Boiled Corn

I am mush.


Why am I mush? Mush mush mush. I don’t know. Fatigue. An on sluaght of intensive emotions due to reading over three hundred pages of emotion psychology and philosophy in the past twenty-four hours. Jumping into gym frenzied extreme cardio two mornings in a row, behaving as if I’m still living at sea level with (relatively) adequate sleep rather than at 6,035 feet with four hours of “real” Ambien induced rest a night and what what what was I even saying, what am I even thinking, do you, do I even know? OH! Right. Mush mush mush. These are all potential causes of my mushy state.

Mush is a funny word. What is mush?

mush 1 (msh)
1. A thick porridge or pudding of cornmeal boiled in water or milk.
2. Something thick, soft, and pulpy.
3. Informal Mawkish sentimentality, affection, or amorousness.

I would say that I’m referring to number 2. Or maybe number 1. I like the sound of number 1. Yes. I’m a thick porridge of cornmeal boiled in milk. THAT is what I am right now. A steaming bowl of allergies. That makes sense. That would explain my legs are melting poles of puddy.

I should be at a new dear friend’s home right now. Drinking wine and manically discussing words and CC boys and life within a frantic mind, but as I said, I’m currently mush and I’m not sure I’d make too superb of company. And how is it already 9PM? Didn’t I just wake up? Aren’t I still getting ready for the gym? Why is it that days in Colorado rush forward so absurdly fast, when in Humboldt they lagged lagged lagged, every hour a fucking year in my slowly spinning thoughts?


I was just at Target. Or not at Target, but in the Target parking lot. I originally went to buy ink, but then I realized that, first of all, I didn’t have the wisdom to write down the number-type of ink my printer requires, and also, I recalled that CC offers free epic printing to its student so really my shelling out thirty bucks for ink is absolutely unnecessary. So, I didn’t buy ink. I did buy clippers for my ingrown nails and toilet paper because that shit goes fast in this house. But, the real event of my evening’s visit to Target was the two hours I spent in the parking lot reading Nussbaum’s relentless thoughts on disgust and Haidt’s ideas of moral emotions. Who would’ve thought that my greatest productivity would come from barricading myself into my hot little car in a concrete parking lot? Perhaps it was the sun setting behind the dizzying smoky Pikes Peak that inspired my focus, because focus — FOCUS — is a skill I have to work at these days. Balance too.

Balance, balance, balance. Where are you? Why are you so tricky to master? Why so cruel?

Questions. I’m full of them.


I originally wanted to take the long way home from Target. You know, the long way with its stop lights and slow elderly, the infuriating “downtown” congestion. I didn’t want my drive to end, and I even considered driving south only to drive north just to return to my central home. I feel this compulsion a lot — to just drive and drive and drive, if only to post pone the act of going to bed, or perhaps simply post pone the act of an act, because for me driving is the most soothing natural thing I can do, even more natural than walking. I dread the end of a drive. I hate getting out of my car. Unbuckling my seat belt. Sigh sigh sigh. Grabbing my shit and lugging myself to my apartment building to the three flights of stairs to my apartment door to saunter down the hallway to my bedroom door and how lazy do I sound right now? I actually love walking and taking the stairs (there’s a lovely elevator that I happily shun), but I LOVE driving. Driving puts me at ease.

Point of this tangent? I originally intended on avoiding the blinking quick 25 for the lethargy of Nevada, set on making a potential 6 minute drive last 18 minutes. But then I started writing in my head — thinking too fast, too “orderly”, thoughts too clear to be considered actually thinking but instead they were a composing of sentences that ITCHED be released to a page for if I didn’t get to a keyboard stat I’d surely dive into a pool of stomach acid — and so I swerved over onto the interstate onramp, cutting off a fellow bro in sunglasses, despite the twilight’s darkness, and he was a fellow bro because I was also a bro, too fatigued to be bothered to switch out my shades for my sexy librarian’s accessory.

And so I charged onto the 25 interstate, weaving around the slower folk, living up to the stereotype of my license plate. Have I mentioned I love the 25 through Colorado Springs? It’s beautiful. It’s what I craved during the dripping days on the ick ick 101 of Eureka, on the blistering scold of the 5 in LA. The 25 is my home in road form. As I drove I wrote this blog in my mind and I had the thought that it’s kind of sad that I’m writing blog posts in my head rather than, you know, real good concrete writing, but hey hey, stop that, Heather, writing is writing and any writing is good writing and I really really really love that I’ve been blogging “regularly” the last few months and I’d be quite sad if I were to get lazy and suddenly stop. Then I was taking the Uintah exit (have I mentioned that it’s quite fabulous that my present exit [as in the CC exit] is still the same as my last year’s exit?), turning on Cascade and pulling into one of the few CC parking lots, and lugging my shit and so forth so forth and now I’m here writing this blog. And why is that writing blogs always makes me go into a manic state?

Speaking of all things manic…

My extreme final paper of this block will be on mania as emotion. I’m incredibly pumped. It shall be intense. It shall also be difficult, as mania isn’t necessarily considered an “emotion”. But in the last year (I’m not sure when this started) I’ve been using it as a way to describe an otherwise indescribable state that I often go into, a consuming emotion that I couldn’t previously properly define. I swear this “state”, this “emotion”, isn’t me being psychologically disordered, but rather simply in a place of frenzy and anxiety and glee and rage and hyper activity all of the same time, which the term and idea of mania so perfectly describes. So… that will be my absorbing concept, project, LIFE MISSION of the next two and a half weeks (and then I move onto my next class — have I mentioned I adore this place?). I’m kind of horrified. It would be easier to choose anger or happiness, sadness or maybe fear (which I was considering since that it’d obviously be awesome research for my AFOT rewrite but I think I’ll just do that on my own one of these days…. because fear isn’t intimidating… so I don’t need the stability and force of an actual class to get me to do the research and work… where as mania is already making me feel sick in terms of paper-anxiety), but why would I go for an easy topic when I could go for something disgustingly difficult to approach, something that I’m so intrigued by? I rather attempt mania and get a mediocre grade than settle on a easily defined “basic emotion” and get an A. Actually, I don’t know if that’s true, but I think it has SOME truth to it…


IT IS SO RIDICULOUSLY HOT IN THIS ROOM. Colorado is overheating. Melting without the relief of a coastal breeze. It’s quite tragic.

Maybe I’ll overcome my mushiness (I’m more mush physically then I am mentally) and venture back out to the streets. Or maybe I’ll be a responsible adult and go to sleep at a decent hour so that when I wake up earlyearlyearly tomorrow I’ll be able to function and not fall off the treadmill and act like a whack in class.

Who am I kidding? I’m always a bit whack.