Just finished Giovanni's Room, by James Baldwin, which blew my mind. Cried hard, of course - not only for David and Giovanni, but they were a good excuse. Fiction is always a good excuse, and maybe that's why I've been reading so much less of it. Things are too heavy and real right now to take that on.
It's my second day of bleeding, which is generally the day I have to skip classes and lie about. Made a proper sick day of it, magazine and ice cream and all, for half an hour, anyway, before I remembered how much I have to get done tonight and tomorrow. A twelve-page story for Lori's class - at a time when I feel I've got no stories - and papers and poetry, and there isn't enough sleep, and it isn't without nightmares, and I'm just exhausted. Saw my therapist today; she says we need to take a session to process all these dreams, to see if my subconscious has memories I can't access on my own. If it does, I'd rather leave them there, not drag them out and process them, but what else can I do? I'm not the only one affected, so it needs to stop.
I'm really trying to keep it together, and I've been pretty good about it while the people around me have had rough going, but once my reasons to stay strong are gone, I fall back into this too easily. Without the stress and distraction of academics, though, I have to deal with the really scary stuff, so this is definitely the best place for me right now. Still, it will be good to see my cats again, and my kid brother, and my parents. I feel sort of unmoored, right now, and a week of being with my family just might take care of that.
Am off to write critiques of some disappointing stories, then to get a start on my own, which is already disappointing me, though I haven't started writing it yet. Then closing the labs, then finishing my paper, then sleep, if I can get it. If I'm really lucky, I'll manage to talk to Young Steven tonight, and he'll remind me just how free and fabulous we're meant to be right now, he'll talk in that raised-eyebrow voice and I'll laugh 'til it hurts me and I'll remember just how good I have it. The people who save me in this way aren't really aware of it, I don't think - if they were, I couldn't bring myself to call them, couldn't let myself have what I need. Since when am I such a control freak? Why am I turning into Michelle Pfeiffer's character in One Fine Day, minus the cute dinosaur t-shirt and cute kid? I had a dream last night that I stole a kid from foster care and we took off running, in a British city somewhere. I guess I do spend a lot of time thinking about running away, even as I say this is where I need to be. And I guess I would like the company, someone whom I didn't ever have to ask, someone who would run as fast as I want to.
It's my second day of bleeding, which is generally the day I have to skip classes and lie about. Made a proper sick day of it, magazine and ice cream and all, for half an hour, anyway, before I remembered how much I have to get done tonight and tomorrow. A twelve-page story for Lori's class - at a time when I feel I've got no stories - and papers and poetry, and there isn't enough sleep, and it isn't without nightmares, and I'm just exhausted. Saw my therapist today; she says we need to take a session to process all these dreams, to see if my subconscious has memories I can't access on my own. If it does, I'd rather leave them there, not drag them out and process them, but what else can I do? I'm not the only one affected, so it needs to stop.
I'm really trying to keep it together, and I've been pretty good about it while the people around me have had rough going, but once my reasons to stay strong are gone, I fall back into this too easily. Without the stress and distraction of academics, though, I have to deal with the really scary stuff, so this is definitely the best place for me right now. Still, it will be good to see my cats again, and my kid brother, and my parents. I feel sort of unmoored, right now, and a week of being with my family just might take care of that.
Am off to write critiques of some disappointing stories, then to get a start on my own, which is already disappointing me, though I haven't started writing it yet. Then closing the labs, then finishing my paper, then sleep, if I can get it. If I'm really lucky, I'll manage to talk to Young Steven tonight, and he'll remind me just how free and fabulous we're meant to be right now, he'll talk in that raised-eyebrow voice and I'll laugh 'til it hurts me and I'll remember just how good I have it. The people who save me in this way aren't really aware of it, I don't think - if they were, I couldn't bring myself to call them, couldn't let myself have what I need. Since when am I such a control freak? Why am I turning into Michelle Pfeiffer's character in One Fine Day, minus the cute dinosaur t-shirt and cute kid? I had a dream last night that I stole a kid from foster care and we took off running, in a British city somewhere. I guess I do spend a lot of time thinking about running away, even as I say this is where I need to be. And I guess I would like the company, someone whom I didn't ever have to ask, someone who would run as fast as I want to.
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