I Am Utterly Tired

I am not about to let myself stop writing just because I'm in America, a land where I come by indolence much easier. Things can be pushed off when you're there for the rest of your life. Unless I'm not, which frankly seems a bit likely. London's calling, as are Glasgow, Glastonbury, Paris, and places I didn't get to: Dover, the Lake District, wherever Freddie Mercury and John Lennon are hiding. American college and American pets brought me back, and it must be said that the rain smells much better here, but England was stellar. I harbor a deep suspicion that I'll do a writing MFA in England if I don't get one in Boston. We'll just have to see what I pull off.

I got to America yesterday at 9pm and 2am. I felt pretty good. The plane ride had been smooth and pleasant--I don't get scared by airplanes anymore--and I made friends with the 22-year-old Franco-American engineering intern sitting next to me. Kate Bush sounded good among the clouds, as did the 1975. I reset my watch to 6pm every hour for the first five hours, which added to the dreamlike serenity that came with chasing the sunset at 30,000 feet above sea level. Customs was seamless, and my family admired my new style and travel-hardened shoulders.

I am pretty jet-lagged, and writing to stay awake. I sincerely doubt that I am writing well, and am apprehensive of the effect that re-entry might have on my writing.

I was nervous that I would lose the independence and personal change wrought in Europe, and I have indeed become less constantly alert and joy-seeking in the day since my re-entry into what I perceive as the real world. What with the senior week events that my brother and the family are going to, the parallel organization of five people's agendas (it would be six, but the oldest is still training in OKC to be an air traffic controller), and the physical labor of moving college students out, my previously necessary self-centeredness has dissipated. I am a unit in the family machine, albeit a much more capable and responsible one than before. We'll see what happens when I get home properly--I think it'll be easier to carve out a new space when there aren't events to sit down at.

Zeke (brother) was officially inducted to Phi Beta Kappa today, making him Harvard Concentrate. He wears a gown that bleeds when wet, and a mortarboard with tassel. You'd think the richest university in the world could cop the graduates marginally well-made gowns, not to mention cooler hat designs, but apparently it's the cardboard placards and oozing nylon dresses for the win. We are all very proud of the young Ebenezer Scrooge who now swoops about his campus, accruing papers and handshakes and honors before he flies off to grad school at the same school, but GRAD SCHOOL, you dig.

There is no conclusion to this blog post.