Read my latest story, "A Tale of Two Birthdays", at 52|250.

I’m not one of those progressives who have become deeply disillusioned with Obama, but that’s because I never shared that sense of gleeful hope. I could point to policy positions to explain why, but the truth is, as I wrote then, that I didn’t vote for Barack Obama, but I was glad he won; it was, after all, a relief to see the Republicans out of the White House. I might well have followed the same emotional arc so many did if I had not experienced that same arc seven years ago over the space of less than a week.

It seems strange now to say that I had hope when the war in Iraq began, maybe even self-indulgent, but I had been to so many massive marches and rallies against the impending invasion that I believed there was enough anger in the US to force a real and dramatic change to the structures of power through direct action. I believed this at the candlelight vigil on the night the war was announced, and I believed it the next day when I showed up at 7 am to meet other people who were ready to put their bodies on the line to stand for peace. I believed it when the police charged our human barricade at the Federal Building. I believed it when I was arrested there, and I believed it through the weekend when people were still in the streets and when every time I entered my building on Market I passed people in costumes or with signs heading to a different rally. I even believed it when, after the 72-hour limit during which I wouldn’t be given a cite-out if rearrested, I joined a group of protesters trying to block the Federal Building, though we didn’t have the numbers for our actions to be anything but symbolic. But it turned out that after a few days during which civil disobedience disrupted San Francisco, the protests waned; nothing ultimately changed, other than there being more police helicopters hovering over my apartment.

So when Obama won, I wasn’t able to feel the same unguarded joy that led so many to dance in the streets. I can’t believe in change being made in one dramatic move.

The US is still in Iraq. Soldiers are being withdrawn from there only so that more may be sent to Afghanistan.

But this doesn’t make me wiser than those who can hope without bounds. That feeling, too, can help bring about the gradual shifts that make life a little easier for the oppressed and that maybe one day will add up to more.

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I am sitting at my desk surrounded by books: three of them are propped open. Ten others have sticky flags marking points I need to get to. Another twenty are making me feel guilty that I haven’t read them yet. I have about 40 relevant tabs open in Firefox right now (stuff from JSTOR, Google Scholar, Copac). Most of these will lead me to open other tabs, if only to search for stuff in the library. I already know that I need to consult materials from special collections and journal storage this week.

I also have NeoOffice documents open (current draft, bibliography, earlier draft, relevant notes). Hard copy versions of early drafts with marginal notes from my supervisor are in a plastic case in a desk drawer so that I can consult them as necessary.

Writing a thesis is the fine art of making something shiny from a chaos of material. If you don’t get a high from being slightly entirely overwhelmed by information and ideas, grad school will make you miserable. Even if you do, you sometimes just have to step back from it all and have a non-ironic cookie washed down with a few shots of whiskey.

In 2009, I . . .

• spent New Year’s Day with Martyn.
• published my first book of poetry.
• presented at a few academic conferences and attended a few others with Martyn.
• started as one of the founding editors of Gender Across Borders.
• moved to Belfast.
• started a doctoral thesis on Joyce.
• got engaged.
• finally got some formal training in using Photoshop.
• spent Xmas with Martyn for the first time (and managed to make dinner without setting off the fire alarm).

I guess I’ve had a busy year.

Winter Solstice came early for me this year. One hour early to be precise. And it helped me to better understand the meaning of the day.

By the time I got out of bed on this shortest of days, the outside light was growing dim through the clouds that only the night before had brought snow but since had turned to releasers of rain. I tried to turn on my lights. Nothing happened. I tried to change the bulb. No good. I called for repairs and waited. I lit candles as the streetlights came on.

About an hour before the official moment of the solstice, the electrician arrived. When the lights came on, it was as if my room in all its glorious mess had been restored to me.

Winter Solstice is about the return of the light, but that’s not the whole story either of the day or of what happened during the time I just discussed. Why was I only getting out of bed in the afternoon? I was suffering from terrible menstrual cramps. When those ease up as they have (mostly) by now, I get to return to the world. While I was waiting for the electrician, I had an argument with my partner, one based in misunderstandings. We’ve resolved it now and returned to our normal state of mutual support. I nearly said of love, but that wouldn’t be quite accurate. Love during an argument, like the sun in the winter, never quite goes away.

Winter solstice isn’t about the light returning, though it is nice to have the sun out after four. The holiday is, rather, about our moving closer to the source of life, the sun. It’s about returning to the source of our strengths which is also, indirectly, the source of our weaknesses.  It’s about finding the closeness for which we yearn.

(None of which is to say that the movement away doesn’t have a purpose too but, for now, I’ll let those of you celebrating summer solstice think about that.)

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