My mind has been all over the place this past week, which has made it hard to write. I open Notepad and stare at the blinking cursor and feel overwhelmed. There have been more tears in the past seven days than in the previous seven weeks combined and a lot of the tears aren’t traceable. I’m just touchy right now.
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The program in San Francisco that I’m considering, in addition to the Public Policy program at UCLA, is a Master’s program in Cultural Anthropology and Social Transformation at CIIS. The two programs are like sun and moon, land and sea, light and dark. They’re so different. And each one of them speaks to a different part of me and it feels like having to choose sides of my own soul. And, yes, UCLA is offering me money, but also I can pay for graduate school. I have the money, and while yes I could use that money to buy a house or pay for my non-existent children’s college education in the future, as my mother so practically pointed out, I don’t want this to be a decision about money. I want it to be a decision about me.
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Today has been a lazy day, after losing an hour. Stumbled out of bed at 10:30, ate a simple breakfast, and drank black tea while Lady Love* worked on her music editing. My roommate is out of town, and this is a little preview of what living together might be like. Our own space, our own pace. I like it, and the weather today–air is light, sky is blue, and this is the time of year when San Francisco flora is most colorful–matches my sense of still. I sat by the window and watched a father and child (four years old?) playing soccer in the park across the street. Nearly half an hour I watched them. The father was clearly teaching the child some strategies for making a goal (“aim to kick the ball above or to the left or right of the goalie or between his feet,” said his gestures) and the child would kick from 8 feet away and the ball would amble towards the goal, through the father’s feet, and the father would open his arms out wide and the child would run into them, throw his arms around his father’s neck in simple ecstasy. The ball itself was half the size of the child, and occasionally the sheer strength required to kick it would knock the child down, but he always scrambled right back up again. As so many other things this week, being witness to this scene made me cry. “What are you doing, pookie?” “Just people-watching.” “You’re such a funny little thing.”
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I have some friends coming round this evening for chocolate and wine and a movie. Not sure yet what we’ll watch, but I’ve got High Noon and Joan of Arc on loan from a local movie store and Sunset Boulevard from Netflix, so it looks like it’ll be an oldie (“but goodie,” as they say). They’re coming in half an hour, so I need to go whip together a batch of brownies. (Click on that link and make this recipe. I promise you, you won’t regret it.)
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Neighbors’ cats are in a stare-off right now. It’s a toss-up which one will win, but the winner will inevitably be my other house guest this evening. Some things, you see, are entirely predictable.
*Genna, a commenter, used “Lady Love” to refer to my lady love on my previous post. And I like that. So for now, that’s what she’ll be called.
