Doing it Wrong

Resurrected

*tap* . . . *tap* . . . Is this thing on?

Yah, so that was a long break. I've been writing - a lot - just about archaeology, and it's been intensive enough that I haven't had much left over for anything else other than the occasional fatuous post on Facebook.

But I do want to get back to this. I keep itching to do something creating outside of the academic bubble I'm in at the moment, and this is the most familiar, easiest way to do that at the moment.

So I'm posting this as a digital goad for myself.

I'm flying to Norway tomorrow for a 10 day research trip. I am going to actually take photographs (for once... something else I used to love to do that I've just neglected) and then I'm going to come back and write something - anything.

Now excuse me, I need to fret over whether or not I've packed enough plug converters, toothbrushes, pencils, pens, memory sticks, post-it flags...

25

Today is my 25th anniversary.

It is also 9 1/2 years from the day my husband went missing.

I used 'is' up there deliberately, if self-consciously. It is my anniversary, not it would have been. Because I'm still here, I was married 25 years ago, and that still means something today.

Tenses are a bitch.

Over the last 9 1/2 years I have deliberately avoided making a big deal out of particular days. I think it was self-defence. Every day was difficult. Recognizing significant days would have just punctuated things, added a slight edge to what already felt unbearable. So I ignored them for the most part - Kirk's birthdays, our anniversaries, and yes, at least with my surface mind, the day he went missing.I knew they were happening but I locked away everything but the most superficial acknowledgment.

But this year I think my brain is fed up with that strategy. Maybe not my whole brain, maybe just the subversive bit that imbibed too many lessons about the value of suffering, among other useful, corrosive little concepts. That part of my brain has been spending the past several weeks dishing up a variety of interesting, barbed experiences. Glanced-at photographs of total strangers look uneasily familiar. Snatches of conversation on a train seemed to be in a well-known voice. And the nightmares. Those are always fun. Just after I fall asleep usually, the sort that slip away as soon as you wake up but leave your heart racing and your body tense and mean that, in a dark, empty room, there's no hope of getting back to sleep again for hours.

So maybe this post is to placate that bit of my brain, to say yes, I know it. I know what today is, and I recognize that it's important.

I just don't know what to do about it.

So I booked tickets for a show I've been wanting to see. I bought supplies for a very nice dinner - smoked salmon, goat's cheese, bruschetta, fresh tomatoes, capers. And I decided that today, for once, all day, I was going to give myself permission to do whatever it was I was doing at the time - no guilt, no pressure, no mental list of what I should be doing instead. I admired the hatching of goslings that was being paraded across the street by watchful parents and I made sure to look at the daffodils that are now blooming in the thousands. I only winced a bit when I passed a shop with a very lovely woman trying on a wedding gown, and I stopped for a moment to admire her, because she was beautiful and happy and it was nice to see that happiness so fresh and clean.

And I still don't know what to feel, which is maybe a good thing. Maybe I spend too much time watching myself watching myself feeling things and not enough time just... just feeling them and letting that be enough. So that's what I'm trying to do. Just feel, not feel the right thing, not feel the comfortable thing, just let it be. And right now, thinking of those lost 9 1/2 years, thinking about how we would have laughed and celebrated and loved in honour of our 25 together, it feels profoundly sad, and very, very empty.

Kaj - I miss you.

Sproing

I think spring has sprung.

I'm probably premature in saying so, particularly given the fact that I was sure spring had sprung a few weeks ago when the snowdrops were all out and the temperature was in the double [centigrade] digits. And then all last week we had bitter cold, snow, graupel and a biting, bloody awful wind.

However, it's warm today. The forsythia by the bridge not only has buds, it has at least four blossoms, the crocuses are blooming, the jonquils hot behind, and the floods of daffodils at the base of the city wall are raring to go.

A pair of ducks were in the garden outside my flat clearly on the market for a cozy little property, short commute, room for a family. There are thousands and thousands of birds all twittering 'I'M SEXY! I'M TOTALLY SEXY!' in a variety of, generally charming, themes. Well, charming except for the geese. The goose for 'I'M SEXY' is basically shouting 'BAWACKA!! BAWACKA!!' at full volume. Often very early in the morning. Very.

But as the old saying goes, when the geese shout BAWACKA, you know that spring has sprung.

Ghost

I saw a ghost the other day.

I don't believe in ghosts.

I wasn't going to write about it, but it happened and as I think about it, some of the time I think it's important, so I'll put this here - placeholder. This happened.

I was walking at my usual clip down my street onI the way to class. It wasn't terribly early in the morning. The sun was well up, it was light, although the usual amount of mist in the air made everything a bit softer than I was used to from the desert, although now I hardly notice. Cars were going by; the seagulls had found something off the quay and were screaming about it. It wasn't an evocative moment, is what I'm saying, it wasn't that my senses were keyed up or that there was a feeling of something in the air.

And the man walking towards me was Kirk.

I don't mean he looked like Kirk or reminded me of him, he was him, just for a moment - hardly a breath I think. And immediately he wasn't. Nothing like him of course - not in height or build or age or colouring. Nothing. Stranger. But he had been Kirk in a total and absolute way that I can't explain.

The thing is that since I've gotten here, Kirk hasn't been as present to me as in all the years before. That's the wrong word... what I mean is that before, I had been carrying him with me, always, everywhere, not as a memory, but as something I could not put down. It was a very good thing sometimes, that burden, because I did - do - love him so very, very much, and even carrying him in grief and pain was better than not having him at all. But I was tired, bone tired and so when I found that - god knows why - I was not carrying him with me here I felt enormous relief. And, which I never thought possible, there was no guilt with that relief, which was the biggest relief of all.

So why did my brain turn a stranger on the street into Kirk that morning?

I don't know. I had been thinking of him the night before, yes, as I often do, and that night I had been sad. Maybe that was it.

All I know is that I saw a ghost.

The Post That Never Was

I wrote this post about the new year. It was awesome. Okay it wasn't, but it was epic. As in EPIC, as in long and involved and all that stuff and I knew when I was writing it that it wasn't going to work as a post because, beyond the fact that it was LONG and EPIC, it was way too personal.

Which, I know, is totally silly because this is a blog and blogs are all about smearing the personal all over the internets because those who blog are just that self-involved, yo. But even for me it was way too personal. So I wrote it and I saved it as 'draft' and I told myself that someday I might publish it even while I knew I probably wouldn't because by the time it reached the 'not too personal anymore' stage it would also be 'not remotely interesting'.

Sadly this left me without a post for new years.

So you're going to get the Cliff Notes version which is:

1) last year was kind of mad. I  mean crazy mad. I mean LOADS of things happening both good and bad and how do you sum that up?? kind of mad.

2) Some of that madness left me with a very distinct lack of confidence of myself when it comes to personal relationships - as in, I suck, worlds without end, amen.

3) So probably a Garbo-esque existence is a good thing.

So a week or so ago I was off to do errands which, given where I live, have enormous benefits. I mean, it's rather nice to know that if you need to nip out for some laundry soap, a kitchen sponge and some carrots you can do so by walking on the old city walls. It adds a bit of... je ne sais quoi to things.

As I walked I was listening for the umpteenth time to the only playlist I had then bothered to make (ever) and pondering the value of living alone and removed from people, at least for a while. I had made friends here, but they were talk-to friends, not heart-friends if you see the difference. And that was okay, because lonely is good when you have rather a lot to sort out. And as I was thinking this I looked ahead on the wall and saw this:



A cat, a vertiable Kipling's cat*, a cat who walks by himself. And I grinned at him because, hey, you and me cat, we walk by our wild lone and we wave our wild tails. And it was all beautifully timed and meaningful right up to the point where the cat noticed me and immediately bounded over and began rubbing himself affectionately and enthusiastically all over my jeans.

Cats. They just don't get poetic metaphor.


*The cat that walked by himself

I was anxious, then I was bored, then I wrote too much about it

So after getting all my self together to write about anxiety and worry and stuff like, that I did it, I sat down and started pounding away, dozens and dozens and DOZENS of words. And even while I'm writing I'm thinking, this is so flipping boring, I mean, I'm writing it right now, the words are flowing well and the sentences are neatly locking into each other, and I am honestly bored out of my skull just writing it. I can't imagine what it would be like to read.

So I'm not going to put you through that. Here's the Cliff Notes version, the synopsis-plus-themes-and-tropes version. Only probably without the themes and tropes because those are pretty damn boring too.

I've been anxious since I was pretty young - probably started at about ten or so. Silly stuff, like working up a panic just thinking about having to make a phone call. High school was fun too - anxiety about doing things wrong, looking a fool, being me. All that good, healthy, normal, hideous teenage stuff. I'd walk down the wrong corridor, realize halfway down and then keep on walking because turning around would be admitting I'd make a mistake and all the high school world would know it.

But the thing about being anxious in those silly, idiosyncratic ways is that you get used to them, and after a bit it's just, 'yeah, yeah, phone calls suck and I don't want to ask the store clerk where the kumquats are. Suck it up buttercup' and then I do suck it up (often - or I find the kumquats on my own, whatever) and there's this minor feeling of back-slapping victory over something that is totally, stupidly petty. I suppose that's the pretty, ribbon wrapped gift of anxiety - those ridiculously low bars return a ridiculously high reward when you step over them.

ANYWAY (damnit - and this is the SHORT version!), I had the anxiety thing tapped and figured out, knew what my pain points were, knew that it didn't kill me to face them, just took them in as part and parcel of being just another hyper-wired primate. And then I decided to give away almost everything I owned, leave family, friends and familiarity behind and move city, move country, move continent all alone. I knew it would be a stress and I knew just where my old anxious friend would give me the greatest trouble - mostly because of happy nights spent worrying about it [trains! I'll have to do the trains and know which one to get on and buy tickets and figure out the platform and what if I can't do it or it's too confusing and I get LOST and... and... running around in my head in those horrible 3 a.m.'s that leave you vulnerable to the most irrational stuff.] But I also knew that I needed to do this for a dozen different reasons, not least of which was that I would regret it forever if I didn't. So I did. And I found the train and I searched out the flat and I set up the bills and made the phone calls and got lost down every last back alley in York and I survived it all.

What I DIDN'T expect was an entirely different type of anxiety which, being different, I didn't recognize as just my old friend in a new dress. So when I found myself all balled up after every last flippin' conversation with someone [did I say anything stupid? Did I talk too much? Too little? They laughed at my jokes, but maybe that was nervous, get-me-out-of-here laughter] I didn't immediately think, huh, my brain has found a new way to screw with me! I thought, huh, I'm pretty much a jerk and a social idiot and probably the world hates me and I should not talk to people. Ever. And that would kind of be the wa-wa-waaaaaah end of the story, petering out into me getting tenser and tenser until I finally - who knows when - realized what was going on, shook myself firmly, and crawled out of it.

Only that's not how it plays out, because although I did pick up and move miles away from everyone I know, I took so many of them with me. Loads of them I've never even met in person, but that doesn't matter because they came with me anyway. And they didn't even know I was having these quiet, private moments of panic. They came along and they kept on talking about things in their lives, their own bits of stuff, the good and the bad, sharing just because that's what we do. And because they were sharing and talking and letting me see the size and shape of their days it took my silly, over-inflated anxiety and popped it, deflated it until I could roll it up and put it in my pocket.

Love letter to my internet people. That's what this is.

Hypocricy

I was just thinking grim and grumpy thoughts about a couple of my favorite bloggers who have either apparently stopped completely or have been veeeeerrrrry slow getting out new stuff.

And then I though, hullo pot, I'm kettle, SO nice to meet you.

So on the basis of that and despite a total and complete lack of content I thought I'd come and post anyway.

Actually, I lie. I don't have a total and complete lack of content. I'm living in a fantastic place and really being challenged in my work so theoretically I should have quite a lot to say about that. Only what I kind of have in my head is a post about anxiety and worry, and I'm not good at all at writing about those things, or talking about them... or admitting them, so I haven't.

Except now that I've SAID I have things to write about anxiety I am obligated to do so which is just the way my twisty little mind works, so really this entire post was just to force myself to write about something else in another post in the future.

It's not easy living in my head sometimes, but it's never dull!

Doing it Wrong: Grad School

There are a few differences between American grad schools and British. For example here a master's degree takes one year - one. At the university I worked for recently a master's took between 2 years and 5 depending on how generous the loan officer was and how bad the economy in the real world was looking.

Here essays are Very Serious Things Indeed which not only decide your immediate fate (fail and you're bounced) but are externally assessed somehow by some apparently very fierce and humourless body which has draconian rules that mean that word counts and due dates are not decided by the instructor but are imposed on a department-wide basis. Which means that rather than having a generous spread of a week or a week and a half for due dates there is a Day of Doom when absolutely everything is due, no passing go, no £200. (or £169 depending on your exchange rate on the day).

My program is really well organized and has timetables online and all sorts of good things to let you know where to be and what to read and exactly when to panic and even pin-points the moment when ALL IS LOST (at least I assume so. I haven't reached that... yet). I am a very good, well-trained lemming so the moment my timetable was populated I had it copied into two locations by hand and had it in three different electronic devices (it's NOT A SICKNESS . . . but it may be a disorder). And I have, ever since, been faithfully attending class, reading ALMOST all of the reading [oh. my. GOD do NOT list out 'suggested reading' to a perfectionist. I will lose sleep, skip meals and possibly slit the throats of otherwise innocent post-grads who checked out a book before I got to it] and planning as well as possible for the first Essay of Doom deadline which, for those playing at home, is next Wednesday at 12:00 noon.

And, I'll admit, I've been feeling a weency bit overwhelmed. Other students are expressing the same feelings so I didn't think I was outside the bell-curve, but, you know, I found myself this weekend facing three major essays, an important presentation and a critical review PLUS the bog standard 300-800 pages per class per week reading. Daunted is a good word I think. I was daunted.

So! Way back in week two I was chatting to a very nice woman who mentioned her course load - 2 core modules and a skills. Ah, said I, with that sort of sadistic thrill that comes when you know you're going to tell someone something that will totally screw up their hold on sanity*, that sounds odd to me because I have THREE core modules and a skills section. I'd get with the admin folks on that, said I (smugly but helpfully), you need to get that sorted right away.

Anyone want to predict where this is going?

Yes, well it turns out that HER schedule was perfectly fine and normal, thank you very much, while I, ME, I, have been for some unknown reason, given A WHOLE EXTRA CLASS. As in all term so far, reading, essay prep AND pedestrian every-day panic, I have been giving 20% TOO MUCH.

I have informed my advisor who took several minutes to wrap his head around the problem. I have emailed the admin in charge who has yet to get back to me. I have contemplated the fact that maybe, just maybe, I do NOT have to write that essay on whether or not post-processualism actually had anything of value to offer to the world, and I have faced up to the slight disappointment that all that angst and bother will, in the end, NOT get me one single positive point forward in this degree.

I am comforting myself with the recognition that I figured this all out before the first essay was due. Which, I admit is a poor, sad, cold concept to cuddle against yourself when you still have two major essays to write, a presentation to give, a critical anaylisis to produce...

... and a stonking cold which has just reached that point when you think to yourself, as you sniff prodigeously and reach for a tissue, yeah, that Mickey Mouse, he was totally a post-processualist.

 

*sympathetic and caring of course, but mildly sadistic too.

Vignettes: October 2012

...The old man sitting on a bench in the museum gardens at 9 o'clock on nice mornings, cuddling the filthy pigeons who confidingly hop up on his lap.

... the dozens of people, locals and tourists, lined up on the bridges to stare at the swollen, flooded river and assure each other over and over that yes, yes it was very high indeed.

... the exquisitely dressed business man who waited patiently outside the bank in the early morning mist and calmly but thoroughly excavated his left nostril.

... the Native American dancers setting up in Parliament street wearing full headdresses, beaded tunics and z-coil shoes while they hung up rows and rows of dream-catchers to entice the tourists

... the enormously outsized man glimpsed through the gym window every evening who last night was wearing a startlingly appropriate carnival-strong-man striped vest

... the Minster tower appearing and disappearing in the evening fog while underneath four slightly self-conscious teens pretended the chilly stone steps were a comfortable place to drink their cheap 2-litre cider.

The Roman wall outside the library seen through the wobbly, cracked glass in the window and then, sailing into view against it, two solemn men in bright yellow safety vests, shackled into their cherry-picker and clutching clipboards to justify themselves.

... the blue emergency lights broken and flashed back by the dozens of small panes in the windows of the church up the street.

... the Dickensian, apple-cheeked woman who, as I was walking past, suddenly produced an enormous gob of spit that splatted inches from my shoe and who then apologized sweetly, explaining that, 'I always have ta do that when I say his name luv, it's instinct'.

Random Thoughts in the Past Week

For my own sanity (coming from a desert environment) I am not really killing worms by not rescuing each and every one of them - I am actively and purposefully feeding birds. Also, that is a totally angelic skyward gaze I'm adopting, thank you very much.

Being raised on (mostly) Victorian/Edwardian books as your primary source for culture might juuuuust have a few side effects. For example, I'm pretty sure I have silk-like hair and I feel ridiculously if mildly pleased about that, and yet it has never, not once, EVER come up in a job interview. Go figure.

Before starting this MA I have never in my life seriously pondered the significance, in this day and age, of Marxists. I am pondering. The fact that I am paying good money to an exclusive and elitist entity to ponder this should make any Marxist turn philosophical somersaults, and I really and truly hope somewhere a Marxist is.