Friday night I got home from drinks at El Rio with friends. While messing around on Facebook before falling asleep, I got an instant message from a former SFSU student I had a little over a year ago in class, M. At first we chatted about what we'd been up to since our class, and then he asked me out. I laughed and joked that I was 8 years older than him and why would he want to go out with an old lady? He got serious and said I didn't give myself enough credit. He said, "You can use me at your discretion."
My goodness.
Showing posts with label teaching. Show all posts
Showing posts with label teaching. Show all posts
March 16, 2010
March 4, 2010
"You're not listening or I'm not saying it right."
Damn. I have been a hot mess! I have tried to limit my blog posts during this time and it's probably a good thing.
I'm having one of those days where the fog lifts and I feel normal. I want to run around and make up for the past few days of being in the toilet. I want to get back to the goals I was working on full steam ahead. I want to make decisions and take actions and make plans before the sun starts to set again.
Last night I had to teach class even though I didn't feel well. As I was sitting in the front of the room waiting for time to start, I glanced over at one female student just as she was saying something to her friend about me. I smiled and said, "What?" She flushed a little and said, "I was just saying that you didn't look very happy and we should try to cheer you up." I was really touched.
I am fighting the urge right now to look for apartments and jobs in RVA. I have other stuff to focus on--namely, my well-being. There's plenty of time for the other stuff if I decide to do it.
I'm having one of those days where the fog lifts and I feel normal. I want to run around and make up for the past few days of being in the toilet. I want to get back to the goals I was working on full steam ahead. I want to make decisions and take actions and make plans before the sun starts to set again.
Last night I had to teach class even though I didn't feel well. As I was sitting in the front of the room waiting for time to start, I glanced over at one female student just as she was saying something to her friend about me. I smiled and said, "What?" She flushed a little and said, "I was just saying that you didn't look very happy and we should try to cheer you up." I was really touched.
I am fighting the urge right now to look for apartments and jobs in RVA. I have other stuff to focus on--namely, my well-being. There's plenty of time for the other stuff if I decide to do it.
November 24, 2009
All this grateful (and ungrateful) business
Several people I know are naming something they're grateful for on Facebook every day until Thanksgiving. Even though these are friends of mine and very lovely people, this practice makes me a little nauseous. Probably because I am cranky and cantankerous and bitter and jaded.
Still.
I thought I'd do my own version here. I wanted my version to include a lament about the things I am ungrateful for, too.
Please excuse any sap that may follow, and if you think it will nauseate you too much, you might want to take a rain check on this blog entry.
Things I am grateful for:
- Friends I can call when I’m sitting in my car for hours because I don’t know where to go.
- Little birdie belly feathers.
- Getting a teaching job for the spring semester because I will be much less broke in the months to come.
- My grandparents and my aunt, without whom I would probably be dead, in prison, or on crack. Possibly all three.
- Nannette. For being my friend during the most challenging years of my life thus far, even when it was hard for her, and for talking sense into me on one very dark evening. Without her I would have left San Francisco behind already.
- Cindy. For knowing me almost better than I know myself; for being insane in nearly identical ways to myself (and I say that with love), for listening to me at times when I am nearly incoherent, and for being my first grown up best friend.
- Christopher. For loving me when I was unable to love myself.
- My many friends at work who make each day Monday through Friday more bearable, who put up with me dropping into their offices when I need a break, and without whom I would have taken a bazooka to the joint. Ruben, Shayna, Wendi, Laurie, Tamara, Jodi, John, Peggy, and Diana: I love you to pieces.
- For a free washer and dryer in my building. SCORE!
- For Yan, Patrick, Scott, Brian, Amber & Suzie, Judith, Amber, Shannon, Dave, Kelli, Jenny, Tony, Lauren, and Cyrano for taking me out, getting me drunk, calling me, texting me, sending me sweet packages, going to dinner with me, inviting me to their parties, visiting me in the hospital, and letting me crash at their houses even if I was far away (mentally or physically), drank too much, didn't call back, was doped up on morphine, and/or didn't show up.
- Danita and Nan, for treating me as part of the family no matter what.
- The color green for adorning my walls, pants, shoes, umbrellas, and coats and for cheering me up in the most ridiculous and random ways.
- The funniest, weirdest, and most thoughtful book club in the history of the world.
Things I am not grateful for:
- Several days without antidepressants because I am totally broke.
- Four parking tickets waiting to be paid.
- E. for making up his mind, J.H. for not being in the right mental space at the right time, P. for breaking my heart, and J.T. for what amounted to persistent booty calls.
- A very specific person whom I see five days a week who makes me distinctly unhappy, treats me like I am stupid and incompetent, has unreasonable expectations, seems to always suspect that I have or am about to screw her over, and blames me for what feels like everything.
- C.J.B. for leaving without saying goodbye and re-smashing my heart into itty bitty pieces.
- The raccoon fight club that meets nightly behind my house.
July 9, 2009
"You've got a face with a view."
Yesterday was so bad that I took myself out and bought two new scarves. And a couple of shirts. And some pants. And some air freshener. And a chicken sandwich.
I was a bundle of anxious energy and nerves this morning at the thought of returning to work--the source of all the angst yesterday. I was making myself sick.
As all this is happening, today was the last day of my summer class. Three different students came up and spoke to me privately before they left about how much they loved the class and my teaching style and, as one put it, warmth.
It felt a little like they knew I particularly needed to hear it today.
I was a bundle of anxious energy and nerves this morning at the thought of returning to work--the source of all the angst yesterday. I was making myself sick.
As all this is happening, today was the last day of my summer class. Three different students came up and spoke to me privately before they left about how much they loved the class and my teaching style and, as one put it, warmth.
It felt a little like they knew I particularly needed to hear it today.
December 22, 2008
Lean
Ugh.
I am awake stressing about money.
Because of budget cutbacks, I can't teach a class next semester. My income at my regular job is not enough to pay for the apartment, car to get to work, and the rest of the bills. I'm starting to feel a little bit on the verge of hysteria, to be honest. I'm strategizing ways to continue to feed the parrots and myself.
I've put in job applications, signed up for product testing and focus group mailing lists (because if you get selected for one they pay you anywhere from $50 to $150 bucks for a couple hours of your time), and started looking around my house for things I might be able to sell. I have a nice coat that my aunt got me that I've only worn once so far. I have a round-trip plane ticket that I got when I was bumped from a flight home. I have an extra TV. I'm getting rid of cable and downgrading my cell phone plan.
Beyond continuing to come up with ways to creatively advertise my greeting cards and putting in additional job applications, I'm not quite sure what else to do.
I don't have the money for Christmas presents. My grandpa is in renal failure. My car got towed and cost me $500.
I'm feeling freaked out and anxious and I needed to vent.
I am awake stressing about money.
Because of budget cutbacks, I can't teach a class next semester. My income at my regular job is not enough to pay for the apartment, car to get to work, and the rest of the bills. I'm starting to feel a little bit on the verge of hysteria, to be honest. I'm strategizing ways to continue to feed the parrots and myself.
I've put in job applications, signed up for product testing and focus group mailing lists (because if you get selected for one they pay you anywhere from $50 to $150 bucks for a couple hours of your time), and started looking around my house for things I might be able to sell. I have a nice coat that my aunt got me that I've only worn once so far. I have a round-trip plane ticket that I got when I was bumped from a flight home. I have an extra TV. I'm getting rid of cable and downgrading my cell phone plan.
Beyond continuing to come up with ways to creatively advertise my greeting cards and putting in additional job applications, I'm not quite sure what else to do.
I don't have the money for Christmas presents. My grandpa is in renal failure. My car got towed and cost me $500.
I'm feeling freaked out and anxious and I needed to vent.
December 15, 2008
Beef stick?
I always feel rather emotional when a class that I'm teaching ends. I tend to get rather attached to the students and to the particular dynamics of a given group and am sorry to see them go. I've had the pleasure of having several of them get in touch with me after the class ended to say hello, either through MySpace, Facebook, email or just stopping by another class I was teaching. I am particularly sad to see this semester's statistics class end.
There are several extraordinarily outgoing students in the class, and I have a lot of fun joking around with them. They're also incredibly sweet.
The most recent example of this came last Monday. I wasn't feeling very well at the beginning of class. An observant student asked me if I felt okay. I mentioned that I hadn't had the chance to eat yet that day, and probably that's why I wasn't feeling so hot. He immediately reached into his bag, grabbed a Slim Jim, held it toward me, and said, "Beef stick? It's been in my bag for a couple of months, but these things last forever." Another student reached into his bag and pulled out chocolate. I laughed and thanked them and told them I was fine, that they didn't need to offer their food. At the beginning of Wednesday's class, one student brought an apple, another brought candy, and another brought Christmas cookies. I was incredibly touched (but also felt really mortified).
Maybe it was dumb of me not to go into teaching full-time. I don't really know anymore.
There are several extraordinarily outgoing students in the class, and I have a lot of fun joking around with them. They're also incredibly sweet.
The most recent example of this came last Monday. I wasn't feeling very well at the beginning of class. An observant student asked me if I felt okay. I mentioned that I hadn't had the chance to eat yet that day, and probably that's why I wasn't feeling so hot. He immediately reached into his bag, grabbed a Slim Jim, held it toward me, and said, "Beef stick? It's been in my bag for a couple of months, but these things last forever." Another student reached into his bag and pulled out chocolate. I laughed and thanked them and told them I was fine, that they didn't need to offer their food. At the beginning of Wednesday's class, one student brought an apple, another brought candy, and another brought Christmas cookies. I was incredibly touched (but also felt really mortified).
Maybe it was dumb of me not to go into teaching full-time. I don't really know anymore.
August 27, 2008
I want to show you something.
There's always one. How is there ALWAYS one?
I started teaching this evening. I'm now teaching in the sociology dept. as opposed to the Human Sexuality Studies Dept. which is an interesting change of pace. Every semester there is one crazy student. This semester he made himself known immediately.
I came to class early since it's the first day and I like to get the lay of the land before the students start to arrive. One man (early 40s?) arrived about a half an hour early. The first students come in tentatively, as they always think I'm another student and not the professor. He came in and asked if I was teaching the course, and I affirmed that I was. He swept up to the front of the room and intertwining English and Portuguese, introduced himself as M. from San Paulo and--grasping my hand in both of his--told me how pleased he was to meet me.
M. proceeded to talk my ear off before, during, and after class. After the last few students who stayed to ask me questions left, he came to the front and said, "You are a wonderful teacher!" I told him I hadn't even taught anything yet; we'd only gone over the syllabus. "Oh, but I can tell. I can already tell," he said emphatically. "I was signed up for this course last semester but I dropped it. I can tell that this one is going to be unbelievable."
"Why did you drop last semester?" I asked.
"I have a lot of medical problems," he began.
"You certainly don't have to go into your private issues," I interrupted. "I just wondered if you had trouble with the course and that's why you had to drop it."
He didn't say anything, and instead began unbuckling his belt.
"What are you doing!?" I cried in alarm. He didn't answer, and proceeded to hook his thumbs into the top of his pants to push them down.
I jumped back and squawked, "Stop!"
He paused and said simply, "I want to show you something."
I started grabbing my things while saying, "Don't show me anything! Stop!"
"No, no," he assured me. "I just want to show you my surgery scars."
"I believe you. I don't need to see them. Don't pull your pants down!"
He ignored me again, and pulled his pants down far enough so that the top of his pubic hair was visible and, said, "See this scar? I have to take a lot of medication and last semester it affected my attendance. But this time it won't. I can feel it. It's going to be good." He pulled his pants back up and began buckling the belt and said, "I'm not here for the grade. I'm here because I WANT it. I want to know."
Heading out of the room--more than a little flustered--I babbled, "Well, good. That sounds good. I think it will be good. Good."
He laughed and said, "Did I mention that I was crazy?"
"I can tell," I told him.
"I kill people, too!" he cried laughing.
Then I got very serious. "Don't even play games with me. Everything you're doing and saying is completely inappropriate. I was in a room alone with you and I felt threatened. Don't joke about this stuff."
He seemed genuinely alarmed and profusely apologized over and over again. "I'll be your best student!" he promised. "I won't miss a class! I'll get top grades! I'll email you and I'll stay after class to ask you questions."
(That's what I'm afraid of.)
"You won't have any trouble with me. I'll be your best student," he promised again.
I started teaching this evening. I'm now teaching in the sociology dept. as opposed to the Human Sexuality Studies Dept. which is an interesting change of pace. Every semester there is one crazy student. This semester he made himself known immediately.
I came to class early since it's the first day and I like to get the lay of the land before the students start to arrive. One man (early 40s?) arrived about a half an hour early. The first students come in tentatively, as they always think I'm another student and not the professor. He came in and asked if I was teaching the course, and I affirmed that I was. He swept up to the front of the room and intertwining English and Portuguese, introduced himself as M. from San Paulo and--grasping my hand in both of his--told me how pleased he was to meet me.
M. proceeded to talk my ear off before, during, and after class. After the last few students who stayed to ask me questions left, he came to the front and said, "You are a wonderful teacher!" I told him I hadn't even taught anything yet; we'd only gone over the syllabus. "Oh, but I can tell. I can already tell," he said emphatically. "I was signed up for this course last semester but I dropped it. I can tell that this one is going to be unbelievable."
"Why did you drop last semester?" I asked.
"I have a lot of medical problems," he began.
"You certainly don't have to go into your private issues," I interrupted. "I just wondered if you had trouble with the course and that's why you had to drop it."
He didn't say anything, and instead began unbuckling his belt.
"What are you doing!?" I cried in alarm. He didn't answer, and proceeded to hook his thumbs into the top of his pants to push them down.
I jumped back and squawked, "Stop!"
He paused and said simply, "I want to show you something."
I started grabbing my things while saying, "Don't show me anything! Stop!"
"No, no," he assured me. "I just want to show you my surgery scars."
"I believe you. I don't need to see them. Don't pull your pants down!"
He ignored me again, and pulled his pants down far enough so that the top of his pubic hair was visible and, said, "See this scar? I have to take a lot of medication and last semester it affected my attendance. But this time it won't. I can feel it. It's going to be good." He pulled his pants back up and began buckling the belt and said, "I'm not here for the grade. I'm here because I WANT it. I want to know."
Heading out of the room--more than a little flustered--I babbled, "Well, good. That sounds good. I think it will be good. Good."
He laughed and said, "Did I mention that I was crazy?"
"I can tell," I told him.
"I kill people, too!" he cried laughing.
Then I got very serious. "Don't even play games with me. Everything you're doing and saying is completely inappropriate. I was in a room alone with you and I felt threatened. Don't joke about this stuff."
He seemed genuinely alarmed and profusely apologized over and over again. "I'll be your best student!" he promised. "I won't miss a class! I'll get top grades! I'll email you and I'll stay after class to ask you questions."
(That's what I'm afraid of.)
"You won't have any trouble with me. I'll be your best student," he promised again.
June 16, 2008
Never-ending math equation
There's lots going on today. In my head (where shit's always going down) and otherwise. A couple things are just things I've been thinking about.
To begin with, I'm getting ready for class tomorrow. Since we only met a few few minutes last Tuesday and canceled class on Thursday, we're hitting it full force tomorrow. It's been awhile since I've had a four hour class and a stack of papers to grade.
I had a student email me today freaking out because she didn't know how to get TWO FULL PAGES out for the paper they have due tomorrow. She said she'd done everything I asked, but just didn't have anything else to say and would I please look at it for her? So I took a look, and told her she'd missed half of the assignment all together. She said, "Oh! Well, I wrote the paper before I read the instructions you gave on the syllabus..."
Sweet Jesus.
As for my thoughts, I've started to get a serious glimmer in the back of my mind about moving.
If you've read even a tiny bit of my writing before, you already know a lot about me in this respect: I've never really felt like I was where I belonged and I'm always restless. I've always been this way.
I'm the same as I was when I was six years old...
When I was planning to move to Spain I was excited for so many reasons--not the least of which was fulfilling a life-long dream--but also because I felt like I'd come back with a whole new perspective on "home." Since then I've felt pretty stuck, partly because I haven't been able to think of anything that captivated me as much. But I've always wanted to live in New England, and I think I'd really like living in Boston. I'm not saying I'm leaving right now or anything. I'm just starting to think a little more seriously about it.
Maybe I'm crazy. I know that I'm crazy. Maybe I'm shooting myself in the foot by moving before I have the chance to feel really rooted to a place. But I'm looking, looking. I hope I know when I find it.
Where do you move when what you're moving from is yourself?
Also, I think I'm scrapping the whole dating thing. I don't think I have what it takes, and I don't think I can bear to be so disappointed again. After my most recent experiences--when I felt so incredibly good about the whole thing and so surprisingly optimistic--well, I just don't trust my instincts in this area. It makes me sad to say that, because I feel like I have much to give from this part of myself, but...well, anyway.
...Well, I know what I have and want but I don't know what I need...
To begin with, I'm getting ready for class tomorrow. Since we only met a few few minutes last Tuesday and canceled class on Thursday, we're hitting it full force tomorrow. It's been awhile since I've had a four hour class and a stack of papers to grade.
I had a student email me today freaking out because she didn't know how to get TWO FULL PAGES out for the paper they have due tomorrow. She said she'd done everything I asked, but just didn't have anything else to say and would I please look at it for her? So I took a look, and told her she'd missed half of the assignment all together. She said, "Oh! Well, I wrote the paper before I read the instructions you gave on the syllabus..."
Sweet Jesus.
As for my thoughts, I've started to get a serious glimmer in the back of my mind about moving.
If you've read even a tiny bit of my writing before, you already know a lot about me in this respect: I've never really felt like I was where I belonged and I'm always restless. I've always been this way.
I'm the same as I was when I was six years old...
When I was planning to move to Spain I was excited for so many reasons--not the least of which was fulfilling a life-long dream--but also because I felt like I'd come back with a whole new perspective on "home." Since then I've felt pretty stuck, partly because I haven't been able to think of anything that captivated me as much. But I've always wanted to live in New England, and I think I'd really like living in Boston. I'm not saying I'm leaving right now or anything. I'm just starting to think a little more seriously about it.
Where do you move when what you're moving from is yourself?
Also, I think I'm scrapping the whole dating thing. I don't think I have what it takes, and I don't think I can bear to be so disappointed again. After my most recent experiences--when I felt so incredibly good about the whole thing and so surprisingly optimistic--well, I just don't trust my instincts in this area. It makes me sad to say that, because I feel like I have much to give from this part of myself, but...well, anyway.
...Well, I know what I have and want but I don't know what I need...
June 9, 2008
Warning: Complete Grumpiness Below
I feel like shit ass I got beaten the shit out of fuck.
I'm sorry, but I'm laying it all out here. Don't read if you don't want to know the gory details. Seriously.
First of all, I have a new hobby: pooping. Oh, my God. I'm so tired of being in the bathroom. There is a reason for this. I was on massive amounts of intravenous morphine for almost a full week, and a major side effect of this is constipation. I'm not talking about some mild, "Wow, this mundane activity is slightly more challenging than it used to be." I mean everything shut the fuck down completely. In the hospital they filled me with "stool softeners" and laxatives and even those little missile-shaped suppositories that make your bum feel all waxy and melty and...weird. But my body refused to budge.
When Jenny and Nannette brought me home they supplied me with this organic Smooth Move tea that tastes like [squinches up face] black licorice and instructions to drink a cup a day for a week. This stuff is the, ahem, shit. So to speak. It totally works. I think I have uncovered some kind of archaeological poo time capsule. I think there are strata deposited during the Nixon administration down there, and I wasn't even born yet.
What makes it all worse is that it happens when I don't even feel much like sitting up, letting alone anything else. So I lay my head on the sink in the most pathetic and tragic way possible, feeling sorry for myself and wondering how my life ended up in the shitter. (Alright, alright.)
The second thing that I'm crabby about is that my body is like one giant bruise. My belly is full of bruises (not to mention the incisions) from surgery. My arms, hands, and wrists are filled with bruises and scabs from both successful and unsuccessful IV attempts. (And the unsuccessful ones were sooooo much worse.) It just hurts all over, and it's a sad day when pulling a soft, fluffy pillow against you causes you to grunt in pain.
The third thing I will bitch about (I'm nearing the end, I promise) is that every food item that is not Cream of Wheat or saltine crackers makes me positively ill. Turns my stomach. Makes me nauseous. And then makes me have nightmares about whatever food it was I tried to eat (soup, peanut butter, yogurt). Bleck. I find myself having thoughts of, "Well, at least I'll lose a few more pounds." And then I'm furious with myself for thinking such a thing. Not for thinking about losing a few pounds, but at trying to make it a positive thing out of being SICK for God's sake! For being so susceptible to societal and personal pressures about this issue that I would think such a thought at this time. I get pissed and absolutely indignant! Then I feel worn out and lay down and take a nap.
Fuck this shit.
The good news is that I'm not actually lacking anything. I have all that I need: medicine, clean clothes, soft bed, crackers and Cream of Wheat, foolish parrots who are glad to be with me, toilet, toilet paper. (I guess some comforting hugs and hair strokes would be nice. But those are not in my future anymore.) I'm just grumpy and cranky needed to complain a bit.
I hope you aren't sorry you read this far. (And if you are: fuck off!) I'm just kidding. Mostly.
P.S. The class I'm teaching starts tomorrow. Dear God, help me.
I'm sorry, but I'm laying it all out here. Don't read if you don't want to know the gory details. Seriously.
First of all, I have a new hobby: pooping. Oh, my God. I'm so tired of being in the bathroom. There is a reason for this. I was on massive amounts of intravenous morphine for almost a full week, and a major side effect of this is constipation. I'm not talking about some mild, "Wow, this mundane activity is slightly more challenging than it used to be." I mean everything shut the fuck down completely. In the hospital they filled me with "stool softeners" and laxatives and even those little missile-shaped suppositories that make your bum feel all waxy and melty and...weird. But my body refused to budge.
When Jenny and Nannette brought me home they supplied me with this organic Smooth Move tea that tastes like [squinches up face] black licorice and instructions to drink a cup a day for a week. This stuff is the, ahem, shit. So to speak. It totally works. I think I have uncovered some kind of archaeological poo time capsule. I think there are strata deposited during the Nixon administration down there, and I wasn't even born yet.
What makes it all worse is that it happens when I don't even feel much like sitting up, letting alone anything else. So I lay my head on the sink in the most pathetic and tragic way possible, feeling sorry for myself and wondering how my life ended up in the shitter. (Alright, alright.)
The second thing that I'm crabby about is that my body is like one giant bruise. My belly is full of bruises (not to mention the incisions) from surgery. My arms, hands, and wrists are filled with bruises and scabs from both successful and unsuccessful IV attempts. (And the unsuccessful ones were sooooo much worse.) It just hurts all over, and it's a sad day when pulling a soft, fluffy pillow against you causes you to grunt in pain.
The third thing I will bitch about (I'm nearing the end, I promise) is that every food item that is not Cream of Wheat or saltine crackers makes me positively ill. Turns my stomach. Makes me nauseous. And then makes me have nightmares about whatever food it was I tried to eat (soup, peanut butter, yogurt). Bleck. I find myself having thoughts of, "Well, at least I'll lose a few more pounds." And then I'm furious with myself for thinking such a thing. Not for thinking about losing a few pounds, but at trying to make it a positive thing out of being SICK for God's sake! For being so susceptible to societal and personal pressures about this issue that I would think such a thought at this time. I get pissed and absolutely indignant! Then I feel worn out and lay down and take a nap.
Fuck this shit.
The good news is that I'm not actually lacking anything. I have all that I need: medicine, clean clothes, soft bed, crackers and Cream of Wheat, foolish parrots who are glad to be with me, toilet, toilet paper. (I guess some comforting hugs and hair strokes would be nice. But those are not in my future anymore.) I'm just grumpy and cranky needed to complain a bit.
I hope you aren't sorry you read this far. (And if you are: fuck off!) I'm just kidding. Mostly.
P.S. The class I'm teaching starts tomorrow. Dear God, help me.
March 18, 2008
Hell's bells...they're finding me already.
Today began the onslaught of San Francisco State University students tracking me down to ask about my course that starts in June. I don't know why I should be surprised--my past experience has shown that it's never too early and they consider no request too great.
They ask things like, "Professor Ashcraft, I'm sure you're very busy, by do you have the syllabus ready yet?" (No.); "How much reading is there going to be?" (A lot.); and--my favorite--"Can we work out something where I have a reduced work-load/attendance expectation in the course because I'm taking 1700 other class and working 40 jobs and training to climb Mt. Everest simultaneously and will just be way too busy to do everything..." (No.)
They ask things like, "Professor Ashcraft, I'm sure you're very busy, by do you have the syllabus ready yet?" (No.); "How much reading is there going to be?" (A lot.); and--my favorite--"Can we work out something where I have a reduced work-load/attendance expectation in the course because I'm taking 1700 other class and working 40 jobs and training to climb Mt. Everest simultaneously and will just be way too busy to do everything..." (No.)
July 5, 2007
You know, I used to have a plan.
I'm a list-maker, a planner, an organizer. I have lists of things to learn about, lists of places to go, lists of dreams I had that made a lasting impact on me, lists of things to do to celebrate the month of October, lists of favorite smells, lists of memories, lists of letters to write, lists of books to read, and on and on and on.
Somewhere along the way things got fucked up.
Of course, it's entirely possible that they were actually always fucked up, but I was too busy sticking to the path I had picked out that I didn't realize. When the next several years of your life is planned out, you don't have to think very hard.
I used to think of myself like a donut: sugary sweet on the outside, and completely empty inside. I was positive that if someone looked at me closely enough they would realize that there was absolutely nothing inside of me. Just nothing fucking there. That I was actually just faking everything and going through the motions, looking like I had a clue what the fuck was going on. (I never did.)
Now my problem is almost the opposite: after peeks at that infinite darkness I might just want to pull that donut back out. It was safer. Prettier. Easier to deal with.
Today one of my students stayed to talk to me after class. He asked me what kind of job I wanted. I said I didn't really know. He asked me where I wanted to live. I said I didn't know that, either. All I could say was that I didn't want to be hot all the time. Or cold all the time.
Yeah, that's pretty much what I got.
All those "plans" are shot to hell.
I've been feeling for about a year now that there's something I'm supposed to be paying attention to. To be open to. It kind of irritates me to say it that way because it sounds so New Agey and mystical, but it's really the way I feel. What the hell to do with that? Maybe if I could stop to breathe for a moment I could pay attention to something besides running, running, running, going, going, going.
I have not had any sleep.
Somewhere along the way things got fucked up.
Of course, it's entirely possible that they were actually always fucked up, but I was too busy sticking to the path I had picked out that I didn't realize. When the next several years of your life is planned out, you don't have to think very hard.
I used to think of myself like a donut: sugary sweet on the outside, and completely empty inside. I was positive that if someone looked at me closely enough they would realize that there was absolutely nothing inside of me. Just nothing fucking there. That I was actually just faking everything and going through the motions, looking like I had a clue what the fuck was going on. (I never did.)
Now my problem is almost the opposite: after peeks at that infinite darkness I might just want to pull that donut back out. It was safer. Prettier. Easier to deal with.
Today one of my students stayed to talk to me after class. He asked me what kind of job I wanted. I said I didn't really know. He asked me where I wanted to live. I said I didn't know that, either. All I could say was that I didn't want to be hot all the time. Or cold all the time.
Yeah, that's pretty much what I got.
All those "plans" are shot to hell.
I've been feeling for about a year now that there's something I'm supposed to be paying attention to. To be open to. It kind of irritates me to say it that way because it sounds so New Agey and mystical, but it's really the way I feel. What the hell to do with that? Maybe if I could stop to breathe for a moment I could pay attention to something besides running, running, running, going, going, going.
I have not had any sleep.
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