one down

Nora's paper finally finished, I didn't sleep at all last night. Really. Not even a cat nap.
I feel tired but not yet destroyed, and giddy, though I don't yet feel the massive relief of having sent that paper off and away. I will not take another incomplete ever if I can at all help it.

Now I have Keith's paper and grading, grading, grading. Seems to be the mantra of the sisterhood of thirty-something, blogging, early academics. I'm a few steps behind the cohort. I wanted to believe that I'm learning my way out of procrastination, but these people are just as bad in their real jobs as I am in grad school. There may not be hope. hah.

On a sadder note, [note as 'nogt'?], today is Erich's death day. I can't think of him without thinking of Emily, as I imagine them partying together somewhere in the afterlife I don't really believe in. But I'd like to think there's a nice bar somewhere they can hang out at. Preferably outdoors in the sun. They always did care for each other, and I loved them both.

I miss you, my friends.
Erich Blough 12.13.97
Emily Harmon 3.13.04

a dream thing

Recent readings have brought me in touch with a way of thinking about dreams that I hadn't heard of before. The idea is that one function dreams can have is to try to reinforce personally-held beliefs which have been challenged by the day's experiences. For example, think of a small child who's scared of men with big beards. Say that during the day that child meets a really nice, friendly bearded man. The child then dreams of a scary man with a beard, the brain's attempt to insist something like "no, we were right, men with beards ARE scary, see?"

Well, yesterday I had a wonderful time, got to see Dog Show perform, enjoyed myself, had a happy day. Then last night I dreamt that I was a Jew in Nazi Germany, trying to hide and avoid capture, but capture was inevitable. I've had similar dreams before, dreams where I'm in trouble, I'm scared, I'm aware that there are nearly insurmountable obstacles in the shape of powerful forces that are specifically out to get me. Dear brain, I love you, and I'm telling you to shove it.

why the blog instead of the paper

because I've given up? because I don't care? because it feels impossible? because my standards and expectations are too high?

ah, that word again. expectations. I wonder how it would be to live without expectations.
I've already set my sights against worry and anxiety. Why not take out expectations too?

Curious also about the morphable nature of my prose. Depends so much on audience and recent influences. back to the paper

day one

getting myself out there,
getting my words out into the web,
getting my words up out of my head.