Selected reading for Modernism and Psychoanalysis.
Today started off great. The Reds had arrived but I didn't care. I even did crunches to show 'em; contract that, uterine muscles! etc. I was pumped. It was the first day of my new class, Modernism and Psychoanalysis. I was going to meet new people, sit in a new classroom, and be forced to contemplate things relating to literature that Writing didn't require me to do. I was pumped.
I got to class okay. I listened and followed most of what was said. And then an hour in my thighs started to throb and my stomach started to cramp. I felt the familiar rush of nausea threaten and choked it back. My pen started to shake when I picked it up to write and the ink came out in unintelligible squiggly lines on the page.
What was I to do? Here I was in a brand new place, strangers all around and a completely new subject being discussed. My tutor kept throwing questions back at us but by then my brain was unable to compute what was going on. The arms of the clock stayed in one position for ten minutes and my insides writhed in pain.
I kept wondering how exactly one goes about walking out of a seminar. Do you ask permission or do you just walk out? Do you show the extent of your discomfort or do you just deliver the information brusquely? Do you whine a little or do you burst into tears? Do you raise your hands or do you stand up?
After the world started to blur I raised my hand and I stood up. I didn't double over or whine, I just packed my things and walked out as quietly as I could. If anyone asks, I was never here...
Hours later, still writhing, still on my bed, still fighting back nausea, I got really angry and had a word with God. Not because I deserve it or because I have earned it, but because He loves me. I got all, "It's not too small for You. You can't be happy to see me in all this pain. You've answered much smaller prayers. If I can stub my toe and not fall because You held me up, email China Mieville weeks late and get a reply, decide I'm going to be a writer and get into a good school, then this cannot be Your plan for me."
The protest continued, "You can't say I don't have enough faith. I have loads of faith. Loads! I know I can do with more; can never have too much etc, but the mustard seed can move mountains so loads must be sufficient for cramp alleviation!" And I cried and silently yelled and it subsided enough for me to sit up. And then enough for me to stand. And then enough for me to make some dinner. And then enough for me to go to the library to fetch myself a truckload of Freud and friends. And back, where I saw the spilt milk on the floor and laughed to myself because it gave me hope somehow.
Spilt milk a la Heronbank residences
My dad called me and we had a nice chat about the subsidy issue. He's at home where it's all happening, and I am feeling the effects of it directly because the banks are shut, but I was glad that we could also just talk. I find that being away from home has made me appreciate my family - specifically the 'rents - a lot more.
In the background of all this was Blood by The Middle East, a defunct Australian indie-rock-etc band. It has been the soundtrack of my day, being both broody and simultaneously uplifting.
So beautiful, I hope it touches you too, somehow.
X
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