Even now I'm at your window
My emotionally smothering mother, who passes through these parts from time to time, charged me with the accusation of not updating frequently enough. This is absolutely true. What she does not know, however, is that I in fact updated with a compelling friends-locked entry only yesterday, for the first time in weeks.
If one were to read that entry, however, one would not come away with a very complete idea of my life at the moment. That entry was, in fact, nothing more than me being shamefully, unmentionably mawkish. True, quixotic sentimentality has been increasingly prevalent in my own pleasantly-turning planet. I've learned to embrace it, drink it, wallow in it on lazy sunny Sunday mornings.
But leaving the abstract, a scientific dissection of Emmaline this summer would yield the following: a sad still-shriveled pancreas, two lungs full of saltwater, nimble hands whose fingers are calloused from so much filing, word-logged eyes, a sleep-deprived brain, and a plump bright heart beating more fervently every day that August 22 draws nearer. (There--mawkishness again. It is inescapable.)
Not to say that I'm not enjoying being home. Indeed, I'm actually spending more time here and less time out than I have in any previous summer since high school began, probably. Being away at college, as adventure-brimming and perfect as it is, makes one appreciate the comfort of one's house and the off-color comedy of one's parents and day-to-day family life. Besides, we have two handsome tomcats now and I love them.
I've been trying to write more. In December, I took a brief and chilly foray into the displaced, depressed mind of a British 20th-century alcoholic writer, but I'm back to my miasmic Anglo-Saxon roots now. I think that foray taught me a few things about style and narration and detail, though. This is the discussion for another time, another place.
I am, then, obstinately the same as ever. I will always be infuriatingly romantic. I will never go to bed on time.
If one were to read that entry, however, one would not come away with a very complete idea of my life at the moment. That entry was, in fact, nothing more than me being shamefully, unmentionably mawkish. True, quixotic sentimentality has been increasingly prevalent in my own pleasantly-turning planet. I've learned to embrace it, drink it, wallow in it on lazy sunny Sunday mornings.
But leaving the abstract, a scientific dissection of Emmaline this summer would yield the following: a sad still-shriveled pancreas, two lungs full of saltwater, nimble hands whose fingers are calloused from so much filing, word-logged eyes, a sleep-deprived brain, and a plump bright heart beating more fervently every day that August 22 draws nearer. (There--mawkishness again. It is inescapable.)
Not to say that I'm not enjoying being home. Indeed, I'm actually spending more time here and less time out than I have in any previous summer since high school began, probably. Being away at college, as adventure-brimming and perfect as it is, makes one appreciate the comfort of one's house and the off-color comedy of one's parents and day-to-day family life. Besides, we have two handsome tomcats now and I love them.
I've been trying to write more. In December, I took a brief and chilly foray into the displaced, depressed mind of a British 20th-century alcoholic writer, but I'm back to my miasmic Anglo-Saxon roots now. I think that foray taught me a few things about style and narration and detail, though. This is the discussion for another time, another place.
I am, then, obstinately the same as ever. I will always be infuriatingly romantic. I will never go to bed on time.