magicbeans. nothing if not awkward.

Overly dramatic? Well hey, I haven't written in three weeks. And today was lo-o-o-ong.

Late to bed last night after finishing the slides for my part of the group presentation in Cultural Heritage. Early to rise for my shift in the library. The decision was made that the past few day's experiment with taking a new holiday from caffeine was poorly timed and a cup of coffee was drunk. My slides were adjusted slightly from the reference desk over a VPN/screen-sharing connection between my iPad and my studio computer.

Then: a required lecture for which I was—an unavoidable, as I was at work—half and hour late.

Then: practice run through of next week's final thesis proposal presentation. Or, that was at least what was ideally to have happened. My actual presentation is, as yet, still fairly close to not definitively existing. I did have some work to show. Talked about my process. Filled the ten minutes. Received some good feedback, although (obviously) not on the presentation itself. The rest of the class's presentations ran long. Long-long. I stuck it out as for as long as I could, until I was pretty sure I could only just barely make it to Manhattan and Cultural Heritage on time. Hopefully on time.

Speedwalk to the subway. Classon to Metropolitan/Lorimer to 6th Ave to an iced tea as I had a few minutes to spare. The first third of this class's presentations—they're split over three weeks, we ended up on the list for the first day as we didn't manage to make it to the sign-up web page, at all—also ran long. Or more specifically, the conversation at the end of the first ran long. Leaving no room for questions/comments after the second or third. The third being ours, and dragging ten minutes beyond the official end of class.

With my brain pretty much clocked out for the night, 6th Ave to Lorimer/Metropolitan to—wait, stop.

Pause.

Okay—to about five I-beam columns down the southbound platform where, nearly directly opposite me, across the tracks, waiting for the northbound G: Jenny.

Smile and wave. Smile and wave back. I popped my earbuds out though I don't know what sort of good I thought that might do. Both platforms were full; trains in either direction were eminent. The last time this happened, five months ago, the last time we saw each other, when she stopped and looked up, opposite me, the platforms were emptier. That time, five months ago, I crossed over and we talked awkwardly for a few minutes before the northbound train arrived and whisked her on her way. This time I twirled the cord of my earbuds awkwardly around my fingers. We awkwardly looked, and looked away. We awkwardly smiled. My train arrived and whisked me on my way.

It's surreal and sad to experience, process, remark upon (obliquely or directly) this sort of moment with someone who was the most comfortable thing in the world for years of your live. It's surreal and sad to live in it. It's surreal and sad when, at the bar a few hours later, the drink or two to mark the end of the week's regular commitments, to mark the end of a very long day, get the gears in the brain moving again. It's surreal and sad when you bring it up in your weekly meeting with your time management counselor, the closest thing that you have to a therapist now that your health insurance plan tells you you've had enough therapy visits to be cured, at least until the count rolls over at the beginning of the next school year. It's still surreal and sad when write about it a day later.

Two drinks were plenty, and I was conversing more with friends over Twitter than I was with anyone at the bar. The walk home, whereon my right hand clenched up into a fist. On Monday, at the followup with the neuropsychologist—which the insurance did pay for—we talked a little about the anger that can exist inside depression; some of it directed outward, but mostly in. With food, with re-watching a TV show, with the (slightly) chemically-aided drift off to sleep, it passed. Or re-submerged at least. The muscles in the hand relaxed. And then it was dark, and there were dreams.