One week down, fourteen to go in the semester; 84 commutes left of 90.  Eleven letters of reference to write this weekend; yesterday, an entire day spent working by e-mail. Eight solid hours.  My at-work office is now two thumb drives and a backpack, paper files stored in one location, two shelves of pitifully pared-down sample materials in another location, and an empty toxic cubicle in another building. My throat and eyes begin to burn within moments of entering that building; it’s permeated by the chemical stench of brand-new all-synthetic materials. Fortunately, my only obligation to be in there is an allegedly bi-weekly two-hour meeting. (Lip-reading seven people who all talk at once was hard enough; doing it while my eyes are burning is just one of the intensified delights in store for me).

At home, we are dealing with ominous, threatening medical complications on the part of a beloved elderly family member, the heartbreaking sort involving intensive care, nursing homes, power of attorney, literally having to consider life-or-death decisions for another. I’m trying to be fully supportive to my loved ones in pain, while dealing with my own emotions for our elder. Our lives are hitched to our phones, to text messages for me.

And oh, yeah, tomorrow brings February.

I truly don’t want another season of morose blogs like the ones I’ve been writing from September on, so I’ve been thinking how I might handle Blahg for the next few months, while I’m navigating the dregs of some frankly awful situations. I’m not much liking my right-now, so why solidify it even more with words?

I’m thinking, maybe, about more time travel, about mining stories from my odd past.  For some completely unknown reason, all this week bits of my life in South Dakota in the early 70s have been surfacing, in dreams and in the void of my el commute (I’ve had to carry in so much stuff in the office/backpack that I haven’t wanted to add on the extra few ounces of a novel).  Maybe time travel is the way to negotiate the now. It’s what my brain’s doing when it has a wee bit of time to itself, anyways. 


One thought on “one-fifteenth

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