T- 5 Days

Do not attack me with your watch. A watch is always too fast or too slow. I cannot be dictated to by a watch.

Jane Austen, Mansfield Park

I wasted time, and now doth time waste me; / For now hath time made me his numbering clock: / My thoughts are minutes...

William Shakespeare, The Life and Death of Richard the Second

Oh shit.

Me

This is it, folks, 5 days left until I'm completely packed up in a U-Haul and a handful of family-sized sedans. 11 days until I'm left completely alone in a brand new house with myself as its sole occupant. I'm seriously wishing I knew someone in Oxford at this point. Because as much as I crave independence, I have no idea how to be a grown-up. See? I still say grown-up. Not adult, adult is too.... mature. 

My world has been a swirl of things the past few days. My financial aid issues are still totally unsolved. Know why? One digit of my social security number was entered incorrectly. A 3 was put in as an 8, and now my whole financial stability depends on some random student assistant who may or may not decide to show up for work on Monday. "No man is an island," indeed. 

On the plus side, I do have an address now, so I've been able to get my utilities turned on and school-related miscellany applied for. My pet application has been approved, so I can be a bona-fide crazy cat woman now if I wanted to be. Not that I have any desire to own multiple cats and wear ugly sweaters. No way. Nuh-uh. Not for me. At all. 

I *finally* found out who I'm teaching under in the fall, and what class. Thankfully, I got the class I wanted- American Literature after the Civil War! The professor sent me a copy of the syllabus, and of the 15 or so authors, I've read all but 2 or 3. I'll get to teach a lecture, and lead 3 discussion classes each Thursday (8 AM! 11 AM! Noon!). This sounds exciting now, but I'll probably want to shoot myself later. And know what else? Having a Facebook profile should be required for people I want to silently observe. The other TA for my class is apparently off-grid. J.P., who are you?

Foreigner.

Homeskillets, I am tired. I worked my rear off last week at work, trying to hire a replacement, and now I've got to train her. I get off at 2 pm every day wanting a tequila sunrise. I'm too drained to even spend time with the friends I'll leave. Too tired to keep my mind engaged, my heart wanting more. I feel this strain on my relationships like little strings of elastic stretching, stretching, stretching until they break, too tired to hold on any longer. 

My life is in boxes stacked in corners. Two weeks and counting. Can I do this? Or is it too late for second thoughts? On the plus side, the cat I want to adopt in Miss. is still un-adopted. I feel guilty for hoping she goes unadopted until I arrive, pretending to be a hero. 

The urge to tell stories is coming back to me. This is probably a  good sign. I need to find my voice again, because the stories are there, scratching the underside of my skin, looking for a tear to make larger. 

I am going to miss my family terribly. I already feel incapable, unaware of the change I will soon undergo. 

A poem, to summarize. 

Sobre Transportes del Norte, Lola Haskins

He leans across the aisle, and points

out my window to a field where three

streams of water gush straight up.

Agua caliente, he says. De la tierra.

We are nearing Zamora. The bus

slides by the blue wall of the plastics

factory. PRD, says the wall. And, 

PRI. All Mexico is coming to a boil.

Yo so de Salinas, he says. California.

He pulls his wallet out of his jeans,

scratches his undershirted stomach,

and passes me three folded sheets.

See? he says. Tickets. They are damp

from riding under him. Drunk driving

he says proudly. One more, and they

put me in jail. I like cerveza too much.

And he grins, and his teeth are so white

I think they would glow in the dark.

He folds the papers, leans back, puts

them away again. We are passing 

fields of maguey, full of broken glass

which glitters in the sun. I am foreign.

There is so much I do not understand.