the id, the ego, & the single misfiring brain cell

this is your brain without sleep

I just went to my "final" class for multicultural literature. Since we're all grad students and the prof wanted a relaxed atmosphere, one of the students hosted a munchie-drinkie thing at her house. In north Boulder. More on that in a second.

It's worth noting that this is probably the fifth time I've written "it's worth noting" in the last, oh, 36 hours, and each instance felt completely appropriate, even though the other four were all in one paper. I'm not sure, but I think my sense of irony went the way of the dodo not long after. And continuity? My. I gave that up at least four days ago. In the next couple of days, I fully expect to lapse into experimental grammar.

So anyway...English grad students don't actually have finals, see. We have papers. In the last week, I've found myself pining for simple exams. For serious. Exams--really--are easy, comparatively. Yeah, you have the stress of studying and having to regurgitate information. That's cake.

But writing papers? That requires creative ideas. I've been giving this a lot of serious thought,* and I think creative juices are like eggs in the female reproductive system: you get only so many for life. And come to think of it, they also tend to gush out during unguarded moments every three weeks or so, when you don't even have a tape recorder. And I won't be surprised if they mysteriously dry up altogether when I hit 55 or so.

Come to think of it, that would explain a lot.

* Like for my papers, limited to the last two minutes or so.

Anyhow. I've been reading for the paper that was due today for about a month. I haven't made notes, exactly, but I've been processing the information. Of course, the catch is that, upon processing it, I should be able to cobble it together into a meaningful discussion. Instead, it became an intriguing rabbit trail. Even while I acknowledged that I would be unable to give a thesis for any essay we've read in the class if someone were threatening to lop off my thumbs, I was still a bit uncomfortable turning in a paper with no discernible thesis.

Then I got to the party.

Wait.

By the time I located this student's home, I had begun to think she was in the federal witness protection program. It wasn't her fault, really. She gave good directions. The problem was me, with my half-crazed punchy brain. And Boulder.

Boulder is one of those wonky towns that only seems rationally arranged. Somehow, though, they manage to move Highway 36 between the time I go to campus and return. I cannot explain it. It's like I turn my back and the universe rearranges itself or something.

And you'd think the mountains would be some help. The Flatirons are right there. The problem is, I guess, they're right there. When mountains LOOM over you like that, they no longer serve as valid points of reference. (I'm comparing this experience to Colorado Springs, where the Front Range is far enough away to be visible, but a reliable direction marker. I learned to find my way around the Springs using the mountains as reference points. They're perfect to keep you from getting lost. Then the devil sends fog, and you are again humbled.)

So I meandered around looking for Highway 36 in Boulder. It's more or less the main drag through town, which should be pretty straightforward, right? No. For some reason, it becomes 28th Street for a while, and is not marked as 36 anymore--but only for a couple of miles--after which it becomes 36 once again.

I don't deal with change well, and poorly considered changes like this that I was not consulted about or apprised of do not go over well with me. By some fluke, I eventually found my way back to a section of the road that was actually labeled as Highway 36, and was able to continue on my way to the as-yet undiscovered location. I was only about 1.5 hours late.

I arrived about the time everyone was settling down to discuss their project. I quickly realized that (1) almost all the final papers, regardless of focus, were as unfocused as mine, and (2) everyone was just as brain-fried, groggy and punchy as I.

That lent a certain amount of amusement to the occasion. The humor was in the situation, mind you; most of us didn't have the presence of mind or body to be witty, or to even (in some cases) remember what we'd written our papers on so we could talk intelligently about them.

On the way home, driving down Highway 36 toward Broomfield and looking at the Denver lights in the distance, I felt at one with the world, and oddly compartmentalized and limited at the same time. I also felt as though I could sleep for three days straight right now, and that would be just about right.

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