This Scares Me.

Thanks to Feministing for the heads up.

This Is Rough

It was raining. She had been forced to walk across the Square, constantly losing her sandals across the wide, dark puddles, their plastic soles slipping beneath her feet, making her stumble and mutter “Fuck” under her breath. She had been forced to park in a forgotten strip of spaces behind ugly buildings, and it was raining. She was slipping and muttering as she crossed the ill-defined parking spaces, walked north down one street, east across another, and then finally heading south to the bookstore where she was being forced to buy a book that she could have bought for much cheaper online, had the professor given her students more than a few days notice. As she slipped and muttered north, than east, than south, she was forced to pass a boutique displaying storefront dresses she couldn’t afford, much less fit into, and she was forced to remember her lumpy figure’s tendency to grow all the more lumpy and saggy in all the wrong places. In the bookstore, she was forced to ask someone where the books she needed were, after initially telling a clerk, “No, I’m fine, I’mjustlookingrightnowthanks.” The books were, of course, neatly arranged alphabetically on a shelf wearing a neon green post-it note with her professor’s name and title as a name tag. She had missed the obviously marked shelf. She had missed a lot of things. She was feeling odd, and uncomfortable, awkward without her usual social safety blanket draped around her shoulders. When she placed her books on the counter to be rung up, she realized she’d forgotten to buy the journal she wanted to write down her reading assignments. She was too embarrassed of her forgetfulness in front of the undergraduate ringing her sale to mention it. He was wearing a deliberately faded plaid shirt, the kind that snapped rather than buttoned, and an ill-fitting and not-at-all humorous trucker’s hat. She would later forget what his face looked like, but would not forget the way his conversation with her was flat and lifeless, too impartial to even be considered forced. The undergraduate didn’t know his way around the cash register, and she grew impatient even though she recognized that she, too, was new to everything. She realized, too, that she was not impatient for the undergraduate’s slowness in ringing her purchase, but for her own easing into her new city. She’d become mildly agoraphobic. Going to the grocery store and shopping in a busy aisle nearly drove her into a panic attack, which she hid, of course, behind almost-closed eyes and a weak smile. “What class are these for…” the undergraduate stated, more than asked. “English 600.” She waited for the glimpse of recognition in the undergraduate’s eyes, but none came, and she was mildly disappointed that once again, no one cared that she was a Masters student. “Would you like a bag for this…” Again, the words followed one another as simply and obviously as a caravan of bored pack animals. It was not a question. But she answered it anyway, “No, thank you, I’ll just carry them.” She had intended to get a bag, as it was raining, and she’d had enough problems trying to keep her shoes on. The undergraduate had further problems knowing how to ring up her sale and charge it to her credit card, and had to consistently seek advice from Dot, the much more lively attendant who, despite ringing up her sale (by proxy) didn’t seem to notice the girl buying the books at all. “Would you like a bag with that…” She almost said ‘yes’ this time, but instead, not wanting to contradict her original opinion, went again with a bored, “No, thank you.” She left the bookstore without being noticed, and again slipped and muttered her way north, then west, then south back to her forgotten parking spot. It was then she noticed row upon row of books filling up a window that was nearly covered with a climbing vine and ill-draping power lines. With the rain coming down, it seemed dreary, yet calming, and she wanted to take a picture of the scene. She had only her cell phone, and was therefore faced to take a picture that did not capture at all what she felt when she first looked at the window full of books. The picture now on her screen deadened the affinity she felt for the window and vines and books. She got into her car, and heard a song sang by an artist she didn’t know. It was a sad song that tried to evoke tears from her chest. It almost succeeded, but she was resolved to avoid tears. Less than a mile from her home, she realized that the car in front of her was being followed by an ambitious black mutt. She was driving behind a dog that was happy to run behind a car. When the car escaped him, he merely stopped, turned, and looked at the oncoming girl. She pulled up beside him, honking at him to get out of the road, and he looked at her, wagged his tail, and walked away.

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. 

The Ease of Things

My mind has been settling back into the ease of things. I've been cooking, that's always a good sign--homey foods, comfortable foods that are simple to prepare and rich in taste and somehow infinitely more satisfying than food prepared by a stranger's hands.  Potatoes, creamy tomato pasta sauces, and fresh sliced veggies--they ground me in the simpleness of home. I was lucky, really, to have such a simple childhood. My parents were not rich, so they provided for my brother and I in the manner they knew: good laughter, outdoor play, family suppers. 

I don't know when I began to accumulate so many things. I've always been a bit of a packrat--storing away cards and movie stubs in tupperware boxes under my bed. But when did I start to collect so much stuff that holds no significance for me at all? I long to simplify. Clean out. Get rid of. But somehow, I've convinced myself that I need things. When I picture myself in my new home in Oxford, I see clean things, organized spaces, and warm, comfortable colors gracing the walls in playful splashes. Inevitably, when a mood like this strikes, I want to be a painter. I'm convinced that in a former life I was. In moods like this, I can literally feel the brush in my hand, the paint smudged on my fingertips. It's there, but try as I might, I can't bring the picture in my mind to life. It's hard to sense the beauty of a lived-in space if there are so many things cluttering it up. My creativity is stifled by the busyness of my home. I long for quiet, stillness, and the sense of perfect ease that once came so freely. 

Sex and Suffering.

I don't typically post poetry unless I have a busy mind, so I guess I'm busy trying to organize the next few months in my mind. I love this poem, so, for your reading pleasure, Tony Hoagland's "Self-Improvement":

Just before she flew off like a swan

to her wealthy parents' summer home,

Bruce's college girlfriend asked him to

improve his expertise at oral sex, 

and offered him some technical advice:

use nothing but his tongue tip

to flick the light switch in his room 

on and off a hundred times a day

until he grew fluent at the nuances

of force and latitude.

Imagine him at practice every evening,

more inspired than he ever was by algebra,

beads of sweat sprouting on his brow,

thinking, thirty-seven, thirty-eight,

seeing, in the tunnel vision of his mind's eye,

the quadratic equation of her climax

yield to the logic

of his simple math.

Maybe he unscrewed

the bulb from his apartment ceiling

so that the passerby would not believe

a giant firefly was pulsing

its electric abdomen in 3b.

Maybe, as he stood

two inches from the wall,

in darkness, fogging the old plaster

with his breath, he visualized the future

as a mansion rising from the hillside

of the shore that he was rowing to

with his tongue's exhausted oar.

Of course the girlfriend dumped him:

met someone apres-ski, who,

using nothing but his nose,

could identify the vintage of a Cabernet.

Sometimes we are asked 

to get good at something we have no talent for,

or excel at something we will never 

have the opportunity to prove.

Often we ask ourselves

to make absolute sense

out of what just happens

and in this way, what we are practicing

is suffering, 

which everybody practices,

but strangely few of us

grow graceful in.

The climaxes of suffering are complex, 

costly, beautiful, but secret.

Bruce never played the light switch again.

So the avenues we walk down, 

full of bodies wearing faces, 

are full of hidden talent:

enough to make pianos moan,

sidewalks split,

streetlights deliriously flicker. 

Walks With Dogs

It's a really beautiful day today. It's unseasonably warm for February, but it's beautiful anyway. I woke up around 8:15 this morning, and my mom dropped off the Yorshire Terrier that is now napping behind my head. Bogart and I just got back from our walk--I like walking with a dog because people who are outside inevitably stop and talk to you because you have a dog. And I think there's a direct correlation between old women and small dogs: the older the woman, smaller the dog she'll think is adorable. It's okay, though, because now two little old ladies in the condos adjoined to my apartment complex know me via Bogey.

Walking with a dog gives me the chance to think. Inevitably, when I walk through the condo-neighborhood, I think about what I want in life, where I want to be, who I want to be with, what I want to be doing. Obviously, I haven't the smallest clue. But on a day like this, not knowing seems better than being certain. And I've got plenty of time.

I've started watching my health a little better, and in only two weeks, I'm noticing how much happier, how much better I feel. Walks like today, enjoying them, prompts me to believe I want to stick around for days like this. There's a lot of bad going on in the world, there's a lot of hurt that won't be solved--I tend to let those things overtake my perspective. Walks with dogs tend to clear your mind. Boo, for instance, is the happiest dog in the universe. I really don't think there's ever a moment Bogey doesn't want to be around you, doesn't want to play fetch or hide-and-seek (and yeah, Bogart totally plays hide-and-seek, it's how he got his nickname, 'Boo'). It's infectious, really, the happiness of a dog. Even a small dog.

Happiness is generally infectious, anyway, isn't it? I went for dinner at the Bees Knees last night with a friend of mine. I don't know this woman particularly well; she just sat in front of me in Weiss' philosophy class last semester, and we chatted a lot. Yet there's this connection between us--be it shared interests, coinciding sensibilities, or something likened to the kindredness of spirits, I don't know. But hanging out with Melinda is just super fun. Even when we're talking about owing interest to the IRS and House resolutions that if passed, could not only outlaw abortion, but multiple types of birth control and assisted reproduction (HR 536-Scott), the world doesn't seem entirely dark. We disagree on who to vote for in Tuesday's primary, we've got different views of spirituality and religion, she's eons more intelligent than I, and my life is a little bit more stable than hers right now. But I think at the core of it all, we both just want to be happy. I think we try to be happy, and I think we try to bring happiness to the lives of those we encounter. As I was driving home after I stuffed myself on hummus and pita, I couldn't help but think how those that bring happiness make us want to get up and do good things for people. I think if we all tried to bring small joy into the lives around us, we'd all be better off.

The truth is, I'm worried about a lot of things. I habitually take on too many things at once and I exhaust myself. I was on the phone with mom yesterday afternoon, complaining about how exhausted I was. She responded, simply, "Well, you've been going all week, haven't you?" I try to control too many uncontrollable things. The beauty of walks with small dogs is that there's nothing to control. There's nothing to stress you out, nothing to busy your mind. It's just the dog and the joy he brings you.