It's that post-lunch lethargy time of the day. I tried working, but perusing applications quickly (within about two minutes) became difficult and unsatisfying. So I'll type and post and then try again.

I had, quite honestly, completely forgotten about my blog. Life got busy, schedules became stretched, and gradually the whole thing drifted out of sight and out of mind again. I'm not even sure what made me think of this again.



I've run out of things to say.

Last week I began training in the processing of transfer student applications, which keeps me away from my desk and thus my computer, leaving me little chance to email or blog. Training has continued, but we quit a little early today, and I've just finished all the other work on my desk. I'd rather do this for a few minutes before searching out more work to keep me occupied.

I did attempt to go camping over the weekend. But with all the last-minute rush on Saturday afternoon to procure a tent, we perhaps neglected a few of the details of preparation. After driving down to the Wichita Mountains (we had decided to camp at the wildlife refuge there rather go to Turner Falls) and taking our pick of the campsites (we had the place to ourselves), we fought against the rising wind and rain and cold temperatures to lay the ground tarp and spread out the tent-- only to discover that we had no stakes or poles for said tent. A bit of a problem, especially given the weather, which hadn't been pleasant all day and was rapidly getting worse, and also the darkness which inevitably ensues shortly after six o'clock during January. Really, I thought we'd been lucky to have light as long as we did. So we got back in the car, drove back to Norman, rented some movies, and had a slumber party with our sleeping bags.

But, as I told Amy, one of the reasons I love to camp (in addition to the communing-with-nature-cooking-over-an-open-fire bits) is that it's the closest thing to traveling overseas that I've found within the U.S. The unexpected can, and usually does, happen at any moment, your belongings are pared down to only the essentials, and a change in the weather almost inevitably effects a significant change in your plans.

And we did have our road trip-- about six hours of it, all told-- which is the thing we were really wanting anyhow.

The plan was a road trip to Boulder, Colorado next weekend. After the last OU hockey game before the holiday break, we realised that there wasn't another home game until the very end of January. What to do for the next nearly two months? So we decided to drive up to Boulder for the series against CU. Leave Norman Thursday evening, arrive in Boulder Friday, cheer at a hockey game that night, ski Saturday, cheer at the second game Saturday night, drive back to Norman on Sunday. One of the best parts of the plan was that the next day, Monday, is Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. So we'd have a day off to recover.

But now we've chickened out. Cost, time involved, cold, lack of sleep-- too many reasons not to go right now. Maybe in March, if we still really want to go to Colorado. Or we'll find another away series and head out for that. My mother is probably vastly relieved that I won't be going skiing. I said I'd be careful, though.

So now we're thinking maybe a camping trip in the Arbuckles next weekend. A little rock climbing, perhaps. Don't worry, Mom. I'll be careful.

I need goggles. I'm finally beginning to work on the breast stroke (all I've been able to do thus far is kicking and an elementary backstroke), and I'm getting a crick in my neck from trying to keep my eyes out of the water for the whole lap. My goal was to quit procrastinating (the usual goal) and acquire goggles before swimming again this evening. Accordingly, last night I left the warm comfort of my couch and the warmer comfort of a good book to set out on a shopping expedition. And wouldn't you know? Apparently neither Target nor Wal-mart (yes, I even tried a Wal-mart) carry swimming goggles during January. How unreasonable.
I suppose I'll actually have to venture out before 9pm and visit a sporting goods store. Such a cramp in my schedule of evening relaxation. The trials and tribulations we poor convenience-obsessed Americans must sometimes suffer.

CICS is down again. (Hmm... that sounds familiar.) So I've spent the time redesigning my blog template and, in doing so, experimenting with cascading style sheets. Much better programming (if HTML can be called such) technique than the old way.

Incidentally, "IT" stands for Information Technology, the oft-discussed but rarely seen blackhole of OU that is supposedly responsible for keeping the university's computer systems running smoothly. (Right. We expect that from computer geeks, let alone the computers themselves?) So no, that wasn't an allusion to the nightmarish clown of the Stephen King novel.

CICS is down again. (CICS = that darn all-important interface constructed by now mostly dead (in all senses) programmers in the nearly archaic language of COBOL)

Long live IT.

It's been a few days, I know, but this past weekend was anything but conducive to blogging. A couple of friends came into town-- one of them stayed with me-- and so I was unusually social from Saturday morning on, culminating in the big game on Sunday night (boomer sooner <sigh>). Though for the first half I wasn't very social at all, since I quickly became completely uninterested in the ball game (bored to the point of irritability). Thankfully, about half-way through the third quarter I convinced some of the group to walk across the parking lot with me to play some pool. Much improved. And we could still watch the game on the big screen. But occupy ourselves at the same time.

I'm at work, which is a nice place to blog between applications, since I'm already sitting here at a computer with great internet access. Our campus-wide computer interface just went down yet again, so there's not much official work I can do right now.

Unfortunately, there's also not much I can think to write right now.
end of discussion

Okay, so actually the tower o' scratching and climbing fun for the cats (or should I say cat, since Emily has yet to touch the thing, though Edgar races up and down it and hangs off the side of it and sleeps at the top of it-- which probably greatly contributes to Emily's avoidance of it) has a far more concrete existence than my lackadaisical attempts at re-birthing my blog. But today is the first day of a new year (Happy New Year!) and, accordingly, I will endeavor to begin again. (poor old Michael Finnegan)

My warning to anyone who needs to be cautious about what words or topics they read via the Internet (and you know who you are): I'm not going to edit this for a level 3 clearance. Or even level 2. I'm just not going to edit this. Given the months that have passed since I last posted here, this shouldn't be an issue. You've all given up on me, and I'm not going to tell you I've started blogging again. But just in case.

What do these three things have in common: a snowstorm in Florida, a hula hoop with a nail in it, and the U.S.S. Adams?

Think about it. Don't read on yet. I'll give you the answer (because if I wait until a later post, then it will appear on the actual blog page above the question and that's not very fun). Think hard. It stumped me.

(blank space)

(more blank space... are you thinking?)

Given up? Figured it out? It must be one or the other, because here's the answer:
They're all navel (or naval) destroyers.
Ponder that for a while.

Pre-New-Year's-Resolution: Start blogging again.
That's one of my goals for the break. Another goal is to design and build an absolutely fantastic tower o' scratching, climbing fun for the cats-- something that looks like William Blake and M.C. Escher each put a little more than their two cents into the planning-- but blogging is a much simpler (and cheaper) goal to attain. At least in the short term.

I should be packing.

After much discussion, the consensus was the main downtown Houston fireworks display-- as long as we tried to find a place outside the actual Buffalo Bayou park. I balked at paying $6 a head to get into to see a fireworks display. Not just because I'm cheap-- though I am, and these days am especially so-- but more on principle. What happened to giving back to the community? Maybe this is what happens when your U.S. Independence Day celebration is sponsored by BP-- that stands for "British Petroleum". Is anyone else finding this at all ironic?

In the end, we didn't finish eating and laughing at VH1's "I Love the 80's" show (Kristin finally had to turn the TV off sometime in the middle of 1987 in order to get the boys off the couch) until almost 9:00, and the show was due to start at 9:25. Needless to say, between the time crunch and the inevitable Houston traffic, we didn't quite make it all the way down by the bayou, and finally we just parked it on the overpass where we were gridlocked, and then dragged the blanket out onto the grassy slope in the middle of the interchange cloverleaf. The oohs and ahs ended a little sooner than expected, however-- we were back in the car and pulling away by 9:45. So much for the much-publicized "30-minute" display. But we all had to agree that it had been a very good Fourth. Fun, relaxing, good food, great friends... and we were back at Kristin's within half an hour of the last sparks fading out of the sky. Who can beat that?

Kristin's 15-year-old brother was in town last week, and plans were in the works to go bowling on one of his last days here. The outing was never realised, and I can't say I'm too disappointed. The thought of trying to bowl left-handed with a six-pound ball (in which the finger holes would inevitably be too small) was not exactly thrilling-- and my therapists were none too keen on the idea either. Even left-handed.

A couple of friends from college are driving down on Thursday, and so it looks like I may have plans for the Fourth after all. My observances of the past few years have been decidedly dim-- two of the three weren't even in the country (not that I'm complaining)-- and the idea of grilling and shooting off a few fireworks with a small group of friends is very appealing. There's discussion of going downtown or out to Galveston, but I think I'd rather avoid the crowds.

Immobility breeds immobility. I know this well. And yet at some point it becomes far easier (in the short-term) to slog mindlessly along rather than make the effort to drag myself out of this morass of stupefying inertia.

And that pretty much sums up the past several days of my life.

This seems to be a lamentably easy state of affairs to achieve (if "achieve" is at all the appropriate word to describe such a slimy and slippery descent into lethargic hell) when one is living with one's parents.

Sometimes you have to take a step back in order to see clearly enough to move forward.
Right now I'm just trying to figure out which direction forward might be.

But the week I spent in Oklahoma was a good start. As the second installment in the "Prove I Really Am Alive" tour, it was quite a success. (A couple of my friends think that we should print up t-shirts: Sarah Potter, Alive and Kickin' in 2003. Have one of my more spectacular x-rays screenprinted onto the back of the shirt. Bring in some bands to do benefit concerts.) And being there and talking with people softened the horrible aimlessness and fear of the future that confronts me every day. There are desirable possibilities. Many of them. Or several, at least.

Time spent in the orthopedic surgeon's waiting room is always a good chance to regain some perspective. By this point I look fairly normal-- I can sit in a chair for more than a few minutes without looking (and feeling) extremely uncomfortable-- and so I almost feel like a fake, needlessly consuming time and space in a place where the real injured bring their pain to the altar in hopes of being healed. Of course, a simple reach with my right arm for a magazine on the table next to me, or the recollection of that painful twist in my upper arm resulting from attempting to steer with both hands while in the parking lot, is enough to reassure me that I too have the unwelcome and unrequested right to be here.

Still-- I have no cast or bandage or wheelchair, and my bright pink scars are concealed beneath my clothing. What do these others-- the "real injured"-- think as they see me sitting here, apparently whole and healthy?
Suck it up. You're not that bad off. Clearly.

But I left Egypt because of this, a selfish inner voice protests. I have tragedy too.

Yeah. Well. Suck it up. After this appointment I will get in the car and drive myself to physical therapy. Tomorrow I drive alone to Fort Worth, and then on to Norman on Friday.
It could be worse.

I am in... have been in... the doldrums of recovery. There's my excuse for not posting. It's just been difficult to believe that anyone would care to read dismal postings about the repetitious pettiness of my current existence.

But today, hamd-el-allah (I miss saying that), is a definite improvement over the past week and a half or so. Life doesn't seem quite so drainingly bleak as it has most often lately. The prospect of my trip to Norman this weekend contributes to that, I'm sure.

I think I'm finally regaining a bit of my late-night self. Getting back to more of a normal (for me, at least) sleep shedule at last. The slight down-side to this is that I have to get up every morning at 6:20 to take my mother to work. But then that leaves me the perfect excuse for an afternoon nap.

I'm really beginning to miss my meals of Egyptian rice and cucumber-and-tomato salad. So I decided to indulge in some late-night grocery shopping. Gd bless 24-hour grocery stores. That's something I really do love about the U.S.

I've had a surprisingly social past week. Surprising, because other than my immediate family the only person here whom I really know is Kristin. But a friend from college was in town last week to visit his parents, and beginning with my birthday last Tuesday I seemed to acquire quite the social life. It was nice. Gave me some interaction outside the house (besides physical therapy) to look forward to.

I miss speaking Arabic. I have the name of a woman who works with an ESL program in the area, and rumour is that my Arabic skills could be put to use. Now that I've worked out medical arrangements and started a fairly regular therapy schedule, I'm hoping to find out more about helping with that.

People here are very interested in where I've been living for the past many months. Interested on their terms, that is. They ask a lot of questions, most of which seem not quite relevant to my life there, thus making them very difficult to answer.
I try not to get into political discussions.

Things here are familiar, but the familiarity seems to be a bit out of focus. I haven't yet had any major heart problems over seeing people wear shorts in public-- in fact, I've worn them myself once or twice already. Nor has seeing the large houses and lawns and cars and the general extravagance of this enclave of self-satisfied Suburbia caused me any more stress than previously. I think I'm compartmentalizing all that. It simply is different. Doesn't even go under the same heading as where I lived for the past eight months. Still, there is a part of me that wonders at all these things. But it is a detached wonder.
A lot of things seem detached these days.

Kristin came over last night to help me rearrange some books. I walked into my room last Wednesday afternoon and was floored by the number of books on the shelves. I'd forgotten. My mother, bless her, unpacked them all for me sometime last fall. They're in a bit of a disarray (somehow Pascal's Pensees ended up in the middle of the linguistics section; I found Norman Mailer's The Gospel According to the Son rubbing shoulders with various Bibles and holy books-- there's definite humour in that), but it's good just to see them all. Like greeting old friends.

_________________________________________________
Written Tuesday, 6 May 2003:
Eight months ago this evening I arrived in this country. Tonight I leave it.
There is an irony in the precision of that timing that makes me smile. And as a small bonus-- one month ago today, seven months after I came here, was my surgery.

Goodbyes have been said. Bags packed. Finances settled (insha-allah). And in slightly less than 24 hours I should be in Houston.

I don't know that there's anything else to say at this point.
_________________________________________________

And now I am actually here. In Houston. At least I think I'm here. That doesn't seem quite possible. I think I'm still reeling. It could take me quite some time to sort through this past month. So much has happened and changed.

A couple good points of being here: I have a stereo. No more Metallica eeked out through headphones. And the toilet paper is very soft.

One-handed typing is extremely frustrating. But I'm going to try to start posting again. A little bit at a time.

Major accomplishment of the day: I wore a shirt with both arms actually in the sleeves. Versus the one-armed humped style I've been favouring recently.
Tomorrow's excitement: my staples and stitches are supposed to come out.

I'm sitting here wrapped in an afghan and holding my computer on my lap, which means that all of me is warm and snuggly and comfortable... except my feet, which seem to have morphed into the usual and banal blocks of ice. I could go put on other pair of socks, but I'm either too lazy or too stubborn-- I'm not sure which right now.

I've been sick of hearing about the war since the second or third day of it, so all I'm going to say about that is that life here is proceeding pretty much as normal. I'm not allowed to go into certain neighborhoods, and unfortunately all of my local friends live in those areas, but other than that things have already settled back into the former schedule of classes and lessons and meetings.

The other day I was looking back over some of my posts from the last few months, and I realised that for quite some time now I have no longer felt I can write about anything beyond the most superficial levels of my life. I don't like that. I'll have to think what I can do about it.