I drafted letters during June and July, but when I went back to them, nothing stood out. No specificity. No scene. Those are the basic criteria I use to grade my students’ narratives, and I heard it validated in Tommy Orange’s City Arts and Lectures interview yesterday.
In June, we got Doug, a long-haired, blonde, 37-pound “retriever mix” who could be a mix of any kind of dog. It doesn’t matter what he is. What matters is that he comes when I call him, that he begs for our attention, smiles, that he leans his body in closer when I pull him to me on the couch, and that this morning, Erik asked him to “shake,” and he did. Twice in a row. That we took him to Aram and Kelsey’s for a dog play date, and he didn’t stop playing with their dog Lucy until we left. That he got into her dog bed with her, and she didn’t mind. He is good.
I’ve been teaching two sections of college composition as an adjunct instructor. Next week, when the summer term is over, I will go full-time at Midtown Reader. They made space for me just in time. I turned down a contracted, full-benefits one-year fellowship job at the university, and I’m proud of myself. Academia makes me anxious, makes me doggy-paddle through life. Already, I’ve resolved to join a choir. I’m remembering myself.
We moved into a fixer-upper, which is fun and meaningful if you’re buying a house. We’re renting.
Last night, on the eve of my students’ final class presentations, I came down with a fever. All day, I’d felt anxious in my body, had little fish swimming in the perimeters of my abdomen. I can never differentiate the physical and the mental, so I couldn’t tell if it merited cancelling class to rest. I went to see Tiffany off, my writing buddy, with whom I make promises to myself that I keep. We promised to have tea over Google Hangouts on Sunday, when she’s in her temporary home in Denton, Texas. I came home, and then I got hot. A blessed fever to tell me slow the f*** down.
I haven’t rested in my mind and my body at the same time since June, since the beach. I haven’t finished a book since I read Trust Exercise there. Yesterday, I heard “The Song that Never Ends” in my head. I was clearing boxes out of the back bedroom so that the flooring company could come replace the urine-soaked carpet so that we can use that room — Erik’s studio, maybe also a music room.
This morning, I made a list of free therapies, like tea and sitting and walking and playing the guitar. Then I spent an hour learning to play more Gillian Welch songs, ones I listen to so much I can just push “play” in my mind to hear them. I’ll leave you with this.