A Little More Concisely This Time.
I. Going Home
Recent trips to San Francisco have seen me attending mass at St. Patrick's, downtown, where the 10:00 mass is characterized by a traditional scola. The music is lovely and the homilies are usually quite good, but I always feel out of place. I left St. Cecilia's in a fit of pique* after some distressing liturgical abuses which took place after our former bishop was swept away to Rome,** and when I visited most recently I was distracted by a snide internal dialogue about the music, lector, and decoration of the church.
This morning, however, I decided that I wasn't up for a mass any earlier than 11:00, since I was up late at the emergency room last night (more on that later). And anyway, I thought, it would be nice to be able to sing along for once. It turned out to be pretty much exactly what I needed-- just as my tired body and exhausted brain wanted nothing more than to go home to San Francisco and sleep, my tired soul wanted to be somewhere where it felt it belonged. I always thought I loved St. Cecilia's because Fr. Vitto made me so welcome at the beginning of my conversion, but there's more to it than that. St. Cecilia's is where I first went to mass, three years ago, and no matter what the liturgists do to it, it will always be home-- even when the choir slaughters the Adoro te dovote.
II. The End of Finals.
So, let me tell you about the end of my finals week. I was up until about 5:30 am on Friday morning*** working on my paper for Professor Goldstein, and then went home to sleep. I slept until 10:00, and then almost called Joel L. to tell him that I just couldn't do breakfast—the lack of sleep and tremendous amount of caffeine and sugar I had injested made me rather ill. I collected myself, however, and met him at the C-shop for a bagel and more coffee.
After breakfast, I settled myself in the McCormick lounge and wrote the Goldstein paper, running on no more than that bagel and coffee. Tom came to visit just about the time I finished, and went with me to run my library errands (such as printing out the paper and paying my $1 late fine). We agreed to meet for dinner, and then parted ways. Letting Tom leave me to my own devices was probably a mistake, considering what happened afterwards. Walking home from Social Sciences, I was walking along the ledge between Rosenwald and Pick, as I always do-- but this time carrying three bags of books. I don't know if I lost my balance because of the books, or if I was just so tired and hungry that I couldn't handle walking in a straight line, but I fell off the ledge (a 3-4 ft fall), losing my glasses, getting a nice bruise on my knee, and putting a second dent in the case of my laptop. This was, of course, the day that Vanessa went in for a second knee surgery from a similar accident. Clearly I don't learn.
Had dinner with Tom, followed by coffee with everyone's favorite petulant athiest, during which we ran into Tom again. Sure enough, walking from the Reg towards Bartlett I hopped up on the side of the planter to walk along the edge. Tom just stared at me until I realized what I was doing.
Later that evening, I packed up a backpack with glasses, spoons, bowls, half a carton of ice cream, and a bottle of champagne and made my way to the Shoreland. Anna made the mistake of not believing me when I said "we'll do ice cream and champagne-- I'll bring the champagne", but I hope she ended the evening feeling properly celebrated for graduating. (Geoff helped with the champagne, which was probably a good thing). I went to bed, exhausted, underfed, and with who-knows-how-much champagne in my system, and forgot that I had a quarter of a carton of ice cream in my backpack.
"You were spacy," said Carolyn.
"Yes, to put it politely," I said.
Sunday saw brownies, chianti, and Twister with Carolyn and Veronica, and on Monday I finally finished my last paper. It was an extraordinarily exhausting finals week, marked with the death of my Grandmother over reading period and my inability to mourn—I couldn't take time out to miss her, because I had to think only of my papers. At the end, I was so exhausted that I wanted to burst into tears at the most inconvenient times. I had a good cry in the shower on Monday, but the first floor of the Reg and the A terminal of the Denver airport were not so convenient. Waiting for my luggage in San Francisco, Mom hugged me and said, "you only have three quarters left!"
"Oh, Mama," I almost said. "I don't think I want to go back."
III. Right. I promised to tell you about that ER visit.
Until last night, I had only been to the Emergency Room once in my life. I was in preschool, and was hit in the head with a ball. I was easily surprised and easy to tears (see above), and so probably cried some. The school had a strict policy about head injuries, and they called my mother to take me to the emergency room in case I had a concussion. She did this dutifully, but the doctor could find no signs of an injury. "Now, Alice," he said. "What kind of a ball was it?"
I answered honestly. "A nerf ball."
Last night's visit was for equally stupid reasons, but was a bit more necessary. (Let me say now that yesterday was supposed to be a really good day. We had friends over to watch the World Cup, and Mom and I went on a trip to the mall that didn't end with us angry at one another, and then Dad made barbecued ribs for dinner. This little trip, however, certainly made it memorable).
Out weeding with Mom after our return from the mall, I was getting more and more frustrated with the project, and thus less and less attentive to what I was doing with my hands, so that when a stalk came up more quickly than I expected, my right hand flew backwards into our potted cacti. I pulled the spine out, but the tip broke off and resisted all attempts at removal. By 10:00 it was swollen, my entire hand hurt, and it didn't seem to be about to come out on its own.
In another stage of my life, I would have resisted any attempts at removal, but I'm braver than I used to be, and less afraid of needles, and less patient with an inability to use my right hand. By the time I saw the doctor, I was exhausted, tired of being in pain, and as passive as a kitten.**** So now my right hand is bandaged up but cacti free, and I'm on heavy doses of antibiotics because apparently all that swelling was not a good thing.
So if you want a letter anytime soon, prepare for one that's typed.
And that's what I've done with my summer vacation.
__________________
* to put it lightly
** because he knows where the problems are.
***I didn't have it the worst. I ran into Karl at Bart Mart on Thursday night and gave him some advice about coffee selection. (He doesn't usually drink it.) He was still at the same computer at the A-Level when I went to print out my paper at 4:00 pm.
****The fact that the doctor bore slightly more than a passing resemblance to David Duchovny didn't hurt.
Recent trips to San Francisco have seen me attending mass at St. Patrick's, downtown, where the 10:00 mass is characterized by a traditional scola. The music is lovely and the homilies are usually quite good, but I always feel out of place. I left St. Cecilia's in a fit of pique* after some distressing liturgical abuses which took place after our former bishop was swept away to Rome,** and when I visited most recently I was distracted by a snide internal dialogue about the music, lector, and decoration of the church.
This morning, however, I decided that I wasn't up for a mass any earlier than 11:00, since I was up late at the emergency room last night (more on that later). And anyway, I thought, it would be nice to be able to sing along for once. It turned out to be pretty much exactly what I needed-- just as my tired body and exhausted brain wanted nothing more than to go home to San Francisco and sleep, my tired soul wanted to be somewhere where it felt it belonged. I always thought I loved St. Cecilia's because Fr. Vitto made me so welcome at the beginning of my conversion, but there's more to it than that. St. Cecilia's is where I first went to mass, three years ago, and no matter what the liturgists do to it, it will always be home-- even when the choir slaughters the Adoro te dovote.
II. The End of Finals.
So, let me tell you about the end of my finals week. I was up until about 5:30 am on Friday morning*** working on my paper for Professor Goldstein, and then went home to sleep. I slept until 10:00, and then almost called Joel L. to tell him that I just couldn't do breakfast—the lack of sleep and tremendous amount of caffeine and sugar I had injested made me rather ill. I collected myself, however, and met him at the C-shop for a bagel and more coffee.
After breakfast, I settled myself in the McCormick lounge and wrote the Goldstein paper, running on no more than that bagel and coffee. Tom came to visit just about the time I finished, and went with me to run my library errands (such as printing out the paper and paying my $1 late fine). We agreed to meet for dinner, and then parted ways. Letting Tom leave me to my own devices was probably a mistake, considering what happened afterwards. Walking home from Social Sciences, I was walking along the ledge between Rosenwald and Pick, as I always do-- but this time carrying three bags of books. I don't know if I lost my balance because of the books, or if I was just so tired and hungry that I couldn't handle walking in a straight line, but I fell off the ledge (a 3-4 ft fall), losing my glasses, getting a nice bruise on my knee, and putting a second dent in the case of my laptop. This was, of course, the day that Vanessa went in for a second knee surgery from a similar accident. Clearly I don't learn.
Had dinner with Tom, followed by coffee with everyone's favorite petulant athiest, during which we ran into Tom again. Sure enough, walking from the Reg towards Bartlett I hopped up on the side of the planter to walk along the edge. Tom just stared at me until I realized what I was doing.
Later that evening, I packed up a backpack with glasses, spoons, bowls, half a carton of ice cream, and a bottle of champagne and made my way to the Shoreland. Anna made the mistake of not believing me when I said "we'll do ice cream and champagne-- I'll bring the champagne", but I hope she ended the evening feeling properly celebrated for graduating. (Geoff helped with the champagne, which was probably a good thing). I went to bed, exhausted, underfed, and with who-knows-how-much champagne in my system, and forgot that I had a quarter of a carton of ice cream in my backpack.
"You were spacy," said Carolyn.
"Yes, to put it politely," I said.
Sunday saw brownies, chianti, and Twister with Carolyn and Veronica, and on Monday I finally finished my last paper. It was an extraordinarily exhausting finals week, marked with the death of my Grandmother over reading period and my inability to mourn—I couldn't take time out to miss her, because I had to think only of my papers. At the end, I was so exhausted that I wanted to burst into tears at the most inconvenient times. I had a good cry in the shower on Monday, but the first floor of the Reg and the A terminal of the Denver airport were not so convenient. Waiting for my luggage in San Francisco, Mom hugged me and said, "you only have three quarters left!"
"Oh, Mama," I almost said. "I don't think I want to go back."
III. Right. I promised to tell you about that ER visit.
Until last night, I had only been to the Emergency Room once in my life. I was in preschool, and was hit in the head with a ball. I was easily surprised and easy to tears (see above), and so probably cried some. The school had a strict policy about head injuries, and they called my mother to take me to the emergency room in case I had a concussion. She did this dutifully, but the doctor could find no signs of an injury. "Now, Alice," he said. "What kind of a ball was it?"
I answered honestly. "A nerf ball."
Last night's visit was for equally stupid reasons, but was a bit more necessary. (Let me say now that yesterday was supposed to be a really good day. We had friends over to watch the World Cup, and Mom and I went on a trip to the mall that didn't end with us angry at one another, and then Dad made barbecued ribs for dinner. This little trip, however, certainly made it memorable).
Out weeding with Mom after our return from the mall, I was getting more and more frustrated with the project, and thus less and less attentive to what I was doing with my hands, so that when a stalk came up more quickly than I expected, my right hand flew backwards into our potted cacti. I pulled the spine out, but the tip broke off and resisted all attempts at removal. By 10:00 it was swollen, my entire hand hurt, and it didn't seem to be about to come out on its own.
In another stage of my life, I would have resisted any attempts at removal, but I'm braver than I used to be, and less afraid of needles, and less patient with an inability to use my right hand. By the time I saw the doctor, I was exhausted, tired of being in pain, and as passive as a kitten.**** So now my right hand is bandaged up but cacti free, and I'm on heavy doses of antibiotics because apparently all that swelling was not a good thing.
So if you want a letter anytime soon, prepare for one that's typed.
And that's what I've done with my summer vacation.
__________________
* to put it lightly
** because he knows where the problems are.
***I didn't have it the worst. I ran into Karl at Bart Mart on Thursday night and gave him some advice about coffee selection. (He doesn't usually drink it.) He was still at the same computer at the A-Level when I went to print out my paper at 4:00 pm.
****The fact that the doctor bore slightly more than a passing resemblance to David Duchovny didn't hurt.
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