Rage. Heartbreak. Tschaikowsky's 1812 Overture.
Our civilization being what it is, you've got to spend eight hours out of every twenty-four as a mixture between an imbecile and a sewing machine. It's very disagreeable, I know. It's humiliating and disgusting. But there you are. You've got to do it, otherwise the whole fabric of our world will fall to bits and we'll starve. Do the job then, idiotically and mechanically; and spend your leisure hours in being a real man or a woman.

--D.H. Lawrence

Like the character of Paul Atreides in the novel Dune, I seek to let my fears move through me. Becoming one with my fears and being comfortable with them is my sundance, my rite of passage. Being strung up by pierced pectorals would possibly be easier. I am not afraid of pain, I am afraid of trying to get wet Persian carpets onto the clothesline. One of my history professors once told me that I would be the next Susan Sontag. Instead, here I am, working as a domestic, shampooing carpets. In frustration, I turn on the 1812 overture as loud as I can, so that the bombardment of the Russian troops by the French with 12 lb. roundshot will drown out my awful anger at the way the fates have knitted the threads of my life into a rat's nest. Some people would say that I have had control over my own destiny. Fuck them. They're possibly right, but fuck them anyway. Alright, now that's out, I can be more civil.

The fates are not to blame. Many people have started with less and accomplished more.

The gorgeous chords of the full Russian choir with basso profundo remind me of the lesson that life keeps booting me in the head with: be gentle with yourself, for others will not be. Do not look to others, particularly lovers, for your self-worth. This physician has tried all sorts of remedies that others prescribe. I need to heal myself.

Right now, I am helping some friends out who are graciously paying me more than I am worth. No, wait, I'm worth quite a lot (in the new philosophy). This is temporary. They love me, and are trying to get me to return to greater productivity. Plus, physical labor is good when one is obsessively thinking about failure. It's also good anger management.

Here are my steps to change in my life so that I can obsess more constructively:

1. Enroll in graduate school (check) 15 hours, a small schedule for a change!
2. more yoga!!!! (check)
3. pole dancing--never wanted to be a stripper cause I don't want to combine sex and money in the same thought--however, being able to hang upside down by my ankles while sticking my tiny tits out really would make me feel...well... sexy
4. substantive work--because I need to feel like a real woman at work as well
5. write every day for myself, not T.C. Boyle

rougewench once told me that I would never be satisfied with my dayjob because I'm an intelligent person who will never be fulfilled by work alone. Another reason to love her! She is supported in that theory by the quote from D. H. Lawrence posted at the beginning.

Just please give me a job that is somewhat intellectually stimulating, ere I run mad!

To end: a pseudo-poem for Richard Brautigan.

Sorrow

In only a t-shirt
She bends to rummage in
piles of paperwork,
cartons of clap-trap,
a clutter archaeologist.

When she stands
a potted fern's fronds
softly caress her thighs
like the fingertips of a lover.
She bends again.