#Monday Morning Commute
I’ve spent the last week wondering what the fuck I’m doing. Let me tell you — the life of an adjunct is brutal. I stand a mere seven days away from starting a semester, and I don’t know what classes I’m teaching. How many, what time, their subject level. And I stand and I gaze into myself and I wonder why I put myself through such rigors. Every semester. The answers are obvious but when you’re stressed, when you have a haunting sense of not pulling your share of the financial weight, when you have a new mortgage, they seem to evaporate before they have any chance of distilling into anything appreciable.
Lord, I don’t know.
Welcome to Monday Morning Commute, my friends. I’m going to spare you my usual Fusillade of Verbosity for the week. ‘Cause honestly I have a bit of a headache, and the SpiritsVapors are burning out in my synapses quicker than I anticipated. Don’t snort them, Caff. The GraveBits are tired. You will metabolize them too quickly. You know better! You know better. And I do. But when you’re tired, and you got a bit of the sludge-blood, what else can you do?
You can lay down.
They didn’t know they were already dead. Carl and Martina had been chosen to pilot the last space-ship on Mars onto the Asteroid. They were supposed to till the Helium to power the rest of the Martians home to Europa.
They didn’t they were already dead. Some fatal flaw within the wiring, some poor-man’s rigging of This or That combustible chemical dispenser was waiting for that first thrust post-orbit to vaporize Carl. To vaporize Martina. To vaporize their hopes of getting everyone home.
They didn’t know they were already dead. As the Martians stared at the faint silver glimmer that was their doomed space-ship taking flight, puncturing the skin of the atmosphere to leave for the Asteroid, they felt hope for the first time since they could remember. The entire planet cobbled together the materials for the space-ship. The entire planet’s intellect poured into reimagining a type of vessel not used for decades. The entire planet’s hopes, literally, ham-handedly symbolically, invested into the space-ship.
They didn’t know they were already dead.
The Red Planet was a promise broken. I don’t know, half-baked phrases that wiggle up out of the sludge of my brain. Dying on the shores of over-caffeination, lack of self-esteem, and attention deficit disorder. Never to evolve past their primordial stage. Never to take shape as anything other than a “hey, that may be neat to write about.” At least not in the last few years. Who knows. Maybe with a new home, my own room, and a distinct desire to create something, I’ll get beyond the “concepts generated while taking a crap-taking a drive-taking a shower” stage of my (lack of) creativity.
It’s Monday! Which means a Morning Commute. How did mine go? Well — I was rear ended for the third time in two years as I drove on I-93 South towards UMass Boston. People! Look up from your fucking phones. I beg you. My spaghetti-brain begs you. My consistently whiplash’d neck begs you. I hope, I pray to the Old Ones, that your commute was better than mine. The only perk? The Immediate Migraine and Sore Neck meant I got to go home. Though after thinking about it, a day of lost wages and suffering doesn’t seem like fair trade for a Monday on the couch. Eh. Whatever!
Roberta knew falling in love with Clauius, the thick-poled Cyborg was a mistake. He could see Infinity, perceive The All. His pistons would (practically) never age. His psyche could only expand. But still. Those eyes. That class. And don’t get me wrong. Clauius knew that falling in love with Roberta was a gamble only a foolish Flesh-Sack would make. She would age. Certainly, he was not immune to Entropy. But by the Circuitry Above, he could practically watch her decay happen in real-time. And when he sped up his relativistic perceptions, he did. But those eyes. And that brain. And so fell they love. Her programming and his programming (programmed by her programming) too much to overcome. For a moment, they will Find a Way. And for a moment we all Find a Way. There be romance, and mundanity, and hurt, and humping, and a cadre of other experiences. Most of them banal, some of them transcendent.
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Fucking crap day, here. Just busy. Really fucking busy, and ineffective. My class smells blood, knowing the end of the semester is upon them next week. Today this led to a case of The Mondays in class writ large. A disaffection that was equalled in enormity only by the disruptiveness with which it manifested itself. In other words, no one gave a fuck, and everyone was talking. So class was going shit, and then during our mid-class break it became known to me through a squabble of error messages and beeping that the copier was. In fact. Fucking broken. In other words, I wasn’t able to make a copy of (what should have been) tonight’s reading. So what am I doing tomorrow? Fuck if I know. Today was the first day (and this is probably actually a good sign) in my 3+ years of teaching where I openly asked myself, “What the fuck am I doing wasting my time with this?” A shuddering, unrelenting tidal wave of bile-duct refuse and existential despair washed over me. And for it I have no answers, other than to hope it ebbs as well as flows. I’m sure it does.
Monday Morning Commute Tuesday Evening Commute! Bit of a hectic week. The house I thought Sam-OMEGA and I weren’t buying we are now buying. Which means stripping our bank accounts down to the bone to sacrifice at the altar of the Debt Gods. On top of that there is the summer class I’m teaching. On top of the students I’m tutoring. On top of the hours upon hours of placement essays my co-workers and I are reading to decide which English class incoming freshmen will be enrolled into (yes, someone has made the mistake of placing me on a committee with that sort of authority). So yes.
Welcome to Monday Morning Commute, friends. It’s pretty much the end of the day here on the Eastern Coast of the Empire, but hey. I’m but one FictionMan, attempting to cobble together the disparate entities of the Space-Ship into one meandering husk. So forgive me! And I have to cop to you. A variety of Really Privileged Problems have me a bit worn down, today. Oh, I got married. Boohoo. Oh, I was lucky enough to come back and have to start my job I have immediately. Wah wah. Oh, I’m buying a house and all that financial expenditure is sort of terrifying. Cry more. I get it.