Eep!

Oh my god, I love my life. I am a lucky lucky girl, guess it runs in the family, my grandfather called himself a lucky lucky man. If last week was worst St. A's, this one was best. I've been trying to train myself to appreciate my overprivileged problems, to move beyond them to merely enjoy. Sometimes I have to talk myself into a sheer understanding that is like joy in my surroundings. All week I've been putting in energy to remember to enjoy my experiences, a flawless blue sky, running to take out a book between sunlit stained glass and vaulted ceilings, getting to give a presentation on public intellectuals, spark debate and be rated but not formally graded, reading Romeo and Juliet a golden afternoon until the last light leaves the courtyard, even getting grilled in neurobio lab. But it's taken too much work. And now spontaneously, I'm so happy. It seems so easy. But as Rambert teaches, we're "incapable of suffering for a long time, or being happy for a long time." And so I know this quick fast joy will fade and alternate with despair or worse, dry hours of unobserved and unobservant existence. But I'm not going to worry about the fickle freckled nature of human emotional inconstancy. Instead I'm going to enjoy an arc of white wine that gleams poured out against the darkness of six stories, merely enjoy walking home on shiny sidewalk where the pavement's been watered by 5 am sprinklers, and the secrecy of spying on Yale while it's asleep. I twirl and whoop because every window is dark except in a basement classroom where a roundtable is waiting, fully illuminated, for people to talk around it. I stride swinging my Paris skirt and cowboy boots under Stiles streetlamps. The hammock is inviting me in. But I'm going to my room to find a chocolate bar and a note slipped under my door, drop clothes on floor, head on pillow and go to bed.