Quick hits

Thursday I woke up at 2am (having gone to bed at 11pm) and could not fall back asleep. I was not a chipper zombie. Last night I went to bed at 7:30 - it was still light outside - without setting my alarm. I woke at 5:30, chipper as could be, and finished planning for today's classes.

Twelve hours later, I'd like to crash again. But I have beer to sample and appetizers to nibble.

Just two more weeks! I just ask for the discipline necessary, once the teaching ends, to do what I want to do.

Chipper Zombie

Today was a little better, though I feel like a walking zombie. I need food and sleep. A couple of my students (they're total sweethearts) hung around after class this afternoon: "You seem down," they said. "Is everything ok? You don't seem like your usual chipper self!" Once I got over my shock at being called "chipper," I explained I was fine, but thanks for asking.

If I ever wanted to change my name from "Perfect Sand," maybe I could give "Chipper Zombie" a try.

There's a Pair of Us - Don't Tell!

The past few days, I've gotten in the habit of waking up at 3am. I lie there, restless, for an hour or two, debating whether to give up, get out of bed, and be productive. I turn a few pages of the same book that's been at my bed side the past month, Elizabeth Strout's "Olive Kitteredge," then toss it aside to check the internet: was a flotilla invaded? did a celebrity die? did any students send me an email with a question about the assignment due in just seven hours?

It's always after five when I fall back asleep. My alarm goes off a couple hours later, and I feel like I haven't slept a wink. The most annoying thing about this routine is that I'm a morning person: those wee hours after the sun has just come up and most people are still grouchy and wishing they were in bed are usually the hours I have the most energy and feel positive most about life.

Oh well, a blip. In the grand scheme of things, what's a little tiredness?

We discussed Emily Dickinson and Langston Hughes today, and I played a recording I'd gotten from the library of Hughes talking about and reading his poetry. In the introduction, he described how when he was in the eighth grade, a new student at a middle school in Lincoln, Illinois, he was elected class poet - not because he was a good writer but because he was black, and the students assumed he had rhythm. But the students liked the poem he wrote for the end of school, and so he kept writing poetry. It was neat listening to him in his own voice, reading his own poetry. I transcribed one of my favorite poems of his, "I, Too, Sing America," in my post reviewing 2009.