More news

So it turns out that I only need two signatures for my proposal, which means they can approve it next week, fucking finally. So that's great. Also great is that my DGS and my committee got together to scrape together some funding for me for the fall!!! It warms my cockles to think that they just went and did it. Also, I turned in a draft of my introduction.

So now, the writing must really begin. 

Also, kudos to Sam for being so supportive by watching some Stan Laurel with me. Thanks, baby.

To chortle

When I read scholarly texts, my standards for what is funny become much lower. Anything resembling humor becomes a welcome relief. Take Gerald Edelman's rendering of an apparently old "joke":

A race track . . . was failing financially. The track management consulted three experts: an accountant, an engineer, and a physicist. The accountant recommended restructuring of the balance sheets; the engineer suggested that the slow track could be fixed by slight banking and better drainage. When his turn came, the physicist went up to the blackboard, drew a circle, and said, "Let us replace the horse with a sphere."

The joke structure is there: A reasonable premise—racetracks fail, I guess. An unusual assortment of people—who calls a physicist for advice anyway? The progression—first one, then another, then the [and I use this term loosely] punchline. 

I admit that it made me chortle, which word by the way Lewis Carroll coined, as a combination of chuckle and snort. I guess some logicians are funnier than others.

New Outside Reader

On a dissertation committee in my department, you must have 3 departmental readers and 1 reader outside the department. My current outside reader is a poor soul in the Art Department, but my project has evolved to the extent that it is well afield of what this woman knows.

So what's a person to do? Reach out. I wrote an email to the author of my currently favorite scholarly text and asked him to be my reader. And, folks, he said yes!

I'm not especially good at this sort of thing, so I'm pretty excited that Dr. Singer agreed to participate. He said that my project "looks very interesting," and he thinks that it'll possibly help him prepare for a course he wants to teach. All to the good. 

Picture pages

The baby

We have a 7.5-week-old baby cat. [Picture to come.] I'm pretty sure that he's a boy, not that it really matters. He's fast asleep on his back, head lolling carelessly, in my lap. I know that all kittens are cute, if only by virtue of being tiny, but this kitten is no bigger than a coffee cup. Every visible part of him is gray, except his pea-sized pawpads and the inside of his ears. He's brave and curious, and he tends to fall off of his perch when he's trying to pounce on something that moves. 

We were going to name him The Artful Dodger, but although he dodges sometimes, he is in no way artful about it. So his new name is T.S. 

Nora gets really excited about him, and they're on the verge of cuddling while sleeping. Jane is taking the addition remarkably well. She hisses and growls when he gets too close, but she doesn't generally take swipes at him. 

The problem is, as I see it, he's so fucking cute that it's hard to get work done. He's either trying to play with the pen I'm using, or he's purring loudly in his sleep. It's a real problem. Thanks, Sam.

A little back patting

Today I was thinking about what I've done during the past three months since I've been out of the hospital. It's not a long list, and it's not in order of importance or date, but it means something to me, and I thought I'd share it with you. [I know that's totally a run-on sentence.]

• I found a psychiatrist and a psychologist. They make up my international mental health team.
• I renewed my commitment to Sam in front of our families and closest friends. It was awesome.
  
• I presented some of my work before an audience of my colleagues, and I got thoughtful questions that showed they were listening. I was (this part is important) able to answer them. So there.
• I made out the checks for my hospital stay, the ambulance, and another mental health bill. Get this: there's a Vanderbilt Medical Group and a Vanderbilt Medical Hospital, and they both billed us. And riding in an ambulance is not nearly as cool as one might think but it's also less expensive.
• I applied for and got student loans, a labyrinthine process.
• I gained a little weight, but it's not meds weight, so I'll be able to slowly take it off.
• I got a new tattoo. 
• I started working on the diss again. Although I sometimes panic about my topic and its scope, it's good to be seriously working again. It's especially good to be working in a healthy way, without mania.

So that's my list. I don't feel that productive, but looking at the things I've done makes me realize that my therapist is right: I am getting stronger.

Awkward

I'm so glad you all came to our renewal celebration. I'm sincerely grateful to have you as friends, and I love you all. Sometimes I feel awkward in expressing my emotions, but I'm working on that. It's a lot easier to use allusion as expression. I'm great at showing love through the words in other's works. 

So, a short poem by Thomas Lux. This one's for you, Sam:

I Love You, Sweatheart

A man risked his life to write the words.

A man hung upside down (an idiot friend

holding his legs?) with spray paint

to write the words on a girder fifty feet above

a highway. And his beloved,

the next morning driving to work. . . ?

His words are not (meant to be) so unique.

Does she recognize his handwriting?

Did he hint to her at her doorstep the night before

of "something special, darling, tomorrow"?

And did he call her at work

expecting her to faint with delight

at his celebration of her, his passion, his risk?

She will know I love her now,

the world will know my love for her!

A man risked his life to write the world.

Love is like this at the bone, we hope, love

is like this, Sweatheart, all sore and dumb

and dangerous, ignited, blessed—always,

regardless, no exceptions,

always in blazing matters like these: blessed.

 

Menu

I've been working on a loose menu for Saturday--hard to believe it's almost here--and we're having fish and pork, with a couple of dessert-type things that I'm getting at Marché. I know I've talked to some of you about bringing side dishes, and it would be great, fantastic, really, to get some contributions. We're going with a contemporary American style, so nothing especially fancy. Here's a list that might inspire you:

• Cheese and crackers, dip and crudités, or some other kind of appetizer thing
• Artichokes
• Asparagus
• Pasta for a potential pasta course
• Potatoes or rice
• Salad
• Spinach

These are just a few seasonal ideas I've hard, but I'm in no way committed to them. We're having 22 people, and it's my hope that we'll experience what I'm calling "the pot-luck phenomenon," in which people bring the amount they want to and we end up having more than enough.

 

Just let me know in the comments section here what you'd like to bring (if you're planning to bring something, which don't feel pressured to do so at all), and it'll be like a conversation instead of a blind groping for a plan. Finally, it would not be a tragedy to have more than one of any dish. 

Thank you, our friends.

Addendum: Many of you are already playing another role or bringing something else--please don't think of this plea as yet another thing you feel you should do. 

&

This week has been a little chaotic. So I have a few updates of varying interest:

• Dave is probably gone for good. Janer seems much happier--relaxed, affectionate, and less likely to attack the dog.
• I've called several of you in a panic recently. The calling is a good thing for me because it means I'm leaning a little on friends during a rough patch. Don't expect it to stop any time soon.
• I'm not sleeping at night and am having some racing and divided thoughts. Like having an intense conversation while contemplating a movie I watched recently and trying to figure out how one would go about replicating the table and chairs. It's not that I'm distracted, particularly, from conversations: I can contribute meaningfully and pay attention to the line of conversation. It's just that my mind seems to need more input to function adequately.
• My diagnosis has officially changed, by which I mean that the doctor I'm currently seeing as my primary doctor (not someone who has seen me a few times in the hospital) has changed my diagnosis to bipolar disorder I. I'm actually a little relieved by this change because 1) it's more in line with what I think the diagnosis should be; 2) in my opinion, it's not as bleak as bipolar II; and 3) I have a better sense of why my personal course of action should be. I've been counting deep breathes while visualizing each number: its size, color, and font type. Ones are small and yellow; fours are big, blue, and sans serif. The exercise actually is calming when I make myself focus only on the numbers. 
• Sam and I are struggling right now. We're at the beginning of a difficult, probably long process, but I'm trying to work, with Sam, on not allowing every argument to lead to catastrophe. Smaller, sober arguments are better than the loud, passionate, drunk arguments we often have.
  
• I still need to ask you, my friends, to help me with reality checks, an infelicitous phrase but I can't think of a better way to put it. To say it longer, though, I have trouble with distinguishing between my true feelings and my disordered feelings. It's like the difference between temperature and climate. If I am to be vigilant about my mood disorder, I have to know what's healthy first. I'm working on it in therapy, but you can do much to help me by letting me know what seems unreal or out of control.

That's the sum of it today. Sorry for the fragmented nature of the post, but there's a lot happening that must be expressed.

Last Friday

I really tied one on with a great big bow, and I'm glad I was with Sam because I hate to think what might have happened to me if I were alone. It's kind of scary to get that drunk. So, on that note (and to post a poem Sam reminded me of this morning), here's a golden oldie by A.E. Housman, "'Terrence, This Is Stupid Stuff'" (1896). It's long but worth it:

"Terrence, this is stupid stuff:

You eat your victuals fast enough; 

There can't be much amiss, 'tis clear,

To see the rate you drink you beer.

But oh, good Lord, the verse you make,

It gives a chap the belly-ache.

The cow, the old cow, she is dead;

It sleeps well, the horned head:

We poor lads, 'tis our turn  now

To hear such tunes as killed the cow.

Pretty friendship 'tis to rhyme

Your friends to death before their time

Moping melancholy man:

Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad."

Why, if 'tis dancing you would  be,

There's brisker pipes than poetry.

Say, for what were hop-yards meant,

Or why was Burton built on Trent?

Oh many a peer of England brews

Livelier liquid than the Muse,

And malt does more than Milton can

To justify God's ways to man.

Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink

For fellows whom it hurts to think:

Look into the pewter pot

To see the world as the world's not.

And faith, 'tis pleasure till 'tis past:

The mischief is that 'twill not last.

Oh I have been to Ludlow fair

And left my necktie God knows where,

And carried half way home, or near,

Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer:

Then the world seemed none so bad,

And I myself a sterling lad;

And down in lovely muck I've lain,

Happy till I woke again.

Then I saw the morning sky:

Heighho, the tale was all a lie;

The world, it was the old world yet,

I was I, my things were wet,

And nothing now remained to do

But begin the game anew. 

Therefore, since the world has still

Much good, but much less good than ill,

And while the sun and moon endure

Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure,

I'd face it like a wise man would,

And train for ill and not for good.

'Tis true, the stuff I bring for sale

Is not so brisk a brew as ale:

Out of a stem that scored the hand

I wrung it in a weary land.

But take it: if the smack is sour,

The better for the embittered hour;

It should do good in heart and head

When your soul is in my soul's stead;

And I will friend you, if I may,

In the dark and cloudy day.

There was a king reigned in the East:

There, when kings will sit down to feast,

They get their fill before they think

With poisoned meat and poisoned drink.

He gathered all the springs to birth

From the many-venomed earth;

First a little, thence to more,

He sampled all her killing store;

And easy, smiling, seasoned sound,

Sate the king when healths went round.

They put arsenic in his meat

And stared aghast to watch him eat;

They put strychnine in his up 

And shook to see him drink it up:

Them it was their poison hurt.

---I tell the tale that I heard told.

Mithridates, he died old.