Concentration music

Right now, I am learning that not all music helps me concentrate. The beginning to realize that "Apassionata" by Beethoven is not the relaxing Sunday morning adjunct to writing this blog. It's waking me up, but it's taking up too much of my attention. Dum dum dum dum dum dum DUM! on the piano seems to take over my thoughts.

When writing, I listen to a lot of concentration and focus music. It's usually labeled as such in Apple Music, and it usually lives up to its reputation. The music features pretty even rhythms with no aggressive beats, a steady volume, and calm music without lyrics. "Study music" can range from Satie's "furniture music" and Eno's "music for airports" to modern ambient, modern classical, and lo-fi. 

It's easy to listen to, yet it's not the "easy listening" genre found in grocery stores. It has musical merit with original tunes rather than sanitized versions of popular music. I would be distracted by easy listening, usually wailing with a certain "What did they do to this song?"

Concentration music seems to help put me in the zone, bolstering my writing without sucking my attention in. It's not neutral; it actually helps me write. Richard seems okay with me playing this more relaxed music when I think he'd rather listen to Beethoven. I'm thankful that this music exists.

Right now I'm listening to Eric Satie, having given up on Beethoven. This piece is getting written. All is good with Sunday morning's blog.

Breaking out of the idea-free zone

I have not a single idea today. Unless you want to hear about hot baths, or about coffee again.

What does a writer do when they run out of ideas? I can answer that for myself:

• Talking to someone. My husband is a good person to bounce things off of, so sometimes he comes up with an amazing idea. (Sometimes he comes up with utter dreck.) Playing “what if” is a very good exercise with another person.

• Writing exercises. I like just freewriting until I come up with an idea, usually with the topic (“What is going on with Josh,” for example) on the top line.

• Meditating/napping. At my age, both seem to be the same thing. When I try to meditate, I sleep. But I do get help from my dreams.

• Stepping back. Sometimes I lose ideas because I work too hard.

I could use more strategies if any of my readers have some. Reach me at lleach (at)  classicnet.net

Beyond the end -- Some thoughts

Note: I am in good health and in no more danger of dying right now as other people in good health.

 I'm fifty-seven years old. I think of dying.

I'm not morbid; I don't think of dying all the time, and I am not possessed by those thoughts. But between the other thoughts, it does occur to me, especially in the time of COVID.

I think about the process of dying. I don't like the thought of being in pain, and many of the ways to die are painful. I'm one of those people who would like to die in old age in my sleep, but that may not be possible. I know that if there's any chance of being savable, I will be kept alive and in pain. I don't know what I think of that, but I have a DNR (do not resuscitate) order in my things that needs to go into a safety deposit box.

I think about the afterlife. I've written about that before. I don't know what I believe, but I don't believe that we'll be sitting around singing about the heavenly host non-stop. That heaven is supposed to be the reward for good behavior (although I don't believe this) and we're singing to The Man? (Again, I don't believe God was born male). I hope I have some consciousness after death because I damn well am not ready to let go yet. 

I'm afraid and growing more certain that I might experience a glimpse of heaven before I die, but will fade to black. And then nothing. 

How can anyone be ready to die without an afterlife? That's what I'm trying to find out. The only solution I can come up with is to live as well as I can now.

Writing a breakup

I did a mad amount of writing yesterday.

It felt good. I have been struggling with this book for so long that it's refreshing to have a streak where writing is effortless. I had a day of flow.

Here is an excerpt of my story: 

Josh and Penny sat down with their beverages. “I hear you play violin,” Josh said, falling into the typical conversation gambit.

“Yes, I do. At the conservatory. In the Baroque Symphony and a string quartet. I’m second chair.”

“I like baroque,” Josh said awkwardly. “It helps me relax.”

“Your mother says you’re an instructor at a college. Tell me about it,” she countered, sounding equally awkward.

“Yes, I am. I teach English composition. I also write — mostly poetry.” I won’t show you what I write, Josh thought, because it’s all about Jeanne. He had written some of his best poetry about Jeanne.

“Have you been published?” Penny asked as she dug her phone out of her purse. 

“Yes, a few places. It’s part of what you have to do as a faculty member — at least once you’re a professor.”

Penny pulled up a picture on her phone of a tall woman with a spare body and sharp cheekbones, wearing black and white concert dress. “This is my girlfriend, Natalie.” Natalie’s hair was short and spiked, and she held a clarinet. 

Josh looked again — the woman was compelling — until the words registered to him: “Girlfriend?” He felt an unholy glee that his mother's plans were foiled.

“I hope that doesn’t bother you. I tried to tell your mother, but — “

“Nobody tells my mother anything she doesn’t want to hear,” Josh sympathized. “Besides,” he pulled his own phone out, “I just broke up with the love of my life.” He pulled up a picture of Jeanne sitting in the cafe in a purple sweater that brought out all her color.

“She’s beautiful,” Penny said. “Why did you break up?”

“Because she thinks I’m too young. She says I have my whole life ahead of me.” Josh closed his eyes because he didn’t trust them not to leak tears.

“How much older is she?” Penny picked up the phone and studied it more carefully.

“She’s twenty years older. But that didn’t matter to me. I never felt like I was that much younger, because — I don’t know. I feel like I went from too young for my contemporaries to too old for them overnight. And he knew which night — the night he saw a tree struck by lightning as he stood out in a park after midnight. And Jeanne understood — or tried to, anyway; Josh wasn’t sure anyone could truly understand his visions without experiencing them.

“Natalie is seventeen years older than me. Look,” and Penny showed him another picture of Natalie, a close-up picture of a woman who certainly looked about forty. “I’m not sure it’s as big a thing for lesbians.”

“So tell me about her,” Penny coaxed.

“We’re broken up,” Josh said miserably. “But she’s a professor of plant biology, and she designs gardens for people with trees and berry bushes and all sorts of edible things, nestled in their backyards. She has a voice that carries effortlessly. She’s got a dry sense of humor, and she’s passionate about things, and she — I’m not used to being at a loss for words,” Josh finished. He looked at his hands.

“It’s a bummer when you break up with someone, isn’t it?” Penny said, and got him another cup of tea.

Interpreting dreams

Do you analyze your dreams?

I analyze my dreams to see what my mind is working on while I'm asleep. I don't adhere to Freudian dream analysis (everything relates to sex -- I'm kidding, but barely) because it doesn't speak to me. I tend to use Gestalt dream analysis, as it relates to storytelling and yields a satisfying result.

Like so many things regarding dreams, we don't know if Gestalt dream analysis "works". But it has given me insight into the meaning of my dreams. 

How to do Gestalt dream analysis: First, you have to remember your dreams. Chances are, like most dreamers, you forget your dreams when you wake up. The good news is that the ones you remember are the most vivid. One source I've consulted says that you're more likely to remember your dreams if you wake up with an alarm clock a few minutes before your natural wakeup time. (This works for me because my demon kitten bites my toes to wake me up.) You should also have a notepad and paper next to the bed to write it down. 

Once you've recorded or remembered that dream (and here is the fun part), tell the story of the dream from the viewpoint of every significant person and thing featured in the dream. It's great to write this down, for reasons I'll explain later. 

Last night I had a dream where I almost fed the cats a slice of Boston brown bread, which is a whole-grain and molasses quick bread with raisins. (The important part of this is that the raisins are toxic to cats.) I almost feed the cats the quick bread, but I remember that raisins are toxic to cats. A bit later, my husband comes in and tells me the cats are dying. I run in and the cats (which are now kittens) are dead and nothing we can do will revive them. 

I went to some gathering which looked like a bunch of women painting backdrops and posters for a charity event and I tried to talk to one of them about my cats dying, but nobody was willing to talk.I can't remember which cat is still alive so I call my husband and ask.  I tried to find a place to sit down and nobody would let me sit. I went home and tried to accuse my husband of feeding the cats raisins.

So, Gestalt:

• I am the quick bread. I am sweet but deadly to cats.
• We are the cats. We are dying. There is nothing you can do about it.
• I am your husband. I feel helpless about the cats dying. I don't know what to do. I swear I didn't feed them the raisins.
• We are your peers. We can't be bothered hearing about your cats.
• We are the posters for your charity event. We're the important thing, not your cats.
• The one remaining cat: I don't know who I am.

From this, I compare the dream to my life to find interpretation.

• The cats represent life and all the things I can't control
•  I tend to blame my husband for things that go wrong, even though he can't control the outside either. 
• I have had a history of my peers not caring when I'm going through something bad -- No, really, I haven't. It's only happened once in my adult life. This might represent a fear I have.
• The posters are representative of the fact that I think my issues aren't important.
• That last cat? That's me again -- I don't always know who I am.

A lot to unpack, but it's unpacked. One of the reasons I write these down is that occasionally, a dream is so outstanding that I use it for a book. I want to know the symbolism as well as the visuals and the plot. I have two novels based on dreams, and I'd like to write more. 

So I highly suggest you interpret your dreams and see where they take you. 

Post-Trump Stress Disorder

Some writers (see here) express the notion that there is a post-traumatic stress disorder prevalent in the US which has comes from living in the country under Trump. I can believe it, given the daily spew of vitriol and lies, the call to violence and bullying, and the inability to escape. 

Certainly, our citizens are facing the PTSD symptom of arousal -- a constant vigilance against future harm. This seems appropriate as a response to the grinding down of our psyches. This will not go away immediately as Biden takes office, because PTSD takes months, if not years, to go away. Biden is taking over a shell-shocked country.

I anticipate a year where Americans are wary of what the government will do, a pessimism about government, a feeling of a heavy weight on our hunched shoulders. 

Doubled by the burden of COVID, we in the US are grouchy and protective of ourselves. We need to find a way to take care of ourselves, by taking time to ourselves, finding an absorbing activity, spending time with our roommates and pets, and thinking outside ourselves. 

We need to be good and merciful to ourselves, and to others. The long nightmare will fade away.

Another broken promise of snowstorms

 Once again, the major snowstorm misses us.

We were expecting 8-12 inches here in the far northwest corner of Missouri, but now we've been downgraded to 6-10 inches, and I personally doubt we'll even get 6. My bet is on 5 inches, not more than a normal storm would drop. 

I love snowstorms, much as I like thunderstorms. This might be privilege on my part, because I can stay at home and teach if the weather gets bad out. As a child, I had privilege. I remember my dad driving 30 miles home in the snow and my mother starting to worry half an hour before he was supposed to get home. He had little choice, unless the snow was so bad in the morning that the roads were closed.

When the snow gets bad enough on the interstate in Wyoming, the Department of Transportation literally closes the interstate with gates and locks at the ramps. I remember driving on a ramp to I-80 just as they were unlocking the gate, car stopped behind several 18-wheelers, waiting to get through. I drove slowly on that road and arrived home 10 hours later. 

So I love snowstorms even though I don't think I should. I like buying supplies as if we're going to spend a week marooned in the house (and with COVID, I don't even know why isolation is something I relish). I enjoy looking out the window and seeing only white, and hearing the muffled sounds of a snow plow. I hope we get a snowstorm like that today.

Sunday morning with coffee, cats, and blogging

 I write this blog every day with coffee. I sit on the loveseat in my living room, surrounded by cats, sipping on my coffee (cream, no sugar) and typing. 

Today, on a Sunday, I move more leisurely because I don't have to go to work. I get started writing a bit later, and I have more time to enjoy my coffee. The coffee, homeroasted, is a Costa Rica Helsar Macho Arce with orange and walnut notes. 

This is the coffee we're drinking.

Right now, Girlie-Girl (a grumpy calico aged 15) sits to my right, next to the trackball. Chloe (the fiesty little tortoiseshell, plays at my feet. Me-Me (the needy dilute grey and white), jumps on and off the back of the couch. She'll be back soon.) Chucky (the huge orange cat) minds his own business.

I don't plan what I write; rather I search my mind and my soul on what I want to say. If I had to plan every day, I would not be writing every day. It would cease to be fun and relaxing. I have enough things in my life that aren't fun and relaxing.

My husband updates me on the upcoming weather; it looks like we're getting 8-12 inches of snow Monday and Tuesday. I work from home Monday; the storm may mean I work at home on Tuesday as well. Regardless, I will have my morning ritual of coffee and cats.

And here's a picture of Girlie helping me write the blog.

I found my muse!

I'm looking for a muse.

I'm thinking of "muse" in the more abstract sense, because real-life muses seem to take too much energy. 

I need to feel inspired, which is something that's hard to find when more or less filling in the areas between plot, which is what I'm doing with Gaia's Hands. I don't feel the sense of flow that I do when writing a novel. I'm not getting the sense of delight over my characters or scenes. 

I'm frustrated. I may actually go through an old manuscript I haven't developed much and edit the holy hell out of it, except it needs to be turned into a romance itself. (It's actually well on its way.) The name of it is Reclaiming the Balance, and the male protagonist is non-binary in the most literal way. I haven't touched that again because it makes me uneasy, and I have to search my soul and question myself. 

Ahh... I've had half a cup of coffee and I'm suddenly feeling inspired to write. For the moment. Maybe breakfast coffee is my muse!

Refining writing

 I can't motivate to write today. Maybe it's because I had a long (compressed) work week with my first full days of class and I'm bushed. Maybe it's because I got up later and am just drinking my coffee. Maybe it's because there are no cookies in the house. At any rate I'm going to motivate myself to write starting with this blog.

Part of my struggle is wondering whether I'll ever get published. Self-publishing has taken the edge off my desire to get traditionally published. At the same time, I do want to accomplish getting traditionally published. I just need the drive.

I have writing to do. I need to rewrite/write Gaia's Hands (the book I most complain about) and edit another older book, Reclaiming the Balance. I would like to write a new one from scratch but I just wrote Kringle in the Night so it's not time for a new book. It's time to move out writing, complete writing, refine writing. 

Oh, and just for you, I'm posting Bernie Sanders' visit to my university:

Breathing Easier (Inaugural Edition)

 As dramatic and cliche as it sounds, I feel like I've awakened from a nightmare.

My vision seems clearer. My shoulders seem straighter and all I can do is marvel in the sense of relief I feel. I no longer feel like I've been marinated in hatred. I feel safe to cry.

And I'm white. I'm educated. I personally didn't have as much to risk under Trump. I can try to imagine how black, Latino, LGBTQ people felt under Trump, but I suspect my imagination is rather inadequate. I suspect they don't feel as sanguine as I do over this new president, because they've suffered from too many broken promises in this country. A cautious "wait and see", perhaps.

Time will tell whether Biden is merely "Better than Trump" (a low bar to surpass) or a truly good president. But for now, I'll breathe easier.

A Return to Hope (Inaugural edition)

 So today's the inauguration of President-elect Biden and Vice-President-elect Kamala Harris. It has been a harrowing four years under the Trump administration, filled as it was with right-wing jingoism, bows to white supremacism, and actions which targeted vulnerable populations, delicate natural landscapes, and at times, the very soul of a democratic nation.

I had thought Trump's reign would be over sooner. Each new outburst made by Trump on Twitter made me wonder if the vice president would invoke the 25th. Each allegation -- collusion with the Russians in the 2016 election (disproven), quid-pro-quo maneuvering with Ukraine (probable) petered out in the legislature. Shaming us on the world stage -- there is no mechanism to get rid on him in that case, but I at least expected that people would turn away from him.

They didn't, and I feel this is an indictment of the American people.

I don't know if they were attracted to Trump's lies or his xenophobic cruelty; I don't know if they identified with his wrapping himself in the American flag or they felt his bumbling, ranting speeches were "like them". But they didn't shrink away from his threats, his tacit acceptance of white supremacists or his bullying. In the recent election, almost half the US supported him. This lingers as a source of fear and dismay. 

But now Biden will be installed as 46th President of the United States. There is hope, although Biden has a lot to undo and a somewhat limited time to do it in. Some things, like the rise of white supremacy in the US, may take years to undo. Other things, like battling COVID, may be difficult. I pray that we can heal from the Trump agenda and all its hatred. 

The Frustration of Teaching under COVID.

Here's a typical class session under COVID:

I get to the class a few minutes early to set up for class. This requires a computer, a USB camera and area microphone that I've brought to class. Add in an HDMI cable to the projection unit, and I'm hooked up. My computer screen is now projected onto the screen up front.

I open up Zoom and see my face projected upon the big screen. Urgk. I don't like looking at myself larger than life. I twiddle with the camera so it's at the right angle -- it's never at the right angle; due to the camera's height limitations it will always be looking up my neck.

The whiteboard behind me is useless, because it projects backward to the Zoom students. Moving around while teaching (my favored style) is useless because then I will disappear from sight. Every visual must be from the computer because it must be visible both for the in-class students and the online students. Luckily, Zoom allows for screen-share, although that can get awkward at times with clicking it on and off and on again to see new documents and windows.

I pull up a few windows -- the first with the seating chart, which will be visible when students come in. Only half the class meets at a time due to COVID distancing, and we need a static seating chart for COVID contact tracking at the University. Our class still is not distanced enough, so we wear masks at all times. 

Students start trickling in through the door, so I point out the seating chart so they find their right chairs. Some students sit down without consulting the seating chart, so I need to explain to those students we have a seating chart. On the computer, my Zoom students start to fill up in the waiting room. I message them, letting them know that they need to keep their video on during class. If last week's introductory session is any indication, at least one will not. Then I let them in.

Teaching is a challenge, because two-thirds of my class sit in desks in front of me watching the screen, which is the Zoom display with a shared document as the current focus -- a PowerPoint screen, a document, etc. One-third of my class views remotely using Zoom. It's hard teaching to both these classes, and I spend too much of my time yelling "Can you hear me?" to the Zoom people, who are silent and not sharing in class work. It's insanely hard for me to pay attention to two different classrooms at the same time. 

After an unsatisfying class period where I feel I have done twice the work with half the results, I wipe down all the seats and tables with disinfectant, and I wait till the next class shows up and do it all over again.

Complexities in my writing.

 I'm slowly getting through my work in progress. And I mean slowly.

Given it's a revision from a previous version, I have pieces I can put in there and revise, but then there's all the romance parts to put in and then there's the flow and ...

This book is less fun and more work. Just plain work.

I don't understand why I keep putting it down. It seems like a simple story. It's a love story of two people with unusual gifts and a destiny they're not aware of. And an antagonist who seems like they're involved in mundane affairs but is trying to keep them from their destiny. Ok, so maybe it's not so simple. I think there are four or five plots running here:

• Jeanne and Josh fall in love
• Jeanne and Josh face their destiny despite obstacles:
• Jeanne tries to get full professorship despite opposition
• Jeanne and Josh explore Jeanne's talent
• Jeanne's talent gets exposed at Barn Swallows' Dance
• Battle with opposition
• Jeanne's development
• Josh's development

Ok, The subplots make it difficult, but they're needed because the situation changes from the first to the second half of the book. The

protagonists think everything will be okay once Jeanne gets full professorship, and then they find out that's just the beginning. And they explore Jeanne's talent, but they don't discover the talent is the reason for the persecution until Barn Swallows' Dance. All this for a romance novel. 

Yes, other than the Kringle novels, my writing is pretty complex. I forgot how complex.  AAArgh. 

Layers of story

Sunday. Coffee and classical time. We're listening to Max Richter, because I have the control of the music. Otherwise the Sunday classical would be Mozart or Beethoven. I am the more exploratory of the two of us, but I've actually gotten Richard to tolerate Philip Glass. 

I want to write today. I need some earth-shaking ideas to motivate me. Right now, I'm plowing through potential plot difficulties that require some research and thought. I want to be thinking more fancifully; I feel that's what I'm missing lately in the book. I'm frustrated with this book, because it's like the inspiration and development is coming in layers, and I keep having to go back and review and add. 

I thought the romance rewrite of this book was going to be so easy! Gaia's Hands proves again to be the most difficult thing I've ever written and there's no reason for it to be so. 

Once again, writers' block

I'm making progress on Gaia's Hands, BUT. I just got to the second half, and inspiration is not sitting over my shoulder and whispering ideas in my ear. I am currently in search of a muse, because I bid the last one farewell (it was time). 

I know why the block is happening. I'm writing a romance novel, and this is the part of the book where everything goes south and ... I have trouble writing breakups, even if I assure myself they'll get together three chapters later (there's actually a formula for romance novels. But there is also a formula for all good novels, supposedly. Google "Save the Cat" for details). 

It's the weekend, and I'm alone most of the day, so I want to write. I'll set a modest goal -- 1000 words and/or at least 2 hours editing a day. I think I'll need to lay down some backbone notes to get this going.

Wish me luck.

The Death of Snow Days

 Once upon a time, not that long ago (pardon me the cheesy intro, but it's that kind of topic) there were snow days. Snow days existed so that students, teachers, and staff didn't have to venture out into a blizzard or major snowstorm to get to classes. However, snow days became a random winter treat to students (and teachers) .

Snow days gathered their own folklore. Everyone believed that their school had fewer snow days than any of the surrounding schools. Winter weather was counted in number of snow days. 

Students treated this as a day apart from routine, to celebrate the novelty, and to watch tv or play indoor games. Teachers as well took it as a welcome release from routine, a day for a late breakfast and time to catch up at home.

COVID, it seems, has killed the snow day.

The same technologies that have brought us synchronous distance learning (i.e. teaching/learning in a classroom remotely using Zoom or other conferencing software) have taken away our snow days. Why? Because the teacher can teach at home, the students can learn at home, and nobody need venture out in the snow. 

This morning, Maryville MO is in blizzard conditions. Only 4-5 inches of snow, but it's blowing pretty hard. And instead of a snow day, we were instructed to teach from home. And thus the snow day ends, a victim of technology and the perpetual need to be productive, which snow days gave us a welcome break from.

First Day of Classes Woe

 First day back to work (in a couple hours), and the beginning of the new semester. And this is what I'm expecting: 

• Students who won't turn their cameras on on Zoom
• Me making some stellar mistake on Zoom that my students get me out of
• One student who shows up in person despite two emails that said we will meet on Zoom for the first day.
• At least one absolutely urgent task over email
• A student who has figured out filters! on Zoom
• Me almost forgetting my mask on a run to the bathroom
• Kittens on Zoom!

This being said, there should be at least one totally unexpected thing happening today. Like another water main breaking (we had that the other day) or an Internet outage. 

This is the fun of teaching. You never know what to expect.

A excerpt of my WIP

An excerpt from my work in progress:

Across the floor of the café, Jeanne wrestled with the program with which she laid out her permaculture gardens. In particular, the app balked at selecting a single clump of plants in a permaculture guild, and instead she lifted the entire 2-acre garden diagram off ground level and into the impossibly blue sky. She needed a better computer, one which could handle the graphics better. She sighed and turned back to her computer. When she glanced up after a few more painstaking minutes of moving the clumps of greenery, she spied a young man sitting across from her. She knew his face: the unruly straight black hair, brown almond-shaped eyes, a sensuous mouth. The slam poet. The man who had looked over at her earlier.

 “I’m Josh Young,” he announced in a light, dry tenor. “I’ve seen you around here. I hope I’m not interrupting you.” He grimaced; she chuckled when she saw his rueful expression. “Was that as awkward as it sounded?”

She silently applauded his straightforwardness. “I’m Jeanne Beaumont,” she replied, extending her hand. He gripped her hand firmly, which she appreciated. His grip fitted with his graceful movement. “But I think you know that, for some reason.” She caught his eyes; he grinned.

“Green Things and Felicitations,” Josh chuckled. “The episode with the Jeannie Beans.”

“I remember you. You went to my Thursday Night Lecture — ” Jeanne scrutinized the young man, trying to discern his motives for meeting her. 

“Three years ago,” Josh responded. “My senior year. I went to grad school from here to get a double Master’s — MFA and MS in English. Then I came back here. I’m in the Writing and Languages Department. I teach Composition and wrangle the Slam Poets Society.” 

Jeanne calculated in her head — Josh had to be 25 or 26. Twenty years younger. So, are you waiting for someone? Or are you here to talk to me? she wondered to herself, thinking how unlikely the latter would be. Reflexively, she swiveled around to check whether a cluster of young, ragged poets stood in the background laughing behind their hands at the scene. To her relief, she saw none.

“No, actually, I came here alone — I felt restless, so I came out here to check out the scene.”  Josh looked up at her, his mouth quirked. “Am I disturbing you?”

 Only as much as darling young men usually do, Jeanne reflected. “Not at all. Would you like to join me for the music tonight? We can drink coffee together.” 

She thought she heard the answer in his grin. Illogical, she thought. Just like the whiff of apple blossom that wafted by.

The Beginning of Spring Semester

 Work is starting to leak into my last days off -- revising the syllabi (already written) for the university records, fielding emails from internships, meetings, trying to locate all my masks ...

And rewriting my schedule, so I have time to write despite work coming back into full swing. 

One of the pluses of teaching at a university is that we get more time off than other people. Actually, we don't have as much time off as it looks, because we have to do class prep, take emails, have meetings and the like. Still, we get at least more flexible time to get these things done. (Note, I work summers supervising interns, so that's not a vacation either.)

I have to get back into the mindset, though. The routine. Getting dressed for work, grading, getting ready for classes (which will be taught online and over Zoom simultaneously.) Meetings and more meetings. 

I can start that on Thursday. 

Am I ready? Am I ever?

 Classes are starting in a couple days, and I hope I'm ready for them. I always feel like I'm not quite ready, but I also feel assured that none of my colleagues at the University feel like they're ready either. It's the lament of faculty everywhere, I guess. (Just as I started writing, something broke in one of my online course sites and I had to fix it. So much for being ready.)

It will be another semester of social distancing, because vaccines have not been widely available in the US yet. I will meet with half the class at a time again, giving the same activities to each section. Tuesday and Thursday will be my busy days. Office hours will be Zoom or live. Everything live will be with masks on.

I have gotten used to COVID protocols, strangely enough. I'm accustomed to not going places, wearing masks, Zooming. I miss live teaching, but if distance protocols are how I have to teach, I'll keep doing so. 

So I'll be as ready as I can on Thursday when I start teaching. 

Mourning the wreckage of a noble experiment

 

It's not over yet for the US.

There are rumors of a big insurrection hitting Washington for the inauguration, with Twitter verifying. I'm hoping that the National Guard and the Capitol Police are enough to stop it if it comes. This is all very scary in a country that thought it was above all this. 

That's one of the definitive factors of the US -- our hubris. Our famous last words are "It will never happen here". It is happening here, and those of us who predicted it would feel vindicated at the same time we wish it wouldn't have happened.

It's still a scary time, and I feel very unprepared for the results. I wonder if I'm looking at the wreckage of a noble experiment called democracy in the US. I guess we had our time as a country, with the best days during my early childhood. I can't help but feel our politicians don't know how to do the hard work anymore, with most of the political energy expended into power struggles and equivocal statements that, in the end, mean nothing. 

I would like to have faith in the US again, a version that doesn't let white supremacy up to the front door of the Capitol nor let it walk in their halls. One where the White House can truly mobilize the COVID response, and societal ills can be addressed.

But if I had the money (as my job prospects at age 57 are marginal),  I would move to Canada.

Where I stand (not with Trump)

 In case there's any question of where I stand:

I want to see President Trump impeached for inciting sedition. 

It's too late for the 25th Amendment (relieving Trump of duties because he's unfit for duty) because that would just absolve him of what happened at the Capitol on Wednesday. He could claim insanity and avoid prosecution.

Trump needs to be prevented from trying for another term in 2024, which would happen if he were impeached and convicted. I'm not against Republicans per se. I'm against seditious Republicans, and that includes Cruz and Hawley.  There is a process for addressing grievances, and a Congressman (or even President) doesn't always get their way. You don't order a mob onto the Capital just because you don't get your way.

I'm not arguing anything novel, anything nobody else has thought about. I'm not that genius, I'm not a policymaker, I'm not a pundit. I'm an ordinary American scared of what I've seen. 

Yesterday's Coup Attempt

 I don't really want to write this today, because I already have nightmares from the events at the US Capitol yesterday, but it needs to be written:

Yesterday's insurgence at the capitol was an attempted coup led by our outgoing president, who irresponsibly egged on a mob to do his bidding and then pretended that he had not. 

The US has always prided itself on being "too good" for anti-democratic actions, yet many of us far away from Washington DC saw what was coming. With a demagogue for president, one who has shown little inclination toward anything but megalomania, this was inevitable. But it turned out worse than we thought. 

It's scary living in the US right now. It's less scary, given that Congress has affirmed the electoral college vote, but I'm afraid we haven't seen the last of these traitors given that both houses and the presidency is Democrat for the next two years.

I hope someone sees fit to invoke the 25th Amendment (removing a president from office due to unfitness to serve) even if it's only 13 more days till inauguration. 

I wondered how I would take watching a mob-rule coup attempted. Now I know. 

Working while Sleeping

 This music is supposed to wake me up. The coffee is supposed to wake me up, Why, then, am I not waking up?

Maybe I should type this half-asleep. I can actually type half-asleep, at least for a couple sentences before I wake up and check it. But I can't transition to the next idea without being awake.

Wouldn't being able to type while asleep be a good thing? Think about how much work you can get done while asleep! All the times you said "I could do this in my sleep"? What if you could?

Think about being able to type out your dreams while still having them? Ok, maybe writing on a pad with a pen, as I don't generally sit up while dreaming. I'd love to capture my dreams, though, so maybe sitting up while sleeping would be worth it. A sleep chair and a computer desk? 

Maybe this wouldn't be a good idea. If employers found out you could work in your sleep, they would assume you could answer emails in your sleep, and then you'd never get any rest. I'm salaried, so my 55-hour week could eventually expand to a 140-hour work week. I don't like that idea.

I think I've convinced myself that being productive while asleep isn't such a good idea. That's fine -- the coffee is finally taking effect.

Living a double life

 I'm definitely half-asleep. I started thinking about writing in this blog and then closed my eyes and started planning exam questions in Personal Adjustment (my positive psychology course for spring semester). I wish it was chapters of my work in progress; that would have been much more helpful at this moment.

I have a double-life. I teach, and when I'm not teaching, I write. And they're two different worlds. I teach psychology and human services classes, and I do research occasionally on things like credit card use and euphemisms in advertising. I have about 90 students in a semester, including the internship students.

So in a few days, my days will be more absorbed in teaching and zoom meetings and the like. I will find time to write, and I might even write better because I have breaks from writing. Ironic, maybe, but that's how it often works for me.

I look forward to retiring, but that won't be for at least five years given the health insurance situation. Unless a miracle (the Powerball) happens, in which case I will retire early. So odds are (about a million to one) I will have the double life for a while longer. 

Disbelieving in Horoscopes

 

According to my horoscope, my muse is supposed to be preeminent in my life today. According to my life, my muse is late on the job.

Unless, of course, he will show up with my coffee, or knock on the door while I'm sitting in front of this computer staring at the screen and saying "Duhhhhh". 

I guess what I'm saying is that I don't believe in horoscopes. 

Sometimes they look like they fit well -- for example, if my horoscope emphasizes work, creativity, or sleep, it usually fits in with my life. Communication problems (such as in Mercury retrograde) seem to not happen in real life for me. And anything that mentions a windfall of money is likely not to happen. 

At the same time I don't believe in horoscopes, I will mention that I'm a Virgo, with all the annoying traits inherent in the sign. I'm a perfectionist with extreme focus and a tendency toward anal-retentiveness (if you read astrologers' descriptions of Virgos, you'll see that astrologers tend not to like Virgos). On the other hand, I've let go a lot of things I'd normally fuss with, like housework. I gave that up to my husband. And even though things are not done to my impossibly high standards, I've let it go. 

So, I'm waiting for my muse. My horoscope says I may need to go after him. I'm trying to figure out how. Maybe I do believe in horoscopes. 

My Vision Board

I made a vision board on Canva. I've printed it out and am waiting for it to come in the mail so I can stick it to the back of the door.

A vision board shows images of where one wants to be. Mine is based on two visions: health and writing. 

I'm hoping that putting it on the back of the door will engrave these habits in my mind.

I think I'm doing well so far with three of the four -- I'm writing, I'm plotting my next query session, I'm eating my fruits and vegetables -- but the walking is hard to do. 

I have a treadmill in the basement, but I like walking outside better. Outside is a winter wonderland as in "I wonder where all this ice came from?" and my ice grippers are broken, so a good lap or two around the block isn't happening right now. 

I don't know if vision boards work. I don't know if I'm pushing my vision board enough. My goals seem pretty prosaic. There's no vision of going on a tropical vacation -- but I don't want a tropical vacation. My biggest dream is to win the Powerball, but my life will become so complicated as a result, and it's a dream for which I cannot make a plan. 

Plus, I don't think that vision boards are all about wishing for the results as much as motivating for the results. No matter how hard I try, I will not win the Powerball by anything but luck. But I know I can make things happen, and all I need is a reminder of my priorities.

Goodbyes in a college town

This afternoon I have to say goodbye to a friend. He's going on to his new life after graduation, to Chile to help run the family business. He's from China, and that was one of the topics we talked about, in our wider discussions on world politics and social customs. 

I learned a lot about China from him, which I could relay to my husband, who is half Chinese and completely ignorant of his mother's culture due to her insistence that they bring him and his siblings up "American".  He had to put up with my abrupt American manner, my tendency to use too much eye contact, and my occasional tendency to swear.

Living in a college town, you learn to say goodbye a lot. Students (mine and others) graduate and dispel to their new lives. Faculty take new positions, gravitating toward bigger opportunities at bigger colleges. Occasionally, faculty die. In a small college town, however, people may be transient but they're not anonymous.

So I say goodbye again. It's okay; it's the natural order of things. 

For the New Year

 Happy New Year! I wish the best for all of you in this new year.

2021 doesn't feel any different so far, but that doesn't surprise me. It never does. It's how the year develops that gives us this feeling of a good year or a bad year.

For Americans, 2020 has been a bad year. We've dealt with an increasingly erratic and vindictive president, a total failure at controlling the coronavirus, white supremacy, people falling through the holes in the safety net as they lost their jobs temporarily or permanently, and a horrifying loss of morale as our relatives and friends died of corona. (Other countries have struggled with the virus, the shutdowns, the deaths. I don't mean to say otherwise, but the US's bungled response is worse than many, many countries. and they didn't have a president that made things ever worse).

We want to see our families again, get back to work, pull the poor and struggling up. I am hoping 2021 is the year of healing for us. 

Let me think of happier things -- the blank slate ahead of us and the potential for blessings.