A year ago the idea of leaving Australia again was really difficult—this year it’s not as hard. Which is not to say that this hasn’t been a wonderful trip home, or that it hasn’t reinforced once again for me just how Australian I am. I guess I feel like I have made something like a family for myself in DC, and I plan to enjoy this last six or so months there, since I probably won’t live there again. The fact that I will go from calling it home to being just a visitor—it’s a strange feeling. I haven’t quite got my head around it all yet.

So—Friday I fly out again. I’ve talked my friend B into picking me up (very little talking-into involved… he’s very kind) and then the weekend—and then—class on Monday. Is that all?

Being home is such a shock. It’s lovely to be with my family—but I’m a little bit shell-shocked with the idea of catching up with people.

I feel like this is going to be a good year. Something in the sky.

I went through old files the other day—throwing some things out (I’m going to try to throw out when I get back to DC too…) and was amazed to find a lot of old essays and drafts I had been working on. Filed carefully. That I was determined to apprentice myself that way, so seriously.


*

On a frivolous—not to mention shamefaced—note, I’ve become addicted to a bad television show. I used to occasionally watch it when I left the television on after watching something that was… marginally better. And its contrivances drove me crazy. And now, I find the contrivances, the blandnesses, the banter that’s not funny oddly endearing. Oh, the show is NCIS. There, I’ve outed myself.

I think it might be a little bit less of a blog-fueled year. I’ve been discovering the pleasures of pen(cil) and paper again. But I’m going to try to stop in when I can.

The past weeks and the next few days are incredibly busy—such that I haven’t really had a chance to write. (Or update the Independence Day Project… a lapse I am ashamed of, though the project will be finished, when I am able to finish it.)

My prospectus is done, and now it’s just a matter of finishing the final paper. Oh wait—is it really just a matter of that? Okay, perhaps a little more complicated.

I leave the US on Thursday—flying first to Frankfurt overnight, where I’ll have about half a day before I fly onward to Bulgaria. I’m visiting the lovely Carolyn Emigh! (I’m hoping, too, that there will be time for a side trip to Macedonia, to visit the poet Nikola Madzirov. It’s not certain that that’s going to happen.) Then I’ll be dashing home, via a night in Singapore, with an overnight in Frankfurt… and then… home.

So I have a few days to finish this paper—which is due the day I leave anyway. And it will be done. Having written and made notes for the full length of the paper, I now have a thesis. One which I can make work. So. That’s nice.

I am also applying to MFA programs… which I am hoping (determined…) to have finished before I leave as well. Madness.

Then there’s that whole packing/making sure I know where my stuff is/paying bills list of things to do.

Oh, and I spent the weekend getting stuff in order my advisor’s study (since I’m also the research assistant.) Making a list of where everything is. How to contact me in an emergency. Etc.

So. That’s the status report.

The past weeks have, again, accelerated. I know that I should have written all about election day, and the day after—but I didn’t. It’s been a busy time.

Belatedly, though, I will note that on election day I:

- first tutored at Duke Ellington (no students, but I got the crossword done…)
- had coffee at Baked and Wired, chatting with the Baked Girls. (Nathan falls into this category too… I don’t think I’ve told him that yet.)
- then C picked me up to go drive around North Virginia for a while. The idea? To find some polling places for him to photograph, and me to make whatever notes I felt like making. The method? Cross a bridge from DC to Rosslyn and get lost. The theory? After getting lost, something interesting will happen. The outcome? Didn’t find the polling places, but instead found an “Oriental Supermarket” that, among other things, sold Milo. So I’ve had a week of excellent chocolate milk… and now the Milo is all gone.
- Back to C’s place before heading toward Meg’s for the special election edition meeting of the Baked and Wired Knitting Society… except then Meg had to cancel at the last minute.
- Impromptu invitation (after assurances that I would not be intruding) to the house of one of C’s friends. Me, glued to CNN and MSNBC electoral maps for 4 hours.
- Obama! Obama!
- Joining the spontaneous crowd gathered outside the White House between midnight and 2.30am. Wow.

I slept in the next morning. You’re shocked.

Since then, there’s been more stuff to get done. I presented papers at two conferences last weekend. I feel like I am living in the aftermath of Friday, when I flew to New Hampshire and back on the same day, in order to present a paper at the Milton conference at the lovely St Anselm’s College. The day itself was a little hellish—I got up at 3am to get the shuttle to BWI airport and didn’t get back home until midnight. Still, I met some lovely people, including a Benedictine monk who was knitting a brightly coloured hat.

Oh, and knitting has been treating me very nicely. Such fun! Such madness! Let’s have a caucus race!

This week has been a bit of a marathon. I’m still going to work for another hour or so tonight… of that’s the plan. If sleep takes over, I won’t object…

I feel like I’m juggling blogs—I started to get into my research blog… which is fun. It’s thinking out loud (how’s that different from here, you ask?) about the boring parts of my study that only very select nerds are interested in… so select that hardly anyone in the English department has looked at it! But I made it pretty.

And after a week or so without independence days to worry about, there’s a sudden barrage of them coming up.

Tonight I’m meant to be starting a series of workshops for the Liberal Studies students. I’m looking forward to them—but I don’t know if I got the word out soon enough for tonight’s workshop, so I don’t know if I should expect anyone to come. Oh dear. It’s supposed to be on “the conventions of academic writing”—to which I should could add (in the American context), since it’s so different for the British. Talk about re-learning. Old dog. New tricks. That’s me. Except, I’m not that old. 29 is the new black.

What’s not the new black? Well, at this stage, the bail out.

My second birthday in DC. I have, of course, talked to my mum. And, since it’s my birthday (as well as Independence Day for Mali and Bulgaria), I’m trying to ignore the whole economic crisis thing going on. I mean, I know in some quarters people were feeling ye olde “cautious optimism” on Friday, but I’m just waiting for the next thing to fall apart. And I’ve been worried about global warming for 22 years. Wait, it’s my birthday. That’s a day off worry, right?

I read some Coleridge this morning that I really loved. It was exciting, as I thought I was in the Wordsworth and Coleridge class all for WW’s sake. No, it turns out I can be a sucker for Coleridge, and perhaps I will be.

I’ve just started a research blog for my thesis project. This means that I have basically become the queen of blogs in the English department. I don’t think that’s a cool thing—just a fact. Anyway, since it’s messy, it’s pretty much a closed blog. But if you’re interested I can register you to read it. Send your details on a piece of batter pudding… Oh wait, this isn’t The Goon Show (damn it!). Email me.

And I read a bunch of Nelly Sachs on the weekend. Wow. Also, a bunch of Brecht’s poetry. Obviously in translation as my super high school German skills from year 8 and 9 don’t reach to reading… well, anything—beyond “Hi, my name’s [insert name here] and I’m from Australia.” I can also say that I study geography, even though I don’t. It’s sort of like how I can say in Auslan (that’s Australian sign language for those not in the know… and yes, Australian sign is different from American) “I have a duck.” Life skills.

So, I’m turning 29. What’s happening? Well, there’s been some nice news on the poetry front. My book will come out sometime next year, I’ll have a piece in Best Australian Poems and there’s another anthology that wants me to send some work. I also had an odd dream about a journal I could submit poetry to. I wonder if it exists. Maybe I could dream it into existence, just like, apparently, people in ancient Greece could go to a certain temple to dream their own cures.

I have to get into Serious Attention to School mode. With a side serve of Serious Attention to Writing. Any day now. Life keeps being unexpectedly busy.

My first experience of a tropical storm today… though I suppose I didn’t experience it much. It was warm and a little humid, and I popped on my yellow gumboots (or, as they call them here, galoshes) and went to Baked and Wired. I intended to do a lot of work there, but instead found myself chatting to the crew for—well, I’m ashamed of how long I chatted to the crew. Long enough to get given a small cup of mocha free after my two coffees were long gone…

But I started drawing ideas about my thesis on the big piece of brown paper I’ve stuck on my wall to map my thoughts. I did some knitting. I looked at photographs taken during the Russian invasion of Prague in 1968. I jumped in a couple of puddles.

Which is to say, I’ve had a relaxing, yet not entirely unproductive, day. And I’m still going. About to read a little poetry (Coleridge… and potentially Wordsworth if I get to both) and maybe write a letter (I’m very behind on my correspondence. I blame Luke Perry.) I’m sure there are social things that I could and should be out doing, but after the last couple of weeks it’s honestly such a pleasure to hole up at home on a Saturday night. Knitting, listening to podcasts, eating porridge or somesuch treat… there’s really no bad.

For now, I’m out of doctor’s offices for a while. That’s going to be nice—another follow up in three months, but that’s pretty much it. Cyst was benign—there was really very little chance it wasn’t going to be—and I got to see some good photos of my insides. My liver looks healthy, but the photo also made it look like it has teeth. Hopefully at some point I will have these photos to put on the blog. Which I imagine might not be a big hit, but… they’re my insides, people! Sibley Hospital accidentally put two sets of photos in my file at the hospital instead of giving me the spare set like they were supposed to. I wonder if this is how the civil war general who constantly visited his own leg bone in Washington felt?

So, fingers crossed that I’m going to have a lot less drama in the coming months.

I’ve been rereading The Beauty of the Husband and starting to make notes and bibliographies for myself. I’ve got some other reading to get done for Monday—in fact, Monday is going to be a very busy day this semester. Thinking of trying to get out to some of DCs free stuff this coming week, and I’ll be going to see the Silver Jews play next week. I’m also hoping to see Juliana Hatfield on Tuesday—I’ve loved her, in probably far too dorky and devoted a way, for nearly a decade now… Without counting my love for her My So-Called Life so-called angel appearance.

Oh, and I’ve watched a truly shameful amount of old-school 90210 lately. You know what? I choose me. (Jeremy Jordan—alright!)

So I’ve been underground for a while. It’s been a fairly overwhelming month—finishing up teaching, going straight into ER visits, painkillers, surgery. My wonderful parents being in town, and then all of us going out of town the moment I was well enough, and then the day after getting back, straight back into the university life, with the welcome party for the next academic year, and meeting with Carolyn (Forché) who will be my thesis advisor over the next year, as well as attending her undergraduate class on the poetry of witness.

I guess I got a little down when I was sick—I felt drained at the end of teaching (full of self-doubt as to whether my students felt that they had learned, and whether I am, in fact, a capable teacher) and had wanted the couple of weeks before semester to relax, do some reading, prepare myself emotionally for the final year of this particular degree… (I feel like I’m going to be endlessly juggling degrees, though I hope sometime my place will become more obvious.)

What’s actually been nice in the past few days to take my mind off that slight depression has been helping out a friend. Having someone to check up on regularly. Also, knitting helps. Television does not.

So I’ve been starting to think out my Anne Carson project. An initial discussion with Carolyn yesterday has had me thinking through some ways to focus, which has made me happy. I will get there in the end. I have some Wordsworth and Coleridge to read too… No shortage of things to do!

I feel like I’m going to get some writing done sometime—sometime. I’m going to try to have at least a day off each week, and to try to get some writing bits and pieces done as well. Try. Who knows if that will ever happen…

Tomorrow I’ll sign up for my writing center hours—and hopefully it won’t take too much longer to find out which Liberal Studies class I’m working with so I’ll have a real idea of what my schedule is going to be. And then I guess I’ll have to block out my study properly. I was so good about that in Melbourne last year. I feel like I haven’t been quite as good here, but I’m going to start working on it.

So I’ve been reading mostly poetry, and trying to get Independence Day Project bits and pieces written.

It’s sad that my parents are gone! It’s only three days since they left, but it has been feeling like an age.

Another quick update—I’m on odd hours, and yet more painkillers. Hopefully these will wear off in a few days and everything will return to normal as August draws to an end.

The surgery went well—sent home yesterday, and have spent most of the past 36 hours sleeping. When I wasn’t sleeping, I read Siri Hustvedt’s The Sorrows of an American—finally. For some reason I hadn’t got to it earlier. Had started it, and then found it wasn’t the right time. In this slightly otherworldishness of post-surgery it seems to have been the right time. I felt very calm as I read it.

I have three punctures in my belly. When I get up I have to hold my belly with my hands. I can feel my navel, which upsets me, and when I got to sit up, I sometimes feel like my insides will tumble out. Obviously this is all the result of my strange head, but—. So I hold onto my stomach.

It feels a little unreal. My parents are here—wonderful! Unfortunately the holiday as it was planned has ruptured a little. Still, we should be out of DC for a day or two at least.

I’ve been lying low. There are people I want to talk to, people I want to see. Some of them I’ve spoken to, and some I haven’t quite called… I will get to it. But there are people I realise I haven’t seen for weeks, and getting in touch again after a gap—and it’s a strange gap, when there’s suddenly been this medical stuff—feels difficult. And, too, I get into that haze where I want to talk to the new people in my life. And, well, I’m somewhere in that tumble.

Class goes back very soon. I will probably be missing my first class still, but with any luck after that it should all be fine. Everything will suddenly be busy and word-filled.

Just a quick update: another ER visit last night, ending in my being discharged by accident. Yes, that’s right. Accidentally discharged, and since I was gone they said I should just keep the appointment I had with the clinic doctor today. Never mind that at Georgetown this morning before the nurse got rid of me the doctors were waiting for a team of surgeons, while at the clinic I was scheduled only for another sonogram… Anyway, another night of morphine and drama, followed by a kind of lecture from the doctor today. (Didn’t I tell you to ring the clinic if your condition got worse? he asked. Well, yes, he did tell me that. And when I felt a little worse on Friday and rang, the person on the emergency number told me there wasn’t a lot they could do, but that if it got significantly worse before my appointment to go back to the ER. And, yes, once I started vomiting last night, my only thought was to get to hospital, and not to call the afterhours number at the clinic, leave a message, and wait for a call back.)

Now I have the surgery scheduled for Thursday morning. Not at Georgetown, but at Sibley Hospital. Which is, I have to say, a pretty fancy place. Not that I’ll care when the general anaesthetic hits.

Somewhere amid all the shufflings last week on Monday night (I love how they send the hospital administrators to get your ID before they give you the morphine), I think I lost my drivers license. Brilliant. Another bureaucratic thing to fix up… Oh, and my (printable) healthcare card is—somewhere. If I can’t find it, I have to find my details in order to print another card. Printable healthcare cards? Seriously?

Truth be told, I’m a little bit down about it all. Last week it was just a hassle. After a second ER visit in as many weeks, three sonograms (hey! did you know the image on a sonogram changes when you laugh? I found out today. Yes. I laughed), a few IV drips, and the news that if anything the cyst is larger, I’m pretty miserable. So, in less than 48 hours it will be gone.

I still can’t believe a hospital can discharge someone by accident. That is just awful.

In the mean time, I turn to books for solace. Finished the new Paul Auster. I liked it a lot. A few friends came up with the theory that only every second book he writes is good. This is a good one. Just finished Lisa Olstein’s Radio Crackling, Radio Gone, and have also been reading Julia Hartwig’s book of selected poems, In Praise of the Unfinished. This last book is beautiful. I’ll write more about it when all the other stuff is over and done with.

My parents arrived an hour ago. I haven’t seen them yet—they were getting out of the airport, getting their rental car, getting themselves to their hotel… then thinking about getting to Georgetown. The plan initially had been my finding my way to Dupont… but I don’t think I’m finding my way anywhere. Except maybe into dreams.

I’ve been a bit slow updating on the health stakes. And on generally getting stuff done. I ended up taking the vicoden a few days ago, and it’s left me a bit loopy since. (I’m realising that “loopy” is probably a word that no-one but my mum and I have used for 50 years… but I like it that way.)

The followup: Thursday. I like the doctor—I think he’s from a Germanic (possibly Jewish) background. Not being there for a Sunday brunch, I didn’t get to ask. He confirmed all the stuff I’d been reading—most functional cysts go away on their own, etc. Then he had a look at the thing and had a bit of an “oh dear,” moment. Well, he wasn’t worried, but said it is big, and obviously hasn’t just formed in a month or two, nor is it likely to just resolve itself. So, more tests on Tuesday. But he thinks that it is likely I will need surgery at some point—but non-invasive. I shouldn’t be out of action for too long. Good stuff.

But, as I said, I did upgrade to vicoden. The ibuprofen had been working fine. Then Robyn came, to give me her bicycle for while she’s in Hungary. (Thanks Robyn!) Now, I was sleepy, and a little drugged up already, so I probably should have known that this was prime time for me to do something stupid. Like, for instance, fall over while trying to get the bike to my apartment, and, lying something like a cockroach on its back, have the bike fall on top of me.

I laughed. Really loudly. You know, that cavernous Kate-laugh you all miss so much. Got up, figured out that I’d been standing on the wrong side of the bike—not able to use my hip to prop open the door—and got the thing up to my apartment. Lay down again. Then—ouch! It turns out when you have a painful thing in your abdomen, it’s not a good idea to fall over and have a bike fall on top of you. So, having rung the clinic again and made sure that it was fine it was hurting more (but to look out for nausea, dizziness and—especially—fever) I took the vicoden.

Whoosh. That’s crazy stuff. I’ve been sleeping very well—and for long periods of time—but also at weird hours. My professional opinion? (As a professional sleeper, that is.) There is no way House could have functioned that well while he was all painkiller-happy in season one. (Gosh. That’s casting my mind back a few years…)

So, Tuesday is a busy day. I have to first of all talk to incoming International Students about the writing center. I’m looking forward to that. Then I have to get out to my appointment. (I think the lovely Lisa is going to take me again…) Then my parents arrive later that afternoon at Dulles. Bliss!

Hopefully dodging all tricky pain/surgery related things, Paul Auster is going to be at Politics and Prose on Thursday night. I think, as one of DC’s best independent bookstores, I should be able to get my parents there, even though neither have read—or are likely to read, Auster. I am a quarter of the way through his new book, which I started two hours ago, taking a break for dinner (Sicilian Caponata) and most of an episode of Dynasty. (Oh my! The first major Krystle/Alexis catfight. I laughed out loud. Nice to know I didn’t invent high drama.)

I’m enjoying Man in the Dark so far. I have a pile of things I want to attempt to read before classes start again. Today I finished The Working Poor: Invisible in America, which I found amazing. The author, David K. Shipler, lives in Chevy Chase, Maryland—a lot of the people and programs he followed are local to DC. It made me want to go and find out more about them. I also finished reading my first book of C. D. Wright’s poetry (thanks for the tip, Brandon) One Big Self. I loved it. When I’ve been having my 2am nights (care of vicoden) I’ve been scribbling notes in my notebooks (I found one I thought I had lost… thank god. I’ve lost notebooks before, and it’s an awful feeling)—well, scribbling in my notebook when I wasn’t chatting to a friend (Chris) who had drunk coffee, and was apparently wide awake (not normally a coffee drinker… ah, the amateurs don’t know how to do these things…) or typing slightly mad emails to people.

Apparently my dopey conversations at Baked and Wired have been hilarious. Leaning on the counter, half asleep, vicoden-laced Kate.

It’s been a really busy month for independence days—and September will be busy too. After that, it will settle down. I’m glad. I’m used to doing that writing every day, but I’m hoping that I can put the time towards something—profitable? University-oriented? Who knows? Crazier things have happened.

This week has had drama. It all started out nicely—another Fulbrighter farewell last Friday night (Szia Robyn!) with a little whisky, a little chatting with friends. Some hours clocked at Baked and Wired. A dinner out. A little bit of time cleaning my room. Weekend stuff.

Then I woke up on Monday morning.

So, I didn’t feel right when I woke up—perhaps like there was a little cramp or something. Still, I was determined to stick to routine, and went and got my coffee, did some reading (finished Philip Roth’s The Dying Animal over a bagel) and then went back to the apartment, planning to get some more reading done, followed by some writing. But my stomach felt worse. So, I lay down with a heatpack on my stomach and fell asleep for awhile, woke up, and found it was worse again. I wasn’t exactly sure what I should do, and thought for a moment maybe it was something appendix related (I almost don’t believe in appendicitis—isn’t that like those phone numbers starting with “555”: invented for television?) and found that the appendix is on the other side of the body from where I was feeling pain. Still, it got worse. It was after 5, and so the student health clinic was closed. My friend Lisa suggested the ER. My reaction was—What if it’s nothing? Even with insurance, isn’t an ER in the US expensive? (This reminds me of the time I fainted off my bicycle on a major road during peak hour—when I came to someone was phoning an ambulance. Groggy as I was, I was still able to say “Don’t! I don’t have ambulance cover!” Oh dear.) So I rang my mother in Australia (as with the best mothers, she is all-knowing) and she thought that since it had been getting worse over 6 hours or so I should go see someone.

Fastforward to: a trip to the ER. I’d been lying still for quite a while, and apparently my body didn’t like walking anymore. I got out of the building, and then started throwing up outside. Nice. Lisa brought the car round. No more nausea. Phew.

Took me a few minutes to even find the ER—the Georgetown Hospital isn’t terribly well-signed. They should do something about that. Did the triage thing a few times, with waiting in between. On the scale of one to ten I initially estimated the pain at 7. Within an hour I would have been screaming ten. I was fine and then suddenly it was all just unbearable. High drama!

So the doctors thought that, yes, it might be appendicitis. Especially when I started pain-induced nausea as it got worse. Apparently the pain can manifest itself more on the left even though the appendix is on the right. So, first an IV, and anti-nausea medication, plus morphine. Morphine? Yes. It told you there was high-drama.

I had to drink about a litre of this slightly fizzy stuff as I awaited a CT scan—apparently you have to have it an hour before the scan. Some other lovely injections when I got to the CT scan room—and, to make the experience extra special, more vomiting. The results? I do not have appendicitis. Sigh of relief, right? Except, why do I still hurt?

New theory: let’s send her for an ultrasound. (No, this story doesn’t end with it turning out I’m pregnant with alien children.) But some more morphine first, as I was starting to get all feverish and crazy. Ultrasound finds an 11cm ruptured cyst. I realise, my dear readers, that some of you might not want to read about this. But apparently its one of the things a body can do to itself—most women have “functional” cysts at some point, but mine clearly wasn’t functioning very well, what with the pain and the vomiting and the rupture. On the bright side, I did get to see ultrasound images of my insides. Oh, and the attached picture is not of my insides. My cyst is bigger than this one.

The result? After 6 or so hours in the ER I was released with a few pieces of paper, prescriptions for painkillers (including Vicoden… but I’m managing on the industrial strength Ibuprofen) and the instruction to see a doctor within three days for further tests.

So, at the moment I have a lot of Ibuprofen in my system, and am due at the doctor’s office tomorrow. Most likely? Blood tests, more ultrasound, and at some point an opinion as to whether I’ll need a surgery or not. Surgery? Well, I’m okay with that—thank god I have health insurance—but if it’s required it involves entry via the stomach, and I’m really not okay with that. (I expect most of you know how much I hate to have my belly button touched. The idea of a caesarian makes me want to faint—hell, seeing a navel piercing makes me want to faint.) Anyway, from what I've read I don't think the surgery should be needed, and I think they wait a while to see if goes away on its own anyway.

It’s all a bit of a “hold on tight” thing. I was all upset, and now I’m just kind of puzzled. It all seems so strange. And how did I get the timing? Just after I finished teaching, a few weeks before my own classes start. I even have my parents coming in next week. What a whirl.

At least last night I ate icecream by the canal. That was nice.

So, I’m a teacher of writing. How much do I focus on the nuts and bolts of an argumentative essay, and how much do I focus on the type of class discussion that could generate a piece of writing with a central thesis? I mean, you’re writing about something—discussion allows a student to try out ideas, ask questions, hear the possible arguments that attempt to refute their own thesis. All good, right?

I taught two classes today—after despairing when it looked like the enrolment in my expository writing class had fallen to one, my spirits were definitely lifted when, arriving this afternoon, I had seven students in the classroom. After some general introductions (and answering some questions about Australia) we got started, and the discussion was lively. I used part of the following quote from Mark Davis’s essay “Turf War” to start our discussion of youth representation:

“Ten years after the first edition of Gangland was published, young people continue to be economically and culturally marginalised in Australia, pilloried in the media, valorised only insofar as their youthfulness can be commodified, but too rarely sought out for their ideas and opinions.”

Shifting it to an American perspectives, I asked a lot of questions—and I’m really glad that I didn’t just get answers that the students thought I wanted to hear. From talking about the political system, to the education system, to media saturation, we got a discussion going on how young people are treated and represented, and after an hour of talking the students wrote for half an hour, responding to the Davis quote, and to the discussion we had just completed. I’ve still got them to read—but I came out of the classroom feeling really energized. I had a real sense that the students wanted to be there, and were keen to voice their opinions.

After my morning class, though, I was feeling a little bit drained—a lot of silences when I asked a question, then a student would answer. A few friends teaching from the same program said they had real trouble getting kids to work today—said they wanted to chat, and they ended up feeling a bit defeated. I didn’t get that far, but it wasn’t exactly discussion. Tonight I’m going to look at finding a short piece of writing that we can analyse as a piece of writing, and that I can ask them to respond to. I have to figure out which pieces of the longer syllabus I have I can really adapt. I get the sense that the students have only ever responded to a set question, and that in most cases they write to an expected answer. Suddenly there’s this confusion of watching television—familiar—and being asked to think critically about it, and its potential “meaning” or impact—an unfamiliar action. I’ve been tinkering with my syllabus day by day, and I think this is going to continue.

In other news, first I experienced (very lazily) my first 4th of July—including a 4th of July party, and a somewhat obscured view of fireworks as I was making my way to the party. I didn’t realize that the fireworks would be at 9pm—I associated fireworks with new years, I guess, which makes me think midnight—or at least late at night. But of course families watch 4th of July fireworks. Anyway, I didn’t make it to the party to watch them from my friend’s balcony, but I kind of liked running into this crowd on a bridge in Arlington watching what they could see above the treeline. Something about being there, but not quite being there seemed right to me. The party was nice too.

And then Saturday I got to see a friend from home—Peter E., who I’ve known half my life now, was in DC to give a paper today at George Washington University. Saturday night he invited me to a dinner party at the apartment a friend of his (he and the friends we ate dinner with are all based in San Francisco at the moment—I think its coincidence that they were all here at the same time.) So, a lovely meal, a bottle of wine, some serious punning, and someone else with the Australian accent. So good.

Two nights out led to a quiet Sunday—writing Independence Day entries, reading, watching some of the shows I’m thinking of using clips from in class (an “intellectual” excuse to watch teen drama! Fab!). The usual.

I have a lot of responses to student writing to write tonight and tomorrow—the Renaissance class I’ve been working with meets on Wednesday, and I’ll have a set of blog entries and a set of essays to comment on. Gosh! So busy!

My body has chosen a very inopportune moment to get sick. I have less than twenty-four hours to finish writing about the epigraphs (and yes, that means I’ll stop raving about the epigraphs too…) and all I want to do is sleep and eat protein. In fact, I think my body is rebelling and demanding all the protein it missed out on all the times I couldn’t be bothered eating a well-balanced meal. I can’t bear the idea of sugar or coffee (especially coffee. Oh god! It’s come to this!) and the only things I want to eat are eggs, vegetables, rice and meat… it’s a little disturbing. I eat, I sleep. I force myself awake to write about George Eliot before my body demands yet more sleep.

But as the paper was pretty well advanced before I got sick, it’s not the end of the world. So perhaps it’s better to be sick today and not next week when I’m off to Panama. I remember travelling from Corte to Bastia, Bastia to Livorno, Livorno to Florence all in the one day after I’d spent a day on Corsica unable to keep anything down. Another day with godawful flu catching a train across Poland, getting into a town I didn’t know with no accommodation booked—apparently completely unaware that it would be impossible to find accommodation. (I still bless that taxi driver who took me to a nearby town and went into each hotel for me until he found a room I could afford. He was very kind, and obviously took my extreme budget into account when he charged me!) The point? Long days of travelling while ill are miserable.

I plan for my mystery illness to be gone by Wednesday. (I’m determined.) Then I plan to eat Mexican food.

I just talked to someone for a few minutes and they didn’t pick up my accent. This has got me a little worried (especially since I go to sleep to either Australian Radio National or the clipped tones of the BBC world service…)

I am telling myself that one of the following must be true:

• he heard an accent but had no idea where it was from, and so internally denied it
• he is so used to hearing foreign accents that it doesn’t even register anymore
• he is so self-absorbed that he doesn’t actually hear what anyone else says, ever
• we were talking while waiting for coffee, so perhaps, like me, his brain doesn’t kick in until post-caffeination.

I talk with Australians here. I listen to Australians. And whatever Pete says about a slight change in my R’s (although not, apparently, my piratical Arrs) I do still sound Australian. So there.

It’s time to get into gear—the next week is going to involve a lot of writing. I can’t say this is exactly bad: writing papers on things that interest me and that I’m passionate about is, after all, really pretty great as a “job” (albeit an extremely poorly paid one…) it’s just the stress of wanting to articulate things clearly, and unknotting all the tangled thoughts that surround the writing process. Especially when it’s these critical papers. Once I’m there doing it, it’s really very pleasurable—but there are so many things I find to do before sitting down. That period of settling to write is the most stressful part! Plus I have a creative piece I want to try to put down on paper this weekend. And a birthday party to attend as well. So this weekend should see about 5000 words and a few glasses of wine if all goes according to plan.

The weather is suddenly glorious. Flowers are everywhere. I wander around and see tulips, daffodils, pansies, bluebells… It’s hard to imagine being unhappy when the days are like this. I think everyone is, like me, trying to find strategies to study where we can either be outside or close enough to outside that it’s just about the same. The daffodils, especially, have had me thinking about Wordsworth. A small bout of hayfever had me on the same track—I used to want to write an essay about the Romantics (especially W.W. and Dorothy) and their walks around the natural world, and to make the point that clearly they didn’t suffer from hayfever. The problem is that there’s not a lot else to say than just that! I’m settling down. I think it was just the sudden decisive swing to perfect weather that threw my body off. Now I feel happy.

So: the day must go on. Imagine! In a few short weeks I’ll be able to travel, read anything I like, write poems and other bits and pieces. I’ll be at leisure! How delightfully irresponsible. I wonder how many projects I’ll make up for myself?

Apropos: nothing, really. I think my near-life-long allegiance to my favourite colour (red) is wavering again. Maybe it's the daffodils, but every time I see yellow at the moment, it makes me happy. I want a writing studio with pale yellow walls, dull glass jars on the window sill and scattered postcards on the wall. But perhaps with a red teapot, just to show I'm not a complete turncoat. One day...

A few frivolities:

On the weekend, I gave myself my first completely solo haircut. I’ve had good feedback so far. And, yes, I’m glad to save the $50 + it would cost to get it done by someone else in DC. I went the route of first cutting it in a ponytail, though in reality my hair is too thick for that, and then tidied up from there. Opinions? (The very sexy decor of the Georgetown Writing Center lies in the background.)

St Patrick’s Day. Yes, I made the effort to wear green. The thing I love about St Patrick’s Day, though, is that it is also the assigned birthday of our family friend Tram. She was born in Vietnam, and doesn’t actually know the date of her birthday. My dad took it upon himself to give her a birthday, and St Patrick’s Day is the day. It makes me happy.

A week ago Sir Walter Scott and I weren’t getting along so well. Our relationship is improving—the second volume of Waverley is somehow more engaging than the first. Or maybe Professor Ragussis has piqued my interest more.

My friend Amy Espeseth said she felt really famous when I mentioned her on my blog previously. So, I’m mentioning her again. You should look out for a novel from her sometime in the future. It’ll be something special.

After what I saw almost as a challenge from Hazel last week, I dropped in at The Bean Counter on the weekend to try their coffee. Good stuff! This reminded me that there are many more cafés to try out around Georgetown, before I swear complete allegiance to one. But then, I’ve never sworn complete allegiance to a single café. Within a few blocks of each other in Carlton, you would be equally likely to find me at Tiamo, Trotters or Big Harvest. I miss Big Harvest’s spectacular muffins.

I found a beautiful poetry anthology on the weekend—Language for a New Century: Poetry from the Middle East, Asia and Beyond. It helped me fill in some gaps by finding some poets for countries I didn’t have “covered” for the Independence Day Project.

This week I need to look for a poem from Namibia. I have a list of poets—good start—it’s just a matter of choosing the poem.

Speaking of African poets, Dennis Brutus will be in DC next weekend for the Split This Rock poetry festival. I’ve been reading some of his work recently, and I’m excited I’ll have a chance to see him.

Still some catching up to do today—more of Waverley to read before 4pm. I have faith it’ll get done. Based on the experience that I somehow always do.

First: some news. It looks like "THE BOOK" is moving forward. I mean, I've heard from the publisher who is "keen to publish it" - but I'm sure there are lots of things that can happen between now and whenever an actual publication may happen. I got the email yesterday - after spending the morning working on a bunch of poems that had been in my "problem pile" (I solved a few problems too!) - and I gasped, nearly cried, then went to meet Lisa to see a film. (Charlie Bartlett. Fun. A great rendition of my favourite Cat Stevens song: "If you want to sing out, sing out." Steals shamelessly from the superior Rushmore.) Then last night, some wine to celebrate - though I feel like celebrating could be premature. Can you tell I'm a novice?

It seems unreal - it's been so long. When I start to feel like it's happening, I'll most likely update.

I had plans for getting out of town this week, but it hasn't happened. I may still go for a day or two over the weekend - I just can't decide. My brain has been a bit addled today, so I've been fiddling with collage materials, thinking about a poem and wandering around in the sunlight.

In the past few days I took the opportunity to go to the Corcoran and Phillips Galleries: both have large (and impressive) holdings of modern and contemporary art. Of the two, I found the Phillips collection more exciting: both had on special exhibitions that covered the breadth of the collections. I guess the Phillips partly appealed more because it was more geared to the modern and contemporary, while the Corcoran's exhibition placed modern works alongside nineteenth century pieces. But more than that, there were a large number of individual works I wanted to spend time with in the Phillips Collection - and a Rothko room, with a beautiful deep blue-green and burgundy canvas, and a red and orange canvas on perpendicular walls. A Robert Motherwell print called "Australia," in black and ochre. Photographs. So much stimulus!

The best part for me, though, was the fact that both collections had on display paintings by Joan Mitchell, who - almost solely through reproductions - has been one of my favourite painters for years now. I've seen these paintings in books (I always wanted to make A3 sized colour photocopies of a couple, to keep them close at hand...) and finally I got to sit in front of them.

Joan Mitchell's canvases are so huge. I like this photo on the cover of a monograph about her work: the physicality of the act of painting these canvases, and the fact that she didn't, like Jackson Pollack, lay them flat on the ground. The painting in this photo is her largest work either. She's such a wonderful colourist - and I feel that she makes real sense of the space of these large canvases. There is a lot of light and movement, and even while they remain abstract they suggest their subjects wonderfully even without the titles.

The weather has been lovely the last few days. Spring is here!

The next few days I have a lot of reading to do. At last: my first experience of Sir Walter Scott. I have to read Waverley for National Identity and the Nineteenth Century Novel. Also, after having just spent six weeks discussing various poets who are considered "modernist" in my Modern and Contemporary poetry class, I have to write a paper on four poems, using the poems to try to define modernism... Define modernism? Sure, easy as ABC. Next week is the UVA conference too, so I've got to get that paper in shape - I booked a hostel, and am hoping I've begged a ride. So -it's business as usual, and more so. With maybe a few poems thrown in as well. Fingers crossed for sanity.

Tomorrow I meet the Poet Laureate. Fingers crossed I don't swoon.

I expect over the coming months new corners of the library will get to be quite familiar. I’m glad I’ve started to isolate the work I’m interested in for my final projects so early in the semester—I can chip away at those essays as I go from now, trying to figure out how I’m going to move around the texts I’m interested in. I was surprised when I went into the library that the Maria Edgeworth section was so small. It seems people are only starting to get interested in her now.

After spending this morning completing my list of world Independence Days, and their equivalent celebrations, I found that the initial information I’d found on Nepal’s national holiday was wrong, and this in fact took place yesterday, on 19 February. With any luck, now that I’ve got it sorted, delay in posting should be minimal from now on.

Speaking of the Independence Day Project, I’m looking hard for a poem by a poet from Brunei. It’s proving to be my most difficult search so far. (That said, initially I thought from searching on the internet that finding a good translation of a good Nepali poet was going to be difficult—and then I found a beautiful anthology.) I’m hoping that, as time goes on, some more people might get involved and send suggestions. Or am I in dreamland?

I sometimes am amazed that I’ve found time to keep juggling all these things—but at the moment all the balls are still staying up in the air. It makes me think of a juggler I used to know, Brian, who was studying at NICA. He was practising juggling seven balls when I met him. One falls, they all fall.

Not that I’m anticipating a crash! I have a lot of practice at this.

I have a few other interesting bits to catch up on here, but I think they might have to wait a few days—I’ve seen three very interesting writers speak this week.

I wanted, too, as a kind of reminder to myself to record the list I made at the start of this year as to the things I wanted to get done this year. I make these lists every year, and there are always a few that fall by the wayside, but a lot of things that I manage to fit in. This year’s list is as follows:

• Apply for PhD Programs
• Write 20 poems
• Give 4 conference papers
• Visit 10 or more states in the US
• Go rock climbing
• Blog at least once a week
• Visit all the Smithsonian museums
• Take dance lessons again
• Start taking photographs again
• Cook more

Obviously some of these are more prosaic than others (yes, on the day-to-day front, I’ve been cooking a lot. And glad of it too.) Overall, though, it seems like a list that is fairly rounded—it encompasses all the types of things I love. And I’m pleased to say, since the start of the year I’ve written about 5 poems—they’re not all finished (far from it) but they all have something happening in them. I’m looking forward to some time to work through them. Time? I’ll find it someday, somewhere.

I'm giving two conference papers in March (one, as already mentioned, at the University of Virginia, the second at the University of Rhode Island) and then I'll wait until next semester - I'll probably try to do one in then. I've been chipping away at most of these things...