It all goes from I am, I do, I love, I will, I made, I went, I did... to I can't, I'm sorry, I don't know, I don't fit.
Last week I was absolutely, positively on FIRE. I started School. I love School. I am enraptured with my one class (English comp.) and my Dead Poet's Society-esque teacher. I mean, it's not an all-boys college in a picturesque setting, it's more like - well, it actually is exactly - a cement building on Long Wharf next to the highway. No walking in step in the courtyard for us. Oh, and I'm one of three white people. Not that that matters, it's just an interesting situation in which to find myself. As he puts it (Tom, my teacher, who has written books with Henry Lee), open enrollment is absolutely fascinating. And that many of our great minds were derelicts, and the next Einstein or Poe could be among us - so who is he to judge? Write. Flourish. Find your voice. Existentialism. It's totally glorious.
I guess I am still on fire about it.
But today just feels a little less... everything. My essay isn't perfect, and it's killing me. I stopped taking my Wellbutrin, mostly because I forgot for a few days and then decided to go without. My apartment is small, and I really and truly love Raf with all my heart, but we're in a little space and it's taking some adjusting. I'll add in here, though, I wouldn't have it any other way. On top of all of that, I'm working - hard - and my hands are cut up and I burned myself at work and Tuesday went from being in work, at my desk at 8:45 straight through thirteen hours to leaving the coffee shop close to ten. I have a coffeepot, finally. Hurray! And I'm seriously, just torn up about this fucking paper.
Narrative essay. A story with a point. In my case, a story with a point, 300-500 words, in the first person, on the topic of rejection. Perfect. Except my first "perfect" go wound up at 930 words. Anything less seems inhumane. So Kristin enlightens me with the fact that it's what I do on this here blog, and I'm thinking of this and the two readings we had and the typical storyline:
Once upon a time there was a (blank) and (basic issue). S/He/It (verb) (noun), repeatedly, in different forms. Conflict resolution, for better or worse, and the moral of the story is (X). 300 words just doesn't seem like enough. I hand wrote, typed, edited, and still was at 7something... so back to the drawing board. Which is due tomorrow, by the way.
I'll put the draft up before I go. And Kristin, tell me more about the mood charts, will you?
(She sends) kisses, with visions of Wrens in just eight days,