Saturday, February 20, 2010

In a couple weeks I'll know if I get into the Spanish program here at IU. Even though I'm already into my second semester in the library program, I've only been able to afford to go half-time, and I'm amassing incredible debt with each semester. The Spanish program would be entirely funded since I'd be an associate instructor, teaching undergraduate courses. Additionally I would receive an annual stipend--enough to live off of. But I'm afraid that it is very likely that I will not get into the program because of my GRE scores: they are very low. And while the scores are completely bogus, the acceptance committee won't know that I took the test after being up all the night before with a terrible bout of diarrhea. Nor will it matter that I haven't been able to afford to take the test again. Hopefully they will consider the other materials in my application. This is the reason why I haven't even continued with grad school--why seven years have passed without me moving forward with the goal of becoming a professor. Some doors are locked and just can't be opened no matter how passionately you beat on them.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

The snow is pushed aside from streets and walkways so that it is piled five feet high in places, like small displaced glaciers. Hanging from the roof high above my apartment door are a row of icicles, gleaming like bared teeth. Whenever I pass beneath them I lunge quickly so that a stray stalactite doesn't get the chance to impale me in the eye. But the snow is cold, like the bite of a snake, a stabbing cold. Strange, as the weather isn't as unbearable as I feared it would be. Maybe I'm just acclimatized already, and going back to Texas will be unbearable. I think not, though. I miss the Texas heat, the warmth that soaks to the bones, to the soul. The warm nights thick with the heat from the day, the smell of grass always on the air. I'm ready to go home.

Monday, February 8, 2010

Yesterday was the Super Bowl between the Colts and the Saints. I was invited to watch the game at a friend's house, and I took a book and ever so often looked up from my page and gave an enthusiastic shout. Finally I took myself to a different room to read in comparative silence (Their screams and expostulations were remarkably clear through a floor and two walls). I marvel at how much people enjoy sports, particularly football. It's extraordinary, really, to think that almost all of America is gathering to watch a small group of people toss around a leather ball. That a minor twist of the ball as it soars in the air could incite such passionate shrieks, induce a cataract of flying spittle, result in dangerous paroxysms of mania. In a thousand years, entire worlds will tune in for the Galaxy Bowl as two final worlds come together for the prize. I wonder what the stakes will be, what the prize will entail. The one thing we can know for certain about it: there will be shrieks, spittle, and paroxysms of mania.