| September'99 | . |
This Journal |
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After school today I came home and crashed more completely than any Value Jet flight, more thoroughly than Princess Diana and her beaux. I was beat, dead, done in and pooped. No sooner had I stretched out on the floor with earphones blasting Aretha Franklin's miraculous I Never Loved A Man The Way I Love You than I was unconscious, hearing none of it. My eyes opened about ninety minutes later in silence, but I could have been out for hours. I'd had a dream, too - a bunch of strangers hanging around a house. I don't know what brought on this lethargy. I'd gotten to sleep well before midnight, and it hadn't seemed like a very tiring day while I was doing it. What did I do? The sophomores were working (mostly) in their groups. With the freshmen I was knocking around ideas of The Hero and The Heroic, particularly applied to Annie Sullivan and Helen Keller. They wrote for starters, and then we talked about it. Period E had some strong discussion because one fellow started by insisting that Annie was no hero. It became quickly clear that he was in the minority. I tried to give him a fair hearing while others were listening for flaws in his position. It became clear that he was working from a different definition of 'Hero" than the others were. That was a good, instructive period, I think. The next two, however, were a little flatter. Too much agreement and apathy, I suspect. Then after school I had a brief, pleasant meeting with a student and parent. No biggie. So where did this tired come from? I'm guessing that it had little to do with the day's work and a lot more to do with mental space. Maybe it started at that tennis game yesterday. I wrote, "Safe to say that I knew more JCA people (maybe five) than Carmel ones. A reminder that I'm still the new kid... still in between....not yet really here, certainly no longer there." I think I was feeling that today even more than yesterday, for some reason. After all, it's only been a month since school began. Since it usually takes me from four to seven years to get settled in a new place, I'm supposing that I'll be experiencing Disjunct Moments as predictable aftershocks - the unconscious psychic toll taken by a day in this new place. Root shock follows the transplant. This afternoon's heavy nap might have been a necessary adjustment. I got an e-mail from Amber last night in which she said she'd been happy to see me yesterday afternoon and was missing me already. When I read it I thought, "It's nice to be missed, but I don't think I'm missing much myself." Today has proved the lie of that. I miss knowing people; I miss seeing familiar faces everywhere I turn. I miss having those faces recognize me. "...a bunch of strangers hanging around a house." And the little kid in me starts whining, "It's just not fair." And the wizened grownup in me fashions, with effort, a knowing grin. With my luck today,
I'll have insomnia tonight. |
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Hebrews 13:2. |
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Chronic
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