Inside the Mind of a Nathan

I have misplaced a recent excerpt that I wrote for Werbel. It should be easy enough to recreate, but I needed to vent a bit to get it off my mind. It's like a childhood memory that you can't recreate. You can go back to the same spot at the same time of year maybe even with the same people, but it will never be the same. It's not quite like that though, but perhaps it is. I was going to say it's not like that because - when you rewrite something you already wrote - there's a high chance that you write it even better than before. Then I imagined that childhood memory-locations, if approached with a wise heart, can be refashioned with even more gladness and nostalgia.

This is one of the most triumphant songs. I don't feel at all opposed to writing today; I'm just not sure what to write. Things are pretty chill. I went to bed early yesterday, so I felt pretty good today. My job is still pretty swanky. I care very much about my students, so I am angered about a certain situation, but I pray and expect it will be alright. I eat a lot of food. I know we're in America, so that's customary and whatnot, but food: it's glorious. ( Another beautiful song .)

Friends, comrades, countrymen: please. If you aren't already aware of this, please internalize the fact that progress does not happen immediately. Healing does not happen immediately. Confidence does not happen immediately. Learning does not happen immediately. And, for the love of all things academic, improved grades do not happen immediately. Typically in academics, the closest thing to immediate results is called "cramming," and it's not results; it's a cheap bandaid that loses its stickiness very quickly. It's a cheap placebo that lets one pretend for a time that things are better.

I am on the verge of resolving this receding chapter. Though the resolution will probably take a long time (and possibly a lot of energy [and possibly a fair amount of money]), it is merely a set of relatively simple tasks. I often wonder about the different types of energy that humans have. It's easy to distinguish – at least generally speaking – between physical energy and mental energy. Physically, if you do a lot of manual labor, you deplete energy. Mentally, if you're learning something new and complex, you deplete energy. Then there's emotional energy: if you're working through a situation that is laden with waning sadness, you deplete energy.

I was so worried that my writing spirit had been sapped! I really think I was just sick. I'm still feeling a bit sluggish, but I went back to work today, and it was revitalizing. There are a lot of things about which I wanted to write, but the most recent is about animals – specifically dogs (even more specifically, Dexter, my parents' dog).

I've been sick. I've had a cold and/or a sinus infection or something, and I don't feel like writing, but I always tell my students, "A little bit every day." So here's my little bit.

How shameful! That's four, bleedin' days! I don't know what to say. I'm caught up with thoughts about good vs. bad writing. If I hear another craptastic crapper say punctuation is just the natural pauses in a paper, I'm gonna go ape-shit crazy on their aorta with an accordion!

Bursting heart! It bursts. The internal pressure caused by joy is painful. I feel a type of sad because of the joy. I... work is going very well. That's like three levels of joy/excitement. I'm on the cusp of leaving behind my apartment and, therewith, a long, sad chapter. There are many factors that put pressure on the inside of my heart outward. The last barometric modification was a dragon.

I'm tired, and it's late, and I worked, and I interviewed a person, and I still have to tutor. But it's great. Truly. As I keep saying, the next habit I'm going to develop will be regular exercising of some minor degree. Since I haven't yet developed that habit, it's the main downside lately. In other words, besides being physically tired, I'm pretty peachy. Fatigue puts a light strain on most activities, but the overall mercy and grace God has been heaping upon my life easily override most situations.

I want to write, but I don't feel like writing. I've had a cold-ish sort of thing for a few days now, my back is plenty sore, and my sinuses are plenty clogged. But I always rant at my students, "a little bit every day," so stuff and things and whatnot and what have you.

This time, I very much feel like writing, but it's late, and I'm tired and even a bit sick. I want to write a poem, a critique of a man's article about math curriculum, something for Werbel, a miscellaneous creative sketch, and random thoughts. Ok. Lemme see if I can critique concisely.

I have a few minutes before my student shows up. I don't want to tutor. I want to write. Or eat. Pizza. Pepperoni pizza. Or write.

I don't feel like writing. I'm not quite sure why. I think it's because I stayed at my frigidarium last night; it's a sad place. At least I got one more box out of there. I brought origami paper (just in case), a few board games, some books about writing, and my pirate stamp. I also got my multijournal, a large notebook in which I used to write most everything: dreams, plain journals, poems, and many others. It has 5 or 6 dividers, so I devoted it to 10 or 12 sections: one each going forwards and one each going backwards. I think most of its contents are transcribed, but I'm looking forward to stumbling upon some lost gem.

I am pretty tired, but I don't have my dayjob on Wednesdays, so that's pretty nice. I'm sleeping at my apartment tonight because I had a student near it tonight and possibly two others tomorrow that are also close by. I don't like going to the apartment anymore. At best, I think of it as my "frigidarium." Most often, though, I think of it as a "cold, empty place." There were a few times where I would watch Netflix shows; I don't watch shows of my own volition too often, so it was a nice change. I canceled the internet, so now it's just a chilly box of unfavorable memories. I won't miss it.