Raise your hands if you, like me, were raised to think a grade of ‘B’ or lower means you’re an utter failure. Right, thanks, you may lower them now. So if I said I’m possibly getting a 4.0 for the spring semester it should translate not as hubris but relief that I’m not going to beat myself up over what a long, tiring, useless 4 months it had been.
I love, LOVE, *LOVE* this city, when it’s 35 degrees and above and only when; nothing I write can ever describe how wonderful spring (and summer and fall) is. I tried to write about it, to express the joy, trying to have written words lend force to emotions I can hardly voice. I am not Emerson – “I am the lover of uncontained and immortal beauty”; not even Whitman (Give me the splendid silent sun?). So I leave that to them. But — I’d been out of town for a week and was driven back last night. My chauffeur, a non-native, she had the windows down and inhaled deeply, remarking how wonderful it smells. And in that instant, I felt my feelings were validated. No need for me to write love sonnets for this quirky oasis of liberalism in Indiana. Strange, how things work. I just needed someone else to say it.
And lastly, summer school is going to kick my ass. Hard.
Do I get to say gratz in advance?
We should go celebrate.
When we make it to the same zipcode, if ever