January 26: Working Hard, , Daydream, "Ives" Dip

I have been working pretty hard all day long.  Eight hours in the medical office.  Then, I took my son to religion class.  I spent a couple hours at church, listening to a video about confession and penance.  At least, that's what I think it was about.  I was sort of reading and preparing for teaching while the video was playing.  (I know, I know.  I'm going to hell.)  After I got home and got my son in bed, I took out my laptop and did additional schoolwork for a couple of hours.  It is now 10:10 p.m., and my eyes are burning.

I got a lot done today.  I have a whole lot more to do tomorrow, but I'm in pretty good shape at the moment.  I have to admit that I did daydream a little bit tonight about having a full-time teaching job.  One where I could go to the university, sit in my office for a few hours, and get all my crap done during the day so that I could actually relax a little bit.  At the moment, relaxation for me is when I fall asleep around midnight.

It's a daydream in which I indulge frequently.  To have a somewhat normal life with normal hours.  I have never had that.  Ever.  Since I entered the work force, I have always held down, at the minimum, two jobs.  At times, that number has climbed to four.  Currently, I have a full-time job (the medical office) and a part-time job (the university).  And I'm exhausted.

I'm not complaining.  I have learned a long time ago that complaining doesn't do any good.  It just makes me more miserable, and it doesn't really make for compelling reading on this blog.  I'm not the first poet to hold down a day job.  Wallace Stevens sold insurance.  William Carlos Williams was a doctor.  (That's why most of Williams' poems are so short.  He wrote them on the back of prescription pads.)

My question tonight for my Ives Dip is pretty straightfoward:

Am I ever going to get a full-time teaching job at the university?

And the answer from Oscar Hiljuelos is:

Slowly [Ives] began to earn more money, to dress better, and finally to settle into a series of relaxing affectations that defined the creative people in his field.

More money.  Better clothes.  Relaxing affectations.  Looks like Saint Marty's going to finally get his dream job.  Or he's going to write pornography for a living.

Sometimes, I don't even find myself interesting