Homeless
School began on time (Thursday, September 6), in spite of all our worries. We the teachers saw even in the very week before we opened our doors how disastrous the situation could be if construction were delayed any further.
As of now, the building is not yet complete, but we have occupied the first and second floors. The massive chapel, with its three storey elevation being the sum of the whole north wing, will not be ready until December 1, they say. The great gaping hole of its vast east window looks so cavernous from the outside. This visual effect is made all the stronger since the north end of the new academic building burrows into the hillside. The worshippers will all be underground, and what seems to be the clerestory from within is level to the surface outside.
In the meantime, the old cafeteria is serving as an interim chapel. The awful electric organ, noticeably worse for wear from the months in storage, has been given back to me and occupies an inconspicuous corner. At the sacred rites, I restrict my use of the stops to those which are the least offensive.
The blessed sacrament, as of Monday, will be kept on an altar of repose in what will later be a conference room. It does not remain in the cafeteria, of course, because of the inability to secure the place effectively, as well as its usual, noisy purpose. One of my colleagues, a very neurotic and spindly Opus Dei numerary who has been invested with a nebulously universal jurisdiction on all things artistic or sacred or both, has borrowed a Persian rug from me to lay before the tabernacle.
So God, whose primary dwelling is not made of hands, has temporary lodgings. I cannot yet say the same for myself. My residence is to be on the third floor which is not yet finished, and some trouble about the architect's drawings on record with the county not matching the final product threatens to forestall the occupancy permit even further.
Yet, while my new home is tardy in receiving me, my old home is punctual in turning me out. I must have vacated and cleaned this apartment where I am now before September 30, 3:30 PM. I have found good homes, in some cases indefinite loans, for my larger pieces of furniture and cleared those pieces out. My parents, moreover, visited me over Labor Day weekend, to help me pack many other things. My father removed everything from the walls, and filled all the nail holes.
There is yet much to do. Alas, I am already very tired.
Accepting a second position as an adjunct instructor for the University now seems to have been a mistake. Perhaps I will grow used to the workload--and the commute--in time. Alas, when I accepted the job, I believed that by this date I should already be settled in my new home. The transition, constipated with delays, is no little cause of additional stress.
The weather is showing signs of cooling down (although today has been warmer than its predecessors). Such a change makes most of these hardships easier to bear. God has blessed me that I sweat very little; yet, on the other hand, being so unaccustomed to the sensation, even a small amount annoys me to distraction. The heat of summer is abating, and my reason returns. I do believe that I suffered less from my usual aestive depression in part because of the unwonted number of overcast days. I find direct sunlight very oppressive. My eyes are rather sensitive.
Tomorrow, I plan to carry some of my goods over to school and stow them carefully in an unoccupied sitting room granted me for that purpose by the powers-that-be. Another colleague will come to collect my bedframe, a console table, and the very desk from which I type now, along with two chairs, all of which she bought. By Monday, the internet will be disconnected from apartment and I will need to rely on the wireless service accorded me by my school in order to write entries such as these.
Yet where will they put me?
I do not know.
It has been suggested that I move into the nearby townhouse which the school has rented previous for those faculty members entrusted with patrolling the grounds at night. The lease there has been extended for the part of October. Also, the secretary of the school--a woman who reminds me much of my mother--has offered to let me live in the guest bedroom of her house until my apartment is complete. I am flattered by the gracious offer, but she lives in Virginia, and she also has a daughter she's trying to marry off.
I'm sure they'll figure something out.
You remember that Rheinberger was barred from joining me as one of my new flatmates. In his stead was assigned the teacher visiting from Colombia. Well, at this point, said Colombian teacher's visa has not been approved; he can't even enter the country. Most of my fellow faculty, who thought the idea of an exchange with the third-world school was foolish, speculate that the Colombian teacher will not join us at all.
This could make for an interesting situation. Rheinberger, of course, has already made alternate living arrangements. I don't know whom they would pick to fill the third room. Part of me would desire no one else, yet, on the other hand, I don't think I'd be entirely comfortable living all on my own with that one other fellow set to move in with me already.
The school is gradually swallowing up my life. In time, I will be one with it, and cease--I fear--to have an independent identity. There is a faculty retreat coming up in October; I am being pressured by one of my superiors to attend. Given my prominent role in the school's liturgical life, they expect me to show some conformity to other elements of their spirituality. I cannot beg out of it easily because of a wife or a child--children, for there are few only children at my school.
I have so much else to do. I am supposed to have plans this evening, yet I want so badly just to sleep untroubled for just a moment.
As of now, the building is not yet complete, but we have occupied the first and second floors. The massive chapel, with its three storey elevation being the sum of the whole north wing, will not be ready until December 1, they say. The great gaping hole of its vast east window looks so cavernous from the outside. This visual effect is made all the stronger since the north end of the new academic building burrows into the hillside. The worshippers will all be underground, and what seems to be the clerestory from within is level to the surface outside.
In the meantime, the old cafeteria is serving as an interim chapel. The awful electric organ, noticeably worse for wear from the months in storage, has been given back to me and occupies an inconspicuous corner. At the sacred rites, I restrict my use of the stops to those which are the least offensive.
The blessed sacrament, as of Monday, will be kept on an altar of repose in what will later be a conference room. It does not remain in the cafeteria, of course, because of the inability to secure the place effectively, as well as its usual, noisy purpose. One of my colleagues, a very neurotic and spindly Opus Dei numerary who has been invested with a nebulously universal jurisdiction on all things artistic or sacred or both, has borrowed a Persian rug from me to lay before the tabernacle.
So God, whose primary dwelling is not made of hands, has temporary lodgings. I cannot yet say the same for myself. My residence is to be on the third floor which is not yet finished, and some trouble about the architect's drawings on record with the county not matching the final product threatens to forestall the occupancy permit even further.
Yet, while my new home is tardy in receiving me, my old home is punctual in turning me out. I must have vacated and cleaned this apartment where I am now before September 30, 3:30 PM. I have found good homes, in some cases indefinite loans, for my larger pieces of furniture and cleared those pieces out. My parents, moreover, visited me over Labor Day weekend, to help me pack many other things. My father removed everything from the walls, and filled all the nail holes.
There is yet much to do. Alas, I am already very tired.
Accepting a second position as an adjunct instructor for the University now seems to have been a mistake. Perhaps I will grow used to the workload--and the commute--in time. Alas, when I accepted the job, I believed that by this date I should already be settled in my new home. The transition, constipated with delays, is no little cause of additional stress.
The weather is showing signs of cooling down (although today has been warmer than its predecessors). Such a change makes most of these hardships easier to bear. God has blessed me that I sweat very little; yet, on the other hand, being so unaccustomed to the sensation, even a small amount annoys me to distraction. The heat of summer is abating, and my reason returns. I do believe that I suffered less from my usual aestive depression in part because of the unwonted number of overcast days. I find direct sunlight very oppressive. My eyes are rather sensitive.
Tomorrow, I plan to carry some of my goods over to school and stow them carefully in an unoccupied sitting room granted me for that purpose by the powers-that-be. Another colleague will come to collect my bedframe, a console table, and the very desk from which I type now, along with two chairs, all of which she bought. By Monday, the internet will be disconnected from apartment and I will need to rely on the wireless service accorded me by my school in order to write entries such as these.
Yet where will they put me?
I do not know.
It has been suggested that I move into the nearby townhouse which the school has rented previous for those faculty members entrusted with patrolling the grounds at night. The lease there has been extended for the part of October. Also, the secretary of the school--a woman who reminds me much of my mother--has offered to let me live in the guest bedroom of her house until my apartment is complete. I am flattered by the gracious offer, but she lives in Virginia, and she also has a daughter she's trying to marry off.
I'm sure they'll figure something out.
You remember that Rheinberger was barred from joining me as one of my new flatmates. In his stead was assigned the teacher visiting from Colombia. Well, at this point, said Colombian teacher's visa has not been approved; he can't even enter the country. Most of my fellow faculty, who thought the idea of an exchange with the third-world school was foolish, speculate that the Colombian teacher will not join us at all.
This could make for an interesting situation. Rheinberger, of course, has already made alternate living arrangements. I don't know whom they would pick to fill the third room. Part of me would desire no one else, yet, on the other hand, I don't think I'd be entirely comfortable living all on my own with that one other fellow set to move in with me already.
The school is gradually swallowing up my life. In time, I will be one with it, and cease--I fear--to have an independent identity. There is a faculty retreat coming up in October; I am being pressured by one of my superiors to attend. Given my prominent role in the school's liturgical life, they expect me to show some conformity to other elements of their spirituality. I cannot beg out of it easily because of a wife or a child--children, for there are few only children at my school.
I have so much else to do. I am supposed to have plans this evening, yet I want so badly just to sleep untroubled for just a moment.