December 14, 2003 - 1:20 pm
So I've been thinking a lot today about the question "How are you doing?" First of all, people ask that a lot. I mean, it's part of our culture, right? When you run into someone, you ask how they're been, and such, even though it would be a social faux pas for them to answer honestly if they had any troubles weighing on them. And then sometimes you run into a friend that you haven't seen in a while, and in catching up, you ask that question, this time with sincerity: "How have you been?" and they do the same, and you get your troubles, at least in truncated form, off of your chest.
So at least once a week Pearson asks me this, and damned if she doesn't want a detailed answer. And now I find myself asking that question, "How AM I?" when I'm alone. You know, in the shower, in bed, taking a piss, whatever. And today it led to a kind of sappy nostalgia, for back when I used to write for ME, often, and well for my age and experience. Ah, those WERE the days, eh? Okay, so everything else sucked, but at least I was writing.
You see, answering to myself the aforementioned question, I took note of how much less spare time I'd had than my expectations earlier this week, but also the fact that I was pretty damned content overall, inspite of that. I mean, I've spent a lot more time than I'd expected writing this last final, but I haven't cared much about that. In fact, I've kind of enjoyed it, especially this morning, because I haven't had to worry about anything BUT writing, so I've been able to take care of my "me" needs, too.
Yesterday and today, for example, I've been able to sleep in, get up when I felt like it, make some good, pricey, smooth coffee and sit at the computer, typing away with my PJs still on and my hair pulled sloppily away from my face. Once I get into it, I really like how my brain functions. Things really come together and I end up liking what I write, even if it is just regurgitation of the shit I've read on dyslexia, intermixed with some theories of my own on this or that, the composition of it all really gets me excited about writing in general.
And if I had these circumstances, without the assigned topic, I think I could really put out something worth reading. Really. If only I had some great benefactor that would pay for me to live, surrounded in coffee and blankets, with as much printing paper and trips to the library as I wanted, with no pressure to produce anything until I was ready...how happy I'd be.
On a less sappy note, that reminds me of a few years ago, when I was dating Sean. I told him one day about how I thought it would be so funny (and by funny, I mean on the same level as punching old people, getting 8-year olds drunk, or flipping off kittens is funny) if the squirrels on campus were filled with fudge (fudge covered with skin and fur, that is) and how I'd have laughed as (in my mind) a student just grabbed a squirrel off of a tree and took a big fat bite out of its belly to get to the rich fudgey insides. He told me that if I thought I could figure out a way to make that scientifically possible, he'd marry me and support me during my research. Not that the idea of being married to ole Sean is worth the nostalgia, the whole benefactor idea struck me, and the fudge-filled squirrel ideas DO remind me of goodness.
Yeah, so, back to work for me.
Later that day: So, they caught Saddam. Bittersweet, yo.
