Bump On A Log

When I was in graduate school, doing a "clinic," I had a nasty supervisor who was supposed to teach me how to write evaluation/porgress/status reports. Her approach to doing this was to sit beside me and bash each word that I scrawled onto the page, up to the point where I was nearly paralyzed, hesitant to write anything down or even suggest a phrase, for fear that she would instantly pound it to bits. After a few minutes of working on one sentence (which probably ended up being something like this: "Pt. oriented to own name, family, time, and environment."), my supervisor screeched into me: "Don't just sit there like a bump on a log."

I tell you this because, right now, I feel like a bump on a log.

I have nothing to say. I could tell you about my hoarse voice, the result of a flu virus that has swept through my family. I could tell you about my morning pages, interrupted three times today, most importantly, for Mac to show me the sliver of paper he pulled out of the Chinese fortune cookie from last night's dinner (he was so proud of it, he immediately squirreled it into his wallet for safekeeping). I could tell you about last night's episode of Wife Swap, where the Cowboy Dad punched the Italian Dad in the final meeting (showdown?) between the couples. I could tell you that there are no birds on my window sill today, but there is a song in my heart, a pride in my step, a joy over the privilege of navigating through the minutes that make up today.

I'm not fooling myself. It's not interesting. But it's me, for right now.

I'm a little hoarse, but step by step, I'm finding my voice.

P.S. Re: the supervisor at the beginning of this post, after two hours of working on the same paragraph, I went berserk at her, screeching right back: "If you didn't roll your eyes and yell over every word I wrote, I might have some suggestions. What's the point? You make me change every word pick. Why don't you just write the damn thing yourself." Then, I shoved the paper and the pen at her and stomped away. In all of my clinical experiences, I never encountered another supervisor who felt the need to sit beside me and write reports word-for-word together. I ended up with an A in the clinic, but only because she was doing me "a favor." I'm still bitter over this woman. She often got angry at me if all of the pens in the pencil cup on her desk weren't leaning in the same direction. She had no business working with students. If I were ever to make a voodoo doll of anyone, she is the first person on the list.