Not yet at 100%.

I feel like I really really really need to go to bed. It's 10:30. I don't even know what to say, except that it's only been five days since we touched down in the homeland, and it feels like everything in the world points toward the moment when we can finally, finally go to bed.

I did, however:

• roll content into its Canvas shell (sounds like delicious M&Ms, but it's not, not at all.)
• go to an exploratory meeting all the way across town at the university about strengthening the book culture of Salt Lake City. 
• work out for the first time since coming back to America.
• upon leaving the gym, feel the sun beat down on my head like a hardcore curse word.
• make a truly exemplary salad.*
• exchange about a hundred emails in which we took the temperature of our instructional team** at regular intervals and also nagged our poor Canvas administrator nigh unto death.***
• re-narrate a screencast, and curse the name of YouTube when it turned up its nose at the upload.
• flounce in to the bedroom to finish my trashy novel and
• read a trashy magazine.
• consider my outfit for tomorrow.
• entertain low-level mental chatter about how impossible it's going to be to do what I need to do this semester.
• think about getting up at ridiculous o'clock to be there on time for my first meeting. WOE.

But, as I say: I am now at 10:41 o'clock ready for bed, so all the bullets on the above bulleted list have just about exhausted me, clearly. And that is how I know that I am not yet 100 percent. Frankly, I am not sure when 100% megastore will be back in play. What with this weather, extra hot, and the jet lag, and my--let's be honest--bad attitude, it might be awhile. 

*Exemplary Salad: take equal parts herb salad and arugula and strew them upon a plate. Slice a number of cherry tomatoes atop the greens. Ditto English cucumber and fennel. Arrange upon the plate the precise number of artichoke hearts commensurate with your artichoke hunger. Crumble a requisite amount of feta on top of that. Take steamed green beans and sliced boiled new potatoes and put them on the top. If you like smoked salmon, some of that will be swell, too. Drizzle the following vinaigrette over all: glug or two of olive oil; petite dash of sherry vinegar; minced garlic clove; half teaspoon of Dijon-style mustard; salt and pepper. Whisk with a fork until it emulsifies.

Serve the salad with a piece of French bread torn with your wild-animal hands directly from the loaf.

**Temperature of the instructional team: fluctuating. Volatile. Centripetal.

***She is still alive, the soul of efficiency and capability. I am pretty sure that they can't be paying her enough.

Weekend productivity update.

1. Despite being dislodged from my own bed by sneaky dog in the early hours, woke on Saturday morning to summon energy and will to go to the gym.
2. On the way home from the gym, came up with brilliant idea to make breakfast burritos!
3. At home, called son, who lives downstairs, on cell phone to ask if he wants a breakfast burrito.
4. He does.
5. Hand grated potatoes (I could call them "house-grated," but that would be going too far.) into house-made (oh, why not.) hash browns.
6. Etc. My breakfast burrito was beyond, partly because I had salsa verde to go on it.
7. Went to grandson's basketball game.
8. Wandering and wild granddaughter prevented normal fan behavior on my part. Even so, grandson's team won--the historian witnessed it.
9. Speaking of which, we watched Into the Woods, but not until we (a) ate a croissant at Tulie's and (b) checked on a skirt in a retailery. (p.s. I have been checking on this skirt for MONTHS.)
10. Into the Woods verdict: a lot of singing, but pretty good. Not enough dancing.
11. Our regular Vietnamese place was too crowded. We ate at an inferior, once-great Vietnamese place. It is as one would expect, given its fall from a once great height: okay. All right.
12. Slept not enough. Woke to accomplish several of the items exhibiting the strike through on this list:

13. Made oatmeal. Slightly scorched the raisins therein, and discovered that slightly scorched raisins are not bad at all, oatmeal-wise.
14. Spoke to Scotland daughter and children. Made a first draft of a poem for my writing group.
15. Discovered, at writing group, that poem is still a first draft.
16. Bought the watched-over skirt for a price that was acceptable, if not up to my highest standards of bargain hunting.
16. Spoke to son and family in Tempe. Van fell on a mountain in Papago Park, fyi. He is a little bit banged up on the forehead, but he is okay.
17. Laundry.
18. Snack dinner, if you can even call it that. Forage dinner.
19. The television up in this joint is subpar.
20. Finished the Sunday crossword like a champ.

And did I accomplish all there was to do? And did I have have many high minded and worthy thoughts? And am I feeling a little bit something in the sad quadrant, for which there are explanations, not least of which is that I am a little bit tired? And will I sleep the sleep of the blest?

Getting it done: a letter.

Dear the middle of the night:

--or more precisely, 2:30 a.m., which I know precisely because I checked. I checked my cell phone when I awoke because my head was hot and maybe I felt my cold having a small insurgency in the skirmishes of the night. I guess that's what they are. I know I felt I was fighting something.

So one more DayQuil, a swig of water, a settling of covers, a small storm of thoughts. I thought: at least I can spend the morning at home. I thought, I only have one class, I can get it together for that. I thought, If I'm actually sick, why not stay home? And that last was the thought that I tied around my finger to remember in the morning, when I awoke again at seven. It was not exactly a reprise of the dark hours, but it was a variation on a theme: one more DayQuil, a swig of water, a storm of thoughts--and I was up.

Middle of the night, it was precisely there, in your 2:30 a.m., that I came to my senses. If I'm sick, why not stay home? I clung to this sensible thought as if I were in a fever and the thought were the promise of water. So I sent an e-mail to the class and to my chair, and settled in.

And even though I had awoken in you, the middle of the night, the 2:30 a.m. locus of my ill epiphany, I had a day that looked like an exemplary page from a Covey planner:

• graded a discussion.
• conversed via e-mail with students.
• brokered a tentative agreement in an e-mail with a colleague.
• narrated and captioned four short instructional videos.
• ate soup for lunch. (soup is always exemplary, in my opinion.)

Because of my sick, ergo stay home day, I believe I am on the mend, the middle of the night, though I may yet greet you a few hours hence. Even so, you shall not fell me.

be it so resolved,

htms

Productivity Report.

The Ballad of the Sad Wireless

[Note: not an actual ballad. I got three stanzas in and conceded the struggle. I'm just not a rhymer.]

The jist of it is: I did walk the dog before I went to work. And I also stopped to get a bagel, and I defy anyone, the people, to tell me I was wrong. First day of school calls for a bagel, full stop.

With the luck of angels I drove directly, more or less to a parking space. Got out, went in, had a breezy chat with the Provost at the foot of the stairs, opened my office door, and found that I could not get online.

What ho? I had shit to do online, the people. I had discussion posts to write and links to create, and all manner of online course building. There I sat in my office on the first day of classes, fully prepared to work my little heart out, and a necessary condition of that work was not present.

So I did what any sensible person in my position would do. I posted a note and went home, where I worked happily all afternoon. Work wireless: fail. Nonetheless: necessary work: done. Internet: accessed. Class: posted.

Hope your day was half as productive. I mean it.

(not) Counting down.

The other day, driving home from the movies:

Me: ...and I just hate thinking in actual, concrete, numerical terms about things, even when those terms are realistic. Like when you say, "You still have six weeks left of summer!"--and I know, there aren't six weeks left, not even close to six weeks--thinking that way just drives me crazy, because it feels like things are shutting down. And I hate that feeling! I would totally rather lie to myself, and say, like, I still have half the summer left! or a lot of the summer left! because it makes me feel like things are still possible. Even when it's not true.

Historian: (drives. He already knows this about me. He is a concrete thinker. He is a realist. It is good for a person like me to have a person like him--in a word, him--around.)

Me: ...I don't necessarily think everyone feels that strongly about it, though.

Historian: (pauses) ...no, maybe not.

Despite my strong commitment to fantasy-calendaring, I am getting real with myself. I am thinking not in terms of weeks but parts of weeks, for cramming in the stuff I want to do before I need to get even more real with myself, and start preparing for classes.

Today was a good day. It was a quiet day. I gathered my wits. I took a bike ride in the morning and then I worked on my photo essay. I thought about the things I want to do over the next fractions of weeks. I tried to get a big picture of my day-to-day, so events won't sneak up on me and give me a rude surprise.

We are putting bags of stuff on our curb tomorrow for a charity pick-up. At the store, I bought cherries and stuff for granola and carrots and Izzys. I mailed a package. I washed the sheets and the duvet cover put them back on the bed. My granddaughter called from Scotland to chat. I worked on my photo essay some more. Tomorrow is a deadline day. Another quiet day, a day on which I will get some stuff done, yo.

In other news:

The historian: Did you know they used to have poetry readings at the Olympics? Not just at the ancient Greek games, but back when they started the Olympics up again, up into the 1940s.

Me: Well, if I were in the Olympics, the best I would do is semi-finalist or finalist. I would never win.

(Whiny, right? But the good news is, the revision and re-titling of my manuscript I did in the spring has paid off, in that this manuscript is now getting a lot of semi-finalist/finalist action. Not actually winning, but closer.)

...and lastly, today nouvelle vague filmmaker Chris Marker died. I already posted this on Facebook, but if you have never taken a half hour to watch La Jetee, I highly recommend that you do. You can watch it here.

Writing report.

What's that? you want to know how the writing's going? Fine, thanks for asking. Here's the time clock I am punching:

Thursday  2 hrs. 11 a.m.-1 p.m.
Friday  2 hrs. 10:30 a.m.-12:30 p.m.
Saturday 2 hrs. 10 a.m.-noon
Sunday: day of rest and driving.
Monday 2 hrs. 10:30 a.m.-12:30 p.m.
Today, Tuesday  2 hrs. 10 a.m.-noon

Yesterday, my first day writing back on the mainland--back in the Lower 48, as it were--was a little ragged. Pretty much everything I wrote I seemed forced and lame and I hated it. HATED IT.

But I stayed at my desk and I wrote for two hours, like I promised myself. I did that Monday writing, as unattractive as it was. And I gave myself research assignments--since I'm not doing internet research during my writing-down-the-words sessions--and I did those last night. Did you know, for instance, that a tombolo is "one or more sandbars or spits that connect an island to the mainland"? I did not know that, but I do now. And this proved relevant in the writing today, happily.

As you might predict, a routine, more or less disciplined, in one area leads one to feel a bit more productive and disciplined in other areas. For example:

1. I took Bruiser for a walk yesterday morning and this morning. 
2. I made my bed. I know, small potatoes, but still.
3. I did some laundry and put some clothes away.
4. I painted the fingernails on one hand whilst I was thinking, aka writing.
5. I read a bunch of the book for my book group.
6. I took popsicles over and hung out with some grandsons.

Yes, it's all productivity and popsicles around here, what with this five-day track record, which I'm sure indicates great things to come, or something like that. And if we're not getting quite enough sleep now that we're down off the mountain, well, that's par for the course. Although I am worried a little bit about this. I'm going to consider getting enough sleep to be job one! as long as I get my writing done!

Productivity.

So far so good, today, as we got up at the crack of nine and hustled on over to the farmer's market. We got melons from our farmers, which somehow feels like an extra special bonus. To reward them for this excellent behavior, we bought extra garlic. We searched high and low for Asian Pear Guy, and were denied. This would have been tragic, but there was a compensatory huge stalk of brussels sprouts, right on the stalk! We also found beautiful ultra-sweet and spicy little green grapes--the kind we have growing in our backyard, but apparently all of God's creatures with wings have heard about this so that the ripening of them synchronizes perfectly with the moment they are entirely eaten, and not by us. But we found them! At the farmer's market! and also we bought raspberries and blackberries, as well as another batch of tomatoes from the savages. So as we speak, I am roasting a pan of tomatoes (another one tomorrow) and have just made a batch of raspberry jam, already spooned into its little half-pint jars. Blackberry tomorrow.

Also, we found Asian pears from another vendor, and they are excellent. Also, we had breakfast with kids/grandkids. Also, I have changed the title of my manuscript. Also, that manuscript is freshly revised and is almost ready to send out. Also, it is almost 11 p.m., there are 21-year-olds hollering songs in my basement, and it is almost time for Bruiser's w-a-l-k. So: good day.

Netflix is stalking me.

OR, possibly, I am stalking Netflix. What with the instantaneous episodes of Lost. I wish I could say that I hadn't whiled away hours for two days straight watching and watching. I wish I could say it, but I cannot, for I in fact have whiled away those hours, and I will never get them back.

Question: why do The Others have that sick fixation on other people's children? Can they not have children of their own? Are there no fertility clinics on the island? This feature of the show is totally creeping me out.

In other news: tomorrow I will be doing something productive during the daylight hours. And possibly watching an episode here or there. I said AN episode, the people. Just one. Or maybe two.

In other other news: SATC the Rematch was HORRRIBLE (yes, it needed an extra "R," it was precisely that bad). Exhibit A: Liza Minnelli, at the wedding of two gay men, doing "Single Ladies." Also, many more exhibits too banal and also lame to name.

Addendum to the other other news: If I don't plant some flowers soon, I will not be able to live with myself.

Better thinking through cooler weather.

It's a pretty much straightforward equation, which, if I had even a passing acquaintance with equations, I would demonstrate here, with an equation:

[Note: I don't even know what the above drawings mean. They are not real equations for this situation. At least, I don't think they are.]

However, since I don't remember a thing about what smarter people than I call "Mathematics" anymore, let alone anything remotely equational, I will simply say this: I think better when it's cooler. (Decorate that sentence with all the math you want. I wish I could, but I do not wish it enough to take a mathematics course.)

Of course, yesterday, I was paying the price for not being able to sleep since I got back from Idaho. (Wait, isn't that paying the price twice? Can't sleep because it's so hot, then get sick because can't sleep because too hot. The mighty injustice of it all!) So my hot weather/productivity matrix was a little bit skewed by a summer cold:

[The above: obviously, not even a matrix. At all.]

. . . but today, with the weather holding at whatever blissful temperature it was holding, and I having slept pretty well, finally, and with whatever cold symptoms I was experiencing being kept in a chokehold by one--just one!--DayQuil capsule: today, the people, I worked. Things happened. Revision was my boyfriend.

So whatever we can all do to keep things at this equilibrium, let's do it. Just keep things cool.