Proof I’m Learning Stuff

Well, at least about writing.

I got a paper back tonight. My first of the semester that wasn’t French. It earned an A. Nice surprise, considering I’d written it in a big hurry, pretty much until just before it was due.

A year ago, I don’t think I would have written a first paper – in that manner – that would have done as well.

I’m becoming way too comfortable with procrastination.

Also, I’ve learned just not to write about Jane Austen.

So far, I’ve gotten A’s and A-‘s on French papers.

My first French grammar midterm earned a B+ (89% – so close!), which relieved me. I remember leaving the testing center thinking I’d be perfectly content with a B. The exam ended with writing a short composition about the novel we’re reading. I remember feeling pretty good about the essay. The professor gave me a bonus point for style, with a little comment at the end: “Vous êtes poète!” Also, thank goodness for bonus points, for I  might have dipped down into B- or C range without them.

So, that balances the ridiculous crying I did today. If those good things hadn’t happened, I would have chalked today up as an epic loss. Of course there are worse things.

Thanks for the comforting texts, you. I wish I had a gold star to give.

I’m Running Away

because I quit school.

Dusting off my hands, jumping on the next cheap form of long-distance travel, and heading to who-knows-where.

Changing my number, cutting my hair, going by a new name.

I felt I was done for this semester back at the beginning of September. I didn’t want to be; I made an earnest effort not to be, but it suddenly and very clearly became pointless.

Integrating, assimilating. Pushing hard, letting up. Nothing worked, and my patience wore thin.

I’m out.

Of everything.

Sort of My Mood This Morning

Mid-dayby Hilda Doolittle

The light beats upon me.
I am startled–
a split leaf crackles on the paved floor–
I am anguished–defeated.

A slight wind shakes the seed-pods–
my thoughts are spent
as the black seeds.
My thoughts tear me,
I dread their fever.
I am scattered in its whirl.
I am scattered like
the hot shrivelled seeds.

The shrivelled seeds
are spilt on the path–
the grass bends with dust,
the grape slips
under its crackled leaf:
yet far beyond the spent seed-pods,
and the blackened stalks of mint,
the poplar is bright on the hill,
the poplar spreads out,
deep-rooted among trees.

O poplar, you are great
among the hill-stones,
while I perish on the path
among the crevices of the rocks.

***

Not an uplifting poem, but the imagery pleases me. My mind is too jumbled right now to produce something of my own. The poem happens to be reading for a class.

I’m Sleepy

I was sleepy three hours ago when I told myself I’d go to bed. I lay and stared into the darkness. I raised the blinds to see if I could catch any of the meteor shower. I couldn’t. Sleep brings on another, new day, but sometimes I’d rather torture myself. Punish myself, because I am not the person I should be. That is just the truth right now.

The platitudes are useless: I know everyone feels that way at some point, or even at many points, in their lives. I know it very well could be a phase. I know this pain is more than just being away from New York or feeling inadequate because of employment or school or social circles or family or bank accounts. It’ll pass; it will all work out. Of course it will.

Why do I do this to myself?

It’s raining stars in our solar system right now. Leo’s mane crackles. If I were to jump high into the sky and catch one of those stars on my tongue, it would burn. My whole soul would catch fire and be consumed instantly in the vacuum beyond our atmosphere. I am nowhere near ready for such glory – subtelestial – even that of meteors blazing in their own orbit.

Delayed Reaction

I mean, I had a decent cry last Tuesday when it happened. Friends witnessed it and everything.

Today, life really sucks.

I wish I could describe everything I’m feeling right now, inside.

I mean, I’m a writer. I should be able to do that, right?

Sure, I could probably describe it.

But now? I’m not so sure I can do it without cussing.

I’m so incredibly mad at myself.

I hate this.

Permission

I’m allowed to have a bad day at work. Circumstances aren’t always going to be ideal, and while I’ve given myself enough emotional room to cope, I can’t be on my toes all the time. Things may crash every once in a while, and they may all crash on the same day, and I might not be ready or strong enough to take it. Fact of life.

I’m allowed to rant about my bad days. Without sense or rationale, I reserve the right to complain. While this may not improve the circumstances at work, it helps me to feel better just to talk about it; it may increase my ability to handle next bad day, because there will be a next . The rambling might not make sense, but that’s what rants are.

I’m allowed to see when I’m not really being listened to. I’m allowed to see I may not have picked a good time to rant (when is a good time?!), and I’m allowed to shrink in front of those who appear to love their jobs all the time or mean to be  helpful by offering sound practical advice because in my mind they’ve been hypnotized somehow by Ayn Rand. If I’m having an emotional moment, it’s hard for me to let people appeal with reason, at least until I’ve calmed down.

I’m allowed to calm down. I realize I’m usually pretty centered and practical, and I usually don’t talk a lot. And maybe I just wasn’t relating very well what kind of day I had, and maybe I do sometimes create situations at work that backfire, and maybe I was just expecting too much. And it’s not like it’s anyone’s fault, really. No one’s but my own. It’s not like I complain about my job all the time. Maybe that’s the problem, though. I heard the words coming out of my own mouth and maybe people were just preoccupied, but at the end of it I felt more condemned than understood. Maybe I shouldn’t have expected that, understanding. For having a bad day. Because everybody has them.

I’m allowed to have them.

I’m letting it go.