"The way to become someone's God is to disappear"--quote from Mona Simpson's The Lost Father, her sequel to Anywhere But Here that I started before I came back to Sarah Lawrence--and consequentially means, now that classes have started, I probably won't finish until Christmas? Hopefully not. I think it's partially true though; that quote. If you're inclined to develop certain kinds of attachments to people. The way, I guess, I'm inclined.

I keep having the same nightmare, substituting different people as the aggressor. Three times in the past week. I don't know the last time I had a restful night of sleep.

I don't know where I want to be right now, exactly, or what I want to be doing. I feel like I'm out of practice at this whole class-homework-existing on a campus grind. It will be fine, because it always is--every year has worked out--but right now, I just feel aimless and anxious all at once. Like I should be doing something to fill the hours now (because soon enough they'll be filled for me) but I don't know what that is. I'm being pro-active, telling Lindsay I'll help her with the literary magazine; accepting that nomination to be on the Senior Gift Committee; hopefully getting that job as a Senior Interviewer. Maybe tutoring through America Reads--I could use the money, to be honest. Just trying to fill time. Time--time and memory--the subject of my Anthropology class. I forgot the vague process of settling on a conference project; the tinglings of creativity that you finally twinge out into something cohesive. Anything creative or artistic always starts out with that feeling for me--the best way I can describe it is like a tickle, totally obscured, that eventually settles into some sort of specificity. I have vague ideas of time and healing, the structure of time in literature; choosing to forget. There are always so many options.

I want it to be autumn, so I can spend my days in tights and dresses and long cardigans; drink chai tea; take long walks. Feel more settled, somehow. Fall has always suited my aesthetic and sensibilities best, I think. I hate the freezing cold, and I hate the heat and humidity of summer. Spring makes me restless. I am too particular. Maybe.

Rachel, when I went into her office last week, told me it was ok that I don't have a plan. That maybe that's better. "You can't possibly fuck it up now, Michelle," she said. "You're too good. You have an excellent resume, you do excellent work. You will get a job. You will be fine. It's ok to play now." But I want to know. I entertained the idea of taking French this year, with the goal being to go back eventually; sometime between the end of the year and grad school. I didn't, but I could always take a summer course. I could always do anything.

I don't even know if I want to be writing.



Edit:

That's funny. I didn't even notice it was three months to the day since I last updated this blog. Three months ago I was in Oxford. It feels far longer; so much has happened in the interim.