college

Ready, Set, Go

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I have a full pot of coffee.

I have a can and a half full of coffee grounds, and a full bag of coffee beans.

I have creamer, milk, Splenda and sugar.

I am well stocked.

I have the weekend off. I have 11 pages of a 15-20 page paper written, and it’s good, good stuff. Damn good.

Mostly original, which complicates things when I only have 3 out of 12 required sources.

But the Hell Week has officially started. It will be over in 6 days, 16 and a half hours.

I have two papers after that, one due on Wednesday and another on Friday. The one for Tuesday is already finished and I refuse, refuse, refuse to reread it lest it ends up rewritten as well. I have two finals from Hell and another mildly challenging one on Friday.

I’ll still have one last final to take after that, a toughie, but I’ll have more than a day to actually read and study for it.

And Hell Week will in fact be finished.

I’m ready.

musing

It Takes a Pattern to Raise a Consciousness

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I was talking with Jenny and it struck me how alike my papers all throughout college thus far have been.

The first one I wrote was on John Locke’s theory of personal identity. It was my first paper in more years than I can really count, and I actually wrote it while using my grandfather as a reference. An amateurish paper, certainly, and I’ll probably cringe when I read it again. Locke’s theory is that identity is merely a sum of all experience. My conclusion as to my grandfather’s identity was that, when he could remember memories, he was my grandfather. When he could not, when the dementia was flaring up (or whatever dementia does), he was not.

Even in my first feeble attempts, I was attempting to negotiate identity.

Continue reading It Takes a Pattern to Raise a Consciousness →

personal

Another Reason to Love Bikers

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A toy run for the Gulf Coast:

Forget the Sleigh, Asguard Toy Run

(Is it just me, or does this not seem like the author is imploring the reader to forget both?)

And then there’s Whiskers. He’s the man that stood beside me while we watched my grandfather’s casket being lowered into the ground.

mar1.jpg

I couldn’t have asked for better company. Maynard, Mark and Me.

(photo taken by Sun Herald staff)

college

It’s Five O’Clock Somewhere

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I struggled with the Harriet Jacobs paper all weekend. I have 8 pages. 8, out of 15 or so for a draft due Monday at 630 pm. At least I have an idea, sort of.
This morning at 5:00, I’m flipping through my folders, figured I’d see when my Post Modern one is due. I knew it’s coming up, probably Wednesday or Friday.

Or Monday. At 11:00 am.

Somehow I managed to get the order of my papers mixed up, and did the last one first. Now that I think about it, I think I did that on the first go-round too.

So I have a paper due at 11:00 tomorrow, and not a single word of it written.

I’m going to cry myself to sleep now.

A few hours later, armed with ultra-caffeinated coffee, I’ll start writing.

random

In the WTF Category

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Was over at the folks’, eating dinner and getting ready for work.

I come back to find a text message. This isn’t particularly weird, only that a) It says it was sent from my own phone and b) The message was: Call your significant other.

c) Er. Who?

Someone called from a number but didn’t leave a message around the same time. Groovy. I’ll give them a call back and see who’s laughing on the other end.

It’s not a working number. I did a reverse look up, and nothing came up.

Oh, wait. It’s a full moon isn’t it?

I bet it’s Richard Morris. I knew he’d eventually find me.

random

Black Friday

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I’m in a weird position, torn between wanting to see a friend, comfort her maybe, just be with her certainly, gauge how she’s doing, and being seriously afraid of her sister.

I’m talking restraining-order afraid.

“But it’s all good! She wants to apologize, that’s what sisters do. We’re all sisters. You should come to lunch with us.”

Now, I’d like to think I’m a forgiving kind of gal, but I’m still struggling with the notion of being able to accept a face-to-face apology from the woman who tried to break in a door to get to me.

Since recurring depression is something I myself struggle with, I try to be as understanding as I can of others. It’s a matter of wiring, it’s a matter of bits and pieces of brain matter being scrambled around, synaspes and neurons not firing, whatever.

But there is illness, and then there’s illness.

And then there is a paranoid schizophrenic who refuses to be medicated.

So I’m stuck. Haven’t seen my friend in weeks. Certainly haven’t seen her since her husband died.

They’re shopping, doing Black Friday as grief therapy. I can dig that.

But I can’t do lunch. So I’m blogging rather than sleeping, rather than writing a paper.

Rather than eating lunch.

musing

New Orleans

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The French Quarter, beautiful and resplendent, perfect. St Louis Cathedral and an informal historical tour of New Orleans. There is something so amazingly lovely about that cathedral, the big sprawling lawn before it, the heresy of tarot readers and street performers framing its boundaries. The street musicians and the caricature artists.They are the ones that hold the secrets of New Orleans, these people around the boundaries of St. Louis’ Cathedral. Their gift to the city is not their art, although that would be gift enough. Their gift is that they release the secrets.

The secrets spill into the French Market, pause in the gaping hole where the Famer’s Market used to be. No more alligator-on-a-stick or raw sugar cane. These secrets, both glorious and gory, continue on, hungry, spreading through the Market, around the corner, past Elysian Fields and ’round to Bourbon Street.

They cross themselves like good Catholics, bending and swirling and genuflecting all over the city.

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