October 21: Air of Menace, A Hundred Conversations, Misphonia

Still, the day had an air of menace.  A broken whiskey bottle by the log, the brown tip of a snake's tail disappearing between two rocks on the hill at my back, the rabbit the dog nearly caught, the rabies I knew was in the county, the bees who kept unaccountably fumbling at my forehead with their furred feet.

Dillard has a bad feeling, as if some wall of water is about to roll over her.  She's talking about rains and floods, uprooted trees and washed-out bridges.  While I don't think she's a superstitious person, Dillard is looking around her, seeing all these signs of impending disaster.  Broken bottles.  Snakes.  Rumors of rabid forest creatures.

I have had a trying day.  Eight hours of calling patients.  Over a hundred conversations.  My voice is tired, my brain is tired, and my tolerance is tired.  When I left work, I found myself disliking people.  A lot.  Not because of the people I spoke to.  Because of the number of people I spoke to.

When I feel like this, everybody irritates me.  Right now, my sister is irritating the shit out of me because she's talking so loud.  Hell's Kitchen is on the TV, and Gordon Ramsay's voice is making my skin crawl.  I want to slap people who are chewing or swallowing too loudly.  (In case you're wondering, I do suffer from misphonia, where certain noises trigger irrational anger responses.)

So, there is an air of menace about me this evening.  Invisible bees buzzing around my head.  I have to force myself not to speak, because, if I open my mouth, I will probably yell, scream, or swear for no good reason.  I would look like a crazy person, which I might be.

I think that Bob Dylan suffers from misphonia, as well.  That's why he hasn't said anything about his Nobel Prize.  Either that or he just doesn't give a flying fig, which, again, irritates the shit out of me.

Maybe Saint Marty should just go to bed.

July 14: Air of Menace, Canceled Class, Drinking

Still, the day had an air of menace.  A broken whiskey bottle by the log, the brown tip of a snake's tail disappearing between two rocks on the hill at my back, the rabbit the dog nearly caught, the rabies I knew was in the county, the bees who kept unaccountably fumbling at my forehead with their furred feet . . .

By the sounds of that paragraph, I bet you can tell this is not going to be a post about gratitude.  Dillard sees danger and menace everywhere--snakes and scared rabbits and bees and rabid animals.  It's a part of the whole landscape of Tinker Creek.

Well, this evening when I got home, I opened my university e-mail and found a message from the English Department Head.  The message line was simply "fall course schedule."  I actually held my breath when I opened it.  With one little click, my entire fall teaching schedule changed.  It seems that, due to low enrollment, one of the Intro to Film classes I was supposed to teach is being canceled.  Instead, I have been offered an evening Intro to Composition class.  Papers.  Presentations.  Surly students who don't want to be in a classroom for three hours, discussing about writing.  Talk about menace and danger.

That also means that I will be teaching two evening classes on two consecutive nights.  It's going to be exhausting, especially since I have to be up for my other job at the medical office at 4:45 a.m.  In a way, I think I would rather face rabid raccoons or skunks.  At least there's a painful remedy for that problem.

Yes, I am whining.  Yes, I am being ungrateful.  At least I still have two classes to teach.  So, there's my attempt at gratitude tonight.  (I have had a couple bottles of Guinness, so that helps.)  After I am done ranting in this post, I am going to e-mail the English Department Head and accept the class.  Dammit.  I just need to be a little drunk to do it.

Saint Marty is already looking forward to the end of the fall semester, and it doesn't start for over a month-and-a-half.

Danger everywhere . . .

May 6: Air of Menace, Going on a Date, PBS

Still, the day had an air of menace.  A broken whiskey bottle by the log, the brown tip of a snake's tail disappearing between two rocks on the hill at my back, the rabbit and the dog nearly caught, the rabies I knew was in the county, the bees who kept unaccountably fumbling at my forehead with the furred feet . . .

Dillard is on another walk through the woods by Tinker Creek.  She describes the air as being "steamy" and full of "menace."  There's something about the day that unsettles her.  Shards of whiskey bottles.  Snakes.  Rabid rabbits.  Errant bees.  The world is full of some kind of danger that she can't quite define.

It is warm today in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  Eighty-degrees warm.  I wouldn't be surprised if, when I watch the news tonight, weather records were broken today.  Now, the sky is turning a little dark.  A menace of rain in the air, as Dillard might say.  Before I left work this evening, it rained a little bit.  Enough to create some humidity.

Don't get me wrong.  I do not mind the warm temperatures, humidity, or rain.  I have been waiting for summer to arrive.  Or at least spring.  When I was younger, I used to be a winter person.  I loved the short days, long nights, and slate-gray skies.  They appealed to my poetic sensibilities, I think.  Now, I find inspiration in warmth and light.  I'm not sure that means that I'm getting old and soft, or that I have mellowed and matured.

Tonight, my wife and I are going on a date.  Drinks at a nearby microbrewery.  Maybe something deep-fried and unhealthy to nibble on.  There's a part of me that simply wants to put on a pair of pajamas and watch PBS this evening (maybe I am old).  However, the promise of a Tanqueray and tonic is a little irresistible.  So, since the kids are spending the night at grandma's house, I plan to get slightly inebriated before I go to bed.  It's Friday, after all.  And warm. 

If Saint Marty plays his cards right, he may get drunk and watch PBS.  A perfect night.