force
More dreadful than we can imagine.  In the meantime
There are bills to be paid, machines to keep in repair,
Irregular verbs to learn, the Time Being to redeem 
From insignificance.  The happy morning is over,
The night of agony still to come; the time is noon:
When the Spirit must practice his scales of rejoicing 
Without even a hostile audience, and the Soul endure
A silence that is neither for nor against her faith 
That God's Will will be done, That, in spite of her prayers,
God will cheat no one, not even the world of its triumph.

(1944)

Merry Christmas

Noel

sleep in heavenly peace, everyone.

Happy Holidays from Little Red

meta

ha! ha! Just kidding!

I've been trying very hard to keep things interesting here, sprinkling in the pictures (which I spend far too long trolling for, by the way), including the poems and the child anecdotes. But clearly the main focus has been a kind of thinking out loud about where I am mentally and emotionally--and why. I am an incredibly poor judge of whether or not that makes for interesting, or even bearable, reading. The good thing is, a blog is about the most voluntary kind of reading there is.

Gonna keep on working at it, writing whatever the moment seems to require. And perhaps that's really the point after all: I'm writing for me.

For the Time Being

Alone, alone, about a dreadful wood
Of conscious evil runs a lost mankind,
Dreading to find its Father lest it find
The Goodness it has dreaded is not good:
Alone, alone, about our dreadful wood.

Where is that Law for which we broke our own,
Where now that Justice for which Flesh resigned
Her hereditary right to passion, Mind
His will to absolute power? Gone. Gone.
Where is that Law for which we broke our own?

The Pilgrim Way has led to the Abyss.
Was it to meet such grinning evidence
We left our richly odoured ignorance?
Was the triumphant answer to be this?
The Pilgrim Way has led to the Abyss.

We who must die demand a miracle.
How could the Eternal do a temporal act,
The Infinite become a finite fact?
Nothing can save us that is possible:
We who must die demand a miracle.

--W. H. Auden (1944)

Little Red Has Laid Down the Law

There will be no more baby food. No more mush, no more purees, no more suspiciously orange and bright green jars. No more, I say!

"Bring me a filet, well done, creamed spinach on the side. And what do you have on draft?"

How to create a hyper Little Boy

three hours in car. sleep in new bed. three hours in minivan. hotel. church service. reception. late bedtime in hotel. three hours in car. cold weather making it impossible to play outside.

CRASH BANG THUD. Glad this house has a lot of space. And Legos.

To reiterate

Throw another log on the fire

I know you Chicagoans are like, "riiiiight. Whatever, man." But for West Tennessee, single-digit temps are pretty rare.

Magic City

Drove to Birmingham today, and will return to Nashville tomorrow. Drove a minivan to Birmingham, to be exact. Three adults and two children in car seats means that the trusty CR-V is just too small. Verdict after three hours on the highway and some maneuvering of parking lots, etc.: there will be no purchase of a minivan for Piers.

Two things stand out from today. Both are kinda bittersweet.

The first thing is what I naturally think about coming down here, especially given the conversations I've been having with various people over the past three weeks: my college, what I learned there, the choices I made while there (and why). It's only now that I'm realizing that there were alternate futures being held out to me there, none intrinsically better than the others. But hell, what do I expect to find upon looking back from the vantage point of 15 years? Of course I see things more clearly--of course I understand my past self and his choices, his fears, much better. I loved college; I just wish I had been more of a risk-taker, less concerned about attaining the unattainable goal of perfection.

The second thing is what we went to tonight--the reason we came down here. My father-in-law, who spent thirty years as music minister to First Baptist Nashville, has been serving as an interim music minister for a church in Bluff Park. Tonight was the night of the big Christmas performance; it was the last one we'll ever see him direct. He's perfectly happy to give it up after more than thirty years, no question; I am just glad we got to watch him bounce and weave on that podium one last time.

Now, here in a hotel room with a huge LCD TV, Little Red sleeping in a portable playpen, The Little Boy torqued up on sugar in his grandparents' room, Panthers and Giants playing in a close game. I'm finally getting to that Stoppard play I've been wanting to get to. All good signs--all point to contentment, happiness. Yes, they do. Absolutely.

159

I have lost my appetite. I don't eat because I'm hungry, because I'm almost never hungry. Well, except for brownies. And donuts. But for the last three months it seems that I only eat because it's time to eat and I know I should.

I've had this happen before when going on new meds; this time, it has lasted for months rather than weeks. I noticed it first when my pants--all of them--started feeling a bit loose. A welcome development in some cases--here, it meant that I had to get an entire new set of pants to wear to work. But even those pants are now seeming a bit loose. It was suggested at our house that maybe an elastic waist is the way to go.

We don't have a scale at the house, and I don't really care about my weight, but as I have shrunk about to the size I was in college, I've begun to wonder. At Thanksgiving, I got on the scale here at the in-laws' house: 165. Tonight, after eating only half a bowl of soup and a clementine (not on purpose, mind you; my body said, "no more") I weighed again: 159. My total intake for today consisted of a bowl of cereal, a plain cheeseburger, a few bites of a blizzard, a couple chocolate chip cookies, and the aforementioned soup & clementine. I know, healthy stuff--but give me a break, we were on the road.

I'm not bragging; I don't like shrinking out of my clothes, having my jeans fall off (and I wear button-fly, so it's not like you can pick up a replacement just anywhere), feeling like all the shirts I have look like I'm wearing a tent (I can forget buying anything at Jos. A Bank; their stuff--while quite nice--is cut for men with more generous proportions, evidently). My winter coat--a "L," of course--is faaaar too big.

I wonder how long this weight loss will last--and I wonder what will happen when I crank the bike back up in January. Believe me, I never thought I'd see 160 again. Well, on the bright side: not even a hint of a spare tire. Whatever that's worth.

For our new restructured department . . .

. . . I'm going to propose a new restructured motto.

Tinsel

I had anticipated a week wherein we would all be holly jolly; I was going to read some, maybe get on the bike (albeit on the trainer, but still), do a few minor chores inside & out. I was going to catch up on my rest, maybe take a nap in the afternoon as usually happens after exam week is over.

Instead: Little Red gets strep (third time!!!); The Little Boy gets a stomach bug, which then does what stomach bugs do. We have an ice storm. So: Everyone cooped up in this little house, feeling like krap. Only today, being the end of the week, have things improved to "human" level around here. Glad we got this stuff done with before next week.

***
I got back in touch with someone from college this week; it's been fun & even a little nostalgic catching up and sharing stories. Funny how each remembers different things.

***
I've spent a good deal of time with Little Red this week, and it's fascinating to see the ways that he is nothing like his older brother. He's can't talk, for instance. And he's really got to work on his walking and his eating solid foods. ha! ha! just kidding! For real: Little Red is far more likely to show displeasure, especially by throwing things or swiping them out of my hand. I tried to show him a toy earlier today, and he grabbed it from me, and immediately threw it on the ground. The Little Boy never did anything like that. uh oh.

***
Little Red has a zillion toys & books; they're often carpeting the den. What does he play with? Electrical cords. Scraps of paper. XBox controllers. My computer. Parents ought to avoid all the colorful plastic stuff and instead collect old cellphones, pda's, and other junk--their babies will be perfectly well entertained!

***
Tea: still not getting it done. Not even close.

***
The next ten days: Nashville. Fun for everyone, I'm sure, but especially the grandparents.

***
I'm tired. I'm tired of fighting myself, tired of taking the medicine, tired of digging through my past, tired of driving to UC for doctor's appointments. There's a lot more, but that would veer into self-pity. I am grateful that I'm in a much more stable place than I was two months ago, also thankful for the ones who really shouldered some burdens when I was too weak. You know who you are (if you're reading)

Memory

I'm reading Mario Vargas Llosa's Conversation in the Cathedral right now, and like many of his novels--The Real Life of Alejandro Mayta, The Storyteller, The War of the End of the World, Death in the Andes, The Feast of the Goat--It is a novel haunted by memory. It's about 1950's and 60's Peru, but it's really more about the way the past comes to haunt the present, how people live in chains they themselves have forged. Most of the plot of each of these novels is a mystery--we learn about the truth even as the characters retell their stories and put the pieces together, thereby themselves moving closer to the truth. And we get confused about whether the dialogue is in the present, or the past, and about who's doing the talking . . . making our own approximation of the truth a bit . . . provisional.

The thing is, it plays tricks on us, doesn't it? We're never sure it's telling us the truth, are we?

I've recently been having conversations about things that happened, oh, 14, 15 years ago. . . it's amazing how time changes things and doesn't change them at all. How some things 'stick,' and others don't.

Piers's Picture of the Year

What I learned about myself from Fall 2008

1. That I enjoy what I do, and show enthusiasm:
Dr. Hill is extremely enthusiastic and loves his job. (about 30 variations of this one)
I hope the professor does not change or become disenchanted, as professors often do.

2. That I have some good qualities:
He is an excellent teacher and a fun guy--cute, too.
Wonderful, intelligent, charismatic, interesting.
Dr. Hill is intelligent, friendly, informative, and fair. Also his jokes are pretty funny.
Dr. Hill has a great personality.
Dr. Hill is the shiz.
Dr. Hill is hip and funny as hell.
Dr. Hill FTW!

3. That some of my teaching works:
I learn so much from each class with him.
I hated Shakespeare until I took this class.
Made complex ideas easy to understand.

4. That I'm sometimes unfocused or overly excitable:
Sometimes his attention span veers, but is never really detrimental.
A little bit too dramatic.
Babbles on too much!
He is easily distracted.
We could slow down a little bit.
He could attempt to stay on subject.

5. That I'm not irksome:
Haven't noticed anything irksome.

6. That I am "A Bucket of Awkward."

(these are all comments directly from my student evals from this term. I didn't make any of them up!)

Experiment with growing a beard

verdict:















It just looked like I was some guy too lazy to shave.

Don't think

Don't think at all.

I can quit anytime

One can never predict the future, so it should surprise no one when I say that I didn't expect it to be this way. When Facebook and all sorts of other social networking sites appeared, I was sure that I would never get hooked. This blog was just for kicks. Now, I find myself looking through my various accounts throughout the day, each day. It's a bit absurd when I think about it. Which isn't to say it's bad.

Still, I didn't expect to be so easily and thoroughly hooked. I guess being unable to speak face to face with people who are really important to me allowed that to happen. It still gets lonely here from time to time, especially when I have time to stop & think.

Pasko

The folks left for the Philippines today. It's the first time my mom has been back in nine years. Considering she grew up there, and then spent more than two decades as a career missionary, such a long absence doesn't seem possible. But there it is. I imagine that they'll find Manila almost unrecognizable. Not really sure what their plans are, but I do know that they'll be missing this wretched sleet/snow/rain mix we're getting.

They're going at Christmas, which puts me in mind of the customs we used to enjoy (or grit our teeth at):

• carolers will come to your gate, shriek out some strange version of "Jingle Bells" or "O Holy Night," and you will give them something.
• every little begging waif in Manila will accost you as you go from SM to National Book Store, wheedling "merry christmas, sir. Merry christmas"
• Christmas music starts as early there as it does here; it's just more absurd to listen to "White Christmas" or "Sleigh Ride" when it's maybe getting down to 70 at night.
• Elaborate manger scenes on the fronts of the tall office buildings in Makati.
  
• The parol, a typical Christmas decoration representing the star of Bethlehem. They used to be primarily paper and cellophane or capiz shell; now they're mostly fancy-schmancy electronic jobs.
• Oh, and: no real christmas trees.

The big question when we boys were little was how Santa Claus could get in our house if we didn't have a fireplace or chimney. Somehow it worked out every year. One of my absolute favorite gifts ever was the HO-scale train set I got one year--I still remember coming down the stairs and seeing it running in its oval. Unfortunately, it didn't last long. Most of my toys, particularly of the electronic variety, broke pretty quickly. We chewed up things like walkie-talkies and remote control cars.

Enough nostalgia. I hope Mom and Dad bring back some Mini-Fruits or Fruit-tella. ang sarap na sarap!

Maybe I should look into a visiting professor position at Ateneo or one of the other universities in Manila. Hmmm.

(picture from Keith Bagongco, Wikimedia Commons.)

Those moments are few.

At lucky moments we seem on the brink
Of really saying what we think we think:
But, even then, an honest eye should wink.

(Auden, postscript to "The Cave of Making," 1964)

chaff.

Yes it's true what you said . . . I live like a hermit in my own head . . . the doctor made an observation on Wednesday that I found pretty revealing. He noted that about half a dozen times during a conversation, I will look down, visibly withdraw, and remain in that posture for a few moments. That's when things go through my head that remain unspoken. It's been that way for a long time, but the grad school years pretty much fixed the tendency. That internal censor has become very powerful.

Naturally, he wants me to break free from its control.
***
With the semester completely done, I'm surprised at just how tired & sad I am. It's not the joyous feeling of release, especially given all that has happened, that I had expected.
***
Parents about to leave for the Philippines. I'd love to join them.
***
Speaking of doctors, I'm pretty sure I missed an appointment yesterday afternoon. I was so wrapped up in the grades, etc., that it completely slipped my mind. This after I showed up an hour late last time. Dammit.
***
Buying a present for someone without asking what is desired first--i.e., just going with your instincts--is a risky business. Sometimes you have to hope for credit in the attempt. Or hope for generous return policies.
***
Little Boys who've had a flu vaccine = grouchy
***
The rest of this Saturday will be busy. I guess naps have to wait until tomorrow.

The Letter

From the very first coming down
Into a new valley with a frown
Because of the sun and a lost way,
You certainly remain: to-day
I, crouching behind a sheep-pen, heard
Travel across a sudden bird,
Cry out against the storm, and found
The year's arc a completed round
And love's worn circuit re-begun,
Endless with no dissenting turn.
Shall see, shall pass, as we have seen
The swallow on the tile, spring's green
Preliminary shiver, passed
A solitary truck, the last
Of shunting in the Autumn. But now,
To interrupt the homely brow,
Thought warmed to evening through and through,
Your letter comes, speaking as you,
Speaking of much but not to come.

Nor speech is close nor fingers numb,
If love not seldom has received
An unjust answer, was deceived.
I, decent with the seasons, move
Different or with a different love,
Nor question overmuch the nod,
The stone smile of this country god
That never was more reticent,
Always afraid to say more than it meant.

(Auden, 1927)

white knuckled

News today:

Revised figures indicate that the state budget shortfall may necessitate 20% budget cuts from all state agencies. I'm not overly exercised about that, but frankly speaking, that's a catastrophic number.

The lights went out yesterday for a few minutes, and one of my colleagues (who, incidentally, reminds me a lot of the Buzzard) quipped, well, looks like they found a way to cut costs!

Swell.

Today I answered some primal call.
Found myself looking at the sea.
I can never get enough of this big ocean loud and rough
With the sighing sifting melody.

(J. Harrod, "Waiting for my day")

If I could live anywhere, it would be where I could hear & see & smell the ocean.

To feel the breeze off the water as the sun goes down--to watch the birds and the ghost crabs skitter down where the water has made the sand like glass--to stand on a rocky, thorny shoreline between dives, feeling the sun shimmer off the water and my skin--the sound of the waves slapping against the boat hull--the sense of distance and danger--even the taste of salt water on my tongue--the sun going down over the water, how surprisingly quickly it moves--finding a cool piece of driftwood or, even better, sea glass--the gritty salty sandy stiffness in my skin on the boat ride back to the inn--watching the phosphorescent constellations coming off my partners on night dives--wearing as little clothing as is necessary--knowing I'm standing at the edge of something wild and unbelievably powerful--

Gradebook.

Words and numbers jotted on scraps of paper--it's that time of the semester. Students are mostly gone, the suite is quiet. I learned something about myself this week. Well, admitted it, rather--I'm terribly anxious to be liked, for people to tell me I'm doing a good job. I bring this up because this tendency of mine makes the end of the term kinda fraught with anxiety. I calculate grades, put them in the computer, and all the while worry about the reactions I'm going to get from my students.

Absurd, isn't it? I was anxious about grades as a student, and now that I'm a professor, I'm anxious about grades. One might have thought that I would have gotten over it by now.

Don't get me wrong: I love it when my students succeed; I like giving high grades either way. But the low ones make me worry. I tend to fear 'disappointing' them.

A room of one's own

I always imagined the professorial life as featuring a respectable home study . . . lined with books, with a comfortable reading chair, maybe even a fireplace, a writing table.

Reality: I love many things about the 1970 ranch-style house we inhabit. It's got big windows looking North and South, a capacious garage & attic, a large master bedroom. It is well within our budget mortgage-wise. The yard is broad and wide. But there is no study, and there will be no study. Most of the year, it doesn't really matter, I guess--but late in the term, when the work gets brought home, it sure would be nice.

I get the kitchen table, or my ugly blue chair. They work well enough.

It is most true

...from an answer on today's exam:

I have to say that my favorite was the star-crossed love of Astrophil and Stella.

Me too, L.

Mein Hemd

I wore jeans and a sweater today. Casual, certainly, but not overly casual. Yet when I walked in and set the exams down at the front of the room, the first two comments I heard:

whoooaaah! Change of costume!

Hey, waitaminute . . . aren't you supposed to be in khaki pants and a blue shirt?

so sue me for being colorblind. Plus, have you ever tried to find a men's dress shirt that's not white or blue? This comes after an almost identical evaluation of my attire in my 8:00 class last Thursday, in which one student said, well, at least you're not wearing red. You'd look terrible in red.

sigh.

(photo from the "Dorcus Collection" at Lileks.com)

Nine Months

But do you recall...

According to The Little Boy, here's a list of the names of the reindeer:

Cupit
Donder
Blitzit
Hancer
Dancer
Comet
Fixit
Rudolph

Little Red adds: baaabababababababa!

CORRECTION:
Little Red adds: daaaadadadaaahhhdaa

fallen leaves

The term is over. Exams left to give, and some grading to do, but the bulk of the work is over. I'm frankly pretty discouraged about how things turned out . . . I don't think I did a good job with any of my classes. One student yesterday cracked that she had made some kind of critical comment--and while cracking a joke in return, I thought, "if you only knew."

That said, given what else was going on in my mind, it could be considered a major achievement that there didn't come one day in October or November when I just failed to appear.

***
Unbidden it came to my mind yesterday: I really want to go live in Japan. Sleep on a futon (a real one, not the bastardized version that people use in this country), eat with hashi, buy canned coffee out of a vending machine (hot or cold, your choice). And so on.

***
Greg Maddux retired yesterday. He & Tom Glavine & John Smoltz were the best reason to watch the Braves in the 90's. I admire them so much.

***
I'm looking forward to getting on the bike again; there hasn't been much time or energy for that recently.

***
Someone asked yesterday whether I wasn't upset about the deep budget cuts and upheaval at the university. I said, "nope." What would be the good of getting upset, especially since there's not a thing in the world I can do about it? Sufficient unto the day is the trouble thereof, or something like that.

***
Gonna get Christmased up today. Which will take plenty of time. Which means I should draw this to a close.

Shifting Deck Chairs

Budget crisis!
Reorganization!
New department names!

...angry professors!...

Rasselas II

Student responses:

The parable tries to teach us not to spend our lives looking for happiness, but learning contentment with what we have. Touching, though unsatisfying.

Our virtues cannot spare us pain.

Marriage brings hard times but it will bring you happiness by making a person. Children are hard to deal with but I know they will make me happy.

There is no perfect choice.

Is circumstance or mindset more important?

Sometimes it clicks.

I said goodbye to my 8:00 composition class today. Truly, they were a delightful bunch. Sometimes the mix of personalities is just right, and the result is fun for everyone. We were a bit scattered at times (big surprise there), but they really helped me more than they know. It was nice to laugh first thing on Tuesdays & Thursdays. I was sorry to walk out of the classroom.

Rasselas

"All that virtue can afford is quietness of conscience, a steady prospect of a happier state; this may enable us to endure calamity with patience; but remember that patience must suppose pain."

I once had confidence that the future would eventually both be better and provide the answers to why things are they way they are now. "We'll understand it better by and by," goes the refrain. I'm not sure of that anymore.

I once had confidence that making the "right" choices, the ones that were most virtuous, most self-denying, most acceptable in the eyes of my authorities, would yield the rewards of peace and happiness. Experience has shown otherwise.

I once believed that hard work can conquer any obstacle. No one has worked harder, but I have simply run out of strength. And I've met obstacles that no amount of effort will remove.

I once feared the pain of unmet desires. Having confronted them, I found that life did not end.

Does this mean that I'm despairing? No. It just means that I've lived with mistaken assumptions, mistaken expectations. I am learning to embrace the imperfection in life, and learning that a weathered face isn't necessarily ugly.

sonnet

All we need is fourteen lines, well, thirteen now,
and after this one just a dozen
to launch a little ship on love's storm-tossed seas,
then only ten more left like rows of beans.
How easily it goes unless you get Elizabethan
and insist the iambic bongos must be played
and rhymes positioned at the ends of lines,
one for every station of the cross.
But hang on here while we make the turn
into the final six where all will be resolved,
where longing and heartache will find an end,
where Laura will tell Petrarch to put down his pen,
take off those crazy medieval tights,
blow out the lights, and come at last to bed.

(Billy Collins, 2001)

Lines

Draw a line. Write a line. There.
Stay in line, hold the line, a glance
between the lines is fine but don't
turn corners, cross, cut in, go over
or out, between two points of no
return's a line of flight, between
two points of view's a line of vision.
But a line of thought is rarely
straight, an open line's no party
line, however fine your point.
A line of fire communicates, but drop
your weapons and drop your line,
consider the shortest distance from x
to y, let x be me, let y be you.

(Martha Collins, 1998)

Teef

I present ACH.














vampire?

perhaps.

Battery pills

it's up to 1500!

loose threads

We went to Sesame Street Live yesterday. It was fun to watch The Little Boy adopt the pose that my mother has described me taking when rapt: eyes wide open, one hand on each leg, ramrod straight back. He didn't miss a thing. I thought Grover looked all wrong--his head was too big. Big Bird, on the other hand, looked just right.

***
To go to Starbucks and not be able to order coffee: makes one feel very much like a loser. The hot chocolate was alright, I suppose. I'd like to know, though, what the difference is between "Hot Chocolate" and "Signature Hot Chocolate." other than 60 cents, I mean.

***
I got crowded out of the bed last night. Apparently, The Little Boy was not satisfied with his trundle bed. Good thing there have been naps these past few days, because nights have certainly not been restful.

It was a wild scene around here with three little boys. Got a little loud at moments, as one might guess.

***
From the department of unfortunate gifts--seen in a sales circular--"The Mangroomer," a do-it-yourself electric back hair shaver. It had a picture of a man using it--a man who clearly never had a bit of back hair in his life.

I suppose there are things it would be nice to receive for Christmas--no actual wants come to mind, however, other than that book on Martin Marprelate. I've got several things I want to give, though.

***
Last week, during my visit with the doctor, I was telling him about how I have always tried to take the surest and most "correct" course of action. He looked at me with a wry grin, and said, "so, you didn't really have to learn many things the hard way." That should be a good thing, shouldn't it? Why does that seem so sad to me?

What I have noticed, in addition to being quite distracted the past ten days or so, is that I am withdrawn, abstracted from myself and from the things going on around me. I observe, note, act as I need to--but I feel like it's all taking place through the wrong end of a telescope.

The last week of classes coming up; it'll be hard for everyone.

***
Tonight's movie, at the request of The Little Boy: Lady & the Tramp. Probably a better show than the Notre Dame - USC game, anyway.

Vade Mecum

I want the scissors to be sharp
and the table to be perfectly level
when you cut me out of my life
and paste me in that book you always carry.

(Billy Collins, 1991)