R. and I were talking yesterday just before lunch about the strange anxieties and difficulties that I’m having with writing right now.  Some of it’s been about jetlag, of course; some of it’s about a more general unfocusedness.  Some of it’s about the need to find my way into a new project, something that’s always hard.

But in the midst of this conversation, as I was talking about the narrative project that I’ve got in the works, a project that’s of novel-like size, if not of novel-like form, I heard myself saying “I’ve never written anything this big before.” And having said it, I had to stop and think:  is that true?  After all, I wrote a 250+ page dissertation, which has turned into a 320+ page book.  Of course I’ve written something this big, if not bigger…

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The end of the year comes in a great rush of late—the leap from Thanksgiving to the end of classes; the sprint from the end of classes to finish grading; the mad dash from the end of grading to Christmas.  Most years, that sense of speed is exacerbated by tearing out of my parents’ house on Christmas day (or at latest, the day after) on my way to the MLA, which is followed more or less immediately by New Year’s.  For years, I’ve found myself utterly unable to experience the holiday season as anything other than a blur.  Any sense of anticipation that I used to have—excitement about seeing my relatives at Thanksgiving; looking forward to my family opening the gifts I was selecting for them; counting the days until Christmas, or again until New Year’s—has gotten utterly trampled by the rush.

This year, things are a little different.  The blur from Thanksgiving through Christmas remained—I’m not at all sure where those weeks went, and was never really conscious of any moment of it being the holiday season—but since Christmas day, time has moved much more slowly, more deliberately.  In no small part this is due to having opted out of the MLA portion of the marathon, of course, but another significant chunk of this sense comes from the bewilderment of finding myself, the day after Christmas, seven time zones away.  Jet lag has, it seems, the effect of firmly situating you in the here and now, if for no other reason than that you have so little idea of where “here” is, and when “now” could possibly be, that any relative determination of movement or speed becomes pointless.  There is no anticipation or anxiety to speed up the clock, and so the passage of time slows, and instead becomes a matter of incidents—a meal, a museum, a pub—rather than hours.

This morning we got up, after the first full night’s sleep either of us has managed since arriving here, and when R. asked me what day it was, I found myself completely unable to answer.  The only reason it mattered is that our hotel breakfast voucher is only good for Monday through Friday, and while we were pretty sure we’d be able to get fed this morning, we weren’t positive.  After concluding, with some difficulty, that it is indeed Friday today, came the realization that tomorrow, being Saturday, is also New Year’s Eve.  And though the days since Christmas are a bit hazy, they’ve at least been there, each of them, lingering and slow.

My greatest hope for the coming year is that I experience as much of it as possible—that I genuinely have a full eight months before the return to classes in the fall.  Eight months is far too easily broken up into two-weeks-until-this, and ten-days-until-that, until it simply isn’t eight months any longer.  I want, as much as I can in the coming year, to avoid the kinds of anticipation of the near future that usually yank me out of the present, leaving me looking back on a past that went by without my noticing.

A sabbatical is a good thing.  As is the change of scenery that comes with a trip abroad.  R. and I are definitely on vacation, but these two weeks are very much a working vacation for the both of us; he’s got a long-term project that he’s hard at work on, and I’m attempting to transition myself into this leave, as well as transitioning into several new projects.  So we’re spending most “mornings” writing, and then “afternoons” wandering the streets and “evenings” enjoying the bars.

Times of day go in quotes because they’re most loosely used here; “morning” has in the last few days encompassed the span from 9 am to 2 pm one day, but 3 am to 9 am another.  Honestly, at any given moment I haven’t a clue what time it is.

But, again honestly, only those “evening” segments of the day are coming easily.  Sitting in a pub with a beer is ideally effortless, producing no strain on the jet-lagged post-holiday self.  The “afternoons” of touristy exploration have been made somewhat less appealing than usual by the fact that it continues to grow colder here, which, coupled with my weather wimpdom, has resulted in a kind of huddling indoors, with a pretty steep energy investment required to get me over the threshold and outside.  (This is exacerbated by the fact that I’ve done Amsterdam before, under less frigid conditions.)

And the writing “mornings” have been pleasant, but not terribly productive as yet.  It’s hard to get the brain to find a way into a big new project, particularly when said brain thinks it’s 1 am but is pretty sure it just finished eating breakfast.  I have several new projects I’m hoping to work on during this sabbatical—two articles that I want to finish, a new narrative project that I’d like to get well underway, a volume I’m co-editing that I need to get jumpstarted, and of course ElectraPress, which I’d like to see off the ground.  With that much in front of me, and with no clear point of entry—no place I’d left off, for instance—getting started has been daunting.  Once I’m settled into the sabbatical proper, after the vacation, I’m hoping to find ways to divide my time amongst these projects, to keep them all moving forward.  But this morning, my energies just feel as though they’re dissipating into the cold.

Writing, including here, is not coming easily.  I need to find my way back into my regular practice.

There is something quite lovely about reading everybody’s early MLA posts and knowing that, not only am I totally not going there this year (for only the second time since 1996), I’m not even on the same continent.  Why is it that avoiding what ought by all rights to be an intellectually stimulating gathering of colleagues produces such… relief?

Amsterdam, from hotel room
Originally uploaded by KF.

The flights were fine.  The hotel is grand.  And Amsterdam is, as we remembered, gorgeous.

But it is cold.  Not just cold, but snowing.  And as any of my pals from my days at NYU will tell you, I am a total wimp when it comes to winter weather.  Neither growing up in southern Louisiana nor the last eight years in southern California have given me much in the way of insulation.  Or, more to the point, a proper wardrobe.  There will have to be winter hat shopping this afternoon.

Thus far, R. and I have managed to survive our holidays with only a modicum of fallout, which is not a thing to be said lightly.  In fact, it may well be tempting fate, something I hope to undo with the acknowledgment of fate’s infinite power for reminding me who’s boss contained in this sentence, as there are still two family events between us and the airport.  That said, though, things have gone fairly well, and I predict a lovely day today, followed by a long and lovely flight, a short train ride, a hop over to a tram or a cab, and sometime about 48 hours from now when my head finally clears, the happy realization that I’m back in Amsterdam, that it’s just R. and me, and that the holidays are over, and my sabbatical has begun.

Posting may be light for the next two weeks.  Or, in fact, posting may be heavier.  Depending.

Best wishes to all for a happy holiday, and an even better new year.

The subject line of this post is what I muttered at my mother after several hours of hanging out with my family, each and every last member of which is suddenly deaf as a post, except for my mother, and she just doesn’t listen. Here’s a sample scene, from yesterday as I was leaving my mother’s house to go pick R. up at the airport. My part must be read in a steadily increasing volume.

***

(Favorite Aunt and Uncle are sitting together on the sofa. Enter KF, carrying bags and car keys.)

KF: Okay, Favorite Aunt, I’m leaving for the airport now. I’ll see you tomorrow.

Favorite Aunt: You’re leaving?

KF: Yes. I’ll see you tomorrow.

Favorite Aunt: Okay, honey. See you tomorrow.

Favorite Uncle: You’re leaving?

KF: Yes. I’m going to pick R. up at the airport. I’ll see you tomorrow.

Favorite Uncle: You’re not coming back here?

KF: No, we’re going back to R.’s apartment.

Favorite Uncle: So when are we going to see you again?

KF: I’ll see you tomorrow.

Favorite Uncle: Okay, we’ll see you then.

(Exit KF, smiling through gritted teeth.)

***

It never fails. I’ll say something to my mother and Favorite Aunt will catch only part of it, but being insatiably curious she’ll ask what we’re talking about, so I’ll repeat it to her. Only she won’t hear part of it, so I’ll have to repeat it again, slightly louder. At which point Favorite Uncle, who is the deafest of the bunch, will begin to realize that something is being said that may or may not involve him, so he’ll go “what?” And I’ll say even louder and for the fourth time whatever it was that I was saying to my mother in the first place, which is inevitably either of absolutely no importance to anyone other than me or else is somewhat personal and something I’d prefer not shouting to everyone in the neighborhood.

I love my relatives dearly, and as R. would no doubt chime in here, at least they’re not certifiably crazy. But they’re all stubborn as crap, and are completely convinced that I mumble. All I want for Christmas at this point is a healthy infusion of patience.

That, and a 767 headed for Europe.

It’s taken me a few days since arriving in Baton Rouge to clear up the last details of the semester, but grades are now filed, comments have all been sent to the proper students, various administrative tasks have been checked off the list, and my break can at last begin.

With the holidays, as it does every year.  It never fails that I look up after the mad rush of the end of the term only to realize that it’s December 20 and I still have all the key gifts on my list yet to buy.

But:  in the next couple of days there will be shopping, and hanging out with my family.  And then on the 25th, R. and I will board a plane for Amsterdam.  A week there and a week in Paris.  And somewhere in there, I hope the brain will recuperate enough for me to produce some new thoughts…

Not too much left:

– One job talk.
– One committee meeting.
– One literary interpretation final paper.
– Eight new media final projects.
– Two senior theses.
– One revised curricular document.
– Two letters of recommendation.

And, last but not least:

– Pack and ship a semester’s worth of belongings.

In 48 hours.  Here we go.

[UPDATED, 12.15.05, 12.46 pm.  Forgot to include the conference paper proposal that was due today.  Which is now done as well.]

Of institutions with which I will no longer do business, that is:  FTD.com.  I will so no longer do business with them that I’m not even going to throw them the link.  Anyone who wants to ignore my boycott recommendation can type it in for themselves.

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