I'm in the midst of working on two papers, one on the Iranian press and the other on Hassan al-Turabi, the Sudanese Islamist, but I have deadlines for neither. Professor Haqqani seemed lost when I asked him about the due date, so I helped him by asking, "Is it the day of the final [that the undergrads must take]?" and he shrugged and said, "Yes, May 12th or something like that, but you can get an extension if you want." Dargh! Hello, May 12 is a Saturday, by the way. Then the three of us eager grad students in my grad seminar interrogated Professor Chehabi about the paper deadline, to which he replied, "I don't have to turn the grades in until July 1. I want it to be the best paper you can write." Gah.
So here I am, imagining that my pages of notes mock me, daring me to mold them into a coherent piece of work. But the worst part is that I have to do it on my own time, practically. What is it about pressure that forces us to act? Why can't I finish things in a timely manner out of my own natural premonitions?
At least I have a major group project due Wednesday, and there's no fudging that date because it involves presenting recommendations to The Women's Lunch Place for future public relations practices. For that I must rise up early tomorrow to meet with my group.
After last night's babysitting fiasco at our friends the Sondereggers, I will surely sleep soundly. Megan and Paul (the parents) went to NYC and asked us to stay with the kids overnight. Heidi made regular coffee on accident before we went to bed, which kept our hearts racing, and Somee crawled in to sleep with us around 5:30am. When we got up an hour later, I stumbled about, coffeeless and stiff, to ready the kids for school, searching for the car keys that I failed to find until after I sent the kids off with the neighbors who agreed to take them instead. Heidi made oatmeal, of which they ate about two bites each. We sent them to school with their lunches in plastic freezer bags instead of lunchboxes. Somee packed her baby dolls in another freezer bag, a creepy scene reminiscent of Brave New World. She toted the bag of babies in a picnic basket. I took both of them across in the rain, perplexed enough at wakefulness to neglect the fact that the packages they carried were quite unwieldy. But they didn't seem to mind. Who needs lunchboxes, anyway?
Needless to say, I've been exhausted. Add another point to the side of "un"-motivation.
oh man, not having due dates is the worst. I'd much rather turn a paper in for a grade and keep working on it than keep working with the pressure of a grade looming over me.
i know it, it's awful. i know once i turn it in, i'll think, maybe, just maybe this could have been better, and i won't have the excuse of the deadline to absolve me.