Fight or Flight

Week number three of this mad rush to the end. I now understand why everyone gets shit drunk over Reading Days, right before finals. Because after the end of the classes, there's really nothing remotely productive left to do. You're left so absolutely blinded by the stress and exhaustion, that burning off some tension is the best option. I'm spent and there's one more week of writing papers until all hours. I'm trying hard to remain positive, optimistic, or at the very least visibly sane, after I was told I have to change the topic of one of my research papers. Which was suggested to me originally by the very professor that now doesn't...appreciate it, shall we say. Like I've said before, I think one of the biggest things that I'll take away from this year is the ability to hold my tongue. OK, well, better control anyway. Being my hyper-sarcastic smart ass self really doesn't go very far. As frustrated as I am, mouthing off would not help anything. Which is kind of sobering, realizing there is no recourse, nobody to whom I can appeal to for...pity? Relief? No note from Mommy is going to get me out of this mess. Talking the teacher, or my advisor, or whomever, isn't going to come up with an easy answer to save me. That no one is going to appear and say "Ok times up. Good for you for trying. Now go to bed, no need to tax yourself further." The only thing left to do really is put my head down and keep reading, keep creating, keep formulating. Stress is fight or flight, and flight isn't an option. Sobering, yet...exhilarating? I wish someone would have told me this years ago, to learn to stop whining and just deal with it, because everyone is handling the same burdens as me or worse, so stop looking for excuses, damnit. Just do it. I wouldn't have been able to hear that though, even if someone had told me. But heaven forbid I perhaps gain some maturity from this temperamental flirtation with adulthood. No way.

Te he he, you'll laugh at me. I don't know if you've perhaps heard of Cantus, a Ukrainian Chamber Choir, that just happens to be from Masha's hometown of Uzhgorod in Ukraine. They were here on campus performing Thursday. (It had to be one of the best choral performances I've ever seen. Absolutely amazing.) We were responsible for showing the choir members through the dining hall and making dinner conversation with them for the evening. The small talk went surprisingly well, for it being, like, the second time I've ever had to speak Russian for extended periods of time. I was sitting at a table with four of the singers, and another kid from my class (largely incompetent). I was asking them about their tour, what they were singing that evening, talking about music, etc. All very rudimentary, but the conversation kept going nonetheless. Then Ryan came over to sit with us. He sits and listens for a while, and then gets me to ask if any of the choir members speak french, so he can at least connect on that level. It turns out that one woman had french through to university level. We go over to where this lady is sitting, and I stumble through the very convoluted introduction, which went something like this "Dobory den...Eto moj dryg...on muzikant...on by xotel ckazat chto ochen rad chto vy zdes davaot konciert. Oni nam govorili chto vy nemnogo govorit po francouzki, y on tozhe...tak mozhno pogovorit na francouzkom." ("Good day...this is my friend...he is a musician...he'd like to tell you that he's very happy that you all are here giving this concert. They told us that you speak french, and he does too...so...why don't you guys converse?")Yes, still haven't mastered transliterizing. But anyhow, the woman looks at me slyly, smiles, and deadpans IN ENGLISH "Why of course, I'd be happy to."

Who feels like a dumbass. Ah, well. C'est la vie. I was proud of myself anyway.

Back at the black communism paper. Two pages down. Eight more, at the very least. I will slay it. It will be dead.