...While this restlessness turns into a day.
I'm home now, or at least at my parents' house for the weekend on a sort-of-last minute invitation from my mom. It's nice to be home and be with my family and be our quirky-familyness all together. My sister's even staying overnight tonight (she brought her mean kitty) so we can all leave from the house tomorrow for the Northwestern game bright and early.
I went through my six boxes of books stashed away in the basement and pulled out some books I wanted to re-read this fall. I had the intent of only pulling out a few novels, but I gleaned (among other things) my Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry, the Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, my collection of women's spiritual writings, my Maya Angelou poetry books, my Mammoth Book of Eyewitness History, some novels, and Thoreau's Walden. I'm not sure how I'll manage to bring it all back in my backpack, but I won't have to walk that far between all my trains and buses home, so I might as well tough it and get them back. Can you tell I'm wanting to start writing again?
I've been read the journal of a friend of mine, someone who's very thoughtful and deep, and I'm jealous in a way because I don't feel that deep most of the time--only when I'm very emo. I guess experience has a lot to do with it, and privelege, maybe, because Lord knows I've had that in my life, but I've had some lovely deep experiences. Maybe I'm faulty, in a way, because I haven't retained a deep connection to those deep experinces I've had (like going to Taize, for one). This makes me disappointed in myself, in a way. I guess.
I don't know. Mostly I wish things didn't have to change so much, or all the time. Or I wish that change would slow down.
I hope you read this.
I went through my six boxes of books stashed away in the basement and pulled out some books I wanted to re-read this fall. I had the intent of only pulling out a few novels, but I gleaned (among other things) my Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry, the Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, my collection of women's spiritual writings, my Maya Angelou poetry books, my Mammoth Book of Eyewitness History, some novels, and Thoreau's Walden. I'm not sure how I'll manage to bring it all back in my backpack, but I won't have to walk that far between all my trains and buses home, so I might as well tough it and get them back. Can you tell I'm wanting to start writing again?
I've been read the journal of a friend of mine, someone who's very thoughtful and deep, and I'm jealous in a way because I don't feel that deep most of the time--only when I'm very emo. I guess experience has a lot to do with it, and privelege, maybe, because Lord knows I've had that in my life, but I've had some lovely deep experiences. Maybe I'm faulty, in a way, because I haven't retained a deep connection to those deep experinces I've had (like going to Taize, for one). This makes me disappointed in myself, in a way. I guess.
I don't know. Mostly I wish things didn't have to change so much, or all the time. Or I wish that change would slow down.
I hope you read this.