After living here for four years, I'm glad that I can still find new treasures. I went for a run today in search of this specific bridge—a few friends happened upon it and encouraged me to visit—and on the way back, I found my way into the musty attic of a campus building.
I was fascinated and confused and a bit sneezy and I really wanted to shower after it all.
I'm plodding along through finals, trying to write about syntax and physical spaces. Focusing on anything right now feels nearly impossible, but if Wellesley has taught me anything, it's that the work always gets done (even if that means getting extensions to finish up while everyone else moves out and celebrates).
I'm not sure how to make sense of everything right now. I feel a lot of grief, and disbelief, and optimism, and guilt on behalf of the optimism. Luckily, I have people to lean on, and that makes the next few months seem surmountable.
I could talk about feelings forever, but it's probably wise that I return to these last essays. This is what I'm focusing on right now:
'The Even comes and the Crow flies low'
The Even comes & the Crow flies low And the swallow he dips at the spring The Leveret starts in the corn from the crow And frights up the Lark to take wing The Shrew Mice & Crickets they sing I' the rushes & grass on the baulk The swallows have gone from the spring And the Shepherds have gone from their talk While lovers only take their Evening walk
by John Clare, written between 1837 and 1864
Also, I unexpectedly woke up to this song today.
- "You May Know Him" by Cat Power, from Moon Pix (1998)
After a semester filled with death, endings, goodbyes, and loss, I'm trying to accept that mourning and sadness are permissible, especially when physical distance complicates those feelings.
That's a mighty tall order.
I'm also trying to balance an acknowledgement that a lot of other people from various facets of my life are in similar mental spaces right now. I can't solely focus on my own sense of grief, but I am allowed to feel the grief when it pops up like an unexpected intruder at 5:30 a.m.
I don't know what else to say.
- "Ari's Song" by Nico, from The Marble Index (1968)