My body is a Six Flags Amusement Park. Roller coasters of emotion tear through my clenched guts: tears over missed friends, panic about signatures, anxiety over moving boxes, anger over lost years, terror of a new job, joy at being almost done.
My mind is a Pomeranian. Ditzy and fierce, latching on to trivial thoughts with the jaws of my neurons and grinding them down for hours until they are nothing. I thought I lost my sweater on the train on Saturday. I worried for two hours about how I would ever find another black sweater as cute as that one. Then I found it under my seat.
I have this tight schedule that many doubt I can complete:
Mon: Close on house. Deposit.
Tues: Leave town.
Sat: Arrive in Portland.
People ask, "What about revisions?"
Fortunately, I wrote my dissertation for me. It's written in an informal, conversational style, a collection of 13 essays about my research. It was fun to write. I make metaphors between my work and blackberry jelly. I compare my advisor to Oscar Madison.
I say "fortunately," because my dissertation is just a diary. A couple of committee members read a couple of chapters about two months ago, but since I gave them my full draft three weeks ago, I've not heard a single peep. Given the history of my group and the defenses that have come before mine, I don't expect revisions. My advisor cashes out of his students once they get a job. I have seen him six times in the last five months.
I don't know what will happen this week.
But I hope to be home soon.