On rain and more rain...
Umbrella weekend...
For the past four days, it's been coming down nonstop, a rain that straddles deluge and drizzle. A pissing rain, if you will. The sky's all muted sunlight, a swath of electric grey. Aside from day becoming night, the hour is undistinguishable, trapping me in a vortex of indifferent boredom. Cabin fever. Though I graded twenty-three essays Friday morning, I've done little since. I'd planned to write this weekend, but Saturday apathy and a Sunday hangover sunk that ship. Now it's Monday, and I'm busy convincing myself that I'm too far behind to get back on schedule.
Along with the never-ending thunderstorms, I blame this motivational slackening on spring break, which, for me, begins Friday. For my entire life, when vacation time draws near, I've tended to check out early. My mind treats the week prior to any holiday as garbage time. It's pathetic, really, and to avoid doing so this go 'round will take effort. I also need to devote a fair amount of my break to being productive, hence my decision to go home in the first place. Once I return to Georgia, on the 29th, the semester will be on its last legs. April will whiz by, and all I'll have to do is grade papers and portfolios and that'll be that. Two years of grad school in the can. Pretty amazing.
Two years ago, I was a senior in college, on a boozy pleasure trip to Slidell, LA, with Sambo, Dunn, Ashley and Mike Sage. Besides getting drunk and high and swimming in a too-cold pool, I remember that weekend most for its being filled with curiosity about my life's next juncture. I'd already been declined from a number of MFA programs, but Georgia College had sent me an encouraging e-mail, saying that they'd soon make a decision about my acceptance. Nothing was concrete then.
Two years from now, I could be anywhere. I go through my days with some abstract sense that I have a plan for the future. Then I sit back and think about it and realize that I don't.
For the past four days, it's been coming down nonstop, a rain that straddles deluge and drizzle. A pissing rain, if you will. The sky's all muted sunlight, a swath of electric grey. Aside from day becoming night, the hour is undistinguishable, trapping me in a vortex of indifferent boredom. Cabin fever. Though I graded twenty-three essays Friday morning, I've done little since. I'd planned to write this weekend, but Saturday apathy and a Sunday hangover sunk that ship. Now it's Monday, and I'm busy convincing myself that I'm too far behind to get back on schedule.
Along with the never-ending thunderstorms, I blame this motivational slackening on spring break, which, for me, begins Friday. For my entire life, when vacation time draws near, I've tended to check out early. My mind treats the week prior to any holiday as garbage time. It's pathetic, really, and to avoid doing so this go 'round will take effort. I also need to devote a fair amount of my break to being productive, hence my decision to go home in the first place. Once I return to Georgia, on the 29th, the semester will be on its last legs. April will whiz by, and all I'll have to do is grade papers and portfolios and that'll be that. Two years of grad school in the can. Pretty amazing.
Two years ago, I was a senior in college, on a boozy pleasure trip to Slidell, LA, with Sambo, Dunn, Ashley and Mike Sage. Besides getting drunk and high and swimming in a too-cold pool, I remember that weekend most for its being filled with curiosity about my life's next juncture. I'd already been declined from a number of MFA programs, but Georgia College had sent me an encouraging e-mail, saying that they'd soon make a decision about my acceptance. Nothing was concrete then.
Two years from now, I could be anywhere. I go through my days with some abstract sense that I have a plan for the future. Then I sit back and think about it and realize that I don't.