It’s been a while since I’ve penned anything. The days seem muddy now, thick as quicksand. And yet I must cross them, slog on through to the other side; attempt to reach goals, to achieve progress, to learn. Each day, as sure as the sun rises, a small lever seems to trip and spill additional weight: more quicksand, more slogging. The waiting is weight indeed.

Today, was such a case, a surreal treading, detached, remote, as if seeing without my own eyes, seeing instead from some other portion of my being, watching me, observing me, following me while I follow others, their gestures, their voices, their conversations. Surreal. I’d be amused if it were not I that experienced it.

So here it is: the slog, the quicksand, the extemporaneous strappings of my day and not in any particular order – for an orderly recreation belies the madness.

I met with Kate Buckley over at the career center, practiced answering questions that will be asked of me during the interview. Yes, “the” interview, the one in Tallahassee forthcoming. I’ve studied, still am, perhaps too much so. I feel the need to cram, to gather up as much as I can and stuff it into my small head so as to appear brilliant, poised, redolent, a sparkling cauldron of spewing information that sees all, knows all, and all you really have to do is to ask.

Anyway, during this mock interview the “slipping” began, the drifting of the mind, seeping myself into that ooze, the surreal slog, thinking as it was happening that my eyes belonged not entirely to me. I began to take notice of things outside of the task at hand, Kate pulling on her sweater, or her kind eyes, or the colors emanating from a book jacket (yellow lettering over garnet), or her green dress coat draped carefully on the chair behind me.. Some brain, then, eh? So much riding on an interview and here I am scanning bookshelves, and guessing at fabric on a delicate lapel.

My Lizzie went through a tough flu. The sickness knocked her down, knocked the breath right out of her it seems. She’s walking today, Tuesday, perhaps the first time I’ve seen her up and consistently mobile since Friday. At the peak she had a temp of about 102. Now she walks and talks but still anchored to after affects that rattle her chest pretty good.

Also floating in and out of my consciousness, more apparition-like than anything, are the occasional phone calls from Alice, my realtor; home to be unveiled before the public in an “open” house arrangement this Saturday. Ugh.

I have an appointment tomorrow with Katie Milo, Dean of the Graduate School, over my entry and the competition I participated in a couple of weeks back. I triple checked my schedule, and yet have done little to assuage her minor requests. Why such neglect?

Jori forgot her microwave-warmed coffee this morning. I took the time to drive it up to her.

Sarah continues to grow into this amazing beast. Indeed. For the love of God, I wish I could drink in more of her before she does something like, gulp, grow up.

Met with Sean, prepped him as best I could for a meeting with a professor we all know and fully admire. Sean will write his thesis, of that I am sure, though his chosen professor to supervise may not be able to do so. Anyway, the lunch was good.

I will try to crash the office hours of Professor Robert Tinkler tomorrow. For some reason, my library is devoid of primary documents in regards to the beginning throes of our early republic. I’ll see if he has time for interview questions as well.

A journal arrived in my mailbox today entitled Learning and Teaching: The International Journal of Higher Education in the Social Sciences, Winter 2009. The return address? Berghahn Books of Rochester, New Hampshire. Weird thing is, I don’t know who sent it, nor did I request it. The journal merely arrived with nary a clue of why it was sent. To add the exclamation to my surreal day, the journal included an article by Michael Smith, “What History is Good For: Service-Learning and Studying the Past.” Tallahassee Community College has a service-learning component by way of its History Department. Surreal.