Back to school

E and I were speaking today of how, when going back through writings of years ago, it feels like we're reading someone else's work -- and that someone else is a silly, silly girl. I usually try to avoid it altogether, as it makes me cringe, but tonight I had the stomach for it. In a lot ways, I haven't changed drastically as much as I have become healthier in the past four years.

From 2002: "I don't *love* my work, but it provides me with interesting characters, instances that spark thought -- inspiration. It doesn't kill everything I have in me, physically, mentally, and emotionally the way that school does."

Well, now I know that school did that to me because I was so consumed by guilt for not giving it my all, and by guilt for wanting to give my all to a system that was designed by someone else and intrinsically flawed in the larger scheme of truly attaining and applying knowledge in any worthwhile manner. How could those dueling ideas, constantly firing against each other, not completely destroy everything that their ricocheting bullets pierced? False dichotomies are like that. *smile* And, as worshipful of Rand as I was at that point, I had a habit of creating them everywhere I went, in the name of seeing things rationally, in black and white. Now, I've come to see that practice as largely irrational. The world doesn't exist in black and white, nor does it exist in shades of gray. It exists in brilliant, vivacious, and scintillating color. I find it ridiculous to pretend otherwise.

I still think academia is flawed, mind you, and now I can articulate it without sounding like a raving lunatic. I actually typed "raving academic" the first time out, and that's about right -- the formal study of anything, by neccessity, creates barriers (which are kin to false dichotmies). It's simply not efficacious to try to learn anything, much less everything, about the world in one gulp -- anyone who tries chokes to death. But those barriers are only there as say, scaffolding around a building -- they aren't meant to be permanent, and they certainly aren't meant to become walls. Academia, too often makes walls where, in fact, the scaffolding should be torn down. Thusly, I learn what I can using their structure to climb on ... and tear it down once I'm done.

Greeting the dawn of a new year (at dawn)

(note: I actually composed this mentally some days ago, and it occured just a few days after the new year --- but, really, when do I ever write on a timely schedule?)

As the rain pelted the roof, coming down in torrents, I lay awake in bed, thinking: "I want a lover like this storm. I want him like lightning, striking me --- forcing me to the ground, into mud, into submission. I want to feel thunder, the kind that makes everything its wake tremble, wash over me in waves as he takes me. And I want his touch and kisses like rain, to rinse the dirt away."

I didn't sleep that night. I lay in bed with my storm-lover until he grew weary and slept, and I rose to write, inspired by my time with him. (More editing than writing happened, but I find that encouraging, as I am beginning to seriously doubt my commitment to the myriad of writing-projects I have going.)

As dawn approached, I wasn't sure if I had the strength to go forth into the battle of the day ahead of me --- I had a conference with my advisor, tuition payments to make, not to mention a full day of work. The more I worried, the more laden with lead were my eyelids.

I walked to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee, purposing to find some way to drink the entire pot before work, but then thought better of it, remembering that lots of caffeine only creates negative energy toward fueling my worry, not positive sustaining energy. Still, a cup would be comforting, and the aroma certainly served to calm me.

I looked outside, at the bare trees silhoeutted in black against the grey light of dawn, and dressed so that I could greet it properly.

The morning was chilly, but not cold, though I wrapped a shawl around myself before I stepped outside. I stood on the balcony, and looking over the rolling hills and trees behind the house, draped in cloth, like a robe, I felt like a queen looking upon her dominion.

The sun stretched her arms as she awoke, raising a hand to touch her brush to the east, trailing soft pinks and oranges across the grey. She glanced over the only trace of my storm, illuminating and invigorating with light and life little globes of water on a spider-web.

I stood there, coffee and cigarette in hand, the picture of disgruntled sleep-deprivation, still feeling clean, sharp, and invigorated. How could I not have wanted to charge headfirst into this day, this year, this life?