Chrisonomicon

Tuesday, February 12, 2002

The unfocused days of late seem to be a natural recourse, considering the intensity of the last week. It's all a cycle. I've been trying to get back some of that clarity that streamed through my head last week until my veins were raw from the inside out from thought, but all I've been able to do is walk down the hallways and shake my head in an attempt to rid this plaque of torpor that congests my neural networks.

Yoga class hasn't been doing as much in the way of helping me refocus, either. I know the idea is to practice it every day and not once a week in class like my habit would suggest, but my body just isn't pushing for it. The urge simply isn't there. The same goes for my diet and exercise routine, which hasn't exactly slacked, but the drive isn't at the same intesity that it was just a month ago.

The search for a side-dish job is like beaming a flashlight into the sky in anticipation of a response from the stars. I've submitted a few applications here and there, but haven't gotten any responses. Everyone seems to have ideas of where I should look and apply, too, and I've followed a few leads, but they all seem to head directly into the black velvet folds of the night sky.

I'm pushing myself through this fog. Like I mentioned yesterday, I vowed to myself that this week would be productive and, so far, I've been surprisingly successful, although I'm no more clear-headed today than I was yesterday. I've unclogged my closet and bathroom, hung a few pictures, finished some laundry, and cooked a few meals today. I know that losing myself in daily routine will help to some extent, but the thing is, that's really all I'm capable of doing right now.

My grandmother on my mom's side is in the hospital with pneumonia and they don't expect her to make it through the week. I'm not really sure how to feel about this, because I've never been terribly close to anyone on my mom's side of the family. At the same time, I feel — under this languid miasma — a vague sense of sadness and guilt for not writing her years of thank-you letters for all the presents she bought me for Christmas and my birthday. Maybe I'll harness some of this determination to punch through the week to write her a final thank you so she will know that her considerations were not useless flashes of light into outer space.