do colds move? (and is it gross to describe it?)

Since forever, I've known colds to be different from allergies because they move. The one I have right now started as a scorching hot pain in my throat (mixed with sheer physical exhaustion), but has subsided to a weird itchy thing that nearly chokes me when it is in my throat, and causes convulsive sneezes when it travels to my nose, all the way out to the tip. I sense that it travels back and forth between my throat and my nose throughout the day, and into the night.

Do others sense that colds move? I know that when I was a freshman in college, and taking the worst care of myself ever, I had colds that started in my sinuses and went deep into my lungs, where they settled until I needed antibiotics. Allergies stay exactly where they begin (usually in the nose). Is this true of everyone? Instead of google the answer, I thought I'd let experience speak itself as truth, if anyone cares to respond.

The reason I ask is because I swear this is one of those things I've described to friends (or maybe it was a family member) before, only to be met with one of those really jarring "O, Chuck, you and your ideas! No, Mr. Ph.D., colds don't 'move'!!" responses to which I am particularly sensitive.

Relatedly, I feel better, although I am not yet where I want to be (as my mother always says, pouring herself a fourth cup of coffee). I need another good night's rest.

In any case, my colds move. Do yours?

symptoms

When was the last time you slept all day? For me, it was today.

I've got a bad cold, and it has left me absolutely drained. It came down on me late-Saturday night and when I woke up Sunday morning, I was feeling miserable. Last night was painful (throat, sinuses), and I woke up, covered in drool, this morning at 6am to email work to let them know I wouldn't be in. I figured, since I was up, I'd be reading, grading papers, catching up on some things. But instead, I immediately fell back asleep, only to wake up five hours later, have some soup (thanks, Antonio and Melanie), and go back to sleep until just now. I bet if I went back into the bedroom I'd be out like a light.

And this gorgeous day outside has been feeling all mixed-up. The sounds of the school children gathering for morning announcements, followed by the crackle of car or bike tires on fallen pecans, long breezes drifting into the room, the sun moving, so slowly, all day, a cat meowing upstairs, the school children being let out of class, the sound of a coach's football whistle, a person walking by on a cell phone . . . time is passing in a very strange way, and I really, really miss my partner.

solitude (done up right)

When I lived by myself, one thing I loved to do on the weekend was spend an entire evening watching a film, allowing for multiple disruptions by nosy neighbors, drop-in visits from friends on bikes, long-distance phone calls, smoke breaks, and sudden moments of such clarity about my life and my work that I just had to grab my journal and scribble down my stunning insights. It might sound a little mundane, but I enjoyed the leisurely way the night proceeded and how deeply into my own head I allowed myself to go. There were many nights like this that started around 8pm and the film finished up in the early hours of the morning. I'd stop the film, turn on the lights, and shove the twelve books of cultural theory, the many articles I suddenly realized I needed to look at, my journal with its madly scribbled notes, and the empty bottle of wine out of the way and head off to bed, feeling thoroughly done.

While one cool thing about living with Hank is that the conversations I used to have in my head are now very much externalized, there is a part of me that romanticizes the solitude of my twenties, what I felt was a complete withdrawl from the realm of the social in which I did not have to interact with anyone if I so chose. I feel lucky to live with someone who understands the importance of solitary reading and writing, but it is rare that I find myself truly alone these days. There are at least some hours every day, sure. And there are the days I travel back to see family in the north-east, or when I spend a night or two at a hotel while out of town for a conference, but that is not really the kind of "alone" time I'm remembering. For someone who used to really relish his solitude for so many years, I have been remarkably not-alone for about two and a half years. That's a long time, my friends . . .

The reason I'm bringing all of this up is because Hank is out in east Texas this week, working on Broke. He's been gone since Tuesday, and returns this coming Tuesday. It's the first time I've had more than a couple of hours to myself since we've moved in together, and so I am really enjoying it. (Actually, the first Christmas after we moved in together, Hank spent a couple of days with his family, and so those count as alone days, but it was really very brief, and plus, even though I convinced myself that I was looking forward to weathering the holiday alone, I totally broke down and wept Christmas morning.) I have no plans this weekend, really, except to pick up a film or two for this evening and see what transpires.

(My friend Andrew points out that he has seen all of this in a comic strip somewhere, which is exactly right!)

Updates:

1) The pomegranate has been picked and is sitting in our fruit bowl. I kind of want to wait to open it until Hank returns, but I don't want it to rot. My friend Kayte took a photo of it with her digital camera, so I should be posting that soon.

2) So far, no rat. Hank bleached out the area under the sink and stuffed the holes around the pipes with steel wool. There are boxes of poison distributed throughout the apartment and little baggies in the crawl spaces under the building (but these are not in any place that little green-parented children can get into, I promise!). My trench-composting in the backyard has come to a screeching halt until I can deal with it again and maybe find a way to do it that does not attract vermin. Other than that, I am, sort of unbelievably, suffering from a form of post-traumatic stress disorder since I hallucinate the rat at least once a day, and I have to steel myself before I go into the kitchen and use it like a normal person. Also, I have told every person I know the rat story, and have heard dozens of frightening stories concerning rats in apartments that I did not need to hear. Isn't that terrible?

3) This morning, I found out that a short piece I wrote about Courtney Love is going to be published in special issue of a really kick-ass film studies journal on divas. Applause!!

o, rats!

It had been a full Sunday just with the grading of papers and the preparations for class. I kept changing locations so that a fresh environment would keep me on my toes and hard at work. After coming back from Deidrich's on Westheimer, where I finished grading, I heated up some leftovers, and plunked myself down on the futon in front of the TV, hoping the new seasons of cartoons would be on and i would have a good hour or so of time off for my teaching brain.

What I remember most is that I was coming into the kitchen to deposit my dishes in the sink, put away the tupperware containers of leftovers, and possibly even open a bottle of wine to go with the animation.

Suddenly, a RAT was -- what? hopping? leaping? from the back room (the sun room, the gentleman's retreat, if you will) into the kitchen and, my first reaction was to let out a startled yelp and call out for Hank. At this point I named what I thought I saw ("A mouse!!") until it dawned on me that, actually, it was much bigger, and much scarier looking than a mouse ("No -- a rat!!!") and as I yelled this and backed away it, the rat, zoomed into the kitchen and, without looking to see where it was going, I turned and ran screaming from the room.

Maybe its because he didn't actually have the pleasure of seeing the rat, or maybe because he grew up visiting families that lived on East Texas farms, or maybe because he labored at Deep Springs, or maybe because, simply, he is far more butch when it comes to confronting small vermin than I could ever hope to be -- but whatever the reason, Hank grabbed the nearest weapon (in this case, the extra dowel that we bought with the intention of hanging clothes from it in the closet) and a bucket, ready to trap, bash, or chase out the rat and restore order to the domestic sphere.

Not following the rat with my eyes was a bad idea, though, since I could not answer Hank's practical question, "Where did it go?". When Hank asked me to help him get a flashlight, I sort of turned into Barbara from Night of the Living Dead, because all I could manage to do was stare off into space and kind of poke around in a daze, watching while Hank went in and out of drawers, and gathered some other items that might help at least chase the rat out of doors for the time being.

After about a half an hour, however, the rat was clearly not coming back, and I was beginning to calm down. I asked Hank a lot of inane questions (Do you think it's gone? Do you think it'll come back? Do you think it has a family?), and finally decided, along with Hank, that the rat was probably more afraid of me than I was of it, and that my presence alone was enough to make it run for the hills (or at least the compost heap). I called the landlord who promised to send an expterminator the next morning and then, for some reason, compared having a rat in the apartment to being raped. Um, sorry, what did you say? I think he must have immediately regretted this comparison, because the tone of his voice changed immediately and he talked on an on about the importance of cats and did we want to adopt one?

Having finally found some closure, and since the Simpsons was about to come on, I decided to make the best of a bad situation. I grabbed the bottle of wine and the opener and headed back to the kitchen for a wine glass. The nightmare returned. The rat came right out from under the stove and zig-zagged all over the kitchen floor, looking for an exit. Once again, I turned and ran, letting out another long, terrified yell that combined vowels with a cry for help. Hank came bounding in from the living room, but by this time the rat had disappeared under the dishwasher. This was a breaking point.

What were we going to do?

My intial thought was to leave. Call a friend and stay somewhere else. Hank suggested going out, getting traps or poison ourselves, and trying to kill the rat on our own. Neither sounded good to both of us. In a moment of total frustration, Hank grabbed our bar stool, his dowel, a hammer, and the bucket, set up a post by the kitchen table, and claimed that he would stand guard and kill the rat himself. Suddenly, I envisioned a screeching, half-dead rat that hissed, bit, and fought tooth and nail with Hank on the kitchen floor; then I pictured brains, blood, and a carcass (um, not Hank's). It was too much for me. I didn't want to see it.

I then got the bright idea that, even though we didn't have a cat, perhaps our friend Laura would bring over her two dogs, both Springer Spaniels, and they would flush the rat from our kitchen, like a duck from a bush. I called Laura and she kindly agreed to bring them over, although she did express a concern that the rat might be rabid and in attack mode but I, somehow, strong-armed her into not worrying too much about that, and she was over within minutes. The dogs came in and were told to "get the squirrel" and then, when that had them looking at the ceiling, to "get the kitty." They made a good attempt to find something, but came up with zero. (I should note that Edison, the more autistic of the two dogs, did try to chase the shadows on the kitchen floor, and Clarabelle, the more vocal of the two, barked at us in confusion.)

After packing a small bag, I announced that I was not staying the night, simply because I did not want to get up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom or get some water and have another shocking scream-fest that might wake everyone up. Plus, I really did not want to see the rat again. Hank, however, was brave, and stayed put.

Yesterday evening, Hank, after a day of dropping off the first installment of his serialized fiction (titled Broke and available at all Houston hotspots -- get one now and collect all nine!! Ask for an autograph!!), picked me up at work and we went out to eat (note: El Tiempo on Washington is a terrible place to get Mexican food. Expensive, bad service, and bad food.). We got home just before President Coo Coo Bananas (as Homer would say) made his September 11th speech. I drifted off into a pretty good sleep, and woke up refreshed.

The house has been, as far as I have seen, rat free. The landlord actually did not hire an exterminator, but came over himself and put rat poison in the openings under the duplex, under our sink, in the a/c closet, in the water-heater closet, and in the closet of the front toom. I hope it works.

Even though I have lived in places where I could hear rats in the walls (Berthea Apartments) and where I saw rats every single day in the courtyard or trees surrounding my apartment (Jack Street, West Alabama), I have not yet, as far as I have known, had one in my kitchen. Apparantly, the poison is a strong dose of vitamin K that causes extreme thirst and, the theory goes, the rats will leave the building and look for water outside, and then die the thirstiest death of all. My friend Gretchen points out that the whole "then they leave the building and die elsewhere" is a bit of a myth, since many have reported having to deal with them once they die in crawl spaces or attics.

I want to believe the myth, and I never want to see one inside, again.

do you swear to tell the truth?

This morning, I learned that the state of Texas is the only state left in the U.S. that will allow traffic offenses to have a juried trial. Sitting in the Jury Assembly Room on Lubbock St., a judge who looked exactly like Kathy Bates told us this, and cautioned that, far from being a waste of time, such trials are an essential part of democracy here in Texas.

I have a really full history of being called for Jury Duty. I get called at least twice a year (last year I was called to serve on my birthday!), and I have yet to actually be selected. Today I found out that one of the reasons this might be is that I have one name on my driver's license and another on my voter registration (the first one does not include the III part of my name, and the second one does). No one really likes jury duty, and I always feel especially put upon when I am called since, for me, to miss work means I have to cancel class, and if I actually got picked to serve, who knows how much class would be missed? The whole semester could be de-railed. I have written countless letters asking judges to be excused from jury duty service, always careful to close by declaring that, surely, I am more of a service to the state of Texas by teaching poverty-level and working class students how to write and think than as a juror. So far, this has only gotten my dates postponed.

About two years ago, I was at the voir dire for a capital murder case. The defendent was seventeen years old. The lawyers kept making informative statements followed by questions like, "In the state of Texas, at the age of seventeen, you can be tried as an adult -- does anyone here find that problematic?" and "In the state of Texas, you do not have to have DNA evidence in order to establish guilt beyond a reasonable doubt -- does anyone here find that problematic?" Since I found both problematic, I raised my hand high and spoke at length about the cultural relativity of age, the ethics of human storage, the crowding of death row, innocent men being killed by the state, etc. The woman sitting next to me heaved a big, irritated sigh through her nose and, finally, the judge interrupted me, told me to stop talking, and explained to the jury pool that if life was like television, and forensic evidence needed to be supplied, the whole system would get clogged and nothing would ever get accomplished. After the next question, which had to do with opposing the death penalty for religious or political reasons, I raised my hand again and the judge told me not to raise my hand or speak again since it was already clear that I would not be selected for service.

Today was much less exciting. I sat in the jury room for about two hours before being called to voir dire, and it was explained to all of us that, if we did not make it to the jury, we had to report back to the assembly room and we'd get cycled through again until 5pm. So, unlike the times I have been let go for being a loud mouth, this time I would have to stay, regardless. At 11.30am, we were called into a trial for a man who ran a red light and wanted a jury to deem him innocent or guilty. He was up against a police officer, the ticket-writer. The woman representing the state asked if any of us had ever run a red light and been given a ticket and, this time, I raised my hand but had very little to say about it. In fact, I agreed that it did not affect my ability to fairly decide innocence or guilt. (Although I did have a minor anxiety attack over the fact that I could not remember, after I claimed that it happened, if it was indeed a red light or a stop sign that I ran several years ago. I had, after all, pledged to tell the truth.) The man who was contesting his ticket was being represented by a very young-looking lawyer who made this joke: "Now, I assume we all know what a traffic light looks like, right?" But, for some reason, I am the only one who laughed. The rest of the crew were solemnly nodding their heads, as if to show the austerity of intersections and red light-green light. He explained to us that the man was innocent until proven guilty, and asked if we all understand that it was the burden of the state to prove it to us. More solemn head-nodding. After this, the jury was picked, and I did not make the cut.

We were given an hour to have lunch and get back to the assembly room, and so I walked to a place called the Avenue Grill, which was kind of like Treebeard's, only greasier (and dirtier). The other option was to go to the police station and eat in their cafeteria. (Um, no thanks . . .) On the way to the grill, five women in their fifties befriended me, and we all sat together and ate our okra and tomatoes, mashed potatoes, and rolls. They all had iced tea and diet coke. I drank water. We gossiped about the other people in the assembly room. We guessed the age of the young lawyer. We wondered how the selection of jurors for each trial was determined. Randomness was dismissed. Someone suggested it was done by zip code. The women and I agreed that this must be the case, since we were all from different zip codes. This was also the moment when I learned that if my driver's license and my voter registration had different names on them, I would be more likely to be called. The women were very interested to know that I lived in Montrose and that I was not, as they suspected, a student, but a professor. One woman argued that teachers of any kind should not have to serve on jury duty because of missed class time. I agreed whole-heartedly.

About an hour later, we were back in the assembly room, reading, stretching, waiting, going to the bathroom, talking on cell phones, chit-chatting. There was one very talkative woman who was fully prepared with a book of crossword puzzles, little baggies of chex-mix, apple slices, water bottle, and dum-dums lollipops ("for blood sugar!"). She explained to anyone who would listen that she got called for jury duty every August, like clock-work, and had written all the dates as far back as 1992 on the envelope in which her summons arrived as proof. Slowly, the next jury pool was called for voir dire and, once more, I did not make the cut. More reading and sitting around. Finally, one of the women from lunch, Tama, struck up a conversation with me. She wanted to know what kind of literature I taught. When I told her it was African American literature, she looked very surprised, and was then full of questions. What did I teach? I showed her the book I was reading, Native Son (Richard Wright, 1940), and explained that I was teaching his work along with James Baldwin this semester to a group of seniors. She had never heard of the book or the author. For the next hour, I held this woman captive by describing the entire plot of Native Son. She was a great audience. She even took a bathroom break and then returned, full of questions: How did Bigger get caught? Why did he kill his girlfriend? How does it end? Tama told me she was an English major many years ago at University of St. Thomas, and that she was a life-long reader. The book she had with her was by Deepak Chopra and I cannot recall exactly the title, but it had something to do with peace. She had me read the first paragraph, and then gave me this knowing look, like, "Right on!"

Finally, around 3:45, it was revealed to us that no more trials were to be held today, and everyone applauded and jumped for joy and went up to collect their six dollars cash. As each person turned to leave, each shared a huge smile of sheer satisfaction. Afterwards, I said goodbye to my new friend, Tama, and she told me she'd be seeing me around.

Not such a bad thing, afterall. I came home and took a much-needed nap.

could you use it in a sentence?

My sister Mary Anne sent me an email today that paused, before it asked its question, to let me know that, as she typed her greeting to me, she suddenly remembered being a small girl and finally learning how to spell my name; and that since, for her, it was a difficult name to spell (CHARLES), she felt like it was a real accomplishment.

The simple act of sending an email (this one was asking for recommendations on the kind of yoga she should take up) suddenly, without warning, transports her all the way back to the age of -- what? -- five? six? and its attendant spelling challenges. The past is vivified. She must remember how to spell her brother's name, and then does. I imagine her, back then, so skinny and pale, roller skating on the driveway in her poncho, and the way she, and everyone else I knew, said my name. It was pronounced with two syllables, "Char-rulls," and so I believe she thought it was spelled like this: CHARELS.

(FYI -- We also pronounced my younger sister Kathleen's name with three syllables: Kath-a-leen.)

I was quick to learn how to spell, and knew how to read and write before I entered Mrs. Klopstein's kindergarten class, where we were subjected to daily spelling drills in which dim students did their best to carefully sound out the letters of each word. To me, it was agony. One afternoon, bored stiff, I decided to pretend to be stumped by the word I was given (could it have been the word "THAT"?) and then I mimicked one of the slower students whose voice started to spell in a barely audible articulation, but then grew in volume until he finally blurted out the right letter with a question mark in his voice (like this: "Dog. Um. Okay: dddddDDDDDDDD!??!?! oooooOOOOOO!??!!?! ggggggggGGGGGGG!!?!?!). Funny, though, I don't recollect Mrs. Klopstein's reaction to my performance, just the sensation of doing it and wondering if it would work.

What else could I have done?

rose, plasma, and ruby

The first two weeks of school have me wearing rose-colored glasses.

This means that I cannot help but see my students (all 105 of them!) as sheer promise and possibility, my classrooms as charmingly too warm and overcrowded, and the buildings where I teach as importantly urban and impressively unique. I cherish this, because I know that, in about four weeks, things will be drastically different, and by the time the end of the semester rolls around, I will have had just about enough.

It's hard to not write about work. A friend recently suggested that, even as it is now, perhaps this blog is too public. I have a lot of stories to tell about the students I teach, as well as thoughts on working in the university. I spend an amazing amount of time reflecting on the millions of things I say out loud in class, the back and forth I have with the kids (although they are hardly "kids," and the ages range from 18 to 65), the things they ask, the interruptions that anger me, the posturing of the perpetually thugged or goth-ed out, the inspired imitations I do of characters or events in the fiction we read, how I can make some students laugh to the point where they cannot stop. I don't want this blog to be about work, in that way, although I wonder what would happen if I decided to write a running, public critique of the institution, a la www.michaelberube.com?

A couple of notes on fruit: 1) The pomegranate is slowly but surely ripening! It has darkened to an interesting plasma-red, with just a portion at the top that has yet to turn color. 2) A correction: apparantly, my friend Kayte was the first to notice and identify the pomegranate at the very beginning of the summer. 3) I had a dream last week that there were pomegranate trees up and down Hawthorne street, all with ripening fruit. In the dream, I stepped outside and visted each one. I marveled over how gorgeous they were, and as I made my way toward the last tree at the end of the street, I noticed that the pomegranate fruits were steadily becoming more and more ripe. When I got to the last tree, I looked up and saw a pomegranate fruit that looked more like a plush children's toy than any sort of vegetation. I was absolutely stunned. It was ruby red, soft and fluffy, and I knew in my mind it was the ripest one of all.