9/11/08

The World According to (a) Garb(led) (Mind)

At this moment I am resisting the urge to hit my head against a wall. You know how I do that thing where I talk a million miles an hour in writing and if I hurry in attempting to express the multitude of things simultaneously occurring to me in one moment, I can sometimes get close and make some connections, at least in my own head? Well, that doesn't work so well when you are trying to present proofs to your professor who has now deemed you in need of extra office time. It's true. Most dangerously, I thought I has some big little concepts down pat in my head and they're not, apparently. Actually, what it is is that I have all of the elements of understanding there (as I am told- and I can sense that), but I am having a hard time putting them together and expressing them, logically, and line by line.

Indisputably, improving on this will help me do what is absolutely essential in writing a memoir, the previous effort of which I have ditched at this point, writing an outline, or, more pcly, a concept map. The likeness is nearly unbearable. Here, I am also a sloppy lady with too much on her plate, sweating as you, my ultra fine Italian professor, look on in acceptance, but with a little concern. "You are going to have to try a little harder to win me over," you say. "I can see that something is there, and it might be easy for you to think that I have my shit together, but I am also just a person, but one who has gone through what you are going through... to a certain extent." Yes, maybe I made things more difficult than you did, or I try to complicate them more, in a vain attempt to bolster my ego in thinking that the end result will be more rich, but I can tell you that though I let out a little whoop in the shower (ok, not really. Ok, really), that I am 1/4 though my last semester of classes in getting a friggin' math degree from UT Austin, I still feel like an idiot in math right now and need to slow down and sink into this moment because an infinitude separates me from the end right now.

And there is also a guy, a very nice guy, who I'd love to think I have talent in writing, because that is something I don't get to hear in school (I like to think that's because so little of it is asked of me... though that may not exactly be true). I am in this content-area reading class that basically aims at teaching me to understand where I need to and can bridge the gaps between math content-> textbooks-> students, in an attempt to help teens achieve real literacy in my chosen content field. Firstly, recognizing there are gaps is important. Secondly, recognizing what they are is critical, and then knowing how they might be minimized might be possible. Jesus H. Christ on a stick, my teacher said that writing, as I like to do, which he called journaling, because I decided not to say I put that shit out for everyone to see in blog form, is not an interactive experience. WTF? But, there are comments. What do you mean that expressing myself here in written form, sometimes even with a quirky or fuzzy picture is not the same?

Crap, I have counted on that being the case. Even in counseling, I am getting these things. I need to work on getting the whirling dervish in my skull to enunciate its thoughts a little more succintly in 3-D scenarios. I mean, if we could get a little telepathy around here, maybe I could express my thoughts to you in some further abstractions and you could grok it all without nitpicking over who said what or what does it mean, blah fucking blah. This is occurring for me in the physical realm also. Mr. Bee and I have been working hard around our house to eliminate a little clutter, to free up a little space and time, to take things a little slower, to allow details to not be overlooked and then neglected, particularly those we will later say of, "Where the fuck did that go?"

"I'm doing it here," you say? I'm talking in abstractions and expecting you to understand what I mean without being specific. When a pattern is pervasive, is that really necessary? Oops, I forgot what I learned about twelve years ago, in San Francisco with my former roommate and best friend who I co-parented with for 2 years as we traveled around in that Subaru station wagon with our combined three children when we were drinking whiskey late that one night, that when I keep things abstract, I keep them at a distance. What did she call that? Oh, yea pretentiousness. Maybe I can convince 6th graders I understand the fundamentals of math, but if I try and articulate these thoughts to a mentor or some sort, it might become apparent that my mind is a big pile of gloopity glop that needs sorting.

Shit, I need to meditate.

You know, I could go on and on and on forever, but I just needed to get a little of this off my proverbial chest before I go back to looking at slew of symbols and try to say what it means to say if this and this, then this.

Don't worry, even I don't understand what I just said. It is a feeble attempt to express an abstract feeling of frustration re: understanding and communication I am having at this moment.

Yes, I understand that a normal person might just say, "Right now, I am experiencing frustration over not understanding my homework, which has been complicated by my only giving myself a small amount of time in which to do it, because I have a family and all the other normal stuff that everyone else has." Just as this post might be said to be a random sputtering out of junk, because in my attempt to hurry I am taking shortcuts that make it all take longer in the end, maybe I could just stop and focus more clearly on what it is that I am trying to say.

Aw, shit, since I cannot paint here in the library which might be the perfect medium through which to express myself right now, I'll finish that poem I started the other day. Where's that piece of paper...?
I lit a fire (4)
Meant to inspire, (4)
But it engulfed me in its flames. (8)

Charred and alone, (4)
I'm going home, (4)
But I will never be the same. (8)

I miss my spark; (4)
"Life is too stark," (4)
I like to whine and then complain. (8)

I'd ask you here, (4)
But then I'd fear (4)
It would also drive you insane. (8)

(Deep breath.)

Alright. I've found my head. Now, where did I put that wall...?

7 comments:

Randal Graves said...

I'm glad to find out that blogs aren't interactive. Whew!

Yes, I understand that a normal person might just say, "Right now, I am experiencing frustration over not understanding my homework, which has been complicated by my only giving myself a small amount of time in which to do it, because I have a family and all the other normal stuff that everyone else has."

Thus proving that normal is boring.
Can you show that in a mathematical equation?

Plus, you've been tagged. Since you have a real life, no rush. Please don't assault me with fractions and quadratic equations. More poems are fine, though.

Comrade Kevin said...

You're gonna be just fine. Kudos to you for doing so much and being a full-time Mother at the same time.

Utah Savage said...

Honey this sounds like a manic attack. I mean it sounds to me like the manic swing of a very smart, too busy, frustrated, overwhelmed woman with bipolar disorder. I'm not a psychiatrist of course. But I have been where you are only without children. I'm thinking it's a lot easier to be bipolar alone. I can say to myself, at least I don't have to be calm and centered and quiet and really really present for someone else who really really needs me to be calms and still and centered and present for them, now when I can't get my mind to stop racing. And maybe you have oodles of energy and don't need to sleep, kind of like you're on speed and yet it's all you, really really you.

That poem says it all. So tightly wound. About to explode with control.

Liberality said...

wow, I could really follow and understand this post of yours so I think you are able to achieve the goal of effective communication. :D

I have to admit that sometimes I don't follow a post (yours, or someone else's so not singling you out here) but then I just feel I'm just not smart enough to "get" it.

Katie Schwartz said...

You make perfect sense to me. The poem is beautiful and what goes inside your head pours onto the page beautifully.

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Dr. Zaius said...

I don't understand your poem... (4) doesn't rhyme with (8)!