121028 truly all i want to do is roll back the covers, tumble into bed, let it all go slack, put my big cushy headphones on, listen to the most banal type of video ever invented, and maybe breeze through a couple articles on the way to heavy-lidded bliss. bliss which is usually punctuated by periods of flopping around like a svelte hippo dancing prone in a crowded sauna, but, at least for little bits at a time, bliss nonetheless. but i’m doing this instead? Why? because i didn’t do any grading today. now, true, i was legitimately sick, and so getting a late start isn’t as outrageous a crime as it may otherwise seem. But basically all I accomplished, work-wise, today was answering emails. Well, a couple of the emails entailed doing some housekeeping and adding some items to a couple of classes. But I didn’t go over my conference notes. I didn’t do any grading (that’s the big thing that builds up). Grading is anxiety-causing because so much of it still seems so arbitrary and disingenuous and not genuine. At the conference, I started to get the distinct impression that Amanda doesn’t think much of me either personally or professionally. I don’t think I fit into her hyper-efficient, energetic, positive, never-look-back gung-ho true believer narrative of what schoolwide AVID looks like. It was nice that she chose going out with her sister and her high school friend over hanging with me and Jason, because then I got to hang with Jason alone, which was nice, because I like talking to him and getting positive attention from him. I do so miss having that male friend. That brother friend. Sometimes I get little glimmers of that when I’m hanging out with him. In a way I guess it’s too bad therefore that he’s my “boss” but in a way he isn’t. He’s just the *associate* principal, after all, right? Is it a crime to stop and think? Dora didn’t think so. But if you’re on a timer.... Well, what else is on my mind? I’m in a period where these sessions have started to feel like work, and that’s why it’s been hard to keep up with the schedule. Well, no, I can’t really say it’s been hard to keep up with it because I haven’t been keeping up with it. It started out positively delightful and surprising at how much insight and epiphany could come out of the most mundane exercise. But then the *expectation* of delight and surprise crept in, and then it got heavy. That’s how you end up in the ridiculous position of feeling not up to the arduous task of sitting and typing *literally anything that’s not complete nonsense* for fifteen whole minutes. When you step back and look at it, it does seem truly fatuous. Like, what is *wrong* with you? And then you’re like, well, maybe it’s hard because it’s too easy, and then we’re back on that cul-de-sac of repetitive pseudo-self-analysis that doesn’t get any cheese made, let me tell you what. It was nice to sit in bed and eat chicken wings and watch a giant TV. It used to be sort of nice to do that sort of thing with women, as I recall--Anne, Ann--but it was nice to do it alone. My shit stinks a lot worse now than it did when I was with women. I wonder if my irritable bowel is somatoform? And if so, what can I do about it? Let’s see, let’s see. What else is new. There’s a lot of pointless boring stuff I could type. I guess I have been. Well, as I said, it’s probably just as well, because if you have to make magic diamonds poop out of your fingertips every time, then this simple exercise really does turn into something grandiose and turbid. It becomes just another scripted thing to-- no it doesn’t; it becomes another fantasy world. Icoul can sit alone in bed for hours and watch the diamond creatures float past. He can watch as 30,000 feet becomes 300 feet; as city lights become fractal patterns; as city lights become gossamer tortoise-shell arabesques; as city lights, splayed out across a lonely canvas, scattered randomly like a handful of diamonds playfully tossed by carefree elves, become structures, figures, forests studded with glinting treehouses, glowing civilizations, sculptures of dinosaurs and great ancient birds and rocket ships powered by the impulse of the transfixed idling mind. The only way to make sure any of that stuff can become real is to let schand put on his overalls for fifteen minutes and just type whatever. Thanks for doing that, schand. Thanks for looking out for me. For protecting me. For standing up for me. For taking the buffetting force of the wind in your face for me. And at home, when you get home, I’ll caress that face, take off that chenille and denim one salty layer at a time. eyes wide. take you in. breathe you in. kiss your face. slow time down. we did our work today; let’s go to bed