HOME.

This morning, I woke up and wondered, briefly, where I was. I thought I was staying someplace in between--not Scotland, but also not-home. Then I came to: I was in my own bed, in Utah. It was 7:45.

I made pancakes, thus further establishing the home credential. 

I got my laptop going again, which made it cranky and balky. My email was all, no room at the inn, bitches, so I had a merry time deleting, but also rereading, emails from the past. Totally a sentimental journey, except that I could not send any emails whatsoever until all that heartwarming business was entirely OUT. OF. THERE. Also, just for extra delight, a mandatory software backup. Good computer times!

But when things were humming along, computer-wise, and laundry was churning away in the machine, I went to the front door, just to get a bead on the front yard. There was a hummingbird. It was visiting a torch lily, aka a red hot poker, that we had planted midsummer. 

I opened the storm door just a little bit to get a closer look, and it rose, and redirected its whir at the door. It came closer and closer in little pulses. I drew the door a little more closed. It hovered in the air about eighteen inches away from me, its beak pointed directly at me. It felt like a greeting, a little. 

And then, it turned toward the columbine, and I went back inside. 

The laundry is done, and I have reengaged with work. Advance copies of my book have arrived. I'm making a list of places to send review copies. I'm tired and I have cried several times today. I miss the Scotlands. But I am home. 

This is just to say

that I'm so tired, and I gave in to a mid-evening nap which I am sure I shall regret. I have done some grading. Not all the grading I have to do, but some. I have written my poem. The Bruiser is in despair that he will not have his walk, but he is wrong. He will have his walk. And then I will go to bed. (I was going to do an echo there of I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, but it was too hard. I've given you the raw materials--go ahead if you're inclined.)

I'm at sixty percent. Well, maybe fifty five.

My plan, when I went to Ireland, was that I could justify going only if I promised myself that

(a) I would be so, so super prepared so that when I left, there would be no stone left unturned, no draft left ungraded, and also some stuff about a clean house, and

(b) when I came back, I would be so, so supercharged about getting back to work, being right on things, etc. etc.

I left the house at 7:45 this morning. You know, that part of jet lag when you come back from another country, and you wake up at 4:30 a.m., just for kicks? so you can think about stuff, like what you'll wear and why you can't go back to sleep? I had that. I might as well get up and go, I thought.

Also, this morning I had every intention of grading drafts (the ones that I had left ungraded, so that's how part (a) above went), but although I had this intention, and though I had the hours, I did not grade. No, no, I did not grade. Instead, I talked to people about Ireland. It was way fun.

The result of which was, I went to class and even though I had a plan, sort of, I was not at the top of my game, the people. Not even a little bit near the top. I was at the middle of my game, if that.

So the moral of the story is--kind of a short story for a moral, I know--you cannot beat the jet lag. Jet lag gone getcha. So there's really no use in trying to pretend otherwise.

For instance, I packed workout clothes this morning because, by golly, I thought I would for sure work out after work after flying across a continent and several time zones and an ocean the day before! However, and this will surprise no one, I did NOT feel like working out.

And it wasn't the kind of 'I don't feel like it' that turns into a surprisingly refreshing, 'so glad I did that' work out. No, it was the kind of 'I think I might melt into the floor' kind of 'I don't feel like it.' So I acted on that thought. I went home. I did some laundry and I lay around on the bed.

I won't say it was glorious, but in the end, it seemed appropriate. Somebody's gotta get real around here, and face the facts. The supercharged, super tired facts.

[poem]

Dear rejected topics I thought about writing a letter to:

Dear smug, bloviating bastards,

Dear where shall I park downtown,

Dear I want to buy all the stuff,

Dear potato chips,

Dear Saturday with a work obligation,

Dear week with no respite in it,

Dear farmer's market in its penultimate week,

Dear national parks that are not open,

Dear smug, bloviating bastards (I feel the urge to write this letter every other minute!),

Dear mid-semester pile-on,

Dear all the topics above, and more,

Perhaps I will take you up another day. But right now I do not want to summon the wit, words, wizardry, and (it's not a "w" word, but it's the only one that will do) rage to write you. It is Friday night and I am tired. Maybe tomorrow and maybe never, is when I might take one or another of you up. Now, I am retiring.

I said good night,

htms

Right now,

or today, at least:

watched this (and earlier today, this),
read some of this--it is so choice, and
ate here--so delicious.

Also, so tired. I have just discovered that when I have something going on in the morning, I cannot quite get to sleep the night before. This will not stand. But I am still going to finish this episode of Scrubs, featuring Colin Farrell, because I have endurance and I am strong. I am the Iron Man of television watching.

The Fourth.

Around 10:15, we took Bruiser out for a walk. The air was warm and more than a little smoky. The sound of the fireworks igniting, from the park a few blocks away but also through the neighborhood and one neighborhood over, volleyed and ricocheted. Light constellated. It aneurysmed. It blew like dandelions gone to seed, again and again.

I disapproved of the fireworks, but I admit it: I thought they were beautiful.