Wheels on the Bus

Posted on May 18, 2011

35


The sink is backed up and I’ve tried the classic soda/vinegar volcano trick. Alas, elementary school science fair projects will not fix this clog. There are dirty dishes on the counter because I refuse to put them in the clogged sink that nearly runneth over, so I’ve filled buckets with warm, soapy water and tossed in used silverware and smallish cups. School is nearly finished, with only three weeks left and it’s summer vacation, and an invitation for my ten year high school reunion came via email, asking if I’d be attending in November. I am so close to finishing my book, I can literally taste the epilogue. With so many things going on, last night I dreamt of Fall 2011 classes at my junior college because I had to register at six am and feared oversleeping. I dreamt of being one of the “competitive” applicants I keep hearing about, about pursuing a degree and career I love that is multi-faceted and layered. They say the future is now, but I believe William Faulkner was more correct when he said “The past isn’t dead. It isn’t even past.”

The sink has been clogged for over three days, and though Mr. Man and I keep talking about calling the landlord, and fantasizing about the days we used to do dishes so carefree, three days have passed and we’ve had take out each evening. Today is the day it will be fixed, after a jog, the gym, some biology reading and a Women’s Study class with a teacher who may have had a stroke at some point in the recent past, which would explain the impossibly and illogically worded tests and failure of anybody in the class to ace the last exam. There was nearly a feminist uprising in the class, because I, along with ten other well-spoken and hard-working classmates, decided to fight her on the test, a test we’d all studied for, a test that seemed easy. The last exam, we found several errors in her “master” which resulted in a shift in each class member’s grade. Because I had grown accustomed to an entirely different teacher’s lack of teaching ability (last semester, English 2), I feel I am much better equipped this semester to deal with such difficulties. If I pursue the test changes solo, I come off sounding like a neurotic, obsessive, perfection-crazed student. Incite the entire class, there can be a revolution.

“The people liberate themselves.”

I awoke at 3:43am, 4:56am and again at 5:45 to the tiny beep of my super awesome new white iPhone (The man and I took our relationship to the next step and signed on to a two year family plan, purchasing new iPhones so that we may text one another emoji’s all day long). I had been debating on summer school, to keep the mojo flowing, but at six am when I registered for classes, I signed on for a full load next fall, fifteen units (Anthro1, Socio1, Biopsych, Bio2, Social psych) and will devote the summer to the rewriting of pages. So many pages. SO MANY PAGES, to fill a book. What’s absolutely insane is that this chapter a week schedule actually worked out, that I’ve actually written a chapter a week since late Feb? And I’ve three chapters left to write? I nearly have a finished first draft of my manuscript, the labor of love, a child bore from my eye and fingertips. So fucking cool. So that will be rewritten and rewritten and rewritten until I finally say, “ENOUGH with this rewriting,” and then rewrite it once more. It goes to my publisher Kara at Gallery August first of 2011, and then hopefully there will be pats on the backs and cheers and for three short weeks I will vacation from anything intellectual, which is bullshit because one cannot really vacation from the mind.

Even when I was loaded on drugs, I was not on a mind vacation. I was merely absent.

Being absent is not good for scholastic performance.

And the ten year reunion, oh ho ho it’s been ten long years, and people have moved on and accomplished things or not accomplished things, and they’ve had children or not, and marriage or not or un, and with all these years tick tocking the time away, it’s amazing that I still feel like I did when I was a kid, except a bit more clear and focused. A bit more positive and confident. And withstanding the ever changing size of my jeans, things in my face look pretty much the same I think, a few more or less freckles here or there. It’s such an interesting phenomena when the primary changes in ones life are internal because those internal changes are difficult to measure, difficult to operationalize. The reunion is over Thanksgiving weekend, planned very cleverly by girls whose parent’s still live in Moraga, and planned very poorly for children of those parent’s who said, “To hell with this place. I’m out…” So the question becomes, “To go or not to go?” And while the answer should not be based around how much cool stuff I have to share with people I may or may not be in touch with, I can’t help but feel that is the biggest reason for having a reunion, to say, “Look at all this awesome stuff I’ve been doing. How have you been?” Whether those final words are said with contention or not remains to be seen. As does my attendance. 

So the competition begins, the internal competition with myself to finish a book that is accepted by my publisher, to complete a rigorous semester of coursework ahead, and finish the work that is in front of me right now. It’s cyclical, this life of motion and change, the wheels on my buses that go round and round, and the challenge will be in staying present, not crossing a finish line. There are no finish lines. There aren’t any lines at all.


Advertisements
Posted in: Good Days