More weirdness
So, I was supposed to go to "Corset Karaoke" tonight--friends had arranged an outing to country karaoke at a dive bar, and everyone was going to wear corsets or other sexy wear and be fabulous. I was looking forward to it.
I had lunch today with several friends, the five of us going to the southern women writer's conference in September, so everyone could meet and start making plans about coordinating travel and stuff. Then Rebecca and I spent the afternoon going through Love and Death in the American Novel, so that hopefully come comps time we'll be able to "trace the development of the American novel."
By dinnertime, I was feeling kind of over my social interaction limit. I had a great time today, but the thought of going out to a bar and being fabulous just felt beyond me--though I couldn't quite put my finger on why, I just didn't want to go. So, I posted on facebook that I wasn't feeling well, and started working on my 101 syllabus.
Then, Uncle Rick called. Long story short, he got his doctor to give him a prognosis, and she said best bet, he's got a year. If that. Urgh.
He wanted to know what books of his I would like, and talked about the ideas he's had for articles that he hasn't published, but would be happy for me to take and run with, and stuff...It was a very weird conversation to be having. I did make him laugh so hard at one point that he had to put the phone down to cough something up, which caused in me a strange combination of happiness and fear. He's taking a lot of comfort in Milton right now--and while I am not a Milton fan, I do now have a whole new appreciation for his "When I consider how my light is spent."
I feel sad. And still a bit of the crankiness that I always feel when there's pain to be felt. Tomorrow, the poet Jeff Daniel Marion is reading his new collection, Father, at the bookstore; I was already planning on going, but now I figure I'll end up going and probably tearing up at some point. Poetry is where I take my refuge.
I had lunch today with several friends, the five of us going to the southern women writer's conference in September, so everyone could meet and start making plans about coordinating travel and stuff. Then Rebecca and I spent the afternoon going through Love and Death in the American Novel, so that hopefully come comps time we'll be able to "trace the development of the American novel."
By dinnertime, I was feeling kind of over my social interaction limit. I had a great time today, but the thought of going out to a bar and being fabulous just felt beyond me--though I couldn't quite put my finger on why, I just didn't want to go. So, I posted on facebook that I wasn't feeling well, and started working on my 101 syllabus.
Then, Uncle Rick called. Long story short, he got his doctor to give him a prognosis, and she said best bet, he's got a year. If that. Urgh.
He wanted to know what books of his I would like, and talked about the ideas he's had for articles that he hasn't published, but would be happy for me to take and run with, and stuff...It was a very weird conversation to be having. I did make him laugh so hard at one point that he had to put the phone down to cough something up, which caused in me a strange combination of happiness and fear. He's taking a lot of comfort in Milton right now--and while I am not a Milton fan, I do now have a whole new appreciation for his "When I consider how my light is spent."
I feel sad. And still a bit of the crankiness that I always feel when there's pain to be felt. Tomorrow, the poet Jeff Daniel Marion is reading his new collection, Father, at the bookstore; I was already planning on going, but now I figure I'll end up going and probably tearing up at some point. Poetry is where I take my refuge.