Noone had come to the lab meeting; I altogether couldn't blame them. The funding was gone, the drugs were getting low. Taking the drugs out of any equation slows the party down. Hopefully it won't be to a halt in this case. There should be word about the large grant in October, with the off chance of it being accepted and a paycheck being set up for me. I can hope.

I re-re-returned in two applications for two series of complicated experiments, setting up plans with the head Vet at UCLA to go over to Schlicter Hall and see if we could set up our viral isolation ward--all for the ratsies to come. I have yet to get back to him with the room number and an appointment time. At the moment I can't be bothered.

----

Someone told me today that I work too hard. I replied with the usual: I didn't work enough. As I thought about it though, they were right..only that I worked too hard on the wrong things. Lately I have spent too much time socializing, too much energy in worrying over how I word something in a story or what color tones I shift for a photograph. In the usual fashion of procrastination I think that waiting on something will feel ok, or at least ok enough if I distract myself. The distractions are not working. I have to face graduate school--and more to the point, I have to start investing more time in the process.

If I were lazy or completely content at Mt. University, I could stay with Dr. Zivago. Getting admitted there is moot. He needs me as much as I need him. I like his work; I even love it at some points. I like his gruff manner; I even admire it now and then. Still, there's something that tells me to try all the other places I'd schemed over.

It's not all that difficult putting your foot in the door of a professor: you e-mail them, introduce yourself, ask them a few select questions (like if they're accepting new graduate students) and see how it goes. It's not difficult. It does, however, require me to focus on exactly what I want to do with a doctorate. I thought being a professor at a liberal arts college would be interesting, perhaps publishing some non-fiction on the side. Then there's the question of what to specialize in..and all I can think of is reading through each list of faculty members and seeing what feels right. Relying on intuition seems odd for the sciences, but then that's how I found Dr. Zivago.

I think everyone to some degree is scared about moving forward. I can hear "one step/day/thought at a time" and other soundbytes, but it's the baby steps toward a career in science that I wonder about. I don't know--don't think I'll get the consolation of being sure--but in my case I'm lucky. I know the solution and what will break this feeling of dread. Thing is, holding a drug inside your hand is different from inside your stomach.

There's a bog-like peacefulness when you're in a coma about the future, when you can let things move of their own accord and wake up to shift this way or that--to go roughly where you wanted to be. And I am roughly where I wanted to be. Common sense is compelling me into a different direction, while the pregnancy of fear keeps me planted where I am. All I need is to push myself once; I'll blink; I'll be in another arena of war, fighting for the right to move a few steps forward.

Perhaps I'm just sick of fighting everything. Perhaps I want to see what this myth of security and letting things slide is like. So far as I can tell from my nightmares and this constant silent self-nagging, though, perhaps part of me has made up my mind.

I can hear the dull roar of the crowd outside, faces all too familiar, like yours, demanding bloodsport and knowing that I can be better and do more than I exercise now. Self-pity is a luxury here, I admit, it is a rat gnawing at my ankle in the darkness. But like in times before I'll kick it away, collect myself and spar with whatever I find in the arena. My only other option is to sit here; not an option for me.

I only hope it's better than the last time. I think it will be. At least, I feel it will be. Only one way to know.

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