'twas the night before viva. . . .

and I have a glass of red wine handy. The chatty lad at the wine store is a natural-born salesman and got me on two bottles with a description of chocolate, currant and pepper notes - nearly lost me with the story of how it reconciled him to his girlfriend's parents (or was it the girlfriend?) - re-engaged with the recommendation of a 70% dark chocolate to go with the wine. . . . and ultimately held me captive with the very sad story of his exam failure that will necessitate another repeat in 'mats' (meaning 'mathematics') and his enthusiasm for his preferred course of study: law, politics, and economics.

From there, it was a hop, skip, and a jump to stem cell research, the ethics surrounding recent legal pronouncements in in vitro case law, and the politics of funding and public disclosure, not to mention the inside information he was privy to, which might come from his mother, but then again, he didn't want to say, precisely, although he wouldn't deny it (he said) and she did work for the Attorney General's office. . . . I'd say he'd made the trip to Blarney a time or two. He never met a topic he didn't like, or wouldn't be amenable to wax prolific on.

Luckily an elderly chap finally entered the store, and I was able to leave before that gentleman realized his peril.

Actually, the saleslad was rather entertaining, but I had reached my limit and wanted to get back to the flat, pour a glass of wine, and take a peek at the two articles Magda sent me away with.

"But perhaps you won't have time to read these, but they will be handy for later, if you need them. And perhaps you will look at them, briefly, in case you need to refer to them. . . ."

By which I take it that these would be good to refer to at the viva, even though I did not refer to them in my dissertation, because they weren't out then.

If you get my drift.

Magda is some kind of wonderful supervisor! It's just taken me some time to be able properly to translate her sometimes, and my early dealings with her suffered I think, accordingly.

By the way, I am staying just to the right of the bridge in the foreground, which I can see from my room, as well as the green dome which is across the river. . . .

Anyway, there's not really much more I can do tonight. I'll have dinner with some friends and then do a bit of reading and try to hit the sack early. The king arrives at about 8 am - so I can't sleep in, as I have to meet him. He doesn't know the city that well and we won't have mobile phones as a back up if we miss one another so I have to make sure I'm at the meeting place. It's a bit hair-raising. . . . but I'm sure it will come off with no problems.

Then, the exam is at 2:30. All I have to do in the morning is come up with a 5 minute introduction of my work (10 max, but no longer), and then be prepared to answer questions. Then it's done. And then we'll see what we'll see!

Till tomorrow, then.

happiness and paradox - viva minus 7

I woke up in the middle of the night, all in a sweat that I hadn't talked in my dissertation about paradox with respect to the entertaining of two apparently irreconcilable positions.

Wouldn't you think that that would come to mind at some point? And wouldn't you think that that would surely come to the mind of someone [me!] who had actually spent some considerable time thinking about that very subject at the very beginning of this whole journey?!

Well - apparently not. Because it didn't. It just didn't. Not till now.

I wonder if anyone will bring it up at the viva? It seems a glaring omission to me, at this point. But hold on here! Wait a minute. . . . no one else has talked about paradox in this context, so maybe it's a bit more understandable. Maybe I just missed another potentially cool point I could have made, or maybe I dodged a bullet that would have derailed the dissertation. I don't know. . . .


Anyway, it really seems to me that the [especially Christian] embracing of paradox (theoretically, at least) could add another tool by which to attempt to navigate the terrain between the "good" and the "right". We do not have to choose one or the other where they [appear to] conflict. But neither do we need to do violence to the opposition presented in order to try and live - somehow - with both.

The other fill-in-the-blank 'gift' I got today was an article a girlfriend emailed me about happiness. It's an article by one Sharon Begley, entitled "Happiness: Enough Already." Quoting one Eric Wilson (who has apparently written a book entitled Against Happiness) she says

. . . "the blues can be a catalyst for a special kind of genius, a genius for exploring dark boundaries between opposites." The ever-restless, the chronically discontent, are dissatisfied with the status quo, be it in art or literature or politics.

It reminds me of my disagreement with a favorite writer of mine who quoted [with approval] a guy who tried to equate morality with science. In my comment disagreeing, I mentioned that that attempted equation would be to deflate immorality to a physical malady - presumably treatable with a pill. Here, we have a similar situation already going on, where everything not happy is pathological, and which ought to be treated with medication, or therapy, or both. ["ought" is italicized there, because I wanted to point out how often we ignore moral statements, which are so often headed by that little word. . . . ]

Anyway - enough for this morning. Off I go to chart the "dark boundaries between opposites" - not that I aspire to "special kind of genius" status - but I have been wrestling the blues!

viva minus 9

so, have you checked out the Viva Viagra commercial yet?

No?

Well - here it is for you. Or one of them, anyway. . . .

The band is pretty good.

You can tell I'm of a flippant disposition today. I haven't been doing the countdown and I discovered today that I'm already in the speed-up 10, 9, 8, 7 mode. . . . I still haven't made it through the dissertation all the way. May God have mercy on my poor. . . . [man! I can't even think of the word! What do you call it when you put things off? Right. That word] _________ing . . . . soul.

Today, via the Happiness Project, I came across an article about not adding value to other's ideas. I'd never heard it expressed this way, but I know exactly what they mean. I've always called people like that "dream cuckoos". They're people who try to deposit their own, unformed yet overgrown, awkward fledglings into the little dream nest you have labored over, to then crowd out or even devour your own little dreamlets. . . .

I've known quite a few of these people - there's one in my family (and it's not the king. . . .) - and I tend to give them a wide berth. Actually, I learned some time ago not to air early ideas at all. You've got to give them time to gestate first, or else they can get so mangled up that they'll never draw breath even if they do manage to see the light of day.

Do I try to "add value" to others' ideas?

I often want to. Sometimes I'm tempted to. But I usually default back to a cheerleading role fast enough, with an apology for trying to put my own oar in. I just remember how I feel when others start to try and hijack one of my dreamlets. Although sometimes people can come up with some good ideas! It's such a balance.

This was a difficulty I had with the whole academic process, by the way - as I realize just now, talking through it. I am of an artistic temperament, and tend to 'create' alone. The academic, however, also relies on community by which to work out ideas, sort through objections, and come up with consensus on solutions. This really is pretty antithetical to the artistic process, although - granted - artists also interact not only with one another, but also perhaps to an audience.

All this to say that I am not really looking forward to the viva insofar as it approaches an "adding value" process by which I must suffer the "good ideas" of others who have not spent 5 years on this. Even as I write this, I am very well aware of how unfair the suspected charge is. I know the internal examiner, and he's just great. He gives you lots of room for your own ideas, and with him it's always about the student and never about himself. He's one of the most generous people I know that way. His attitude also tends to rub off on others, so that before you know it, a room full of "Look at me!" students has become a very affirming exploration group.

I'm just not used to group explorations. They tend to go places I'm not that interested in. Or maybe it's just that I am boring, and they won't go there with me! In any event, I'm used to solo jaunts. . . .

Off now, to find something to munch on while I do some reading.

PS - the missing word, above, is "procrastinating". Right.

lucky 13

I'm feeling flat. Kind of pointless.

I've been biting my cuticles again, in spite of the deal I made with myself that I would stop, and by which I justified the purchase of L'Occitane cuticle cream and Tweezerman serious cuticle pushing tool [read "these babies were expensive!"] about a month ago. . . . The fingers of choice for dental assault are the left forefinger and the right thumb.

sigh.

I don't get it.

I'd stopped for about 4 or 5 years.

So. Ok. Writing. Although I don't really need to write these days, so much as read. I'm perverse that way, though. When I should be writing, I'm reading. Reading? Right - we're writing!

But note, the writing isn't going all that smoothly just now, either. Very well then.

I think the problem is that I'm feeling like I'm missing so much. I haven't really been seeing many friends. I'm not doing what I want to do, but neither do I feel like I'm accomplishing much of anything else. I'm just generally uncomfortable.

I do have friends scheduled in now: buddy coming tomorrow afternoon; group dinner at another friend's house tomorrow evening; music friend's band playing the day after (early evening gig, which is all I'm up for these days) and 'actual best friend C' is meeting me there. In other words: I've gone overboard in the opposite direction. I'm good at that.

Today: hair cut.

It is probably not a good day to be doing this, as I might be tempted to something extreme. I think we can count on it being a bit shorter than usual. . . .

Who'd have thought a 'bob' was so difficult to achieve? I've been trying to get a kind of 20's bobbed hair cut for years, but no one seems to be able to achieve it for me. The closest I ever came was once about 4 years ago - growing out layers I'd consented to in a moment of madness - after which I took a pair of shears to my own hair rather than deal with yet another hair dresser also convinced that layers would be 'just the thing' on me. [It is not. Trust me on this one.]

Here's a photo I finally found of the style I want to emulate. Great movie, by the way. My current hairdresser's comment? "That's great, but it doesn't show me the back."

Ok. So what does she think the back looks like? How hard could this be?!

sigh.

Well - this oughta be fun. Oh - and I finished the turquoise vest - need buttons. That's always good for a laugh.

viva minus 14

There was a huge storm last night, which left me grateful to be inside, warm and dry under the covers trying to sleep. Unfortunately, the howling wind and claps of thunder made that rather difficult.

Today my actual best friend is coming over to go see the greenwood happenings and thereafter have a bit of a birthday lunch. We don't see much of each other any more. She's relatively newly married, as well, and what with her own house constructings and running a business she doesn't get a lot of free time. I miss hanging out with her. It's hard, then, to just enjoy time together when you do get it, because you feel like there's so much ground to cover - first, to catch up, and then to make up for the fact that you suspect you won't be seeing each other for another month or two!

I remember someone once saying how ridiculous they found the concept of "quality time" - when used as an excuse for spending a small amount of time with one's kids, for example. . . . [grammar question: does "one's" properly have an apostrophe there, for the possessive, or does that signify a contraction?]

Anyway, this person said something to the effect that more often than not it's really the spending of time with someone that counts - not just the supposed 'quality' of it. Granted, the quality counts, too, but not as much as we might like to think. You can't cultivate a friend from scratch by just spending one quality day a year - for example - with them. At some point, you just have to spend time. Riding in a car saying nothing. Skipping stones. Shopping for food together, perhaps, or going your separate ways in a bookstore (and meeting up afterwards to inspect acquisitions), enduring the boring recital because it's her kid and she asked that you go with her.

I don't excel at this, by any stretch. In fact, I'm pretty bad about it. Luckily, I've spent so much time with C over the years that I can get away with some patchy stretches. . . . every now and again, anyway. I think it's time to replenish the time-spent-together cache.

More reading today - I hope to get through 2 more chapters and then finish the dissertation tomorrow. At that point, I should have a better idea as to which works of my main author I wish to re-visit and in what order.

viva minus 15

Housekeepers today, so I was up and out early and headed over to the local college library and my favorite easy chair in the aerie overlooking the atrium with nothing but the dissertation and a pad of paper on which to record errata.

I have two pages [of errata] already.

The good news is that I'm mostly enjoying my own writing. I think Magda was able to insert a whole lot more structure than I suspected - or would ever would have included - since I tend to operate by the maxim that if I have to tell you what the points are, I obviously have failed to make them. . . .

I don't know where I got that idea, but I realize now that it has been firmly in place for a very long time. I intend to banish it, forthwith.

Much better just to tell people what the points are, rather than trust that they'll 'get it', if you just make the points as strongly as you can. . . . Of course, it doesn't make for very compelling writing, but then I need to decide whether I'm in the business of writing, or providing information - or something else, entirely.

All of that is way too egg-headed for me today.

The point is: I enjoyed the writing, I found enough typos to keep me busy, and I didn't mind the telegraphed plan of the dissertation. In fact, I found it rather reassuring to know just what it was I was going to talk about next - and why. [Doesn't that sound ridiculous? Yet it's true.]

It's a gray day. Warm. Warmer outside than inside this ridiculous rented house we inhabit. Yet it feels wasteful to open up doors and windows, as "the heat is on".

I'm waiting for a buddy and we're heading to the greenwood to talk about security systems. I'm also hoping for a walkabout, and then a pint after. Then - perhaps - I'll be in a proper frame of mind to resume the conclusion of chapter 2 and start on 3. Actually, chapter 3 is one of the 'fun' ones - insofar as you could count anything in a doctoral dissertation as "fun."

viva minus 16

I truly don't know where the days go.

Yesterday started great, but ended with a big headache. Still, as days go, it was a really good one.

What I want to focus on today is why "I knew you could do it!" can feel like the opposite of an "attaboy!"

On the one hand, it's nice that people have confidence in you. On the other hand, if everything you undertake is a 'done deal', then there's no sense of accomplishment. I think that this is what people tend to overlook when they say: "I knew all along there was nothing to worry about - you were just being ridiculous to worry so much!"

I'm not a worrier by nature. But this doctorate was - and is - no 'done deal', and I kind of resent the implication that it was/is. Even as I can also recognize that the people who so imply, probably do so under the [false] impression that they are thereby building my self-esteem by stating their supreme confidence in my abilities. It's a delicate balance. Confidence in the outcome, but still preserving the real challenge presented and the real precariousness of success! If success is a given, how can there be a real challenge?

I see that we're back to conflict, and the need for conflict in any compelling story. The trick is to somehow preserve the "I had no doubt" while at the same time being able to experience all hope fade.

Which leads me right back to the question of "faith".

I think I mentioned yesterday that we've been reading the book of Hebrews - chapter 11.

What is faith? It is the confident assurance that what we hope for is going to happen. It is the evidence of things we cannot yet see. . . . [keeping our] eyes on the one who is invisible.

Funny, because elsewhere it says that "without faith, it is impossible to please God", and I think that this is part of the same question I'm struggling with. Just maybe the other side of the coin. God wants us to have confidence in him, in spite of the real adversities; I'd like acknowledgment of the real adversities I've faced, in spite of my family's confidence in me.

[and OK, just so you know, it's my mother we're talking about here. As far as she's concerned, there was never any question at all about my ability to do this - her only question is why I've been dawdling so much, getting it finished.]

Like I said, it's a delicate balance. I could be facing the other side of the coin, the "I don't know why you even try, you'll never succeed!" Which reminds me of a favorite C.S. Lewis quote, to the effect that we are like the drunk man who climbed on a horse and fell off one side, and then climbed back on only to fall off on the other side. . . . There's plenty of room for error on either side of this narrow path!

it's my birthday

. . . and it's already been quite a day!

Somehow, my birthday has gotten shoved into the annual Superbowl gathering - which I really don't mind, as I enjoy football - but it can leave the actual day a bit empty, when the celebrations are already in the past tense.

Today has already been quite a day for me though. We started with the usual: coffee with the king (he added cinnamon - which he knows I love - as a special treat), and at some point the impression of Psalm 112 fixed itself firmly enough in my mind that I felt confident that that was what we should read together this morning.

Fine. Because other than that, we were about to take on the martyrs in the book of Hebrews [the second half of the chapter on faith, chapter 11. . . .] and I really didn't have the heart for that on this festive day.

Anyway - Psalm 112 was about the good stuff that follows from being on good terms with God. The two ideas that really stuck with me as 'for me' today were: "trust" and "you won't be afraid of bad news".

Very well then!

The first thing I saw when I checked email (beyond several birthday wishes emails) was an email from Magda. "First comments", it was entitled. I clicked to open it before I could work myself up into being afraid of bad news. Magda reports that the internal examiner told her that both he and the external examiner thought my thesis "very good." She wanted to pass that information along so that my viva preparations would be a bit more "light-hearted". . . .

So now I'm worried that once I get in there, they'll realize that I don't really know a thing and that this dissertation (which I have yet to re-read) was somehow achieved as if by dictation and that everything I wrote escaped my mind the minute it was put down on paper!

No - not really. But I have not been preparing the way I know I must, and this good news - although really good news - is not going to ease me out of preparations, it should actually make me work even harder. Now all I have to do is figure out where we are again on the countdown. That'll strike terror into my heart, eh?

Oh no, that's right: I will fear no bad news.

Isn't it strange not to be working out of fear? That doesn't mean I won't ever get bad news, it means I won't fear it. . . . Yet I realize now that fear has served as a major motivator in my life. What shall be the replacement, do you think? And isn't it funny how many of us work off of fear throughout our lives, and yet how often have I heard people claim to be turned off from God, because they're offended by talk of fear of hell. . . . or by a "religion" that supposedly tries to use fear as a motivator.

But is not fear almost the universal motivator? Think of our advertisements. What do they prey on, if not fear? Fear of death. Fear of hunger. Fear of growing old, getting wrinkles, losing one's attractiveness, being alone, smelling, having split ends or gray hair, being constipated, getting sick, having high blood pressure, low self esteem, losing erections, having a tree fall on one's house or car, getting audited - I mean, you name it! Even the Superbowl commercials yesterday can be traced back to fear. Bridgestone's screaming squirrel, and the tires that allay the fear of death and squashing a lovely furry critter. Budweiser's Dalmatian training the Clydesdale and overcoming a fear of failure. The laundry detergent (was it 'Tide'?) that presented itself as saving us from rejection and shame by silencing the "talking stain." Doritos' attacking giant rat. . . .

Fear and "protection". Start counting the number of products or services or companies that claim to "protect" us. At the same time, consider just what it is they would be "protecting" us from. . . . I've been amazed at the sheer protection racket going on.

Anyway - just to get back here: it's my birthday, and I'm a very happy prophet today. I trust God and I fear no bad news. I think I'll go to the greenwood and have a walkabout. At some point, I'll recalculate the countdown number - not because I'm afraid - but so that I can recalculate the work that needs to be done, and allocate the days properly.

I do hope that there's some champagne in my near future!

Many happy returns to all of you.

viva minus 22

I'm sure you've missed those count-downs quite as much as I did. So we're starting a new set - the viva countdown! oh joy. . . .

Can you believe this? Twenty-two days from today, I'll be in a conference room somewhere, with [a silenced] Magda at my side, the former head of the department acting as "chair", the internal examiner and the external one. We will do something for two hours, whereupon I will emerge either victorious or crestfallen. Or - possibly - devastated. . . . elated? or maybe something in between.

Thinking about it more carefully now, very likely I'll just be numb.

The good news is that my 'local' will be within spitting distance and I'll just bet that an expertly-poured pint will cure whatever ails me. The other good news is that I should be done early enough to get my favorite seat at the bar. Or - if I'm crying - Willie will let me into the snug (which will still be unclaimed that early) to cry into my pint in private. . . .

It's the little things that help cheer me up at this point. Like contemplating the symmetry of 20 and 2 days left. . . . And wondering where the hell I put my copy of the dissertation as - surely - it's time to read the thing for the first time, from beginning to end, and what if it's really terrible?!

I spent a little time this morning re-visiting the crazy days of the last countdown, the one before the dissertation was due. It all seems so unreal now. Almost as if another person did it. Just as I'm sure the viva preps - and the actual viva voce will also feel very unreal when it's all said and done with.

Meanwhile, though, I have a dissertation to read (and a list of errata to prepare), at least 2 new books to skim (if not actually read), and my main author's main book to re-visit in order to try and get the principles back into the working part of my brain, memory and speech pattern.

My vest is done - or the main pieces are, anyway. All that remains are the edgings for the armholes and the front where it buttons. But I don't like the edging the pattern calls for: it puckers, somehow, and looks wierd. Blocking might help, but that feels a little too much like cheating. You know, sort of like adding a whiz-bang production to cover up the fact that the song you started with is rather mediocre at best. So I've started a border of my own 'unvention' - yes, I've finally broken down and gotten one (two, actually) of Elizabeth Zimmerman's books. . . . - and we're trying out a separate band of cable as the edging. I'll let you know how it turns out.

My biggest regret in all of this is that I'm going to have to find the end of the one sewn-on band in order to try and rip it out. It's so hard to undo things, once they've been sewn together. . . .

zero. . . .

It's done.

It's on a plane to Dublin.

I'm exhausted.

day one

I almost don't know where to start.

This is like my 100th post and I'm down to the LAST DAY of work on the dissertation. I'm glad I did the postings. It's helped me get a handle on what I was doing and what still had to be done. It also puts 'time' into the equation of getting a big task done. Time transformed into narrative. Which, when all is said and done, is pretty much what 'life' is: time transformed into narrative. (by means of joy, hunger, experience, suffering, beauty, hope. . . .)

sigh.

I'm feeling quite quiet. There is a lot still to be done, but I am very calm about it. I got through all of chapter 5 last night except for the part on "hope and meaning". And that part took me a long time to write, too, as you may recall. . . . Now it looks like much of it will be cut. It's just too much here at the end. Plus (and this is good) I've really already made the point I wanted to make in previous chapters. So I don't need to re-invent the wheel.

More good stuff: Magda really seems to 'get it' now, here at the end. She's not fighting me with where I'm going in the Introduction and Conclusion. I think that may be part of why I was so resistant to writing it: in the past, whenever I've tried to talk about my take on what the problem was, she has moved into her perception of where the problem - and possible solution - is. Although we both admire Paul Ricoeur, we do so for different reasons. It took me some time to figure this one out.

Her final email - returning her comments on the Conclusion - was "Again: well done. Good luck with the printing."

Now let's just hope it flies. I have several large hurdles to go (beyond the physical bit of getting the thing turned in): one, the difficulty of the inter-disciplinary approach wherein my primary academic credentials lie in a discipline other than the one I am submitting in; and two, the American versus Continental issue. And that second one is a bigger problem than many people would think.

But first: finish the task before me. For today:

1. Ruthless edit of 'hope and meaning' section of chapter 5.


2. Incorporate Magda's comments to Intro and Conclusion (actually, I think I'll do this before I do chapter 5, because it'll give me a handle on the really important big-picture points which will help me not care so much about cutting confusing clutter in the more detailed bits. . . .)


3. Check footnotes throughout.


4. Check formatting - titles, etc. - for consistency


5. Adjust pagination start numbers for each chapter


6. Print out one copy (American letter size)


7. Go through and check footnotes with Bibliography entries (and correct)


8. Go through and correct Table of Contents to reflect actual final headings and page numbers


9. Final spelling & grammar correct (to whatever level that's possible)


10. Print out 2 copies on A4-sized paper and package to go to Dublin. (oh - and make cd copy of files to go with him, just in case. . . .)

OK. This was maybe not such a good idea. Figuring even just an hour for each task - which is a pipedream - that's 10 hours right there. sigh.

It's gonna be a LONG DAY. And a LONGER NIGHT. . . .

But no. It's good to know what needs to be done. Now the trick will be to transform it into manageable bits, rather than staring - transfixed - at the HUGE AMOUNT THAT NEEDS TO BE DONE like a mouse hypnotized in front of a cobra.

Run, prophet, run!!!

and get to work.

an' a two. . . . an' away we go!

I slept through the housekeepers' ministrations until the end of the vacuuming which I think has got to be some kind of record. I've been apologizing to them for weeks about the mess I have everywhere, but this is the first time I've required them to work around the wreck that I am, with my butt still in bed! Man. They're the greatest. I have now 3 work sites that I rotate between, although the studio worksite has kind of been out of the loop all summer as it gets too hot in there. But it's still a wreck. It's a wreck just about everywhere, except - mostly - the living room. Oh, and the guest bedroom. And the kitchen and bath are nice again now, too, thanks to our very dear friends the housekeepers. Oh yay!

I've promised them that things will be different next week.

Main work site these days: dining room. Large table covered with papers. Stacks of books on the sideboard. Baby mac manfully soldiering on at the head of the table minus his battery and needing a $900 part.

Amazing.

Chapter 4 re-write: [finally] done.

Intro: done!

Summary: oh yeah! done. . . .

Conclusion: right. need one of those. check.

Title: sort of done. First half done. Fiddly bits after the colon still being rearranged. I did get up last night before I fell asleep and wrote down something that sounded good at the time. . . . Must go into the studio and see what it was. Maybe we have a title.

And Magda wrote this morning (I sent her intro and summary last night, hoping she'd have a chance to disembowel it within a day or so) saying she was relieved to get it, and would have it to me by tomorow morning my time. Which is as good a turn around as I could hope for!

Confession time: I have no idea what I wrote. It sounded all very good as it came gushing out through my fingertips and I intoned the words as they appeared on the screen.

Actually, I think I do that most times. . . . now that I think about it! [talk out loud as I write and type, that is]

By the way, thanks Nee and Lee Anne for the 'go-get-em's, it really does help! I can't quite figure it, but it does.

Time for a bit of tea and then it's. . . . hm. Conclusion, I think first (so I might be able to slide that past Magda as well) and then the chapter 5 re-write. I have the luxury of being able to cut up to 7,000 words!

I do feel decent today. It's a gray day, with a bit of a chill hidden around the edges. A squirrel outside has taken alarm over the cat and is doing the wierd squeeze box cough and squeeze-toy sound. Meanwhile, Puss is at my elbow, complaining at the insults.

Emancipated Son no. 2 arrives from London this afternoon - impeccable timing - for a wedding this weekend. I should probably set up shop upstairs at the second work site in the bedroom. That's actually a favorite place to work: it's on a beautiful round table the king bought years ago, sitting at what looks like a big throne chair. An old trunk is next to me in a little window alcove, and that's where my pot of tea can go, together with papers I need to be able to lay my hands on.

Anyway, father and son will undoubtedly have much catching up to do, so I'll try to positioned up there as of, say, 3 this afternoon. But then I have to move down here again once everyone goes to bed. (Just in case you were thinking: 'why doesn't she pick a spot and stay there?!)

So - enough of the trivial details, I think. I can feel tension in my shoulders - perhaps a bit of a stretch through the garden before I really get to work. It looks like it's going to rain soon, anyway, so this would be my last chance today.

Bother, the hiss in the tree leaves tells me it just started to rain. . . . oh well.

3 - three - drei - tres - trois - help

three days left.

the headache is FINALLY gone - for now.

I have: intro & conclusion to write, chapter 4 re-write to finish, chapter 5 re-write, title selection, and then fun and games with pagination, table of contents, and printing.

Then personal hand-off to friend leaving for Dublin on Friday - including taking him to airport.

Then: collapse.

I predict: serious fall in standards ensuing almost immediately.

Second: loss of extra four pounds plus another 4 as my throat closed yesterday.

Finally: serious sleep deprivation (as if I could sleep!), but I just hope that my mind stays with me. More important than the mind is my source. . . . Father please don't leave me. You got me into this! I know you will sustain me. The part of the 'acknowledgements' that made me cry yesterday was when I realized I had not acknowledged God. . . . and the words of Jude came to mind, which is how I was able to incorporate thanks to God in a way that I hoped would not make the academics nervous:

To Him who is able to keep me from falling and to present me before His glorious presence without fault and with great joy - to the only God our Savior be glory, majesty, power and authority, through Jesus Christ our Lord, before all ages, now and forevermore! Amen.

Although it undoubtedly will still make them nervous, in spite of the fact that this is theology. . . .and - hey! - Scripture. That shouldn't be too scary, eh?

Facing the intro/conclusion again today. Oh help.

four - meltdown. . . .

computer wouldn't turn on. Migraine set in. Nausea. Followed shortly by tears. I spent the day in bed. Till 3 - then to the Mac shop. They gave me a new battery, which I can't use until they replace some sort of board they've ordered that costs almost $900. (Luckily, I THINK it's under warranty; no one's said anything about me paying that and I think they would have mentioned that before they ordered it. . . .)

It appears that I can continue on the Mac so long as I don't put the battery in. There's something wrong with the battery and the power circuits that connect that in to the computer. So: there you have it.

And I guess if I'd done this sooner, the part would have been in by now and my computer would have been humming right along, rather than limping. Although you just know something like this is going to happen at the end like this!

The tension is nigh unbearable and I can't shut myself down. I'm hating life just now. At least these next few days.

Oh - and we signed the contract to build the house today - having gotten building permits [finally!] last week.

I'll think about that later.

For now: I don't know whether to re-write chapter 4 or try again to write the intro and conclusion. And I still don't have a title.

I did draft the 'statement of my own work' that was required, as well as the "Acknowledgements" - and managed to print that out on the A4 paper. And that made me cry some more.

The king is worried.

I'm exhausted.

I know I'll get through this, but I've never felt quite so stretched thin before. What's most worrying is the betrayal of my body. It's not possible to think when you want to take your head off, it hurts so.

five - countdown resumed

"Really, now you ask me," said Alice, very much confused, "I don't think ..." "Then you shouldn't talk," said the Hatter.

Good one.

Reminds me of something I read (and wrote about here) that

It's a mistake to think that writing is about putting words on paper. Writing is about thinking.

So I've been showing a lot of evidence of thinking lately, insofar as putting words on paper is concerned. . . . Meaning: there's more and more words on paper. Even though I've been also cutting a lot of words I had formerly put on paper. After thinking about it.

Not doing too much talking, though. There are not too many people ready to engage on the issue of morality as a system of rules, or as a matter of identity, or is it, instead, an issue of character a la in a virtue ethic system? And is Kant's morality of duty and obligation really as bad a thing as it sounds these days? (and my answer there would be "no" - after many, many years of a knee-jerk "Get him away from me! reaction).

Basically, Kant is pretty tough to get a handle on. If you think he's about a simple dry "duty" to be gutted out, you've probably misunderstood him. There's a whole lot more to him than that.

But that's the other problem with Kant: he's so complicated, no one really does understand him - so what's the use? You can have the best solution in the world, but if it's incomprehensible, it's not doing anybody any good.

But enough of that.

I read an interesting post at 60MinuteArtist's place yesterday, catchy title: "Improve Your Tonal Control". (Sorry, Six-oh. . . . grin.)

What got me thinking is how his thoughts on tone applies to so much of life beyond questions of art. We can focus so much on colour that we lose all sense of the light and dark. And one of the first things I learned playing with colours is that if you put too many of them together, they turn into a horrid sort of gloomy putrid brownish gray.

Value judgments are needed. White/black decisions. Shadows noted: because not all is white and black. There's a whole lot of gray out there, too. Different shades of gray. Some almost black; some almost white. Some pink! (but you might want to get a handle first on the value issues because a little colour goes a long way. . . .)

Our lives take on the putrid brown tone of too much colour (and not enough tonal control) when we don't make those kinds of value judgments. My paper was taking on that dreadful colour because I'd tried to put too much in, without discrimination.

It can be a little scary to discriminate, though. To realize that in the saying - or chosing - of this, I must say "no" to that. That life is about choosing - and I must choose well, because the colour, form, and definition of my life is at stake.

That "You can have it all" IS A LIE.

It's an invitation to turn your life putrid brown.

(Thanks Six-oh, for the art lesson!)

minus 6 - and holding

OK - we're still at minus 6, but the countdown has resumed. Today is the proper minus 6.

I'm worried about my MacBook. . . . It's still not well after the incident with the cat and the water. I don't have time to take it in for a check up and battery replacement.

But today it conked out - no warning. And now the screen periodically fades at bit - kind of like an electrical brown-out.

Please, please, please hold on! You can take a break on Friday. I'll take you to the Mac store and they will tend to you and lavish lovely Mac-ey things upon you! Oh please stay with me here. . . . .

Meanwhile, the Navy game is in full swing. I can hear the crowd cheering and the public address system when the wind is just right. Also, the band. . . . and I know, for example, that they started the game with a recording of Top Gun's Highway to the Danger Zone - right after we got strafed by the Blue Angels.

Excitement city, eh?

It's homecoming.

I, however, am upstairs on the bed, windows open and the laptop on my lap. I have discovered two things: one, legal logic is not the same thing as philosophical logic and two, there's a small but developing dialogue going on about legal logic and artificial intelligence. (I'm sure they don't mean thereby to impugn the intelligence of judges or lawyers. . . .)

There is no time to go into this, but I wish I had known about it. What I think is funny is that I've actually read Fuzzy Logic and material on game theory and Nash's Equilibrium, so I've been working this mathematical connection independently, somehow, altho I was not sure how it fit.

It's a beautiful day. Wonderful cool breeze. I feel like I'm in prison. I'm wearing down. I can't wait for this to be over. I can't stand that there's not more time. It's a strange, strange time for me. It's coming together, but it feels like it's coming apart. I finally feel like I'm getting the hang of this, but almost too late.

Well - I don't want to talk about it any more. We're almost done here, and I'll keep posting, but I don't expect I'll be much fun these days.

recalculating countdown. . . . standby

You know how I love details - but I'll spare you the thought process of realizing I have a COUPLE EXTRA DAYS here! So it's not actually minus five today. . . . . more's the pity. It's more like minus 7 - unless you count the handoff day as a day, in which case it's minus eight. And do you count today as one of the days?

Why am I like this?!

Anyway - I'm not going to worry about it now. It's the recalculating day, and perhaps I'll have worked out the math by tomorrow, if I get another 6 hours sleep in between now and then.

I know where this picture is from, although I didn't take it. I know this because I have one similiar to it, but without the bird. And this was handier than scrolling through my pictures of Paris - because that's where this was from - and the Paris pictures would take too long to go through because I'd be drooling over them. And maybe crying. Good crying. . . .

Oh, remember when, indeed. . . .

I was there for a conference; the king joined me after a week or so. We spent two weeks in student lodgings in a walled city chateau. Le Foyer We lived in the clocktower - clock right above our bedroom window. Bath down the hall. Wine and baguettes every night overlooking the courtyard. The menu made a big impression on us - it's still a staple part of our diet!

Walks through the Jardin du Luxembourg every day. . . . boules. . . . the little boys and their toy sailboats on the lake. . . . the flowers. . . .

OK - stop it!

Back to work.

sigh.

Two things before I start today: one, I told the king about the prophet. . . . two, I'm thinking through freedom versus obligation.

It's so funny how these things play out in my life, so that I can actually SEE what it is that I mean! Einstein is supposed to have said that "coincidence is God's way of remaining anonymous".

So I told the king last night that I'd been writing here. He took it well, I think, perhaps taken aback by the 'secret' aspect of not having told him this. He also - as suspected - brought up the problematic of writing non-work stuff when I have so much work stuff to do. This is a major difference between us. He's a get-it-done-first-then-relax sort of person; I'm an enjoy-it-while-you-can sort of one. Also a I-can't-work-all-the-time sort, and as the dissertation would take up every waking hour, there has been a grave necessity to allow for some pleasurable distractions along the way. Of which I count him my major pleasure - and distraction - but there's other stuff as well. My garden. The occasional knitting or sewing. God - I've given up so much already. . . . I haven't played music in 2 years. I haven't sung. I haven't started a new quilt. I haven't sewn a dress since my wedding dress. I've felt guilty reading anything but law or philsophy.

But the thing is - life is built on freedom. For me, anyway.

It's not unlimited freedom - if you don't work, it won't get done! Yet there is also freedom in the working. I don't work well under the weight of duty, or the"ought". It robs me of the freedom to work joyously. And this is why I think I have needed also to write just for fun. Saying what I like, with no foundational requirements, no format requirements, and no judging looming over me second-guessing what I perhaps should have been doing, instead. It's like saying that anything short of a masterpiece isn't worth working on as an artist, let's say. So forget those sketches; those little cartoons. Don't take that walk or stop in that cafe for a hot whiskey. Keep your eyes on your work.

Big sigh.

This is a big piece for me. This IS my work! I'm still learning how to call the shots in my own life. It's not about what the king says - or even thinks - this really is about my own motivation. What I think, and why. NOT in an it's-all-about-me mode, but in the how-I-live-life mode! And is it free? Is it authentic? Or is it in response to what I perceive others want, without them even asking? Which was always my default.

The good thing is that this has nothing to do with how others respond, or whether others allow me this kind of freedom. I have it. The question is, will I live in it? The king has really helped me here. He expects he married an autonomous grown-up. SURPRISE! grin. . . .

But here's how this fits: I've been looking at assertions of "human rights" as arguments in disputed moral issues. I've always been a bit leery of human rights as 'sources' for entitlements because they don't deal with who provides all these things, to whom, and who gets the bill. So perhaps you have the right to control the autonomy of your body, for example, in connection with terminating pregnancy - but if we term it AS a right, does that not imply that someone will have the obligation to provide the means by which to do so?

In other words, what good is a "right" to exercise control over one's body if there is no viable means provided of doing so?

As a lawyer, I don't like to hear talk of rights unless there's talk of corresponding means - the enabling legislation that puts a shape on the other side of rights: who provides them, to whom, how, and at what cost to whom.

As a person, however, I don't particularly like being importuned on the obligation side. I prefer the free and easy gift, without thought of the underlying side of duty. I don't like to do things because it's my duty - I want to do them because it's my delight.

I love this quote from Onora O'Neill:

I was once publicly admonished for asking who holds the obligations that correspond to an alleged right to health (not merely to a right to health care!) on the grounds that health is too important to human beings not to be the object of a right.

God is still anonymous, eh? Maybe that's how we can work in the idea of prayer.

minus 6 - return to the garden

It's 70 degrees out, and I'm finally up after 6 hours of sleep. The garden is doing its Eden impression, with a squirrel grooming atop the stump, a juvenile black & white woodpecker practicing his skills on our river birch, and a flaming cardinal swooping through the lot, calling to his mate. The yellow finches, meanwhile, have sent reminders that their thistle feeder is getting low.

I'm thinking that perhaps the cold weather could hold off another month or two with no complaint from me.

But a bit of rain would be nice. All the flowers are dying as I have simply not taken the time to water.

Now here's a dilemma for you: to water and allow them to die of the cold, or to not water and allow them to slip away in the dry heat?

Right. There's just no answer here, is there? sort of like my dissertation. (you just knew I was going to work that in, didn't you?! . . . . laughing, here. . . . .)

Hoo buoy. . . .

Chapter one is mostly done, although there is SO much more I could do.

I'm afraid to take up chapter two. But will do so immediately upon finishing up here. And actually, I'm shooting for finishing chapters two AND three today. That just might get me enough momentum built up to be able to dash off the introduction and conclusion, so that I can re-write chapters 4 and 5 with the 'big picture' in mind. Tweaking as necessary. (and going back to chapters 1 through 3 as necessary by what was 'dashed off' by way of the final structure).

Oh God. . . . help me. Because there's still the Bibliography to do; still the table of contents; still the acknowledgments, statement of 'exclusively my work', summary, abstract and title page - all of which have to be put in order, some of which numbered and then the whole thing put in order and somehow printed out and you just know that's going to be a treat!

It's time for a feather to appear. A large corvid one, if you please, Father. Just to reassure me. Again.

Sorry. . . . back again. A feather like this one would be nice, too. All polka-dotty. It looks like it might have come from the woodpecker.

You don't know yet about me and feathers. They are a small message to me of reassurance. Or of warning like: "Hey! Look over here! You're missing something."

Many times they are like a post-it "I love you" note.

I need one today.

Please.

I guess that means I'll have to go for a walk! Probably not a bad idea.

Oh. And yesterday? The king came home with the building permit. Things are picking up around here!

minus 7 - 'come on lucky 7!'

No. . . . not a gambler. . . . really!

But I guess I am betting that I will finish this dissertation by the end of the 7th day.

The Housekeepers were early this morning. The king was trying to entice me out of bed with a cup of coffee and warnings that I would otherwise have to face the Housekeepers still in my jammies when we heard the water running downstairs. . . . They were here already, and he had yet to put his own clothes on, himself!

Fastest shower I've taken in a while.

I'm still not feeling well. "Women's complaints", you know, not to indulge in too much information. I feel flattened, lethargic, and very, very, heavy. It's hard to lift my hands. And I sigh a lot. Yes, pain.

I got almost through the chapter one re-write yesterday, though, and was terrified to hear the ping of an email that turned out to be from Magda. . . . Chapter 5 was back. I think I'm getting used to her language. Or maybe I'm just so worn down nothing bothers me anymore? Anyway, I felt vaguely reassured by her email, which - although it did say things like the chapter "fizzles out", doesn't have a "tight enough structure", and needs to be "ruthlessly chopped", it also said things like "good in a lot of points" (and there's at least one "very good" in the comments themselves), and it concludes with "you've certainly read a lot and worked hard, and there are only a few more overviews needed to tell the reader what you are trying to show in what follows."

Oh, and she says she'll be "glad" to get whatever else needs to be reviewed - and good luck during this last week.

My interpretation of that - after these last months - is: "good stuff. I can see you've worked hard. Here's what will make it better. Don't bother with this, this, and this - you don't need it - here's how you might pull it together. I'm here for the final stuff, too, go get 'em!"

Although she would never say words like that.

[so, while I was typing this post, I got a response from Magda to my response - with loads more info, a suggested title that's good! and yet another article, with the comment "not that you have time to read. . . ." funny.]

The king is off doing battle with the bureaucrats. The Housekeepers expect that I should chill a bottle of something for a celebratory dinner. Right. Celebrations are on hold. But I'll be happy if the king comes home with the building permit. Otherwise, he's likely to come home with an unsavory attitude. . . . and I hate it when he's frustrated. We really have run up against every possible obstacle you can think of - and several you probably never would think of - to building this house. We had hoped to be in the house by now; we haven't even broken ground. We haven't even gotten the building permit!

What the hell is going on here?!

So we do think things like: Is this really what we're supposed to be doing? Maybe there's something else out there for us, and all these stumbling blocks are trying to point the way to that.

At the same time, we remember that we started out on a certain course of action, and nothing has really intervened to make us think that we should change that. The only thing that's happened is that we've come up against obstacles. OK. So we overcome the obstacles. And that's what we've been doing. For quite a while, now!

But I have to get back to re-writes. I'm glad I've taken some time every day to chronicle this slog. . . . but I need to make sure that the chronicling doesn't get in the way of the slogging. Whoooopah! [crack that whip] Back to work.

minus 8

and again, I don't really want to talk about set-backs or hell-week or month, but. . . .

I'm not well.

It makes a big difference.

So I don't really want to talk about being 'behind the 8-ball', but. . . . Not much got done yesterday from the perspective of getting re-writes done, although I did find all sorts of NEW MATERIAL, which I'm imagining I will have to stop considering, at some point.

In bed by midnight last night; rough night; but I got to spend the morning with the king, who pampered me a bit, and reminded me that I would be better after a while, so not to worry. "Feeling puny" - he calls it. That's it, precisely. Feeling puny. (and now that word just looks wrong. I've looked at it too long.)

Well, the minutiae of my last few days of dissertation ditherings: we had a home-made pot pie last night, which did wonders for my sense of well-being! There wasn't really enough of the mushroom, steak, potato, veg soup for another meal, and we still had some roast chicken left over from having company over this weekend and some Pepperidge Farm frozen puff pastry dough in the freezer. . . . So I cut up the chicken, rolled out the dough and lined a casserole with it, put in chicken, ladled in the now-very-thick soup/stew, grated chipotle cheddar on top, and then topped the casserole with the other piece of the pastry dough & crimped the edges and pricked the top of the pie. Into a 400 degree oven for about 40 minutes and it was gorgeous! And yummy. . . . With a lovely Beaujolais.

The other half is in our future for this evening.

The building permit is probably going to issue today. The king has really been having to go around and around to get this done, and it's finally almost there. . . . In which case next up is actually signing a contract with the builder and they have to clear part of the forest. I'm going to hate that part of this. . . . I know it's necessary, but I don't have to like it.

Well, I don't seem to have anything to say here today, so I might as well go say nothing in front of the chapter 1 re-write screen. . . . At least I'll feel like I'm trying to work.

I haven't heard back from Magda on the last chapter and the proposed title. Undoubtedly it's a good thing. I still have plenty to do, and it usually takes me a day or two to recover from her 'ministrations'. . . . Although if I were going to be shot down, today would be the day to do it. I don't feel well anyway, might as well get both things behind me at the same time! I really feel like getting back under the covers and not coming out. All. Day. Long.

I've said it before - and I know it's true (however much it doesn't feel like it just now): This, too, shall pass.