Most of the people who follow this page know that I've been stressed out bonkers lately because I'm applying to Ph.D. programs in L.A., and I'm proud to say that I finished uploading my application to USC and DON'T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT IT ANYMORE! It's really been frying my brain. Now I can let it go -- and see if I can get my bundle of papers off to any other local schools before their deadlines. I really only want to go to USC. (Blythe won't like that, but I think even she recognizes that it's a pretty good fit.) I'm under no grand disillusionment; I know they probably won't have me. Yet I'm trying to hope just a little bit that the underdog thing is pulling for me as much as it's hurting my chances of getting accepted.
I know the previous post was WHINY. I haven't been praying or meditating as much as I need to lately, and it's showing in my inability to deal with criticism, and my uncontrollable emotions. It's hard to stay centered when you are trying to promote yourself. Now that the process is over I can let it go and focus on my classes again.
I'm disappointed that I will most likely get a B in that English Lit class -- but I'm moving on. There has been some dyslexic thing hovering over me as I sit in that class. I don't know what it is. I'm a shoe-in for As in Shakespeare, African-American Lit, and Women's Studies. I'll probably get a B in Natural Disasters. Three As and two Bs ain't bad. Next semester is going to be a monster. I may have to use an organizer -- scary stuff.
I won't get any real rest this weekend, as I have projects due and about a hundred (or more?) pages to read. Now that I don't have to worry about the USC app I can take things down a notch. I want to work on Melville and Moby Dick over the break, but what with the stress of applications and finals and final papers, well, I may have to get massages and sleep and meditate for a week before I return to normal. My head actually always hurts now. Some rest will do me good.
And there are tons of good movies I need to go see. Slumdog Millionaire, anyone?
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Friday, November 21, 2008
The Paradox of Feeling While Thinking
A student of literature speaks and hears of paradox often while studying poetry. It seems we can't get enough of the heartbreak of joy, or the sublime nature of true happiness. The closer you get to a real experience, it seems the more that experience will be indescribable, and conflict with labels meant to categorize it.
While this feeling (or non-feeling, depending on how you look at it) tends to be associated with high moments, I went through an experience just yesterday that came close to pushing me into the realms of purest humanity. For some reason or other, I took my British Lit midterm a couple of weeks ago without comprehending the directions. When the instructions said to pick two excerpts, I did all of them; when the directions said to choose one topic out of the two provided, I did both. I was as puzzled at my inability to comprehend the directions as the next person, and I tried to chalk it up to brain exhaustion -- I had two other midterms that week that had indeed asked me to write two essays, and British Lit comes at the end of my three class day -- I'm exhausted anyway. I don't tend to do as well in British Lit as I do in any other Literature class, although the reason for that is less discernable than why I did poorly on the test.
Here's the thing. This midterm was worth 15 point total. In spite of taking only a little over half the time allotted for the essay portion (the other half wasted on the second essay) I got a 6 out of the 7 points assigned to that portion. I got all of the "fill in the blanks" correct -- another 3 points. The only thing left was to get the five points for the identification portion. As I stated earlier, I identified three instead of two. In chronological order, the second identification I attempted was wrong. The third one however, was correct. Yet, without explanation, the instructor gave me only half the credit for the portion. Since there were no explanations for this on the paper, I concluded that she marked me off for not following directions. This gave me a C on the paper instead of an B+ or A-. The more I thought about it, the idea came to me that she might have just made a mistake on the identification portion...teachers can get tired brains, too right? In hopes that just maybe this was the case, I went to her office to check. My professor spoke nicely with me, a little patronizing maybe, and looked at my paper. She read aloud the excerpt that I had gotten wrong with great emphasis, and declared to me the correct author, and slightly mocked the guess I had confusedly scrawled out. I told her that I knew I had guessed wrong, but the final one was correct...? She replied, "Oh I didn't even look at that one. The directions were to respond to two; I only graded the top two. You alerted me to the fact that you had accidentally written two essays, but you said nothing of this portion." I agreed that this was true, and commented on how apparently scatterbrained I must have been to have overlooked the directions. She looked squarely at me and said, "Well, that is why they say to read directions three times. That is the advice given to graduate students." I thanked her for her clarification and told her I would see her later in class.
I knew that I hadn't followed directions, but apparently some small but ridiculously hopeful part of me wished that she could have been feeling generous toward probably the sole person in the class who had accidentally gone way above and beyond the call of duty and fulfilled ALL of the demands of the test in 75 minutes, with only one wrong answer. I know there is no reward for failing to follow directions; my mind knows this. I know I should not even imagine that I should receive any kind of special treatment for being smart or studious. Than what? Why did I leave her office and have to shake off tears? I suppose I'm a little fragile right now. With major universities breathing down my neck for grade point averages, and the cat near death...I don't know. Perhaps because I have had such wonderful people in my life who care, not just whether or not I can be perfect, but are concerned about my success, I am a little disgruntled by people who coldly remind me that I'm not really good enough. I suppose I must look for approval elsewhere in life, and stop leaving it up to instructors to reassure me that what I have to say is worthwhile.
It is a paradox, this thinking and knowing that what she did was fair and justifiable and this feeling hurt. It's difficult to know that I set myself up for this kind of inner conflict.
While this feeling (or non-feeling, depending on how you look at it) tends to be associated with high moments, I went through an experience just yesterday that came close to pushing me into the realms of purest humanity. For some reason or other, I took my British Lit midterm a couple of weeks ago without comprehending the directions. When the instructions said to pick two excerpts, I did all of them; when the directions said to choose one topic out of the two provided, I did both. I was as puzzled at my inability to comprehend the directions as the next person, and I tried to chalk it up to brain exhaustion -- I had two other midterms that week that had indeed asked me to write two essays, and British Lit comes at the end of my three class day -- I'm exhausted anyway. I don't tend to do as well in British Lit as I do in any other Literature class, although the reason for that is less discernable than why I did poorly on the test.
Here's the thing. This midterm was worth 15 point total. In spite of taking only a little over half the time allotted for the essay portion (the other half wasted on the second essay) I got a 6 out of the 7 points assigned to that portion. I got all of the "fill in the blanks" correct -- another 3 points. The only thing left was to get the five points for the identification portion. As I stated earlier, I identified three instead of two. In chronological order, the second identification I attempted was wrong. The third one however, was correct. Yet, without explanation, the instructor gave me only half the credit for the portion. Since there were no explanations for this on the paper, I concluded that she marked me off for not following directions. This gave me a C on the paper instead of an B+ or A-. The more I thought about it, the idea came to me that she might have just made a mistake on the identification portion...teachers can get tired brains, too right? In hopes that just maybe this was the case, I went to her office to check. My professor spoke nicely with me, a little patronizing maybe, and looked at my paper. She read aloud the excerpt that I had gotten wrong with great emphasis, and declared to me the correct author, and slightly mocked the guess I had confusedly scrawled out. I told her that I knew I had guessed wrong, but the final one was correct...? She replied, "Oh I didn't even look at that one. The directions were to respond to two; I only graded the top two. You alerted me to the fact that you had accidentally written two essays, but you said nothing of this portion." I agreed that this was true, and commented on how apparently scatterbrained I must have been to have overlooked the directions. She looked squarely at me and said, "Well, that is why they say to read directions three times. That is the advice given to graduate students." I thanked her for her clarification and told her I would see her later in class.
I knew that I hadn't followed directions, but apparently some small but ridiculously hopeful part of me wished that she could have been feeling generous toward probably the sole person in the class who had accidentally gone way above and beyond the call of duty and fulfilled ALL of the demands of the test in 75 minutes, with only one wrong answer. I know there is no reward for failing to follow directions; my mind knows this. I know I should not even imagine that I should receive any kind of special treatment for being smart or studious. Than what? Why did I leave her office and have to shake off tears? I suppose I'm a little fragile right now. With major universities breathing down my neck for grade point averages, and the cat near death...I don't know. Perhaps because I have had such wonderful people in my life who care, not just whether or not I can be perfect, but are concerned about my success, I am a little disgruntled by people who coldly remind me that I'm not really good enough. I suppose I must look for approval elsewhere in life, and stop leaving it up to instructors to reassure me that what I have to say is worthwhile.
It is a paradox, this thinking and knowing that what she did was fair and justifiable and this feeling hurt. It's difficult to know that I set myself up for this kind of inner conflict.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Little stars...
I was either fifteen or fourteen the first time I read Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. I had about two years before I would see Baz Luhrmann's film with my then boyfriend, who didn't quite understand why I was so distraught by the film, especially since I was no DiCaprio swooner. The fact of the matter was that just months before I saw the film, I had been through some pretty perilous breakups, and the ideas of romantic suicide, families that hate each other, and even the idea of being star-crossed, all appealed to me and reached the inner, dusky corners of my mind and heart. Rereading the play almost fifteen years later has given me a different vantage point, and I identify more with Mercutio, and Friar Laurence, than say, Romeo or Juliet, but somehow their young love and fierce passion still move me, even to tears.
I have been, probably to the detriment of my learning experience, watching the film as I read, pausing to read the lines that the film skips or delivers out of character or scene. This film is still pretty darn good. Mercutio is expertly played by Harold Perrineau, now of Lost fame, and I really love Clare Danes' portrayal of Juliet. She embodies her as I interpret her from the text; she is witty, and the cleverer of the two young lovers. Her innocence and virginity, so often brought up in the text by her blushing cheek, is balanced by a strong sense of who she is and being true to who she loves, even at the cost of losing her family. Her father's tirade at her, and her mother's dismissal, is crushing in the text, and Danes' is so good at teenage angst that she takes Juliet's despair to very strong, but very realistic level. When she pulls the small pistol from her purse and screams at the Friar that he better hurry up and tell her an answer, because she "longs to die," my heart just breaks for this young girl who seems to see no other way out, and has been spurned by the people she should trust with her life.
Shakespeare seems to have a penchant for rage between father and daughters over marriage. Hero's father, in Much Ado About Nothing, tells her that if she has been sleeping around, and is ineligable to marry Claudio that he would like to kill her, and calls her all sorts of slurs. Capulet similarly yells at his daughter that if she doesn't do as he says and marry Paris, that he would watch her starving, begging in the streets with a blind and callus eye. He calls her a harlot, and tells her never to speak to him again. There is some sort of strange connection between these future sons in law and fathers in law. They are marrying off their only daughters, but they have more of a connection with these idiots than their own valuable daughters; Hero and Juliet are far wiser than their years and experience alone.
At any rate, Shakespeare repeats themes and patterns and even names, in his excellent plays. I don't think the film could move me without his direct dialogue; while it's a pretty movie, it it firmly rooted in Shakespearian sound, and tone. I have yet to watch the church scene, with the glowing blue crosses. It makes me weep. Perhaps it is good to read this play at around the ages the main characters are supposed to be. It is good for depressed young people to know they are not alone, nor have they been alone for hundreds of years. In mourning Romeo and Juliet, perhaps they put off mourning themselves.
I have been, probably to the detriment of my learning experience, watching the film as I read, pausing to read the lines that the film skips or delivers out of character or scene. This film is still pretty darn good. Mercutio is expertly played by Harold Perrineau, now of Lost fame, and I really love Clare Danes' portrayal of Juliet. She embodies her as I interpret her from the text; she is witty, and the cleverer of the two young lovers. Her innocence and virginity, so often brought up in the text by her blushing cheek, is balanced by a strong sense of who she is and being true to who she loves, even at the cost of losing her family. Her father's tirade at her, and her mother's dismissal, is crushing in the text, and Danes' is so good at teenage angst that she takes Juliet's despair to very strong, but very realistic level. When she pulls the small pistol from her purse and screams at the Friar that he better hurry up and tell her an answer, because she "longs to die," my heart just breaks for this young girl who seems to see no other way out, and has been spurned by the people she should trust with her life.
Shakespeare seems to have a penchant for rage between father and daughters over marriage. Hero's father, in Much Ado About Nothing, tells her that if she has been sleeping around, and is ineligable to marry Claudio that he would like to kill her, and calls her all sorts of slurs. Capulet similarly yells at his daughter that if she doesn't do as he says and marry Paris, that he would watch her starving, begging in the streets with a blind and callus eye. He calls her a harlot, and tells her never to speak to him again. There is some sort of strange connection between these future sons in law and fathers in law. They are marrying off their only daughters, but they have more of a connection with these idiots than their own valuable daughters; Hero and Juliet are far wiser than their years and experience alone.
At any rate, Shakespeare repeats themes and patterns and even names, in his excellent plays. I don't think the film could move me without his direct dialogue; while it's a pretty movie, it it firmly rooted in Shakespearian sound, and tone. I have yet to watch the church scene, with the glowing blue crosses. It makes me weep. Perhaps it is good to read this play at around the ages the main characters are supposed to be. It is good for depressed young people to know they are not alone, nor have they been alone for hundreds of years. In mourning Romeo and Juliet, perhaps they put off mourning themselves.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Joseph Conrad: A Man Without a Country Knows Best
We are supposed to be reading Heart of Darkness this weekend in Brit Lit, which means we made it through the Victorian period and are on our way into the modernists. Yay, Virginia Wolf! Yay, T.S. Eliot! Okay, Joyce, you can come in, but don't stay long. I don't want to get caught up in a syntactical logic-warp. It's too late for that kind of thing. To kick off our time with the modernists, we have read some of Hardy's poetry -- you have to love this man's cynacism, just don't fall in love with a cynic because they will be skeptical that you love them -- and I have to say, I just love a man who admits that no matter how cheery things seem, there is something wan in even the most colorful of experiences. He's so good as an equalizer and as a response to the Victorian sense that everything that is perfect is right around the corner. Not in this life, Hardy says, and even goes on to say, probably never. Oh, and did you know that we don't actually talk about Naturalism in British Lit? Why is that?
Conrad's work is a whole other ball of wax. Even amidst all the doom and failure of imperialism there is this sense that there are people who are in positions of power who do not accept the traditions that are handed down to them. Well, I'm not sure you would call Marlowe a man in a position of power, but if you look at capitalist societies and view the working class as a group heavy with the possibility of having the most power, then you could see him as representative of a powerful group that rejects the ideals of imperialism, and maybe even look at the superficial end of colonization in this particular manner -- this manner of striking a flag in the ground and declaring this land in the name of whatever (hmmm, freeedom, anyone? democracy, anyone?), and capturing all the inhabitants of a region as chattel. What I mean is the face of imperialism has changed, with possibly less suffering, or different suffering, because people like Marlowe could see that the ends didn't justify the means, by looking at the means. Marlowe sees imperialism in action, and from day one can hardly stomach it.
Yet Conrad is...not British? Oh, right. He's Polish, Swiss, and eventually, British. When you hear this, you smack yourself on the head and go, of course he could write about the evils of imperialism -- he is an alien, a foreigner, an observer. It's so much harder to look at your own country, your own environment, and describe with such clarity and understanding its moral weaknesses and fractured manifestos. The great thing is that Marlowe tends not to cast too much judgement when witnessing injustice. When his aunt declares him practically a saint for taking Western Civilization to Africa, he calls it so much blather and nonsense. He knows he is there to make money, and won't take stock in any of this "civilizing" talk. Then, when the doctor wants to measure his head, he lets him, but he doesn't really think there is anything to it. When he sees the men on the canoe for the first time at sea, he describes them as looking so natural, emphasizing how unnatural his ship and crew are as they motor down the coast. Through the text he speaks the internal questions and reactions that tend to stay hidden. In this way Conrad vocalizes Western guilt and shame. Shame seems to be a dominant theme of the novella.
I know this piece is short, but I wish we were taking more time in discussing it. It is one of the more brilliant things to come out of England. Or Poland. Or the West.
Conrad's work is a whole other ball of wax. Even amidst all the doom and failure of imperialism there is this sense that there are people who are in positions of power who do not accept the traditions that are handed down to them. Well, I'm not sure you would call Marlowe a man in a position of power, but if you look at capitalist societies and view the working class as a group heavy with the possibility of having the most power, then you could see him as representative of a powerful group that rejects the ideals of imperialism, and maybe even look at the superficial end of colonization in this particular manner -- this manner of striking a flag in the ground and declaring this land in the name of whatever (hmmm, freeedom, anyone? democracy, anyone?), and capturing all the inhabitants of a region as chattel. What I mean is the face of imperialism has changed, with possibly less suffering, or different suffering, because people like Marlowe could see that the ends didn't justify the means, by looking at the means. Marlowe sees imperialism in action, and from day one can hardly stomach it.
Yet Conrad is...not British? Oh, right. He's Polish, Swiss, and eventually, British. When you hear this, you smack yourself on the head and go, of course he could write about the evils of imperialism -- he is an alien, a foreigner, an observer. It's so much harder to look at your own country, your own environment, and describe with such clarity and understanding its moral weaknesses and fractured manifestos. The great thing is that Marlowe tends not to cast too much judgement when witnessing injustice. When his aunt declares him practically a saint for taking Western Civilization to Africa, he calls it so much blather and nonsense. He knows he is there to make money, and won't take stock in any of this "civilizing" talk. Then, when the doctor wants to measure his head, he lets him, but he doesn't really think there is anything to it. When he sees the men on the canoe for the first time at sea, he describes them as looking so natural, emphasizing how unnatural his ship and crew are as they motor down the coast. Through the text he speaks the internal questions and reactions that tend to stay hidden. In this way Conrad vocalizes Western guilt and shame. Shame seems to be a dominant theme of the novella.
I know this piece is short, but I wish we were taking more time in discussing it. It is one of the more brilliant things to come out of England. Or Poland. Or the West.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
The Hurricane That is Life Right Now
Update: After $200 worth of blood testing, the lab technician informed me that cat seems fine. She then informed me that if I want to pursue further testing, the next few steps would cost me $445. I told her that I would have to examine my financial status and see if I can afford to proceed. That was on Monday; today, my cat actually looks better. I know this sounds incredible, but just a couple of days after I've been bawling because my cat is sick and I can't help him, and I may just have to watch as he gets sicker and sicker until he dies, he seems better. He ate really well yesterday and today, his eyes are wide, he's meowing normally, and purring! My vet said that he felt some "thickening" in his small intestine, and now I'm wondering if he just swallowed something. He loves to eat elastic and tape, and I'm wondering if he just ate something and had to get it through. So, although it seems unbelievable, I think my cat is going to be okay. That makes me feel less stressed.
For the moment.
I'm actually getting ready to go to school in few minutes; today is science day, with Natural Disaster class at 2:30. Can I tell you how much I deplore this class? 1) The original instructor failed to appear the first class meeting, which set the class back a week, 2) the new instructor is a) super boring, b) works for oil companies to find more oil and probably is salivating at the thought of opening up Alaska (but that isn't very nice of me), and c) is disheveled, 3) the class is filled to the brim with a) athletes, b) liberal studies majors, c) and people who have no idea what they are doing in a classroom, 4) the class is called natural disasters, but should just stick to its real name, Geology 100, because there is no real connection between nature and people yet; all we do is talk about nature, that is, geology, that is, difficult science, 5) this class should have been offered online, so that I don't have to drive to campus to learn what is simply in the book.
This is the last class I have to take at CSUDH that doesn't pertain to my major, and I'm taking it hard. Everything about this class reminds me why I am an English major, and reinforces that I am English major-y, and snob-y, as am not appreciating having to take this intolerable class.
In other news, I have gotten As on all midterms except for the science one, so I am maintaining if not raising my GPA in English. I think, if I get As in my English classes next semester, which will also have five classes (this time all English), I will have a GPA of 3.8 in English. Over all I think I will graduate with a 3.4 or .5. That will help with graduate school. Still working on my application. GRE Subject test soon, too.
I'm up to my ears, but I'm still breathing. It's amazing that I haven't gotten sick. I've been drinking 16oz glasses of fresh squeezed orange juice every morning, taking ginko, and going to bed early. I still need all the hopes and wishes I can get.
For the moment.
I'm actually getting ready to go to school in few minutes; today is science day, with Natural Disaster class at 2:30. Can I tell you how much I deplore this class? 1) The original instructor failed to appear the first class meeting, which set the class back a week, 2) the new instructor is a) super boring, b) works for oil companies to find more oil and probably is salivating at the thought of opening up Alaska (but that isn't very nice of me), and c) is disheveled, 3) the class is filled to the brim with a) athletes, b) liberal studies majors, c) and people who have no idea what they are doing in a classroom, 4) the class is called natural disasters, but should just stick to its real name, Geology 100, because there is no real connection between nature and people yet; all we do is talk about nature, that is, geology, that is, difficult science, 5) this class should have been offered online, so that I don't have to drive to campus to learn what is simply in the book.
This is the last class I have to take at CSUDH that doesn't pertain to my major, and I'm taking it hard. Everything about this class reminds me why I am an English major, and reinforces that I am English major-y, and snob-y, as am not appreciating having to take this intolerable class.
In other news, I have gotten As on all midterms except for the science one, so I am maintaining if not raising my GPA in English. I think, if I get As in my English classes next semester, which will also have five classes (this time all English), I will have a GPA of 3.8 in English. Over all I think I will graduate with a 3.4 or .5. That will help with graduate school. Still working on my application. GRE Subject test soon, too.
I'm up to my ears, but I'm still breathing. It's amazing that I haven't gotten sick. I've been drinking 16oz glasses of fresh squeezed orange juice every morning, taking ginko, and going to bed early. I still need all the hopes and wishes I can get.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Staples, Please...
I'm not a bleeding heart liberal, as the phrase is heard so often, but I'm a liberally bleeding heart. My computer dictionary defines this as someone "considered too dangerously softhearted." Softhearted is defined as "kind and compassionate." Apparently there is a danger in being too kind and compassionate; I don't think our nation is suffering from this kind of bleeding heart syndrome; and, I don't think I truly am, either. I think perhaps the word I'm looking for leans closer to hysterical, which means "affected by uncontrolled extreme emotions," and could just be a high-functioning sort of depression, which comes out to, "severe despondency and sadness."
But I try my best to give mad props to my pragmatic side. I think to myself and speak aloud to others: animals die. They are with you for a time and then they die. They are not as intelligent as humans, and probably do not think about why they are sick, or where they are going to be buried. They don't know why they feel sick or if they will get better. They don't know they are going to the vet today to get blood drawn and tested, and find out whether they have diabetes or cancer or whatever it is that making them so lethargic and skinny. They don't weigh treatment options. They don't count the cost of daily insulin injections.
I have always stood by the notion that if an animal has a fatal disease that causes it to be in state of illness and discomfort for the rest of its life, it's better to let that animal go, and not prolong its life for selfish reasons. I have though it ludicrous when animals get organ transplants and are on dialysis, or receive chemotherapy for cancer. Unless that goose lays a golden egg, I can't imagine why pet owners would go to the expense, forget about what pain the animal is in.
My cat Romey (Roman), is about nine years old. He was the runt of a Siamese litter, and has always been a little off in his health. He's very allergic to air borne and food elements, and can't eat chicken, or his body breaks out in Job-like sores on his legs and hips. I have provided him with food made of rabbit and venison, which clears up the sores, but his eyes still run from airborne allergens. Over the past few years, whenever Romey would look itchy, or get very gooey eyes, I would take him to get a cortisone shot, from which the good effects would last for the year. The doctor always warned that if he got too many cortisone shots he could get diabetes, so we really limited the times that he got the shot.
Lately, Romey hasn't seemed himself. He is a yowler -- many times friends have thought I had a baby in the house, due to his loud and long meows; but now he doesn't hardly meow at all, just a strained hiss that lets me know he's hungry. When I brought him home, he was so small he could fit in the pocket of my pants. He was smaller than my fist, even at thirteen weeks. Even though he was a tiny little mouse of a cat, you could hear his purr the minute you stepped in the room. Now, he faintly purrs if I rub his face. Siamese often have crossed eyes, and Romey never seemed to have completely crossed ones, but they were a little sketchy. Now he seems to be struggling to see, and knocks into things. True to the breed, he has always been a skinny cat; but now his spine and ribs are showing through his skin, and he has lost a pound or two -- which could be over 20% of his mass.
Today I will get an assessment on his condition and be told my options. I may get told that he is very far along, and needs either intravenous treatment (this runs in the hundreds of dollars), or that he should be anesthetized. As much as my prideful, tough side would like to return to the former glory days of, "who cares," "it's just a cat," and "animals die," I'm feeling overwhelmed at the prospect of having to grieve my cat right now. On top of all else, it seems the insult to the injury of the current pressure I'm under to keep it together. I know it's just a stupid cat -- but it's a new little tear in my already bleeding heart, and while I know the kind and compassionate thing to do for animals, and humans, in these situations is to let them go -- I'm remembering how difficult it is to practice such detachment. There is an odd sense of shame that I get in letting go -- as if it's not the action love would move one to...
Right now Romey is laying next to me, and every one in a while he twitches as if he's doing something very exciting in dreamland. He's been such a excellent cat: always a lap sitter, always purring, silly, curious, and fun. He would ride on my shoulder, just like the Dylan song. I will be hard to say goodbye, if not now, then whenever the occasion presents itself.
But I try my best to give mad props to my pragmatic side. I think to myself and speak aloud to others: animals die. They are with you for a time and then they die. They are not as intelligent as humans, and probably do not think about why they are sick, or where they are going to be buried. They don't know why they feel sick or if they will get better. They don't know they are going to the vet today to get blood drawn and tested, and find out whether they have diabetes or cancer or whatever it is that making them so lethargic and skinny. They don't weigh treatment options. They don't count the cost of daily insulin injections.
I have always stood by the notion that if an animal has a fatal disease that causes it to be in state of illness and discomfort for the rest of its life, it's better to let that animal go, and not prolong its life for selfish reasons. I have though it ludicrous when animals get organ transplants and are on dialysis, or receive chemotherapy for cancer. Unless that goose lays a golden egg, I can't imagine why pet owners would go to the expense, forget about what pain the animal is in.
My cat Romey (Roman), is about nine years old. He was the runt of a Siamese litter, and has always been a little off in his health. He's very allergic to air borne and food elements, and can't eat chicken, or his body breaks out in Job-like sores on his legs and hips. I have provided him with food made of rabbit and venison, which clears up the sores, but his eyes still run from airborne allergens. Over the past few years, whenever Romey would look itchy, or get very gooey eyes, I would take him to get a cortisone shot, from which the good effects would last for the year. The doctor always warned that if he got too many cortisone shots he could get diabetes, so we really limited the times that he got the shot.
Lately, Romey hasn't seemed himself. He is a yowler -- many times friends have thought I had a baby in the house, due to his loud and long meows; but now he doesn't hardly meow at all, just a strained hiss that lets me know he's hungry. When I brought him home, he was so small he could fit in the pocket of my pants. He was smaller than my fist, even at thirteen weeks. Even though he was a tiny little mouse of a cat, you could hear his purr the minute you stepped in the room. Now, he faintly purrs if I rub his face. Siamese often have crossed eyes, and Romey never seemed to have completely crossed ones, but they were a little sketchy. Now he seems to be struggling to see, and knocks into things. True to the breed, he has always been a skinny cat; but now his spine and ribs are showing through his skin, and he has lost a pound or two -- which could be over 20% of his mass.
Today I will get an assessment on his condition and be told my options. I may get told that he is very far along, and needs either intravenous treatment (this runs in the hundreds of dollars), or that he should be anesthetized. As much as my prideful, tough side would like to return to the former glory days of, "who cares," "it's just a cat," and "animals die," I'm feeling overwhelmed at the prospect of having to grieve my cat right now. On top of all else, it seems the insult to the injury of the current pressure I'm under to keep it together. I know it's just a stupid cat -- but it's a new little tear in my already bleeding heart, and while I know the kind and compassionate thing to do for animals, and humans, in these situations is to let them go -- I'm remembering how difficult it is to practice such detachment. There is an odd sense of shame that I get in letting go -- as if it's not the action love would move one to...
Right now Romey is laying next to me, and every one in a while he twitches as if he's doing something very exciting in dreamland. He's been such a excellent cat: always a lap sitter, always purring, silly, curious, and fun. He would ride on my shoulder, just like the Dylan song. I will be hard to say goodbye, if not now, then whenever the occasion presents itself.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Spring 2009 Update
After swearing off of myspace for a week, I have found that I'm a little antsy and agitated. It's for the best, really. I have so much school work to do, and myspace is bringing me down. The end.
I just got the Spring 2009 schedule of classes, and whoooooopppppiieeeeeeeeee! My senior seminar is called Transnational Studies in American Literature. That is so much better than Fashioning a Renaissance Self, or Fashioning a Medieval Self. I'm so relieved. I'm also going to be taking an interesting class about American Gothic lit after 1700 -- so I'm hoping for maybe...Poe? At least Poe? I've also got early American Lit (a favorite), and Medieval British. I'm not looking forward to Medieval lit, but the instructor is the same one that I currently have for Shakespeare, and she knows her stuff backwards and forwards. She makes reading Henry IV Pt. 1 easy. One of my friends at DH has a huge academic crush on the guy teaching the early American and Gothic lit classes I'll be taking, so I'm excited to see if he's the McAcademy of the English Dept.
Got my first exam back today from African American Poetry and Drama -- A. So good news all around. I can stress enough how relieved I am that my senior seminar is dealing with literature I might actually be interested in, and that the instructor is not the dreaded Gianotti or the brilliant but condescending White. Oh dear, if I had to take a seminar about the Hero's journey or the ideals of the Reformation I might have cried. I kind of tear up just imagining it. This is welcome news, and I'm now really looking forward to next semester.
You wouldn't happen to have any myspace on you? Just a taste?
I just got the Spring 2009 schedule of classes, and whoooooopppppiieeeeeeeeee! My senior seminar is called Transnational Studies in American Literature. That is so much better than Fashioning a Renaissance Self, or Fashioning a Medieval Self. I'm so relieved. I'm also going to be taking an interesting class about American Gothic lit after 1700 -- so I'm hoping for maybe...Poe? At least Poe? I've also got early American Lit (a favorite), and Medieval British. I'm not looking forward to Medieval lit, but the instructor is the same one that I currently have for Shakespeare, and she knows her stuff backwards and forwards. She makes reading Henry IV Pt. 1 easy. One of my friends at DH has a huge academic crush on the guy teaching the early American and Gothic lit classes I'll be taking, so I'm excited to see if he's the McAcademy of the English Dept.
Got my first exam back today from African American Poetry and Drama -- A. So good news all around. I can stress enough how relieved I am that my senior seminar is dealing with literature I might actually be interested in, and that the instructor is not the dreaded Gianotti or the brilliant but condescending White. Oh dear, if I had to take a seminar about the Hero's journey or the ideals of the Reformation I might have cried. I kind of tear up just imagining it. This is welcome news, and I'm now really looking forward to next semester.
You wouldn't happen to have any myspace on you? Just a taste?
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