Thursday, November 24, 2005

Kisses Kisses Kisses for each of you



Happy You, Whatever you Celebrate. Tofurky day!

I am leaving in a few short hours for Bellingham Washington... surely a deviance from my tiny memory of tradition. On the way back down I thought I would stop in Seattle and join them for a half marathon Sunday morning. Wish me luck. Love your knees and ankles. That is my suggesting for Thanksgiving. How often do you???

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

Hello Kitty



As far as I am concerned my vacation started about five minutes ago when I saved my work and closed MSWord. I have a 12 hour day of class tomorrow but that is a formality. Everything is turned in and what more do I care?

Somehow eight weeks have passed since the start of the term. I, catapulted through time/space with my hair in mess, cds scratched, books dogeared, underfed, bad-dreaming. The world that does not revolve around me is fragmentary and lonely. The world that does revolve around me is suffocating and static. I cannot believe I am so fucking mediocre.

Be failed. You are unrequited love, you are a life cut short, you are we'llneverknownow, you are romantic and lovely, you are fragmentary, suspended, you are wine and candle light, you are tragic and brilliant. Potential untapped is endless potential. Thats my MO, I dont like proof, I like tragedy. I failed the QE, I am sure of it.

That is uncomfortable and honest. That is accountability and nakedness. Sigh. Be Failed is a directional verb.




Today I came home and found this note on my mailbox. Together we cajoled Willie down from the shed roof with a rattle can of kitty treats. She is voluptuous and well-fed. She has cost me and I am suspending her food-chain rights.


Saturday, November 05, 2005

Kill Your Darlings

I am not giving up the blog yet quite simply because I have been invited to be a consulting member of WHIS… er TEQuila, um WHISQUILA CON ‘06. Plus today is the Deconstrutionist second anniversary.

Things aren’t so great. I got a 7/10 on a paper and I have never gotten a C on a written assignment. The cruel news was broken to me over the class discussion board that night. The rubber cork popped out and I fell to my knees and cried and cried and washed the dishes and cried and thought about how a 70% is only one percentage point away from 69% which is a D so I cried harder and I have never cared if I failed something before probably for this precise reason that the terror of failing is great and wrenching and then I hiccuped and swept up pine needles and decided to delete my blog.
(hic)
And then I cried during my videotaped midterm the next day and my instructor was so nice I cried more and then came back 45 minutes later and gave the best interpretation of my life.
(hic)
And then later other people started crying in class too for their own miserable reasons but misery loves company and I cried some more.
(hic)

After the drama I went home with a pint of whiskey and the fantasy. To my surprise and silliment this morning the whiskey did nothing to solve my problems thought the tinkling ice and all did make me feel satisfyingly iconic. This morning I woke up with a genuine desire to blog and am sitting quite naked at the computer right now feeling less like a black and white movie star and more and more like a slightly dehydrated though perfectly capable human.

Ironically, and unmoviestarlike enough, I was researching the role of interpreters in addiction treatment settings for a research paper while whiskying myself. It quite takes the glamour of a husky voice right out of the bottle.

Today I reason that the paper maybe is really worth a mere ten points, and overall assignments are worth only 10 percent of my grade. And I don’t really give a shit specifically, per se, but that the straw fluttered down from on high. (Yeah the last straw. Forgive me, I am not above using a cliché once and awhile). 24 hours later the panic is out of my system.

(There is something to be explored here. I used to chop off all my hair if I ever reached a critical point. Then ran around being mistaken for a boy till it grew out.)

And I have to say, Jen, Jill and Brandon are the kickingest-ass people I have ever not met in my life. That is true for everyone I stalk on the internet, who come here and comment and are kind and smart and make me feel impressed with myself that quality people actually like me. I really truly deeply robustly emphatically appreciate you guys and I cant wait to drink you under the table.

So I am not leaving entirely even though the desire to be iconic struck me once again when all three applauded my style, LEAVE THEM WANTING MORE they said. The problem is, I want more. More spotlight and adoration?? My numbers are admittedly small but satisfying... but really, I have to write. I have to write like I have to breath like I have to run. So I am merely going dormant for the remainder of the term... maybe a quick post during Thanksgiving. I will return the archives and keep the comments on. Please email me if you like cause I like it.

“What causes problems is a problem” eventually means the same as “Kill Your Darlings”.

Friday, November 04, 2005

Kill your darlings. - William Faulkner

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

One Fine Day... and then more rain


Run Like Hell half marathon.



It is really that bad. My collarbones are bleeding for two scabby nights now. They are pointy and useless, snag on my shirt collars and I erode...friction+moisture

Would mole-skin work??

There are other problems. There are 586 people in line for the potty four minutes before the start-gun, but chip-time solves that. My time does not start until I cross the start line. I reach the very back of the pack, hundreds of people surge forward.

One and a half miles later we are surgically bisected into two writhing bodies of sweaty runners by a locomotive train. The lead pack runs on. We chill, October dawn sweat, icy air. The train it is huge and creaky, groaning car after car, graffiti and sparks. In gaps I can see the road clear and cold, wide open ahead. I wonder if I can leap between the cars.



Plus my bird killed a cat. Err, no.

Today my brain is hurt. I was in consecutive interpreting classes from 8:30am to 6pm, including a knock-kneed practice Qualifying Exam and rustling leaves, typing through lunch and bumpers all the way home. My faith is shaky and my language skills run dry. I cannot imagine the miracle of communication. It is myth.

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