The Edge of the Heatwave

It's too hot to go out, too hot to write, too hot to think. A 8:13p.m., the temperature reads 103 degrees, with another scorcher coming up tomorrow. This hasn't been a particularly "happenin'" place of late; for this, I apologize. The summer's been demanding -- not unusually so, but with the kind of persistent continuation of insanity that causes one's friends to cease offering sympathy and instead contemplating psychiatric help (... "maybe in a strait-jacket she'll slow down?!")

Pushing one's self beyond one's actual capacity in pursuit of that elusive "100% performance" that is in its entirety a construct of misty memories, delusions of grandeur and poor math skills is stupid. (That's the technical term I'm told, and since my source of information has a Ph.D. in psychology, who am I to argue?) Being resilient and prone to self-punishment allows one to be stupid for longer periods of time. And suddenly life resembles nothing so much as a Jenga game: Piece by piece gets added to the top of the fragile tower -- another op ed piece for the campus paper? a couple of meetings with students for whom Hebrew is but a distant memory and ever-present exegetical terror? another ride or meal or shoulder to cry on? -- until the whole mess starts to sway precariously and all you can do is hold your breath and wait for things to stabilize ... and then add more.

In this context, the best advice I've had of late has been to leave myself alone. For someone as dedicated to self-improvement as I am, that's a terrific challenge. Especially during a summer where I should be preparing myself for discerning, planning and aggressively pursuing my academic future, if any, the temptation to fidget with one's life, one's image, one's self is maddening. Wouldn't a publication look compelling on one's CV? Is a 750 good enough -- or should you hold out for that 800 verbal GRE score? How many books by how many distinguished scholars from how many compelling graduate programs can one read before they start to blend into a miasma of politics and patristics? Fidget. If one is to spend a spare hour reading, ought it not be Lactantius in the original Latin? Which colleges could be made to believe that a recent M.A. grad might be able to provide worthwhile instructions to their major donors' freshman scions? How many student papers can one grade before one begins to make bitchy comments not only in one's head but in writing? Fidget, fidget.

The mind is a fascinating and terrifying place to be. And then there is, of course, the possibility that I've left mine a good, long time ago. In the meantime, though, I've spent a proud, lazy, overheated day alternating between a few good books that will most certainly make a very poor impression if noted on any CV, doing hand-to-hand combat with the dust-bunnies that the last few months of scheduling disasters have caused to multiply and subdue the earthapartment and ignoring the 200-odd papers stacked in neat, grade-able piles next to my futon. Part of my brain is sitting next to me, tapping its toes, ready to clap its anthropomorphized hands and cheerily announce "Now then! Are we all rested up and ready to go back to work?!" and the truth is -- no and no. But maybe there'll be another blog-post tomorrow and a drink with friends that doesn't feel like obligation the week thereafter, and possibly, say, around October I'll be sufficiently sane to safely think about the future beyond the edge of the sweltering heat-wave.