one foolish dream
it is not an easy thing, journalling. or keeping in touch. I've been dutifully scribbling in a paper journal lately, and forgetting to check my inbox.
I suppose part of the reason is that so much of this time has been spent waiting. waiting for graduation, for application deadline, for a response, for a second one, to get a job interview, to get a job. there is plenty of time for writing while you're waiting, of course, but much less to write about. especially since for me, the things I am waiting for seem to be mirages, or worse yet, foolish foolish dreams, scarcely fit to be shared. and then I gradually start to believe that I'm waiting for nothing at all, that moss will grow like a blanket over me as I wait and wait and wait and forget how to move altogether.
but it all goes in waves. and so I start as a medical transcriptionist next week - there's no summer job I've loved more than that, it's like a guilty pleasure affair with medicine, doctors' words in my ears, all those stories at my fingertips. tonight I'm finishing up a translation project, kepler&newton&brahe&titius, planetary motions&two-body problems&formulas I never encountered in physics class.
and hopefully hopefully I can keep listening to those doctors until autumn. and then and then and then.
the mirage that still looks like one, even if I have two offers, black on white. as I said, I don't like to share my foolish dreams. and so I find things I've written years and years ago, words meant for my eyes only, and there that foolish dream is, written quickly, eyes averted, never spoken of.
even now, it feels embarrassing because it's so strange.
but it all goes in waves. I'm in finland again, my spring sharp&void of flower petals, yesterday's rain turning into sleet towards the evening. and come autumn, I'll fly across the continent again. not to scotland, this time. (though oh my goodness how I miss scotland.) england. oxford.
dreaming spires, sandstone walls, little rivers, all those books, all that history.
it seems impossible. but there was an offer, a day before my birthday, from the university of oxford. and then, a month or two later, from magdalen college. magdalen, where oscar wilde&bosie were students once upon a time, schrödinger a fellow, where thousands of people will gather to listen to the choir sing from the tower on may morning, magdalen with its deer park & meadows & riverside walks.
surely it's only a mirage? surely it will evaporate as soon as I reach out my hand?
I suppose part of the reason is that so much of this time has been spent waiting. waiting for graduation, for application deadline, for a response, for a second one, to get a job interview, to get a job. there is plenty of time for writing while you're waiting, of course, but much less to write about. especially since for me, the things I am waiting for seem to be mirages, or worse yet, foolish foolish dreams, scarcely fit to be shared. and then I gradually start to believe that I'm waiting for nothing at all, that moss will grow like a blanket over me as I wait and wait and wait and forget how to move altogether.
but it all goes in waves. and so I start as a medical transcriptionist next week - there's no summer job I've loved more than that, it's like a guilty pleasure affair with medicine, doctors' words in my ears, all those stories at my fingertips. tonight I'm finishing up a translation project, kepler&newton&brahe&titius, planetary motions&two-body problems&formulas I never encountered in physics class.
and hopefully hopefully I can keep listening to those doctors until autumn. and then and then and then.
the mirage that still looks like one, even if I have two offers, black on white. as I said, I don't like to share my foolish dreams. and so I find things I've written years and years ago, words meant for my eyes only, and there that foolish dream is, written quickly, eyes averted, never spoken of.
even now, it feels embarrassing because it's so strange.
but it all goes in waves. I'm in finland again, my spring sharp&void of flower petals, yesterday's rain turning into sleet towards the evening. and come autumn, I'll fly across the continent again. not to scotland, this time. (though oh my goodness how I miss scotland.) england. oxford.
dreaming spires, sandstone walls, little rivers, all those books, all that history.
it seems impossible. but there was an offer, a day before my birthday, from the university of oxford. and then, a month or two later, from magdalen college. magdalen, where oscar wilde&bosie were students once upon a time, schrödinger a fellow, where thousands of people will gather to listen to the choir sing from the tower on may morning, magdalen with its deer park & meadows & riverside walks.
surely it's only a mirage? surely it will evaporate as soon as I reach out my hand?