Disparates
What do Antonio Gramsci, José Enrique Rodó, Rómulo Gallegos, Javier Marías, Leopoldo Lugones, Ricardo Palma, Ramón del Valle-Inclán, Mariano Azuela and José Asunción Silva all have in common other than the fact that they are (were) all men?
They are all (or at least their biblio-avatars) sitting neatly, semi-dispatched on the dehumidifier that is acting as a provisional nightstand while the real one has been displaced in anxious wait for a new door frame. The rains are wreaking havoc on the wooden structures, and the visiting carpenter tells me that the floors should be fine, that the asbestos doesn't really need to be abated, not if the tiles are structurally sound, which he assumes they will be, though one can't be sure.
Arg.
I. leaves in a week and that both relaxes me and scares the bejeezus out of me. It has come. The last three week mad dash to preparation is upon me, and while most of the aforementioned authors are waiting only to be jotted down in the annals of spiral notebook-dom, I find myself lolling in anguished misery as I try to read 200 pages about the Gramscian concept of culture for the one class I am taking. I have been teaching and hightailing it off campus, and I finally finally put the nice soft new thousand-count sheets on my bed. Why have I been depriving myself? Why, I ask!
I seem to have the look of the possessed about me, though my wardrobe renovation has caused quite a stir, the only interactions that I have are with professors either asking me how I am doing and if I am ready, or to tell me how great I look, which just goes to show how utterly un-put together and frumpy I normally look, or was looking. It is more of an attitude readjustment, I think. Or perhaps a physiological change based on recent interaction? Could be that, certainly could.
Meanwhile every single one of my neighbor/friends and all of I.'s are slowly shuffling off one by one into the abyss and we will soon be left with the friendless emptiness that is settling over me. I don't even want to think about how much I will miss K. and our afternoon vice-fests and dance parties. When they came for the last of their things last night we both nearly cried, even though she is only, for now, going to be on the other side of town. Everything is moving towards its inevitable end, and I have this strange sense of emptiness, not the exciting promise of possibility, but this lump in my stomach, of impending doom. Sigh.
Forgive me dear readers, I know you are still out there, though you rarely speak any more, I have no useful, witty insight to offer and will likely be equally tongue-tied and boring for the weeks to come. I know it matters very little to anyone, least of all to me, but it seems that this tack of work avoidance may have ultimately dried up, or at least, is in a state of temporary if extended drought.
They are all (or at least their biblio-avatars) sitting neatly, semi-dispatched on the dehumidifier that is acting as a provisional nightstand while the real one has been displaced in anxious wait for a new door frame. The rains are wreaking havoc on the wooden structures, and the visiting carpenter tells me that the floors should be fine, that the asbestos doesn't really need to be abated, not if the tiles are structurally sound, which he assumes they will be, though one can't be sure.
Arg.
I. leaves in a week and that both relaxes me and scares the bejeezus out of me. It has come. The last three week mad dash to preparation is upon me, and while most of the aforementioned authors are waiting only to be jotted down in the annals of spiral notebook-dom, I find myself lolling in anguished misery as I try to read 200 pages about the Gramscian concept of culture for the one class I am taking. I have been teaching and hightailing it off campus, and I finally finally put the nice soft new thousand-count sheets on my bed. Why have I been depriving myself? Why, I ask!
I seem to have the look of the possessed about me, though my wardrobe renovation has caused quite a stir, the only interactions that I have are with professors either asking me how I am doing and if I am ready, or to tell me how great I look, which just goes to show how utterly un-put together and frumpy I normally look, or was looking. It is more of an attitude readjustment, I think. Or perhaps a physiological change based on recent interaction? Could be that, certainly could.
Meanwhile every single one of my neighbor/friends and all of I.'s are slowly shuffling off one by one into the abyss and we will soon be left with the friendless emptiness that is settling over me. I don't even want to think about how much I will miss K. and our afternoon vice-fests and dance parties. When they came for the last of their things last night we both nearly cried, even though she is only, for now, going to be on the other side of town. Everything is moving towards its inevitable end, and I have this strange sense of emptiness, not the exciting promise of possibility, but this lump in my stomach, of impending doom. Sigh.
Forgive me dear readers, I know you are still out there, though you rarely speak any more, I have no useful, witty insight to offer and will likely be equally tongue-tied and boring for the weeks to come. I know it matters very little to anyone, least of all to me, but it seems that this tack of work avoidance may have ultimately dried up, or at least, is in a state of temporary if extended drought.
posted by ilana at 7:19 p.m.
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