Saturday, November 10, 2007

I'm sure there's a carnal metaphor waiting to be fleshed out in this post, but frankly I'm too mellow and tired to work it.

I have done absolutely nothing school related today. None. Zero. Zilch.

It's an unusual feeling after a week of cramming and the past nine weekends of frenetic studying for those accursed Monday exams. We don't have one this Monday. This week's exam is on Wednesday followed by a two day, Thursday and Friday, final exam experience. Only one more week of this course and I couldn't be happier.

Don't let it stress you out that I whiled the day away in decidedly non-academic pursuits when I have all that this week... because I'm not. Oy.

Sitting down to blog today was difficult, not from a lack of time stance, but from lack of substance. I mostly spend my days either bitching about school or talking about people, which equals boring and superficial and thus, not potential Internet fodder.

I went to the library yesterday and obtained three books which I will probably not have a chance to read before they're due. I just couldn't help it, it'd be so long since I basked in the narrative of non-textbook books I had to check some out... just in case I can steal a moment here or there to spend with them.

My original purpose for going to the library was to pick-up a short memoir I requested online: The Diving Bell and The Butterfly. It's a book that was repeatedly referenced here and there in our lectures because it was written about ten years ago by the editor of French Elle. The relevance to neuro? He was locked-in while writing.

He wasn't a hermit or recluse in the traditional sense, nor was he behind penal bars as the term "locked-in" may suggest, but rather due to a lesion affecting his brainstem he was completely paralyzed and incapable of speech though cognitively alert. Pretty much trapped in his own body, AKA the most horrifying situation I can think of. He retained volitional control of one eye and developed a system with what must've been a very patient individual wherein he blinked out the book, letter by letter.

I'll let you know how it goes.

So anyway, I went and picked it up, and in so doing was helplessly drawn in to peruse other titles that ultimately teased me into reading their synopses. Two jumped into my bag and insisted on being brought home.

On deck after the locked-in one: She's Come Undone by Wally Lamb and Queen of Babble by Meg Cabot.

Mmmm. Fiction.

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