And if these wings should fail me, Lord...
I ought to be on the 12:33 train to Chicago, but I didn't realize this until 12:40. And, of course, the next one isn't until 2:33. But hopefully I'll be able to see this apartment on Lexington later today anyhow. Thus far I've been very bad about organizing said visit.
But oh, oh Journal! I've been sleeping today. Of late I've been sleeping more and more poorly, lying awake for several unpleasant hours each night, despite my carefully regulated sleep patterns and avoidance of caffeine and naps. Yet last night I fell asleep directly upon arriving home.
I woke up at 1 AM from excruciating pain in my jaw (exacerbated, I suppose, by all the careless grinding and snapping of teeth earlier in the evening), but after the administration of ovaltine, ice packs, and darcovet I immediately fell back asleep. I was up at 7 to decide not to catch the 8 o'clock express; to have breakfast, read for a while, and then sleep on the couch all morning.
-----
While sleeping this morning, I had a poignantly sad dream in which I was three years old.
It was the first day of preschool and all the children sat in a large circle on the floor. The teacher told us that, because it was the first day, we would just be having fun. There were paints and big sheets of paper, and open-ended prompts along the lines of "If you were one inch tall, where would you live?" (Only they were cooler than that; that's just one I vaguely recall from elementary school.)
As the supplies were distributed, a wave of ecstasy rose over me. I, as a three-year-old, retained my memories and experiences from this, my real life. I thought to myself: if I work hard at all that is set before me, if I am devoted in my passions, then by the time that I am twenty years old my possibilities will be limitless. I can avoid the senseless ferment and horror! I can be an artist, a scientist without cursing the years I've wasted.
A pretty asian girl was sitting beside me on the carpet. We smiled at one another, and I was going to ask her name but she asked mine first. Jane, I told her. And yours? She had a foreign name that I had trouble understanding; I offered her a pencil and paper--can you write? (Can three-year-olds, in general, write their names? I wondered. I knew how to write mine.) The girl wrote it out in elegant cursive, something like "Thara Naomisi ." A beautiful name, I told her.
Then she asked me a peculiar question, which I at first thought to be abstract and philosophical, before realizing that the terms also applied to mathematics. I have no idea, I said. She smiled and shrugged, and filled in the final blank on a worksheet before her. Then she passed it to the person on her left, on its way to the teacher at the front of the room. Confused, I glanced about, as several other students turned their worksheets in. Only a couple people were still working, concertedly bowed over their papers. I rifled through the art supplies in front of me to find my own worksheet, blank, beneath a box of paints. It was algebra, word problems, before which I was at an utter loss. I tried to glimpse the answers from the completed worksheets passed by me, but to no avail; only the number 2727, somewhere towards the top of the page.
We were sitting in desks now. I don't belong here. Can I drop out? Like the math program at Northwestern... How much does this class cost? Is it early enough that my parents could be refunded? Maybe Dad can help me, can tutor me every evening--but no, he tutors at the library in the evenings these days. Maybe Mark can help me? Maybe I can hide my worksheet now, and fill it in after we've gone over the answers. Should I talk to the teacher? Should I-- Thara gave me a concerned, inquiring look.
I leaned over and whispered: "I haven't taken a math class in three years."
-----
My father called a little bit ago, and in the course of conversation he mentioned that this is his last week of tutoring. A few more appointments, and then he's done for the semester. Of course! I thought, high schools are finishing up now! He can help me with my math homework after all! Then I blinked, and remembered that the dream class was only in my head.
But oh, oh Journal! I've been sleeping today. Of late I've been sleeping more and more poorly, lying awake for several unpleasant hours each night, despite my carefully regulated sleep patterns and avoidance of caffeine and naps. Yet last night I fell asleep directly upon arriving home.
I woke up at 1 AM from excruciating pain in my jaw (exacerbated, I suppose, by all the careless grinding and snapping of teeth earlier in the evening), but after the administration of ovaltine, ice packs, and darcovet I immediately fell back asleep. I was up at 7 to decide not to catch the 8 o'clock express; to have breakfast, read for a while, and then sleep on the couch all morning.
-----
While sleeping this morning, I had a poignantly sad dream in which I was three years old.
It was the first day of preschool and all the children sat in a large circle on the floor. The teacher told us that, because it was the first day, we would just be having fun. There were paints and big sheets of paper, and open-ended prompts along the lines of "If you were one inch tall, where would you live?" (Only they were cooler than that; that's just one I vaguely recall from elementary school.)
As the supplies were distributed, a wave of ecstasy rose over me. I, as a three-year-old, retained my memories and experiences from this, my real life. I thought to myself: if I work hard at all that is set before me, if I am devoted in my passions, then by the time that I am twenty years old my possibilities will be limitless. I can avoid the senseless ferment and horror! I can be an artist, a scientist without cursing the years I've wasted.
A pretty asian girl was sitting beside me on the carpet. We smiled at one another, and I was going to ask her name but she asked mine first. Jane, I told her. And yours? She had a foreign name that I had trouble understanding; I offered her a pencil and paper--can you write? (Can three-year-olds, in general, write their names? I wondered. I knew how to write mine.) The girl wrote it out in elegant cursive, something like "Thara Naomisi ." A beautiful name, I told her.
Then she asked me a peculiar question, which I at first thought to be abstract and philosophical, before realizing that the terms also applied to mathematics. I have no idea, I said. She smiled and shrugged, and filled in the final blank on a worksheet before her. Then she passed it to the person on her left, on its way to the teacher at the front of the room. Confused, I glanced about, as several other students turned their worksheets in. Only a couple people were still working, concertedly bowed over their papers. I rifled through the art supplies in front of me to find my own worksheet, blank, beneath a box of paints. It was algebra, word problems, before which I was at an utter loss. I tried to glimpse the answers from the completed worksheets passed by me, but to no avail; only the number 2727, somewhere towards the top of the page.
We were sitting in desks now. I don't belong here. Can I drop out? Like the math program at Northwestern... How much does this class cost? Is it early enough that my parents could be refunded? Maybe Dad can help me, can tutor me every evening--but no, he tutors at the library in the evenings these days. Maybe Mark can help me? Maybe I can hide my worksheet now, and fill it in after we've gone over the answers. Should I talk to the teacher? Should I-- Thara gave me a concerned, inquiring look.
I leaned over and whispered: "I haven't taken a math class in three years."
-----
My father called a little bit ago, and in the course of conversation he mentioned that this is his last week of tutoring. A few more appointments, and then he's done for the semester. Of course! I thought, high schools are finishing up now! He can help me with my math homework after all! Then I blinked, and remembered that the dream class was only in my head.