I should be writing a paper....

Or doing dishes, cleaning the bathroom, feeding Silly, emptying her litterbox, putting away clean clothes, tidying up my desk, updating my portfolio, dusting, mopping, washing walls, painting....

...or writing another paper. But instead (or maybe because i should be doing all those things) i'm thinking about the future instead.

One friend wants me to try thinking about a particular someone in that future, which makes me think, because i really don't know what i think of that idea. He's nice, but i fear i would drive him crazy. (As he's quite a mellow person, that's saying a lot.)

People ask me when i'll be done with this MLA program, and now that i've found out that my dream job actually exists, i of course want it, which may postpone graduating by half a year. (Alas, dream-fulfillment is temporary, of course.)

Other people ask me if i'm going back to Africa when i'm graduated, and i also don't know what i think of that. I'm not against it. I just don't know what i'd do--i mean, i can think of lots of things to do, but none of them really provide income, and getting there takes a nice chunk of change in itself.

So, i'm thinking. I know what i want to do in big-picture, life-motto terms. Finding someone to pay me to do it? That's another story!

Neighborliness

Because i've recently moved into an apartment more than twice the size of my former apartment, i *needed* new furniture. Bookshelves, to be exact. So i traipsed off to a good place to get cheap bookshelves, and found the one i wanted.

At this good place, the furniture comes in boxes, and the new owner has to assemble it themselves. My sturdy little car (well, it's not so sturdy, considering how often it's been to Crazy Joe's lately!) can hold quite a bit of stuff. I've fit four other college students and all our sleeping bags, pillows, and suitcases into it and it's hauled itself quite nicely up into the San Bernardino Mountains, as well as quite a bit of stuff from this good place from my prior move and need for bookshelves. Anyway, I digress. My little car can hold quite a bit of stuff. The back seat slides down nearly flat, so i've shoved long boxes of bookcases through the trunk and over the back seat. That was my plan on this occasion.

But i've had $5 worth of recycling to drop off for weeks in the trunk, and long lines of people with $20 worth of recycling at the centers each time i try. And a bike rack. And some camping gear (pots and a burner). And emergency stuff, like oil for the car and water for me or the car and a blanket. And whatdayaknow, a big bookshelf, no matter how compactly packaged, won't fit with all that in the trunk. Silly me.

So, i tried putting the bookshelf in sideways, like a large passenger taking up all three spaces in the back seat. It was 1" too long. I tried having it on a slight diagonal from the ground to the ceiling, or across the seat, and no luck. I couldn't get the door shut.

Two women came out to their car, parked next to mine, as i was attempting maneuver #3. I opened my trunk, figuring i could move the bicycle rack and some stuff onto the front seat, and then put the back seat down, and like a puzzle, get that bookshelf in. Only, i was pretty sure i wasn't going to be able to lift it out of the side of the car and around to the back...and stood there, staring at the awkward shapes in my trunk, trying to figure out where to start.

One of the women said: Are you doing this by yourself? I said yes. She said--with a strong European accent--you can't, you are too small. And i laughed, because it was true, and because i didn't know what to do about it. She announced, "We will help you" and called her friend over. She was a cabinet maker, she knew these things, and she said it would fit if i rolled the front seat down flat against the backseat. All three of us then hefted and heaved the bookcase across, and although i felt like i was driving a strange bookshelf hearse, it did fit. I thanked them profusely, and one of them said: "No problem. You would have done it for me."

They were strangers. They didn't have to help me. And seeming like practical, sturdy women, they could have thought: sheesh, what's this dingie girl trying to do? Instead, that five minutes of kindness helped me feel very much less alone in the world.

And I hope she is right.

Summer goes by way too swiftly

It's August. Where did July go? I was going to have stacks and stacks of notecards with pithy, relevant quotes and facts for my thesis; notecards with summaries of "The Literature" for my lit review; books read, violin music learned, apartment shelves put up.

But things happen. People die, emergency surgeries are undergone, weddings fill weekends with celebration. And then the summer is gone with nary a beach day or a page written. Oh, and then there's the occasional 12 hour day on a weekend at work.

I'm ever so glad that classes do not begin until the end of September, but i do still wish there were three months of rest and un-scheduled work ahead instead of only 6 weeks!

crowded ≠ community

I don't know if it's the weather, the end-of-quarter stress, or if things have really changed, but i'm tired of living in an apartment. I like my space--it's almost all i need--and i like the location, but i'm tired of:

Hearing my neighbor who sings in the shower at two a.m. and hearing each time he opens the mirror/medicine cupboard and mutters to himself. Our medicine cupboards are back to back--i can even see light around it--and sound travels quite well through that. He also, being hard of hearing, isn't very quiet when he leaves between 3:30 and 4 in the morning. And i can hear his television well enough to know what number to call for products in infomercials. Should i complain? Or let him know? I dunno, but he's a little intimidating to me...

Then there's another neighbor. They left, fortunately, because i would hear their garbage disposal at odd hours of the night, right by my bed. I hope the new neighbors aren't as likely to tidy up the kitchen when most people are asleep.

And another neighbor. I can hear everything upstairs. Everything, and i can tell you what his favorite radio station is, including what the DJ said at 5 this morning.

And what makes people think that their phone conversation will be more private when they move from inside their apartment to the courtyard? Now all 40 units can hear the conversation, at 7:30 on a weekend morning.

Yup, i'm tired of apartment living. Maybe i'm just tired of apartment living without adequate insulation and without well-sealed windows and doors. I want to live in a small house in the country, far from every one else...

...and hence the suburbs were born.

God's green earth

The other day it rained. It didn't rain much, and it didn't rain hard, but it was enough to clear some of the smog and dust and haze out of the air. Dark, moody clouds ambled their way along the mountains and the hills, with "God light" gleaming through in patches. It was so beautiful--the urban forest, the shape of hills not obscured through grading and terraces and rows of houses, the sky blue between the clouds.

That was driving to school along Colima between Hacienda and Azusa. Driving home on Fullerton Road, cresting the hill into La Habra, i could see the Coyote Hills, Catalina, the ships in port, Signal Hill, and the valleys--from the Cleveland National Forest to the ocean--again pastoral and lovely.

And it made me sad, because it so often doesn't look this way, but it was a reminder of how lovely God's creation was, how beautiful it can be, and the paradise that drew people to southern California. But then, discontented with what was here, somehow it was decided--whether a deliberate design decision or simply the cultural vernacular--that this semi-arid place should be something else. And i wish that i didn't have to drive everywhere, which contributes to the problem, and could instead use a reasonably efficient public transit system.

Dreams

I've been having vivid dreams lately. I can't remember what having vivid dreams means, especially when one doesn't normally, but i think it's related to stress. Ha.

I can usually guess what my dream is about. Dreams where i'm falling off cliffs, in a canoe headed for a waterfall, or "herding cats" usually means i'm stressed out. Others are harder to decipher, and i'm leary of the funky dream interpretations: a suitcase means you're thinking of travel! Sure it does.

Speaking of which, i did have a dream about a suitcase. I was with a good friend and her baby. Their house was an old farmhouse, oddly sitting in a dry wash on a flat plain. I kept thinking the house wasn't on a solid foundation--it was as if it had floated down a debris flow and settled where it was in the wash. Other than feeling slightly unsettled by that, and how the house oddly resembled the first house i lived in as a child, the house didn't play an important role. There were interesting objects in the debris flow/wash, though, one being a suitcase. It was buried up to the handle, but i wanted to see if anything was in it, and loving old suitcases in general, i wanted to get it out. I thought it would be tricky, being so buried, and i guessed that the suitcase would be damaged, but when i tugged on the handle, it came out easily. When opened, it was clean and empty inside.

Very interesting. Wonder what my brain was processing.

In the grand scheme of things

In the grand scheme of things, school may not matter. I doubt that on my deathbed i'll bewail the fact that i never had a 4.0 after high school.

On the other hand, who knows? That slip in gpa my senior year of college was one reason i didn't get into a PhD program in international diplomatic history. I'm glad, in hindsight, that i didn't get into that program, but the gpa did play a role. What if it plays a role later in something else more important?

And what about presentations? Earlier this week i was stressing out over two upcoming presentations. One was individual, and one was a team. Team work stresses me out more because my performance affects others directly, and i don't want to affect their gpas negatively. The individual presentation might have been observed by prominent academicians. I'm not sure why that was stressing me out, except that i wanted to do well, and wanted to impress in a good way--in a way that meant someone would be happy to write a reference letter, say. And all that stress led to a whopping migraine, which didn't help any of the work get done, which didn't help alleviate any stress!

A few helpful people started saying that, y'know, relax, these aren't that important, they aren't a matter of life and death. Trick is, i knew that. I know that. I also know that i am capable of presenting well, but i had a lot of work to do to prepare and trying to plan that preparation time in, knowing how horrible my concentration can be, is what stressed me out. The thought of being unprepared, not stage-fright. Furthermore, i agree: as a matter of life and death, these do not matter.

But i may have many years before i die, and i have a feeling they play a significant role for the interim.

Writing papers

I should be writing two papers. I should have started writing the papers nigh eons ago. I'm grateful for grace--from God, and from fellow humans--because i could have failed this class, and still might, if these are not fantastic papers. I aced the presentations, but these may very well kill me.

I write at my kitchen table. It's hardly ever used as a kitchen table, because i have a little wooden cart thing on which meal prep occurs, and if i eat at the table, it's usually while reading if i'm not in the sitting room or out with others. It's a nice, large-ish maple table that used to be in my parents' home, each one of them except where we lived in Cameroon. I remember learning why we don't tip in our chairs at that table in Northhampton. I remember doing spelling words on that table in Bethlehem, and eating chloriquin-laced apple sauce at it. It seemed much larger than it does now. I remember cutting pieces for many quilt tops at their current home. The chairs are also maple; small, spindly things with curved backs. After sitting in one for nearly 12 hours now, they're hardly as comfortable as i thought they were as a child, and for my next study break, i'm walking to Cost-Plus to get a cushion!

Having to write these papers reminds me how much i hate academic writing. I've hated it since 10th or 11th grade English. Hated analyzing poems. Hated analyzing short stories. Hated writing anything more than a one page off-the-cuff response paper in college. I could verbally explain them to my classmates, but when it came to writing what i'd said, i'd stare at the blank page of notebook paper and hesitate to make my mark, as if the medium was precious, like medieval vellum. Now i stare at the blank white page on a computer screen. I make the title page. I format the references page. I plop my charts, graphs, and tables onto blank pages and insert the appendixes. And then i stare. I never know where to start or how to get my mind organized into an outline for the significant content.

I like writing some things--hey, i have a blog! I write letters to friends, both electronically and on paper. Sometimes i journal (on recycled paper). I used to write poems. But i buy cards that are not precious, because otherwise, that vast expanse stops me short again; and my poetry always began on scraps of paper: clean napkins, receipts, the back of an envelope.

So here i sit. I have 15 pages written, but half the information required isn't in yet, and the whole thing needs severe organizational editing. I edit others' work much easier (and better) than my own. And waiting for the inexorable stress to push me into action out of this writer's block will not lead to the fantastic writing that these must be for me to pass this class. So.

Small sweetnesses

Driving home from work on Friday, traffic was horrid. It seems to be particularly horrid on days that i need to be home by a certain time--say, something slow-cooking without a timer (my crockpot doesn't have a time-bake feature) and company due to arrive. The classical music station DJ for the late afternoon commute usually makes me smile with his Classical Anti-Road Rage Melody, or CARRTune. However, when he said that the 605 was backed up from the 10 to the 210 in both directions for no apparent reason, he was only half-right; and even his jovial voice couldn't make me un-irritated. There was a Caltrans maintenance vehicle making some repairs on the side of the road, and everyone and their brother has to, of course, put on their brakes, fully swivel their necks, stare for a second, and then slowly accelerate onward. WHAT IS WRONG WITH THESE PEOPLE!? Not even a CARRtune could make me not mutter and question people's rights to having a driver's license.

The 605 usually--usually--isn't too bad. I'm going against the main course of traffic to get to work or go home. Once i hit an east-west street, though, it's a different story. Whittier Boulevard can be quite nasty before 7 p.m. and it's even worse when there are two accidents. Two accidents, not on the bouleveard itself (a mercy) but when two or three lanes of traffic merge themselves over into one messy line along the curb, thrice, it does slow things down. On top of that, someone was doing construction! During rush hour! In the middle of the road! And taking away two of three lanes! GRRR. My sanctification was being sorely tested.

But then, as i waited, far backed up from the light in a single-file line past the construction, i noticed a woman standing on the sidewalk. It was at a corner mini-strip mall sort of place, and she was with two children. One was a girl, about nine, standing a little further back from the street. A small boy stood in front of the woman, who had one arm around him, and he watched the Caterpillar and backhoe with the sweetest little-boy face: a look of awe, curiosity, and a wee bit of hesitation as he held his hands together and watched.

It made me smile like no CARRTune could.

Scholarly frustration

When i write my thesis--if i write a thesis instead of working on a project--i will give it a title that informs and enlightens readers and ProQuest searchers. It will have the methodology as search terms and key words. And it will not be poetic froo froo nonsense! Grr!

I'm all for writing well and beautifully, but we aren't poetry majors!

AHHHH!

Picture this: I'm wearing my comfy clodhopper hiking boots, grubby jeans clearly at least one size too large, an old turquoise t-shirt that i scored from Freecycle, and my hair is barely tamed under a faded red bandana. No makeup. And i'm not wearing my ubiquitous rings and earrings because i'm en route to a creek-surveying field trip. Have that picture in your mind? Grubby, because my jeans and boots still have mud on them from the last field trip. Happy, but grubby.

So, i'm running errands on the way to the field trip, and one of them includes dropping off my recycling. It isn't much--just two paper shopping bags of assorted glass, plastic, and cans saved up over the past few months. I'm running errands and not paying much attention to my appearance. The recycling guy, however, apparently thinks i'm hot stuff, because he says hi and asks me how i am in two languages and then asks why i don't speak his language and i explain that i'm learning, but i speak French instead and he says he thinks French women are pretty--i catch on at this point but don't want to take more time to explain that i'm not French--and then he asks if i'm married, because he's not.

WHAT!?

And why doesn't this happen when i WANT it to? :D