April 27th, 2007

Poor day

Yesterday was hard, as days go. I had a nonspecific plan to go get bloodwork done, which is hardly traumatic, but I wasn’t looking forward to it, so I dillydallied around the house writing a letter and other stuff that I don’t even really remember, until it was late enough for the clinic to be *really* crowded, and then I finally set off.

When I got inside the medical complex, a middle-aged lady with, I think, a serious developmental delay, asked me for help. I was confused at first, but she said she had hurt her knee and needed to go upstairs. So we had to wait for the elevator, which was semi-out-of-order, for about five minutes, her clutching my arm and pointing me out to strangers the whole time, instead of me just scrambling up to my second-floor clinic like always. When finally we reached the office she specified, it was vacant.

“Do you think they moved? Do you have an appointment?” I asked her.

“We’ll go up to the fifth floor, ask the nurse,” she said confidently. We examined the stairwell, but she said she couldn’t manage even one floor with her bad knee. So we went back to the elevator for another long wait.

When the doors open, a man stepped forward and said, “Got away from me, did ya?” Turns out, her appointment was on the first floor where I met her, and he’d just gone to park the car. I apologized profusely, miserably, and ran away downstairs.

I wonder why she did that? Maybe I can see it as being like a kid, is that comparable? As a kid, I was scared of strangers, but if I hadn’t been I would’ve certainly thought it more interesting to set off with one of them, rather than my boring parents. And, well, I don’t want you to think I was a dishonest child, but before I I really understood the concepts of truth and lie and story, I occasionally changed the truth to make a better story. Once, I remember, I fabricated a mouse infestation in the sandbox, because I figured my mother’s reaction would be interesting. And it was, until I embroidered just a bit too much and she figured it out. I don’t think that many mice could’ve really hidden in the sandbox.

Downstairs in the clinic, it was of course packed. I waited about a half hour with the blood-test-ee ahead of me, a six-month-old baby who was already fussy before he was taken into a small cubicle, restrained and stabbed multiple times with needles. The kid totally lost it. His parents were great, the nurses were great, but you just can’t explain to a baby that they aren’t being grievously tortured when all evidence suggests that they are. He was wailing so hard he lost his breath, and you could hear him gasping for air to muster sound, all a desperate cry for someone to intervene and make the needles stop.

The waiting room was like death-row. I got really nauseated and realized I’d been unconsciously mirroring my breath to his, the beginnings of sympathy hyperventilation. I stopped it. The kid left with his stoic folks…you could hear him wailing some more at the elevators. My own needle barely hurt at all.

And then I went to Scarborough.

Did I mention I was carrying 30 pounds of exams through all this? And yet such is the weather funhouse that I was blown off course by the wind as I walked from RT to bus, and I’m hardly a wisp even without that weight’o’knowledge. A positive light is how terribly nice everyone in the office is at the campus there, even though I was handing stuff in late and asked a million questions and my lunch tupperware leaked on the exams. Also, when I took the remaining lunch to eat in the cafeteria there, it was a really nice space.

The day brightened considerably after that, partly due to the fact that I no longer had unpleasant things to do, and partly because I took a nap on the subway. Eventually, my charming family arrived, bearing soda, tomato sauce and potting soil, and bound to take me out for Italian food to celebrate my successful defense. It’s been a week, but when I remember that I actually did it I am still sorta elated. Ok, no sorta about it. Elated.

The food at Grazie is always splendid, and the crowd makes you feel like you are at a giant party, not just a table for four. And well, hell, it is always nice to celebrate. So we did, and then I went home and wrote, and considered the day really a success, not worthy of the subject line, but I’ll leave it for now.

He’s not here but / he’ll be round
RR

April 24th, 2007

More euphoria

If you are finding the Rose-coloured blog does not meet all your reading needs, perhaps you’d like to check outThe Hart House Review ’07, where you’ll find graceful poems by such as Helen Guri and Yavanna Valdellon, and a short story by me! It’s “All the Ghostlies,” and it won 2nd place in the HHR literary contest! Hooray! The journal has no web presence that I can find, unfortunately, but you can pick up a copy at Hart House itself. If your location precludes this but you still want one, I can likely be talked into getting you one without much trouble.

Despite this wonderful news, I am actually no longer euphoric, as I am plunged back into marking and sundry other pressures. I am starting to realize that I have committed to a lot for this summer, and it pisses me off that it’s going to be hard, because none of the projects are things I don’t want to do. How sad is that? I’m not even sure who I’m mad at–the world for being so interesting and giving me so many wonderful opportunities? Myself, for needing so much sleep?

My point is that I was euphoric yesterday, and probably will be so again, as soon as I mark 6 more exams, reread the failing papers (2 so far–sadness) and put all the grades into a Word document. And fill out some forms. Oh, and pay the hydro bill and reschedule my dentist appointment and write a new short story…I’ll sleep when I’m dead, I guess.

There was a hedge over which / I never could see
RR

April 23rd, 2007

Endeavourous

I swore I’d post yestereve, but we’re running a little behind schedule here at Rose-coloured, due to the fact that marking proceeds nearly nonstop. It’s affecting my mind: is there really any difference between loose and lose? Between regrets and regress? Is Lorna Crozier’s poetry really about “random stuff” and how “everything is pointless”? Hmm…

Anyway, at 5.5 hours to the original deadline, I still have 15 exams left to mark, which means had I not gotten the delightful extension from the department that I was granted (until Thursday) I likely still could’ve somehow made it. It would’ve wrecked my weekend, however, to get all that done. I’m much happier having gone to Friday’s party, slept a few hours, gone out for dinner with the Small Kitten and The Spiral of Life at Fresh last night. Good entertainment, that. We are all so professional and fascinating these days–librarians, doctors, lawyers, accountants, editors (post-birthday shout-out to Mega if she’s reading). You really have to hand it to enforced dormitory living, it bonds you to a wide range of humans that you just won’t meet in later life. Really, The Facts of Life was much more realistic than you’d think.

Statements like the above might give you a strong indication that I am in a state of lunatic euphoria these days (you know you are freaking out when stoned artists hit on you on the subway and you let them listen to your iPod). Life seems ridiculously good, which is of course terrifying. Other shoes, I feel, are always lurking!

Hey, Melanie just appeared! Hi, Mel!

Old men wanna be rich / Rich men wanna be king
RR

April 16th, 2007

At the platform’s edge

I feel a bit as if I’m on the eve of my execution just now, for in 22 minutes I must depart for the far reaches of Scarborough, invigilate that pesky exam and then mark all 82 of them over 60 hours in the course of the next five business days. FIVE! Argh. So the party of post-thesis is effectively over in 22 minutes, at least for a while.

But, if I’m truly to be executed, then the Becky Eats even on Saturday night was a suitable last meal, delicious and convivial and about 5 hours long, as all the best meals are. Mmm, creme brulee (I don’t know how to accent on this computer [or any computer]–sorry).

Yesterday’s attempt to be free and frolicsome didn’t exactly pan out, but I did manage my first ever post-surgery run. I concerned that the impact of feet on sidewalk would excessively jolt my healing jaw, but with my new ugly-but-well-cushioned sneakers (white with *shiny* blue patches on the sides–something a London gang-banger’s girlfriend would wear in 1987, I think, but so comfortable) all was serene. And I felt happily healthy, although I spent the rest of the largely inert, reading and (pretending) writing.

Ten more minutes. There is scarcely anyone in the library. Why is no one freaking out except me?

For a year we caught his tears in a jar
RR